by Derry O'Dowd
‘The Gardens are such a lovely place,’ said Eupham, her enthusiasm apparent. ‘As you enter, you come across the most beautiful grove and then on to the Prince of Wales Pavilion, the central orchestra building, the supper boxes. Oh, and the most adorable life-sized statue of George Frideric Handel - he wrote the Vauxhall hornpipe don’t you know - playing a lyre with tiny, perfect angels at his feet,’ she clapped in glee as the men looked at her, pleased at her joy.
‘The walks are gorgeous with arbours and flowerbeds full of every bloom in its season, it is a divine place for couples,’ she smiled impishly at her husband. A dreamy look crossed her gentle features, her voice softened, ‘and at dark the whole place is lit up with thousands of twinkling lights so it is like a magical fairytale night’.
She woke herself from her daydreams, looked to her husband and James, and clapped her hands together, once, briskly.
‘Oh, I’ve kept you here while I’ve been nattering away. James, we would love your company. You will come, won’t you?’
‘I would like nothing more,’ he replied, bowing his head to her.
She beamed at him, as pleased as a small child on receipt of an unexpected gift.
‘And now, I am sure William wants to keep you busy!’
‘Indeed, my dear, and our thanks for the glorious repast,’ replied her husband, pecking her on the cheek as they passed.
James lifted his hand in a small gesture of goodbye, and she smiled at his retreating back as she bent to pick up the plates and cups. What a very nice young man. She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully and paused in her task, smiling, then humming under her breath as she straightened and continued.
James Quinn felt ill as they disembarked from the barge that had transported them across the choppy waters of the Thames to the slimed and slippery stone steps at Vauxhall. He had never been the best of sailors, and the relentless swirling of the grey, greasy river had done him no favours.
‘Are you feeling quite well, James?’ asked Eupham, noting his pale face, sweat sheening his brow and beading his upper lip.
He looked down at her and shrugged off his queasiness with a smile. ‘You would think, with all the journeys I have made, that a short crossing would be nothing to me, but I fear I have never gained my sea legs.’
‘Oh well, the wind will soon clear your head and restore you,’ she replied. ‘Now, let us not tarry for I see William is keen to be at our destination.’
It was a short walk to the Vauxhall Gardens, and more people joined them as they neared there. The strains of music played by the Vauxhall Band coloured the air, and a sense of festivity rose about them.
As James and his companions passed, the band struck up the jaunty tune of ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’, and Eupham executed a tiny twirl in delight at her recognition of the Scottish song, light on her feet, skirts billowing around her dainty ankles.
Laughing, they went on, cheeks and noses reddened by the chill breeze, passing by the ticket sellers at the Pavilion.
‘You go on, my dear, and I will purchase our entry,’ said Smyley, stopping. ‘James, would you escort my wife so no dashing youngster steals her away from me?’
James smiled at him. ‘It would be my honour. Shall we?’ He turned to Eupham, offering her his arm, and she nestled her small gloved hand cosily in the crook of his elbow.
They walked the length of the gardens, with her pointing out what plants and flowers would bloom later on, for the moment snug until spring under the dark soil blankets.
As Eupham and James ended the walkway and turned the corner, she cried out in alarm. There, in front of them, was a man lying on the cold earth as two brigands kicked him and shouted at him to reveal his possessions, which they were sure were about his person. The sickening sound of dull thuds reverberated as their booted feet connected with his prone body.
‘Stop!’ shouted James, and then he stepped back, taking Eupham with him as one of the men pointed a viciously sharp-looking knife at them, advancing, menace leaking through every pore.
But, at the sound of approaching footsteps and voices, the robbers left, leaving their quarry on the ground, his bright blood spilling out onto the bleak and barren earth.
Eupham stayed still where she was, weeping quietly as James ran to help the fallen man, casting glances at the poor wretch’s wan face, his blood blossoming on the ground where no flower did.
‘How are you faring, sir?’ he asked gently as he helped the visibly shaken man to his feet. His nose was bloodied and he held his hands to his chest. ‘Let me look at where you are hurt.’
The man nodded in numb assent; Eupham watching on as James ran his hands gently over the injured man.
‘My name is James, James Quinn.’
‘And I am Alan Cavendish.’
The man tried to straighten up, but the pain was too great.
‘Take your ease, we can get acquainted later,’ replied James, laying his hand on the man’s back.
After James gave a description of the vagabonds to the constable who was on duty at the Gardens and who had arrived at the scene quickly, he turned to Eupham and Smyley, who stood in quiet stillness.
‘I must help this poor man home. I am sorry to leave; maybe we could all come again in spring and see the blooms in their finery as you described to me earlier.’
‘Of course, James, you must go. I am quite recovered and William will take me for tea, won’t you William, hot and strong and full of sugar. Bless you, James. We will see you later and my thanks to you for minding me so well.’
‘Any time, my dear lady,’ he answered, taking her hand and kissing it gently.
‘Thank you indeed,’ said a shaken William Smyley, grasping James’s hand and holding it in gratitude before letting go and gathering his wife to him.
As James entered through the gates of the injured man’s home, his breath was taken away by the grand, imposing house, which stood not far from Lambeth Palace.
