The Amorous Nightingale

presented a sharp contrast to their own ward of Baynard's Castle. Untouched by the Great Fire of the previous year, Drury Lane and its environs were highly popular with the rich and the powerful. Addle Hill, on the other hand, where Jonathan and Sarah Bale and their sons lived, comprised more modest dwellings. It had been largely gutted by fire and Jonathan had had to rebuild his home before they could move back into it.

    'Let us go,' he said quietly. 'We have seen enough.'

    'Who owns the house now, Father?' said Oliver.

    'Nobody of importance.'

    The boys fell in beside him as he strode off down Drury Lane, unable to match his long stride and all but scurrying to keep pace with him. They had reached the long bend in the thoroughfare when the sound of an approaching carriage made them turn. It came rumbling at speed from the direction of Holborn, the rasping sound of its huge wheels augmented by the urgent clatter of the horses' hooves. The coachman did not spare them a glance but one of the occupants leaned forward with interest. As the vehicle went past, the smiling face of a young woman appeared at the window and a delicate hand waved in greeting. Jonathan lifted a rough palm in response.

    'Who was that?' asked Richard, hugely impressed that his father should know anyone who travelled in such style. 'The lady waved to you.'

    'It was Mary Hibbert,' said Jonathan.

    'She was very pretty.'

    'Yes. Mary takes after her mother.'

    'Is she a friend of yours?'

    'I know the Hibbert family well. They used to live not far from us in Carter Lane. Good, kind, decent, God- fearing people.' A distant regret intruded. 'Mary was a dutiful daughter at first. But times have changed.'

    'What do you mean, Father?' said Oliver.

    Jonathan shook his head dismissively. The coach had now slowed to pick its way through the crowd that was converging on Bridges Street. Recognising one of the occupants of the vehicle, several people cheered or gesticulated excitedly. A few young men ran alongside the coach to peer in. Richard surveyed the scene with increased awe.

    'Is Mary Hibbert famous?' he asked.

    'No,' replied his father.

    'Then why is everyone waving to her?'

    'I suspect that there is another lady in the coach.'

    'Who?'

    'Nobody you need concern yourself with, Richard.'

    'Is the other lady famous?' said Oliver.

    'That is not the word that I would use.'

    'Who is she, Father?'

    'Tell us,' said Richard. 'Who is the famous lady?'

    'And where are all those people going?'

    Jonathan raised a disapproving eyebrow before shepherding his sons down a sidestreet in order to avoid the gathering crowd.

    'To the theatre,' he said.

    Christopher Redmayne caught only the merest glimpse of her as she alighted from the coach and made her way through a circle of admirers. When she and her companion entered the building by means of a rear door, there was a collective sigh of disappointment, immediately replaced by an anticipatory glee as those same gentlemen realised that they would soon view her again upon the stage. There was an involuntary surge towards the front entrance of the theatre. Christopher and his brother waited while it spent its force.

    Henry watched the stampede with wry amusement.

    'Did any woman ever lead so many men by their pizzles?' he observed. 'Truly, their brains are in their breeches when she is near.'

    'Who is the lady?' asked Christopher.

    'Who else but the toast of London? The uncrowned queen of the stage. A veritable angel in human guise. She is the prettiest piece of flesh in Christendom and I speak as a connoisseur of such creatures. I'll hold you six to four that she could tempt a saint, let alone a Pope or an Archbishop. Yes,' Henry added with a wild laugh, 'she might even make our dear father abandon his piety and dance naked around the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral with a rose between his teeth.'

    'Does this paragon have a name?'

    'Several. Most call her the royal nightingale.'

    'Nightingale?'

    'Wait until you hear her sing.'

    'Can she act as well?'

    'Sublimely. Upon any man with red blood in his veins.'

    'And her real name?'

    'Harriet Gow. She is the sole reason for this melee, this undignified scramble you see before us. Whenever the adorable Harriet Gow appears in a play, the gallants of the town positively fight to get into the theatre.'

    Christopher smiled. 'I'm surprised that you don't join in the brawl, Henry. It is unlike you to forego the opportunity of feasting your eyes on a young lady of such fabled beauty.'

    'What?' said Henry, recoiling slightly. 'Run with the herd and get my new coat creased? Never! Besides, I have standards. Henry Redmayne never chases any woman. I make them come crawling to me.' He tossed his head and set his wig trembling in the sunshine. 'As for the delectable Harriet, gorgeous as she may be, I would never waste my shot on a target that is already beyond my reach.'

    'Beyond your reach?'

    'Did you not catch her nickname?'

    'The nightingale.'

    'The royal nightingale.'

    'Ah!' said Christopher, understanding him. 'The King himself has also succumbed to her charms. That explains your unaccustomed restraint. Miss Gow is spoken for.'

    'Doubly so. For she is Mrs Harriet Gow.'

    'Married, then?'

    'Yes, Christopher. I would need to be a congenital idiot to compete with a King and a husband.'

    'You have done so in the past.'

    'An aberration,' said Henry, anxious to consign the unpleasant reminder to oblivion. 'How was I to know that that particular lady was already warming two beds? Forget the wretch. She deserves no rightful place among my amours.'

    'If you say so, Henry.'

    'I do say so. With vehemence.' He spotted a familiar figure and softened his tone at once. 'Here comes the very person we seek. Jasper Hartwell, as large as life and twice as odious. Smile and fawn upon him, Christopher. His pockets are as deep as his ignorance.' Henry beamed and fell on the newcomer. 'Jasper, my dear fellow!' he said, grasping him by the arm. 'How nice to see you again. Allow me to present my brother, the brilliant architect, Christopher Redmayne.'

    'Oh,' returned the other, displaying a row of uneven teeth. 'Is this the young genius of whom you spoke so fondly, Henry?' He squinted at Christopher. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Your servant, Mr Hartwell,' replied Christopher politely.

    'Well, now, isn't this a happy coincidence?'

    'Chance meetings are always the most productive,' said Henry easily. 'But why have we come to watch a play when a far more dramatic sight confronts us? You look quite superb, Jasper. A sartorial sensation. Elegance Incarnate. Is he not, Christopher?'

    'Indeed,' said his brother.