“Leave them with me. I will go through everything later.”
“Thank you.”
By now Elaine was sitting up again, clothing re-laced and back in order.
“Are you feeling better, Miss Roughhead?” asked Tyndale.
“Yes. It was the smell of the leather. I am quite fond of it usually, but for some reason… In any case, all is well now. Pray excuse my behaviour.”
“Shall I summon a sedan chair? Perhaps you would prefer a carriage?”
“I fear the swaying of either would only make me ill again. I shall walk instead. It is not a long way.”
“Allow me to see you home,” said Evans, but she ignored him.
“Farrow, accompany her,” ordered Tyndale.
“No, I shall impose upon my knight—you,” said Elaine, directing the last word at Nathan. “Will you walk me home?”
“It would be a pleasure,” he said, with the utmost sincerity.
How many writers, going back to ancient times, have commented on the unwiseness of love? Nathan was familiar with such warnings. “Love is double folly.” Nathan, in fact, was rapidly becoming foolish on his own, but was yet to realize it. “Falling in love hurts as much as any other fall.” Caustic judgements like this were far from rare. “Love! So you love a pair of lungs, a digestive tract, some intestines and organs of evacuation, a runny nose, a greedy mouth, and a whiff of body odor? Think on such matters and your passion should ebb a little.” Such advice was wasted on Nathan, however.
Many of those who had cautioned against love were French, but Shakespeare had also contributed to the genre—in Love’s Labour’s Lost, for example: “This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity / a green goose a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.” When younger, Nathan had read the Bard’s complete works, but of love’s true nature he knew nothing personally.
As they were passing a tailor’s shop, Elaine stopped. She wore a hooded cape about her shoulders, but Nathan was in his shirtsleeves. The chill wind had already robbed his lips of their colour.
A clerk came out to greet Elaine. “Good day, madam!”
“A jacket to suit this young gentleman, if you please,” she said.
“Certainly. Allow me to take his measurements.”
“We are in a hurry. I need the jacket at once.”
“But, madam, as you know, we make all our clothing to order.” Elaine looked crestfallen, while the clerk appraised Nathan’s scuffed shoes with a certain glint in his eye. “If I may suggest a possible solution, it would be to inquire at an establishment specializing in second-hand clothes. But, of course, the daughter of Sir Charles Roughhead should not be seen in such a place! Allow me to go instead and secure a presentable jacket for your companion—to show our appreciation for your regular custom.”
“That would be most kind.”
“Pray wait inside. We have taken delivery of some fine French lace. You may find something to your liking.”
They were shown into a private room, where a female assistant produced a series of fabric samples and babbled of continental fashions. Elaine let her talk but paid little attention.
Finally the jacket arrived. Even second-hand, it was much smarter than anything else Nathan owned.
“This is to make up for your ruined jacket earlier,” Elaine told him, before turning to the clerks. “Will someone please escort me home? My young companion and I must go our separate ways.”
She extended her hand to Nathan in a gesture of farewell. Impulsively, he dropped to one knee like a knight receiving a favour.
Edward and Nigel had said they would not arrive until after four, but Nathan was at Matthew’s before the clock struck one. He knew nowhere else to pass the time after parting from Elaine.
The coffee-house faced a stone fountain in the centre of a small square, just as Nigel had said. Perhaps the fountain was currently out of order; at any rate, no water came from it.
Inside Matthew’s, groups of patrons sat at tables reading the newspapers that the coffee-house took, chatting idly, or engaging in debate. They appeared to be regulars, quite at home here. Some had a member of staff bring them pen and paper and occupied their time writing. An elbow-chair by the fireplace that appeared to be the best seat in the room was occupied by an elderly, bewigged, good-looking man.
There were no coffee-houses in Sherbourne, so this was the first time he had sampled the black beverage. The first mouthful was so bitter that he almost spat it out, but after following the lead of the other patrons and adding the milk and sugar served alongside the drink, the result was quite agreeable.
He had the uneasy feeling of being out of his depth, but he was too busy considering how to tell Edward and Nigel about his morning to pay that much attention to his surroundings.
I rescued her from a brawl.
Put in words, the experience went flat. How could he express the excitement of that moment? If not in verse, what right had he to call himself a poet?
Having eaten nothing since his breakfast of frumenty, he was hungry enough to order some gingerbread. When the waiter brought it to his table, Nathan asked whether he might also be able to borrow pen, paper, and ink like some of the other customers.
Soon he had writing implements in hand, but he found it difficult to confidently make a start.
He closed his eyes and mulled over the memory of the encounter.
All at once, inspiration struck. He pushed his coffee cup to one side, dipped his quill in the ink, and began to record the words that now flowed through his mind.
A ballad in form, it told of the liaison between a young page and an exotic noblewoman. He called it Elegy, and wrote it in an archaic mode suitable for the subject. An avid reader since childhood, he had devoured the works of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and others. Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales was, of course, in the mediaeval idiom of its author; Nathan had made his way through a recent edition published with a glossary, and the wording had stuck with him. Deciphering the parchment documents among his father’s effects had further broadened his knowledge of the English of preceding centuries. He had learnt older spellings, turns of phrase, even the lettering.
