The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance Page 3

  ‘I wonder if I can find some old linen,’ Cornelia said. ‘I think I can put my hand on a torn sheet which would still be useful if it could be well darned.’

  Nan screwed up her mouth. ‘Who is to darn it? Me, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Cornelia said.

  ‘You’ll go to sleep,’ Nan snapped, pulling the curtains around her.

  Long ago Cornelia had played spillikins with Ellen on the floor of the stillroom. Once the whole household had gone out, for a day’s pleasuring at the village of Old Ford, to enjoy the warm sunlight of a summer’s day; run in the long grass, tease the cows, pick wild flowers in the fragrant hedgerows. Ellen had played at pirates with Cornelia, dropping sticks into the narrow little stream and staging mock battles between them. There had been white stones on the stream bottom and sticklebacks darting in and out of the reeds at the bank.

  It all seemed so long ago.

  Staring up into the darkness, Cornelia remembered the sparkle of sunshine on clear water; a kingfisher, his wings like the flash of jewels in a willow; dragonflies hovering, exotic and beautiful, at the water’s edge.

  The tenement in which Ellen lived was close to the Walbrook ditch, near the church of St Stephen.

  Mistress Brent, when Cornelia mentioned the idea of visiting her old stillroom maid, frowned. ‘It is not a pleasant place. The foul air from the Walbrook makes it unhealthy and the people are idle and dirty.’

  ‘It will be safe enough if I take Nan and go before noon,’ said Cornelia pleadingly. ‘And Thomas can come, too.’

  ‘Thomas leaves this house today,’ her mother said.

  Cornelia’s eyes flashed. ‘That is unjust. It would have been madness for him to attack those men. He is too old. My father should take on a younger man for such duties.’

  ‘He means to do so. That is why Thomas must go. We cannot keep more than one man. Heaven knows, we have maids enough to do the rest of the work.’

  ‘But how will Thomas live? He is too old to find new work. Father must not do it.’ Turning, Cornelia ran down the passage into her father’s counting-room, and found him frowning over his ledgers. He looked up, brow creased, as she burst in upon him, her yellow skirts brushing along the rush mats which lined the floor.

  ‘I am busy, child. I will see you at dinner. Ask your mother if you need money.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she said, kissing his forehead, ‘how often do I come to you for more money? You are always far too generous.’

  He smiled. ‘What do you want, then?’

  She sank down on her knees beside him and looked up into his face. ‘Father, you will not really turn Thomas out, will you?’

  ‘He is a toothless old dog,’ said the Alderman, his face darkening. ‘He must go.’

  Tears sprang into her eyes. She opened them wide, gazing at him, her lower lip trembling. She had discovered, at an early age, that he could not bear to see her cry.

  ‘But I love Thomas. He made me my first hobby horse, he pushed me on my swing in the garden, he played at hide- and-seek with me. I could not bear it if he went away.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ her father said irritably. ‘I am not made of money. Why should I keep an old man who can no longer work properly?’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she said softly, letting the tears trickle down her cheeks and gazing reproachfully at him. ‘You could not be so cruel.’

  He looked at her and groaned. ‘Oh, very well, very well. I am mad to listen to you, but I have work to do. Leave me to do it or we shall all be on the streets.’

  She hugged him, kissing his head, and ran to tell her mother.

  Mistress Brent clucked crossly at the news that Thomas was to stay.

  ‘Why must you take so much upon yourself?’ she demanded. ‘Now I shall not get a strong young man to do the work Thomas cannot do.’

  ‘You could get an orphan boy to help him,’ Cornelia suggested.

  ‘Boys eat too much and are too idle,’ said Mistress Brent. She handed Cornelia a large bundle. ‘Here, take this to Ellen. I’ve put up some good strong cloth so that she can make her children warm clothing for the winter.’

  Cornelia kissed her and went down to the kitchen. Nan had packed a basket of food; bread, a ham bone, some salt pork, eggs and a jug of home-brewed ale.

  When Cornelia told him of his reprieve, Thomas went white and stammered his thanks.

  Nan nudged him. ‘Hold your tongue, old man, and carry this basket for me. You can come with us.’

  Cornelia put on her oldest cloak, Thomas brought his stave, and they set off for Walbrook.

