The Ashes of London

by Andrew Taylor

  Sir Denzil crooked his finger at her, and the diamond ring sparkled. ‘You see, my dear, I wear your ring. And I shall send you mine as soon as it has been reset.’

  This ring, this token of love, was a polite fiction. Cat had understood from Master Alderley that he himself had provided both rings, for Sir Denzil was short of ready money and tradesmen were not enthusiastic about allowing him credit. The rings were designed to be symbols of the betrothal. Master Alderley had sent this one to Sir Denzil only yesterday.

  The conversation was mainly of the Fire, of course, and of the King and the court.

  ‘There are grounds for hope,’ Sir Denzil informed them, his piping voice muffled by a mouthful of lobster. ‘I heard the King himself say so this morning. If the Duke of York can hold the Fire at Temple Bar, then Whitehall is saved.’

  Olivia touched her throat. ‘Are we safe here?’

  ‘Lord Craven’s men have turned back the flames at Holborn Bridge,’ Master Alderley said.

  Sir Denzil waved his fork. ‘You need not trouble yourself in the slightest, madam.’

  ‘I’m advised that the worst is over,’ Master Alderley said. ‘Even Bludworth has at last begun to pull down houses. Only in Cripplegate, but it’s a start.’

  ‘I fear the Lord Mayor is an old woman, sir,’ Edward said.

  ‘Very true, sir,’ Sir Denzil said. ‘Only a fool would have failed to realize that creating firebreaks was the only way to hold the fire. Bludworth’s indecision has cost us half the City.’

  ‘He was afraid he’d be sued by the tenants or the freeholders if he pulled down their houses,’ Master Alderley said. ‘Or both. It comes down to money. It always does.’

  ‘The City must thank God for the King and the court,’ Sir Denzil said. ‘Without their cool heads and brave deeds, it would have been far worse. That’s the trouble with these aldermen and merchants and so forth. In an emergency, they are no better than children. They cannot even save themselves and their ledgers.’

  ‘That isn’t true of all of the aldermen,’ Master Alderley said drily. ‘Fortunately.’

  The change of tone put Sir Denzil in mind of the company he was in. ‘Of course, sir. And thank God for it. Now if only you, not Bludworth, had been Lord Mayor, it would have been a very different story, I’m sure.’

  ‘Who would be a Lord Mayor?’ Master Alderley said. ‘It’s a great deal of expense and a man has little return on his investment, as well as much risk. For Bludworth, it will mean ruin.’

  ‘Will you take a few anchovies, sir?’ Aunt Olivia said, judging that it was time to change the subject. ‘My niece made the sauce according to a French recipe, and I’m sure she would value your opinion.’

  Sir Denzil tasted it and nodded. ‘Delicious. Did you know, madam, I have a Frenchman in my kitchen now? I hope you will all dine with me soon. I fancy you will not be disappointed. He has cooked for Monsieur d’Orleans, you know, and several gentlemen have tried to steal him since I brought him over from Paris.’

  Cat stole a sideways glance at Sir Denzil. A streak of sauce ran down his chin and onto the collar beneath. He dabbed it with his napkin.

  Dinner was nearly over, but no word of the business that had brought Sir Denzil here had passed between him and Master Alderley, apart from the matter of the rings. Cat suspected that the terms of the betrothal between herself and Sir Denzil had not yet been finally agreed, but of course nothing would be discussed at table before the women. But somehow it seemed tacitly accepted that the principle of the thing had been established. She tried to imagine what it would be like to see Sir Denzil consuming food and drink at table every day of their married life. Her imagination baulked.

  ‘You must ask my cousin Catherine to sing to you after dinner,’ Edward said, leaning over the table towards Sir Denzil.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Sir Denzil said, taking up his glass and frowning into it, as if surprised to find it empty again. ‘I shall be charmed, I’m sure.’

  Jem limped forward to refill the glass.

  Edward glanced at Cat, smiling, just for a second. ‘One cannot listen to my cousin’s voice and be unmoved.’

