The boy with the handcart glanced incuriously at me. I ducked back into the alley. I did not go far – a few paces would bring me back to the safety of the crowded street.
But a few paces was all it took to reduce the sound of traffic on Fetter Lane to a fraction of its volume on the street. I waited a moment.
I heard three knocks in the distance – first one, then a pause, then two in swift succession. After another pause, the sequence was repeated. In my mind’s eye, I saw the tall man standing among the turds and knocking the head of his staff against the door to Clifford’s Inn.
Sourface. As good a name as any.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun, draped with fiery streamers of cloud, was sinking towards the horizon over Hyde Park. Jemima was in her bedchamber, sitting by the window overlooking the garden, with a novel by Mademoiselle de Scudéry lying unread on her lap.
The kitchen yard was to the side of their garden, divided from it by a fence. From her chair, she was able to look down slantwise into the strip running along its far wall, which also served as part of the boundary wall between the Limburys’ house and the one next door in Pall Mall. The hut over the cesspool, which the servants used as their privy, was in the yard, along with the midden, the gardener’s shed and the kennels for the dogs.
The house around her was still. Two hours or so before supper, there always came a lull in the routine, a time for the household to draw breath. In the bowels of the building, the cook and the kitchen maid were at work, but they were out of sight and did not count.
Richard was the first to come out. He was a thin man, older than his employer by a good ten years, with the attenuated, overstated elegance of a greyhound. He dressed in dark clothes of good quality, as befitted his position as one who was seen in public with his master. But Philip was at Whitehall now, attending on the King, and his absence meant that his servant was at leisure.
In honour of the occasion, Richard was wearing his teeth. When he wore them, his face was passable, though no one would call him good-looking. Without the teeth, his face collapsed in on itself.
As Jemima watched, he took a turn about the yard, throwing glances in the direction of the door to the kitchen.
Mary glided outside. The girl looked well enough, Jemima supposed, quite a handsome creature in her way, and her green eyes would have adorned any woman’s face. She appeared not to see Richard, but slipped between the kennel and privy. Here was a sort of alcove, framed by the side walls of the outbuildings and the boundary wall behind. He glanced back at the kitchen and followed her.
Jemima shifted her chair to the right, which gave her a clear view of most of the alcove. Though the window was open, she could not hear what the two servants were saying. But soon there was no need of words.
Richard’s arms snaked out and tried to wrap themselves around Mary’s waist. She sprang back. He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in supplication.
Mary edged closer, extended her arm and let him take her hand. He raised it to those damp, mobile lips. He pulled her slowly towards him. She resisted at first, but allowed herself, step by step, to be drawn into his embrace.
Jemima leaned forward in her chair, trying to see more. Her book, volume ten of Le Grand Cyrus, slid from her lap to the floor, but she did not notice.
Richard’s hand slid over Mary’s hips. He pushed his knee between her legs. He gripped her gown and tried to lift it.
Suddenly it was over. Mary was walking briskly towards the house. Richard turned aside, his back to Jemima at the window, and appeared to be adjusting his dress.
Jemima sat back, leaving the novel where it had fallen. She closed her eyes. She did not bother to answer when there was a light tap on the door.
Mary came in, shutting the door behind her and sliding the bolt across. She crossed the room and stood by Jemima’s chair.
‘Did Richard tell you anything?’ Jemima asked without opening her eyes.
‘Something, madam. Only a little.’
‘Comb my hair.’
She felt Mary’s arm brush against hers as the maid leaned forward and took up the silver-mounted comb from the dressing table. The comb’s teeth tugged at Jemima’s hair. Mary steadied her mistress’s head with her other hand. The tips of the teeth scraped the skin of Jemima’s scalp. She felt her muscles relax, first in her face, then in her neck and then lower down her body, a gentle tide of well-being.
If I were a cat, she thought, I should purr.
‘He was ready enough,’ Mary said. ‘He wants me.’
‘I saw,’ Jemima said softly.
‘His breath stinks.’
