Voices in a Haunted Room (33 page)

There was a scuffle and it seemed that the company was taking sides.

Jonathan seized my arm and hustled me through the crowd.

When we were outside he said: “We’ll leave the royalists and the republicans to settle their score.”

“Do you think it was really serious?” I asked. “I should like to have stayed to see what happened.”

“They’ve drunk too much.”

“The singer had a pleasant voice and I am sure he meant no harm.”

“He chose the wrong song at a time like this. People are looking for trouble. They are seizing opportunities to declaim against the monarchy. To sing of the Prince’s amours on his wedding day was lese majesty in the eyes of some… or it may be that the gentleman made his graceful gesture of aiming his drink into the other’s face merely to start trouble. I’m sorry for the innkeeper; he’s a good man and keeps a respectable house.”

We could hear the shouts coming through the night air.

“Here’s the boat,” said Jonathan.

“You got out very quickly.”

“I recognized the signs and I have a precious charge. I assured your mother that I would look after you, and I would not let you run the slightest risk.”

He had taken the oars and we slid away from the bank. I looked back at the inn. Some of the people had come outside and were shouting at each other.

“I was enjoying the whitebait,” I said.

“I was enjoying the company… and as long as I still have that, little fishes do not concern me. There will be many a little contretemps before the night is out, you can be sure.”

It was dark now. I looked up at the stars and then at the bushes on the bank. I was happy. Jonathan started to sing. He had a strong tenor voice which was attractive, and the song he sang was full of a haunting beauty.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove’s nectar sip

I would not change for thine.

And as I sat back in that boat and looked at his face in the starlight and listened to the rise and fall of his voice and the beautiful words which Ben Jonson had written to a certain Celia, I knew that I loved him and that nothing… my marriage… his marriage… could alter that.

I think he knew it too, and that, in his way, he loved me. We were both silent until we came to Westminster Stairs and we left the boat and walked home through the streets.

There was still revelry; people were singing and some danced and many were drunk. Jonathan showed a tender concern for me and I felt very safe, secure and happy.

When we reached the house, my mother and Dickon had returned. They were seated in the small sitting room before a fire.

“Oh, I’m glad you’ve come,” said my mother. “We were getting quite concerned, weren’t we, Dickon?”

Dickon answered: “You were. I knew Jonathan would take good care of Claudine.”

“What a day!” said my mother. “Are you tired? Are you hungry?”

“Not tired. We’ve been on the river and we came away when a brawl started.”

“Wise,” commented Dickon. “There’ll be plenty of brawls tonight, I can tell you.”

“Why does a day of rejoicing always have to end up in fighting?” I asked my mother.

“Put it down to strong drink and human nature,” said Dickon.

He poured out wine and gave it to us.

“Our whitebait supper was interrupted,” I said.

“That was very unfortunate,” said my mother. “Well, you both look as if you have enjoyed the day.”

“We did,” I told her.

“We rode to the Dog and Whistle at Greenwich and then afterwards went by boat to Richmond.”

“You kept away from all the fuss.”

“That was the idea,” said Jonathan.

“But you are the ones who have been right in the centre,” I added. “Do tell us what happened.”

“It was rather sad,” said my mother. “I was so sorry for the Princess. She is so gauche and so plain, and you know the Prince’s taste for things exquisite.”

“It must be awful to be forced into marriage,” I said.

“The penalty of royalty,” commented Dickon. “The Prince likes all that goes with his royal state. All right. That’s fine. But he has to pay for it.”

“Everything has to be paid for in this world,” said my mother.

Jonathan disagreed. “Sometimes it can be avoided,” he said. “After all, some kings have had brides whom they have loved deeply. They had the right woman and the royalty too.”

“Life is not always very fair,” I added.

“As for the Prince,” went on Jonathan, “it’s only a momentary discomfort. This marriage is not going to make much difference to his way of life. He just has the inconvenience of spending a few nights with his bride, and once she becomes pregnant he can be off.”

“He did seem very put out though, didn’t he, Dickon?” said my mother. “I am sure the two dukes who walked beside him were holding him up because he had been drinking so much that he was unsteady.”

“There was a moment when I thought he was going to refuse to go ahead with it,” said Dickon.

“Oh yes,” continued my mother. “The King must have felt sure of it because at one point he stood up and whispered something to the Prince. It was quite conspicuous, for the pair were kneeling before the Archbishop at the time and the Prince had actually got to his feet.”

“He must have been very drunk,” said Dickon.

“I believe he was. But at one point I really did wonder what was going to happen. I was quite relieved when it was over. The music was lovely, the choir sang:

For blessed are they that fear the Lord.

Oh well is thee! Oh well is thee!

How happy shalt thou be.

But it was rather unfortunate to talk about happiness, for both the bride and groom showed clearly that that was the last thing they were feeling. And then the chorus of ‘Happy, happy shalt thou be’ sounded a little hollow.”

“Well, you have had the satisfaction of being present at a historic occasion,” I reminded her.

“I shall never forget it. I particularly noticed Lady Jersey. She seemed more contented than anyone.”

“She was afraid the Prince might have a beautiful bride with whom he would fall in love,” said Dickon.

“Temporarily, of course,” added Jonathan. “His amours are generally transient. But a lady of uncertain age like Madam Jersey cannot afford even little interruptions.”

“It is a great pity he left Maria,” said my mother. “She was so good for him and I think he truly loved her.”

“He couldn’t have done or he wouldn’t have repudiated her,” I put in sharply.

“Imagine the pressure,” said my mother. “I don’t think he has ever been happy since they parted.”

“Don’t waste your sentiment on HRH,” said Dickon. “I think he is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“Well, he didn’t seem so today,” said my mother. “Tell us about the Dog and Whistle.”

