‘Nonsense,’ said North, moving forward and hauling Chaloner with him. ‘It is no trouble.’
Metje shot back up the stairs, making so much noise that North glanced up in alarm.
‘Rats,’ explained Chaloner, leaning heavily on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to distract him. ‘They come in to escape the frost.’
‘They must be very big ones,’ said North nervously.
‘Huge,’ agreed Chaloner, moving slowly up the steps. ‘This is very kind of you, sir.’
‘It is no more than my Christian duty.’ North shivered when they reached the bedchamber. ‘It is colder here than it is outside. Do you have no firewood?’
‘I forgot to order it.’
‘Then I shall lend you some,’ declared North. ‘I will fetch it now.’
Before Chaloner could decline, North had gone, and Metje emerged from under the bed, quaking with laughter as she dusted herself down. ‘Next time, give me more than half a minute before creating your so-called diversion. I could hardly believe it when you brought him all the way in here.’
‘It was an accident. I slipped on some ice.’
The humour faded from her face. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘My dignity suffered a fatal insult. I shall never be able to look him in the face again – a man half his age wallowing on the ground and unable to rise. But you should go before he comes back. Take care not to meet him on the stairs.’
The summons from the Lord Chancellor arrived early the following morning. Fortunately, Chaloner’s new cassock and wig were ready, and with them he wore a wide-brimmed hat that he hoped would make him look more Cavalier than Roundhead. He disliked dressing up, but impressions were important at Court, and it would be foolish not to try to make a good one. With an hour to spare, he used most of the last shilling from Thurloe’s advance to lay in a supply of firewood, taking care to return more to North than he had been lent – but regretted carrying it himself when he ended up with sawdust on his finery. Metje left the Norths’ sitting room in exasperated disgust at his carelessness, while Faith and Temperance fussed with brushes and damp cloths.
‘You look very elegant,’ said Temperance warmly. ‘Although I do not like this current trend for wigs. I suspect they were invented by a man who is bald.’ Somewhat abruptly, she removed her bonnet to reveal shining chestnut tresses. Chaloner regarded them in surprise, having had no idea that her prim headwear concealed such a splendid mane. She saw his reaction and smiled. ‘I could sell it and pay for new windows in the chapel.’
‘Temperance!’ exclaimed Faith, shocked. ‘Replace your clothing at once!’
‘Do not sell it,’ said Chaloner at the same time. ‘It looks better on you than it would on a bald man.’
Faith looked from one to the other with sudden suspicion, and it did not take a genius to understand the line her thoughts were taking.
‘I should go,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘Or I will be late.’
‘I told you so,’ said Metje, coming to escort him out of the house. Behind the closed sitting room door came the muted murmur of motherly advice. ‘Temperance adores you.’
‘She has more taste,’ said Chaloner, catching her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘Not like you.’
Metje laughed. ‘My father always said my choice of men would lead me to a bad end. He was right: my first husband died fighting a duel over a neighbour’s barking dog, and you have no money.’ She reached out to straighten his hat.
‘I will if I prove to be good at victualling.’
‘I doubt that will happen. Downing said you were terrible at household accounts, although I suppose Mr North is happy with your work, so you cannot be overly dire. But I still think you should see what Dalton has to offer, and ignore the Lord Chancellor. You are better suited to translating than book-keeping – it is easier work for a lazy man.’
These comments sometimes stung, although he told himself she probably would not have made them had she known the truth about him. ‘I can do both,’ he said, a little coolly.
She laughed, rather derisively. ‘Can you? Well, it will keep you busy, but I would rather see you once a week in a warm room than five times in a cold one. I acquired something for you yesterday.’
Chaloner disliked the occasions when she changed the subject before he could defend himself from her cutting remarks, and nor did he like her use of the term ‘acquired’. It sounded as though she had stolen it. ‘What?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘A lamp – a really good one. It means you will be able to read your music at night, and I will be able to dress without groping around in the dark.’
Chaloner regarded her sceptically. ‘Where did it come from?’
She shoved him in the chest, disappointed by his response. ‘A friend – one of the chapel council – gave it to me. She bought another and offered me the old one. And I am giving it to you.’
He did not want to appear ungracious, but buying fuel for such an extravagance was currently out of the question. He forced a smile. ‘That is kind.’
‘Mr North is taking Faith and Temperance to a jewellers’ meeting in Goldsmiths’ Hall today, so I should be able to smuggle it to you with no one seeing. You will like it, I promise. It is massive.’
He smiled again, amused she should think size had anything to do with quality, and his irritation at her began to fade. ‘Thank you.’
She hugged him. ‘It is a reward for accepting a post with Dalton. Be careful if you visit Mr North tonight, though. The turkey is due to arrive this evening, and I have a feeling Faith will not have the courage to put her knife to its throat.’
The icy snap of the last two days had given way to the dank fogginess that often afflicted London in the winter months. Clouds hung low overhead, covering houses and trees with a film of fine droplets. Smoke from thousands of fires and the noxious industries along the Fleet became trapped in the mist, creating a yellow-brown pall that caught at the back of throats. Beggars were out in force, displaying wounds and sores, and appealing piteously for extra alms because of the dismal weather. One revealed fingers that looked frost-bitten, and Chaloner wondered whether he had allowed them to freeze on purpose, so he would have an injury to show passers-by. He gave the man one of his last pennies, sorry he should be forced to such desperate measures.
He walked briskly, concentrating on not stepping into the piles of ordure that littered the streets and on staying out of the path of carts and horses. Traders yelled every inch of the way, selling pies, ribbons, nails, pots, candles, cure-alls and fruit. Men in sober clothing screamed that God demanded repentance, and gaudily clad courtiers were jiggled along in sedan chairs. A massive bull, brought for slaughter from the nearby village of Islington, had escaped and was running amok, tracked by several baying dogs and an amorous cow. Its owner shadowed the menagerie nervously, calling for its return, but the bull had other ideas, and continued along the Strand on a bucking, chaotic mission of its own.
As Chaloner neared White Hall, the streets became more crowded, and he learned from the conversations around him that there was to be an exhibition that day – some of the paintings acquired by the King for his private apartments were to be publicly displayed. The Banqueting House had been chosen as the venue, and visitors were invited to inspect the collection for the very reasonable price of sixpence. Since he had some time to spare, Chaloner stepped inside, deciding at last to locate the stone under which his uncle had hidden his money.
The Banqueting House was one of the most imposing buildings in the city, a mammoth, rectangular edifice designed to look like an ancient Roman meeting hall. It had two tiers of massive oblong windows, and Chaloner recalled vividly the old king stepping through one of them to meet the executioner’s axe thirteen years before. Inside, he gazed up at the riot of colour in Rubens’s famous ceiling, although some of its the panels were already stained with soot from the many lamps that were needed to illuminate the room at night.