Frost Fair (11 page)

    'My position?' echoed Susan, trying to maintain her composure.

    'A spinster in search of a husband.'

    'But that's not my position at all.'

    'Of course, it is,' said her sister with a brittle laugh. 'What do you think we were put on this earth for, Susan? It was not to read books about ridiculous countries like Italy, that much is certain. It was to make a good marriage. Yours is already long overdue.'

    'That's a very unkind remark.'

    'Strike now while you still have your beauty. It will not last forever.'

    'Some men prize other qualities above beauty.'

    'Not the ones that you need to attract.'

    'And who might they be?'

    'Men like Lancelot. Wealthy, cultivated and infinitely obliging.'

    'Nothing could be further from my mind at the moment than marriage.'

    'Then you are betraying your womanhood,' said Brilliana, 'and will live to regret it before very long. Since Mother died, I've tried to take her place and offer you the love and advice that I know she would have given you.'

    Susan did not trust herself to reply. There was not even the faintest resemblance between the roles of her mother and that of her sister. Brilliana had shown her precious little love and showered her with the sort of cynical advice that a kind and caring woman like their mother would never dream of foisting on any of her daughters.

    Susan found her sister's comments offensive. She was grateful when Lancelot Serle came into the library to interrupt their conversation. His face was reddened by an hour in the saddle and his eyes glistening. He stood in the doorway and beamed.

    'So, here you are!' he declared, noting the book in Susan's lap. 'Have you found my library to your taste?'

    'Yes, thank you,' said Susan.

    'I think that I may call it a library now that I have over seventy volumes on my shelves. Many were inherited from my father, of course, for he was a learned man but I have bought several on my own account. Brilliana will vouch for that.'

    'Books are so tedious,' said his wife.

    'You did not always think so, my love.' He turned to Susan. 'There was a time when Brilliana liked me to read poetry to her. John Donne was her favourite.'

    'Those days have gone, Lancelot.'

    'You were fond of Shakespeare's sonnets as well.'

    'I slept through most of them.'

    Serle laughed. 'Brilliana will tease,' he said.

    'Did you enjoy your ride?' asked Susan.

    'It was not so much of a ride as an errand. Has your sister not told you?'

    'Told me what?'

    'Brilliana wanted me to invite some friends over to meet you. We could have dispatched a servant, naturally, but I felt that a personal touch was needed.'

    'That's why I sent you,' said his wife crisply. 'Is everything in hand?'

    'It is, my love. All is arranged and the cook is standing by for your instructions. It promises to be an interesting evening, Susan,' he went on, still beaming happily 'You'll have the pleasure of meeting a very special gentleman.'

    It sounded ominous. Susan felt a warning tremor.

       After a long but profitable night at work, Christopher Redmayne set out with his drawings finished and packed away safely in his satchel. An accomplished horseman, he looked forward to the ride and found the keen morning air very bracing. Once clear of London, he discovered that the ground was firm and dry but not frozen. It enabled his horse to maintain a steady canter. Fear of ambush would have made most riders seek company before they set out but Christopher felt confident that he could repel or outrun any highwaymen who might be lurking along the way. In the event, he encountered no hazards on the road to Sheen apart from a stray dog that pursued them for a while and tried to bite the horse's fetlocks. A warning swish from Christopher's sword had got rid of the animal.

    The village itself looked rather insignificant now that it had lost its royal and monastic associations. Sheen Palace, in various forms, had served generations of kings and queens before and well after its name was changed to Richmond Palace. Largely destroyed by the Parliamentarians, it had, after the Restoration, been partially repaired by the King for his mother but she found it far too bleak to live in. Christopher was saddened to see that it looked more ruin than royal place. He was even more dismayed when he rode past the dilapidated remains of the priory, a fine building that had been allowed to crumble over the years. As an architect, Christopher felt a profound sense of loss when noble edifices were reduced to shadows of their former glory.

    Whitcombe Manor was less than a mile from Sheen and, in a sense, it was an attempt to preserve a royal connection because it was so obviously and unashamedly inspired by the Queen's House in Greenwich. Those who had never seen the beautiful house that Inigo Jones had designed for one queen, and finished for another, were struck by the symmetrical perfection of Whitcombe Manor, with its long, low, clean outlines, its arresting Palladian features and its proportions so subtly altered that it no longer resembled the Italian villa on which it was based. Visitors who were familiar with the Queen's House, however, recognised a smaller version of the building, more compact, less chaste in its aspect and with enough minor variations to absolve the architect of simply copying his predecessor. As he rode up the long drive and through the formal gardens at the front, Christopher wondered why Lady Whitcombe had opted for plagiarism rather than originality, for it was she who had been the moving spirit behind the construction of the house. The new town house she had commissioned was also, in essence, a copy of an existing structure. Her notions of architectural excellence were always second-hand.

    It was only when he dismounted from his horse than Christopher realised how tired he was. The sleepless night and the long ride had taxed his strength. It was an effort to keep his eyes open. Handing the reins to an ostler, he tried to shake off his fatigue and strode towards the front door of the house. He was soon conducted to the parlour and given plenty of time to examine its contents. It was his third visit to the house but it still had a strange novelty for him. Lady Whitcombe was an acquisitive woman. If she saw something that she liked, she was determined to have it, no matter what its cost. Christopher looked around at the array of gilt-framed paintings, rich tapestries, abundant statuary and all the other ornamentation that had been assembled. A vast, red, patterned, circular Turkish carpet occupied the centre of the room with furniture arranged carefully around its circumference. There was an abiding sense of order and balance.

