The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘Has Cornelia been … harmed?’ The Alderman stared at her pale, averted face. His anxious eyes looked for some sign of violence but found none. ‘You said, one of those men kissed her? Was that all he did, wife?’

  ‘Aye, that was all,’ his wife agreed. ‘But, as you can see, he half frightened our girl out of her wits. And me too, I swear. I thought worse might befall us both. They were drunk, without a doubt, though not mad drunk. Merry and wild. All except the man who kissed her. He was a strange fellow. I did not fear any of them so much as him. His eyes glittered and he had a cold, hard smile.’

  ‘Damn his soul to perdition,’ breathed the Alderman.

  ‘Such wicked language!’ Mistress Brent said, clucking her tongue, but she was still watching her daughter rather than her husband.

  ‘Should we call for Doctor Andrew?’ the Alderman whispered.

  ‘No.’ Mistress Brent spoke sharply without thinking, and Cornelia, whose head had lifted at the familiar name, looked at her.

  Mistress Brent flushed. ‘Andrew . . . was called out to someone else as we came past his house,’ she said in explanation. ‘Look, I’ll put the child to bed. There is no lasting harm done to her. She will do soon recover after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I would be happier if Andrew saw her,’ said the Alderman in doubt. ‘The doctor calms her whenever she is unwell. I remember when she had the fever a year since, nothing so cooled her as to have him sit with her a while.’

  Mistress Brent turned away, frowning. She helped Cornelia up the stairs to her chamber. The servants, still clustered at the end of the hall, buzzed about like hornets, staring. Mistress Brent spoke sharply. ‘What do you all do there? Have you no task to do before you go to bed?’

  Cornelia’s chamber lay in shadow. Her maid, Nan, slumped in a chair beside the ashy fire, awoke with a start as they entered, and leapt to her feet.

  Mistress Brent gave her a sharp look, and scolded her for sleeping instead of looking to her duties.

  ‘Make up the fire, girl. Is the warming-pan in the bed? Fetch your mistress her night robe. Where are the bellows? Blow some life into that fire, quickly.’

  Cornelia shut out the sound of her mother’s sharp voice. Sinking down upon the edge of her bed, she laid her cheek against the brocade bed curtains and stared, unwinking as a cat, at the hearth. Nan was working furiously, her rough-skinned face intent, her elbows jerking up and down as the bellows breathed new life into the fire. The sticks of wood with which she had built up a new layer of coal spurted into flame and, as the coal began to burn, her shadow was thrown upon the ceiling. Cornelia watched it. Grotesque, the black form danced to and fro, like a creature at a witches’ sabbath.

  Cornelia had found Nan herself four years ago. She had been bored, one rainy spring morning, and, disobeying the rule which said she must never leave the house alone, had slipped out to walk in the wet streets. She had got lost. And found Nan.

  Too frightened to ask the way, she had walked on and on, legs aching, half curious, half anxious. Nan had come running round the corner and collided with her.

  Cornelia had been very small at that young age. Looking at her, Nan had grinned, as to a younger child. Something in her face had reassured and attracted Cornelia, and when a loud voice bellowed in the distance, and Nan turned for flight, Cornelia, fearing to lose the only friendly face she had seen for hours, had caught her hand and been pulled along with her.

  They had taken refuge in a deserted churchyard. Seated on a cracked, mossy gravestone, Nan had questioned her, and chatted freely about her own life.

  ‘Where do you live? Oh, I know Thames Street. They’re very fine houses down there. Is your father rich? Have you heard they are bringing the King back to England? How old are you? I am fourteen. You are very young to be out alone. I’ll take you home, but we’ll have to wait until old Snudgebelly gets tired of looking for me. I worked in his tavern, but I’ll work for him no more. His rat-infested hole is not fit for a dog. He thinks because I am not made like other girls that he can beat me as he chooses, but he is wrong.’ She looked fiercely at Cornelia. ‘I hate men. They are cruel and stupid. They call me hunchback and mock me. Do I frighten you?’

  Cornelia had looked at her gravely. ‘No,’ she said honestly. ‘I was frightened until I met you, but I feel safe with you.’

  Nan flushed. ‘You . . . you have noticed my back, haven’t you?’

