‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘I am a fool, a jealous fool. Please forgive me.’
‘Don’t know that I shall,’ she huffed, moving to the table on which were set a decanter of port and some glasses. She conspicuously poured just the one and stood there, side on and ignoring him while she sipped.
This is not going to plan, thought Jack. He couldn’t stand more disappointment, not after Clothilde. And though the merest thought now of that purer love made him flush a little with guilt, he forced himself to remember that it … he was different with Fanny. And to enjoy those differences he would need to redeem himself. The poem he had written for her was in his pocket but he was determined not to produce that too soon, it would be doing what she had been strenuously teaching him not to – reaching the climax too soon. He needed something else first, to build toward it.
It was her profile that gave it to him. Moving around the easel, he lifted the cloth from it. She turned at the noise, said, ‘No, Jack, I forbid—’
His raised hand halted her words, timed with the gasp he let out. ‘Oh, madam, it is … extraordinary.’
Indeed his reaction needed little in the way of pretence. Jack was no student of art, though his mother had forced him to accompany her to various exhibitions, but even he could see that this Gainsborough had something special. The rigidity of pose and line that seemed to dominate in most portraits of the day was absent. The hooped dress flowed in its cascades of lilac silk, genuine fabric not sculptured marble. This was a woman, not a statue, and the artist had achieved the same effect with the skin, must have seen the passionate transformations that occurred there as Jack had. Indeed the expression on the face seemed to be not a pose at all but a translation direct from life, as if she were caught just before some intemperate or seductive speech.
Jack had been prepared to flatter by rote. Now he had no need. ‘Fanny! It is you. You to the core.’
‘Really? Do you think so?’ She approached now, peering over his shoulder at it. ‘I was thinking he was making me a little dull.’
‘Dull?’ Here was dangerous ground. Over-praise of the artist might count against the model. Under-praise him and it would be a condemnation of her judgement and thus purse. ‘Not so. He has the very colour of your eyes and the thick veils that guard ’em. He has the ripeness of your lips, parted as if ready to speak forth some wisdom. He has the slant of your gentle nose, the strength of your chin, the perfect symmetry of your ears. All that nature has provided you, he has captured. Except … yes, now I look closer, he has not yet quite managed the exact shades of faun that make up your wondrous hair. But he said he was to return tomorrow, did he not? Then perhaps he will stay up half the night attempting to mix together some pigment that no one has yet discovered, unseen on canvas till now.’
He wondered if he’d gone too far. But her sigh reassured as she tipped her head now this way, now that in contemplation. Then a hand came up to rest on Jack’s shoulder. ‘You do not think something too … too forward in the expression.’
Jack looked again. It was hard for Fanny to appear anything other than sensual. But what she wanted to hear was that this portrait, which would be seen around the town, especially if it was exhibited, added to the reputation she was re-establishing. All would know she was a rich man’s mistress. But there was a large difference between a courtesan and a demirep.
‘It will make you in the Town, that I am sure,’ he murmured, reaching up, taking her hand, kissing it.
‘Sweet boy,’ she said, turning her wrist so that he could kiss her palm. He was only too happy to oblige. Three months before he would undoubtedly have galloped on apace, sought lips, tongue, breast, and all in rapid succession. But he had been a good student. So he led her around to the table, poured them both a glass of the port, clinked glasses before draining his, then whispered, ‘Stand here, I have something for you.’
‘A gift?’ she said as he returned to his satchel, which he had dropped by the window. When he returned with the jar of brandied peaches, she sighed, ‘So sweet! But I’ve told you, Jack, I want for nothing so you should not spend the little you have on me.’
‘Those are a token only.’ He pulled out the papers. ‘This is the real gift and the only expenditure is from my insufficient self. Have pity, for it comes from the heart.’ It was not quite true. Other parts of the body had inspired Jack in his endeavours, together with the memory of a night the week before and a quite extraordinary lesson.
‘“On a Religious Conversion by Candlelight,”’ he announced. ‘Shall I?’
‘Please.’
Clearing his throat once, he began.
