The Amorous Nightingale

    There were neither sniggers nor giggles when Aspatia swept in once more, accompanying the treacherous Evadne to the latter's bedchamber. Harriet Gow was a picture of despair, reflecting upon her woe with a sense of resignation rather than self-pity, then cutting through the taut silence with a song that touched even the most cynical listeners.

'Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew,

Maidens, willow branches bear:

Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.'

    Christopher was entranced. Not only had he seen the small miracle of a rowdy audience being subdued to respectful silence, he had heard one of the most melodious and affecting voices ever to issue from a human mouth. Harriet Gow was truly a nightingale. The rest of the cast might display the full range of their abilities but the memory that would linger in every mind was that of Aspatia's sad song in the second act of the play. Christopher's mouth went dry and his eyes gently moistened. Aspatia's vulnerability left him tingling.

    When she was offstage, the interruptions resurfaced and many of the lines were lost beneath the commotion but Christopher did not mind. He watched and waited for Aspatia to make another entrance, to impose order once more on the mild chaos and to trumpet the virtues of honesty and loyalty in a society that was bedevilled by vice. The play ended in a welter of deaths, Evadne's killing of the King being presented as a perverted sexual act that excited the senses of the dullest onlookers but it was Aspatia, yet again, who soared above them all, dying with such realism and poignancy that she set women weeping and strong men snuffling. Christopher was not ashamed of his own tears.

    Thunderous applause was directed mainly at the hapless Aspatia, now gliding back to the centre of the stage like its undisputed jewel, luxuriating in the ovation and giving a gentle curtsey to the King who was leading it from the royal box. Christopher was a prey to swirling emotions. Pity for Aspatia welled up inside him along with deep affection for the actress who portrayed her. Envy soon took over, then a feeling of betrayal, then a sense of loss. Resignation finally claimed him. While she had been singing her plaintive song, Harriet Gow had been his and every other man's in the audience, reaching out to each one individually with the sheer power and musicality of her voice. Now she was indicating her preference very clearly. A royal nightingale for a royal bed.

    'Well?' said Henry into his brother's ear. 'Was I right about her?'

    'Oh, yes,' admitted Christopher. 'She is without compare.'

    'I would give anything to make her mine,' said Hartwell effusively. 'Harriet Gow is the most beautiful woman in the world. Have you ever heard such a charming voice? It still echoes in my ears. She is absolute perfection.'

    'Invite her to your new home, Jasper,' advised Henry.

    'Do you think that she would come?'

    'She might. If I delivered the invitation - by way of the King.'

    Hartwell grabbed him. 'Would you do that for me, Henry?'

    'That and much more, my friend. You will have one of the finest houses in London. It deserves to be celebrated with a banquet to which only the most distinguished guests will be invited. Do you agree?'

    'Oh, yes!' said the other. 'Mightily!'

    'Only one thing remains, then.'

    'And what is that?'

    'A practical matter,' said Henry with an arm around his shoulder. 'You must engage my brother, Christopher, to design the house for you. When she sees the result, Harriet Gow will snatch at your invitation. In Christopher's hands, architecture is an act of seduction in itself.'

    'Then he is the man for me!' announced Hartwell.

    'It is settled. Are you content, brother?'

    'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Very content.'

    But his smile of gratitude concealed deep misgivings.

Chapter Three

    Jacob Vout was the ideal servant, always at hand if needed, wholly invisible if not. He moved around the house in Fetter Lane with quiet efficiency and kept the place spotless. Christopher Redmayne could find no fault in him. Jacob was a benign presence, fiercely loyal to his master, honest, trustworthy, kind, conscientious, attentive without being intrusive and obedient without being servile. Now in his sixties, he had learned everything and forgotten nothing about his chosen occupation. Christopher treated him like a friend who happened to work for him.

    'Jacob!' he called.

    'Yes, sir?' said the old man, materialising at his elbow like a spirit.

    'Do we have any drink in the house?'

    'A little, sir.'

    'Give me a more precise inventory.'

    'One bottle of brandy and six bottles of wine.'

    'Is the wine of good quality?'

    'I think so, sir,' said Jacob defensively, 'but your brother decided otherwise. I fear that Mr Redmayne's tastes are rather exotic. On his last visit here, he made disparaging comments about your cellar, but that did not stop him from consuming a whole bottle of the wine on his own.'

    'Only one? Henry must have been on his best behaviour.'

    'Mr Redmayne is given to excess.'

    Christopher grinned. 'It comes from being the son of a senior churchman,' he said. 'Forget my brother. Fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar and set out three glasses. A celebration is in order.'

    'Indeed, sir?'

    'Yes, Jacob. My design has been approved by my client and he is bringing the builder here this morning to meet me. This is an important moment in my career. I have finally reached the stage where a house of mine will see the light of day and be paid for in full.'

    'That is cheering news, sir.'

    'Look upon those bare shelves in the cellar for the last time. They will mock us no longer with their emptiness. We may at last be able to afford to fill them once again, if not with a vintage to Henry's taste, then at least with a tolerable wine.'

    Jacob nodded then scuttled out of the parlour. Christopher looked down at the drawings laid out on the table in front of him. He had laboured long and hard to turn Jasper Hartwell's requirements into bricks and mortar, and he was pleased with the result. His fears about his client's unacceptable demands had been largely illusory. The exterior of Hartwell's new home would not, after all, reflect its owner's fantastical appearance in any way. He had been as willing to take instruction as to give it, resting gratefully on Christopher's superior knowledge of line and form, and eschewing any extravagance or vulgarity. The architect had been given the freedom to express himself without too much interference.

    Christopher's visit to The Theatre Royal had borne rich fruit. Not only had he acquired a wealthy and indulgent client, he had been able to marvel at the art of Harriet Gow, an actress at the very height of her powers. It had been a memorable experience. The melancholy song from The Maid's Tragedy still haunted him and he hummed the tune aloud as he envisaged her singing the lament once again. Jacob showed less fondness for the sound. Returning from the cellar with a bottle of red wine in his grasp, he clicked his tongue at his master.