The Amorous Nightingale by Edward Marston

said Christopher.
        'Those
were mere trivialities. Passing acquaintances. The joyful conquests that all
men need to remind them of their manhood. I speak now of true love, of
devotion, of - dare I say it? - commitment. Nay, I would go even further and
talk, for the first time in my life, of holy matrimony. That is how stricken I
am. How ensnared. How desperate. I am even ready to contemplate the surrender
of my bachelor life.'
        'You
have my warmest congratulations!'
        'Sadly,
they are premature.'
        'Does
not the lady in question requite your love?'
        'She
is not even aware of it as yet.'
        'Have
you not declared yourself?'
        'Only
with my eyes and with my palms. I have applauded her until my hands have been
stinging with pain. She deserves it. She is sublime, Mr Redmayne. A saintly
creature. Everything I could possibly want in a wife.' He gave an elaborate
shudder. 'But there are certain drawbacks.'
        'Drawbacks?'
        'The
lady is already married.'
        'Ah,
I see.'
        'And
she is beset by other suitors.'
        'Does
not her wedding ring keep them at bay?'
        'No,
it only seems to excite them all the more. A thousand wedding rings would not
deter one particular lover. Indeed, were she not already in possession of a
husband, the cunning fellow would certainly provide her with one forthwith then
cuckold him mercilessly.' His whole body sagged. 'Do you catch my drift, Mr
Redmayne?'
        'I
believe that I do.'
        'A
right royal obstacle blocks my path to happiness.'
        'Then
I can guess at the lady's name.'
        'Is
she not all that I have said?'
        'She is,
indeed!' said Christopher with enthusiasm. 'No woman could be more worthy of
your love.'
        'Or
of the house I am having built. It would be a fitting place for such beauty and
grace. She could fill it with song. Bring it to life. Enlarge it with purpose.
Tell no one of this,' he said, slurring the words. 'Jasper Hartwell does not
wear his heart on his sleeve. I am too much a slave to fashion for that. But
you know the truth, my friend. I worship her.'
        'I
can understand why.'
        Hartwell
spread his arms wide in a gesture of submission.
        'I
love Harriet Gow!' he confessed.
        Then
his arms dropped, his eyes closed, his head lolled and his whole body hunched
forward. Jasper Hartwell's face rested gently on the plate in front of him.
Christopher found himself sitting opposite a vast mountain of ginger hair. From
somewhere deep in its interior came a series of resolute snores. The meal was
comprehensively over.
     
           
        The
parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was one of the largest and most prosperous
in London. Though not without its darker areas, it was, for the most part,
distinguished by the luxurious residences of aristocrats, courtiers, gentry and
their dependents, alongside the neat houses of respectable tradesmen and
successful businessmen. Situated next to the Palace of Whitehall, the parish
was the favoured address of ministers and civil servants alike. It had status
and grandeur. In the church which gave it its name, it also had a magnificent
edifice as its focal point.
        Christopher
Redmayne took a moment to appraise the church. Built over a century earlier, it
had survived civil war, plague and fire intact, serving its parishioners
faithfully and acting as a magnet to ambitious clerics once they realised what
financial rewards could be reaped by the occupation of its pulpit. The spacious
church had seating for a congregation of four hundred but, on the single
occasion that Christopher had attended a service there, he estimated that at
least twice that number were crammed inside St Martin's. It was a centre for
urgent Christianity or for those who felt the need to be seen at prayer.
        Critical
of some Tudor architecture, Christopher had nothing but admiration for this
example of it. The parish