‘Did he answer you?’
‘I asked where he’d been,’ Mary said. ‘Why he was always out these days. He said it’s the master’s business. So I said, what about on Thursday, when he was gone all day and most of the evening. I pretended I’d been mad with passion for him then. He wouldn’t answer at first, so I let him touch my breasts.’
‘You wicked woman,’ Jemima said.
‘He said the master had a difficulty that he helped him deal with, and he’d been well paid.’ The comb found a knot, and bit into it, tugging and pulling, loosening the strands of hair with delicious deliberation. ‘A pound, he said.’
‘A pound!’
‘And in gold, mistress. He said he’d buy me a pair of gloves if I would grant him the last favour. That’s what he wanted.’
‘That’s what men always want,’ Jemima said. ‘If they want you at all. It’s either that or nothing.’
Mary snorted. ‘He wanted it there and then, up against the wall. But I wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t have told me, even if I had. He’s hot for me, but he fears Sir Philip more.’
Jemima opened her eyes. ‘Look at me.’
The comb stopped its work. Mary came to the side of her mistress and looked down at her.
‘What do you think?’ Jemima asked.
‘About Richard? I think he’s a bag of wind and piss.’
‘No. About my husband’s bitch in Clifford’s Inn. Who is she?’
It was nearly midnight.
A single candle burned on the night table. Shadows crowded in the corners of the room. The mistress and maid were sitting in the bed, side by side, so close that their shoulders touched. They were both in their smocks. Jemima felt the warmth of Mary’s body, seeping through the linen that separated their two skins. Their feet touched.
The bed curtains were tied back. Jemima thought they might be alone in the night in some far-off place – the Indies, perhaps, or Africa – sitting in their silken pavilion with the flaps raised. The candle was their campfire, its glow keeping them safe from the wild beasts that prowled about them, invisible in the darkness.
Mary turned her head. ‘Why does master care so much?’ she whispered, and her breath brushed Jemima’s skin and made it tingle.
‘About Dragon Yard? Because it’s his, you foolish girl. Nothing else is. Only that freehold. His salary from the Bedchamber goes to pay the interest on his debts.’
‘But why should he bother, mistress? He lives high, thanks to you and Sir George. He wants for nothing, and never will.’
‘Except his own money in his purse.’
‘So this is his chance then? To have money he can call his own?’
‘Even the clothes on his back and the food on his table comes from me and my father. And he won’t have the use of the property I bring him until my father dies. Perhaps not even then. Father means to tie up everything in knots if he possibly can, to make it safe for his grandson.’
There was a silence. Mary had come to Syre Place when she was thirteen. Jemima allowed her a latitude she allowed no one else. Talking to Mary was like talking to herself. Her mind veered to her husband, and jealousy twisted inside her. Not just jealousy. Oh, Jemima thought, I would give anything to be with his child. How was it possible to love someone and hate them at the same time?
She said abruptly, to divert herself: ‘I believe
that Dragon Yard is not merely a matter of money.’
‘What is it then, dear madam?’
‘My husband does not care to be idle. Since he came back from the navy, he has done nothing except fritter his life away at court, or wander about here, or see his friends. He has no occupation apart from warming the King’s small clothes when it’s his turn to serve him.’
Her father kept Philip on a tight leash like a distempered dog. Distempered dogs sometimes turned on those that fed them.
‘But that’s no reason for him—’
‘Stop it, you foolish woman.’ Jemima pulled away from Mary. She was tired of talking, tired of thinking bitterly familiar thoughts that led nowhere but endlessly back on themselves. ‘Bring me my draught. I can’t sleep properly at present.’
Mary laid her hand on her mistress’s forearm. ‘Madam,’ she said softly, pleadingly. ‘I know a better way than a sleeping draught.’
‘Hush. Did you hear?’
Both women listened, hardly breathing. There were footsteps in the passage. Then a firm knock on the bedroom door, and the clack of the latch.
‘Jemima. Are you awake?’
