The Rebel’s Daughter (22 page)

Unlike the streets of Exeter, where he
might have received a sympathetic query as to whether he might be
hurt, both men merely snarled and continued their journeys without
further ado.

Finally, Henry reached the high wooden
fence that ran around almost the length of the street. He followed
it for a hundred paces or so until he found the gap in the boarding
that Master Devereux had mentioned.

Henry craned his neck to see through the
narrow gap, beyond which the glistening white building rose like a
cliff face, the late autumn sky visible through the glassless
windows and the fact the building was not roofed as yet.

Workmen and stone carvers clambered over a
complex network of wooden scaffolding like insects on a piece of
rotting fruit. Men in workmen’s” breeches hefted stones, and
carried planks of wood, tools and leather buckets of water expertly
over rubble. Young boys lugged mortar to the base of the stone
façade, to be hoisted up by baskets to stonemasons perched on
platforms high above the ground. The stonemasons themselves were
easy to identify, all of them covered with a fine white dust that
made them look like ghostly apparitions.

“
Stand
aside, boy, for my Master to pass.” A harsh voice at Hendry’s
shoulder made him jump.

Lost in the spectacle of the building
site, he had not heard a carriage pull up behind him. “Beg pardon,
sir,” Henry muttered, his back pressed against the
fence.

The watchman hopped down from his box and
with an obsequious salute, opened a door in the fence for a man who
had alighted from the coach. Slightly stooped and not much taller
than Henry, the man was immaculately dressed in an embroidered
long-coat and voluminous white curly wig that fell halfway down his
back. Penetrating brown eyes beneath thick brows in a lined but
well-shaped face scanned the site possessively. His upright walk
meant Henry could not discern his age very well; though he was not
a young man, yet he could not describe him as elderly. Several
workmen in leather aprons, their hands white from stone dust,
hurried forward to engage the newcomer in urgent conversation. He
addressed each one in turn, standing amongst the piles of rubble,
discarded pieces of scaffolding, sheets of sacking and bits of
stone, with as much aplomb as if he presided in a drawing
room.

A male servant stood a few feet away, one
hand resting on the shoulder of a small boy of around six or seven.
The child wore a blue velvet long-coat and a brown curly wig on his
narrow head, but something about him struck Henry as unusual. The
child’s eyes looked empty, as though unaware of his surroundings.
He repeatedly tugged at the servant’s sleeve, while making small
mewling noises. The servant removed the boy’s hand, only for the
grasping fingers to return. The expression on the servant’s face
remained unchanged, as though this behavior was a common
occurrence. Aware he was staring, Henry turned back toward the
original object of his interest.

One by one, workmen bowed and backed away,
dispersing into the crowded site. With a final glance and a nod at
the industrious hive before him, the man turned and made his way
back toward the carriage, his small entourage following.

Henry froze as the man’s shrewd
brown eyes raked him from his polished shoes to his face, the man’s
lips curling upwards into a benign smile. “Young man, you appear to
have an uncommon interest in my cathedral. Tell me, then, what you
think of it?” “A wondrous structure, sir; I have never seen
anything like it.” Henry frowned, recalling what the man had said.
“Did-did you say,
your
cathedral, sir?”

“
I
certainly feel it is mine.” His voice was low and soft, his eyes
taking on a faraway look. “For it is my design, and I have
petitioned two kings to provide me with funds to make my dream a
reality.” He inclined his head. “My dear young sir, you are not
from London, I can tell by your speech.”

“
Indeed
not, sir, I am from Exeter.”

“
Ah! An
historic city indeed, and with a fine cathedral of its own.” He
laid a finger against the side of his nose and gave an amused
chuckle. “A proper Norman structure, at that.”

Belatedly, Henry snatched off his hat and
gave a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. My name is Henry
Woulfe.”

“
I am
honored to make your acquaintance, Master Henry Woulfe.” A bemused
smile tugged at the man’s mouth as he returned the bow. “I am Sir
Christopher Wren.”

The servant’s face appeared round the side
of the open carriage door, but Wren dismissed him with a backward
wave. Henry had already guessed the stranger’s identity, though
hearing his name spoken aloud brought a wide smile to his
face.

“
I
should have been disappointed had you not heard of me.” His new
acquaintance inclined his head so far to one side, Henry wondered
how the heavy wig remained in place. “I have lately become the
Member of Parliament for Plympton Erle, in your own county of
Devon.”

Having no idea of this fact, Henry stayed
silent, storing the information to tell Master Devereux later.
“Sir, my host and patron has told me much about this wonderful
structure.”

“
And who
might your host be, young Master Woulfe?”

“
He is
Robert Devereux, sir, of Lambtons Inn.”

“
Ah.”
Wren lifted his cane to his nose. “I know your patron; I have often
dined in his excellent establishment. He crossed his elegant hands
over the silver-topped cane and leaned backwards. “And you, Master
Woulfe, are you by any chance interested in
architecture?”

Henry grinned. “Indeed, sir, though I had
no notion of it before I arrived in London. However since coming
across this magnificent cathedral today, I should like to know more
about this white stone, sir, I find it somehow
familiar.”

“
There
is a reason for that, young sir.” The architect held up a finger.
“Exeter Cathedral is built of the same stone, which is why you find
it familiar. Found on a small island off the Dorset coast, it is of
a certain softness, ideal for carving, and weathers well after
exposure to the elements.”

The servant’s face appeared in the window
of the coach at intervals as they talked, each time with varying
degrees of annoyance. Sir Christopher ignored him. Delighted to
have such a famous man’s undivided attention, Hendry’s heart
swelled.