  Cornelia nodded. ‘One of your shoulders is higher than the other,’ she said. ‘But why should it frighten me?’

  ‘It frightens other people. The boys shout after me in the street.’

  ‘They shout after me, too, because I am small,’ said Cornelia. She looked at Nan’s thick hair. ‘What splendid curls you have. My father makes me wear mine straight. He thinks curls are sinful. I wish I could wear my hair like yours.’

  Nan had wound one of her red curls around her finger. She was very proud of her hair which was healthy, rich and of a superb colour, but it was the first time that anyone had ever said as much to her.

  She did not know that Cornelia had remembered Doctor Andrew telling her once that it is better to praise the one virtue than to criticise the many failings.

  Nan had taken her home safely. Once or twice, in the dark alleys, men had turned to stare covetously at the pretty girl in her fine clothes, but Nan, aware and protective, had bared her teeth at them, like a dog, and her strange, fierce face had kept them at a distance.

  Mistress Brent, distracted with fear, had met them at the house door, sharply reproving yet instinctively clutching her child into her arms even while she railed. Somehow Nan had been taken into the house as well, and by the time the story had been told, Nan had been found a bed on the floor of Cornelia’s room, and was part of the household.

  Mistress Brent often regretted the gesture of gratitude which had resulted in Nan’s becoming Cornelia’s maid. She could not like the girl. Her sharp temper and rough tongue made her unpopular with everyone but Cornelia, who seemed blind to all her defects as a servant.

  Blunt to the point of rudeness, shrewd and rough-mannered, Nan had learnt about life in a hard school. What devotion she was capable of she turned towards Cornelia, but her affection was of the grim variety, masked from all except the girl herself and the wise eyes of Doctor Andrew.

  She bustled forward now, holding Cornelia’s nightgown, scolding briskly. ‘Off with your gown. This won’t do. I’ve warmed your nightgown at the fire. Best get into it quickly.’

  Somehow Cornelia was undressed, forced to drink a little warm ale, her hands rubbed until they tingled, then she was helped into her bed and lay between the warm sheets, as still as a doll, staring up at the canopy.

  The wind blew down the chimney. The smoke billowed into the chamber.

  Cornelia watched the shadows dancing on the walls, and listened to the spit of rain against the windows, the hiss as drops fell down the chimney onto the hot coals.

  Mistress Brent stood, watching her, then sighed and went out. Nan bent over, frowning. ‘What has happened? Are you ill? Have you a pain somewhere?’

  Cornelia shook her head and tried to smile, but she was too tired to think properly. She let her mind slide away.

  Nan watched her for a moment, then she, too, went out. The other servants, as she had expected, were full of the tale, much exaggerated from what Thomas had told them.

  ‘Thomas is to be sent away,’ they whispered. ‘The Alderman is very angry with him. He says he is worse than a toothless dog, and he’ll feed him no longer.’

  Nan listened, too shrewd to believe more than a tenth of what she was told, then went back to her mistress.

  Cornelia lay as she had been before, her lids drawn tightly down, the dark lashes tipped with gold, glinting in the firelight, the pale skin gleaming like pearl.

  ‘Draw the curtains,’ she said, without opening her eyes. ‘How can I sleep with firelight in my eyes?’

  Nan grinned. ‘Yes, Mistress,’ she said, in mockery.
‘But Master Andrew will be here soon. Shall you not see him?’ The lids flew open. Cornelia sat up. ‘Is he sent for?’

  Nan winked. ‘Your mother does not like it, but your father would have the doctor here.’

  Pink colour came back into the pale cheeks. ‘My hair,’ Cornelia said. ‘Bring me the brush. Why did you put out my oldest nightgown? Fetch me the cream one trimmed with fine lace.’

  ‘For him? For the doctor?’ Nan shook her head scornfully. ‘Your mother would not like it, and it would be me being whipped for such folly, not you.’

  ‘When have you ever been whipped in this house?’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything. Thomas is to be turned out of the house, poor old man, after twenty years of service. We may expect anything now.’

  ‘Thomas? Turned out of the house? But . . . why?’ Cornelia looked shocked.

