CHAPTER SIX #2
She was not alone in gaping at the Palace.
The rapidly clearing skies had brought out many sun-starved city dwellers, who were enjoying their perambulations on an afternoon warm enough to hint at the proximity of spring.
Agreeing to postpone the attractions of St. James’s Park for another day, the cousins proceeded down James Street to York and then Broadway in order to approach Westminster Abbey’s west front.
Prosperous-looking citizens shared the flagway with those in coarser apparel, and urchins darted about, harassing the street vendors or absorbed in their running games, but always with the potential to disturb the unwary pedestrian.
Wheeled traffic, varying from elegant equipages driven by would-be Corinthians in multi-caped driving coats to carters’ waggons and hand-pushed carts, vied with riders for possession of the streets, which were still muddy from the recent rains.
Here and there enterprising youths offered to sweep the crossings for pedestrians in hopes of earning a few pennies.
Alertness was the order of the day if one wished to avoid potentially unpleasant consequences to one’s clothing or person, but the cousins did not regard this circumstance as discouraging.
The rapid pulse of city life was having an invigorating effect on Laura’s sodden spirits, and Aubrey was constitutionally unconcerned with matters of cleanliness.
Appetising aromas teased their nostrils in the vicinity of two rival meat pie sellers near Broadway.
Observing the yearning expression on Aubrey’s deceptively angelic countenance, Laura laughed and purchased one over the lad’s perfunctory demur.
They sauntered on, Aubrey making short work of the pasty with every evidence of satisfaction in its greasy succulence while Laura searched in her reticule for a handkerchief, which she wordlessly presented when he had swallowed the last bite.
Aubrey accepted this aid with a cheerful nod and managed to remove most of the residue from his face and hands, tucking it into his pocket when his attempt to return the now-grubby item was firmly repulsed by its owner with a shuddering gesture of repugnance.
Unabashed, his perpetual hunger temporarily appeased, Aubrey pointed out a narrow street opening out of Broadway as their next objective.
Even Tothill Street, lined on both sides by a jumble of small buildings, could not dim the magnificence of the Abbey when it heaved into view a moment later.
Twin towers added in the last century dwarfed everything in the vicinity and made a fitting crown for the ancient edifice that had evolved and changed over hundreds of years of British history.
Inside, Laura’s awe increased as she gazed briefly down the length of the nave, before her eyes were irresistibly drawn upward to the beautiful double windows set in pointed arches that soared into the lofty ceiling.
For a long moment she stood transfixed with a spiritual delight, until Aubrey at her side remarked that there was much more to be seen beyond the choir, including the Confessor’s Chapel and the one built for King Henry VII at the very end of the Latin cross, over five hundred feet away.
“Did you know that most of the kings of England are buried here, Cousin Laura?”
“I don’t believe I did,” she replied, gazing along the walls replete with monuments, “but it seems as if half their subjects must have been interred with them also.”
Indeed, a few minutes’ strolling observation sufficed to convince Laura that it would require many hours and repeated visits to gain any real appreciation of the Abbey’s history and its contents.
The cousins exited through the north transept, which opened on to the yard of St. Margaret’s, the parish church of the House of Commons.
Though a handsome structure faced in Portland stone, it was rendered insignificant by its proximity to the Abbey.
Aubrey and Laura spared it a pitying glance on their way to the old Palace of Westminster, whose remaining buildings, Aubrey explained, included Westminster Hall, Saint Stephen’s Chapel, where the House of Commons had met for nearly four hundred years, and the old Court of Requests, which the Lords had taken over following the recent union of Great Britain and Ireland.
“You are a remarkably knowledgeable guide, Aubrey,” Laura said in all sincerity, noting the lad’s pleasure in the compliment although he declined to accept all the credit.
“Only because my new tutor took me here a few days ago.”
“Your father mentioned that he had engaged a tutor to prepare you for school, but I was not aware that your lessons had already begun. Do you like him?”
