Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing, so let the matter lie. He gazed out of the window, to where people were emerging from the Golden Lion. Some kind of meeting – obviously an illicit one, judging by the furtive way the attendees were leaving – had just ended, and he wondered whether they had gathered for politics or religion. The tavern’s landlord was known for turning a blind eye to his patrons’ business and, for a small fee, he would also act as an unofficial post office for those who craved anonymity. It was a service Chaloner used for all his correspondence – although, he realised with a pang of alarm, he would not be able to do it for much longer, because he did not have the funds to pay for it.
Metje took a deep breath, then slid from under the covers, dashing across the floor to where her clothes lay in an untidy pile. Chaloner watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the street. Fetter Lane was reasonably affluent, and most householders obeyed the aldermen’s edict that lights were to be kept burning in ground-floor windows during the hours of darkness. It meant parts of the street were very well illuminated, something a spy always liked around his home. Additional lights flickered in most houses, where servants were up setting fires for their masters and starting their daily round of chores. The cobbles, swept the previous day for the first time in a month, were carpeted in snow, although it was a thin dusting that would melt once trampled by feet, hoofs and wheels.
Chaloner opened the window and leaned out to inspect the North property, eliciting an angry howl from Metje about the icy blast of air.
‘Speak English,’ he suggested mildly. ‘If North hears Dutch being screeched in my room, he will wonder what you are doing here.’
She winced at what could have been a serious blunder. ‘Is he awake?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Reading his Bible. It is slippery outside. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘And risk the leg you damaged falling out of that carriage?’ She grabbed her skirts and wriggled into them, jumping up and down in an attempt to stay warm at the same time. ‘Besides, he will wonder how I come to have an escort at such an hour. What would I say?’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘Tell him I have asked you to be my wife.’
She sighed. ‘And how will we live? They will not keep me once I am wed, because Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own home.’
He smiled, a little sadly. They had this conversation at least once a week, and her answer was always the same. ‘I hope the Earl of Clarendon sends for me soon. I do not want to wait weeks for a summons, and Ellis is demanding the rent.’
‘You should visit that other man you mentioned – the merchant who smells of oranges …’
‘John Dalton.’
‘Dalton, yes. Government posts are too much at the whim of personalities, and you should consider other options.’
Chaloner did not think he would fare much better with Dalton. Dutch merchants invariably spoke English or French, and he did not imagine there would be a vast amount of work for a translator. He said as much, but Metje disagreed.
‘If there is a choice between Clarendon and Dalton, you should accept Dalton. You will find it is more secure in the long term, and I would give a great deal to feel secure.’
‘You are uneasy?’
She regarded him in disbelief. ‘Have you not been listening to me these last few months? You know I am uneasy. I am a Dutch citizen living in a country with which we may soon be at war, and my lover is unemployed. If there is a conflict, I will need protection, and you will not be able to afford it. Perhaps you should ask Downing to take you back. He likes you.’
Chaloner was startled, both by the suggestion and the assertion. ‘He detests me.’
She pulled a face. ‘He does now, thanks to what you said to him in March when he arrested those regicides. But you managed to conceal your dislike before then, and he paid you well. Since he dismissed you, you never buy wood for the fire, I cannot remember the last time there was decent food in the larder, your clothes are wearing out. You could rent cheaper rooms …’
‘We discussed this before. I would never see you if I move – unless you hide me in your attic.’
‘But then Temperance would know – she watches you like a hawk. I will win our wager about her infatuation, Tom, just you wait and see.’ She swayed towards him, a pert, elegant figure, even in prim chapel-going garb, and came to perch on his knee. ‘But she cannot have you, not while I am here.’
He rubbed the soft skin of her neck, then glanced out of the window again. ‘Lord, Meg! North is leaving his house early. He will arrive at the chapel before you.’
She shot to her feet. ‘Damn! He will not believe I am taking bread to the homeless again – especially since he offered to go with me next time.’ She pulled on cap and cloak. ‘Go and distract him, but please do not pretend to be a beggar this time – your last performance distressed him horribly, and he was quiet all day, reflecting on the horrors of destitution.’
‘I will tell him I have the plague,’ said Chaloner. ‘That will drive him back inside his house.’
‘At your peril! He is terrified of sickness, and carries a club to repel infected people. What is wrong with talking about the weather? I do not understand this desire for the dramatic, Tom. You did it in Holland, too.’
Chaloner supposed he had, since discussions about the climate tended not to be a good way of keeping people’s attention in his line of business.
She indicated he was to hurry, so he grabbed his cloak and set off, leaving her to follow. Outside, the street smelled of snow and smoke, and he was suddenly reminded of one Christmas at his family’s manor in Buckinghamshire. All his siblings had been there, and the house had been ablaze with candles. It was before the first of the civil wars, so his parents had been alive, smiling at each other and holding hands in the absurd, affectionate way they had had with each other. His oldest sister had jokingly arranged everyone in a line according to height, and they had processed out of the house into a white Christmas Eve for midnight mass. It had been a happy time, full of laughter and light, and Chaloner had never understood why Cromwell had wanted to eliminate the festival.
The memory of candlelight and singing faded abruptly when his foot slipped on the slops Metje had dumped the previous day – now frozen into a hard, slick plate – and he took a tumble.
‘Heyden!’ exclaimed North, hurrying towards him. ‘I was going to warn you about the ice, but you were down before I could shout.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, trying to climb to his feet. It was not easy with a leg that was unwilling to bear his weight.
‘There is no need for blasphemy,’ admonished North severely.
North was wearing his Sunday best, which entailed a black suit that was even plainer than the ones he favoured during the rest of the week. In the semi-darkness, the burn on his face was more noticeable than usual, a dark patch across his chin and cheek. Temperance had told Metje that he had been set upon by a mob at the Restoration: when the King had made his triumphal return, people were keen to demonstrate their new loyalties, and North had not been the only Nonconformist to suffer an unprovoked attack. Sadly, the assault had occurred just months after a similar incident had deprived North of his only son, and Temperance had confided that both parents had clung even more fiercely to strong religion afterwards, as a way of dealing with their misfortunes.
Chaloner accepted the outstretched hand. ‘I am sorry if I offended you.’
‘You offended God,’ replied North. ‘But I shall escort you to your rooms, where you can rest and pray for forgiveness.’
Chaloner could see Metje just inside the door. ‘There is no need–’