Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

And there would be other players, some with small roles, others large. Polonius, Gertrude, Horatio, the Prince of Denmark himself? Still no sign of the deus ex machina , though. Fortunately I’m only a cryptographer, thought Thomas. Espionage is too complicated for me. And I have played my part. Joseph must take care of the rest.

Thomas appeared the next morning in the clothes he had worn to the coronation, to be greeted by one of Charles’s throaty chuckles. ‘Off to visit the king, Thomas? Are you sure about the ribbons on your sleeves? Might not be quite the thing for Whitehall Palace.’

‘Take no notice, Thomas,’ Mary reassured him. ‘You look splendid. Pale blue suits you. Are you taking Madeleine out today?’

‘I am. She will be here at ten o’clock. She is hoping to see you and Charles.’

‘Good. Madeleine will be most impressed by your outfit. Come and have some breakfast.’ In London, it was the Carringtons’ custom to take their meals as they did in Barbados, where Charles refused to wait until noon for proper sustenance and insisted on a good breakfast before a morning’s work on the estate.

Thomas sat at the table and picked at a plate of smoked fish. Despite having spent the previous afternoon with Madeleine, he was strangely nervous – more like a callow youth of fifteen than a gentleman approaching fifty. Mary watched him for a while and then asked where he planned to take Madeleine. ‘I am not sure,’ he replied. ‘Would you care to make a suggestion?’

‘Bed,’ bellowed Charles, ‘that’s the place to take her. Much more entertaining than a hanging or the king’s menagerie.’

‘Be quiet, Charles, and eat your breakfast,’ snapped Mary. ‘Your advice on this matter is unwelcome.’ With a shrug, Charles returned to his food and left them to it.

Mary turned back to Thomas. ‘As it’s a fine day, Thomas, why not take a carriage to the village of Kensington? The air is clean there and there are good walks to be had in the fields. You could take dinner in a local hostelry and return afterwards.’

Relieved at having the decision made for him, Thomas managed a few mouthfuls before Charles spoke up again. ‘No need to be nervous, Thomas,’ he said. ‘If you’re planning anything matrimonial, just remember – one knee and undying love. Never fails.’

‘Oh, for the love of God, Charles, let the poor man be. Thomas will do as he sees fit and needs no instruction from you.’ Mary’s tone was uncommonly sharp.

Thomas took his leave and returned to his room to wait for ten o’clock to strike. Whether or not he attempted ‘anything matrimonial’ would depend upon Madeleine’s mood and how their day went. And upon whether his nerve held. Just to be safe, however, he rehearsed his words in front of a mirror, first on one knee, then standing erect. Unable to choose between them, he decided to leave it until the moment arrived. If it arrived. He sat at the writing table and picked up his copy of Montaigne’s Essais . But even the great man could not hold his attention for long. When he realized that he was turning the pages without reading the words, he put the book down, closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It was something he had learned years ago. A state of calm comes from clearing the mind and relaxing the muscles.

When at last the clock struck ten, Thomas rose from his chair, smoothed out his coat, checked his appearance in the mirror and went down the stairs to the sitting room. There he found Charles reading a newsbook and Mary sewing a dress. Charles glanced up when he entered, but said nothing. The strictest instructions from Mary, no doubt, and warnings of terrible retribution if he spoke out of turn. Thomas sat and waited, hoping that Madeleine would not be unduly late. He was anxious to leave the house and be off to Kensington.

At half past the hour, Mary looked up from her embroidery. ‘Are you sure it was ten o’clock, Thomas? It’s unlike Madeleine to be late.’

‘Quite sure. Something unexpected must have detained her. She will be here soon.’

Having made a gallant effort to keep quiet, Charles could do so no longer. ‘Doesn’t want to appear too keen, I daresay. A good sign, Thomas, if you ask me. Shows her true feelings.’ Thomas smiled but said nothing. He was willing her to arrive.

When the clock struck eleven, however, she had still not arrived, and he could wait no longer. ‘I shall walk to Madeleine’s house,’ he said, standing up. ‘She may have forgotten our arrangement or she may have been taken ill. I shall go and find out.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mary, ‘I think that would be best. If Madeleine is unwell, I will go myself to see that she is being taken good care of.’

Thomas fetched his hat and set off for Fleet Street. As always, the streets were busy. Ladies and gentlemen taking the morning air, milkmaids, pie-sellers, flower girls, coachmen, messengers – all about their business, all playing their part in the daily bustle of the city.

He walked as quickly as he could on his heeled shoes, through and around the crowds, ignoring the cries of the traders anxious to sell him their wares and trying not to collide with other walkers. Near the corner of the narrow lane, the crowds thinned and he was soon outside Madeleine’s house. He knocked loudly, waited a minute, then knocked again. He heard footsteps and the door was opened by Agnes. She looked surprised to see him.

‘Why, Mr Hill, is Miss Stewart not with you?’ she asked.

‘Indeed she is not. I was expecting her at ten o’clock.’

‘She left half an hour after nine.’

‘Could she have gone somewhere else first and been delayed?’

‘She said nothing about going anywhere else. She planned to walk directly to Piccadilly.’ Agnes’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Mr Hill, could something have happened to her?’

‘I expect there is a simple explanation, Agnes. You stay here and tell Miss Stewart I called if she appears. I will return to Piccadilly.’ Agnes wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Now don’t worry, Agnes, all will be well. I expect we’ll both be back here within the hour. You just stay here.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay here, but please let me know the moment you find her.’

Retracing his steps along Fleet Street, Thomas intended to make his way straight back to Piccadilly. But he soon found himself peering into dark doorways and venturing into mean alleys. It was absurd but he could not help himself. If Madeleine was lying injured, he must find her.

In the alleys and lanes off Fleet Street he was accosted by whores, insulted by beggars and jostled by street urchins. He ignored them all. He spoke to traders and street vendors. None of them had seen a lady matching Madeleine’s description and with each shake of the head he became more agitated. By the time he reached Charing Cross his shoes and breeches were splattered with mud and muck and he was covered in sweat. With an effort of will, he pulled himself up and tried to think rationally. It was fear that had driven him to behave so foolishly – fear for Madeleine, fear of what he might find, fear for himself. Calmer, he walked back to Piccadilly.

Charles and Mary were waiting for him. ‘What news, Thomas?’ asked Mary as he walked in. He told them what he knew from Agnes and that there had been no sign of Madeleine on his way back.

‘Damnably strange,’ said Charles. ‘What’s to be done, do you think?’

‘I suggest we send a messenger at once for Joseph. He will know what to do.’

‘Good idea. I’ll tell Smythe to find one.’

When Charles had left the room, Mary put her arms around Thomas. ‘You and I have been through much together and we’ll get through this. We’ll find Madeleine safe and well, and when we do, I shall expect you to propose to her without further ado.’