Edward Marston - The Frost Fair

'Lancelot has tastes not unlike my own,' he remarked.

'In what way?'

'I, too, am fond of poems. I read them to Mother sometimes.'

'Can she not read them to herself, Mr Cardinal?'

'Not when her eyes trouble her,' he replied. 'Poor sight is one of her many problems. What about you, Miss Cheever?' he asked, turning to look at her. 'Are you interested in poetry?'

'I am, sir.'

'May I know whom you admire?'

'Many of those you'll find on those same shelves,' said Susan. 'But the poet I revere most is not in my brother-in-law's collection.'

'And who might that be?'

'Mr Milton.'

He was astounded. 'John Milton?'

'I know of no other.'

'I'd not have thought he'd appeal to a young lady such as you.'

'He certainly does not appeal to my sister,' confessed Susan, 'and Lancelot has strong political objections against him. Mr Milton, as you know, was Latin Secretary to the Lord High Protector.'

"That's what makes him so intriguing, Miss Cheever.'

'Intriguing?'

'Poetry transcends political affiliation,' he said solemnly. 'Because I do not agree with a man's politics, I am not unaware of his poetic skills. I take John Milton to be a man of infinite genius. I'm proud to call myself a Royalist but that does not stop me from telling you that Paradise Lost is the finest poem I've ever read.'

'You are a religious man, I see.'

'Far from it.'

'Then wherein lies its appeal?'

'In its scope, its ambition and its sheer intelligence.'

'You have surely not read it to your mother.'

'No,' he replied with a rare smile. 'Mother has no time for John Milton or anyone of his persuasion. She believes that he should have been beheaded as a traitor. That attitude does not put her in the ideal frame of mind for appreciating his work.'

Susan warmed to him. 'Lancelot tells me that you are a prodigious reader.'

'I know of no greater pleasure.'

'What about shooting and fencing? You excel at both, I hear.'

'They are manly accomplishments and nothing more.'

'You are too modest, Mr Cardinal. I understand that you are an expert.'

'Hardly! What has Lancelot been saying about me?'

'He talked of a duel that you had with Egerton Whitcombe.'

'Oh, that,' said Cardinal, his face clouding. 'It was a big mistake.'

'But you were the victor.'

"The bout should never have taken place.' 'According to Lancelot, the other man goaded you into it.'

'He did, Miss Cheever, and I was foolish to go along with it.'

'Why?'

'Because I did not realise how seriously my opponent was taking the whole thing. Egerton Whitcombe was so confident that he would get the better of me that he'd made a number of wagers with friends.' He gave an apologetic shrug. 'Losing the bout cost him a sizeable amount of money.'

'No wonder he was so embittered.'

'He keeps asking for a return meeting to recoup his losses but I'll not measure swords with him again. Too much rides on it for Egerton – and for his mother, of course.'

'Lady Whitcombe?'

'She was there to cheer her son on the last time,' he said. 'Lady Whitcombe was so outraged that I proved the finer swordsman that she's not spoken to me since.'

'My brother-in-law tells me that she's very grand.'

'Very grand and very determined.'

'In what way, Mr Cardinal?'

'She has the highest ambitions for her family,' he said. 'She drives them on. Lady Whitcombe expects that her son – and her daughter – win at everything.'

Egerton Whitcombe paced angrily up and down the room like a caged animal. He was not accustomed to having his demands rejected. Tall, slim and striking in appearance, he was immaculately dressed in a blue doublet and petticoat breeches. His gleaming leather jackboots clacked noisily on the oak floorboards. When he finally came to a halt, he turned to his mother with an accusatory stare.

'Has work begun on the house yet?' he barked.

'No, Egerton,' she replied. 'The ground is still too hard for them to dig the foundations and the stone they need will not be brought in by boat until the ice has vanished from the Thames.'

'Then we still have time to cancel the contract.'

'I've no intention of doing that.'

'Do you know who the architect is, Mother?'

'Of course. I've met Mr Redmayne a number of times.'

'His brother is in prison on a charge of murder,' he said with disgust. 'I only heard about it today and I was shocked. We cannot let ourselves get involved with a family such as that.'

'We are not getting involved with a family, only an individual.'

'His brother is a killer. That means his name is tainted.'

'His father is the Dean of Gloucester,' she retorted, 'and that says far more about him. It's unfortunate that this other business has cropped up, I agree, but it will not affect my judgement of Christopher Redmayne. He's not merely a brilliant architect, he's a delightful young man.'

'With a criminal for a brother.'

'Egerton!'

'People talk, Mother. What will our friends say?'

The quarrel took place in a room that he had rented at a tavern in Holborn. Lady Whitcombe and her daughter were staying with friends in London but they were spending the evening with the man in their family. Hoping for a joyful reunion with her son, Lady Whitcombe was disappointed to find him in a combative mood. Letitia was too distressed by his truculent behaviour even to speak. Instead of listening to an account of her brother's adventures abroad, she was witnessing a fierce argument. She made sure that she kept out of it.

Lady Whitcombe was imperious. 'My decisions are not subject to the dictates of my friends,' she declared. 'I saw what I wanted and engaged the architect who could give it to me. There's an end to it.'

'No,' retorted her son. 'I'm the person who'll spend most time in the house.'

'So?'

'I should have more of a say in who designs it and it will not be anyone who bears the sullied name of Redmayne. Dismiss the fellow at once.'

'It's too late. His drawings have already been delivered.'

'But no work has yet been done on the site. There's still time to think again.'

'Why should I do that?'

'Because I'm telling you, Mother,' he said, trying to assert himself by standing in front of her with his hands on his hips. 'Let me speak more bluntly. I simply refuse to occupy a building that's been designed by Christopher Redmayne.'

"Then Letitia and I will have to stay there in your stead.' 'What about me?'

'You'll continue to rent a room in a tavern.'

His face was puce with rage. 'But you promised me a house.'

'I've provided one, Egerton. It will be the envy of our circle when it's built.'

'Not if it's been designed by the brother of a murderer.'

'Stop saying that.'

'It's what everyone else will harp on.'

'I care not.'

'Well, I do, Mother,' he announced, stamping his foot for emphasis. 'I'll not let you do this. London is full of architects. Engage another one.'

'I already have the one that I prefer.'

'I'll find someone better.'

'There is nobody better,' said Letitia, forced to offer her opinion. 'Mr Redmayne is the most wonderful architect in the world. His design is exactly what we want.'

'We?' he sneered, rounding on her. 'We, we, we? I was the one who began all this, Letitia. I was the person who explained why a house was needed in London. Given that, I should be the one with the power of decision.'

'Not unless you intend to pay for it,' said his mother coolly.

'What?'

'If the money comes from my purse, Egerton, then I reserve the right to hire the man I want. And that's exactly what I've done.'

"That's so unfair, Mother!' he protested.

'It's the way of the world.'

'But the man is unsuitable.'

'You've never even met Mr Redmayne.'