The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘And beautiful,' Maurice pressed him gently, feeling his way towards the heart of Karellie's trouble.

  ‘Like a little porcelain statue, delicate white skin, deep blue eyes, soft curling dark hair.' Karellie stopped and swallowed down some constriction in his throat. 'Maurice, I think I shall have to tell you. It's burning inside me like an arrowhead. I shall have to tell you.'

  ‘Tell me, then, dear brother. What is it about our sister that troubles you?'

  ‘I did not notice at first, but as she grew older, the resemblance became unmistakable. And then I began to piece together things I had noticed when we were in England, and things people had said, and gossip I had overheard from the servants. Maurice - she is the spitten image of Martin. Martin - is - her - father.’

  There was a silence, as Karellie looked at his brother, waiting for the significance to sink in. Maurice only smiled, and Karellie felt constrained to be more specific.

  ‘Don't you see, it means that - our mother - was Martin's lover.’

  And Maurice laughed, gently, and pressed his brother's hand. 'Oh Karel, is that all? I have known that for - oh, for as long as I can remember. Of course they were lovers. Of course Aliena is his child. How could she be otherwise? Our father had been dead a long time when she was born. Did you think she was a gift from God?'

  ‘But don't you care? Doesn't it shock you?'

  ‘Why should it?' Maurice said, and then, seeing Karel-lie's expression added, 'Look, Karellie, they were no relation to each other. Not by blood. She was only his stepmother, and that's nothing but a legal tie. You know we grew up regarding him almost as a father - he was more like a father to us than our own father was - so why should she not come to regard him as a husband? Who is hurt by it?'

  ‘But Aliena - is she our sister? Or our brother's daughter? I can't encompass it.'

  ‘What does it matter? It's only words. There is not enough love in the world for us to condemn it or turn it away, wherever we find it. Martin was a fine and a brave man, to whom we owe a great deal -'

  ‘Oh, I don't blame him,' Karellie said with some bitterness. Maurice looked anxious.

  ‘Karellie, don't grow a spite against our mother. To hate her would be to hate yourself. You must understand what she did, and forgive it, if you feel it needs forgiving. But you must not hate her.'

  ‘But how can I ever trust - ever trust - a woman? After this?'

  ‘Oh Karellie!'

  ‘I adored her so. She was like the sun and moon to me -' ‘Perhaps that is the trouble. Why don't you regard women as human beings, like yourself?'

  ‘Like me? But I am a man.’

  Maurice gave it up. 'When I go to Italy, will you come and visit me? Perhaps you can find an army to serve in, in Italy,' he said, changing the subject firmly. 'And we'll find you some pretty girls to adore. Speaking of which, I think I have some unfinished business on hand here, with this dimpled little thing -' And he put his arm round his girl and made her giggle, though she looked up at him with speculative eyes. His trouble was that all women seemed to him flawed and imperfect. How could he ever fall in love? He could not believe that he would ever find a woman perfect enough to rival music in his mind as a subject for adoration. It seemed likely that neither of them would marry - already at twenty-six and twenty-five they must be a worry to their mother - and then what would happen to the title? Poor mother. Poor Karellie. He concentrated on kissing the willing little whore, but his mind strayed to the beautiful Aliena, and he wished that he could see her, just once, before she grew imperfect like the rest of the world.

  *

  Henry Aldrich, Dean of Christ Church, was a handsome man, with the sort of plump, sweet face that might almost have been thought womanly, had it not been for the firmness of the delicate features and the level, intelligent eyes. Clovis had met him several times in London, at meetings of the Royal Society, and at the Office of Works in company with Christopher Wren, his friend and mentor: Aldrich, Wren and Richard Busby, the headmaster of Westminster School, were a trio frequently seen about London and Oxford, united by their common love of architecture.

  That love had induced Aldrich to take Clovis on a tour of the buildings before the dinner to which Clovis had been invited one day in the summer of 1698, and they strolled around the great quadrangle, admiring the new statue of Mercury which had replaced the old ball-and-serpent fountain in the central basin, and the elegant bulk of Wren's gigantic domed tower which had been built over the gatehouse to house the bell, Great Tom, which had formerly hung in Christ Church Cathedral steeple. Every night the bell tolled out one-hundred-and-one strokes as a signal that the gates were being shut, the number being the number of pupils in the original foundation of the college.

