Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

She was at the table, peering at a smouldering tray. Joan was next to her, a bucket of water at the ready, while Nan and Susan were scrubbing a wall that looked as though something had exploded up it. All were uncharacteristically subdued. George, resplendent in new clothes of which any courtier would be envious, lounged by the fire, peeling an apple. He glanced up when Chaloner entered, but made no move to stand. Hands on hips, Hannah glared at her husband.

‘I hope you did not go to White Hall dressed like that, Thomas.’

Chaloner looked down at himself. He was perfectly respectable. ‘Why?’

‘Because no one is wearing green this year. And you should have donned a wig. We have been through this before. Dress is a gesture of class consciousness, and an inability to conform means either a slovenly display of bad taste, or a provocative demonstration of nonconformity.’

‘I am not a nonconformist,’ said Chaloner, obliquely referring to the fact that she, as a Catholic, was far more of one than he would ever be.

Hannah’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not take that tone with me. I have had a terrible day.’

‘Have you?’ Chaloner tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Then tell me about it.’

‘Just as long as you promise not to fall asleep, like you did last time. God only knows how long I was talking to myself.’ Finally, it dawned on Hannah that railing at him in front of the servants was unedifying. She grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the door. ‘Put my cakes on a plate, Joan,’ she ordered crisply. ‘And bring them to the drawing room. Tom would like one.’

Normally, Joan, Nan and Susan would have smirked at this notion, and Chaloner was surprised when there was no reaction. He was also aware of George settling himself more comfortably in his chair, at the same time tossing the apple core on to the floor. Nan swooped forward to pick it up.

‘He seems to have settled in,’ Chaloner observed, as he was bundled along the corridor.

When they reached the drawing room, Hannah closed the door and lowered her voice. ‘You made a mistake when you hired him. He is a bully, and our women are terrified of him.’

‘Perhaps they will resign, then,’ said Chaloner hopefully. ‘And I did not hire him, Hannah. You did, no matter what you have led Joan to believe.’

Hannah had the grace to look sheepish, but declined to apologise. ‘You must dismiss him. He will find another post if we give him decent testimonials. He is big, strong and intelligent. Rather alarmingly so.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I caught him reading some of our papers today. They were only deeds about the lease of the house, but it made me uncomfortable even so. He was spying , Tom.’

‘So do Joan, Nan and Susan,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All the time.’

‘Yes, but they have never worked for Fitzgerald the pirate, have they.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘You think Fitzgerald ordered him to watch us?’

‘Yes — because I work for the Queen and have influential friends, while you are embroiled in God knows what unsavoury business for your horrible Earl. It is common knowledge that Fitzgerald is short of money, so he probably intends to blackmail us.’

‘Then he will be disappointed, because there is nothing to blackmail us about.’ Chaloner shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Is there?’

‘Not on my account. But even if George is not under Fitzgerald’s orders, I do not want him in my house. You must get rid of him.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘I am sorry, but he is not like the other servants. He is a stranger in our country, and it would not be right to turn him out. You wanted a fashionable household, so you must live with the consequences.’

He expected her to argue, but she only sighed, reminding him that under her sour temper was a decent woman. ‘Then the only way to be free of him is to find him another post. I will start making enquiries tomorrow. Perhaps the Duke will take him.’

She referred to Buckingham, with whom she had developed a rather unfathomable friendship. Chaloner failed to understand what she saw in the man, but she was fond of him and the affection was fully reciprocated. She knew Chaloner disapproved, but maintained that her acquaintances were her own affair, and not to be dictated by a mere husband.

‘Is George the only reason you have had a terrible day?’ he asked with polite concern.

‘No. We had hopes that the Queen might be with child, but it was another false alarm. She was bitterly disappointed, and cried all afternoon. Ah! Here is Joan with your cakes.’

‘They are sure to be delicious,’ said Joan, placing the platter of singed offerings on the table. She smiled maliciously. ‘You will certainly want several.’

As she knew he would not, Chaloner could only suppose it was yet another attempt to create friction between him and his wife. When he hesitated, Hannah slapped one in his hand. It was still hot, obliging him to juggle it, and a tentative gnaw made him wonder whether she wanted him toothless. He tried again, while she waited for a compliment.

‘Very nice,’ he lied, when he had eventually managed to bite a piece off. In truth, it tasted like all her efforts in the kitchen — of charcoal. Disappointed, Joan left, slamming the door behind her.

‘I omitted the sugar on principle,’ said Hannah, tellingly declining to eat one herself. ‘Have you ever been to a sugar plantation? You once mentioned visiting the Caribbean.’

Chaloner nodded, but did not elaborate. It had shocked him, and he was not sure how to begin describing the horrors he had witnessed.

Hannah sighed. ‘It is a good thing I usually have plenty to say, or we would spend all our time together in silence. Is it so much to ask that you tell me about your travels? Talk to me, Tom!’

‘Sugar is made by extracting syrup from a certain type of cane, which-’

‘No! I want your opinion of these places, not a lesson in botany. No wonder I sometimes feel as if we do not know each other at all. You are wholly incapable of communicating your feelings.’

Chaloner knew the accusation was true, because even thus berated, he struggled for the right words. Then, when he thought he had them, Hannah grew tired of waiting and changed the subject.

‘I am going out this evening. You are invited, too, but I imagine your Earl expects you to lurk under more tarpaulins. It is a pity, because there will be music.’

‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly.

Hannah nodded. ‘Henry and Kitty O’Brien are holding a soirée for select courtiers. Have you met them? They are great fun and extremely rich, so everyone wants to be in their company. Everyone except your Earl, that is. Apparently, he thinks they are upstarts.’

Somewhat disingenuously, Chaloner informed Hannah that it would be rude for him to ignore the O’Briens’ invitation, strenuously denying the accusation that he was only interested in the music. It would be better to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel later anyway, he told himself, when it would be busier and Fitzgerald was more likely to be there.

Hannah was pleased to have his company, although she made him change first. Once clad in their best clothes, they walked to the O’Briens’ mansion in Cannon Row, just south of White Hall. George preceded them, toting a pitch torch, although he held it for his own convenience, and Chaloner was obliged to tell him several times to adjust it so that Hannah could see where she was going.

‘Would you like me to carry her?’ asked George, the fourth time it was mentioned.

Chaloner peered at him in the darkness, not sure whether the man was serious or being insolent. ‘We will settle for you holding the torch properly,’ he replied curtly.