We sat there talking desultorily and sleepily but none of us wanted the day to end. The candles guttered and some of them went out but no one thought of replacing them. It was very pleasant, very intimate. There were long silences which no one seemed to notice. I suppose we were all busy with our own thoughts and they seemed to be pleasant ones.

I kept going over the incidents of the day. I could smell the river; I could taste Matty’s roast beef; I could see the shining brasses in the inn parlour; I could hear the soft lapping of water against a bank.

It had been a happy day.

The spell was broken as the fire collapsed into the grate.

“It will soon be out,” said Dickon.

“And it’s getting chilly,” added my mother.

She yawned and rose. She and I went upstairs together, her arm through mine. She kissed me at my door and I went in and lighted the candles on my dressing table.

I looked at my reflection. I seemed almost beautiful by candlelight. Candlelight can flatter, I told myself. But there was something more than that. There was a softness, a radiance, about me. It had been a day I should never forget.

I brushed my hair dreamily and thought of “Drink to me only with thine eyes.”

Suddenly I rose and locked my door.

Surely he would not attempt to come to me, not here in this house with my mother close at hand. But would he not dare anything?

That was why I must lock my door, for if he did come, how could I trust myself on a night like this?

In spite of the late night we were all up early the next morning, and my mother was already at breakfast when I went down.

“Oh, there you are!” she said. “Did you sleep well after all the excitement?”

“Not at first, but I feel surprisingly refreshed.”

“What a day! I shall never forget it. I’m glad it’s over though. I’m longing to see Jessica. I do hate leaving her so long. And you must feel the same about Amaryllis.”

I admitted I did.

“I thought we’d go back the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, why not?”

“If Dickon can make it,” she added.

“Has he said so?”

“He’s not quite sure. But in case he does I want to go to the mercer’s this morning. I must get some more of that lace. He said he would have it in today. Will you come with me this morning? I might want your opinion.”

“I’ll like that.”

“All right then. Ten o’clock? We can walk there. It’s not more than ten minutes away.”

“I’ll be ready.”

We went to the mercer’s shop and were some time choosing the lace. My mother also bought some pale mauve and pink ribbons which she thought would be useful for the babies’ clothes.

As we came out of the shop she said: “I know what we’ll do. We’ll have some coffee or chocolate. I do think the coffee houses are interesting.”

I agreed with her that they had become a part of London life and they were more than just a place to stop and take a drink of coffee or chocolate. One could eat there, read the papers which were available for clients, could write letters and most of all listen to the conversations of the great. Certain coffee houses were frequented by people in various walks of life; there were the political coffee houses, literary coffee houses, musical coffee houses, and there people could congregate and join in discussions on their favourite topics. Sometimes well-known men of wit and erudition frequented them. In his day Samuel Johnson had held court at the Turk’s Head or the Bedford or Cheshire Cheese; and Walpole and Addison had rivalled Congreve and Vanbrugh at the Kit Cat.

The coffee house we chose was only a few steps from the mercer’s. It was Benbow’s—named, I heard, after its founder, who had made a fortune at the gaming tables. At this hour of the day there were no wits present and I imagined the house was probably used by people like us who merely wished to stay for as long as it took to drink our coffee or chocolate.

When we went in we were effusively greeted by the owner. He knew who my mother was and she told me afterwards that she had been in the place with Dickon on their last visit to London.

He ushered us to our seats. “Here in this little alcove you will view the company in comfort,” he added with a little wink.

“This is my daughter,” said my mother.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said.

He bowed with great dignity and I said: “And I to meet you.”

We were drinking the excellent chocolate when my mother said suddenly: “Oh dear, I’ve left the ribbons at the mercer’s.”

“We must go back and get them when we leave here.”

“I’ll run back now. It won’t take long. You stay here.”

She rose and Mr. Benbow came forward.

My mother said, “I am going to the mercer’s just along the street. I have left a parcel there. My daughter will wait for me here.”

“I will take the utmost care of her in your absence, my lady.”

I laughed. “Oh dear. Is it so dangerous?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Not exactly dangerous, but with a beautiful lady, gallants can be tiresome. I will guard her with my life.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” said my mother with a smile.

I looked about the room as I finished my chocolate. A man came in and sat down. As soon as he did so I had a strange sensation. I fancied I had seen him before, but for a few moments I was at a loss. It must have been a long time ago. It would have been in France. But who? Where? My mind went back to the
château.
That was it.

I had it. It was the tutor who had come long ago to teach Charlot and Louis Charles. Or if it was not, it was someone very like him.

I had been young at the time but this man had created quite a stir. I remembered he had left suddenly to go and look after his aged mother. And much later, when my mother had gone back to France and was in such acute danger, she had discovered that he had been a spy in the
château,
and it was due to him that the Comte’s son, Armand, had been taken to the Bastille.

I must have been staring at him for he was looking at me now. Clearly he did not recognize me. I had been a small child when he was at the
château.
It was coming back vividly to me now. There could be no doubt. He was the spy-tutor and his name was… I racked my brains. Then it came to me in a flash. Léon Blanchard.

I felt very uneasy. He had been a revolutionary. An agitator. Then what could he possibly be doing in Benbow’s Coffee House?

My heart gave a lurch, for someone else had come in. I almost cried out. It was Alberic.

He went straight to the table at which Léon Blanchard was sitting. He sat down and said something. For a few seconds they talked and then Alberic looked up and saw me.

I called: “Alberic…”

He rose. “Miss—Claudine—” he stammered. He was obviously shaken. “I—I—am doing a commission here for Mademoiselle d’Aubigné. Are—are you alone?”

“No, my mother is here. She will come in a few minutes.”

Léon Blanchard had risen. He moved towards the door.

“I must go,” said Alberic. “Good day, Miss Claudine.”

He followed Léon Blanchard out of the coffee house.