“
However
London air is full of dirt, soot and other impurities, which are
not good for the stone,” Wren said, dismayed. “See how dull this
façade has become?” He indicated a pillar on the unfinished
structure. “See the difference?” Beckoning Henry closer, he lifted
a piece of sacking which revealed several slabs of untouched stone
that shone with pristine whiteness. The stone almost sparkled, as
if it had tiny shards of glass embedded within it. The
half-constructed building seemed almost dull in
comparison.

Dropping the sacking back in place, Wren
slapped his hands together to remove the dust. “So, Master Woulfe,
would you have a fancy to see inside my cathedral?”

“
Tha-that would indeed be an honour, sir,” Henry stammered,
then paused, his enthusiasm vying with his duty to Master Devereux.
“However, my patron will have finished his business for the day,
and I have to return. Although I hope there will be other
occasions. And if I have to use my two feet to get here from
Holborn, I shall certainly do so, for the privilege.”

“
Then I
am happy to issue an invitation.” Sir Christopher placed a hand on
Hendry’s shoulder and guided him back through the wooden door in
the hoarding.

Henry paused beside the carriage, where a
footman stood rigid beside the open door.

The child Henry had spotted earlier leaned
out of the carriage, his hand flapping in agitation. “Now, now, no
need for alarm, I am returned.” Sir Christopher sighed, his head
inclined toward Henry. “This young man is my son,
Billy.”

Henry bowed and murmured, “Your
servant.”

Sir Christopher climbed into the carriage,
calling to Henry through the open flap. “I will send my man to
Lambtons to call for you; shall we say, Friday at ten of the
clock?”

Before Henry could give a response, the
driver had cracked his whip and the carriage lurched away up
Ludgate Hill.

On the short journey back to Holborn, Henry
treated a bemused Robert Devereux to an animated account of his
meeting with the acclaimed architect.

Henry chose not to mention the vacant-eyed
boy. Not because the child discomforted him, but more from a desire
to protect a weakness he saw in his new acquaintance’s life, a
weakness he did not yet understand.

* * *

When Alyce announced that Helena
could not take her place in London society, or rather
Lambtons
”
society, without suitable clothes, all three Devereux women threw
themselves into the task with enthusiasm.

Heedless of Helena’s insistence that she
was of sufficient means to finance her own wardrobe, Alyce waved
her aside, saying the honour was hers.

“
My own
girls have more than enough for this season, so there is no
pleasure to be found there. But you my dear, are darker, a little
taller.” In a small aside so as not to let her daughters hear, she
added, “…and far more striking, so I shall have a wonderful time
dressing you.”

A veritable army, including a seamstresses
and her assistant, a milliner, a hosiery peddler, a wigmaker and a
cosmetics merchant arrived within a day, crowding into Alice’s
private salon next to the chamber she shared with her
husband.

“
That’s
Mistress Groves,” Celia indicated a haughty looking woman in heavy
face paint, accompanied by two frail-looking girls, their arms
laden with parcels. “She’s the Duchess of Somerset’s
dressmaker.”

“
I doubt
you’ve ever seen her like in Exeter.” Phebe said,
superciliously.

Helena silently agreed, though she wasn’t
going to admit as much to Phebe.

During the protracted measuring session,
where Helena submitted to having bolts of cloth draped over her
shoulders and around her waist, Celia and Phebe pored over the
items draped across chairs and covered the bed for inspection,
while Helena was convinced they remained to see which items might
be discretely acquired for themselves. There was so much to choose
from; she found she was unable to make a decision about anything,
but even that in itself was exciting.

* * *

Bundled up in
an outdoor cloak
with a heavy rug tucked around her knees, Helena occupied a corner
seat in the Devereux carriage as it bowled through the open spaces
of Holborn into noisier, busier thoroughfares toward the river and
the New Exchange.

“
Helena!” Celia chided as Helena hung out of the carriage
window. “You’ll lose your necklace or headdress ribbons to a
scoundrel if you don’t watch out.”

Helena giggled, fascinated at the
attention a fine coach attracted; “I cannot help myself, the City
is still such a novelty to me.”

When forced to halt, traders dodged in
between the traffic trying to attract their attention; thin, dirty
hands thrust through the windows, or clung dangerously onto running
boards until a footmen dislodged them with a well-aimed
whip.

Celia adopted her haughtiest pose and
looked away in distaste, while Phebe smiled prettily and pretended
interest in the trays of tawdry stuff placed under her
nose.

Leaving the coach in a side street Celia,
led the way into the pillared main hall of what she called the
“Change, with its vast concourse covering two floors lined with
open shops, under a canopied ceiling. Each one bore an impressive
display of brightly-coloured trinkets, laces, hats, gloves, and
fans, arranged on trays and boxes to attract the
shopper.

“
They
marry well,” Phebe whispered, indicating the well-dressed female
stallholders with their painted faces. “They meet many fine
gentlemen by working here.”

Helena tore herself away with difficulty from
each stall, only to be accosted by the occupant of the next; faced
with so many gloves and fans, ribbons, muffs and petticoats, she
found making a choice quite beyond her.

Determined to purchase something, she
settled on a pair of silk hose from Philip Danbury’s shop, and a
small ornamental japanned box. Celia and Phebe trailed behind with
bored expressions, though Helena remained entranced, constantly
uttering admiring phrases.

The maid - not Chloe on this occasion, but
Alice’s - trailed behind with a sullen expression, her presence
completely ineffective as a chaperone, for Phebe greeted almost
every young man they encountered with fulsome compliments, ensuring
the entire hall was aware that the younger Mistress Devereux was in
the building.

One gallant sauntered away, having failed to
elicit more from Celia than a cold stare.

“
Why
were you so curt with Master Gillingham just now?” Phebe admonished
her. “He was simply being no more than amiable, not trying to rob
you of your virtue!”