'We have been blessed, sir. We escaped.'
Tears trickled down the old man's face and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Christopher held him in a token embrace then led him across to a stool and lowered him on to it. Jacob was patently harrowed by the experience. The hollowed cheeks and the deathly pallor showed that he had enjoyed very little sleep and there was still a glint of terror in his eyes. Christopher felt guilty that he had not been there to share the ordeal with his servant and help him through it. There was much more to tell and he listened patiently while Jacob unfolded his tale at exhaustive length. As the old man unburdened himself, he was shaking visibly and his whole body twitched at the conclusion of his narrative. Christopher left a long, considered pause before addressing himself to his own concerns.
'What news of my brother, Henry?' he said.
'He has sent word, sir.'
'Was his own house affected?'
'No, sir,' said Jacob, rising to his feet. 'The fire stopped well short of Bedford Street. Covent Garden was untouched. Your brother wants you to call on him as soon as you may. He is most insistent.'
'Henry always is.'
'Messages have come every day.'
'I need to get my breath back before I go running to my brother,' said Christopher, dropping into a chair. 'I have been in the saddle for hours on end. Do we have any drink in the house, Jacob?'
'Yes, sir. The last of that wine is still in the cellar.'
'Fetch a bottle. And bring two glasses.'
'Two, sir?'
'I think you need sustenance as much as I do. Besides, we have something to celebrate. The house is still standing. That is a small miracle. Bring the wine, Jacob. We will raise a glass together.'
'If you say so, sir.'
The servant's face recovered some of its ruddy glow and his eyes glistened. It was a rare privilege to be allowed - however briefly - to step across the line which separated master from man and Jacob appreciated it. A smile touched his lips for the first time in a week.
'Hurry along,' said Christopher with a flick of his hand. 'I need a restorative drink if I am to face Henry. Conversations with my brother can be wearing at the best of times.'
There was never any danger of Henry Redmayne indulging his servants. He treated them with a lofty disdain, reasoning that they were fortunate enough simply to be in the employ of so august a gentleman and that they deserved no further encouragement lest it give them ideas above their station. Accordingly, the barber who shaved him expected no word of approval, still less any hint of gratitude. Achievement lay in performing his duty without eliciting too many grumbles from his testy customer. His razor moved swiftly but carefully. The sallow face of Henry Redmayne was not one over which he cared to linger. When his work was done, he held up a small mirror while a detailed facial examination was carried out. Henry kept him waiting a long time before giving a dismissive nod.
As soon as the barber quit the room, the manservant entered to help his master to dress. It was a silent ritual in front of a large gilt-framed mirror. Henry preened himself at every stage, lavishing particular attention on his petticoat breeches and his new long multi-coloured waistcoat. When he put on his embroidered coat, he stroked it lovingly with both hands then shifted his stance to look at it from several angles before giving a grunt of satisfaction.
It was only then that the manservant dared to speak.
'Your brother has arrived, sir.'
'How long has he been here?'
'A little while,' said the other tactfully.
'Tell him I will be down in a moment.'
The man nodded and withdrew. He knew better than to interrupt his master while the latter was being shaved or dressed. The visitor had been understanding. He had already waited for almost half an hour. Henry added five more minutes to the delay before he pirouetted in front of the mirror for the last time. When he descended to the parlour, he found his younger brother reclining in a chair and gazing intently at a painting of a naval battle. Christopher was still in his dusty travelling clothes. Henry strode across to him and struck a pose.
'So?' he said with a note of reproach. 'You have come at last. We can always rely on your absence when you are most needed.'
Christopher stood up. 'I had work to do in Oxford.'
'Have you finally discovered the concept of work?'
'Do not be so cynical, Henry. We cannot all have a sinecure at the Navy Office, as you do. Besides,' he added, running an admiring eye over his brother's fashionable attire, 'I had a more personal reason for being in Oxford. Father was visiting the city to attend a convocation there.'
'How is the old gentleman?'
'In excellent health.'
'That means he is still preaching interminable sermons.'
'He spoke much about you, Henry.'
'Fondly, I hope?'
'Alas, no,' said Christopher. 'With some asperity. Reports have reached him that you live a dissolute life in London, quite unbecoming to the elder son of the Dean of Gloucester. The fact that you have reached the age of thirty without the companionship of a wife is also of deep concern to him. In Father's mind, that serves to reinforce the truth of the rumours. He demanded to know if you were indeed the seasoned voluptuary of report.'
Henry winced. 'What did you tell him?'
'What he wanted to hear. That you led a Christian life which kept you completely away from the snares of lust and drunkenness. I assured him that you were regular in your devotions and often expressed regrets that you yourself had not taken the cloth. In short,' said Christopher with an amiable grin, 'I lied outrageously on your behalf.'
'Did he believe you?'
'Only up to a point.'
'Oh dear!' said Henry with a sigh. 'In that case, I will soon receive one of his stern letters, chastising me for my sins and urging repentance. How does he gather all this intelligence about me? Can a man not enjoy the pleasures of the capital without their echoes reaching the cloisters
of Gloucester? I will need to be more discreet.'
'Or more restrained.'
'That is out of the question.'
They shared a laugh. It was difficult to believe that they were brothers. Both were tall, slim and well- favoured but the resemblance ended there. Henry's long face was already showing signs of dissipation and the moustache which he took such trouble to cultivate somehow added a sinister quality. Christopher, by contrast, had a more open countenance and a clearer complexion. While he exuded health, his brother looked as if he was well acquainted with disease, especially the kind which might be contracted in a bedchamber. Handsome and clean- shaven, Christopher had dark brown hair with a reddish hue which hung in natural curls. His brother's hair, lighter in colour and straighter in texture, was thinning so dramatically that he had ordered a periwig.
'I am relieved to find you safe and sound,' said Christopher with unfeigned sincerity. 'When I heard news of the fire, I feared that it might have reached this far.'
'Happily, no. It did not progress beyond Temple Bar. But that does not mean I came through the ordeal unscathed,' Henry emphasised, keen to portray himself as a victim. 'For I did not. I shared the misery of many friends who lost their homes and suffered agonies of apprehension on account of my own property. As for the city itself, it was like being locked in Bedlam.'
'What started the fire?'
'That was the problem, Christopher. Nobody knew and so they drew their own conclusions. The blaze was so fierce and so widespread that it seemed to have been started deliberately. Mobs soon formed, believing that London had been torched by Catholics. Passions ran high and the wilder spirits took the law into their own hands. We had open riot.'
'Is there any proof of a Popish Plot?'