  Clovis looked and admired; they talked a little of this and that, as will educated and cultured men; and then Aldrich brought up the subject which Clovis had been anticipating.

  ‘I thought it better to speak to you quietly and informally about this,' he said, 'because, indeed, I am in rather a delicate position.'

  ‘It is about Lord Ballincrea, I take it,' Clovis said.

  He had half expected Arthur to have been sent home in disgrace before now, and the reason for the omission was revealed when Aldrich turned to him with a sweet smile and said, 'I am no saint, as you may have heard, Morland. Wine, tobacco, extravagant entertainments, I am no stranger to them. In fact, the gentlemen commoners say that they only ape me when they indulge in their fashionable debaucheries. So I am in rather a delicate position when I come to speak of your stepson.'

  ‘Of his debaucheries?' Clovis asked non-committally.

  ‘I can't send him down for misbehaving, which he does, or for being a bad influence on the other young gentlemen, which he is. But I can ask you whether you would consider taking him away voluntarily, and placing him somewhere else, somewhere —'

  ‘Where he will do less damage?'

  ‘Shall we say, somewhere where he will be happier and more useful. He is not helping himself, and I am afraid, his debaucheries being so heedless, that he will come to serious harm if something is not done. He is younger than most of the other young gentlemen, and perhaps therefore less amenable to reason. For his own sake, Morland, will you not take him away?’

  Clovis frowned in thought. 'The difficulty is that he has already been removed once "for his own sake". I sent him here earlier than is customary because he was uncontrollable at home. And what could I tell his mother, who dotes upon him?'

  ‘As to the latter, I may tell you frankly that if he does not kill himself with debauchery, I shall have to think seriously about sending him down for his political extravagances.’

  Clovis looked surprised. 'I did not know he had any political interests.'

  ‘How sincere his expressions are I don't know. But the feeling here is very Whig in temper, and he is known to have strong Jacobite sympathies, and some of the meetings in his rooms are suspect. If I have to, I shall use that to remove him.'

  ‘I see. Then obviously I shall have to forestall you, to avoid the scandal. But it leaves me with the problem of what to do with him.’

  They mounted one of the flights of steps from the recessed green to the gravelled walk, and moved towards the entrance of the Great Hall. Clovis guessed from this that the Dean assumed the conversation was almost over.

  ‘I think I can help you there,' he said. 'Your stepson, for all his faults, is not stupid, and he has what seems to be a very sincere interest in architecture. Why don't you set him in the way of learning it? It will keep him occupied, give him a respectable and satisfying way of earning a living, and may even be the making of him. Vanbrugh has been commissioned to build a new house for the Earl of Carlisle on the ruins of Henderskelfe Castle, which you know is not far from York. I can give you a letter of introduction to Vanbrugh, recommending him to take on Lord Ballincrea as a pupil.'

  ‘I didn't know Vanbrugh was an architect,' Clovis said. ‘I thought Talman was to build the house.’

>   The Dean paused in the doorway and turned to look out over the quadrangle. 'Howard has quarrelled with Talman - relations are very bad between them, bad enough I believe for a lawsuit to be talked of. And Van has not designed anything before. But he is the most dedicated of amateurs, and I have seen his preliminary designs for the new castle, and I tell you Morland, they will cause some heads to turn. Hawkesmoor is helping him, and Wren has had his head bent over the plans, in between scurrying from the site of St Paul's to the site of Greenwich Hospital. They were all here a month ago, looking over Tom Tower, and I shall be very surprised if the new Castle Howard does not finish with a dome-and-lantern.' He glanced up at the great tower, and then smiled at Clovis. 'I am very glad we managed to get our dome up first - but then, I believe you have an even earlier example of Wren's obsession at home? He tells me he built a dove-cote in the style at Morland Place.’

  Clovis smiled too. 'Yes, for Lady Chelmsford. It was a whim of hers. You have discussed it with him?’

