2
Tom Taylor was waiting in the hall to welcome her, dressed to the nines in a peacock velvet coat, hair powdered, buckled shoes.
“My dear, I’m so delighted. It’s such a long while since we met. I haven’t clapped eyes on you for quite three months, not since the party you gave for my little nieces. How are your children? Beautiful as ever? And you? But I needn’t ask. Blooming, like a peach.”
The old man kissed his fingers to the air and led her to the stairs. “I ought to be angry with you,” he continued. “How long have we known each other? Over two years? And you’ve never before paid uncle Tom a visit. Not even to buy your shoes.”
“I told you in Craven Place—you charge too much.”
“Nonsense, my dear, all nonsense. To you, a double discount.”
His staircase was impressive, deeply carpeted, gilt mirrors at every angle, and on the landing, ready to take her cloak, a chocolate-colored page with sash and turban.
“Where are we meant to be?” she asked. “In Istanbul?”
He smiled and rubbed his hands, but ignored the joke, his beady professional eye upon her gown.
“Charming,” he said, “and just the right décolletage. So many foolish girls make the mistake of showing too obviously what should be guessed, and therefore dull the edge of anticipation. But you, a subtle hint of the great divide, and the rest all promise. Did you bring long gloves?”
“No. Why should I want gloves? Are we to go to some reception?”
“Gloves give the final polish. But never mind. I have some I can give you.” He touched the lover’s knot, caught on her shoulder.
“That’s good,” he said. “I like the touch of color on the white, and it’s easy to adjust. The whole thing slips? I thought so, most convenient.” He stood back, measuring the tout ensemble.
“You follow the wrong trade,” she told him. “You ought to deal in silks, not leather, knowing so much about the cut of gowns.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, “the things I’ve turned my hand to in emergency. I’ve had girls come here looking like angels from heaven, but dressed disastrously, prinked up for Sunday school. Old uncle Tom doesn’t fail them. I’ve gone around with my scissors snipping at ribbons and laces, opening up tight corsets, trimming curls that bunch too heavy on the neckline. Without the necessary grooming, the girls wouldn’t have clicked. They never fail to thank me. This way, my dear, in here—a little refreshment.”
She looked about her, watchful, critical. This was the room with the bow window that faced the street. Red velvet chairs, red candles, a carpet even thicker than the one she had trodden downstairs. A sofa like her own in Tavistock Place, next to a table, and the table set with glasses, a magnum of champagne, and the number of glasses, she was swift to notice, three.
Screens were dotted here and there, easy to handle and fold, and pictures of cupids lolling in billowy clouds. A large mirror on the wall reflected the sofa and table. The effect was a trifle garish, she thought, and crude. If this was the clients’ taste she didn’t think much of it. Perhaps the cupids jogged the slow-of-mind and whipped up doubtful appetite to take a chance. Then, with the crimson candles…
“You’ll take champagne, my dear?” said uncle Tom.
“If that’s the custom.”
For two pins she’d go home. The setting bored her. A rabbit’s snare to catch some tipsy general, then sit there, blowing bubbles. Better by far to stick to the friends she knew and bounce about with Barrymore at Ramsgate.
“Now tell me all your news.” His small eyes gleamed.
“My news. I haven’t any. Life’s very full: the house, the children, my mother, you know what it is, and now this talk about war unsettling things. My Whig friends are despondent, shaking their heads, and the Tories, of course, all exultant and whooping with joy. I don’t care one way or the other: it doesn’t affect me. You know Burton, my landlord? He’s turned patriot, very excited. Says he’ll raise a regiment of builders, in case of invasion, and command them himself. He pretends he’s appalled at the thought, but of course he adores it.”
“And how is Lord Barrymore?”
“Sailing for Ireland tomorrow, and sick at the prospect.”
“His lady’s expecting, I hear.”
“So she says, but I doubt it. These Irish women will ride… quite fatal for babies.”
“Is Mr. Dowler in town?”
“I saw him last week. Very down in the mouth, and disheartened. He’s had to leave the Stock Exchange and run to father. I liked your William Ogilvie, but what’s it all about?”