But none of this knowledge—this genius—was any use to him in Sherbourne.
He had been sent to a school founded by a wealthy philanthropist, but it offered instruction only in the business and legal jargon required for the positions in which it was able to place its pupils, which held absolutely no interest for him. Leaving there at fourteen, he had been taken on as an apprentice at a legal office with ties to the school. The apprenticeship was to last seven years, and pay nothing for the duration.
Nathan continued working on his poetry in the moments he could snatch from his work. Only Fr. Pelham had recognized the talent in him.
For three years he had endured life as an unpaid apprentice. Then he had quit his position and boarded a stage-coach.
He already felt he had arrived in London, not yesterday, but much longer ago.
A silver moone shon ful & brighte
Upon a lowly youthe’s unrest.
And fast did flowe the tyde of blode
In that unquiet brest.
(His pen was fairly racing across the page now.)
Wery been he, with steppen slow,
Ageyn the wind he went.
“O whyfore, if the byrds alle slepe
Must I…
The nib of the quill grew rough and began to catch on the paper. The inkpot was almost empty, too. They had given him a well-worn pen and only a splash of ink. But he couldn’t stop now or the flow of verse would cease. Keeping his pen in motion and his eyes on the paper, Nathan raised his left hand to summon a waiter.
None was quick in coming. Irritated, he called out.
“Quiet, please,” the waiter said, approaching.
“A new pen,” Nathan sa
id curtly. He did not even want to waste the time it would take to sharpen the nib with a penknife. “Ink, too. The pot is empty.”
Faced with this rude young customer, one unlikely to offer a tip, the waiter ignored his request and walked off.
“A pen! Quickly!” He pounded the table.
There were cold stares from the patrons sitting nearby.
Another, older waiter approached. “I regret to say that our stock of pens is entirely depleted, as is our ink. May I suggest you try a different establishment?”
“I have an appointment here,” Nathan told him. “No other place will do.”
“As you wish,” he replied, turning away with an air of obvious disdain.
How long had Nathan been waiting? The elbow-chair was now occupied by a different person. This man rose and drew near, then peered at the Elegy. He pointed at a couple of words. “Your spelling is wrong,” he said.
“No, it is you who are wrong,” Nathan retorted, pushing his hand away. “At one time, this spelling was current. It can be embarrassing to offer advice on topics one is unfamiliar with.”
“So you know the old way of spelling, do you?” The man did not seem offended. “How impressive.” He came even closer—so close that Nathan was forced to turn his head away lest their cheeks touch. “And you have a way with words,” he said. “A young Shakespeare, I do declare.”
“Shakespeare wrote less than two centuries ago. I am using a more archaic English still.”
“And you can write as they did all that time ago?”
“I can.”
The man summoned a waiter. “Bring this boy a new pen and some ink,” he said. “And another cup of coffee—the latter at my expense. As for me, I must away. My bill, please. The change shall be your tip.”
Nathan sipped his new coffee with pleasure. A new pen and fresh ink were mysteriously made available, too. But his poetic inspiration had abandoned him.
He tried to check the time, only to realize that his pocket-watch was missing. His purse as well!.
“Pickpocket!”
He leapt to his feet, looking from side to side. The other patrons pretended not to notice.
The older waiter approached again.
“Are you finally ready to pay and leave?” he asked.
“I have been robbed,” Nathan said. “My purse and watch have gone.”
“No one leaves here without paying, young man,” he warned.
“It was him—the person who was just here. I thought he seemed too familiar!”
“Mr. Harrington? That is insulting! Mr. Harrington is a regular patron, and publisher of the Public Journal.”
“Well, then, who did steal my purse and watch?”
“How should I know?”
Nathan remembered someone stumbling and bumping against him while he was engrossed in his writing. That may have been the pickpocket. He had not even seen his face.
Far from sympathizing, the waiter threatened him with the magistrate’s office—“and Fleet Street Prison”—if he didn’t settle his bill.
“Wait, I beg you. I have friends arriving directly.”
“At what time?”
“Just after four… . Ah!” He ran towards the door, arms wide to embrace the two figures who had just walked in.
“Well, hello,” said Edward. “Have you been waiting long?” To Nathan, his voice was like a long-lost childhood friend’s.
“Mr. Turner, Mr. Hart, this is a friend of yours? This ill-mannered youth?”
“Only as of yesterday, but yes.”
“Your usual table is available,” said the waiter, leading them to their seats. Nathan moved to sit with them, bringing his pen and paper along. He forced a smile through clenched teeth. It would have been too shameful to show them a face on the verge of tears.
“Did you reach Shoreditch safely yesterday?”
He nodded.
“No encounters with blackguards or robbers?”
“None.”
“There’s a miracle for you,” said Edward.