When I first run my tongue down your smooth thigh
Just like a priest, I kneel and bend to pray
And gaze with his same fervour for on high
My altar calls and sweet scent guides my way.
On both our passions candles cast their light
But his reveals nothing save pure gold.
A richer treasure far is in my sight
Whose soft and flowing red is warm, not cold.
Then with my stubbled chin I lightly climb
The full perfection of those luscious slopes
And kiss, so soft, yet building up till Time
Itself takes pause and hangs upon our hopes.
I suck you in, your flesh explodes in me,
Your moans, Love’s music set in sweetest key.
He had not assumed one of the prescribed positions from Le Brun as he had for Clothilde. The subject matter here was not a monster from the east; this required nothing but the slight husk that came naturally to his voice as his words mixed with his memories. Lost within them for only a moment, it ended when he looked up to see that she had half-closed her eyes, had leaned back against the table, as far as the hoops of her dress allowed her.
‘Oh, Jack! That is indeed a gift worth receiving. And yet …’ she reached down and grasped folds of lilac silk in her hands, ‘yet it seems it is a gift only half given.’
Jack looked down. The hands were now engaged in pulling the material upwards. Already the silken fringe had cleared the lowermost wooden hoop. Suddenly dry-mouthed, he took a step toward her, then another, trying not to rush.
‘Your bedroom,’ he said, in a voice gone quite thick.
‘No time.’ She matched him in huskiness, as the material rose still higher. ‘I am expected at Lady Dalrymple’s rout in half an hour and it took me at least one to get into this dress. Besides,’ and here the white silken shift beneath the gown cleared the knees and Jack had the first glimpse of her cerise silk stockings, ‘your poem speaks of more accessible delights. So, kneel to your devotions again, Jack. Let us see if you have truly learned your catechism. And if you have, a further lesson awaits you. Or should I say reward. For I shall show you the way I really like to consume peaches.’
At that, she popped the lid off the jar, slid her fingers into the depths and produced one soft and succulent segment. Sliding it into Jack’s mouth, flooding it with fruit and cognac, her wet hand then disappeared up within the gown.
‘What was it, Jack? “And sweet scent guides your way …” Here.’ As she reached fully up, her eyes half closed again while her other hand snaked behind Jack’s head, applying a little pressure.
Jack had prayed for this from the moment he awoke in his bedroom that morning. She had managed to raise the hoops so they concertinaed a little, just enough for her to rest her buttocks on the table’s edge and for him to slide under the rings of wood. Cotton encased him, it was like a cave with a treasure at its limit, delight beckoning him towards it. But the poem was in his head and he turned aside, his lips finding the stocking on her left thigh. Running its length he came to the tie that held it there, a bow, a single simple knot. Putting his teeth to it, he jerked it free and, in the little gap created, inserted his tongue between thigh and silk.
He heard, as if from far away, the groan. Thinking where once was good, twice was better, he switched to the other side
, teeth seeking, finding, pulling again. This lace was longer, his head reaching back till it was pressed against a hoop. Twisting freed it, and once more his lips found a paradise that, until recently, he never knew existed – the softest skin near the top of a woman’s thigh.
This groan came louder through the folds. This high the cave had become darker, and there was little air. It made him giddy, the lack of it, and what there was so rich and dense. The undergarments ahead of him were, of course, not joined, something else he had not known before he’d embarked on that first exploration the week before. Thus he only had to part the fold of these smaller shifts which he did with gentle fingers. His palms spread to the side, pushing out the thighs just a little, before his face pushed forward once again. He was nearly there, nearly drunk with the closeness and the glorious, now brandied, musk of this place. Turning his head to the side, he nipped, very gently, that last fragrant inch of flesh then reached forward …
He was nearly knocked backwards. Fanny had suddenly pushed off the edge of the table. As it was unlike her to rush so, he was just about to mention it when the near darkness became complete, with the concertinaed hoops suddenly unfurling again and the swathes of material dropping to the floor. She had stood up and he was crouched inside the tent of her gown.
‘Fanny! What …’ he gasped and then received a blow to his head through the silk that made him wince. But he didn’t attempt to speak again, halted, not by the pain nor even the lack of air, but by heavy footsteps.
