The
boy nodded penitently. 'Yes, Father.'
'There
is no shame in being called after Richard Cromwell.'
'Why
didn't he become King?' asked the younger boy.
Jonathan
let the question hang in the air. Directing the gaze of both sons to the house
once more, he reflected on the changes that had occurred during their short
lifetimes. Oliver was almost ten now, born and baptised when the Lord Protector
was still alive. Richard was three years younger, named after a man whose own
rule was brief, inglorious and mired in controversy. Both sons had grown up
under a restored monarch, Charles II, a King who showed all the arrogance of
the Stuart dynasty and who, in Jonathan's opinion, had devalued the whole
concept of royalty by his scandalous behaviour. A devout Puritan like Jonathan
Bale was bound to wonder if the plague, decimating the population of London,
and the subsequent fire, destroying most of the buildings within the city
walls, had been visited on the capital by a God who was appalled at the
corruption and depravity that were the distinctive hallmarks of the Restoration.
The
three of them were returning home after a long walk. Now in his late thirties,
Jonathan was a big, solid man with a prominent nose acting as a focal point in
a large face. The two warts on his cheek and the livid scar across his forehead
gave him a slightly sinister appearance, but his children loved him devotedly
and thought their father the most handsome of men. Long years as a shipwright
had developed his muscles and broadened his back, visible assets in his role as
a parish constable. Only the bold or the very foolish made the mistake of
taking on Jonathan Bale in any form of combat.
He
loomed over the two boys like a galleon between two rowing boats. Proud of his
sons, he was keen to acquaint them with the history of their city and the
significance of their names. The fashionable house outside which the trio were
standing was at the Holborn end of Drury Lane, a respectable, residential
neighbourhood with an abundance of flowers and trees to please the eye and to
reinforce the sense of leisured wealth. The area presented a sharp contrast to
their own ward of Baynard's Castle. Untouched by the Great Fire of the previous
year, Drury Lane and its environs were highly popular with the rich and the
powerful. Addle Hill, on the other hand, where Jonathan and Sarah Bale and
their sons lived, comprised more modest dwellings. It had been largely gutted
by fire and Jonathan had had to rebuild his home before they could move back
into it.
'Let
us go,' he said quietly. 'We have seen enough.'
'Who
owns the house now, Father?' said Oliver.
'Nobody
of importance.'
The
boys fell in beside him as he strode off down Drury Lane, unable to match his
long stride and all but scurrying to keep pace with him. They had reached the
long bend in the thoroughfare when the sound of an approaching carriage made
them turn. It came rumbling at speed from the direction of Holborn, the rasping
sound of its huge wheels augmented by the urgent clatter of the horses' hooves.
The coachman did not spare them a glance but one of the occupants leaned
forward with interest. As the vehicle went past, the smiling face of a young
woman appeared at the window and a delicate hand waved in greeting. Jonathan
lifted a rough palm in response.
'Who
was that?' asked Richard, hugely impressed that his father should know anyone
who travelled in such style. 'The lady waved to you.'
'It
was Mary Hibbert,' said Jonathan.
'She
was very pretty.'
'Yes.
Mary takes after her mother.'
'Is
she a friend of yours?'
'I
know the Hibbert family well. They used to live not far from us in Carter Lane.
Good, kind, decent, God-fearing people.' A distant regret intruded. 'Mary was a
dutiful daughter at first. But times have changed.'
'What
do you mean, Father?' said Oliver.
Jonathan
shook his head dismissively. The coach had now slowed to pick its way through
the crowd that was converging on Bridges Street. Recognising one of the
occupants of the vehicle, several people cheered or gesticulated excitedly. A
few young men ran alongside the coach to peer in. Richard surveyed the scene
with increased awe.
'Is
Mary Hibbert famous?' he asked.
'No,'
replied his father.
'Then
why is everyone waving to her?'
'I
suspect that there is another lady in the coach.'
'Who?'
'Nobody
you need concern yourself with, Richard.'
'Is
the other lady famous?' said Oliver.
'That
is not the word that I would use.'
'Who
is she, Father?'
'Tell
us,' said Richard. 'Who is the famous lady?'
'And
where are all those people going?'
Jonathan
raised a disapproving eyebrow before shepherding his sons down a sidestreet in
order to avoid the gathering crowd.
'To
the theatre,' he said.
Christopher
Redmayne caught only the merest glimpse of her as she alighted from the coach
and made her way through a circle of admirers. When she and her companion
entered the building by means of a rear door, there was a collective sigh of
disappointment, immediately replaced by an anticipatory glee as those same
gentlemen realised that they would soon view her again upon the stage. There
was an involuntary surge towards the front entrance of the theatre. Christopher
and his brother waited while it spent its force.
Henry
watched the stampede with wry amusement.
'Did
any woman ever lead so many men by their pizzles?' he observed. 'Truly, their
brains are in their breeches when she is near.'
'Who
is the lady?' asked Christopher.
'Who else
but the toast of London? The uncrowned queen of the stage. A veritable angel in
human guise. She is the prettiest piece of flesh in Christendom and I speak as
a connoisseur of such creatures. I'll hold you six to four that she could tempt
a saint, let alone a Pope or an Archbishop. Yes,' Henry added with a wild
laugh, 'she might even make our dear father abandon his piety and dance naked
around the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral with a rose between his teeth.'
'Does
this paragon have a name?'
'Several.
Most call her the royal nightingale.'