  Aldrich spread his hands. 'I must confess that I did discuss my little problem - in the most discreet terms, of course. I can promise you, therefore, that a letter of introduction from me would not be entirely ignored.'

  ‘You are most kind, sir - and I appreciate your discretion in this matter,' Clovis said. 'But I must discuss the matter with the boy's mother before I make any decision.’

  Aldrich nodded. 'As you please. And now, shall we go in? I have a consignment of real French claret which I am eager to have your opinion of - let us not inquire how I came by it. And perhaps after dinner you might be interested in looking over some plans of my own, for replacing Peckwater Inn?' His smile grew impish. 'Since I shall have to ask for substantial subscriptions for the work, you may as well see what you will be paying for.’

  *

  From Oxford, Clovis had to ride to London on business, where he went first to Chelmsford House in St James's, and then, leaving his horse at a tavern with instructions to have it fed and rested and taken to Milk Street, he went down to the Whitehall Steps to get a boat. This part of London was sadly deserted now, thanks to an invalid and widowed King, and an increasingly invalid heiress apparent. Dutch William preferred Hampton Court, for the smoke of London exacerbated his asthma. Princess Anne, who had recently had yet another miscarriage, was beginning to suffer from gout, and she preferred to live out at Kensington, where her son Gloucester had his household, London not being considered healthy for the young princeling.

  When in London, the Usurper now had to use St James's Palace for his Court, for Whitehall, scene of so many triumphs and splendours, was no more. In the January of 1698 a Dutch serving-woman of Colonel Stanley's was drying some clothes too close to the fire, and they caught. They set light to the furnishings, and before anything could be done the whole house was ablaze. Had the Court been in residence perhaps the palace could have been saved, but there were not enough people on hand to do much about it. The old timber buildings caught and blazed like oakum. A hundred and fifty houses, all belonging to noblemen, and including Ballincrea House, were burnt to ashes, and another twenty were blown up with gunpowder in a vain attempt to halt the blaze.

  Of the palace itself, only the great banqueting hall had escaped - the rest was gutted, and now, though greenery was beginning to grow over the horrible fire-scar, the riverbank was marred by the hollow, blackened shell and the heaps of rubble, and the wounded trees of the privy gardens. The Usurper had come once to pick his way fastidiously through the ruins, and had muttered something about rebuilding it one day, but no one believed that he would, and already the better bits of the rubble were beginning to disappear, as people took them away for buildings elsewhere. Clovis mourned a great opportunity lost - here there could have been raised a great, new, beautiful palace in the Palladian style that would be the envy of Europe. Instead, little by little, people would build in a jumble of styles, as the fancy took them, on their old sites, just as they had in London after the Great Fire.

  At the Steps, Clovis turned his back on the blackened ruins and took a pair of oars as far as the Custom House landing - a pair was cheaper downstream, and he enjoyed the luxury - there to see about releasing some goods from bond. Then he walked up to Lombard Street to see his banker, and went to the Bell Inn, off Gracechurch Street, to take his dinner. He was hungry, and found himself in luck, for the dining rooms had a good board spread that day. He regaled himself with venison pasty, roast chicken, pease pudding, lobster, asparagus, and strawberries with clotted cream; but though they offered him wine he took only small beer, for he had more business to conduct and wine in the middle of the day made him sleepy.

  From there he walked up to Edward Lloyd's coffee house and spent an hour reading the newspapers and listening to the gossip while he took a dish of coffee, and then he went down to the Morland warehouses at Bell Wharf. Finally, footsore and weary, but with the knowledge of a good day's work done, he walked back to Milk Street. Here he kept the small, narrow house that had belonged to his mother and father, long ago, when he was only a child. He kept it up mostly out of sentiment, for it would have been just as easy to go to an inn when he was in London; but the house held dear memories for him, and was still furnished with the things his mother had chosen and cherished. He had hired an old couple, Goody Teale and her blind husband, to look after it. They lived on the ground floor, and were taking the sun on a pair of stools at the door when Clovis walked up.

