‘Yes, if you wish it,’ Cat said, moved by pity. ‘With pleasure.’
‘Catty. Do you remember? I called you Catty and you called me Betty.’
‘Cromwell?’ Hakesby said, frowning. ‘Is this a piece of drollery?’
In his irritation, he spoke more loudly than usual, and Brennan the draughtsman looked up from his stool on the other side of the Drawing Office.
‘No, sir,’ Cat said quietly, trying to control her irritation. ‘Elizabeth Cromwell.’
‘Really? Were you not aware that her highness the Protectoress died three years ago?’ At times, when his illness was upon him, Hakesby affected a bitter, satirical tone. ‘Or do you mean her daughter Elizabeth, my Lady Claypole? She’s been dead for even longer. What nonsense is—’
‘I mean Oliver’s granddaughter, sir. The eldest child of Richard, the last Protector. I used to play with her as a child.’
Hakesby stared at his wife, with his mouth open. His nose was red and it had a drop of moisture on the end. He was suffering from a cold, which made worse a temper that was increasingly uncertain at the best of times. It was his illness that made him unpredictable and often cross; he had not always been like this. It was unfortunate that he was not only irritable this morning but relatively vigorous as well. He said: ‘You … you knew the Protector and his family?’
‘My father was much in Oliver’s company, and he knew Richard, too, though he was more friendly with Henry, Richard’s brother. Sometimes my father would take me to Whitehall with him.’
When Cat thought of it, which was rarely, her memories of those days seemed to belong to someone else. It seemed unreal to her, the young wife of an elderly surveyor, that she had once been an heiress, and that her parents had been intimate with the Cromwells. Her father had been one of the wealthiest stonemasons in London, and her mother had been allied to the Eyres, substantial Suffolk gentry. The Lovetts and the Eyres had been staunch supporters of Parliament in the wars against the King, and later of the Cromwells. Thomas Lovett had been one of the regicides who had signed the death warrant of Charles I.
‘If the truth be told, I wish Oliver were still alive,’ Hakesby muttered.
‘Hush, sir.’
‘I know the King is back,’ Hakesby said, ‘and naturally we are his loyal subjects. But it was better in the old days, when we were ruled by godly men, and England held its head up high among the nations of Europe. All that was Oliver’s doing.’
‘The times have changed, sir. Oliver is gone, and so is his son. And Mistress Elizabeth is eager to resume her acquaintance with me.’
‘Well, why not?’ Hakesby straightened in his chair.
‘She says she will ask us to dine with her at her godmother’s house in Hatton Garden. She is staying there for a while.’
Hakesby wiped the drop from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘We shall accept. I shall be honoured to dine with her.’
‘I’m not sure it would be wise. Though the Protector’s family are allowed to live peacefully in England, it would not be sensible for you to be seen with them. They are not encouraged to show themselves in London.’
‘Who are you to tell me what’s wise?’ Hakesby scowled at her. ‘Have you forgotten I’m your husband, and the duty you owe to me?’
‘No, sir. I never forget that.’
There was a silence between them. Cat heard Brennan’s pen scratching on the paper, as he indited a list of the scaffolding and other timber that would be required for the next stage of the Dragon Yard commission, which was the major project they had in hand at present. The draughtsman could hardly have avoided hearing Hakesby’s side of the conversation, and probably some of hers.
Hakesby closed his eyes. Waves of weariness often swept over him without warning. Cat waited, hoping he would doze off.
But his eyes snapped open. ‘She knows where to find us? Here at the sign of the Rose?’
‘Mistress Cromwell?’
‘Who else could I mean?’
‘Yes, sir, she does know where to find us.’
Here at the sign of the Rose.
The eyes closed again, and soon Hakesby’s breathing had slowed and steadied. His mouth fell open again. He began to snore.
‘What about the chimney stacks, mistress?’ Brennan asked in a low voice. ‘Should we order extra props for the inner frames?’
Cat said absently, ‘As you think best.’
