The Amorous Nightingale

    Algernon Redmayne was sitting in judgement, poised to pass sentence on his wayward son. It was unnerving. Henry had no right of appeal.

    Relations with his father had always been strained. Less than dutiful, Henry was also more than disloyal at times. His epicurean life was a brash denial of all the values that his father had inculcated in him. Though he had a comfortable income from his sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed an allowance from the Dean, a man of private wealth and generous disposition. Henry had abused that generosity so many times that he was in danger of seeing it withdrawn. It was a fate too hideous to contemplate. Living beyond his income, Henry needed the money from the parental purse to fund his reckless expenditure.

    The pain in his stomach gradually overcoming his fear of the bedside judge, Henry opened his eyes, blinked and pretended to be confused.

    'Where am I?' he asked.

    'Back with us again, my son,' said his father. 'How do you feel?'

    'Hungry.'

    'That can only be a good sign.'

    'I haven't eaten a thing since the assault.'

    'You remember the incident?'

    'Vaguely.'

    'Good, good. I long to hear the details.'

    'They seem very hazy at present, Father.' He looked around the bedchamber. 'Where's Christopher?'

    'He's returned to his work on that new house. It's comforting to know that I have one son who has gainful employment.'

    'So do I, sir. I have a position at the Navy Office.'

    'Your brother is forging a career, you merely occupy space. At least, that is what I suspect. Christopher caused me many anxieties, I'll admit, but he does seem finally to have found his true path in life. All the money I invested in his education is paying off.' He bent over his elder son like a swan about to peck an errant cygnet. 'But what of you, Henry? Oh dear, sir. What of you?'

    'I need some food, Father.'

    'I'm talking about spiritual nourishment,' said the other sternly. 'This house seems singularly devoid of it. There is the unmistakable whiff of sin in the air. You have strayed, Henry.'

    'Once or twice perhaps.'

    'Dissipation is writ large upon this building. It is the house of a voluptuary, sir. A hedonist. An unashamed sensualist.'

    'Oh, I writhe with shame, Father. I assure you.'

    'This is not a suitable environment for a son of the Dean of Gloucester. Too many temptations lie at hand for an idle man. Illicit pleasures beckon. I shudder at the thought that I might actually be paying for some of them.'

    'No, no, that's not true at all.'

    'Then where does that allowance go?' pressed the old man. 'On gaudy clothes and expensive periwigs? On wine and brandy? On some of those irreligious paintings I see hanging on your wall?'

    Algernon Redmayne hit his stride. As his father's rebuke turned into a stinging homily, Henry could do nothing but lie there defenceless. In mind as well as body, he was suffering. He resorted to the only thing left to him. Against all hope, his prayer was answered. After knocking on the door, a servant entered with a potion for him.

    'The physician said that you were to take this sleeping draught, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Yes, yes!' agreed Henry willingly.

    'But I wish to talk to you,' said his father testily. 'I want to hear the full story of your assault.'

    'The physician was most insistent,' argued the servant.

    'There's no hurry for the medicine.'

    'There is, Father,' said Henry, making a mental note to reward his servant for his kind intervention. 'We must obey his wishes.'

    He took the tiny vessel from the man and lifted it to his mouth. Within seconds, his eyes began to close and his body to sag. The Dean of Gloucester finally gave up. Leaving instructions with the servant, he gave his son one last look of disappointment then left the room. Henry came awake at once. Spitting out the potion into a cup beside the bed, he panted with relief then issued a command.

    'Bring me food at once!' he urged. 'And some wine!'

    William D'Avenant stood in the middle of the pit at The Duke's Playhouse and surveyed the stage like a triumphant general looking proudly out across conquered land. He was a striking figure in dark attire, a wrinkled wizard of the theatre, a living link between the world of Shakespeare, his godfather, if not his actual parent, and the witty, vibrant, stylish and often shocking fare of the Restoration. Seeing the manager in his natural milieu, Christopher Redmayne could not fail to be impressed. D'Avenant was less impressed with his unannounced visitor. He spun round to confront the newcomer with a frown of disapproval.

    'What are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' he demanded.

    'I came to see you, Sir William. Since you've barred me from your home, your playhouse was the only place I could try.'

    'A pointless journey. Our debate on theatre architecture is at an end. I've nothing to add on that or on any other subject.'

    'I wanted to talk about a play.'

    'The performance was over hours ago.'

    'There's only one actor I'm interested in,' said Christopher, 'and I'm sure he's known to you. Mr Martin Eldridge.'

    'Eldridge?' repeated the other, covering his surprise well. 'What dealings do you hope to have with him?'

    'That's a matter between the two of us. I understand that he was once a member of your company.'

    'Not any more.'

    'I suspect he has ambitions of rejoining the fold.'

    'Does he?'

    'Yes, Sir William. When I was at his lodging earlier, I happened to notice a copy of Shakespeare's Othello on his table. That's the play I'm here to talk about. Why would an actor read it unless to work up some speeches from the drama? And why do that if not to win his way back into your favour?'

    'You're a perceptive man, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Mr Eldridge's hopes must centre on this playhouse because you have a monopoly on the work of Shakespeare.'

    'I adapt it with distinction to suit the tastes of the day.'

    'Will you take on a new actor for the performance of Othello?'

    'Possibly. Possibly not.'

    'You doubt his ability?'

    'No,' said D'Avenant. 'Martin is an able actor. At least, he was when I was shaping his career. Who knows what damage that blundering fool, Tom Killigrew, has done to his talent? Martin's art may be beyond repair.' He studied Christopher shrewdly for a full minute before offering an unexpected concession. 'Linger a while and you may judge for yourself.'

    'Why?'

    'Because, as luck will have it, he is on his way here this evening. It's the only time when the playhouse is empty enough for me to hear him, and I no longer care to turn my home into a theatre. That's why you see all these candles lit, Mr Redmayne,' he said with an expansive gesture. 'They are here to shed light on the talent of Martin Eldridge.'

    'You may be disappointed, Sir William.'

    'More than likely.'