“That’s not like you, using a word like ‘miracle,’” teased Nigel.
“Why?” asked Nathan. “Don’t you believe in miracles?”
“I do not.”
“Not even the Resurrection? Are you an atheist?”
“A deist,” said Edward. “It is not God I deny. Only miracles.”
“Then you don’t believe that the soul either ascends to Heaven or is punished in Hell?”
“The Middle Ages are over.”
“You must have come under the influence of Toland.”
“Have you read Toland too?”
“I have, but I don’t agree with his denial of the miraculous,” said Nathan. “A world with no mysteries or miracles—what a cheerless place that would be! Toland limits religion to ethics,” he went on. “But ethics are just a guide to social harmony. A human invention. God is a being who transcends our shallow understanding… . I take comfort in the idea of being buried in a churchyard eventually—as if in His embrace.”
He stopped and smiled ruefully. “A miracle may have kept me safe yesterday,” he added, “but not today.” His friends were then told about the robbery here.
The same waiter brought two cups of coffee.
“You are going to be out of pocket today, Mr. Turner. This acquaintance of yours occupied a table for hours without a penny to his name, helping himself to coffee, gingerbread, and quantities of paper. Not to mention the fee for ink and pens.”
“You charge for them?” asked Nathan, startled.
“Of course we do, sir.”
Edward sighed. “Never mind. Let today be my treat, as thanks for the loan of this book.” He handed back the volume on heraldry.
“I should like to pay half,” said Nigel. “I read the book too, after all.”
“No, please—it will be lending, not paying,” Nathan protested. He could not accept charity. “I promise to repay you the next time we meet.”
Before leaving Sherbourne, he had sold all he owned to put together a small sum. In addition, Fr. Pelham had raised a collection for the young poet who was soon to be the pride of the parish, and presented him with the results—seven guineas and sixpence—as another parting gift. Nathan had paid the first instalment of his board, and lost the coins he had set out with today, but the rest was still hidden between his blanket and the straw mattress that served as his bed.
“What were you writing?”
“A poem.”
“May we read it?”
“Certainly.”
Edward and Nigel leaned in to peer at his work together.
“What language is this?”
“Our own fair tongue, as it was in the fifteenth century.” Nathan realized that he must look rather smug.
His two friends praised it even more than he had hoped.
“Was the poetry you showed Mr. Tyndale also written in old English?” asked Nigel.
“No. Being something I hope to publish, I used tomorrow’s words.”
“Tomorrow’s?”
“To describe things people will feel at a future time. With words that render colour and sound.”
“Well, I hope it is published soon.”
“I shall present each of you with your own bound copy.”
“Please do! And I shall return the favour when my own book comes out.”
Nigel’s comment pricked at Nathan’s vanity. “You also write poetry?” he asked, feeling fellowship and rivalry conflict within him.
“Not poetry. I do illustrations. And I don’t know when they will be published in any case.”
“Not just any illustrations,” said Edward. “As good as any of the old masters, our Professor claims.”
Jealousy surged for a moment inside Nathan, but he brought it u
nder control by reassuring himself that their endeavours were quite different. And even Fr. Pelham, who greatly admired his work, had never rashly compared it to Shakespeare’s sonnets or John Donne.
“Are you both studying art? Royal Academy students?”
“No, although Nigel’s father is an artist, so he was used to drawing early on.”
“But I wish you would just tell me. Your answers are so evasive.”
The other two exchanged a glance.
There they go again, thought Nathan. As if conversing with their eyes.
“We are training to be physicians,” Edward informed him. “But Nigel’s ability to accurately draw the human body is what our Professor prizes in him.”
“He thinks highly of Edward too,” Nigel added.
“When the Professor’s research is published as a book, he intends to include Nigel’s drawings as copperplate etchings.”
“Ah. I see,” said Nathan.
“Incidentally, where is that prized object you were going to show us today?”
“My apologies. But I left it with Mr. Tyndale earlier.” He explained about the old poem and its provenance.
“Amazing!” Nigel leaned forward. “You’ll be recognized both as a poet and an antiquarian.” He appeared to feel no rivalry or jealousy at all.
Nathan asked them if they came here every day, but before they could reply, Nigel suddenly stared and burst out laughing.
“What?” asked Edward.
Nigel pointed at the window. “The fountain has just started working again!”
A pedestrian whose false sense of security about the fountain’s inactivity had made him walk too close was now drenched from head to toe and shouting.
“Ha! That I like to see!”
The satisfaction in Edward’s voice surprised Nathan. Was he the sort who took pleasure in others’ misfortunes?
“That fellow’s a poacher,” Nigel explained, indicating the fountain’s victim outside.
“A poacher?”
The man was now waving a damp cocked hat about. He seemed well turned out, looking at least respectable if not patrician. Neither his dress nor his features suggested a disreputable sort of person.
“And quite an active one,” said Nigel. “To answer your question, no, we do not come every day, but we are here often.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 6