“How long have they been building?” Henry peered through the fencing, but he could not see much.
“Work began about three years after the fire, but the foundation stone wasn’t laid until “seventy-five. Work has been intermittent over the years, much to Wren’s frustration.”
“How so?”
Robert balanced both hands on top of his cane, his lips pursed as if considering. “Well, Compton, the Bishop of London, voted for the Exclusion Bill, so King Charles withdrew the funds.”
Henry cocked his head, listening. “There’s work going on now. I can hear it.”
Robert nodded. “King James called his first Parliament this spring, and reinstated the coal tax revenues, which funds the building work. For the next fifteen years, at any rate.”
“Shall it stay like this, sir?” Henry nodded at the building rising above the fence. “With a flat roof?”
Robert looked up at the towering edifice. “Indeed, no. Sir Christopher’s plans include a magnificent dome, painted with ecclesiastical murals visible to the congregation from the cathedral floor. It will be the highest building I shall see in my lifetime.”
“Is this to stop thieves?” Henry pointed to the hoardings on the opposite side of the road.
“Partly,” Master Devereux nodded. “Many say Wren chooses to hide his masterpiece behind this.” He tapped one of the panels with his cane. “To confound those who would criticize his design. The Commissioners say his plans for a dome is too Catholic for an Anglican cathedral.” He leaned closer. “They are staunch Whigs, and anything that smacks of Papism sends them into paroxysms of criticism.”
“I wish I could see it properly.” Henry glared at the fence, willing it to vanish.
Robert tapped his nose with his cane. With a knowing smile, he said, “well my boy. There’s a gap in the boarding a little further on, from which you can see the workings. However, I advise you to stay in sight of my coachman, lest you become a target for footpads. I’ll see you anon.” He aimed a brief salute in Hendry’s direction, before he turned on his heel and strode across the cobbles of Paternoster Row.
Chapter 13
Henry picked his way across the cobbles at the bottom of Ludgate Hill, where the stench of the river was strong. A shout from his left made him jump backward, just in time to avoid a man pushing a loaded handcart down the incline. Congratulating himself for not sustaining an injury on the dirty road, he was almost run down by a laden pony coming from the other direction.
Unlike the streets of Exeter, where he might have received a sympathetic query as to whether he might be hurt, both men merely snarled and continued their journeys without further ado.
Finally, Henry reached the high wooden fence that ran around almost the length of the street. He followed it for a hundred paces or so until he found the gap in the boarding that Master Devereux had mentioned.
Henry craned his neck to see through the narrow gap, beyond which the glistening white building rose like a cliff face, the late autumn sky visible through the glassless windows and the fact the building was not roofed as yet.
Workmen and stone carvers clambered over a complex network of wooden scaffolding like insects on a piece of rotting fruit. Men in workmen’s” breeches hefted stones, and carried planks of wood, tools and leather buckets of water expertly over rubble. Young boys lugged mortar to the base of the stone façade, to be hoisted up by baskets to stonemasons perched on platforms high above the ground. The stonemasons themselves were easy to identify, all of them covered with a fine white dust that made them look like ghostly apparitions.
“Stand aside, boy, for my Master to pass.” A harsh voice at Hendry’s shoulder made him jump.
Lost in the spectacle of the building site, he had not heard a carriage pull up behind him. “Beg pardon, sir,” Henry muttered, his back pressed against the fence.
The watchman hopped down from his box and with an obsequious salute, opened a door in the fence for a man who had alighted from the coach. Slightly stooped and not much taller than Henry, the man was immaculately dressed in an embroidered long-coat and voluminous white curly wig that fell halfway down his back. Penetrating brown eyes beneath thick brows in a lined but well-shaped face scanned the site possessively. His upright walk meant Henry could not discern his age very well; though he was not a young man, yet he could not describe him as elderly. Several workmen in leather aprons, their hands white from stone dust, hurried forward to engage the newcomer in urgent conversation. He addressed each one in turn, standing amongst the piles of rubble, discarded pieces of scaffolding, sheets of sacking and bits of stone, with as much aplomb as if he presided in a drawing room.