  On the way Cornelia stopped to buy small cakes from a street seller.

  ‘For the children,’ she apologised, at Nan’s irritated look.

  ‘Bread would have done well enough for them,’ Nan retorted.

  They were pursued by cries of ‘What do you lack?’ as they walked up from Thames Street, as the street sellers tried to get them to buy their wares. Carts rattled past them. Women gossiped at the water fountains. Apprentices ran along with bundles under their arms, dodging in and out of the crowds. Sellers shouted their wares from all sides—pies, fruit, lavender—and grabbed at the sleeves of those who did not walk fast.

  The street in which Ellen lived was narrow and dirty. Ramshackle tenements rose up on either side, their plaster peeling, the roofs uneven and broken, many with empty windows. Filthy urchins played in the dust of the street, bare feet black as soot, leaping over the heaps of refuse, shouting. A baby of two years or so sat with flies crawling on its head. Blue eyes shone brightly from the mask of dirt, and it clapped its hands when Cornelia, laughing, put a cake into its outstretched fingers. She watched, amused and touched, as, squashing the cake into crumbs, the baby pushed its hand up to its face.

  ‘Come on,’ Nan growled, turning with bared teeth on some urchins who had drawn closer at the sight of food.

  Thomas was looking nervous, holding his stave close to his side. Ellen had two rooms on an upper floor. The stairs creaked as they climbed them. The walls were of plaster and lath. Fat black cockroaches scuttled in the shadows. Flies and other insects crawled on the walls. Faces peered round doors at them. They were aware of silent hostility, as tangible as the grey dust which filtered silently down through the autumn sunshine and lay everywhere, on stairs, floors, doors, walls.

  The odour was so nauseating that Cornelia had to hold her handkerchief to her face.

  ‘How can people live in this stench?’ she asked Nan who, for answer, produced an orange, stuck with cloves, and pushed it at her, grumbling inaudibly.

  They rapped on an ill-hung, peeling door. A ragged, dirty child opened it and stared at them. He was small, thin and dressed in rusty black. His face, the colour of grey dough, was old and suspicious.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, blocking the door with his leg.

  ‘Are you Ellen’s little boy?’ Cornelia asked, bending to smile at him although her stomach heaved at the smell of his clothes.

  He shouted, ‘Mam, Mam.’

  Nan picked him up and, tucking him under her arm, his small legs waving violently, carried him into the room beyond.

  It was low-ceilinged, cramped and dishevelled. On a narrow bed lay Ellen, half sitting up, her white face full of alarm. Cornelia stared at her, not able to believe her eyes. Was this thin, uncombed, pallid creature her rosy-cheeked Ellen?

  With a cry of pity, she ran and hugged her. ‘Oh, Ellen,’ she murmured. ‘You look so . . . tired. How glad I am that Doctor Andrew mentioned you. I should not have known where to find you.’

  Ellen pushed her away. ‘I did not ask for any charity,’ she said huskily.

  Cornelia did not budge from the edge of the bed. Holding Ellen’s hands, she looked at her. ‘Do you remember that day at Old Ford? When we sailed our twigs on the stream?’

  Ellen turned her head away. Her hands clenched.

  ‘My grandfather broke his hip last winter,’ Cornelia went on chattily. ‘Poor old man, he
was laid up for weeks. Mother was afraid he would never get up again, but he did, when spring came around. He killed some pigs a month ago and sent us enough salt pork to keep an army. You always loved salt pork, didn’t you, Ellen? I must tell Grandfather when I write to him that I have seen you. Have you ever been back to the village?’

  Ellen’s eyes were full of tears. She shook her head. ‘Have you been there?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Yes,’ Cornelia nodded. Behind her she could hear Nan and Thomas beginning to make some inroads on the disorder in the room. Thomas was sweeping with a brush of hazel twigs. The dust rose in clouds. Nan coughed and said crossly, ‘Ah, wait until I’ve damped it down, you old fool . . .’

  ‘Is that your maid?’ Ellen asked, eyeing Nan curiously, for Nan’s crooked back always drew attention wherever they went.