‘That idiot Carthew chose today of all days to have a stroke.’ Lord Melbury’s voice was trained to overcome the protests of the Opposition raised in the House. It easily pierced the layers of cotton and silk.
He could not move. He was frozen there, on his knees, his arms now dropped and held to his side while Fanny pressed on him from above. Glancing down, in the little light that spilled under the fringe of her dress, Jack could see that she was standing on her toes. Scrunching his neck allowed her to at least settle. But she was still, essentially, sitting on his head.
‘Ah, my dear … I … I … am so delighted to see you.’
‘Yes, well, I cannot stay long. Lord Wolvermere’s backbone needs stiffening over supper. Infernal idiot wants to back down on the Naval requisitions. I must away to White’s in … one hour. Plenty of time. Hallo, what’s this?’
Jack’s own backbone stiffened. He saw the shadow of feet moving past Fanny’s and he prepared for discovery.
‘Pot and Pineapple peaches! Did I send you these?’
‘You did, my love, ever thoughtful.’ Jack marvelled at the calm in Fanny’s voice. She was quite still above him, had not moved since she settled.
There came the sound of slurping. ‘And I have excellent taste. Marvellous things. Uses good brandy rather than bad, that’s the key.’ There was a pause while more peaches disappeared noisily. Then he said, ‘Why are you standing there like that, Fanny?’
‘Why? I … I thought I might recite to you.’
‘Recite? I had something rather different in mind. No time, d’ye see?’
‘Oh, only a short poem. I wrote it for you. Thought it might, uh, stimulate you. Knowing your love of such verse.’
‘Ah?’ The salacious tone of the monosyllable was clear. ‘Well, why not then? Long as it’s not too lengthy, eh?’
‘Sit, my dear. Sit.’
Jack felt Lord Melbury moving away. He had met him on several occasions as he was a great man of the theatre and patronized a stable of playwrights as others might own racehorses. Lady Jane had once been favoured until she failed to acknowledge the patronage with something other than words. He was a big man, but nimble with it. He was also renowned as one of the best pistol shots in England. A thought that made Jack freeze even more despite the growing pain in his legs and neck.
The sofa squeaked as His Lordship sat. ‘Very well. You may begin.’
Jack wondered what she was going to do. Recite something? She had been an actress after all. Or extemporize? She certainly had the wit. But what she did do, Jack had not expected. For she suddenly leaned away from him as if reaching back, then straightened again. Her voice, when it came, was quite clear.
‘“On a Religious Conversion by Candlelight,”’ she announced.
Jack’s first thought was … Plagiarism, by God! The damned woman had claimed this as her creation! Then, as she began to read, he had two other distinct feelings. One at his groin, which had never really gone away since he’d woken up. And the other higher up, in his throat.
Jack began to giggle. What was the woman playing at? He hadn’t written an epic poem but a sonnet. Sixteen lines, no matter how slowly she took them. Sixteen and then Lord Melbury would seek the place that Jack had been denied by this interruption, no doubt further inflamed by the sentiments he’d so skilfully rendered into verse. The more he tried to stop the giggles – and he could tell by the poem’s increased volume that they were audible – the more they came.
Her rendition of the poem had become positively dirgelike.
‘Pick it up, girl, for Christ’s sake, I do have a supper appointment,’ came a bellow from the room.
Absurdity was mastering him. Air was scant enough in his cave and he was trying not to breathe too much as he feared it was fuel to his laughter. He feared he was going to fall or faint. He assumed she must have a plan for the sonnet’s end. He needed to stay conscious long enough to react to it.
The poem ended. Lord Melbury clapped. ‘Bravo, my dear, bravo. Exquisite sentiments, beautifully expressed. And you were quite right as to their … effect.’ The floorboards creaked as he stood. ‘And now …’
It was then Fanny screamed. ‘Ahhh! What is that?’
‘Damn, what? Where?’
‘There, my Lord. There on the wall behind you!’
