have a servant who will not attend to his duty.’
‘It may not be his fault. Perhaps the Fire has delayed him. Perhaps he has had an accident.’
Master Alderley frowned. ‘We shall see. In the meantime, we must find another man to wait at table. I don’t wish to have that cripple again.’
‘No, sir. Of course not.’
‘We saw Sir Denzil,’ Edward said in a moment. ‘He was attending the Duke of York.’ He turned to Cat, which meant that his father and his stepmother could not see his expression. ‘He and I drank to your betrothal, cousin, and to the speedy arrival of an heir to Croughton Hall.’
‘That would suit us all very well,’ Master Alderley said. He gave Cat a rare smile. ‘We shall have you wedded by Christmas and brought to bed of a fine boy by Michaelmas next year.’
‘So be sure to cultivate this French cook of his, cousin,’ Edward murmured, too low for his father to hear. ‘French cooks are always men of infinite subtlety and resource. I am sure Sir Denzil’s will know how to set his master on fire for you.’
After supper, Olivia took Cat up to her own bedchamber to discuss the wedding, its location, who should be invited, and what she and Cat should wear.
Ann came to undress her mistress while they talked. Olivia sat at her dressing table wearing a bedgown of blue silk trimmed with lace, with four candles reflected in the mirror and throwing their murky light on her face. The warm air was heavy with perfume.
The subject was of absorbing interest to Olivia, and the discussion – the first of many, no doubt, she said with a smile – went on for longer than Cat would have believed possible.
Cat’s eyes strayed to the great bed that stood in the shadows, surmounted by a canopy. She imagined Uncle Alderley – so staid, so old, so disgusting – heaving and twisting and grunting there. The thought of it, together with the perfume and the suffocating sense of femininity that seemed to fill the room, made her feel ill.
Olivia did not belong with Uncle Alderley. She could not enjoy his attentions, Cat thought, though in public she behaved with impeccable obedience towards her husband. But Cat had heard their raised voices through closed doors.
Was this what marriage meant? This unnatural union? This heaving and twisting and grunting? A public show of devotion concealing private quarrels and secret lusts?
Ann left the room to fetch hot water.
‘Well?’ Aunt Alderley said. ‘Is it not exciting? You have so much to look forward to. They say Croughton Hall is very fine.’
Cat sat forward in her chair so she could see the reflection of her aunt’s face wavering in the mirror. ‘Madam,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to be married to Sir Denzil. I mean it. Is there no way—?’
‘But, child, you must let those older and wiser guide you.’
‘He doesn’t please me.’
‘So you’ve said. But it’s nonsense, my dear. Liking will come later, if God wills it, as it does in most marriages. You must not concern yourself about it now. Remember, he has everything to recommend him, including the fact that your uncle is in favour of the match.’
‘But he’s so—’
Aunt Alderley shook her head. ‘Not a word more, my dear. You’re overtired, and this makes you say foolish things. Besides, this horrible Fire has upset us all.’
There was a tap on the door, and Ann entered with a jug of steaming water.
‘We’ll discuss the question of jewellery later,’ her aunt said in a brisk voice. ‘But now, my love, you must go to bed. You have great circles under your eyes. Shall Ann come with you and undress you?’
‘No, madam. But thank you.’
When she was released, Cat climbed the stairs to the floor above the main bedchambers, candle in hand. She had walked this way so often that she could have done it in the dark.
Every now and then she passed a window that gave glimpses of London glowing like a bed of coals in the night. It seemed to her that the fire was less bright than it had been, as if its fury were gradually dying. Occasionally there were muffled explosions. The work of demolition continued.
For an instant, a vision of a new London rose in her mind, growing from this bed of coals: a town of great piazzas and avenues, of lofty churches, and of fine buildings of brick and stone. She would get out her drawing box and her papers when she was safely in her room. She would map an outline of this new and glorious city. The box had been a gift from her other aunt, Great Aunt Eyre; it reminded her of a time when she had been happy.
Cat raised the latch on her door and entered the chamber. Once inside, still with the candle in her hand, she inserted a wooden wedge above the latch so it could not be raised from the outside. She had fashioned the wedge herself, from a splinter of kindling, using a knife she had sent Jem to buy.
She put down the candle on the table under the window and tugged the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.
There was a chuckle behind her. She sucked in her breath and spun round.
‘Pray let me assist you, my sweet.’
Edward was standing almost at her shoulder. For a moment it was as if he had materialized from nothing, like the evil spirit he was. Chasing after that came the realization that he must have been waiting for her in the gap between the side of the big press and the corner of the wall.
He smiled at her. He wore his bedgown of padded silk trimmed with fur. Around his head he had wound a silk kerchief. He looked younger without his periwig, more like a bloated version of the boy he had once been.
The boy who had pulled her hair and put a dead crow in her bed.
‘Go away,’ she said, retreating. ‘I shall scream.’
‘Scream all you like, my love. No one will hear.’
He seized her as he spoke. His left arm circled her head and the hand clamped over her mouth and nostrils as he pulled her towards him. His right arm wrapped itself around her waist.
She struggled for breath. She kicked his shins but her soft indoor shoes made no impression on him.
Her left hand swept over the table and touched the candlestick. She picked it and jabbed the flame of the candle into his cheek. The light died. He swore. His grip tightened.
‘Hellcat,’ he whispered.
Darkness came. And pain.
NOTHING LASTS FOR ever, Cat thought, for was there not always death to make an end of it?
She lay in the darkness. She was on her back still, her legs apart, her dress rucked up, for what was there to be modest about any more? The pain in her body was acute but strangely remote, as if it belonged to someone