  Nan shrugged. ‘I am only a servant. How should I know?’

  ‘He shall not go,’ Cornelia said angrily. ‘It is too unjust. What could he have done, one old man against six young and healthy rogues?’

  ‘What did happen?’ Nan asked, curious.

  ‘Oh, do not ask,’ Cornelia said, shivering at the memory of that kiss.

  ‘I have asked,’ Nan retorted, eyeing her shrewdly. ‘And I have heard a dozen different tales. I might as well hear the true one.’

  ‘We met with some dissolute rogues. They made mock of us and frightened my poor mother into fits,’ said Cornelia in an offhand manner.

  ‘And you?’ Nan probed.

  Cornelia looked at her, beginning to tremble again. Nan lost her air of half-scornful curiosity, and bent over her, pushing an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Stop that. God have mercy, girl, what happened?’

  ‘He kissed me,’ Cornelia whispered.

  Nan held her away, staring into her face. ‘Is that all?’ Her face was incredulous.

  Cornelia flushed indignantly. ‘Was it not bad enough?’

  ‘All this drama for a single kiss?’ Nan laughed. ‘You would do well with the play actors, Mistress.’

  Cornelia laughed. Nan’s common sense was always deflating. Cornelia knew that she, herself, had a tendency to be over-emotional at times, but, all the same, there was more to what had happened than Nan would ever understand.

  It shamed her now to remember the wild impulses which had devastated her when Rendel kissed her. It had never before occurred to her that there were impulses within her which did not answer to the dictates of her mind or heart, but only leapt to life in her body. In that blinding flash, she had learnt something about herself, a dark fact which had changed her whole world.

  She had recognised that her body had needs and desires which her love for Andrew Belgrave had never even touched, and that was sufficient to make her sick with self-disgust.

  It was that realisation that had driven her wild with anger, and made her strike out at the man who had revealed her to herself.

  That she could respond, hating him, had made it so much worse. She understood now why the preachers always dwelt savagely upon the sins of the flesh. She had never really comprehended their meaning before.

  The chamber door opened.

  Nan glanced round. ‘Good evening, Doctor Andrew,’ she said coolly.

  Ah, he was here at last.

  Cornelia closed her eyes, sinking back upon her pillows. She heard the spit of the rain on the coals and Andrew’s quiet footsteps across the room.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs …

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Well, now,’ said Andrew’s quiet voice. ‘How do you feel?’

  She turned her head slowly. His thin, tired face broke into one of his rare smiles.

  Andrew Belgrave was just past thirty, the only son of a well-to-do butcher from East Cheap who had educated his son with the intention of putting him to the profession of the law. Andrew had gone up to Cambridge to study, but while he was there his mother, whom he had loved deeply, had died, and Andrew had determined to become a doctor of medicine, that he might help to save the lives of women, like his mother, who fell sick. His father had been disappointed. He was, Andrew had told her, eager to have a lawyer in the family, and did all he could to persuade his son to change his mind. When his persuasion failed, however, he had resigned himself, and generously kept Andrew during the long course of his studies.

  A tall, stooped man, with gentle blue eyes, hair the colour of melted honey, Andrew carried around with him a sense of peace which transferred itself to those whom he met It was one of the things which made him much in demand as a doctor. He was not the sort of man who surrounds his profession with a mystery. He used common sense rather than astrology like other doctors, although, if he felt it might help, he was capable of drawing up a horoscope to calm a nervous, superstitious patient.

  Cornelia had known him for most of her life, since his father had been as involved in city politics as her own.

  Looking now at his weary mouth, the lines around his eyes, she forgot the shame and anxiety with which she had waited for him. The hot impulse which had been born when Rendel kissed her seemed a mere momentary delusion. She sighed in relief. Her love for Andrew remained unchanged.

  She put out her hand, and he took it between both his own, his long fingers discreetly feeling for her pulse. Cornelia laughed. ‘Mother and Father are given to alarms, as you know, Andrew. I am perfectly well.’

  He laid her hand down upon the quilt and smiled at her, his brow clearing. ‘Yes, I think you are. You have had a shock, though. You must get some sleep.’ He glanced at Nan, his blue eyes a little teasing. ‘I know Nan will have made you comfortable.’

