'What
is your own position with regard to him?'
'Jasper?
We exchange polite nods of greeting. Nothing more.'
'I
was talking about your pecuniary relationship,' said Christopher, trying to catch
his attention. 'If so be it, this afternoon's meeting does produce a commission
for me, you are rightly entitled to a fee for effecting the introduction. I
would prefer that you agreed the amount with me beforehand rather than with Mr
Hartwell.'
Henry
was shocked. 'What I do, I do out of brotherly love.'
'I'm
delighted to hear it.'
'I
seek nothing in terms of monetary recompense.'
'That
is very altruistic of you, Henry,' said the other politely, 'but I am bound to
recall the way that you brokered the deal with Sir Ambrose Northcott. Brotherly
love was ever your cry on that occasion, too, but it did not stop you from
arranging to have a percentage of my fee paid surreptitiously to you.'
'Sir
Ambrose thrust the money upon me. What could I do?'
'Be
more honest with your brother.'
'I
was, I am and evermore will be.'
'So
no understanding has been reached with Mr Hartwell?'
'None,
Christopher. I give you my word.'
'Then
I will hold you to it.'
'That
will not be necessary.' He scrutinised his appearance in the mirror. 'Have you
ever seen a finer sight? I do believe that I will outshine the King himself
this afternoon. Henry Redmayne - Baron Cynosure.'
Christopher
let him twist and turn in admiration for a couple of minutes before speaking.
He loved his elder brother. With all his faults and foibles, Henry Redmayne was
an endearing man in many ways. Both of them were tall, slim and handsome but
the resemblance ended there. While Christopher's face shone with health,
Henry's pale and ravished countenance betokened a life of studied degeneracy.
The former's luxuriant dark brown curling locks had a reddish hue, whereas the
latter's rapidly thinning hair obliged him to seek the cover of an expensive
periwig. The earnest manner of the younger brother was in complete contrast to
the easy cynicism of his sibling. One was dedicated to his work as an
architect, the other to a life of idle pleasure. They inhabited quite separate
worlds.
Christopher
knew the futility of even attempting to reform his brother. He had grown so
accustomed to Henry's sybaritic existence that he hardly recognised it as a
vice any more. Someone else in the family, however, was less tolerant of
Henry's shortcomings.
'I
had a letter from Father this morning,' said Christopher.
'Why
does the old gentleman always write to you, not to me?'
'Because
I always have the grace to reply.'
'So
do I,' retorted Henry petulantly, 'when his missives are civil. But that is all
too rare, I fear. If only Father could forget - albeit briefly - that he is
Dean of Gloucester. He will insist on treating a letter as a pulpit from which
he can denounce me for my sins.'
'Then
do not give him cause for that denunciation.'
'Would
you have me betray my instincts?'
'I
would have you exercise a little discretion,' advised Christopher. 'Father
wrote to tell me that he intends to visit London shortly and means to call on
both of us. Especially on you.'
'Why
me?' gasped Henry, flying into a mild panic. 'Are there not sinners enough in
the county of Gloucester to keep him busy? The last thing I need is a prying
parent, watching over my shoulder, calling me to account. I'll not be
judged,
Christopher!' he declared, waving an arm. 'Keep the old gentleman
away from me. Tell him that I have temporarily quit the city. Tell him that I
am performing military service abroad on behalf of my country. Tell him that I
am on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Tell him anything you choose, but save me from
his damnable sermons!'
'Father
has a right to call on you.'
'What
about
my
rights?' wailed the other. 'And my freedom?'
'It
is the use to which you put that freedom which is bringing Father to London. I
say no more,' added Christopher. 'I simply wished to give you fair warning.'
Henry
shivered involuntarily. 'Of impending catastrophe,' he moaned. 'They say that
disasters come in threes. First we had the Great Plague. Then the Great Fire.
Now we have the Great Visitation from the Dean of Gloucester, descending out of
heaven in a blaze of righteous indignation like an avenging thunderbolt.'
'You
can hardly compare Father's visit with the plague and the fire. They were
disasters that affected the whole city. The only person likely to suffer this time
is you, Henry.'
'I am
already sweating as if I have the plague and smouldering as if I am trapped in
the fire. Let us away, Christopher,' he ordered, pulling open the door of a
closet to extract a broad-brimmed hat whose crown was bedecked with plumes.
'Father coming to London? How can I enjoy myself when I have this dire threat
hanging over me? It has made every part about me quiver with apprehension.'
He
confronted the mirror for the last time in order to place the hat at the
correct angle. Standing at his elbow, Christopher checked his own appearance.
He was smart, well groomed and dressed in the latest fashion but his attire had
nothing of the vivid colour and ostentation of Henry's. The latter favoured a
vermilion coat, whose large cuffs were adorned with an intricate pattern, over
a waistcoat of red and gold silk. The breeches were dark blue above a pair of
mauve stockings. Even the butterfly bows on his shoes were a minor work of art.
Christopher estimated that his brother had lavished more on his apparel for an
afternoon at the theatre than the young architect spent in six months.