Tom Taylor laid his finger on his mouth. “Some other time,” he murmured, “not just now,” then louder, filling up her glass again, “What else have you to tell me? Any gossip?”
“Nothing by word of mouth, only what I read. Do tell me, is it true, that report in the Post—you should know, with so many royal clients coming to have their feet squeezed into shape—is it true that the Duke of York has sacked his brother, that there’s been a botch-up at Gibraltar and Kent’s been recalled?”
Tom Taylor turned dark purple, choked and spluttered. The champagne seemed to catch him in the throat. She hit him between the shoulder blades, but seeing it did not work reached for a sandwich.
“The nose trick? Have some cucumber, that’ll settle it. All down your peacock velvet… what a shame.”
She seized his voluminous handkerchief from his pocket, dusted him down, and put it back again. He made a violent motion with his hands—she did not get it. He pleaded with his eyes—she did not see. Suddenly ravenous, the champagne whetting hunger, she ate and talked at once, her mood improving.
“He’s becoming quite a tyrant, is Frederick Augustus. Drops the poor Duke of Kent, and refuses to give a command to the Prince of Wales. The trouble is, I suppose, he’s the old man’s darling, and can do what he likes when the old man’s loose in the tile. What a tribe they are, though—confess it, as bad as the Bourbons. A few more mistakes, and whoops! go the heads in a basket. Thank God I’m a Scot, and don’t owe any allegiance. These sandwiches are good. Are they made in your kitchen?”
Without waiting for his reply, she seized another. “Mark you,” she said, “the Stuarts weren’t all that clever. Boy Charlie looked good in a kilt, but that’s about all. I dare say he ran like a hare at the sound of a musket. My mother would kill me for this, but even when small I fancied the sound of the Butcher. Red coat and trimmings. I like my men big, incidentally, and he was no chicken. Isn’t it time you came clean and told me my fate? Who is it that’s going to pop out of your hat tonight? I warn you, if it’s some old warhorse past his prime I just won’t tackle him, not if he offers me a string of medals.”
She sat down on the sofa, smiling and happy. Champagne was pleasant, after high tea with the children, and the room was not so bad, the cupids harmless.
“Well, what about those gloves?” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
Her host, his face a study in discomfort, backed to the door.
“I’m very much afraid they won’t be needed.”
“All to the good. I’d only get the cramp.”
“You misunderstand my meaning. I wish to infer…”
The chocolate page came in, pulled his sleeve and whispered something in an undertone. Tom Taylor bent to listen, stomach bulging, then hurriedly left the room with the page beside him. Suddenly suspicious, she rose from the sofa. “Oh no,” she said, “you can’t run off and leave me, not without giving me full instructions first. What is all this, and why that child in a turban, the nonsense about gloves…?”
A horrible thought occurred. Her fate was colored. An elderly Indian rajah, strung with rubies…
“My God!” she called. “If he’s black, you can take him yourself.”
She heard a sound behind her. The screen was moving, the whole thing folding back, displaying doors—and doors that were open to a room within. Leaning against the doors a man was standing, hands in the lapels of
his coat, legs crossed. Height about six foot two, florid complexion, prominent blue eyes, a largish nose, age—roughly—forty. His face she recognized at once with a sinking heart, seen fifty, a hundred times, in papers, pamphlets. A face that was waved to from a crowd of a thousand others, the wave acknowledged, salute to the hat, and finish. Now it was far too close and personal for comfort. Frederick Augustus, Duke of York and Albany.
“Not black,” he said, “and even if I were I’m damned if I’d take Tom Taylor down to Fulham. Where’s your coat?”
She stared. She could not answer. Humility and rage fought for possession. That Ogilvie, that uncle Tom, could dare to spring this thing upon her, unprepared. White gloves… of course… and not this year-old dress but the new one, not yet worn… earrings… brooches. And here she stood like a kitchen maid, wide-eyed, gaping.
