The Repentant Rake

Chapter Four

    The creative impulse is oblivious to the passage of time. Christopher Redmayne was impelled by such a fierce urge to work on his drawings that all else was blocked out. Having spent the greater part of the day amending, improving and refining his design, he continued on into the night with the help of a circle of tallow candles. The simple joy of artistic creation kept fatigue at bay. Aching joints that would have sent most people to their beds hours earlier were blithely ignored. Hunger was disregarded. An occasional glass of wine was all that he allowed himself as he set one piece of parchment aside to start immediately on a new one. Occupying a site that ran to half an acre, Sir Julius Cheever's house would be somewhat smaller than the three mansions Christopher had already designed for clients but it would be just as much of a challenge for architect and builder. As he worked on the front elevation of the house, he took especial care over the way he drew the tall Dutch gables with their sweeping curved sides. He was just crowning the last of them with a triangular pediment when Jacob came into the room.

    'Dear God!' exclaimed the servant. 'Up already, sir?'

    'No, Jacob,' said Christopher without looking at him. 'I never went to bed.'

    'But it's almost dawn.'

    'Is it?'

    'You need your sleep, sir.'

    'Mind and body are telling me otherwise.'

    'Then they are deceiving you,' said the old man. 'Why push yourself like this? You'll pay dearly for it, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I'm rather hoping that it's my client who will be paying,' replied Christopher, standing back to admire his work. 'Come and look, Jacob.' Still in his nightshirt, the servant moved across to him. 'There now! What do you think of that?'

    Jacob peered at the neat lines. 'It's a fine-looking house, sir.'

    'Well worth losing a night's sleep over.'

    'I don't agree.'

    'You're not an architect.'

    'That's why I'll live much longer than you, Mr Redmayne. Learn from your brother's example. Burn the candle at both ends and you'll suffer as a result.'

    'Yes,' conceded Christopher, 'long nights have certainly left muddy footprints all over Henry's face, but I have something to show for my endeavour. These.' He pointed at the pile of drawings. 'I still have a long way to go but I now have an exact image in my mind of how the building will look.'

    'I'm surprised that you can still keep your eyes open, sir.'

    'I could work for a week without sleep on this project.'

    'Where shall we bury your body?' asked Jacob drily.

    Christopher laughed then gave a first involuntary yawn. Aches and pains began to afflict him at last. The fingers of his right hand were stiff. His mouth felt dry, his stomach hollow. He put down his stick of charcoal and shrugged his shoulders. 'Enough is enough.'

    Jacob was solicitous. 'I'll fetch a cordial then you can retire to bed.'

    'Only for a few hours.'

    'You'll need half a day to recover from this folly.'

    'That may be, Jacob, but I'll have to take it at a later stage. Now that I've made such valuable progress,' he said as another yawn burst forth, 'I can think of someone apart from myself. I must pay a visit to my brother. Much as I hate the idea of being asked for money by Henry, there are familial obligations. The least I can do is to hear his tale of woe. Apart from anything else, if I go to Bedford Street, it will stop him coming here to interrupt my work.'

    'Why not simply send a message?' suggested Jacob. 'I'll gladly take it.'

    'Henry would never be fobbed off by a letter.'

    'So what will you do?'

    'Snatch three or four hours' sleep,' said Christopher, stretching himself and hearing the bones crack slightly. 'Wake me up then and I'll visit my brother. There's no point in going any earlier. Henry never rises before mid-morning.'

    Wearing a thick dressing gown and an expression of utter despair, Henry Redmayne sat at the table in his dining room over a breakfast that remained untouched. His servants were amazed to see him up so early and they had the wisdom to keep well out of his way. Irascible at the best of times, their master was in a most choleric mood. The barber who would arrive to shave him at ten would be in for an especially testing time. Nobody envied him. Sagging in his chair, arms on the table, Henry was staring glassy-eyed at potential catastrophe. He could not remember when he had felt so oppressed. It was a numbing experience. He was so caught up in his predicament that he did not hear the front door bell ringing. Henry was floating helplessly on a sea of self-pity.

    There was a tap on the door and a nervous servant popped his head in. 'You have a visitor, sir.'

    'Send him away!' snarled Henry.

    'Is that altogether wise?'

    'Do as I say, you imbecile. Get rid of that baboon-faced barber. I'll not be shaved by him today. I'm likely to tear the razor from his grasp and cut my own throat.'

    'But it's not the barber who's here, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Turn every visitor away. I'll see no one.'

    'Not even your brother, sir?'

    Henry jumped to his feet. 'Christopher?' he yelled. 'Why didn't you tell me, you idiot? Show him in straight away and make sure that we're not disturbed for any reason. Do you understand?'

    The servant nodded and backed gratefully out. Seconds later,

    Christopher came into the room, hiding his weariness behind a warm smile. Henry bore down on him.

    'Where've you been, man!' he demanded.

    'Furthering my career, Henry.'

    'I needed you here.'

    'Why? Do you wish to commission a new house from me?'

    'No,' moaned his brother. 'I'm more likely to lose the one I have than be able to afford a new one.' He crossed to the door, snatched it open to make sure that there was nobody in the hall, then slammed it shut again. 'We must talk, Christopher.'

    'I came as soon as I could.'

    'Did Jacob tell you how urgent it was?'

    'Yes, Henry. He also guessed the reason for that urgency.'

    'I doubt that.'

    'Come now,' said Christopher, putting a consoling hand on his arm. 'Everyone knows your weakness. You will play card games for which you are singularly ill-equipped. What little skill you possess is vitiated by an endless run of bad fortune.' He shook his head sadly. 'How much do you owe this time?'

    'If it was only a gambling debt!'

    'You mean that it isn't?'

    'No, Christopher,' admitted Henry, crossing to drop into his chair. 'It's worse than that. Far, far worse. I'd hardly summon you here for help in clearing a debt incurred at the card table. That would be a mere trifle.'

    Christopher was sympathetic. 'So what is the problem?'

    'I can hardly bring myself to tell you.'

    'Dismissal from the Navy Office? Serious illness?'

    'Both would be preferable to the situation in which I find myself.'

    'What situation?' said his younger brother, sitting beside him. 'I can see that you're in earnest. Tell me all.'

    'In a moment.' A resentful note sounded. 'Where on earth did you go?'

    'Northamptonshire.'

    'Whatever for?'

    'In pursuit of a commission.'

    'A commission? Your brother is facing disaster and your only response is to run off to Northamptonshire in pursuit of a paltry commission.'