The Amorous Nightingale (4 page)

    'Henry
has shown me your drawings, Mr Redmayne,' he said with a note of respect, 'and
I declare, I think them the best I ever beheld.'

    Christopher
was dumbfounded. His brother winked at him.

    'First,
however,' added Hartwell, 'let us see the play.'

    'And
then?' pressed Henry. 'We will come to composition?'

    'Of
course.'

    It
was over as simply as that.

    Formerly
a riding school, The Theatre Royal occupied a site in Bridges Street off Drury
Lane. The conversion of the old building was a signal success, the only
complaint being that the corridors to the pit and the boxes were too narrow.
None of the patrons criticised the interior. It was circular in shape, the
walls lined with boxes that were divided from each other to ensure privacy and
equipped with rows of seats. As befitted a theatre that was known as The King's
House, the prime position was taken by the royal box, overlooking the stage
from the ideal angle and offering greater luxury to those who reclined there.
The pit, the large central space on the ground floor, was the domain of those
unable to afford a box or too late to find one still available.

    It
was Christopher Redmayne's first visit to the theatre and its architecture
intrigued him. Nobody would ever have guessed that horses were once schooled
around its circumference. Jasper Hartwell led the way to a box where he was
welcomed loudly by half-a-dozen cronies at various stages of drunkenness. Henry
knew them all but Christopher hardly caught their names above the hubbub.
Sitting between his brother and his client, he let his gaze rove around the
interior.

    'The
builders have done a fine job,' he remarked.

    'At a
cost,' noted Henry.

    'Oh?'

    'I
had it from Tom Killigrew himself. The projected cost was fifteen hundred
pounds but it had risen to almost two and a half thousand by the time the
renovations were complete. Tom was most unhappy about that. He keeps a tight
hand on his purse.'

    'The
money was well spent,' said Christopher, looking upward. 'I do like that glazed
cupola. It lends distinction and adds light.'

    Henry
grimaced. 'It also lets in the rain. Be grateful that we came on a fine day. A
very
fine day, Christopher. Our fish is landed before we even set sail. We
can feed off Jasper Hartwell until we burst.'

    
'We,
Henry? I thought that I was to be his architect.'

    'Yes,
yes, but you must allow me some reflected glory.'

    'Feeding
suggests more than glory.'

    'Stop
haggling over a damnable verb!'

    Henry
accepted the glass of wine that was handed to him and joined in the badinage
with the others. When some new guests came lurching into the box to take up
their seats, the level of jollity reached a new pitch of intensity. Jasper
Hartwell was at the centre of it, basking in the flattery of his friends and
dispensing banalities as if scattering words of wisdom. Christopher was left to
take stock of his surroundings. His eye took in every detail. The stage was
high and framed by a proscenium arch, guaranteeing the play's visibility to
everyone in the theatre. What Christopher was less certain about was
audibility. Would the actors' voices reach all parts of the audience? More to
the point, would those same spectators abandon tumult for a degree of silence
so that the play could be heard?

    The
noise was deafening. As more patrons crowded into the boxes or elbowed their
way into the pit, the cacophony steadily worsened. Laughter and ribaldry
predominated, male guffaws counterpointed by the brittle shrieks of females,
many of whom wore masks to hide their blushes or to conceal the pitiful
condition of their complexions. Wives, mistresses and courtesans were dotted
indiscriminately around a house that seemed to consist largely of braying aristocrats
or indolent gallants. Prostitutes cruised for business among those in the pit
while pert orange girls swung their hips and baskets with studied provocation.

    Christopher
noticed one orange-seller who was being used as an emissary, taking a note from
a pop-eyed man in a monstrous hat to a vizarded lady who sat in the front seat
of a box. Other flirtations were taking place on all sides. The Theatre Royal
was a giant mirror in which the assembled throng either preened themselves, got
riotously drunk or made blatant assignations. A brawl erupted in the pit. An
unseen woman screamed in distress. The wife of a visiting ambassador swung
round to spit incautiously over her shoulder, unaware of the fact that someone
had just taken the seat directly behind her and, providentially, unable to
comprehend the language in which he began to abuse her. Swords were drawn in
another box. An old man collapsed in a stupor.

    It
was at this point that the play began. Christopher had never seen
The Maid's
Tragedy
before and he was not about to see it properly now for, though the
pandemonium lost some of its rage when the actors appeared, it still bubbled
mutinously, drowning out most of what was being said in the opening exchanges.
Before the play was a minute old, the tall, stately figure of the King himself
slipped into the royal box to take his place among his friends and to cause a
ripple among the audience. His timing was impeccable. No sooner had he settled
down than Harriet Gow, the object of his affections, came on to the stage in
the role of Aspatia, the betrayed maiden.

    A
hush fell instantly on the whole auditorium. This is what they had come to see,
a frail, delicate, impossibly beautiful creature who moved with natural grace
and whose voice plucked at the heart-strings.

    It
was all that she uttered on her first, fleeting appearance but it drew a gasp
from every man present. Christopher Redmayne was among them, moved by her
patent suffering, struck by her wan loveliness and captivated by that soft,
lilting voice. In the space of a few seconds, he came to appreciate the magical
qualities of Harriet Gow. Once she quit the stage, a heavy murmur returned to
fill the air, punctuated by the occasional outbreak of hostilities in the pit
or by some altercation in one of the boxes.