  Olivia said: ‘What a pity, Sir Denzil, that the pleasure must be postponed for a little while. Master Alderley tells me that you and he must withdraw after dinner.’

  Master Alderley grunted.

  Olivia leaned towards Sir Denzil, affording him an agreeable prospect of her breasts. ‘And are you considered musical, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I am, madam. All the Croughtons are.’ He toyed with a spoonful of apple pie. ‘After all, is not music the food of love?’ At this point he realized that it was perhaps impolite of him to stare so long and so fixedly at Mistress Alderley’s bosom while talking of love. He put the spoonful of pie in his mouth and transferred his gaze to Cat.

  ‘How I long to hear you singing duets,’ Edward said. ‘It will be quite ravishing.’

  When at last dinner was over, Master Alderley withdrew to his study with his guest leaning heavily on his arm and humming ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’. Edward made his excuses to the ladies and left the house.

  ‘So,’ Olivia said as she led Cat into the parlour. ‘In a while, you will be Lady Croughton.’

  ‘Must I be, madam?’

  ‘Yes.’ Olivia sank gracefully into a chair and took up her embroidery. ‘Your uncle has quite made up his mind. Sir Denzil has no money but he has the ear of the King and those about him. But you must not let it worry you. The marriage will not come to pass until the winter. Master Alderley needs a little time to make sense of Sir Denzil’s affairs and deal with the settlements. Sir Denzil is not a man to take liberties beforehand, I think.’ She smiled in a sly way that brought out her resemblance to a cat. ‘And perhaps not even afterwards. The one thing you must do when you are married to Sir Denzil is to feed him well. Take my advice, my dear – a good cook and a well-provided table will save you a world of grief.’

  ‘But I don’t want to marry him.’

  ‘You’re not so foolish as to long for love? You’re far too sensible, child. Love and marriage are two quite different things.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry anyone.’

  Olivia stabbed the needle into the silk. ‘You must do as you’re told,’ she said. ‘You cannot stay here for ever, doing nothing but getting your fingers inky and scratching your meaningless lines on scraps of paper.’

  ‘But they are not meaningless, madam. They are plans – they are designs of buildings that—’

  ‘Fiddle-Fiddle.’ Aunt Olivia’s temper was rising. ‘It is not an occupation for a lady. Besides, your uncle has been very kind to you in making this arrangement. He wants to see you comfortably settled, as you are his poor sister-in-law’s only child, and you may be in a position to help him and your cousin once you are married. You should remember that it cannot have been easy for him to manage – after all, Sir Denzil knows who your father is. Everyone does.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN CAT WAS very little, the Lovetts had a dog. He was a nameless animal of no breeding but infinite patience. The dog reminded her of Jem in more ways than one. One of her earliest memories was of toddling in the garden of their house in Bow Lane, hand in hand with Jem, with the dog on the other side of her.

  It was difficult to say exactly what Jem did at Barnabas Place. In the old days, he had worked for her father as a confidential clerk and manservant. When their troubles came, her father had sent him with her to her aunt in Champney. Later Jem had escorted her to Uncle Alderley’s.

  Jem had been old even then, but his breathing had been better and his joints not so rusty. He was not valued at Barnabas Place. He slept in the loft above the stables, along with the man who killed rats, emptied slops and did other unpleasant necessities. He ate in the back kitchen and did what he was told to do. Apart from board and lodging he did not receive a wage, though Cat occasionally gave him a few pence or even a shilling or two.

  ‘It isn’t fair,’ Cat once said to him
. ‘You’re always working, always doing something for someone. They should pay you.’

  ‘The master gives nothing for nothing.’

  ‘But you give him something.’

  ‘You don’t understand, mistress. I am nothing. To your uncle, I mean. His worship wouldn’t miss me if I were not here, so why should he pay me? If he thinks about it at all, he knows I will stay whether I’m paid or not, because he knows I have nowhere to go. He pays nothing for nothing. That’s how he’s become rich.’

