They stayed only for Mass, then tumbled out into Watling Street and the pale sunshine, giggling and catching at each other’s ribbons as they chased down the great stone steps. Martha smiled attempting to restore only a semblance of order. “Young ladies,” she murmured, “need fresh air and a brisk walk before the temptations of a well laden table. Petronella, you will keep up, and carry the basket. Stop looking behind towards the Ludgate for we are not leaving the city yet.”
Avice passed the empty basket to her maid. “Are we keeping you from young Edmund Harris, Nell, or is there something else you want to rush home for?”
Petronella blushed. “Forgive me, mistress. But it’s London, and all the wickedness my mother warned me about. Never go to the big city, she always said, for there’s more wicked blasphemy and sin in every street than you’ll see in the rest of England.”
Martha patted the maid’s hand. “Stuff and nonsense, girl. This is a city of kings, of wealth, of justice and government, of piety, and of the best shopping in the world. I have not been here since I was a young girl, and their ladyships have never been here at all. You we will therefore set off for a pleasantly informative stroll.”
But it was in the gloom of the back alleys that Sysabel suddenly stopped and refused to go any further.
A light drizzle hovered between roofs and cobbles but the sun sparkled on the wet tiles and the rows of little windows reflecting rainbow prisms. But one small alley led off the other street, and just visible from where Sysabel stood, a ragged opening gaped between the neighbouring buildings. Beams stood blackened and stark amongst the uncleared rubble.
Emeline had seen such destruction before, though over an even greater and more devastating area, and she stopped behind Sysabel, also staring. Martha stepped forwards, nodding, and reaching for Emeline’s hand. “No dear, no need to walk here. There are often fires, they say, with cooking in cramped quarters and no proper kitchens in the smaller houses. And all fire spreads quickly.”
“There’s no smell here anymore,” whispered Emeline. “It was the smell of the fire I hated most of all.”
Martha looked suddenly towards Sysabel. “No smell here, my dear, since I imagine this fire was put out – a year ago. Folk here are poor and cannot afford to rebuild. But the fire is old. Perhaps – ten months gone?”
But Sysabel clenched her small hands and said, “You brought me here on purpose.”
“Who? Why?” insisted Avice, pushing at Emeline from behind. “Oh, do come on. There is not a shop in sight. It’s silk and velvet and gold I want to see. This place is quite horrid and if there was a fire, then it’s just as well.”
“It was there,” Sysabel said, her voice louder and more desperate. “I won’t go there. I won’t walk past.”
Martha pulled Petronella aside, and waited a moment as if expecting something. Then she said, “The fire was long ago, and the house is now quite gone. We don’t need to go past.”
Avice mumbled, “What’s the matter with you Sissy? What’s where?”
But Emeline said suddenly, “So near to St. Paul’s?”
Sysabel was crying. “I remember that horrid little hovel on the corner there, with the church across the other side and the graveyard spread just behind. It was because – knowing what was going to happen – and seeing the gravestones – it has stayed so strongly in my memory. Then I had to walk past and I was crying so hard I didn’t see much more.” She didn’t seem to realise she was crying again now.
“Lord have mercy,” whispered Emeline. She reached out but Sysabel suddenly turned and ran. Martha stepped between as the sun sprang through the clouds, lighting the alleyway as if sudden torchlight blazed between the houses.
Sysabel stopped and flung herself into Martha’s arms. She wailed, “It’s there, it’s there,” and buried her face against Martha’s shoulder, crying uncontrollably.
Emeline mumbled in desperation, “We can’t appear in public like this. What shall we do?”
“We go home, my dear,” Martha said. “And as quickly as possible.”
Having doubled back into Carter’s Lane and from there to St. Andrew’s Hill, they now stood a little west of the great cathedral. It was a narrow alley divided by a central gulley with sour water overflowing in sloppy leaking trickles. On both sides the houses stood uncertain, as though tentatively upright and held in place only by their neighbours. Here, against London ordinance, most of the roofs were still thin thatched, and the water butts standing at the doorways were mostly broken, their copper rings fallen away. It was a place of rank smells and dismal darkness for the sky seemed little more than a pale streak between leaning rooftops and jutting buttresses. The black charred threat of old fire hung unrepaired and barely disturbed where a row of six houses had been gutted, leaving little more than stark timbers without plaster and a tumble of sticks fallen from unsupported beams.
No longer trying to run, Sysabel was cowering, refusing to move in any direction and pointed one quivering finger. Avice understood, glared, and said, “Here? Peter brought you here himself?”
“Oh, no.” Sysabel twisted from Martha’s embrace, reaching tentatively for Emeline. “It was a young man in his employ, but I don’t remember his name and I never saw him again.”
“Peter sent you with a servant?”
“Poor Peter, he could hardly have brought me himself. What if someone had seen us? He was so sad, and so contrite. And I was – terrified.”
“But is it the same house that has gone in the fire? Five – no six houses ruined.” Now Emeline held Sysabel tight. “Sissy dear, those dreadful memories must be forgotten, for half the street has burned with them.”
Sysabel remained white faced, trembling within Emeline’s embrace. “I shall never forget,” she said. “It is not a thing anyone – could – forget.”
They took her home. The streets had emptied, and the Ludgate was quiet. There were no raucous groups staggering off to the taverns, no dismal plodding sheep down from St; John’s pastures heading towards their slaughter in the Shambles, no more bustling housewives off to the cheaps and markets. A desultory stream were returning from St. Paul’s, clutching their prayer books, and a few young men were out courting in the sunshine, hailing wherries for a pleasant river crossing and an inexpensive way to impress a girl on her one morning away from her mistress’s watchful criticisms. The Strand was dozing and even the birds were quiet. They entered the Chatwyn House through the back way past the stable block and Martha, nodding quickly to Emeline, whispered to Petronella to take Sysabel straight to her bedchamber.
They were interrupted. “Well now,” roared his lordship, into the echoing silence, “a fine time it is for dinner and a little pleasant company.” Suddenly aware that his niece was looking less spritely than usual, he reached out to pat her arm. “What is it, miss, with the long face on such a fine day? Is no one ready to keep me company at the table?”
Sysabel stood very still, pink faced and red eyes, and attempted a mumbled apology. Emeline said quickly, “Your niece is not feeling very well, my lord. I think it best if I take her up to her bedchamber. She needs to rest.”