  Nan tossed her head without reply. Her hostility to all men extended even to him, although he had been unfailingly kind and gentle with her since she first met him.

  ‘Could you ease your patient’s pain in the end?’ Cornelia asked.

  He looked at her in surprise, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘We were walking past earlier, when you were called out to a patient in pain,’ she explained, smiling.

  ‘Oh yes, poor Mistress Smeath. I did what I could for her. No physic can cure what ails her, I am afraid. Too many years of sleeping in a damp hovel, too little food and too little care—they are taking their toll now. I shall be surprised if she lives to see another spring.’

  ‘May I take her some food?’ Cornelia asked hesitantly.

  Sometimes Andrew allowed her to visit his poor patients with such food and clothing as they lacked, but she knew how important he felt it to be that their pride should not be wounded, and she always asked him first.

  He shook his head now, although he smiled at her. ‘I doubt she would mind, but her husband is another matter. He will not even allow me to help them.’

  ‘How does he pay you? The man looked destitute.’

  ‘He works as a scavenger. Whenever he finds something of any value he sells it to pay me.’ Andrew grimaced. ‘I once used to argue with him. It would make me happier, and be more sensible, if he kept the money to buy food for his wife, but he is a stubborn man. If I will not accept payment, he’ll not call me when she falls sick, and that I cannot have.’

  ‘It cannot be healthy for him to do such work, either,’ Cornelia said, shuddering. She hated to see the scavengers with their carts shovelling up the filthy refuse from the streets. They were merry, noisy men, and seemed quite happy at their task, but the odours and grime in which they lived could not be good for their health.

  Andrew nodded. ‘So one would think. Yet, oddly, they seem to live as long as other men. It may be that they are protected in some way. I have often thought about it.’

  Nan made a resentful, meaning noise, glaring at him, and’ he turned his head to smile at her. ‘Am I keeping her awake? I beg your pardon, Nan. I am a poor doctor, am I not? I must remember not to bring my problems to my patients.’

  ‘But I like to hear you talk of them,’ Cornelia said quickly.

  She di
d not want Andrew to go. It was peaceful, sitting there, listening to him talking so earnestly, his tired face beginning to relax.

  His blue eyes lit up. ‘Do you? I believe you do. It is a pity you were not a boy. You have all the makings of a good doctor. I meant to ask if you would visit Ellen Killigrew.’

  ‘Ellen?’ Cornelia stared. She remembered Ellen very well. She had been Mistress Brent’s stillroom wench for some years until she married a sailor and moved into the crowded tenements nearer the north side of London Bridge. ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘She has just been delivered of a child,’ he said gravely. ‘Her third in as many years. Her husband is on the high seas. She would take it kindly if you called.’ He looked down at her, his weary mouth lifting in a smile. ‘As a neighbour and old friend,’ he added softly.

  ‘I wonder if she remembers my grandfather,’ Cornelia said thoughtfully.

  Andrew’s brows lifted. ‘Your grandfather?’ He looked puzzled.

  Cornelia grinned at him.

  ‘He killed some pigs lately and sent us some fine salted pork. We have more than enough to last the winter. He had a fondness for Ellen. She came from Grandfather’s village, you know. We took her from there at fourteen.’

  Andrew gently touched her cheek. ‘Clever girl,’ he said. ‘It was well thought of. I must go. I am bid to supper on Thursday. I think your father’s back is troubling him again.’

  He grinned as he left, and Cornelia laughed. Alderman Brent, like many rich people, disliked spending money if he could avoid it, and whenever he felt slightly unwell would invite Andrew to supper, and somehow introduce the subject of his ailment, in the hope of getting free medical advice. Andrew knew, and was amused by, this foible.

  Nan banged the door after him and came back to the bed, her hands on her hips in a defiant attitude. ‘He should be ashamed. Talking you into visiting in those slums. God knows what disease you’ll catch down there. Your mother won’t let you go, I hope.’

  Cornelia ignored her. ‘Poor Ellen. She was so pretty when she first came to us. Rosy cheeks and merry eyes.’

  ‘She won’t be pretty now,’ said Nan, half maliciously, half angrily. ‘Three babes in three years.’