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Zoë leaned toward Simon. Her expression was serious and intent. He had her within his tale now.
“My father wrote letters frantically to the men von Grab had always mentioned as his associates, and sent them off by servant to the nearest posthouse. Messengers were dispatched to the ports. Then he left for Bristol, to visit the inn where he had met von Grab. But no one had seen the foreigner, and a search of Bristol proved useless. My father had to come back, lackluster, to his business, and trust in God and his letters.
“One by one his messengers returned with nothing to report, and when the replies to his letters came back, they plunged him into despair. None of those men even knew who von Grab was. ‘How can this be?’ my father asked all around him. He was too godly and innocent to see harm in a man’s attentions to a young boy. He could never have conceived of what came later.
“With nothing more to do, gradually the h
ousehold fell back into its normal routine. But really, it would never be the same. My father announced that we should put the tragedy behind us, and flung himself mindlessly into his work. His business flourished, and even one of von Grab’s supposed contacts offered to sponsor my father’s ventures on the Continent, when he heard the painful tale. My father grew richer, but always, anyone who traveled for him had strict orders—to look for Christopher.
“My mother never ceased mourning. Her smiles were fewer, and she became nervous, jumping if even a branch scraped a window.” Simon tried hard to visualize the mother who had loved him so long ago, but he couldn’t see her face anymore, except by looking at the picture, although he remembered her softness and warmth. He sighed. “And she loved me with a desperate fierceness that even a small child found binding at times. She had not protected her firstborn, so she seldom let me out of her sight. Perhaps God was punishing her; she didn’t know. When the villagers whispered it must be our family’s sin that had led to this tragedy, she stopped going to chapel on Sundays. She would punish God.
“Then, when I was four years old, she started seeing Christopher—peering in the window at night, hiding in the shadows of a darkened room, or standing outside in the moonlight. ‘There he is,’ she’d cry. At first my father would jump to look, or a servant would rush outdoors, but there was never anyone there. Soon they just shook their heads. My father would stroke her hair sadly and try to comfort her, but she would get more and more hysterical as people refused to believe her.
“One of my few, and most vivid, memories of my mother is of her sitting me in my father’s wooden chair one night. ‘Be a good boy,’ I can still hear her say. ‘Stay right there. I will not be long.’ She was smiling, I think. I remember because it was so unusual. She opened a window and called to someone outside; then she left the room, left me in the cold night breeze coming through the casement. I never saw her again.” Simon realized he was holding himself against that remembered cold. But that cold is always with me now, he thought.
“They found her later, in the garden, with her throat slashed.”
Zoë drew in her breath sharply and held her hand to her own throat. The movement caught Simon’s eye. He reached over and lowered her hand. Her eyes were large, and he found compassion there. How strange, and wonderful, and sad to tell this story to someone after so long a time, and have her care, he thought. He wanted to touch her face, but he kept his hands to himself. He wouldn’t distract from his tale.
“I was cuddled and cosseted by all, and didn’t understand the tears, but I had enough of my own for many nights after, when my mother never answered my calls. She was a sweet and gentle woman with a happy spirit; she’d never deserved her lot in life.
“Soon after that my father moved our household to the city of Bristol. He couldn’t bear to live in that house any longer. He made a good profit from the land he sold and added several imports to his business. I was under the care of servants mostly—we had more now—and I hardly ever saw my father. I remember being angry at him for not making my mama stay, but maybe I was more frightened that he himself wouldn’t come back. Who’s to say? But we were never close after that time.
“We didn’t stay in Bristol for long. In my eighth year, the same year Cromwell died, my father decided it would be better for his business if we moved to London. We were settling into our new house on Eweskin Lane at the same time that the new king was settling back into Whitehall.
“As I grew up, wrestling with the classics under the rule of a strict tutor, London was changing drastically from the city it had been under the Commonwealth. A springtime came to the city, and the people shed their blacks and whites and bloomed with bright colors. When plague and the Great Fire left us unscathed, my father decided that perhaps now God would allow us some measure of peace.
“But as I became a young man, I wasn’t much to my father’s liking. The clothes he wore were still understated grays and browns, although of the finest cloth. I, however, fell in tune with the times and spent my ample allowance on the bright silks and laces that were again the fashion. I was always ready to buy a garter to set off my shapely calf.” Zoë smiled. “But I ignored my father’s pleas to continue my studies, or even to join him in the business. ‘You have made the money,’ I would say, ‘what need you of me?’