‘Shall I say you’re sleeping?’ Mary whispered.
Jemima pushed her away. ‘Open the door. Quickly.’ She raised her voice. ‘A moment, sir.’
Mary took up the candle and padded across the floor to the door. She drew back the bolt. The door opened sharply, banging into her.
‘Be off with you,’ Philip said to Mary.
Without looking at her, he pushed past and strode towards the bed, his leather slippers slapping on the floorboards. He was carrying his own candle, and the flame danced like a wild thing, throwing shadows around the room. He was wearing his bedgown and looked, Jemima thought, like an Indian prince striding into his harem. She had given him the gown; it was made of scarlet and gold silk, ankle-length, trimmed with fur at the neck and wrists, and padded against the chill of the night. He wore a silk kerchief around his shaved head.
‘Mistress?’ Mary said. ‘Shall I—’
‘Go away,’ Jemima said without looking at her. ‘Don’t bother me.’
Mary left the room quickly, taking her candle with her. She closed the door with unnecessary emphasis.
‘I’m glad I find you awake,’ Philip said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, on her left side, and took her hand. ‘You look very fine, my love. And quite restored, thank God.’
Despite everything he had done, despite everything she knew about him, and everything she was, she felt herself respond to his voice. She looked at her small white hand as it lay defenceless in the palm of his. She pulled it away and turned her face away from him.
‘Are you sleepy?’ he said.
‘Not in the least.’
‘Come, then.’ He stood up and pulled back the coverlet and sheet. He stared down at her. ‘Let us while away the time by entertaining each other.’
She sat up sharply. ‘How can you come to me like this?’
He raised his dark eyebrows and chose to misunderstand her. ‘Who better than me? You’re my wife. You would want no one else, I hope.’
She tried to pull the sheet over her, but he would not let her. ‘You come from another woman. I can smell your punk’s stink on you. Your punk in Clifford’s Inn.’
‘What nonsense is this?’
‘I know it all. I saw the woman’s letter.’ She spat out the name. ‘This Celia.’
Philip stared at her. He forced a smile. ‘You mean Gromwell’s mistress?’
She stared at him. ‘What? I thought—’
‘Don’t.’ He pulled away from her. ‘I should beat you for even thinking such slanders.’
‘But the letter …’
Philip whistled. ‘I remember now. Gromwell showed me the letter the other night. I left it on my desk when he and I walked over to watch the play at Whitehall. It named the time and the place of their meeting … So your little Mary was playing the spy?’
Jemima said, ‘She – she has my best interests at heart. And as well someone has.’
‘I’ll have the jade whipped.’
‘No, sir. You shall not.’
He held her eyes for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘I’ll let it pass this time.’
She tried to stand but he pulled her down. ‘Let me go.’
‘Full of passion, that letter, wasn’t it? Full of my love this, and my love that. But think back – my name wasn’t mentioned in it. You assumed that I must be the woman’s lover because your jealous nature would have it so. But the letter was written to Gromwell, you goose, not to me. He brought it to show me. He was in raptures – she had agreed at last to meet him privately, in his chambers, and he thought he was as good as wed to her.’
‘But – but that can’t be true. I don’t believe it.’
‘Of course it’s true.’ He stroked her hand. ‘Now, my dearest. Let us return to what matters.’
He straightened and pushed the bedgown from his shoulders. The wavering flame of the candle converted his body into a map of hills and shadowed valleys; in places, the skin glowed as if a fire was raging across it. He was running to fat but she didn’t care about that.
She stretched out her finger and touched his leg. It was warm and rough. Completely unlike a woman’s. Tonight, she thought, perhaps God will at last permit—
‘My love,’ Philip said, sliding into the bed beside her. ‘Oh – by the way – I had almost forgot: there is a small matter of business to discuss as well.’
Her excitement shattered.