A male servant stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the shoulder of a small boy of around six or seven. The child wore a blue velvet long-coat and a brown curly wig on his narrow head, but something about him struck Henry as unusual. The child’s eyes looked empty, as though unaware of his surroundings. He repeatedly tugged at the servant’s sleeve, while making small mewling noises. The servant removed the boy’s hand, only for the grasping fingers to return. The expression on the servant’s face remained unchanged, as though this behavior was a common occurrence. Aware he was staring, Henry turned back toward the original object of his interest.
One by one, workmen bowed and backed away, dispersing into the crowded site. With a final glance and a nod at the industrious hive before him, the man turned and made his way back toward the carriage, his small entourage following.
Henry froze as the man’s shrewd brown eyes raked him from his polished shoes to his face, the man’s lips curling upwards into a benign smile. “Young man, you appear to have an uncommon interest in my cathedral. Tell me, then, what you think of it?” “A wondrous structure, sir; I have never seen anything like it.” Henry frowned, recalling what the man had said. “Did-did you say, your cathedral, sir?”
“I certainly feel it is mine.” His voice was low and soft, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “For it is my design, and I have petitioned two kings to provide me with funds to make my dream a reality.” He inclined his head. “My dear young sir, you are not from London, I can tell by your speech.”
“Indeed not, sir, I am from Exeter.”
“Ah! An historic city indeed, and with a fine cathedral of its own.” He laid a finger against the side of his nose and gave an amused chuckle. “A proper Norman structure, at that.”
Belatedly, Henry snatched off his hat and gave a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. My name is Henry Woulfe.”
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Master Henry Woulfe.” A bemused smile tugged at the man’s mouth as he returned the bow. “I am Sir Christopher Wren.”
The servant’s face appeared round the side of the open carriage door, but Wren dismissed him with a backward wave. Henry had already guessed the stranger’s identity, though hearing his name spoken aloud brought a wide smile to his face.
“I should have been disappointed had you not heard of me.” His new acquaintance inclined his head so far to one side, Henry wondered how the heavy wig remained in place. “I have lately become the Member of Parliament for Plympton Erle, in your own county of Devon.”
Having no idea of this fact, Henry stayed silent, storing the information to tell Master Devereux later. “Sir, my host and patron has told me much about this wonderful structure.”
“And who might your host be, young Master Woulfe?”
“He is Robert Devereux, sir, of Lambtons Inn.”
“Ah.” Wren lifted his cane to his nose. “I know your patron; I have often dined in his excellent establishment. He crossed his elegant hands over the silver-topped cane and leaned backwards. “And you, Master Woulfe, are you by any chance interested in architecture?”
Henry grinned. “Indeed, sir, though I had no notion of it before I arrived in London. However since coming across this magnificent cathedral today, I should like to know more about this white stone, sir, I find it somehow familiar.”
>
“There is a reason for that, young sir.” The architect held up a finger. “Exeter Cathedral is built of the same stone, which is why you find it familiar. Found on a small island off the Dorset coast, it is of a certain softness, ideal for carving, and weathers well after exposure to the elements.”
The servant’s face appeared in the window of the coach at intervals as they talked, each time with varying degrees of annoyance. Sir Christopher ignored him. Delighted to have such a famous man’s undivided attention, Hendry’s heart swelled.
“However London air is full of dirt, soot and other impurities, which are not good for the stone,” Wren said, dismayed. “See how dull this façade has become?” He indicated a pillar on the unfinished structure. “See the difference?” Beckoning Henry closer, he lifted a piece of sacking which revealed several slabs of untouched stone that shone with pristine whiteness. The stone almost sparkled, as if it had tiny shards of glass embedded within it. The half-constructed building seemed almost dull in comparison.
Dropping the sacking back in place, Wren slapped his hands together to remove the dust. “So, Master Woulfe, would you have a fancy to see inside my cathedral?”