'Nightingale?'
'Wait
until you hear her sing.'
'Can
she act as well?'
'Sublimely.
Upon any man with red blood in his veins.'
'And
her real name?'
'Harriet
Gow. She is the sole reason for this melee, this undignified scramble you see
before us. Whenever the adorable Harriet Gow appears in a play, the gallants of
the town positively fight to get into the theatre.'
Christopher
smiled. 'I'm surprised that you don't join in the brawl, Henry. It is unlike
you to forego the opportunity of feasting your eyes on a young lady of such
fabled beauty.'
'What?'
said Henry, recoiling slightly. 'Run with the herd and get my new coat creased?
Never! Besides, I have standards. Henry Redmayne never chases any woman. I make
them come crawling to me.' He tossed his head and set his wig trembling in the
sunshine. 'As for the delectable Harriet, gorgeous as she may be, I would never
waste my shot on a target that is already beyond my reach.'
'Beyond
your reach?'
'Did
you not catch her nickname?'
'The
nightingale.'
'The
royal
nightingale.'
'Ah!'
said Christopher, understanding him. 'The King himself has also succumbed to
her charms. That explains your unaccustomed restraint. Miss Gow is spoken for.'
'Doubly
so. For she is Mrs Harriet Gow.'
'Married,
then?'
'Yes,
Christopher. I would need to be a congenital idiot to compete with a King
and
a husband.'
'You
have done so in the past.'
'An
aberration,' said Henry, anxious to consign the unpleasant reminder to
oblivion. 'How was I to know that that particular lady was already warming two
beds? Forget the wretch. She deserves no rightful place among my
amours.'
'If
you say so, Henry.'
'I do
say so. With vehemence.' He spotted a familiar figure and softened his tone at
once. 'Here comes the very person we seek. Jasper Hartwell, as large as life
and twice as odious. Smile and fawn upon him, Christopher. His pockets are as
deep as his ignorance.' Henry beamed and fell on the newcomer. 'Jasper, my dear
fellow!' he said, grasping him by the arm. 'How nice to see you again. Allow me
to present my brother, the brilliant architect, Christopher Redmayne.'
'Oh,'
returned the other, displaying a row of uneven teeth. 'Is this the young genius
of whom you spoke so fondly, Henry?' He squinted at Christopher. 'Pleased to
make your acquaintance, Mr Redmayne.'
'Your
servant, Mr Hartwell,' replied Christopher politely.
'Well,
now, isn't this a happy coincidence?'
'Chance
meetings are always the most productive,' said Henry easily. 'But why have we
come to watch a play when a far more dramatic sight confronts us? You look
quite superb, Jasper. A sartorial sensation. Elegance Incarnate. Is he not, Christopher?'
'Indeed,'
said his brother.
'Have
you ever seen a coat better cut? Scrutinise him well, brother. Admire the sheer
artistry. Jasper Hartwell wears nothing but the best and that means keeping a score
of Parisian tailors at his command. The periwig is a triumph - Chedreux at his
finest.'
Henry
continued to pour out the flattery in large doses and Jasper Hartwell lapped it
up greedily. Christopher smiled obediently when he really wanted to laugh with
derision. Jasper Hartwell's apparel was, to his eye, frankly ludicrous. The man
himself was short, plump and ill-favoured, features that were exposed rather
than offset by his attire. He wore a scarlet coat that was slightly waisted
with a short flared skirt, made of a garish purple material, falling just below
his hips. The coat was collarless and fastened from neck to hem by gold
buttons, as were the back slit and the low horizontal pockets. Close- fitting
to the elbow, the sleeves had deep turned-back cuffs fastened and decorated
with a plethora of buttons.
Around
the neck was a linen cravat with a lace border. Across the body was a wide
baldrick, supporting the sword, while the waist was entwined in a silk sash,
fringed at both ends. Instead of giving him the military appearance at which he
aimed, the outfit emphasised his complete unsuitability for any physical
activity. The square-toed shoes were objects of scorn in themselves, fastened
over the long tongues with straps, large square buckles and limp ribbon loops
with an orange hue. It was as if the tailors of Paris had conspired to wreak
their revenge on the perceived lack of taste of the English.
If
his clothing invited ridicule, Jasper Hartwell's wig provoked open-mouthed
wonder. It was enormous. Made of ginger hair, it rose up in a series of massive
curls until it added almost a foot to his height. The wig fell down on to both
shoulders, ending in two long corkscrew locks that could be tied at the back.
Perched on top of this hirsute mountain was a large, low- crowned hat,
festooned with coloured feather plumes. Out of it all, gleaming with pleasure,
loomed the podgy face of Jasper Hartwell, powdered to an almost deathly
whiteness and looking less like the visage of a human being than that of an
amiable pig thrust headlong through a ginger bush.
Christopher's
hopes were dashed. Expecting to court a potential employer, he was instead
meeting a man of such overweening vanity that he made Henry Redmayne seem self-
effacing. If the commission were forthcoming, what sort of house would Jasper
Hartwell instruct his architect to build? In all probability, it would be an
expression of the owner himself, gaudy, fatuous, over-elaborate and inimical to
every precept of style and symmetry. Christopher was crestfallen. It would
violate his principles to design such a house for such a client.
Yet
in one sentence, his prospects were suddenly resurrected. Leaning forward until
his hat wobbled precariously atop its eminence, Hartwell gave him a confiding
smile and a first whiff of his bad breath.