‘You are a kind young fellow,’ said Alan Cavendish, patting James’s hand, ‘I am most indebted to you.’
‘I will not be happy ’til I see you resting in bed,’ he replied.
So the two men made their slow way up the steps to the impressive abode, the older man breathing heavily and leaning on James for support.
When inside, the uniformed butler, once over his shock at his master’s condition, helped the two men up to the bedchamber, and they laid the injured man down gently on the fine covers of his bed. The butler bowed, and with a ‘please ring the bell if you need me Sir Alan,’ left the room, looking over his shoulder at the young man crouched before his master.
Sir Alan groaned as James touched his sore flesh here and there, noting the dried blood at his nostrils and the red mark around his right eye that would surely purple and blacken by the morning. His ribcage was tender and knees scraped.
‘Sir Alan,’ James tested the words ruefully, ‘I am glad you told me of your status so I could be on my best behaviour!
‘I believe some ribs have been broken during your attack. This would explain your great difficulty in breathing. I wish to visit an apothecary to purchase some pain-relieving laudanum which will relax you.’
James smiled at his patient and patted his hand. ‘And in the meantime, do me the great honour of staying in your bed until I get back. Sir.’
‘As if I could even rise, young man,’ replied Sir Alan, sharp, painful coughs rising as he held his ribs to him.
Once the laudanum was administered, his patient fell into a grateful slumber, breathing easier as the drug coursed through his body, the sharp look of pain lessening and then leaving his features.
‘Give him more if he needs it later,’ James said to the butler who hovered solicitously around the doorway of the bedchamber. ‘I shall write down instructions for dosage and where you can contact me if Sir Alan has any worries or excessive pain. I will return in the morning to see how he is.’
Having done so, he left the fine home and went out into the d
reary, darkening London evening, tightening his coat around him as he walked, the gathering gloom swallowing him from sight.
James fidgeted as he waited outside the highly glossed door with the lion’s head knocker, feline mouth open, showing wickedly sharp teeth and plump tongue, mane in disarray as it roared in perpetual silence. He pulled at his collar, which felt too tight, but Eupham had insisted on checking him before he left the Smyley house this evening, brushing the shoulders of his coat with nimble fingers.
‘Now don’t you look just fine,’ she said, smoothing his unruly hair from his forehead, stepping back and clucking her tongue like a mother hen. ‘Just fine.’
The grandly embossed copperplate invitation had arrived a few days previously, heavy cream card luscious in his hand, requesting his attendance at a family gathering thrown in his honour for helping Sir Alan Cavendish that day at the Vauxhall Gardens.
James combed his hair with his fingers as the door opened to admit him.
He stood in the hall, taking in the details: the mirrors, ancestral portraits, the grand, sweeping staircase, the multitude of candles in gold sconces adorning the walls.
‘This way, sir, if you please,’ the butler smiled at him and lead him to the drawing room where the guests were assembled in their finery, the fire burning merrily at the grate, casting brilliant light over the space as it leaped off the crystal candelabras.
Sir Alan rose and crossed the room to James, taking both hands in his and clasping them warmly, firmly.
‘And so, here is my rescuer!’ he turned to the assembled crowd, ‘Doctor James Quinn, my friends. Now before I introduce you, will you have some wine?’
‘No sir, thank you, some tea perhaps?’
‘Indeed, young man, it is better to keep a clear head in your case, as you never know who will be in need of your urgent assistance at any given time!’ laughed Sir Alan, his guests taking their cue as amusement spread through the room.
‘You look improved, Sir Alan; I hope you feel it too.’
‘Ah yes, much better, because of your quick actions. Now, come and meet my dear friends and family.’
James followed his host around the sumptuous room, shaking hands, complimenting, passing on to the next person, until before him stood one of the most exquisite beings he had ever seen. Dark hair piled high on her head, jewels nestled and shining within. Blue stones on her ears and at her throat, a profusion of darker blue velvet, brocade and lace covering her shapely body. Her ruby lips curved in smile, eyes bright and mischievous.
‘And so, James, the jewel in my crown, I present to you my daughter Catherine, one of London’s most glittering and sought-after residents. Artists, actors and musicians, among others, leave their cards on a daily basis, and she is the toast of the Kit-Cat Club.’
‘How charming to meet you,’ she said, ‘and that was quite the introduction, Father.’ She held her hand to James to be kissed. He took it, noting the large blue ring on her finger, testing the warmness of her and raising her hand to his lips, and bending down he mouthed, ‘The pleasure is all mine.’
‘Catherine, look after my rescuer, dear, while I see to our other guests.’
She smiled and nodded to her father.
‘So, Doctor Quinn. James. May I call you that? My father and I are indeed indebted to you. I am glad it was not me there, for I do not know what I would have done. I do not have a protector, as such, as my dear husband, an army officer, was killed in a horse-riding accident near on six years ago, so it is very reassuring to know that there are kind gentlemen such as yourself out there who may protect a lady – and her father,’ she said, and tapped her Chinese fan against her open palm. ‘We never did have children,’ she paused and looked at him intently. ‘Father tells me you have a little son? Do you spend much time with him?’
