'You were,' explained his father. 'You were so christened because the Lord Protector's son was called Richard. When his father died, he inherited his title and his power.'
'Was he as great a man as his father?' wondered Richard.
'Alas, no.'
'Nobody was as great as Oliver Cromwell,' boasted the older boy. 'That's why I carry his name. I mean to be great myself.'
'You already are,' teased Richard. 'A great fool.'
Oliver bridled. 'Who are you calling a fool?'
'Nobody,' said Jonathan firmly, quelling the argument before it could even begin. 'Now, look at the house and remember the man who once owned it. We must keep his memory bright in our hearts. England owes so much to him. He is sorely missed.'
'What about his son, Richard?' said his namesake.
'Well, yes…' Jonathan tried to keep disappointment out of his voice. 'Richard Cromwell is missed, too, but in a different way. His achievements fell short of his father's. That was only to be expected.'
'Where is he now, Father?'
'Somewhere in France.'
'Why?'
'Richard Cromwell is in exile.'
'What does that mean?'
'He is not allowed to live in this country.'
'But you said that he was Lord Protector.'
'For a time.'
'What happened?'
Jonathan shrugged. 'That's a long story,' he said softly. 'When you are old enough to understand it, I'll tell it to you.'
'I understand it,' asserted Oliver, inflating his little chest. 'It's quite simple. Oliver Cromwell was famous, which is why I was christened after him. His son was hopeless so Richard was the right name for you.'
'That's not true!' protested his brother.
'It certainly isn't,' confirmed Jonathan.
'They called him Tumbledown Dick,' said Oliver, grinning wickedly at his sibling. 'That's how useless he was. Just like you, Richard. You're Tumbledown Dick Bale!'
'No!' wailed Richard.
'That's enough!' said Jonathan sternly. 'There'll be no mockery of the Cromwell family. Both of you should be justly proud of the names you bear.' He shook Oliver hard. 'Don't ever let me hear you making fun of your brother again. You'll answer to me, if you do.'
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 a
dded 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.
'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, Christop
her. 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.
The Amorous Nightingale Page 2