The emphasis on the words was an unmistakable hint. And as she said them, the hoops were ratcheted up and Jack was exposed to the light. He saw that his Lordship had taken the bait, half-turned away. The window was open. He made to rise …
And fell. The cerise stockings, which had slid down, had somehow become entangled around his ankles. Jack thumped onto the carpet.
Lord Melbury turned. His face, which had often been likened to a fish in the broadsheets’ caricatures, took on an aspect of salmon now, lower jaw dropping to his chest. Jack, half in and half out of the dress, smiled up. He couldn’t think of anything to say. No one could, for what seemed like minutes but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Then everyone talked, or shouted at once.
‘Young Absolute!’
‘My Lord.’
‘Of course, I can explain …’
But, of course, she couldn’t. Fanny had been a fair actress in her day but Peg Woffington could not have got away with this one. Lord Melbury started forward, his face dangerously mottled and his large hands clenching and unclenching.
‘You puppy! By God, I’ll … I’ll …’
Fanny stooped, whipped her stockings away from Jack’s ankles. ‘Go,’ she hissed. ‘Go!’
Jack needed no further urging. He scrambled to the window, was through it and over the balustrade in a moment. The vine provided handholds, though he eschewed nearly all of them, sliding most of the way to the ground. He exited as he had entered; though now, as he ran down the garden, a furious voice followed him.
‘I know you, whelp, you and your mongrel family. And you will pay for this! By God, you will pay!’
– SEVEN –
Night of the Mohock
‘… and let all ye who know, live with that knowledge in fear, for we – Wolf and Bear and Snake and Hawk – do this day, the twenty-eighth of April in the year seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, declare the Ancient Order of Mohocks, that terror of the London Streets in the reign of our late White Mother Queen Anne, to be revived.’
‘Ah-ha-ah-ha-HA-HA-HA!’
Marks’s deep voice soared. ‘We shall be as wild as our forebears who stalked from the Garden to the Mall. And we shall honour
those savages who dwell in the forests of our Colonies whose name we take.’
‘Mohocks!’ came the cry.
‘How shall we honour them, Bear?’ Jack shouted.
‘By performing their savage rites, Wolf,’ Marks replied.
‘Name them!’ Fenby and Ede – Hawk and Snake – called.
‘Rite One,’ Marks continued, ‘is already accomplished: “Purging in the Sweat Lodge.”’
That had been Marks’s idea. They had chosen the Old Hummum Hotel on the Little Piazza of the Garden to sweat, drink sherbets. They had stayed a long while – the faces of three of them still testifying to the fact – before repairing to the room set aside for them a cobble-stone’s throw away across the Great Piazza at the Shakespeare’s Head tavern. Jack and Marks glowed a deep scarlet, while Fenby was forced continuously to take off his glasses and wipe away the steam. Only the Honourable Ede had returned to his normal pallid hue. Nothing affected his porcelain countenance for long.
‘Rite Two: “Feast upon the turtle.”’
Fenby came up with that one. No one prepared turtle soup like John Twigg at the Shakespeare’s Head and they eagerly awaited his entrance now.
‘Rites Three, Four and Five: the Stalking of the Squaws in the ancient hunting grounds of Soho; the trapping of the same and then—’
The climaxing rite remained undeclared, due to the sudden opening of the door and the admittance of all the noise of the crowded tavern. Each looked eagerly to what they hoped would be a soup tureen. But the hand of the man who entered was filled with nothing bulkier than a slim book, bound in finest calico.
‘Gentlemen,’ the man croaked, ‘I think I have here all your hearts – and your loins – could ever crave.’
Jack stood, pulled out a chair. ‘Mr Harris, would you care to join us in a cup?’
‘Too kind.’ The voice near a whisper, the head inclined, he slid into the proffered seat. It was always a confused area of etiquette where this man was concerned. He was, after all, the head waiter here; but he was also one of the true powers of the Piazza and thus of London. He claimed to be an Old Westminster, his word on it never challenged, certainly not by Jack and his friends who benefited so much from the association. The Shakespeare’s Head was one of the most popular of taverns, yet Harris always found them a room – for the sake of the Old School.