The Devlin Diary (38 page)

A
T LEAST
A
RLINGTON
didn’t send one of his brutes along as her escort. Jeremy Maitland sits across from her in the minister’s coach, pensively studying the floor. Other than what she thought was a rather insincere expression of pleasure at seeing her again and a comment on the luxuriousness of Arlington’s carriage, he has not said a word since they left Whitehall. He appears anxious, as well he should be. She suspects that Maitland was aware of Montagu’s seduction of Lucy from the beginning. He is one of the few people who can shed some light on recent events, and she intends to find out everything he knows about what happened to Lucy. That Maitland, who aspired to be her friend, should have kept it from her feels like a betrayal.

He sits hunched forward, both hands gripping the upholstered seat as if in preparation for a battery of questions.

“It isn’t necessary to make yourself so uneasy, Mr. Maitland. I simply want to know what happened between Lucy and Mr. Montagu.”

He glances up at her, wary and perhaps even a little fearful. “There is nothing I can tell you. Mr. Montagu is my patron. I cannot divulge details of his personal life.”

“You may want to reconsider with whom your loyalty lies.”

He looks at her sharply. “What exactly are you planning to do, Mrs. Devlin?”

“When we find Montagu? I don’t know precisely. But I believe when I look into his eyes I will know the truth.” About more than just Lucy, she hopes.

“It’s as simple as that—you’ll look into his eyes and know if he’s a good man or a bad man?” A few golden whiskers on Maitland’s upper lip and chin catch the candlelight; otherwise his face is as downy as a girl’s.

He’s so young, she thinks. Like Lucy. Which brings her back to her subject of inquiry. “I fear I know the answer to that already. Did you know that Lucy Harsnett was found in an alley in Southwark four days ago, a suicide?”

“No.” He appears genuinely troubled by the news. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Could you not at least tell me what happened at the dance?” she asks, his sincerity softening her tone. “Did you see Mr. Montagu kiss her?”

He shakes his head. “I cannot say.”

“You were her escort. Did you not feel any obligation to protect her?”

“No matter what he has done, I cannot betray Mr. Montagu’s trust.”

“Even though your silence has contributed to the ruin of an innocent girl?”

His olive green eyes take on a grim aspect. “Innocence is but a commodity in this world, Mrs. Devlin.”

Ravenscroft supervises his Fleet Ditch project from the relative comfort of the observation platform. Despite its grandiose name, the observation platform is nothing more than a tarp strung up over a few planks of warping wood set down on the riverbank, and it is neither elegant nor even particularly good at staving off the rain. It makes up for its shoddiness with its location at the north end of the construction, just
below the Holborn bridge. From here, Ravenscroft has a view of the entire site. In the half mile from Fleet Lane to Holborn, both sides of the twenty-foot-wide river have been cleared of the pigsties that formerly lined its banks. Now it’s crawling with men and machines, home to what looks like an occupying army.

What he most often feels as he observes the progression of the work is not accomplishment—that’s something reserved for the vague and distant future—but frustration. Building a structure in a river, even a river as small as the Fleet, is a complicated enterprise. First, an oblong island formed with pilings must be created in the center, dividing the river in two. Massive gates, wide enough to block half the river, are attached to each end of the island. They are moved with the aid of huge counterweights, like those used for a drawbridge. Half the river is then dammed by the upstream gate, and all the water is diverted to the other side.

This they have already accomplished, but nothing has gone quite as he imagined it would; his project is behind schedule and over budget, expending the funds the king has allocated at an alarming rate. The wood frame for the first filter (or purification apparatus, as it is now officially called) stands in the exposed riverbed looking, to the knowledgeable eye, as unsteady as a newborn calf. It has been buttressed with supports, but these are only temporary. He’s encountered the same problem that Wren and Hooke faced when trying to build at the mouth of the river: the Fleet produces an uncommon amount of silt. These alluvial deposits, combined with decades, perhaps even centuries, of accumulated waste, have turned the river bottom into a stinking, muddy quagmire that cannot possibly support the weight of the structures he has designed. The riverbed must be dredged at least another four feet so that the filter pilings can be secured in bedrock.

Presently, dozens of workmen wade knee-deep in the exposed riverbed, pumping out rainwater and filling countless handcarts with the sludge of the ditch. A steady stream of laborers pushes the handcarts up to the embankment and the waiting oxcarts. Two hundred and eighty-four oxcarts have been filled since they began digging. There are many more to go, more than he can estimate.

“Mr. Ravenscroft!” His foreman ducks his head as he steps beneath the tarp.

“What say you, Mr. Abbott?” The foreman is a tall, thin fellow whose very protuberant Adam’s apple is on the same plane as Ravenscroft’s eyes. He does not dislike Mr. Abbott, who is generally diligent in exercising his duty, but unfortunately the man is quite lacking in vision, which has led to some tiresome conflicts in the recent past.

“The river has risen more than a foot since yesterday,” Abbott says. “If the rain keeps up like this, the water will rise high enough to breach the gate. The men are worried. They fear it won’t hold.”

Normally, bisecting a riverbed such as the Fleet would not be so difficult, but the recent rains have swollen the river to more than twice its usual size. It rushes furiously through its narrowed channel, pummeling the gate that dams the west side of the river, eroding the embankment on the east side. If the rain continues, they’ll have to open the gate and let the water flow into the exposed riverbed. He knows better than anyone that the filter apparatus will be swept away. It would be a monumental setback, one that could prove fatal to the entire enterprise. Perhaps even fatal to himself. He’s heard there’s an especially frigid dungeon reserved in the Tower for builders who fritter away the king’s money so fruitlessly. At the very least, Robert Hooke will make the most of his failure, and he’ll never hear the end of it. There is only one thing to do, and that is to keep going.