Henry
grimaced and stroked his wispy moustache.
'I
suppose that I will pass muster,' he said dully.
'A
moment ago, you were boasting that you would out- dazzle the King himself in
your fine array.'
'That
was before I heard the tidings about Father.'
'Are
they so unsettling?' said Christopher.
'Terrifying!'
He swung on his heel and headed for the door. 'Still, there's no help for it.
Come, brother. This afternoon's business may at least give me a chance to
impress Father.' Sailing through the front door, he gave a curt nod to the
servant who held it open for them. 'I'll secure that commission for you and
Christopher Redmayne can continue his valuable work of helping to rebuild this
ruined city.'
'Nothing
would please me more, Henry.'
'Sing
my praises to Father.'
Christopher
grinned. 'Like a heavenly choir.'
He
fell in beside his brother as they strolled towards Drury Lane, the one
marching purposefully with a confident stride while the other strutted
importantly and assumed an expression of total disdain.
'We
should have taken a carriage,' decided Henry.
'For
so short a journey? A needless indulgence.'
'Indulgence
is a mark of good character.'
'And
bad housekeeping,' argued Christopher. 'Why spend money on the unnecessary when
it might be saved for the truly essential?'
'Cutting
a dash
is
truly essential.'
'We
must agree to differ on that, Henry. As on so many other things.' A thought
struck him. 'By the way, you have not told me the name of the play we are about
to see.'
'It
is irrelevant.'
'Does
it have no title?'
'Who
cares?'
'I
do,' said Christopher seriously.
'Forget
the play,' decreed Henry with a lordly gesture of his hand. 'Remember that you
are not going to the theatre to watch a troupe of mangy actors, practising
their craft. You are there to ensnare Jasper Hartwell in order to part the fool
from as much of his undeserved wealth as you can. As for me,' he said,
revelling in the attention he was getting from passers-by, 'I never visit a
theatre for the purpose of seeing. I am there simply to
be seen.'
The
two brothers moved on, linked by ties of blood but separated by almost
everything else, walking side by side towards a critical meeting with a
potential client, mixing hope with enjoyment, ambition with display,
sensitivity with arrogance, serenely unaware of the perils that lay in wait for
them at The Theatre Royal.
Jonathan
Bale looked up at the house and emitted a reverential sigh.
'There
it is,' he said, pointing a finger. 'Study it well, boys.'
'Why?'
asked Oliver.
'Because
this is where he once lived. Over twenty years ago, the Lord Protector, as he became,
moved from Long Acre to Drury Lane and made his home right here. He sent for
his family to join him from Ely. Think on that, Oliver,' he said, with a hand
on his son's shoulder. 'The man whose name you bear graced this house with his
presence.'
'Was
he a good man, Father?'
'A
great one.'
'Then
why didn't he become King?'
'He
did. In all but name.'
'But
we have a real King now.'
Jonathan
pursed his lips and nodded sadly.
'What
about me, Father?' piped up Richard Bale, the younger of the two brothers. 'You
told me that I was named after a Cromwell.'
'You
were,' explained his father. 'You were so christened because the Lord
Protector's son was called Richard. When his father died, he inherited his
title and his power.'
'Was
he as great a man as his father?' wondered Richard.
'Alas,
no.'
'Nobody
was as great as Oliver Cromwell,' boasted the older boy. 'That's why I carry
his name. I mean to be great myself.'
'You
already are,' teased Richard. 'A great fool.'
Oliver
bridled. 'Who are you calling a fool?'
'Nobody,'
said Jonathan firmly, quelling the argument before it could even begin. 'Now,
look at the house and remember the man who once owned it. We must keep his
memory bright in our hearts. England owes so much to him. He is sorely missed.'
'What
about his son, Richard?' said his namesake.
'Well,
yes…' Jonathan tried to keep disappointment out of his voice. 'Richard Cromwell
is missed, too, but in a different way. His achievements fell short of his
father's. That was only to be expected.'
'Where
is he now, Father?'
'Somewhere
in France.'
'Why?'
'Richard
Cromwell is in exile.'
'What
does that mean?'
'He
is not allowed to live in this country.'
'But
you said that he was Lord Protector.'
'For
a time.'
'What
happened?'
Jonathan
shrugged. 'That's a long story,' he said softly. 'When you are old enough to
understand it, I'll tell it to you.'
'
I
understand it,' asserted Oliver, inflating his little chest. 'It's quite
simple. Oliver Cromwell was famous, which is why I was christened after him.
His son was hopeless so Richard was the right name for you.'
'That's
not true!' protested his brother.
'It
certainly isn't,' confirmed Jonathan.
'They
called him Tumbledown Dick,' said Oliver, grinning wickedly at his sibling.
'That's how useless he was. Just like you, Richard. You're Tumbledown Dick
Bale!'
'No!'
wailed Richard.
'That's
enough!' said Jonathan sternly. 'There'll be no mockery of the Cromwell family.
Both of you should be justly proud of the names you bear.' He shook Oliver
hard. 'Don't ever let me hear you making fun of your brother again. You'll
answer to me, if you do.'