“Tha-that would indeed be an honour, sir,” Henry stammered, then paused, his enthusiasm vying with his duty to Master Devereux. “However, my patron will have finished his business for the day, and I have to return. Although I hope there will be other occasions. And if I have to use my two feet to get here from Holborn, I shall certainly do so, for the privilege.”
“Then I am happy to issue an invitation.” Sir Christopher placed a hand on Hendry’s shoulder and guided him back through the wooden door in the hoarding.
Henry paused beside the carriage, where a footman stood rigid beside the open door.
The child Henry had spotted earlier leaned out of the carriage, his hand flapping in agitation. “Now, now, no need for alarm, I am returned.” Sir Christopher sighed, his head inclined toward Henry. “This young man is my son, Billy.”
Henry bowed and murmured, “Your servant.”
Sir Christopher climbed into the carriage, calling to Henry through the open flap. “I will send my man to Lambtons to call for you; shall we say, Friday at ten of the clock?”
Before Henry could give a response, the driver had cracked his whip and the carriage lurched away up Ludgate Hill.
On the short journey back to Holborn, Henry treated a bemused Robert Devereux to an animated account of his meeting with the acclaimed architect.
Henry chose not to mention the vacant-eyed boy. Not because the child discomforted him, but more from a desire to protect a weakness he saw in his new acquaintance’s life, a weakness he did not yet understand.
* * *
When Alyce announced that Helena could not take her place in London society, or rather Lambtons” society, without suitable clothes, all three Devereux women threw themselves into the task with enthusiasm.
Heedless of Helena’s insistence that she was of sufficient means to finance her own wardrobe, Alyce waved her aside, saying the honour was hers.
“My own girls have more than enough for this season, so there is no pleasure to be found there. But you my dear, are darker, a little taller.” In a small aside so as not to let her daughters hear, she added, “…and far more striking, so I shall have a wonderful time dressing you.”
A veritable army, including a seamstresses and her assistant, a milliner, a hosiery peddler, a wigmaker and a cosmetics merchant arrived within a day, crowding into Alice’s private salon next to the chamber she shared with her husband.
“That’s Mistress Groves,” Celia indicated a haughty looking woman in heavy face paint, accompanied by two frail-looking girls, their arms laden with parcels. “She’s the Duchess of Somerset’s dressmaker.”
“I doubt you’ve ever seen her like in Exeter.” Phebe said, superciliously.
Helena silently agreed, though she wasn’t going to admit as much to Phebe.
During the protracted measuring session, where Helena submitted to having bolts of cloth draped over her shoulders and around her waist, Celia and Phebe pored over the items draped across chairs and covered the bed for inspection, while Helena was convinced they remained to see which items might be discretely acquired for themselves. There was so much to choose from; she found she was unable to make a decision about anything, but even that in itself was exciting.
* * *
Bundled up in an outdoor cloak with a heavy rug tucked around her knees, Helena occupied a corner seat in the Devereux carriage as it bowled through the open spaces of Holborn into noisier, busier thoroughfares toward the river and the New Exchange.
“Helena!” Celia chided as Helena hung out of the carriage window. “You’ll lose your necklace or headdress ribbons to a scoundrel if you don’t watch out.”
Helena giggled, fascinated at the attention a fine coach attracted; “I cannot help myself, the City is still such a novelty to me.”
When forced to halt, traders dodged in between the traffic trying to attract their attention; thin, dirty hands thrust through the windows, or clung dangerously onto running boards until a footmen dislodged them with a well-aimed whip.
Celia adopted her haughtiest pose and looked away in distaste, while Phebe smiled prettily and pretended interest in the trays of tawdry stuff placed under her nose.
Leaving the coach in a side street Celia, led the way into the pillared main hall of what she called the “Change, with its vast concourse covering two floors lined with open shops, under a canopied ceiling. Each one bore an impressive display of brightly-coloured trinkets, laces, hats, gloves, and fans, arranged on trays and boxes to attract the shopper.