She still stood beside her husband’s chair, though there were a dozen tasks waiting to be done. Elizabeth Cromwell had known where to find them because Cat had told her: in Henrietta Street by Covent Garden. But how had Elizabeth known that they were living in the house at the sign of the Rose?
‘Have you heard the news?’ Brennan said when he arrived at the Drawing Office on Saturday morning. ‘There was a terrible duel at Barn Elms on Thursday. The whole town is talking about it.’
‘Who was fighting?’ Cat asked.
‘My Lord Shrewsbury and the Duke of Buckingham.’ He grinned, baring his teeth, which made him look even more like a moulting fox than usual. ‘Not hard to find the reason.’
‘What? What reason?’ Hakesby said, cupping his ear, though there was nothing wrong with his hearing. ‘Speak up, man.’
‘Why, master, the whole world knows that my lady sees more of the Duke than her own husband. By night as well as day, if you take my meaning.’
‘The court has become a cesspit of sin,’ Hakesby said. ‘These nobles are like alley cats on heat, for all their finery. This would never have been allowed to happen under Oliver.’
‘Hush, sir,’ Cat said quietly. Her encounter with Elizabeth Cromwell yesterday had opened the floodgates of her husband’s memory, and released a great tide of nostalgia for the Commonwealth and Cromwell.
‘But it’s true. And sooner or later the devil will give them their due.’
‘It wasn’t just them that fought, sir,’ Brennan said, still bursting with news. ‘They each had two gentlemen to support them. One of them was killed, man called Jenkins, and Lord Shrewsbury lies badly wounded and like to die. And the others are in hiding, including the Duke.’
‘In my opinion—’
Fortunately there came a knock at the door, which stopped Hakesby in mid-flow. It was the porter’s boy with two letters in his hand. Hakesby took them both and examined them.
‘Ah – this is from Dr Wren in Oxford; I wonder what he wants.’ He glanced at the other and looked up at Cat. ‘And this is for you. Not another wretched bill?’
She took the letter from him. He unfolded Wren’s.
‘How interesting,’ he burst out. ‘Indeed, how gratifying. He writes that Mr Howard has offered the Royal Society a plot of land in the garden at Arundel House. It’s for them to build a house for their meetings and experiments, with laboratories and an observatory and so forth. Nothing’s settled yet, but Dr Wren wishes to make a preliminary design. He wonders if I would be willing to assist him.’
‘Nothing’s settled?’ Cat said. ‘So it may not go ahead?’
Hakesby dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. ‘What a challenge a building like that would be. Our reputation in the world would rise if we were seen to be engaged in it.’ He glanced down at the letter. ‘To begin with, Wren asks if I would be able to survey the land for him, and send him a detailed plan of the plot. If I agree, he will send to Mr Howard for a letter of authorization.’
‘Is there money promised for the scheme? Or even for the survey?’
‘Money won’t be a difficulty.’
‘Money is a difficulty, sir.’ Cat kept their accounts and knew to a farthing what was due and what was owed. ‘We cannot afford to work for free.’
Her husband frowned. ‘No doubt there will be a subscription for the building in due course. The Society’s members will contribute generously, and probably the King himself.’
Cat thought it unlikely. Money for new projects was always a problem, particularly in a city where half the buildings were i
n ruins and everyone was trying to rebuild. Add to that a shortage of materials and skilled craftsmen, and the odds against the Arundel House scheme seemed even worse.
‘It is to be called Solomon’s House,’ Hakesby said. ‘How fitting.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you not know Bacon’s New Atlantis?’ Hakesby was growing excited. ‘He envisaged a great college dedicated to the expansion of our knowledge, and the foundation of the Royal Society was conceived as a great step towards it. But note this’ – here he waved his finger at her – ‘Bacon called it Solomon’s House because King Solomon is the wisest man in the Bible. The Royal Society’s discoveries are worth nothing if they do not bring wisdom as well as knowledge.’