  ‘Yes, but here, take this, eat.’ Cornelia brought out one of the small cakes and broke it in half. She offered Ellen half and munched the other herself. ‘Did you hear that the village mill burned down?’

  Ellen was excited. ‘No. How did that happen?’

  ‘Jack Miller got drunk on Midsummer Eve, they say. Will you take a little ale? My throat is quite dry.’ She poured ale into two battered mugs, wiping them surreptitiously with her handkerchief first, and settled down for a long gossip, distracting Ellen from what Nan and Thomas were doing.

  Nan had sent Thomas for some water from the nearest fountain and was busy cleaning the windows, scrubbing the floors, scalding some milk for the children who, brusquely washed, sat in surprise, like starlings on a gate, huddled together on one stool, staring at her with open mouths.

  Cornelia looked into the rough cradle beside the bed. The baby, wrapped tightly in swaddling, slept with fast-shut lids, his cheeks bright pink.

  ‘Another boy,’ she said to Ellen. ‘Your husband will be pleased.’

  Ellen’s face clouded. ‘If he comes home safe again,’ she said heavily.

  ‘Why should he not?’

  Ellen looked at her. Her lips trembled. ‘He is aboard the Mary of Rye—she is six weeks overdue, and the talk is that she was lost in heavy seas off Spain.’

  Cornelia put her hand over Ellen’s and silently patted the thin, dirty fingers.

  ‘I do not know what we shall do,’ Ellen said weakly. ‘Three small mouths to feed and no money coming in. I shall have to find work.’

  ‘Your plain sewing is so good,’ Cornelia said thoughtfully. ‘I know many houses where a reliable sewing maid would be welcome. I must talk to my mother’s friends for you.’

  ‘Would you?’ Ellen flushed. ‘I should be so grateful for that.’

  A knock on the door startled them. Nan bustled forward and opened it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Andrew, blinking in surprise, looked in at them, one lock of honey-coloured hair falling over his temples, the hem of his long black gown dusty from the stairs.

  He slowly stared round the room, taking in the changes, and then looked at Ellen, seeing the faint colour which had crept into her cheeks while Cornelia talked. The light from the windows fell upon her face, brightening her eyes.

  Lastly, he looked at Cornelia. The blue eyes smiled. ‘Someone has been very busy here,’ he said softly.

  ‘Nan and Thomas,’ she said cheerily. ‘I have been idle. I was so busy talking to Ellen. We had a great deal to talk over. It is far too long since we last met.’

  ‘Four years,’ said Ellen, sighing. ‘Four years. It seems far longer.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘Well, you look much happier than you did, Ellen. I think Cornelia has done you good. A little gossip can work wonders, it seems.’

  He bent over the cradle, touching the baby’s cheek with a long forefinger, so gently that it made Cornelia’s heart twist painfully. She watched his thin face, saw the lines of weariness around mouth and eyes, the tell-tale pallor which betrayed night without sleep and days of ceaseless work.

  He straightened and their eyes met. Hers, wide and revealing, shifted away too late. His face tightened as though he had received a blow. She heard his breath catch and then come faster.

  ‘There is nothing for me to do today,’ he said huskily to Ellen, who was smiling down upon her sleeping babe, her lips curved tenderly. ‘Eat and sleep. I’ll stop by and ask Mistress Burcher to come in and watch the children for a few hours.’

  He fished in his sleeve and brought out a little twist of sweetmeats which he handed to the two children on their stool, grinning at them.

  ‘Shall I walk back some of the way with you?’ he asked Cornelia.

  She smiled, nodding, and gently took her leave of Ellen, who seemed tired again now and ready to fall back asleep. The children watched them go with bright, curious eyes.

  As they walked back to Upper Thames Street, Cornelia told him lightly that her birthday would fall in the next week.

  Andrew looked down at her, a boyish grin on his face. ‘What? Will you be nineteen so soon? Time flies fast.’

  She grinned. ‘Time is knocking louder every year. When I was a child the days went slowly. Now they seem brief. My father has promised to take me to the theatre. I am allowed to draw up my own list of guests. Will you come?’

  The doctor frowned. ‘You should invite your young friends,’ he said. ‘I would be out of place, a skeleton at your feast.’ He smiled, speaking lightly, but his eyes were serious.

