The Parliament House (14 page)

    'You'll never convince me of that.'

    'Then I'll not waste time trying.'

    'Beware, Dorothy!'

    'Of what - my brother's false counsel?'

    She sipped her tea and Golland lifted his own cup to his lips. Since he had never shown any serious interest in the opposite sex - still less in his own - he could not understand the passions that moved others. Horses were his only love. They had a graceful simplicity about them. Attraction between two people had always baffled Orlando Golland. Each time his sister had married, she had chosen men whose charm he had been quite unable to comprehend. He accepted them because at least they came from the same privileged background as his sister. Nothing would persuade him to welcome Sir Julius Cheever into the family.

    'The wonder is that Maurice Farwell even spoke to the man,' he said as he remembered their visit to Newmarket. 'I'd have cut him dead.'

    'Maurice is a gentleman. He treats his opponents with respect.'

    'That disgusting old reprobate deserves no respect.'

    'Sir Julius is younger than you, Orlando,' she pointed out, 'and he is neither disgusting nor a reprobate. He's a surprisingly cultured man, well-read and well-informed.'

    'He helped to overthrow the monarchy, Dorothy.'

    'That's all in the past.'

    'Men like that never change.'

    And neither do you,' she said, fondly. 'I knew that it was a mistake to consult you. I needed guidance, not a recitation of Sir Julius's faults. In truth, I do not know what my feelings are for him. In talking to you, I hoped that I might find out. But that was far too much to ask. You put on your judicial robes and condemned him on sight.'

    He was penitent. 'I am rightly chastised.'

    'I forgive you.'

    'Have you arranged to see him again?'

    'Not yet.'

    'But this friendship is set to develop?'

    Dorothy was cautious. 'We shall see,' she decided. 'We shall see. After my second husband died, I vowed never to marry again but I did so at a time when I was overcome with grief. That is no longer the case.'

    'You cannot mourn forever.'

    'I know. As for Sir Julius, I will have to wait until he returns.'

    'He has left the city?'

    'Yes, Orlando,' she said. 'I had a note from him this morning. He is travelling to Cambridge to attend a funeral.'

     They faced a problem. Eager to press on at a reasonable speed, they had to show respect for the dead. Even though he was hidden under a tarpaulin, Bernard Everett could not be hurried. The measured pace of a funeral was not required but neither was a headlong dash to their destination. At the behest of Sir Julius Cheever, coach and cart moved at a comfortable speed that would get them there eventually without causing any offence to the mourners who rode with him.

    They were still in Hertfordshire when they made their second stop of the day. The inn gave them a chance to seek light refreshment and to answer any calls of nature. Horses that had become lathered in the hot sun could have a welcome rest in the shade. The coachman and the footman were glad of the chance to slip off their coats. The two men on the cart also relished the cover of the trees. Christopher Redmayne was the last to reach the inn, dismounting and tethering his horse close to the others. Determined not to upset Sir Julius again, he stayed outside and strolled off through a stand of oaks and elms.

    It had been an uneventful journey. Moving at such a moderate speed had given him an opportunity to study the landscape with a degree of leisure. Hertfordshire was one of the smallest counties in England. Rivers and streams abounded, crisscrossing the terrain in almost every direction and forcing them to make use of various bridges and fords. It was a granary for London, providing corn for its bread and hay fodder for its horses. Many fields were given over to beef cattle, some of the herds having been driven down from the north to be fattened on the lush grass before sale in the capital.

    Christopher had also noticed how many watercress beds they passed in the villages. An antidote to the scurvy that afflicted so many Londoners, watercress was always in great demand. Of more interest to the architect was the large number of country houses he had seen, rural retreats from the stench and squalor of the city, places of escape from the regular outbreaks of plague. Helping to rebuild London after the ravages of the Great Fire, his concerns were exclusively urban. He was fascinated to see how houses could be designed to blend into the landscape, and how fine architecture could, in turn, be enhanced by its surroundings. The journey was also a learning process for Christopher.

    Emerging from the trees, he saw yet another stream, meandering lazily through the grass before disappearing in a spinney. Ahead of him, in the distance, was a building that arrested his gaze at once, a magnificent prodigy house, constructed in the previous century by someone with high ambition and unlimited capital. Burnished by the sun, it stood on a rise that commanded a panoramic view. Its array of gables, turrets and pinnacles gave it the appearance of a fairytale palace. A banner fluttered from the flagpole on top of the tower.

    'That's what you should be designing,' said a voice behind him.

    Christopher looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that Sir Julius was coming through the trees. The long ride in a stuffy coach seemed to have drained much of the hostility out of him.

    'A place like that,' continued the old man, surveying the house with approval, 'could make you rich and famous.'

    'But it would take so long to build that I would soon tire of it. I prefer to design houses in a city,' said Christopher, 'places that are likely to be completed in a year rather than in twenty or thirty. London is the greatest city in the world and I feel honoured to be able to make a small contribution towards reshaping it.'

    'Would you not like to have created
that
house?'

    'No, Sir Julius.'

    'Why not? It looks superb.'

    'But it was designed long ago when such a style was in fashion. Had I been its architect,' said Christopher, 'I would now be well over a hundred years old.' Sir Julius chortled. 'I'll settle for smaller projects with more immediate results.'

    'Like the house you designed for me in Westminster?'

    'My memory is that
you
designed it, Sir Julius. I merely executed your wishes. Not that I disagreed with any of your specifications,' he added, hastily, 'but I'll not take full credit for a property that sprang largely from your fertile brain.'

    'I knew what I wanted.'

