I should have felt an abstract outrage that Alderley had forced himself on an unmarried cousin living under his father’s roof. As for the betrothal, I should have felt an equally abstract pleasure for Hakesby and Cat, for he would bring her security and she would bring him the vigour of a young woman.
But there was nothing abstract about my outrage. The very thought of these things made me feel inexplicably injured. So, desperate for a diversion, I fell to thinking of my Lady Quincy instead, though I found little consolation there. Tomorrow I would see her again, but I could not begin to understand why she wanted me to collect her from church in a hackney. Was it to do with her stepson, Edward Alderley, and the warning she had asked me to pass on to Cat? The possibility unsettled me. I wanted nothing further to do with Edward Alderley in this world or the next.
Something else unsettled me: the thought of seeing Lady Quincy again. Despite the difference in our stations, I had desired her once. It had been folly then, and it would be worse than folly now. Besides, as Chiffinch had reminded me, who could desire a man like me?
CAT MADE HER preparations. A strange calmness possessed her, a sense that her fate had already been decided and that nothing she could do would materially alter it.
In her closet she found the canvas bag she had brought with her when she came to Henrietta Street. She packed a spare shift and stockings. She would wear her old cloak. She took half a loaf that remained from breakfast. She wished she could take her Palladio, a dog-eared copy that Mr Hakesby had given her, but that was impractical: though the four books of I quattro libri dell’architettura were bound into one volume, it was a large and cumbersome folio that was hardly appropriate for a fugitive. As a consolation, she packed her notebook and a miniature travelling writing box that included a pen, ink, a ruler, a brass protractor and pencils. She had nearly thirty shillings in her purse so at least she wasn’t penniless.
Through the open window, she listened to the church clocks striking eleven. Her mouth was dry. She had spent too much of her life running away, and she did not want to do it again. She fastened the cloak over her shoulders, picked up the bag and looked around the Drawing Office. The candlelight made it insubstantial, a place of shadows and dreams. She had been happy here and she did not want to leave.
She snuffed all the candles. The only light came from the small lantern they used when they went up and down the stairs in the evening. On the landing, she locked the door behind her and slipped the key into her pocket under her skirt, where it knocked against the knife she always carried.
The light of the lantern preceded her down the stairs, swaying drunkenly from side to side. The porter had been dozing on his cot but he stirred as she reached the hallway.
‘Going out, mistress? At this hour?’
‘Didn’t I say?’ she said. ‘I’m to spend the night with an old friend. She and her father are waiting for me. Will you unbar the door?’
He shot back the bolts, one by one, and lifted up the bar. ‘It’s very late, mistress.’
‘Not really. They’ve been supping with friends and they’re waiting in Covent Garden for me.’ Cat found sixpence in her purse and gave it to him. ‘Would you do me the kindness of not mentioning to anyone that I’ve gone out? Especially Mr Hakesby. He’ll only worry, and there’s no need.’
‘Don’t you worry, mistress. Your secret’s safe with me.’ He smiled at her in a way she did not care for. ‘I’ll be silent as the grave.’
Late though it was, the arcades of Covent Garden were brightly lit and crowded with brightly dressed crowds of theatregoers, revellers and the better class of whores; among them, like lice in a head of hair, moved the thieves, the pedlars and beggars, plying their trades.
Cat had grown familiar with this world of pleasure-seekers in the last few months, and she navigated its perils with confidence. The small, forlorn figure of Brennan was waiting for her in the entrance court of the King’s Theatre in Brydges Street. He darted forward when he saw her. A link boy was beside him, the flame of his torch flaring and dancing in the breeze. By its light she saw that Brennan’s face was pale, and his sharp features were drawn with anxiety.
‘You’ve come – I wondered if you’d change your mind.’
‘Of course I’ve come,’ Cat said. ‘Were you successful?’
‘Yes. It’s all arranged. Have you got the money? If not, I can lend it—’
‘I’ve got the money.’
‘We’d better walk there.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you mind? Would you like to take my arm?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Can we manage without a link boy to light us?’
He nodded. ‘I know the way well enough.’
At first they had little need of a link, for their way took them up Bow Street and into Long Acre, which were almost as busy as Covent Garden itself. Up by St Giles’s Fields, though, it was a different story, with long, unlit stretches; it was muddy underfoot and there was the constant danger of stumbling into the gutter. But Brennan was as good as his word and guided her safely, though she grew increasingly irritated by his habit of enquiring regularly how she was managing or whether he was going too fast for her.
‘I do very well, thank you,’ she snapped at last. ‘I’m not made of glass. But I’d rather save my breath for walking.’
‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow? It’s Sunday – I’m not needed at the Drawing Office. I could walk back afterwards, when I know you’re safely there.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s best I go alone. And what if Mr Hakesby finds me gone? He will send for you at once. You must be there to reassure him. Tell him you don’t know where I am but I’d said I was seeing a friend.’
The inn was a small, low building near the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields. They went through the central passageway to the yard, where there was a long range of stables.
‘Uncle Mangot doesn’t trust them,’ Brennan said in a whisper. ‘It’s not his horse, you see. It’s hired from a neighbour and he can’t afford to have it stolen. Anyway, it’s cheaper to sleep in the yard, and just as safe as inside after the gates are barred.’
They found Brennan’s uncle at the end. The horse was in its stall and the old man was in front of it, sitting in a small covered cart in the yard outside. It was difficult to see him clearly. A rushlight in an earthenware pot hung beside the cart, but his face was little more than a blur against the surrounding darkness.
Brennan hung back, touching Cat’s arm. ‘I almost forgot: if my uncle asks about me, it’s best not to mention that we’ve been working at Clarendon House.’
‘Why?’ Cat whispered.
There was a rustling of straw, and a man’s voice quavered, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Uncle Mangot,’ Brennan said. ‘It’s me. I’ve brought her.’
The man in the cart leaned towards them. ‘You’re late. Is this the girl? You’ll have to sleep here tonight, with me. We leave when it’s light.’
‘Very well,’ Cat said.
‘She’s my friend, Uncle,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll treat her well, won’t you? You’ll let her sleep in the house? She can pay for everything.’