‘I should find it a great convenience if I had a little ready money. Two hundred would be enough, I think, and I shall soon be in a position to repay it and more.’ His hand slipped over her left breast. ‘Do you think Sir George might see his way—’
‘You know what my father said last time.’ Her nipple hardened under the smock, treacherously ignoring its owner’s feelings.
‘Yes, but this is different. It’s an investment that cannot fail to yield a rich profit. See, I’m talking like a plump alderman already … If my plans for Dragon Yard go ahead – and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t – I’ll even be able to repay his last loan.’ He untied the neck of her gown and slipped his hand inside. ‘I could borrow the money elsewhere, I know, but the interest would not be agreeable.’
She forced herself to think clearly, just for a moment, to float above the tide of sensation that was flowing through her. ‘There’s only one thing that will make him look kindly on you. You know what that is.’
He withdrew his hand abruptly. ‘Yes, my love. An heir.’ His voice had an edge to it. ‘And we are doing what we can to achieve that most desirable aim at this very moment. But this other matter is important, too – not to him, perhaps, but to us. Now I think of it, we could avoid troubling your father entirely. You recall those earrings he gave you on your birthday before last? You never wear them – you told me they were too heavy, and ugly besides. And he wouldn’t expect to see them on you, either, because he never leaves Syre Place now, and you would hardly wear such baubles in the country. So you wouldn’t miss them, and nor would he.’
‘How can you say this?’ she said. ‘Now, of all times?’
The room was almost silent around them. She listened to the sound of their breathing and a faint scratching near the chimney piece. Mice, perhaps rats. A distant owl screeched among the trees of the park.
Was it possible that he had lied to her after all, and that he, not Gromwell, was the woman’s lover? Why should she trust him?
‘Well, well,’ Philip said, and his voice had changed again: it was warm now, and soft as a caress. ‘It is only business, like Dragon Yard. What do such things matter, after all, as long as we have each other?’
The hand was back. Only this time it was raising the hem of her smock. His fingers touched her inner thigh and she could not restrain a sigh of pleasurable anticipation. Her body was treacherous, her body was his ally.
‘And we have this
, my love,’ he whispered. ‘Always.’
His mouth hovered over hers, his breath brushed her skin. ‘Let us give your father a grandson, my love. A little Henry who will have Syre Place when he is gone.’
Somewhere on the far side of the curtain windows, a distant church clock began to strike the hour. Her husband’s fingers moved in time with the chimes as one day passed into another.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Will you take some warm wine, sir? With spices to heat the blood?’
Mr Hakesby shook his head. He was huddled over the fire with a blanket draped over his shoulders. The ague was bad today.
The office was already uncomfortably warm. The morning sun streamed through the big windows of the drawing office at the sign of the Rose in Henrietta Street. Brennan was in his shirt sleeves, and there were patches of sweat under his arms. Cat thought he stank like a fox.
‘I must see Poulton this morning,’ Hakesby said. ‘Is that the half hour already?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cat said. ‘You’re engaged to meet him at ten o’clock in Cheapside.’
‘I know, I know.’
They listened to the chime of a distant church clock.
‘I could hire a coach …’ Hakesby said. His deep voice quivered.
‘You are not well enough to go abroad, master.’
He frowned at her and then looked away. A fit of shivering ran through him. ‘I suppose I could send the boy downstairs with the plans …’
‘Mr Poulton will have questions. The boy can’t answer anything.’
‘Or Brennan.’
She glanced at the draughtsman, who had his back to them and seemed absorbed in his work. ‘But, sir, you need him here to finish the warehouse plans. That’s as good as money in the hand.’
‘Then it’s hopeless.’ Hakesby’s eyes filled with tears; these sudden swings of mood were growing worse with the tremors. ‘We’ve lost a possible commission. And Mr Poulton has the reputation of being a man who pays on the nail. He is exactly the sort of client we need.’
Cat wondered if Hakesby were right. Despite his wealth, Poulton might be the sort of client they didn’t need. He was somehow mixed up in this dubious business that Marwood was concerned with. On the other hand, Hakesby might be right. Besides, they had already done the work.
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