“I took to parading at Covent Garden and the Royal Exchange with the gallants and fops, and hoped to become friends with some titled gentleman. I expect they called me an upstart tradesman’s son behind my back, but I was witty and had the money to buy them drink, so I was hailed heartily whenever I showed up.
“There was a tavern where my friends liked to while away the evening. It was called the Boar and Charter, but for a joke we called it the Whore and Garter, because there were willing young ladies there who would share our supper, and more. I would dawdle there long past decent hours and would come home late, often the worse for drink. This upset my father, and we had many fights over it, which only encouraged me to stay away more. But he never had the heart to take away my funds, although he threatened to disinherit me more than once. I was spoiled and didn’t know it. It seemed to me that he always had more time for his business than for me. I suppose it was his way of blocking out his pain, but I thought he didn’t love me. If my mother had been alive, it would have been different.
“In those days there were few lamps lit on the street, and it wasn’t safe to walk alone at night; but for a few pennies you could hire a linkboy to light you home. Some of them loitered outside the tavern, waiting for customers. I often used them. There was one, though, a pale waif, younger than the rest and new to the trade, who had a habit of staring at me. I had no idea why, but it made me shudder, and I avoided him.”
Simon stopped for a moment, wrinkling his brow. He wanted to remember everything. It had happened so long ago, sometimes it seemed more like a dream. Zoë sipped her drink that had sat untouched for a while. “Go on,” she said. He picked up a small ashtray from the table and shifted it from hand to hand as he searched for the words.
“One night, when I left the tavern, drunk as usual, there was a scuffle at the corner. Two linkboys were fighting. The larger one yelped and ran off, and the small, pale boy approached me with a lamp. ‘Want a light, yer lordship?’ I laughed at his nerve, too drunk to be particular, and waved him on in front of me, mumbling my destination. I stumbled along after him and had to stop more than once to piss against a wall. Once I fell heavily into a post at the street edge and swore like a Wapping waterman, a skill I was proud of.
“There was a fog rolling in, but I was too numb to feel the chill. ‘You’re awful young for this game, nipper,’ I called. ‘I’m older than I look, yer lordship,’ he said. Soon the fog was so thick that the boy’s lamp barely fought back the darkness. A sudden squall of rain spattered me, and I must have groaned, for the boy turned to look at me. ‘Feelin’ all right, sir?’ he asked, and suddenly I wasn’t.”
Simon smacked the ashtray down on the tabletop. Zoë flinched and moved the ashtray away from him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But I know it wasn’t just the drink that made me sick. He was doing something to me. My stomach felt queer and my head hot. The boy’s eyes were swirling orbs that seemed to bulge hugely while his body receded. I tore my gaze from him and looked about me. I wasn’t sure where we were.
“ ‘You’re ill, sir,’ he said, taking my hand in his cold little fist. ‘There’s a gentleman I know lives near here. He’ll take ‘ee in.’ He began to lead me, and I followed, wishing more than anything to lie down.
“ ‘Where are we?’ I asked, but then we were at a door, and the waif was knocking. He stared at me intently while we waited for an answer, and I began to sway. I remember vaguely the door opening, the boy whispering to a nightcapped maid, then burly arms around me. Someone must have put me to bed, for all I remember then is the nightmare.
“I was spinning. There was something buzzing around my head—a giant fly. I kept on hitting at it, but
it wouldn’t go away. It kept on brushing at my face with black whiskers, biting at me, and it smelled like carrion.
“I woke several times to find myself in a bedchamber, with a terrible itching about my neck and shoulders, but I felt so weak, I could never keep my eyes open. One time there was a man beside my bed. He was dark and handsome, like our king, with a black mustache and a long curling wig, yet he had the palest face. I was a little more aware this time and tried to talk, but all that came out was a croak.
“ ‘Calm, calm,’ he said in a voice strangely soothing, despite its guttural tone. He stroked my head with long fingers. ‘You have a fever.’ He made a motion, and the linkboy came into my line of vision. ‘My imp here will feed you broth for your strength.’
“I was confused. Was the child a street boy, or this man’s servant? But my eagerness for the broth wiped away my questions, and I slobbered like an infant. The soup loosened my throat. ‘My father?’ I was finally able to ask.
“ ‘We have sent a message,’ the man said. ‘You gave the boy your address, remember? He will come when he can.’ I didn’t remember, but neither did I think my father would rush to be by my side. They must have seen the look of derision on my face. ‘A man’s business can’t always wait,’ the man said, and left the room as if taking his own advice.