“I should think that I am a better judge than those fellows down in the ditch, Mr. Abbott. The rain will stop, I am certain. In the meantime, we must keep on. I will not open the gate until the filter apparatus is secure.”

“That could be another two weeks.”

“So be it.”

“With all respect, sir, I have worked on the construction of many a building since the Fire. I have seen some terrible accidents happen when the architects push too hard and too fast to get the job done. It’s always the workers who suffer.”

“But this is not a building, Mr. Abbott. Am I not right in believing that this is your first river project?”

“Yes, but that does not mean I cannot perceive problems as they occur. That’s what I was hired to do.”

“You were hired to direct the crews, Mr. Abbott, nothing more.” God save him from small-minded men who attempt to impose their own ideas on his work. He crosses his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels. As far as he is concerned, their conversation is finished.

But the foreman will not back down. “There’s a problem on the other side of the river.”

“What problem?”

“The storm has washed a great deal of debris into the water. Tree branches and suchlike. It’s getting caught in the supports for the footbridge and damming the river on that side as well. I took some men over there earlier”—he points to the temporary footbridge that spans the river at the center of the island—“to try and remove some of it, but it’s too dangerous. The water’s moving too fast. And the dam is taking a beating. The river’s too high, sir. It’s time to get the men out of the Ditch.”

“Absolutely not! The king himself has taken an interest in this endeavor, and His Majesty means for us to proceed with all speed.” It isn’t only the king’s good graces that he cares for. If he can’t make a success of this, how will he show his face at the Royal Society? They’ll say he was beaten by the Fleet Ditch, of all things. London’s sewer!

“No doubt the king has his reasons,” Abbott says, “but even the king can’t control the weather. If the rain continues—”

“I know what will happen if the rain continues, Mr. Abbott. You should keep in mind that there is no greatness without risk. Think of the pyramids. Think of the Parthenon. Think of Westminster Abbey. Nothing monumental is ever achieved without sacrifice.”

Abbott lowers his voice. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit beyond yourself, Mr. Ravenscroft? This isn’t a cathedral, this is the bloody Fleet Ditch.”

“If you care to keep your job, you will curb your tongue, Mr. Abbott. If the river rises high enough to breach the dam, we’ll talk again.”

“Staring out at the rain all day won’t help matters,” Hugh says, clapping his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “This isn’t the first time an engagement’s been called off.” He moves away to the warm center of the room and settles into his favorite chair next to his wife, Elizabeth.

“Yes, I know,” Edward concedes, turning from the window. He follows Hugh closer to the fire, looking around the withdrawing room with a feeling of relief. It’s smaller, darker, and more cluttered than Arabella’s; it appears as though people actually live here. It’s been months since he’s spent an afternoon with his brother and sister-in-law, and he feels as if he’s come home after a long journey. He has that strange sense of disorientation in which everything familiar seems changed. It isn’t, of course; it’s him who’s been transformed. He hasn’t told Hugh and Elizabeth about the true origin of his melancholy, that it isn’t his split with Arabella that’s to blame for his present state.

“Just because it isn’t the first time doesn’t make it any less serious,” Elizabeth says. She is a lovely, temperate woman who is more cultivated and more sensible than his brother, who, Edward believes, is lucky to have found her. God has not seen fit to bless them with children yet, a circumstance that has made her all the more sensitive to others’ misfortune. “It’s the first time for him, that’s all that matters.”

“But why should he be downhearted?” Hugh protests. “I don’t understand. By his own admission, he’s the one who called it off. He should be happy.”

“Hugh, sometimes you are completely lacking in tact.”

“Why should I have to be tactful? He’s my own brother.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Insensitive lout, that’s what you are.” But she is smiling as she delivers her judgment.

“You do both realize that I’m right here in the room with you,” Edward says.

“My apologies, Edward,” Elizabeth says. “We are only concerned for your happiness. Please sit down and have some wine.”

“It’s a lovely Madeira,” Hugh adds. He lines up three small glasses and fills them to their gold-rimmed tops. “Straight from the sunny slopes of Spain. If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing can.”

“Hugh, leave him alone.”

“That was tactful, wasn’t it?” He looks at her innocently. She purses her lips, ready to scold him again.

“Don’t bother, Elizabeth,” Edward says. “He’s right, I have no business moping around like this. Maybe I should leave London for a while, do some traveling. Greece, perhaps, or Turkey.”

“That’s the ticket,” Hugh says.

Edward doubts it. He can already picture himself trudging through the ruins of ancient temples, distracted and despondent. How far would he have to go in order to forget her? Was it even possible to forget a woman just by putting distance between yourself and her? Perhaps it worked in some cases. He didn’t believe it would work in this one. How would he ever be able to forget the other day in the churchyard, when Hannah looked at him with such anger, such hatred? It was only then that he realized how much he had presumed of her good opinion of him. What had she said? “I have no desire to be around gentlemen?” It galls him that she has painted him and Montagu with the same broad brush.

The porter announces himself by a knock on the open door. “A letter for you, sir,” he says as he carries in the sealed epistle on a silver tray and offers it to Edward.

The handwriting on the outside generates a small flurry of hope. He opens it eagerly. It’s from Hannah, but a quick glance is enough to see that it does not contain any personal sentiments. He goes back to the window, where he’ll have more light and some privacy and begins to read.