  Early in the evening of the day of the dinner, after Sir Denzil Croughton had been assisted to his coach, Cat went in search of Jem. She found him in the little yard behind the washhouse. He wasn’t wearing the Alderley livery any more. He was in his ordinary clothes and preparing lye, the mixture of ashes and urine that was used for soaking badly soiled laundry. It was a woman’s job usually but the washerwoman had lost the two girls who usually came in to assist her; presumably they and their families were somewhere among the flood of refugees.

  The walls of the yard were high, trapping the hot air below the heavy grey sky. The grey was tinged with an orange glow. Even here, the ground was flecked with ashes. Cat watched him at work for a moment before he saw her. He was stirring the mixture in a half-barrel, stooping over his work with the sweat streaking his shirt and running down his arms. His thin grey hair hung limply to his shoulders.

  When she called his name, he turned his head. His face was red with heat and exertion, shining with sweat. He stared unsmilingly at her.

  Cat wrinkled her nose. ‘Come in here. I can’t talk to you there.’

  She turned and went into the barn. She heard his dragging footsteps behind her. She stopped and faced him.

  ‘How can you bear it?’ She spoke at random, for her head was hurting and she found it hard to gather her thoughts. ‘The smell. The heat.’

  He shrugged, and she realized that for him it was not a question worth answering. ‘Is there news of Layne?’ he said.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. Why?’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about him, mistress.’ He stared at her. ‘He likes to know where you are.’

  ‘Layne does? Why in God’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve heard him asking your aunt’s maid, more than once, and I’ve seen him watching you. I think he searched my box the other day, though I can’t be sure. If he did, he might have found—’

  ‘I can’t worry about Layne now,’ Cat interrupted. ‘I want to go out tonight. I’ll need clothes again.’

  Jem shook his head.

  ‘An old shirt – a pair of breeches. That’s all.’

  ‘No, mistress.’

  ‘But there must be something you can find. There’s a chest of rags for the poor, isn’t there? You’ll find something in there, I’m sure. I have a cloak now – the one I found yesterday.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘That’s not for you to decide. Do you need money? Would that make it easier?’

  ‘I won’t help you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He looked at her. Their eyes were on a level. ‘Because it’s not safe.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘I must see my father. They are going to make me marry Sir Denzil. I’d rather die.’

  Jem ignored that. ‘I shouldn’t have let you go last night,’ he said. ‘The City is a madhouse on fire.’

  She stamped her foot. ‘You’ll find me clothes. And you’ll wait at the door and let me in when I come back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I command you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mistress.’

  Cat advanced on him. ‘I can’t do this without you.’

  He stood his ground. ‘You won’t know where to begin. He can’t meet you in St Paul’s now.’

  ‘I’ll find him. In Bow Lane, perhaps.’

  ‘But there’s nothing left in Bow Lane.’

  For a moment she grappled with this idea, that the house where she had grown up no longer existed. ‘Nearby, then.’

  ‘He could be anywhere, mistress. If he’s still alive.’

  ‘Of course he’s alive.’ She glared at him. ‘Can you send word to him?’

  ‘No. He always sends word to me. Safer that way.’

  ‘How?’

  Jem shuffled, easing the weight on his lame leg. ‘I was told not to tell you.’

  She scowled at him. ‘My father hasn’t seen me for six years. He forgets I’m not a child any more. So do you, but with less reason.’

  He stared at her for a long moment. ‘There’s a man,’ he said at last. ‘He brings me a letter sometimes, or sometimes just a message. And he takes them from me in return. Yesterday he told me that you should go to St Paul’s, that your father would find you there in Paul’s Walk.’

  ‘Who is this man? Where can you find him?’

  ‘I don’t know, mistress.’

  She glared at him. ‘You must know something.’

  He hesitated and then said slowly, ‘He lives somewhere near Cursitor Street. I think he might be a tailor. I saw him sometimes in the old days.’

  ‘Then I shall go there and look for him. If my father isn’t with him, then perhaps he will know where he is.’

  ‘I won’t let you,’ Jem said. ‘It would be folly. Let me see if I can find him. Better still, be patient until he sends word.’

  ‘No. I shall go. You must help me.’