“They marry well,” Phebe whispered, indicating the well-dressed female stallholders with their painted faces. “They meet many fine gentlemen by working here.”
Helena tore herself away with difficulty from each stall, only to be accosted by the occupant of the next; faced with so many gloves and fans, ribbons, muffs and petticoats, she found making a choice quite beyond her.
Determined to purchase something, she settled on a pair of silk hose from Philip Danbury’s shop, and a small ornamental japanned box. Celia and Phebe trailed behind with bored expressions, though Helena remained entranced, constantly uttering admiring phrases.
The maid - not Chloe on this occasion, but Alice’s - trailed behind with a sullen expression, her presence completely ineffective as a chaperone, for Phebe greeted almost every young man they encountered with fulsome compliments, ensuring the entire hall was aware that the younger Mistress Devereux was in the building.
One gallant sauntered away, having failed to elicit more from Celia than a cold stare.
“Why were you so curt with Master Gillingham just now?” Phebe admonished her. “He was simply being no more than amiable, not trying to rob you of your virtue!”
Helena stifled a shocked laugh, but Phebe was in full flow. “…and even if they were, he is unlikely to announce the fact in the “Change. You’re quite safe.” She swung her muff from one hand to the other, her sharp eyes scanning the hall as she spoke. “Why, I should emulate you and simper like a schoolgirl, I shall never be noticed.”
“You are bold and indiscreet Phebe, what will poor Helena think of you?” Celia sniffed. “She cannot be used to such outrageous attention seeking.”
Phebe pulled a face, bowing to mutter a polite, “Sir,” to a slightly built young man in brown velvet who approached them. With a sweep of her arm, Phebe introduced him. “Master Jack Montague, allow me to present Mistress Helena Woulfe, who has lately come to town from Exeter. My sister Celia you know, of course.”
Phebe inclined her head, adding, “Jack is cousin to Sir Charles Montague.”
With no idea whom the Montagues were, but resolving to question Celia on the subject later, Helena’s gaze fixed on the impossibly high periwig which almost overwhelmed his narrow face.
“Shall you attend my Lord’s soirée this evening
, to celebrate His Majesty’s birthday?” he asked in a high, almost feminine voice with a pronounced lisp, while he gazed at Phebe with an enraptured expression. “I assure you it will be a well-attended occasion.”
“A shame, then, that we have conflicting plans for that evening.” Celia imitated Alice’s haughtiest tone. “I shall be sorry not to see Master Evelyn, whom I am told shall be there.”
“Oh…oh yes, he certainly shall. A remarkable old man is he not? So full of Court stories. I never tire of listening to him,” he concluded, his tone intimating the opposite was true.
After a polite interval and much bowing, he moved off down the concourse.
“Huh!” Phebe flicked her fan back and forth. “When shall I be invited to a Court Ball, and not simply the parties held afterwards?”
“Never. You’re not aristocracy, Phebe.” She tucked her arm into her sister’s and drew her in the opposite direction.
“Do you have a preference for that young man, Phebe?” Helena asked, glancing back at her new acquaintance.
“Not at all,” Phebe smirked, earning her a hard glare from her sister. “He is very satisfying to practice on, don’t you think?”
Helena felt instant admiration for Phebe; obviously a young lady determined to make the best of her opportunities.
When they returned to the coach, Phebe banished the maid to the outside seat, leaving them to gossip inside on their way back to Holborn, a heap of prettily wrapped parcels balanced on their knees.
Celia attempted yet again to warn her sister of the dangers of forward behavior in public, but Phebe waved away her criticism. “It’s all very well for you to eschew flirting, Celia, but we don’t all have a Master Maurice dancing attendance upon us.”
“Who is Master Maurice?” Helena asked, watching a slow blush suffuse Celia”s face. “He was that pale creature at dinner the other night,” Phebe giggled. “The one with the dog eyes, who quivered each time Papa spoke to him.”
The Rebel’s Daughter Page 15