  The old woman nodded to him and said, 'There you are, then, master. The boy brought your horse and put him up, and put the saddle in my kitchen. And your visitor's upstairs, waiting for you.'

  ‘Visitor?' Clovis said. 'I wasn't expecting anyone.'

  ‘He give his name, but I disremember it now,' she said vaguely. 'A gentleman from up north.’

  Up in the parlour, Clovis found Jack Francomb, smiling genially, stouter and browner by a year since Clovis had seen him last, and wearing the same coat of green velvet that was finding its job more and more of a strain as time went by.

  ‘I couldn't come to London without seeing you,' he said, clasping Clovis's hand and wringing it cheerfully. Clovis eased his fingers out of the grip with caution. 'They told me at the Custom House you were in London, but I'd just missed you. Have you any ale in the house? I've a day-long thirst on me.'

  ‘I could send out for some,' Clovis said, ‘but why don't we go out and have some supper somewhere?'

  ‘By all means. I'll pay. I want to talk to you anyway.’

  They took supper at the White Horse where there was a good ordinary and reliable ale, and talked business and exchanged news.

  ‘How is Sabine?' Clovis asked. Francomb shook his head.

  ‘Not too well. She eats and drinks too much,' he said. 'Can't you restrain her?’

  Francomb opened his blue eyes wide. 'Me? She's twice my size! But the bairn is flourishing. Little Frances - as pretty a little wench, and clever! I have a dancing master twice a week, you know, to teach her to dance and play the spinet, and you should just see her. Tinkling away on the keys and singing 'Barbary Allen' like a little Court lady! When I came away I asked her what I should bring her from London, and she said, "Papa, bring me a basinet".

  So I say, "Why, hinny, what should you want with one of those?" and she said, she would learn to play it, for she heard that the ladies in Court all play it and she would be like them. She meant basset, of course. She thought it was a musical instrument.’

  He chuckled delightedly at the story, and drained his tankard. 'Well now,' he went on, fixing Clovis with a bright blue gaze, ‘so I hear from that sister of yours there's to be a wedding, and right soon.'

  ‘Is there? I haven't heard from Cathy for a while.'

  ‘Aye, that sickly son of hers, to that rich heiress she's been stalking, Mavis D'Atheson - a good match, plenty of money there. And she's wise to wed the boy quickly, for he's a grey shadow with that asthma of his. Cathy treats him with blackberry smoke, but it does no good. So she'll get him wed, and let's h
ope he gets the maid with child before he turns blue for good. He won't make old bones, that one. Seems a shame to wed that pretty little thing to a cripple boy, but there!’

  Clovis said that it was a good match, and that he did not know James was so ill. Francomb went on, 'There's something else I think perhaps you don't know. That boy of yours, that young James Matthias, he's been writing letters to the D'Atheson girl.’

  Clovis stared. 'I certainly didn't know. Letters?'

  ‘I'm glad you don't know, for I wouldn't like to see a falling out between you and Cathy, for the fact is the boy has it in his head he wants to marry this lassie, and writes her letters full of love and poetry and such matter. Cathy won't give it up now, for anything, and the contract's signed too, and the settlement's all agreed, so you'd better have a word with young James Matthias, before there's trouble.'

  ‘I didn't know, and I'll certainly speak to him. But why does he think he will marry her?'

  ‘Oh, it's a thing they worked out for themselves on his summer visits there, you know the way children do. My little Frances swears she'll marry me when she grows up,’

  he chuckled. 'But the boy has taken his own fairy story seriously, and writes his letters starting "My dear sweetheart and mistress" just like a book.’

  Clovis thought, poor little Matt, if he is seriously in love with the girl it will be a sad shock for him, especially after losing his friend Davey. 'I'll attend to it as soon as I get home,' Clovis said. 'I'm obliged to you for mentioning it.'

  ‘Now look here, Clovis,' Francomb said, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'the best thing to take his mind off it is to get him betrothed at once. He's old enough - what is he, fourteen? Why not make a match between him and my little Frances.' He sat back to watch the effect of his words, and then added, 'The estates ought to come together, it's right and fitting. You won't find me ungenerous. And she's as good and pretty a lass as ever you saw.'