The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor

      Dinner was nearly over, but no word of the business that had brought Sir Denzil here had passed between him and Master Alderley, apart from the matter of the rings. Cat suspected that the terms of the betrothal between herself and Sir Denzil had not yet been finally agreed, but of course nothing would be discussed at table before the women. But somehow it seemed tacitly accepted that the principle of the thing had been established. She tried to imagine what it would be like to see Sir Denzil consuming food and drink at table every day of their married life. Her imagination baulked.

      ‘You must ask my cousin Catherine to sing to you after dinner,’ Edward said, leaning over the table towards Sir Denzil.

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ Sir Denzil said, taking up his glass and frowning into it, as if surprised to find it empty again. ‘I shall be charmed, I’m sure.’

      Jem limped forward to refill the glass.

      Edward glanced at Cat, smiling, just for a second. ‘One cannot listen to my cousin’s voice and be unmoved.’

      Olivia said: ‘What a pity, Sir Denzil, that the pleasure must be postponed for a little while. Master Alderley tells me that you and he must withdraw after dinner.’

      Master Alderley grunted.

      Olivia leaned towards Sir Denzil, affording him an agreeable prospect of her breasts. ‘And are you considered musical, sir?’

      ‘Indeed I am, madam. All the Croughtons are.’ He toyed with a spoonful of apple pie. ‘After all, is not music the food of love?’ At this point he realized that it was perhaps impolite of him to stare so long and so fixedly at Mistress Alderley’s bosom while talking of love. He put the spoonful of pie in his mouth and transferred his gaze to Cat.

      ‘How I long to hear you singing duets,’ Edward said. ‘It will be quite ravishing.’

      When at last dinner was over, Master Alderley withdrew to his study with his guest leaning heavily on his arm and humming ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’. Edward made his excuses to the ladies and left the house.

      ‘So,’ Olivia said as she led Cat into the parlour. ‘In a while, you will be Lady Croughton.’

      ‘Must I be, madam?’

      ‘Yes.’ Olivia sank gracefully into a chair and took up her embroidery. ‘Your uncle has quite made up his mind. Sir Denzil has no money but he has the ear of the King and those about him. But you must not let it worry you. The marriage will not come to pass until the winter. Master Alderley needs a little time to make sense of Sir Denzil’s affairs and deal with the settlements. Sir Denzil is not a man to take liberties beforehand, I think.’ She smiled in a sly way that brought out her resemblance to a cat. ‘And perhaps not even afterwards. The one thing you must do when you are married to Sir Denzil is to feed him well. Take my advice, my dear – a good cook and a well-provided table will save you a world of grief.’

      ‘But I don’t want to marry him.’

      ‘You’re not so foolish as to long for love? You’re far too sensible, child. Love and marriage are two quite different things.’

      ‘I don’t want to marry anyone.’

      Olivia stabbed the needle into the silk. ‘You must do as you’re told,’ she said. ‘You cannot stay here for ever, doing nothing but getting your fingers inky and scratching your meaningless lines on scraps of paper.’

      ‘But they are not meaningless, madam. They are plans – they are designs of buildings that—’

      ‘Fiddle-Fiddle.’ Aunt Olivia’s temper was rising. ‘It is not an occupation for a lady. Besides, your uncle has been very kind to you in making this arrangement. He wants to see you comfortably settled, as you are his poor sister-in-law’s only child, and you may be in a position to help him and your cousin once you are married. You should remember that it cannot have been easy for him to manage – after all, Sir Denzil knows who your father is. Everyone does.’

       CHAPTER SIX

      WHEN CAT WAS very little, the Lovetts had a dog. He was a nameless animal of no breeding but infinite patience. The dog reminded her of Jem in more ways than one. One of her earliest memories was of toddling in the garden of their house in Bow Lane, hand in hand with Jem, with the dog on the other side of her.

      It was difficult to say exactly what Jem did at Barnabas Place. In the old days, he had worked for her father as a confidential clerk and manservant. When their troubles came, her father had sent him with her to her aunt in Champney. Later Jem had escorted her to Uncle Alderley’s.

      Jem had been old even then, but his breathing had been better and his joints not so rusty. He was not valued at Barnabas Place. He slept in the loft above the stables, along with the man who killed rats, emptied slops and did other unpleasant necessities. He ate in the back kitchen and did what he was told to do. Apart from board and lodging he did not receive a wage, though Cat occasionally gave him a few pence or even a shilling or two.

      ‘It isn’t fair,’ Cat once said to him. ‘You’re always working, always doing something for someone. They should pay you.’

      ‘The master gives nothing for nothing.’

      ‘But you give him something.’

      ‘You don’t understand, mistress. I am nothing. To your uncle, I mean. His worship wouldn’t miss me if I were not here, so why should he pay me? If he thinks about it at all, he knows I will stay whether I’m paid or not, because he knows I have nowhere to go. He pays nothing for nothing. That’s how he’s become rich.’

      Early in the evening of the day of the dinner, after Sir Denzil Croughton had been assisted to his coach, Cat went in search of Jem. She found him in the little yard behind the washhouse. He wasn’t wearing the Alderley livery any more. He was in his ordinary clothes and preparing lye, the mixture of ashes and urine that was used for soaking badly soiled laundry. It was a woman’s job usually but the washerwoman had lost the two girls who usually came in to assist her; presumably they and their families were somewhere among the flood of refugees.

      The walls of the yard were high, trapping the hot air below the heavy grey sky. The grey was tinged with an orange glow. Even here, the ground was flecked with ashes. Cat watched him at work for a moment before he saw her. He was stirring the mixture in a half-barrel, stooping over his work with the sweat streaking his shirt and running down his arms. His thin grey hair hung limply to his shoulders.

      When she called his name, he turned his head. His face was red with heat and exertion, shining with sweat. He stared unsmilingly at her.

      Cat wrinkled her nose. ‘Come in here. I can’t talk to you there.’

      She turned and went into the barn. She heard his dragging footsteps behind her. She stopped and faced him.

      ‘How can you bear it?’ She spoke at random, for her head was hurting and she found it hard to gather her thoughts. ‘The smell. The heat.’

      He shrugged, and she realized that for him it was not a question worth answering. ‘Is there news of Layne?’ he said.

      ‘Not that I’ve heard. Why?’

      ‘Sometimes I wonder about him, mistress.’ He stared at her. ‘He likes to know where you are.’

      ‘Layne does? Why in God’s name?’

      ‘I don’t know. But I’ve heard him asking your aunt’s maid, more than once, and I’ve seen him watching you. I think he searched my box the other day, though I can’t be sure. If he did, he might have found—’

      ‘I can’t worry about Layne now,’ Cat interrupted. ‘I want to go out tonight. I’ll need clothes again.’

      Jem shook his head.

      ‘An