Cat turned away to open her own letter. She was quietly furious. Their accounts were in better shape than they had been before her marriage, but Hakesby had accumulated a load of debt beforehand, and the interest on this was a steady drain on their income, which was already under threat because of his declining health. All in all, it would be folly for Hakesby’s Drawing Office to undertake risky, speculative work without payment. Where was the wisdom in that? She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
‘Who’s your letter from?’ Hakesby demanded. ‘Is it the coal merchant again? Come, stand by me so I can see.’
As Cat had feared, the letter was from Elizabeth Cromwell. Writing in a round, clumsy hand, Elizabeth began by blessing God for reuniting her with the bosom friend of her youth and went on to make several observations about the workings of God’s providence. At last she moved on to her purpose: her godmother, Mistress Dalton, had asked her to send a most pressing invitation to Mistress Hakesby and her husband. Would they possibly be free to dine with them tomorrow, on this very Sunday? Elizabeth knew that it was short notice, she went on, but nothing could give her more pleasure than seeing them as soon as possible. She ended by sending her respectful salutations to Mr Hakesby and her fondest love to Cat.
‘It’s from Mistress Cromwell, sir.’
‘Really?’ Hakesby said. ‘What a day this is – letters from Dr Wren and Mistress Cromwell by the same post. When are we to dine there?’
‘She asks us for tomorrow, sir. But it is not entirely convenient, because—’
‘Nonsense, my dear. Let me see the letter.’ He almost snatched it from her hand. He read it quickly. In an access of good humour, he beamed at Cat. ‘How very civil. “Fondest love”, eh? You shall write to her at once, and say that nothing would be more agreeable than to dine with them. Then look out my best suit and send for the barber directly. I must have a shave.’
When the letter had been sent to Elizabeth Cromwell, and Hakesby’s suit sent downstairs to be cleaned of food stains, and the barber had come at last, Cat was able to return to work. She discussed and finalized the Dragon Yard timber order with Brennan. After that, she had a great deal of copying to do, for both the foreman of the builders and the future owner required sets of plans of one of the larger houses in Dragon Yard; it was to have a number of modifications, including a music room at the back and a walkway on the leads of the roof.
The copying was close, mechanical work. Usually Cat enjoyed it, for there was pleasure in seeing the lines spreading across the paper, following the patterns that she and Hakesby had created: the lines that would soon be fixed for generations in brick and stone, timber and tile. Copying also left room for her mind to roam free, resolving current problems or, best of all, dreaming of fantastical designs for buildings that she would never see built.
Not this morning, however. Elizabeth Cromwell intruded into Cat’s thoughts; Elizabeth with her plump cheeks and slit-like eyes, her abrupt, uncontrolled movements and her overeager manner. As a child, she had been like an overgrown puppy, Cat thought, unschooled in manners and desperate to be loved. She was still like that as a young woman. She had been sly as a child, and perhaps that too was unchanged.
Was she also lonely? She had greeted Cat as if they had been the closest of friends; but Cat, who was several years older, had not played with her at Whitehall more than half a dozen times, spread out over two or three years. Elizabeth had been lonely then. Her mother had exercised little direct control over her. Her father had been much occupied and often absent, especially when he had succeeded his father as Lord Protector. For much of the time Elizabeth had been left in the care of servants.
Cat remembered playing shuttlecock in the big garden by the Cockpit, and Elizabeth tripping over a low hedge and wailing for her maid; and, on another occasion, her losing a match and throwing her racket on the ground and stamping on it.
The Cockpit lodging, where Elizabeth had lived, was separated from the main palace of Whitehall by the road to Westminster. But on one occasion the pair of them had bowled a hoop above the gateway that bridged the road and down the Privy Gallery towards the door leading to the former royal apartments. Outraged servants had driven them back into their private quarters. Elizabeth had blamed Cat for that episode, though she herself had been the instigator, and Cat had been the one who received the whipping.
Cat had never seen the inside of the royal apartments, where Oliver had lived in state until his death, a king in all but name. His son Richard, Elizabeth’s father, had moved into the apartments in his turn when he became Lord Protector; but his reign had lasted less than nine months. Elizabeth had once whispered to her that her grandfather liked to have pictures of naked ladies in his bedroom, pictures that had once belonged to the King whose head they had chopped off in front of the Banqueting House.
