The Amorous Nightingale

    'Mrs Gow had a rendezvous with someone else entirely.'

    Night brought a few concessions for Mary Hibbert. She was given a candle and provided with food and water. The man who untied her was wearing a mask but she did not have the courage to look up at him. Grateful to have some source of light in the dark cellar, she picked at the bread and cheese. Her captor waited until she had finished then he pointed to the truckle bed in the corner. When he went out, the door was locked behind him with an air of finality. Mary shuddered. During the previous night, she had slept in a fourposter at the house near St James's Square. Now she was reduced to a filthy mattress in a dank prison. The scuffling of the rat made her resolve not to lie down anywhere.

    Huddled into the chair, she sat in the tiny circle of light and prayed that her ordeal would soon be over. No relief came, not even the cheering sound of a song from her mistress. It would be a long, lonely, unforgiving night for Mary Hibbert. Her wrists were chafed by her bonds, her whole body aching from its confinement in the chair. Her prospects were bleak. Trapped in her cellar, unable to reach the woman whom she served, unaware of the identity or purpose of her captors, uncertain of her future, she was more despondent than ever.

    Eager to make full use of daylight, Lodowick Corrigan arrived on site with his men shortly after dawn. Under the builder's supervision, posts were hammered into the ground to mark out the different areas of the property and materials were unloaded from carts before being stacked carefully in designated places. By the time that Christopher Redmayne rode up, workmen were already starting to dig the foundations. Overnight rain had left the earth soft and pliable. The picks sank deep and true. Pleased by the flurry of activity, Christopher was frustrated that he would be unable to stay in order to watch progress. Corrigan ambled over to him with an ingratiating smile.

    'You're late, sir,' he commented drily.

    'I had things to do, Mr Corrigan.'

    'We like an early start.'

    'So I see. You've certainly brought sufficient men.'

    'The best I could muster.'

    'They seem to know their jobs,' said Christopher with approval. 'That's not always the case, alas. With so much building going on in London, there's a desperate shortage of trained men. Fresh labour has had to be brought in from outside the city. Some of the newcomers are very raw and inexperienced.'

    'I only employ men who know their trade,' boasted Corrigan. 'I'll not have anyone blundering around on one of my sites. If they work for me, they know the rules. I'm a hard taskmaster but I pay well.'

    'It's a clear enough message.'

    Corrigan unrolled a drawing and Christopher dismounted to take a closer look at his own draughtsmanship again. The builder had a dozen or more questions ready, all delivered in a tone of studied politeness but each one framed in terms that implied criticism. Corrigan was flexing his muscles, trying to secure minor changes to the overall plan in order to establish a pattern of amendment. Christopher resisted each suggestion with a mixture of reason and firmness, aware that even one concession to the builder would be viewed as a sign of weakness on his part. Unable to make any headway, Corrigan became more blunt.

    'Some alterations will have to be made, sir,' he warned.

    'Why?'

    'Because that's what always happens.'

    'Is it?'

    'Problems arise, a client demands changes, the faults of an untried architect are exposed. I've seen it all before, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Have you ever encountered a builder who was unable to take simple instructions? He would be the biggest handicap of all.'

    Christopher's remark was all the more effective for being delivered in a pleasant voice. Corrigan tensed but said nothing. Rolling up the drawing, he went off to relieve his anger by berating some of his men with unnecessary relish. Christopher was grateful to have shaken him off but a new problem now presented itself. As a coach rolled up, the face of Jasper Hartwell beamed out at him. Attired with his usual flamboyance and almost buried beneath the ginger periwig, his client beckoned his architect across.

    'Isn't this exciting?' he said with a childlike grin.

    'Yes, Mr Hartwell. The first day is always rather special.'

    'I'd not miss it for the world. And you, I daresay, will be here from dawn until dusk to watch your house take shape.'

    'Alas, no,' confessed Christopher.

    Hartwell was shocked. 'No? Why ever not?'

    'Other business calls me away, sir.'

    'But you're employed to supervise the construction of my new home. I can't have you deserting your post, Mr Redmayne.'

    'That's not what I'm doing, I promise you. But further work is needed on my designs, small adjustments, subtle refinements. I can hardly do that here in the midst of all this frenetic activity. Besides,' he said, indicating the site, 'there is very little to see in the early stages. An architect is far better employed improving his design than by watching a group of muscular men dig a large hole in the ground.'

    'There's some truth in that, I suppose.'

    'Take my word for it, Mr Hartwell. I'll not be far away. From time to time, I'll ride over here to check that everything is in order. Your house will not be neglected. It occupies my full attention.'

    'And so it must, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Count on me, sir.'

    'I do. I look upon you as a true friend.'

    The voluminous wig prevented him from putting his head through the window of the coach so he crooked his finger to pull Christopher nearer to him. Making sure that they could not be overheard, he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

    'I've decided to take your advice,' he said.

    'My advice?'

    'With regard to a certain lady. I touched on the matter when we dined at the Dog and Partridge yesterday.'

    'Ah, yes,' said Christopher, amazed that the man could remember anything about the occasion in view of the amount he had eaten and drunk. 'I trust that you got home safely.'

    'I awoke from dreams of pure delight, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Dreams?'

    'Of her. Of my angel. Of Harriet.'

    'I see.'

    'I don't think that you do,' said the other, reaching out to grasp him by the shoulder. 'Your counsel inspired me, my friend. I fell asleep a disappointed man and woke a happy one. You were so right. Why should I wallow in despair when I can reach for Elysium?'

    'Elysium?'

    'In essence, it stands right here before us.' Hartwell giggled as he pointed a forefinger. 'Until I confided in you, I was ready to give up all hope but you stiffened my resolve. I love her, I want her, I need her, I deserve her, Mr Redmayne. More than any man alive. If obstacles lie in my way, they can be removed. Mrs Gow may be married but she and her husband have been living apart for so long that it will not be difficult to put them asunder by legal means. If all else fails, Bartholomew Gow can be bought off and sent packing.'

    Christopher was disturbed that Harriet Gow's name had come into the conversation and appalled that he was being identified as the person who had given Jasper Hartwell such ludicrous advice. The chances of her ever taking his proposal seriously were so remote as to be non-existent, yet that did not deter the single-minded lover.

    'As for this dalliance with His Majesty,' said Hartwell dismissively, 'it is of no account. Harriet will soon tire of him and he'll be off after fresh conquests. None of that worries me. I'll not see her as the discarded mistress of a King but as the woman who has finally discovered a man worthy of her. Me!' Another giggle slipped out. 'Am I not the most fortunate of mortals? I've everything a beautiful woman could want, Mr Redmayne. Wealth, position, influence, taste and the handsomest face in the whole world. Harriet and I were fashioned expressly for each other. And the house you've designed will be our Elysium, our place of perfect bliss. Thank you for making it all possible.'