The Ashes of London

‘I don’t know, mistress.’

She glared at him. ‘You must know something.’

He hesitated and then said slowly, ‘He lives somewhere near Cursitor Street. I think he might be a tailor. I saw him sometimes in the old days.’

‘Then I shall go there and look for him. If my father isn’t with him, then perhaps he will know where he is.’

‘I won’t let you,’ Jem said. ‘It would be folly. Let me see if I can find him. Better still, be patient until he sends word.’

‘No. I shall go. You must help me.’

Jem shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. If they find your father in London, they will put him on trial for treason. And anyone they find helping him.’

She raised her hand to slap his face. Slowly she lowered it. ‘Why are you being so obstinate, old man? One word from me, and they will turn you out on the street.’

‘Then say it,’ he said. ‘The one word.’

The long evening drew at last to a close.

Uncle Alderley and Cousin Edward had been into the City and then as far west as Whitehall. At supper, they were full of what they had seen. The Fire was diminishing, though it was still burning steadily and there was always the danger it would reach the great powder magazine in the Tower, particularly if the wind veered again. The great exodus from the City had continued. Perhaps seventy or eighty thousand people had fled. They were flooding into the unburned suburbs, to Houndsditch and the Charterhouse, to West Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and even to Hatton Garden, where they were lapping around the walls of Barnabas Place itself.

‘They are like people in a melancholy dream,’ Master Alderley said. ‘They simply cannot understand what has happened.’

The refugees camped wherever they could. The park at Moorfields was packed with them – more than twenty acres of ground covered with a weeping, moaning, sleeping mass of humanity. Some had gone over the river and set up camp in St George’s Fields, where the ground was marshy even in this sweltering summer, and evil humours rose from the ground at night. Others – the more active or the more terrified – had gone further still, to the hills of Islington.

‘God knows where it will end,’ Master Alderley said. ‘Once people leave the City, why should they come back?’

Alarm flared in Olivia’s face. ‘But what shall we do, sir?’

‘You need not worry, my dear. They will always need money wherever they go. I have taken precautions. So we shall do very well, whatever they do with London’s ashes.’

She leaned over the table and patted his hand. ‘You are so wise, sir.’

Master Alderley withdrew his hand at once, for public displays of feeling disturbed him; but he was not displeased with this show of wifely admiration.

‘Is Layne back?’ he demanded.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then we shall have to turn him off. I know you brought Layne into the household, but I cannot have a servant who will not attend to his duty.’

‘It may not be his fault. Perhaps the Fire has delayed him. Perhaps he has had an accident.’

Master Alderley frowned. ‘We shall see. In the meantime, we must find another man to wait at table. I don’t wish to have that cripple again.’

‘No, sir. Of course not.’

‘We saw Sir Denzil,’ Edward said in a moment. ‘He was attending the Duke of York.’ He turned to Cat, which meant that his father and his stepmother could not see his expression. ‘He and I drank to your betrothal, cousin, and to the speedy arrival of an heir to Croughton Hall.’

‘That would suit us all very well,’ Master Alderley said. He gave Cat a rare smile. ‘We shall have you wedded by Christmas and brought to bed of a fine boy by Michaelmas next year.’

‘So be sure to cultivate this French cook of his, cousin,’ Edward murmured, too low for his father to hear. ‘French cooks are always men of infinite subtlety and resource. I am sure Sir Denzil’s will know how to set his master on fire for you.’

After supper, Olivia took Cat up to her own bedchamber to discuss the wedding, its location, who should be invited, and what she and Cat should wear.

Ann came to undress her mistress while they talked. Olivia sat at her dressing table wearing a bedgown of blue silk trimmed with lace, with four candles reflected in the mirror and throwing their murky light on her face. The warm air was heavy with perfume.

The subject was of absorbing interest to Olivia, and the discussion – the first of many, no doubt, she said with a smile – went on for longer than Cat would have believed possible.

Cat’s eyes strayed to the great bed that stood in the shadows, surmounted by a canopy. She imagined Uncle Alderley – so staid, so old, so disgusting – heaving and twisting and grunting there. The thought of it, together with the perfume and the suffocating sense of femininity that seemed to fill the room, made her feel ill.

Olivia did not belong with Uncle Alderley. She could not enjoy his attentions, Cat thought, though in public she behaved with impeccable obedience towards her husband. But Cat had heard their raised voices through closed doors.

Was this what marriage meant? This unnatural union? This heaving and twisting and grunting? A public show of devotion concealing private quarrels and secret lusts?

Ann left the room to fetch hot water.

‘Well?’ Aunt Alderley said. ‘Is it not exciting? You have so much to look forward to. They say Croughton Hall is very fine.’

Cat sat forward in her chair so she could see the reflection of her aunt’s face wavering in the mirror. ‘Madam,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to be married to Sir Denzil. I mean it. Is there no way—?’

‘But, child, you must let those older and wiser guide you.’

‘He doesn’t please me.’

‘So you’ve said. But it’s nonsense, my dear. Liking will come later, if God wills it, as it does in most marriages. You must not concern yourself about it now. Remember, he has everything to recommend him, including the fact that your uncle is in favour of the match.’

‘But he’s so—’

Aunt Alderley shook her head. ‘Not a word more, my dear. You’re overtired, and this makes you say foolish things. Besides, this horrible Fire has upset us all.’

There was a tap on the door, and Ann entered with a jug of steaming water.

‘We’ll discuss the question of jewellery later,’ her aunt said in a brisk voice. ‘But now, my love, you must go to bed. You have great circles under your eyes. Shall Ann come with you and undress you?’

‘No, madam. But thank you.’

When she was released, Cat climbed the stairs to the floor above the main bedchambers, candle in hand. She had walked this way so often that she could have done it in the dark.

Every now and then she passed a window that gave glimpses of London glowing like a bed of coals in the night. It seemed to her that the fire was less bright than it had been, as if its fury were gradually dying. Occasionally there were muffled explosions. The work of demolition continued.

For an instant, a vision of a new London rose in her mind, growing from this bed of coals: a town of great piazzas and avenues, of lofty churches, and of fine buildings of brick and stone. She would get out her drawing box and her papers when she was safely in her room. She would map an outline of this new and glorious city. The box had been a gift from her other aunt, Great Aunt Eyre; it reminded her of a time when she had been happy.

Cat raised the latch on her door and entered the chamber. Once inside, still with the candle in her hand, she inserted a wooden wedge above the latch so it could not be raised from the outside. She had fashioned the wedge herself, from a splinter of kindling, using a knife she had sent Jem to buy.

She put down the candle on the table under the window and tugged the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.

There was a chuckle behind her. She sucked in her breath and spun round.