Those of us who import goods were assailed by the most unbearable stink whenever we went near the wharf.'
'The brewers and dyers were the worst, Sir Ambrose.'
'Then you have not smelled the lime-burners and the soap-makers when they are practising their craft. Add the reek of the salt-makers and you have a stench that stayed in the nostrils for days.'
'Just like the smoke from the Great Fire.'
'Yes, Henry. Exactly like that.'
'How long has it been now? Six months?'
'Over seven.'
'I still sometimes catch a whiff of that smoke.'
'Memory plays strange tricks on us.'
'Indeed, Sir Ambrose. It may torment us in perpetuity.' Henry became solicitous. 'Was the coffee to your liking?'
'Excellent.'
'Let us order another cup.'
The two men were sitting in one of the most fashionable coffee houses in the city, swiftly refurbished now that decisions had finally been made about building regulations. Henry was at his most immaculate in a blue coat with extravagant gold braid and a red and green waistcoat. His new periwig lent him an air of distinction which made him even more a slave to his vanity and he kept appraising himself in an invisible mirror. Seated opposite him was Sir Ambrose Northcott, now almost fifty, a man of middle height and corpulent body who defied his many physical shortcomings with the aid of an expensive French tailor. Fleshy jowls were tinged with crimson and the nose was absurdly small for such a large face yet there were no wrinkles to betray his true age and the eyes had a youthful sparkle.
Northcott was an important man. Having inherited his title and a substantial fortune, he determined to improve himself even more and invested wisely in trade. A Justice of the Peace in his native Kent, he was also a Member of Parliament and took a vocal part in the discussions which touched on the future shape and composition of the capital. Henry Redmayne had cultivated him strenuously for years but he now had a more pressing reason to court him. Northcott wanted a new house built.
Henry made an urgent question sound like a casual enquiry.
'Have you had time to study those drawings, Sir Ambrose?'
'I made time, Henry.'
'What was your impression?'
'A most favourable one.'
'I am pleased to hear it.'
'Your brother has remarkable talent.'
'He does,' said Henry, basking in the praise. 'Christopher is a born artist. He has a most cultured hand. It has ever been so. I once saw him draw a perfect circle with a crayon.'
'Does this talent run in the family?'
'Unhappily, no. And even if it did, I would not waste it on a piece of paper. The only perfect circles I would draw would be those I traced with a fingertip around the nipples of a fair lady.'
Northcott laughed. 'Love has its own architecture.'
'With building regulations that are far more appealing!'
They exchanged a polite snigger. Northcott sat back in his chair.
'Tell me more about this brother of yours,' he said.
'That is precisely why I am here.'
'Is he a coming man?'
Henry needed no more invitation. After ordering fresh coffee, he launched into an eulogy which owed far more to fact than to fiction, glad that he was not obliged to lie too much about his brother. Christopher really did possess creative gifts which set him apart from most of his potential rivals and those gifts were allied to a capacity for hard work and a willingness to learn. As he held forth about his brother, Henry came to see just how rich and varied his education had been and how he merely needed something which would concentrate his mind in order for all that study to bear fruit. Delighted with what he heard, Northcott listened intently but he was far too cautious to be rushed to judgement.
'Your brother is very young to have achieved so much, Henry.'
'He is twice the man I was at his age, Sir Ambrose.'
'Yet somewhat lacking in practical experience of design.'
'What could be more practical than the drawings of his that I showed you? A reputable builder could turn any of them into a reality.'
'Some builders still prefer to design their own work.'
'Those days are fast disappearing,' said Henry expansively. 'An architect is indispensable if you wish for the highest standards. Master-builders had their value but they are in decline. Well, Sir Ambrose,' he continued, risking a familiar pat on the man's shoulder, 'can you imagine Christopher Wren working as a mason on St Paul's Cathedral or Hugh May mixing lime mortar for one of those exquisite houses he designs? It is unthinkable. Such men belong to a new and honourable elite - the profession of architect. I am proud to number my brother in their ranks.'
Cups of coffee arrived and Northcott pondered while he tasted his. A large amount of money would be expended on his London abode and a degree of emotional capital would be invested in it as well. It was vital to select the right person to design it.
'What of his character?' he asked.
'His character?'
'Yes, Henry. You have told me much about his history and his ambition. But what manner of man is Christopher Redmayne?'
'Dedicated to his work.'
'That might make him narrow-minded and possessive.'
'Far from it!'
'Is he amenable?'
'Completely, Sir Ambrose.'
'He can take orders? Accept criticism?'
'Christopher is yours to command.'
'What of his discretion?' said the other, lowering his voice. 'I do not want some wagging tongue to voice my business abroad. I require a man who does what he is paid for without asking any unnecessary questions. I need a politic man, willing but prudent. Conscientious and close. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am looking for total obedience.'
'You have just described my brother to perfection!'
'We shall see,' said Northcott with a contemplative nod. 'We shall see. If this paragon really does exist, then I will seriously consider him.'
'Thank you, Sir Ambrose.'
'Arrange a meeting.'
'You will not regret this, I do assure you.'
'Let me see the fellow for myself.'
'How soon?'
'At the earliest possible opportunity.'
Henry's smile broadened and he made an eloquent gesture.
'What a pleasing coincidence!' he said without a trace of irony. 'As luck would have it, I believe that Christopher may be in the next room. You can have the pleasure of meeting him immediately.'
When the servant rose shortly after dawn, he came downstairs with a taper to find his master slumped across the table, the candle beside him burned to extinction. Jacob let out a wheeze of disapproval. He put a hand on Christopher's shoulder to shake him gently awake.
'Go to bed, sir,' he whispered. 'Let me help you upstairs.'
'What's that?' said the other drowsily.
'You need some proper rest, sir.'
