The Amorous Nightingale (10 page)

    'Whose
washing is that?' he asked, indicating the tub.

    'Mrs
Calcart of Thames Street.'

    'When
is her baby due?'

    'You're
behind the times, Jonathan,' she said, poking his ribs with an affectionate
finger. 'She brought a lusty son into the world over a fortnight ago. There'll
be even more work from Mrs Calcart from now on.'

    'That
sounds like bad news.'

    'Not
to me,' she said brightly. Sarah folded her arms and became serious. 'I've been
thinking about what you said earlier.'

    'Earlier?'

    'That
meeting you had with Mary Hibbert.'

    'Yes,'
he admitted, 'it's been preying on my mind as well.'

    'Oh?
Why?'

    'Because
I feel I was rather stern with her. Without cause. I tried to be friendly but
my words were somehow tinged with disapproval. Why deceive myself?' he asked
with a shrug. 'I
do
disapprove of what she's doing. There's no denying
that. But it doesn't give me the right to condemn her.'

    'That
was my view as well.'

    'I'm
sorry I spoke out of turn to Mary.'

    'She's
still very young.'

    'Young
and vulnerable.'

    'You
should have been more considerate.'

    'Should
I?'

    'More
understanding.'

    'About
what?'

    'Her
situation. This position she managed to secure. Most people would think that
Mary Hibbert has done very well for herself.'

    'I'm
not one of them, Sarah.'

    'There
you go again!' she teased. 'Running the girl down.'

    'I'm
worried about her, that's all. Deeply worried. Daniel Hibbert was a good friend
of mine. Any child of his can call on me for help.'

    'But
that's not what Mary did.'

    'More's
the pity!'

    'Aren't
you forgetting something?' she said quietly. 'When the Plague ravaged the city,
she lost two parents in a matter of weeks. Think on that, Jonathan. Yet she
never complained or asked for sympathy. Mary and her younger brother kept struggling
on. She did all she could to improve herself and her hard work finally paid
off. Look what she's achieved. A place in the household of a famous actress.'

    He
was cynical. 'Famous or infamous?'

    'Don't
be so harsh.'

    'I'm
only being honest, Sarah. You think that Mary Hibbert has made something of
herself but I shudder at what's happened. Her parents raised her to lead a life
full of Christian endeavour, and where has it ended? In the playhouse! That
veritable hell-hole. That public sewer called The King's Theatre.'

    'Can
it really be so bad?'

    'Worse
than I dare to describe.'

    'But
you said that Mary had not been corrupted.'

    'Not
as yet.'

    'You
told me how friendly and open she still was.'

    'That's
true,' he conceded. 'She had no airs and graces. Nor did I catch any hint of
coarsening. It was a pleasure to talk to her.'

    'It's
a pity you didn't give her the same pleasure,' chided his wife, putting a gentle
hand on his arm. 'You mean well, Jonathan, I know, but your strictures can be a
little daunting at times.'

    'Someone
has to speak out.'

    'There
are voices enough to do that.'

    'Mine
will always be one of them.'

    'Even
when you're talking to an innocent girl? What harm has she done? What crime has
she committed?' She watched him carefully. 'I'll warrant that Mary has
kept
her innocence, hasn't she? Did you find time to notice that about her?'

    Jonathan
pondered. 'Yes, Sarah,' he said at length. 'I did.'

    'And?'

    'Mary
Hibbert has not been polluted.'

    'Then
why read her a sermon?'

    'I've
been feeling guilty about that ever since.'

    'So
you should.'

    'Yet
the girl needed to be warned.'

    'Against
what?'

    'The
dangers that surround her.'

    Sarah
gave him a hug. 'You spy dangers everywhere,' she said fondly. 'It comes from
being a constable. You may claim that you never bring your work across that
threshhold but it's not true. It follows you wherever you go. You're always on
duty. You can't help being what you are, Jonathan, and I love you for it.'

    'There's
some consolation, then,' he said with a smile.

    'You're
a good man. Too good in some ways.'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'You
expect too much. You set standards that others can never meet. Stop trying to
control people. They have their own lives to lead, Mary Hibbert among them.
Leave her be,' she counselled. 'My guess is that she's under no threat. Not if
she's the girl I remember. She has her wits about her.'

    'You
may be right.'

    'I am
right. Stop worrying about her.'

    'I'll
try, Sarah.'

    'Have
faith in the girl. Mary won't let herself down, I'm sure. Nor will she come to
any grief. Just let her go about her own business in her own way,' she said softly.
'No harm will befall her.'

    The
flowers never ceased to delight her. Mary Hibbert walked among them like a
child exploring a magic garden. Harriet Gow never lacked for floral tributes.
Baskets of exquisite blooms arrived each day from close friends or anonymous
admirers. The house near St James's Square was replete with Nature's beauty and
charged with the fragrance of summer. A red rose caught Mary's eye, a flower so
rich in hue and so perfect in composition that it took her breath away. She
felt a vicarious thrill. No man had ever sent her flowers or even given her a
posy. Yet she could take pleasure from the fact that her mistress attracted so
much love and devotion. She could share indirectly in the joy of adoration.