“Mr. Trent is a great gun — not at all stuffy like I feared. We’ve been using the study these past mornings because Papa has been out each day. You’ll no doubt run into him near the schoolroom one of these days.”
Laura made no reply to this cheerful prediction, not altogether certain how she felt about the possibility of encountering a strange young man in her bedroom corridor.
The cousins peered into the coffee room maintained for the convenience of members and visitors to the House of Commons during this exchange. Aubrey explained that though visitors could generally view the chamber, women were not allowed in the gallery during the sittings.
“Did you get to go inside with Mr. Trent?”
“Yes,” Aubrey replied, wrinkling his short, freckled nose.
“I am persuaded you would not have found it very interesting. The whole time we were there a thin, balding man with a quizzing glass on a long band around his neck prosed on and on, though I never did figure out what he was talking about. I thought Mr. Trent would never leave.”
Laura laughed. “Well, I appreciate your effort to alleviate my disappointment at being barred from the deliberations of this august body by an unfortunate accident of birth.”
Aubrey said, “What shall we do now?” Would you like to go closer to the river?”
“I’d like that. How close can we get?”
“Mr Trent showed me the old palace steps that lead right down to the mud flats near the bridge.” Noting Laura’s inadvertent glance at the hem of her pale green skirt, which already bore a couple of drying mud splatters, he added, “Or we might walk down to the wharfs at the end of the little streets off Abingdon Street to see the boats.”
“That might be better,” Laura agreed, “if we do not linger. We would not wish to cause the family any concern over a late return.”
Having reached a tacit agreement not to rock their boat, the pair proceeded through the Old Palace Yard.
Laura could not help but contrast the magnificence of the Abbey, even with a crumbling facade that was undergoing renovation, to the mean, seemingly un-planned jumble of buildings in and around the Palace that were being used by the government of one of the world’s richest nations.
They turned into the first alley leading down to the river.
Not wishing to appear squeamish, Laura disguised her qualms about the insalubrious area through which they were passing, taking comfort in the fact that their screams would most likely be heard in the busy Palace Yard, the distance was so short.
Actually the cousins never reached any of the boats tied up to the wharf that was cluttered with bundles and boxes being unloaded, or perhaps loaded — Laura was not entirely sure which — because their attention was distracted to the figure of a boy staggering out of the crowded scene, headed toward them but limping badly.
Laura had time to note that the child, who appeared roughly the same age as Aubrey, was well dressed and unattended, before he collapsed no more that twenty feet from them.
As one, the cousins rushed forward. The boy’s face was screwed up, his eyes shut against the pain, but they flew open when Laura, unmindful of her new outfit, knelt down and put her arms around his shoulders.
“Do not be afraid,” she said gently. “We are going to help you. Is it your knee or your ankle that is injured?”
“My … knee,” the boy said on a soft sob of pain.
His eyes, which had opened on to Aubrey’s concerned face, shifted to Laura, who could feel some of the tension drain out of his thin body as she smiled encouragingly.
She swept her eyes around the immediate scene.
Except for a couple of gawking adolescents, the boy’s plight appeared to have aroused no interest.
“Is no one with you?” she asked in puzzlement.
The boy’s eyes fell. “No,” he admitted, a tinge of colour coming into his pale cheeks. “I should not be here. My father has forbidden me to go out alone, but I wanted to see the boats and —”
“What is your name? Where do you live?” Laura cut short the lad’s excuses, relieved to see that the discomfort had lessened somewhat.
“My name is Henry Wright and Papa is Lord Exton. We live in Jermyn Street.”
“Well, Henry, I think it is time we got you back to your home. I am Laura Marsh and this is my cousin Aubrey Albright.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Laura watched the two boys solemnly shake hands, her mind wrestling with the logistics of transporting the injured child without increasing the pain in his knee.
“Do you think if Aubrey and I were to assist you on either side you could manage to hop to the cab stand in the Palace Yard, Henry?”
“I am sure I can.”