    
The
Maid's Tragedy
slowly unfolded. Beaumont and Fletcher's play was over half
a century old but its theme had a curious topicality, a fact which led to the
suppression of the piece when the manager, Thomas Killigrew, had tried to stage
it earlier in the reign. The plot revolved around a lecherous King and his
corrupt Court. Amintor breaks his engagement to Aspatia at the King's request
and in her stead marries Evadne, sister to his friend, Melantius. On their
wedding night, Evadne reveals to her husband that he will never enjoy her
favours because they are exclusively the property of the King. Unwittingly,
Amintor has been tricked into being a cuckold, betraying his true love,
Aspatia, in the process. The seeds of tragedy are sown.

    Those
who could hear the play felt its deeper resonance. The King on stage bore a marked
resemblance to the one who sat so calmly in the royal box. Charles II was not
always discreet in his private life. It was well known that he had sometimes
provided husbands for his mistresses in order to give them a cloak of
respectability. More than one real-life Amintor had heard the dread confession
from his wife on his wedding night. Henry Redmayne missed none of the
innuendoes and sniggered time and again. Jasper Hartwell let out a
high-pitched, asinine giggle, accompanied by a violent shaking of his body that
made his wig tilt at a dangerous angle. A tragic situation offered much
unintended comedy.

    There
were neither sniggers nor giggles when Aspatia swept in once more, accompanying
the treacherous Evadne to the latter's bedchamber. Harriet Gow was a picture of
despair, reflecting upon her woe with a sense of resignation rather than
self-pity, then cutting through the taut silence with a song that touched even
the most cynical listeners.

    Christopher
was entranced. Not only had he seen the small miracle of a rowdy audience being
subdued to respectful silence, he had heard one of the most melodious and
affecting voices ever to issue from a human mouth. Harriet Gow was truly a
nightingale. The rest of the cast might display the full range of their
abilities but the memory that would linger in every mind was that of Aspatia's
sad song in the second act of the play. Christopher's mouth went dry and his
eyes gently moistened. Aspatia's vulnerability left him tingling.

    When
she was offstage, the interruptions resurfaced and many of the lines were lost
beneath the commotion but Christopher did not mind. He watched and waited for
Aspatia to make another entrance, to impose order once more on the mild chaos
and to trumpet the virtues of honesty and loyalty in a society that was
bedevilled by vice. The play ended in a welter of deaths, Evadne's killing of
the King being presented as a perverted sexual act that excited the senses of
the dullest onlookers but it was Aspatia, yet again, who soared above them all,
dying with such realism and poignancy that she set women weeping and strong men
snuffling. Christopher was not ashamed of his own tears.

    Thunderous
applause was directed mainly at the hapless Aspatia, now gliding back to the
centre of the stage like its undisputed jewel, luxuriating in the ovation and
giving a gentle curtsey to the King who was leading it from the royal box.
Christopher was a prey to swirling emotions. Pity for Aspatia welled up inside
him along with deep affection for the actress who portrayed her. Envy soon took
over, then a feeling of betrayal, then a sense of loss. Resignation finally
claimed him. While she had been singing her plaintive song, Harriet Gow had
been his and every other man's in the audience, reaching out to each one
individually with the sheer power and musicality of her voice. Now she was
indicating her preference very clearly. A royal nightingale for a royal bed.

    'Well?'
said Henry into his brother's ear. 'Was I right about her?'

    'Oh,
yes,' admitted Christopher. 'She is without compare.'

    'I
would give anything to make her mine,' said Hartwell effusively. 'Harriet Gow
is the most beautiful woman in the world. Have you ever heard such a charming
voice? It still echoes in my ears. She is absolute perfection.'

    'Invite
her to your new home, Jasper,' advised Henry.

    'Do
you think that she would come?'

    'She
might. If I delivered the invitation - by way of the King.'

    Hartwell
grabbed him. 'Would you do that for me, Henry?'

    'That
and much more, my friend. You will have one of the finest houses in London. It
deserves to be celebrated with a banquet to which only the most distinguished
guests will be invited. Do you agree?'

    'Oh,
yes!' said the other. 'Mightily!'

    'Only
one thing remains, then.'

    'And
what is that?'

    'A
practical matter,' said Henry with an arm around his shoulder. 'You must engage
my brother, Christopher, to design the house for you. When she sees the result,
Harriet Gow will snatch at your invitation. In Christopher's hands, architecture
is an act of seduction in itself.'

    'Then
he is the man for me!' announced Hartwell.

    'It
is settled. Are you content, brother?'

    'Yes,'
said Christopher. 'Very content.'

    But
his smile of gratitude concealed deep misgivings.

    Jacob
Vout was the ideal servant, always at hand if needed, wholly invisible if not.
He moved around the house in Fetter Lane with quiet efficiency and kept the
place spotless. Christopher Redmayne could find no fault in him. Jacob was a
benign presence, fiercely loyal to his master, honest, trustworthy, kind,
conscientious, attentive without being intrusive and obedient without being
servile. Now in his sixties, he had learned everything and forgotten nothing
about his chosen occupation. Christopher treated him like a friend who happened
to work for him.