    When Lady Whitcombe finally swept into the room, her daughter was trotting obediently at her heels. Both women smiled when they saw their visitor.

    'It is so reassuring to see you, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, extending a hand for him to kiss. 'I began to fear that you'd forgotten us.'

    'How could I possibly do that?' he said gallantly.

    He kissed her hand politely then gave a token bow of acknowledgment to Letitia Whitcombe. She suppressed a giggle. Though almost twenty, Letitia had the manner of someone far younger. She was a desperately plain young lady with bulbous eyes, a snub nose and a pronounced jaw. Unsure whether a modest smile or a sly grin best suited her features, she kept shifting nervously between the two, however inappropriate they might be. Her mother, by contrast, had a natural dignity that gave her an almost regal air. Now approaching fifty, Lady Cecily Whitcombe had preserved some of the beauty that had made her such a catch in her younger days. What in other women might be considered an unbecoming plumpness looked, in her case, an attractive aspect of a Junoesque figure. Pink was Letitia's chosen colour but her mother wore a dress of pale blue with a row of darker blue bows adorning the front of the bodice. Both women had looped skirts that revealed petticoats with delicate embroidery. Anticipating his visit, they had taken great care with their appearance. Christopher felt untidy by comparison.

    'Do sit down, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, perching on a chair and adjusting her dress accordingly. 'The long ride must have wearied you.'

    'I am fine, my lady,' replied Christopher, grateful to be able to take a seat himself. 'The sight of Whitcombe Manor revived me at once.'

    Letitia gave an involuntary giggle before lowering herself on to a chair.

    'We are so grateful for this milder weather,' said her mother. 'You'd have found it impossible to travel when there was snow on the ground.'

    'It was the frost that caused the real problems,' he said. 'Until this week, the Thames was one long sheet of ice.'

    'We heard about the frost fair, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia, venturing into the conversation. 'I wish that I could have seen it.'

    Her mother gave a disapproving smile. 'It was far too vulgar an event for you to attend, Letitia. I'm sure that Mr Redmayne agrees.'

    'The King did not feel it beneath him, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher. 'His Majesty joined the rest of London on the ice. The frost fair was a splendid sight.'

    'We preferred our own sights, here at Sheen.'

    'I do not blame you.'

    'The last thing I wanted to do was to rub shoulders with the common people on the Thames. One has to set standards. Fairs are a licence for crime and bad behaviour.'

    'And for enjoyment as well,' said Letitia wistfully. 'It must have been a wondrous experience to be there. Was it, Mr Redmayne?'

    'Oh, yes,' he confirmed.

    'There you are, Mother.'

    'We had sufficient amusements of our own, Letitia,' said the older woman.

    'Yet it would have been nice to visit the frost fair.'

    'It was quite out of the question.'

    Letitia gave a resigned nod. 'Yes, Mother.'

    'London is at its least alluring in the winter,' declared Lady Whitcombe. 'My late husband often remarked upon it. Cold weather seems to bring out the worst in people. It makes them angry, unsettled and disrespectful. You must have noticed the changes that the season brings, Mr Redmayne. Winter somehow strips people of  their finer feelings. They become tetchy and more inclined to violence. The streets of London are simply not safe to walk down.'

    'They are if you take sensible precautions,' said Christopher.

    "The most sensible precaution is to stay away. Everyone who has been there recently comes back with tales of woe. They complain of fraud, theft, assault and affray. And, as everyone knows,' she went on, turning a pair of large, blue, searching eyes on him, 'the most gruesome murders are always committed in London.'

    Christopher shifted uneasily in his seat. Lady Whitcombe's face was so impassive that it was difficult to tell if she was referring to the crime that involved his brother or not. He hoped that she might still be unaware of the murder but that set up the possibility of a revoked contract at a later stage when the news did trickle into her ears. He was certainly not going to volunteer any information on the subject. She stared at him for some time as if trying to communicate something. Relaxing slightly, she glanced at the satchel he had brought with him.

    'Is the design for my new house finished?'

    'It is, my lady.'

    'Let me see it,' she said, rising to her feet. 'I've been looking forward to this moment for weeks. So has Letitia.'

    'Yes,' agreed her daughter, getting up. 'It's very exciting.'

    Christopher opened his satchel. 'I hope that the drawings meet with your approval,' he said, taking them out and unfolding them. 'Shall I put them on the table?'

    'Please do, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia.

    'Did you include the modifications?' asked Lady Whitcombe.

    'Every suggestion you made has been followed to the letter,' he said.

    Christopher went over to the table under the window. When some ornaments had been moved off it, he set out his drawings. The women were either side of him, bending over to study the designs and brushing his legs with their skirts as they did so. He caught a whiff of the most enchanting perfume. Letitia giggled with pleasure at what she saw but her mother inspected every detail in silence. Eventually, she gave a murmur of assent. Letitia pointed to an upstairs window in one drawing.

    'Is this my bedchamber, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.

    'It is, indeed,' he said, 'and it overlooks the river, as you see.'

    'Which is Egerton's room?'

    'Here at the front of the house,' said her mother, tapping the spot with her finger. 'You've not met my son yet, have you, Mr Redmayne?'

    "That's a pleasure still to come.'

    'He's due back from France very soon. It was Egerton who kept agitating for a house in London. Life in Sheen is idyllic in some respects but our opportunities for entertaining are rather limited. In London, our table will be more readily supplied with guests.' She straightened up to look at him. 'I trust that you'll be one of them.'

    'How could I refuse such an invitation?'