  She laid her hand on his arm. He looked at it as though not knowing what a hand was, his features tight.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, assuming a playful manner. ‘You must come, you know. It is not polite to refuse an invitation so ungraciously.’

  His smile was genuinely amused now. ‘Was I ungracious? I did not mean to be. But I can never be certain of being free, you know—my patients fall sick at the oddest times. It would be ill mannered to accept and then have to cry off.’

  ‘I would understand,’ she insisted. ‘I do know how it is with you, Andrew.’

  He stopped dead, looking down, his eyes grave. ‘Do you, Cornelia?’

  She was silent for a second, frozen in a sensation of great happiness. Then she smiled, brilliantly, at him, ‘I think I have always understood you, Andrew. Do you remember how I used to trail after you when I was small? You were very kind to me. Not many boys would be prepared to play nursemaid to a little girl.’

  ‘You were a sweet girl though,’ he said lightly, his blue eyes dark with amused recollection. ‘Wilful and naughty at times, but always enchanting.’

  Her cheeks grew poppy red. She looked down, heart thudding, but he had already begun to walk on, much faster, as though regretting that he had said so much, and too soon they were parting outside her home.

  ‘You will come?’ she urged, holding his arm.

  He nodded. ‘I will try.’ A pause; then he said abruptly, ‘I should like to come very much.’

  She watched him walk away, tremulous with happiness. Nan glared at her, shaking her head disapprovingly.

  ‘Your mother will not be pleased.’

  But nothing could dampen Cornelia’s joy today, and as the hours wore on she only laughed as Nan banged and stamped about the house, her expression fierce enough, as the cook, Poll, said, to frighten St George himself.

  ‘St George!’ snorted Nan, rattling the pans. ‘What was he, pray, but another prying busybody of a man? Damn all men, I say.’

  ‘Have you been crossed in love, Nan?’ Poll asked slyly, and the kitchen maids burst into uproarious laughter.

  Nan stalked off, grimacing horribly.

  There was a fire in Cheapside that night, and many fine houses burned. The people crowded the streets to watch, and what with the noise of the fire, and the hum of the crowds, Cornelia found it impossible to sleep, and sat at her window, watching the red glow in the sky, and listening to the ominous roaring of the flames.

  Her father, being an Alderman, had dressed and gone out to see what was to be done about pulling down some houses in the path of the fire so as to stop it before it spre
ad further.

  He came back, towards dawn, with Sir John Robinson, the Lord Mayor, to drink wine and talk soberly of the losses sustained that night. Cornelia heard the maids running to and fro, and the sound of the mens’ deep voices rumbling on for an hour or two.

  The Alderman later told her that Andrew had been in attendance on some of the poor people burnt in the fire, and said how ill he had looked, yet he had never complained of weariness, working on for hours, dressing wounds got from falling timbers, tending burns and soothing distressed women.

  She told her father then that she had invited Andrew to be one of the guests at her birthday celebration. The Aider- man looked surprised, but seemed happy enough at the news.

  She and Nan walked out next day to see the smoking, blackened ruins of the great fire.

  The Sheriff, unsmiling and grave, nodded to her in recognition as he talked to his officers beside one of the burnt houses. Fires were always breaking out in London. The huddled wooden buildings were a terrible fire risk. It only needed someone to fall asleep without snuffing their candle for a whole street to be ablaze.

  Cornelia had half hoped to meet Andrew as they walked back, but she saw no glimpse of him. When they returned home, they found her father cock-a-hoop because he had received an invitation to go to Greenwich while the King was visiting there. His views on the King were forgotten as he saw to it that Thomas polished up his gold chains and brushed his best black satin suit.

  The royal patronage was always useful to an ambitious merchant. Alderman Brent hoped to make himself known in court circles and thus, perhaps, find new markets for the goods he bought and sold.

  When he returned from Greenwich on the following day he was even more excited. He had personally spoken to the King, and was full of His Majesty’s democratic open friendliness, his merry jests and lack of arrogance.

  ‘Why, his brother, the Duke of York, was far more haughty,’ he told his wife. ‘The King spoke to many people. The Duke to few.’

  ‘Did you see my Lady Castlemaine?’ asked his wife curiously. ‘What did she wear?’