The Parliament House

true of Sir Julius.'

    'You'll never convince me of that.'

    'Then I'll not waste time trying.'

    'Beware, Dorothy!'

    'Of what - my brother's false counsel?'

    She sipped her tea and Golland lifted his own cup to his lips. Since he had never shown any serious interest in the opposite sex - still less in his own - he could not understand the passions that moved others. Horses were his only love. They had a graceful simplicity about them. Attraction between two people had always baffled Orlando Golland. Each time his sister had married, she had chosen men whose charm he had been quite unable to comprehend. He accepted them because at least they came from the same privileged background as his sister. Nothing would persuade him to welcome Sir Julius Cheever into the family.

    'The wonder is that Maurice Farwell even spoke to the man,' he said as he remembered their visit to Newmarket. 'I'd have cut him dead.'

    'Maurice is a gentleman. He treats his opponents with respect.'

    'That disgusting old reprobate deserves no respect.'

    'Sir Julius is younger than you, Orlando,' she pointed out, 'and he is neither disgusting nor a reprobate. He's a surprisingly cultured man, well-read and well-informed.'

    'He helped to overthrow the monarchy, Dorothy.'

    'That's all in the past.'

    'Men like that never change.'

    And neither do you,' she said, fondly. 'I knew that it was a mistake to consult you. I needed guidance, not a recitation of Sir Julius's faults. In truth, I do not know what my feelings are for him. In talking to you, I hoped that I might find out. But that was far too much to ask. You put on your judicial robes and condemned him on sight.'

    He was penitent. 'I am rightly chastised.'

    'I forgive you.'

    'Have you arranged to see him again?'

    'Not yet.'

    'But this friendship is set to develop?'

    Dorothy was cautious. 'We shall see,' she decided. 'We shall see. After my second husband died, I vowed never to marry again but I did so at a time when I was overcome with grief. That is no longer the case.'

    'You cannot mourn forever.'

    'I know. As for Sir Julius, I will have to wait until he returns.'

    'He has left the city?'

    'Yes, Orlando,' she said. 'I had a note from him this morning. He is travelling to Cambridge to attend a funeral.'

     They faced a problem. Eager to press on at a reasonable speed, they had to show respect for the dead. Even though he was hidden under a tarpaulin, Bernard Everett could not be hurried. The measured pace of a funeral was not required but neither was a headlong dash to their destination. At the behest of Sir Julius Cheever, coach and cart moved at a comfortable speed that would get them there eventually without causing any offence to the mourners who rode with him.

    They were still in Hertfordshire when they made their second stop of the day. The inn gave them a chance to seek light refreshment and to answer any calls of nature. Horses that had become lathered in the hot sun could have a welcome rest in the shade. The coachman and the footman were glad of the chance to slip off their coats. The two men on the cart also relished the cover of the trees. Christopher Redmayne was the last to reach the inn, dismounting and tethering his horse close to the others. Determined not to upset Sir Julius again, he stayed outside and strolled off through a stand of oaks and elms.

    It had been an uneventful journey. Moving at such a moderate speed had given him an opportunity to study the landscape with a degree of leisure. Hertfordshire was one of the smallest counties in England. Rivers and streams abounded, crisscrossing the terrain in almost every direction and forcing them to make use of various bridges and fords. It was a granary for London, providing corn for its bread and hay fodder for its horses. Many fields were given over to beef cattle, some of the herds having been driven down from the north to be fattened on the lush grass before sale in the capital.

    Christopher had also noticed how many watercress beds they passed in the villages. An antidote to the scurvy that afflicted so many Londoners, watercress was always in great demand. Of more interest to the architect was the large number of country houses he had seen, rural retreats from the stench and squalor of the city, places of escape from the regular outbreaks of plague. Helping to rebuild London after the ravages of the Great Fire, his concerns were exclusively urban. He was fascinated to see how houses could be designed to blend into the landscape, and how fine architecture could, in turn, be enhanced by its surroundings. The journey was also a learning process for Christopher.

    Emerging from the trees, he saw yet another stream, meandering lazily through the grass before disappearing in a spinney. Ahead of him, in the distance, was a building that arrested his gaze at once, a magnificent prodigy house, constructed in the previous century by someone with high ambition and unlimited capital. Burnished by the sun, it stood on a rise that commanded a panoramic view. Its array of gables, turrets and pinnacles gave it the appearance of a fairytale palace. A banner fluttered from the flagpole on top of the tower.

    'That's what you should be designing,' said a voice behind him.

    Christopher looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that Sir Julius was coming through the trees. The long ride in a stuffy coach seemed to have drained much of the hostility out of him.

    'A place like that,' continued the old man, surveying the house with approval, 'could make you rich and famous.'

    'But it would take so long to build that I would soon tire of it. I prefer to design houses in a city,' said Christopher, 'places that are likely to be completed in a year rather than in twenty or thirty. London is the greatest city in the world and I feel honoured to be able to make a small contribution towards reshaping it.'

    'Would you not like to have created that house?'

    'No, Sir Julius.'

    'Why not? It looks superb.'

    'But it was designed long ago when such a style was in fashion. Had I been its architect,' said Christopher, 'I would now be well over a hundred years old.' Sir Julius chortled. 'I'll settle for smaller projects with more immediate results.'

    'Like the house you designed for me in Westminster?'

    'My memory is that you designed it, Sir Julius. I merely executed your wishes. Not that I disagreed with any of your specifications,' he added, hastily, 'but I'll not take full credit for a property that sprang largely from your fertile brain.'

    'I knew what I wanted.'

    'That makes you almost unique among my clients.'

    Christopher was relieved to be back on speaking terms with him but Sir Julius had not come for conversation. He was there to stretch his legs and to enjoy a pipe of tobacco while he could. Leaving the architect, he sauntered down to the stream then followed its serpentine course for thirty yards or so. He paused to light his pipe and inhaled deeply. There was an air of contentment about him. Peering down into the water, he seemed to Christopher to be far more at ease in a rural setting. London was anathema to him. Sir Julius was, in essence, a country gentleman, a rogue politician who could set a corrupt parliament by the ears but who was happiest when at home on his estates.

    Studying the father, Christopher became acutely aware of the daughter. Susan Cheever also loved the country. That was where she could be a free spirit. She came to London under duress and only found it tolerable because of Christopher's friendship. What he did not know was whether that friendship was strong enough to entice her to stay. His future lay in the city, her hopes resided in the country. Christopher feared that those competing calls might gradually ease them apart.

    He was still meditating on the unresolved problem when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.