    It
was early evening and Mary had been back in the house for several hours now.
She was glad that she had visited her sick uncle even though she collected a
severe reproach from her aunt in the process, and, during her chance meeting
with Constable Bale, some further disapproval. Mary could understand their
attitude towards her and she was relieved that her brother, Peter, did not
share it. Her aunt and her former neighbour could never appreciate the
privileges of the world in which she now moved whereas Peter simply marvelled
at them. Being surrounded by beautiful flowers was only one of those
privileges. As she looked around the room with its costly furnishings, she
offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

    Hearing
the sound of a coach, she crossed to the window to see if her mistress was
returning but the vehicle rumbled on past the house. Mary was mystified. Mrs
Gow should have been back some hours ago. Peter, too, should have arrived by
now. Her brother was coming to get some money from her and he was rarely late for
such an appointment. Mary had no idea where either of them might be. Mrs Gow's
absences were routinely cloaked in euphemism. That was the rule of the house.
In this particular case, her departure enabled Mary to pay the overdue visit to
Carter Lane to call on an ailing relative. Enjoined to be back at the house by
early afternoon, she wondered what had delayed her employer. Her apprehension
grew.

    She
was relieved, therefore, when she heard the bell ring. Her mistress had come at
last. Running to the front door, she flung it open with a welcoming smile but
the greeting died on her lips. Instead of looking into the lovely face of
Harriet Gow, she was staring at a complete stranger, a short, stocky individual
in the garb of a coachman. The visitor tipped his hat respectfully.

    'Miss
Hibbert?' he asked.

    'Yes.'

    'We
need your help, please. Mrs Gow has sprained her ankle and will not alight from
the coach until you come. Follow me.'

    'Wait!'
said Mary guardedly. 'Where's Roland? He always drives Mrs Gow's coach. Why
isn't Roland here?'

    'He,
too, was injured in the accident, Miss Hibbert.'

    'What
accident?'

    'Come
with me and your mistress will explain.'

    'But
I see no coach.'

    'It's
just around the corner, a mere step away.'

    'Why
is it there?'

    'Please,'
he insisted politely. 'You're keeping Mrs Gow waiting.'

    Against
her better judgement, Mary went with him around the angle of the house to the
vehicle that was parked in the next street. She came to a sudden halt. It was
not her mistress's coach at all. Before she could protest, her companion
grabbed her firmly by the shoulder. A second man, lurking in readiness in a
doorway, came up behind her to drop a hood over her head and to push her
forward. Mary was hustled swiftly into the coach. Strong arms imprisoned her
while a rope was tied tightly around her wrists. She flew into a panic but the
hood muffled her screams. Her flailing body was easily subdued by the people who
trussed her up. It was terrifying. She heard a whip crack and felt the horses
lunge into action. The coach soon picked up speed. As the vehicle rattled
noisily along the street, Mary Hibbert continued to yell for help that she knew
would never come.

    'It
is disgraceful! Wholly, utterly and inexcusably disgraceful!'

    'Don't
take it so personally.'

    'How
else am I to take it, Christopher? I've never suffered such embarrassment in my
entire life. I, Henry Redmayne, a loyal servant to the Crown, a dedicated
employee of the Navy Office. I've eaten with the King, drunk with him, gambled
with him, walked with him, played tennis with him, watched plays with him,
bowed and scraped before him at Court a hundred times and done just about
everything else a man can do to curry his favour. Heavens!' he said, waving his
arms like the sails of a windmill. 'We're practically on intimate terms. He
calls me by name, knows me by reputation. And what does all this add up to in
the end?'

    'Try
to rise above it, Henry.'

    'Rejection!
Total rejection!'

    'That's
not how I see it,' argued Christopher.

    His
brother was inconsolable. 'I know rejection when I feel it,' he howled. 'It's
pure agony. You could hear it in His Majesty's voice, sense it in Will Chiffinch's
manner. They give me no credit whatsoever. In their estimation, I am the lowest
of the low, a messenger, a runner of errands, a base and unconsidered bearer of
tidings.'

    'You
found me,' reminded Christopher. 'That was crucial.'

    'Yes,'
agreed Henry, 'but as soon as I did that, I was discarded. Cast aside. Abused.
Insulted. Shamefully maltreated. Did I get any thanks? Did I earn any respect?
No. It was akin to slow torture!'

    Christopher
let him rail on for another five minutes. Henry was still smarting so much from
what he saw as his own humiliation that he could think of nobody else. After
their interview at the Palace, they had returned to the house in Bedford Street
to examine the situation and work out a plan of action. Henry was in such a
state that he had to be given a cordial by one of his servants. Left alone with
his brother in the drawing room, Christopher thought it best to let Henry's ire
spend itself in a series of impotent protests. Fatigue eventually set in.
Henry's voice became a mere croak and his body lost all its animation. He
barely had the strength to remove his wig. Rational discussion could at last
begin.

    'Let
us start with the key factor here,' suggested Christopher. 'Mrs Harriet Gow has
been kidnapped. I think we should put aside personal concerns and address
ourselves solely to that emergency.'

    'But
that is what I wished to do, Christopher. I revere that woman as much as
anybody. I drool over her. It hurts me to think that she is in any kind of
danger. Yet am I allowed to come to her aid?'