  Jem shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. If they find your father in London, they will put him on trial for treason. And anyone they find helping him.’

  She raised her hand to slap his face. Slowly she lowered it. ‘Why are you being so obstinate, old man? One word from me, and they will turn you out on the street.’

  ‘Then say it,’ he said. ‘The one word.’

  The long evening drew at last to a close.

  Uncle Alderley and Cousin Edward had been into the City and then as far west as Whitehall. At supper, they were full of what they had seen. The Fire was diminishing, though it was still burning steadily and there was always the danger it would reach the great powder magazine in the Tower, particularly if the wind veered again. The great exodus from the City had continued. Perhaps seventy or eighty thousand people had fled. They were flooding into the unburned suburbs, to Houndsditch and the Charterhouse, to West Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and even to Hatton Garden, where they were lapping around the walls of Barnabas Place itself.

  ‘They are like people in a melancholy dream,’ Master Alderley said. ‘They simply cannot understand what has happened.’

  The refugees camped wherever they could. The park at Moorfields was packed with them – more than twenty acres of ground covered with a weeping, moaning, sleeping mass of humanity. Some had gone over the river and set up camp in St George’s Fields, where the ground was marshy even in this sweltering summer, and evil humours rose from the ground at night. Others – the more active or the more terrified – had gone further still, to the hills of Islington.

  ‘God knows where it will end,’ Master Alderley said. ‘Once people leave the City, why should they come back?’

  Alarm flared in Olivia’s face. ‘But what shall we do, sir?’

  ‘You need not worry, my dear. They will always need money wherever they go. I have taken precautions. So we shall do very well, whatever they do with London’s ashes.’

  She leaned over the table and patted his hand. ‘You are so wise, sir.’

  Master Alderley withdrew his hand at once, for public displays of feeling disturbed him; but he was not displeased with this show of wifely admiration.

  ‘Is Layne back?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then we shall have to turn him off. I know you brought Layne into the household, but I cannot have a servant who will not attend to his duty.’

  ‘It may not be his fault. Perhaps the Fire has delayed him. Perhaps he has had an accident.’

  Master Alderley frowned. ‘We shall see. In the meantime, we mus
t find another man to wait at table. I don’t wish to have that cripple again.’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’

  ‘We saw Sir Denzil,’ Edward said in a moment. ‘He was attending the Duke of York.’ He turned to Cat, which meant that his father and his stepmother could not see his expression. ‘He and I drank to your betrothal, cousin, and to the speedy arrival of an heir to Croughton Hall.’

  ‘That would suit us all very well,’ Master Alderley said. He gave Cat a rare smile. ‘We shall have you wedded by Christmas and brought to bed of a fine boy by Michaelmas next year.’

  ‘So be sure to cultivate this French cook of his, cousin,’ Edward murmured, too low for his father to hear. ‘French cooks are always men of infinite subtlety and resource. I am sure Sir Denzil’s will know how to set his master on fire for you.’

  After supper, Olivia took Cat up to her own bedchamber to discuss the wedding, its location, who should be invited, and what she and Cat should wear.

  Ann came to undress her mistress while they talked. Olivia sat at her dressing table wearing a bedgown of blue silk trimmed with lace, with four candles reflected in the mirror and throwing their murky light on her face. The warm air was heavy with perfume.

  The subject was of absorbing interest to Olivia, and the discussion – the first of many, no doubt, she said with a smile – went on for longer than Cat would have believed possible.

  Cat’s eyes strayed to the great bed that stood in the shadows, surmounted by a canopy. She imagined Uncle Alderley – so staid, so old, so disgusting – heaving and twisting and grunting there. The thought of it, together with the perfume and the suffocating sense of femininity that seemed to fill the room, made her feel ill.

  Olivia did not belong with Uncle Alderley. She could not enjoy his attentions, Cat thought, though in public she behaved with impeccable obedience towards her husband. But Cat had heard their raised voices through closed doors.

  Was this what marriage meant? This unnatural union? This heaving and twisting and grunting? A public show of devotion concealing private quarrels and secret lusts?

  Ann left the room to fetch hot water.