    'That makes you almost unique among my clients.'

    Christopher was relieved to be back on speaking terms with him but Sir Julius had not come for conversation. He was there to stretch his legs and to enjoy a pipe of tobacco while he could. Leaving the architect, he sauntered down to the stream then followed its serpentine course for thirty yards or so. He paused to light his pipe and inhaled deeply. There was an air of contentment about him. Peering down into the water, he seemed to Christopher to be far more at ease in a rural setting. London was anathema to him. Sir Julius was, in essence, a country gentleman, a rogue politician who could set a corrupt parliament by the ears but who was happiest when at home on his estates.

    Studying the father, Christopher became acutely aware of the daughter. Susan Cheever also loved the country. That was where she could be a free spirit. She came to London under duress and only found it tolerable because of Christopher's friendship. What he did not know was whether that friendship was strong enough to entice her to stay. His future lay in the city, her hopes resided in the country. Christopher feared that those competing calls might gradually ease them apart.

    He was still meditating on the unresolved problem when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head in the direction of the spinney, Christopher observed a brief flash as the sun glinted off an object half-hidden in the undergrowth. He sensed danger at once and responded. Drawing his sword, he charged towards Sir Julius and yelled at the top of his voice.

    'Get down!' he shouted. 'Get down on the ground!'

    The warning was a fraction too late. As Sir Julius spun round to look at him, a musket was fired from the spinney and the old man was hit. Before Christopher could reach him, he let out a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling into the stream with a loud splash. Spat from his mouth, the clay pipe was carried along by the rippling water, a thin wisp of smoke still rising from it until the bowl tipped over and the tobacco was swallowed up in one liquid gulp.

Chapter Seven

    Christopher Redmayne was momentarily stopped in his tracks, not knowing whether to go to the aid of the victim or to pursue the man who had shot him. He soon made his decision. Sir Julius was flailing about in the water, clearly in difficulty but very much alive. Sheathing his sword, Christopher ran down to the stream and plunged straight in, wading swiftly across to him.

    'I'm coming, Sir Julius,' he called.

    'Get me out of here!' spluttered the other.

    'Are you hurt?'

    'I can't swim.'

    When Christopher reached him, he took him hold of his shoulders but Sir Julius let out a grunt of pain and put a protective hand to his left arm. Seeing where the wound was, Christopher instead grasped him around the waist and pulled him towards the bank. Others came running to help. Having heard the shot, the coachman and the footman darted through the trees and made for the stream. Christopher was glad of their assistance. Between them, they hauled Sir Julius on to the bank and laid him gently on the grass.

    The musket ball had grazed his upper arm, tearing his sleeve and the shirt beneath it, and producing a spurt of blood. Stung by the shot, Sir Julius was more alarmed by the fact that he had gone under the water for a few seconds. He was sodden from head to foot and he twitched on the ground like a giant fish caught in a net. Christopher insisted on easing off the coat so that he could examine the wound. When he saw that it was a deep gash, and that no bone had been shattered, he removed his own coat. He tore a long strip from his shirt, using it to bind the wound and stem the flow of blood.

    'What happened?' asked Sir Julius, still dazed by it all.

    'Someone fired at you,' said Christopher.

    'Who was the devil?'

    'That's what I hope to find out.'

    Satisfied that Sir Julius was now safe, Christopher hared across the grass towards the spinney and vanished into the trees. His sword was back in his hand and he did not mind that he was dripping wet to the waist. He blamed himself for being caught off guard. Determined to make amends, he searched the spinney thoroughly, using his sword to push back shrubs and bushes. But the attacker had fled. As he came out of the trees on the other side, Christopher found a set of hoof prints gouged in the earth, suggesting a speedy departure. The man could be half a mile away by now.

    Filled with remorse, he trudged back towards the others, fearing how Susan Cheever would react when she learned what had happened to her father. Christopher had not forewarned her of the danger that Sir Julius faced and that was certain to horrify her. There would be fierce recriminations. It was only by luck that Sir Julius had not been killed. In responding to Christopher’s yell, he had turned almost simultaneously as the shot was fired. That sudden movement had saved his life but it was no use pointing that out to his younger daughter. She would want to know why Christopher had not confided in her beforehand so that she could have insisted her father take more care on the journey.

    Sir Julius was sitting up as Christopher approached.

    Any sign of the villain?'

    'None,' replied Christopher. 'He got clean away.'

    'A pox on him! Look at me,' said Sir Julius, indignantly. 'I was almost drowned, my arm is on fire, my coat has been ruined, and my pipe has floated off downstream.'

    'It could have been worse, Sir Julius. Someone tried to kill you. It's only by the grace of God that you are not making the rest of the journey beside Mr Everett.'

    'Do you think I don't know that? Get me up.'

    Are you sure that you can stand?'

    'Of course, man. It's only a flesh wound. I've had far worse.'

    Taking care not to touch the injured arm, Christopher lifted him to his feet with the help of the coachman. Water was still dripping copiously from Sir Julius. He let out a snort of disgust.

    'Thank heaven I have some fresh apparel with me!'

    'It might be better if you changed in private,' advised Christopher.

    'I was not intending to strip naked in front of an audience.' 'What I meant is that Mrs Polegate and her children would be shocked if they learned what had happened. To spare them any further distress, it might be politic to say nothing.'

    'I agree.' Sir Julius glanced at the other men. 'Not a word of this, do you understand?' Both gave a nod of assent. 'We'll give out that I fell in the river by accident and that Mr Redmayne rescued me. Now - fetch some blankets from the inn. Nobody should see us in this state.'