For a while, the new Protector’s eldest daughter had been effectively a princess of England, a desirable match for any man. But what was she these days?
After the Restoration, Oliver’s bones had been dug up from his grave. His head had been impaled on a spike above Westminster Hall, where it was thickly smeared with bird shit and twitched at the mercy of every breath of wind, a decaying reminder of the blasphemy of murdering a king anointed by God. Charles II had been merciful to Oliver’s family. Richard, no longer Lord Protector, had proclaimed his loyalty to the crown and gone into voluntary exile. His wife and children were rarely seen in public. They were not encouraged to show themselves in London. The name of Cromwell was still powerful: a reminder of past glories, and a rallying point for those with present grievances.
Cat did not want to go to dinner with Elizabeth Cromwell and her godmother, for it could do her no good. She did not want to introduce her ailing, elderly husband to a young woman whose father and grandfather had ruled England. If she was brutally honest with herself, she was ashamed of Simon Hakesby, who had given her his name, his house and his occupation; and she was even more ashamed of herself for being ashamed.
And then there was that other matter, the other reason why she did not want to go to the house near Hatton Garden: how was it that Elizabeth in her hackney had been waiting in Fleet Street outside the instrument makers? Above all, how had she known that Cat lived at the sign of the Rose?
She wished she could discuss this last matter with someone. Neither her husband nor Brennan would do, for different reasons. Out of the blue, she wondered what James Marwood would say if she were to tell him about it.
Which was of course impossible.
Mr Hakesby was painfully anxious that they should create the right impression on their hosts. He had to be dissuaded from hiring a private coach from the livery stable at the Mitre. Before he could change his mind, Cat sent the porter’s boy for a hackney, which would cost a fraction of the price.
She had never seen her husband in such a state, and it surprised her. He was not a man who was usually impressed by wealth or birth. But for him, it seemed, a Cromwell was different. To dine with a young lady who was Lord Protector Richard Cromwell’s daughter, whom the great Oliver himself had no doubt dandled upon his knee: well, that would indeed be a notable encounter.
They made good time – it was a crisp, cold day, and the ground was hard. Hatton Garden itself was a street of modern
houses, but the coach set them down at the gateway of a much older building to the east of it. A porter opened the gate to their knock and admitted them to a paved courtyard beyond. There was a waterless fountain in the middle, and beyond it a shabby house with a roof of sagging tiles speckled with moss.
A few yards in front of them, an elderly man was picking his way towards the door of the main house. He was leaning on the arm of a manservant and tapping the ground with a stick he held in his other hand. He turned his head at the sound of the Hakesbys’ footsteps. He was wearing a large felt hat and a pair of glasses set with thick green glass.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The guests, master,’ said the servant holding his arm.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Hakesby, who was also leaning on a stick. ‘My name is Hakesby.’ He peered at the man and then said, enunciating the words very clearly in case the man was deaf as well as blind or at least partially sighted, ‘And this is my wife.’
‘Your servant, sir,’ Cat said.
The man bent his head. ‘Ah yes – my cousin told me you were dining with us. John Cranmore, sir, at your service.’ The voice was cultivated but hoarse, as if Cranmore were on the verge of losing his voice. Added to this, his beard and moustache, which he wore in the style favoured by the late king, needed trimming; stray hairs trailed over his lips and increased the difficulty of understanding what he was saying. ‘Pray go ahead of me. I proceed at a snail’s pace, and the weather’s too cold for lingering.’
The Hakesbys made their way to the door. It opened before they reached it, and another servant led them into a hall with tall pointed windows and blackened roof timbers high above their heads. The air was chilly, despite the small fire of logs that burned in an enormous grate. He took their cloaks and ushered them to a doorway set in the side wall of a low dais at the far end.
This led to a much warmer parlour, where Elizabeth Cromwell was reading aloud from a volume of sermons to a plainly dressed lady in middle age. Elizabeth rose as soon as they entered and, putting aside the book, came quickly to greet them.
The Last Protector Page 4