He shook his head, ‘Sadly not, for I have been abroad much recently. But Daniel is well minded at home.’
‘Ah but you should see him,’ said Catherine, ‘especially since he has no mother. A child needs at least one parent, I should know that,’ she looked at her father across the room and bestowed a dazzling smile on him. ‘Our own mother died when my sister Alice was born – a great loss of blood, I think? And even though we have other women in our lives, aunts and the like, it was always Father we turned to with our childish scrapes and woes. So you see, James, once you make a bond with Daniel it will never be broken.’
11
To make an orange pudding
Add to the yolks of ten eggs a quart of rich cream and half a pound of orange peels. Mix these well and sweeten to your taste. Melt half a pound of butter and put into your mixture. When smooth and not too runny pour out into a serving dish.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
James was not seated beside Catherine at dinner, but glanced at her often in between mouthfuls of Cheshire cheese, pigeon pie, syllabub and finally a soft orange pudding. She caught his eye through the candles that sat in their fine holders on the highly polished table top and smiled at him; their reflections smiled back at them. He, a little embarrassed to be caught, turned with haste to her plump laughing sister Alice on his left, or her somewhat dour, pinched-face aunt on his right.
He heard Catherine’s vivacious chatter throughout the meal and was glad when they were asked to rise from their carved chairs and go back to the drawing room for musical entertainment.
Catherine sat on the stool in front of the fine new pianoforte. He had heard of the instrument but had never seen one before, and she seemed to his eyes to become one with the instrument, the candlelight catching the jewels in her hair, making them blink as she bent before the ivory notes, fine fingers raised then lowered. And as the beautiful notes wafted around the room, light and translucent as butterfly wings on the air, James felt himself transported, and looking round saw that the other guests did too.
As she paused to take a break, the sound of the flickering fire took over, warm and sleepy.
‘Catherine, play “The Sweet Maid of Notting Hill”!’ beseeched Alice.
Sibling smiled at sibling and Catherine once again bent her head and put her fingers to the keys. As the opening bars continued, she sang and the sweetest notes filled the air.
She sang of a simple shepherd and his love for a sweet, wealthy girl, her voice trilling, expressing the feelings of the tale, joyful with hope and then sad as the shepherd realises that he and his darling may never be together.
James sat enraptured, taken over by her voice, warmth swelling within him, amazed at her talent for bringing the story to life.
Silence again, and then the assembled guests clapped their hands vigorously. She declined to play any more, pleading a break before her poor fingers quite fell off. Laughter echoed around the grand room once more.
‘She would be a wonderful catch for you, dear boy,’ said Sir Alan to James as they stood together.
‘Father!’ Catherine turned to Sir Alan, ‘Not that again!’ She looked at James. ‘Father is always trying to marry me off to some boring aristocrat,’ she eyed him speculatively and tapped him on the arm with her fan. ‘But you are neither, I think, so you must have made a really good impression for him to want me to spend the rest of my life with you,’ she jested.
‘This time, my dear, I joke not,’ said Sir Alan. ‘Your mourning time is long past and I long for some grandchildren to play with in my older age. But now James, come and tell my guests and I of your upcoming plans for your time in London.’
James looked over his shoulder at her as he was led away.
‘So James had you not seen a pianoforte before?’ asked Catherine as they sat in the Cavendish drawing room that fine February morning which had an early hint of spring. The fire jumped cheerfully in the grate.
‘I confess that I had not, and more’s the pity. I must say, you play wonderfully well.’
‘Surely you have seen a clavichord or a harpsichord?’
‘Not only that but with one hand I c
an play “An Cailín Deas, The Lovely Lady”, slowly of course, with much hesitation and deliberation,’ he smiled at her and she laughed, making a shooing motion with her be-ringed hand.
‘Well, the piano, as you know, is the newest instrument of our time – and it is based on both the organ and the clavichord.’
‘And do you play the organ?’
‘Only on special occasions, but it is truly stirring in the right setting, is it not?’ she asked him, corners of her mouth curled upwards, showing off her small white teeth. ‘You do know the organ is of ancient design?’
‘I did not, I confess, tell me more,’ he replied softly and looked deeply into her blue eyes, noticing the darker flecks there.
‘Stop it, I tell you, stop,’ she laughed at him. ‘Don’t flirt with me because my father will sell me off to the highest bidder!’
Their laughter subsided.
‘Tell me about the design of the organ,’ he said.
Catherine stood and picked up an English flute from the instruments beside the piano, handled it lightly and put it to her lips, pausing, then looked at James.
‘The Greeks had pipes, a little like this flute. They placed seven of them with different tones side by side and blew them with a pump, and so they created the hydraulis, the Greek organ. The piano you see here is based on the best features of the organ, clavichord and harpsichord.’ She stopped, twirled the flute in her hand and looked at him from under her lashes. So do I make a good teacher?’
He nodded, motioning, ‘And these are the keys?’
‘Of course, dear pupil, they attach to little hammers covered with soft felt that knock on the strings. The string vibrates and makes its own sweet sound,’ she pressed down lightly and hummed the same note as the depressed key before lifting her finger off it.