Hating herself and him, she bobbed a curtsey. Martha could have done better, gone lower down. Her shoes weren’t right for this, they pinched her heel. Everything learned in the past three years was forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Uncle Tom’s made a botch of this business. Or rather, we both have between us. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Prepared—for what?” he asked, and took a sandwich. “Don’t you like my looks? I haven’t had time to change, came straight from the Horse Guards. Been up since six, and chained to my desk until eight, with two hours’ dusty interlude in a barracks square. Not dined yet, nor have you, and I’m bloody hungry. We’ll have dinner and supper in one when we get to Fulham. Be quick—where’s that page boy with your coat? Did you bring a bag?”
“Yes, it’s below.”
“Well, come on down, it’s as hot as an oven in here. The old fool always keeps the windows closed, cooking the champagne to boiling point. Don’t drink any more of the stuff, you’ll be tight as a tick.”
He laid a large hand on her shoulder, pushing her ahead, seized the cloak from the turbaned page boy on the landing and threw it over her.
“Where’s Taylor? Gone into hiding? Tell him we’re off.”
She made for the stairs. “Not that way, here at the back. Private entrance in Stafford Street, behind. Here, give me your hand.” He led her to a passage past a door and down a narrow stairway, two at a time. She nearly tripped and fell, her high heels slipping.
“Don’t you know this way?” he asked. “It saves a lot of bother. I can’t come charging up Bond Street in a barouche and stumble into some duchess buying shoes. All fellows in the know use Tom’s back door.”
What did he think she was, some slut from the corner?
“I’ve never been here before,” she said, “and shan’t come again. The thing is a misunderstanding from first to last.” After all, she had her pride. If he wanted a girl for the night he could go out and get one. There was no finesse in this method, no sort of technique.
He bundled her into the carriage and sat down beside her, taking up most of the room: she was pinned in the corner. He straddled his boots on the opposite seat and pulled her towards him.
“It’s quite a fair drive down to Fulham, so let’s get to know you.”
She sighed and relaxed on his shoulder, resigned to the worst, with resentment boiling within her and vows for revenge—not against him, poor brute, he knew no better—revenge against Ogilvie and uncle Tom. Had she but known for one moment what they had planned… she would have seized the initiative, worked the whole business. Got in a chef for the night, and two or three servants: found out in some manner his taste, and what he liked eating: hired a couple of boys for music and singing, rearranged the drawing room and had the guest room altered… By the time he was ready for breakfast—he might leave before—he’d have had the best out of the evening, and all she could give. Cripplegate always told her that Tavistock Place was by far the most comfortable house he had ever been in, the dinners were good, the wine was well chosen, the beds were a dream, and a word from him, weeks ago, would have set it all working. But instead… bumped about like a trull, in a carriage to Fulham. No chance to show off her points—how she talked, how she moved, her whole method of getting her men, and why they admired her. This sort of thing could be handled by any young skit, or any old drab, for that matter, prinked up for the purpose.
“Well, that was refreshing,” he said. “Now, what about supper? Here’s Fulham Lodge, on the right. I’m as famished as Moses.”
There were footmen, discreet, who did not look at her. One of them took her bag, another her cloak, and preceded her upstairs to a large, square room. Everything was laid out, everything ready—brushes, pincushions, combs and bottles before the mirror on the dressing table. A curtained bed, with nightgown, wrapper, slippers. Grudgingly, she found herself admitting, she couldn’t fault the style, the preparations. Had the boot been on the other foot—if he had come to her at Tavistock Place—she wouldn’t have thought of the nightshirt, or the slippers. Shaving tackle, of course, and combs, in the closet, but hardly this… She took a peep at the linen. Scented with lavender, soft, and fine as a handkerchief, it was a pity her mother couldn’t see it, she set such store by good linen, and believed in that tag about running it through a wedding ring.
“If you are ready to descend, ma’am, His Royal Highness is waiting.”
He was, was he? Well, let him wait a bit longer. He misunderstood his bird if he thought she’d sit down to eat with her hair in a frazzle, all mussed up from that carriage—decency first. A squirt of the scent from that bottle, it smelt pretty good and ought to be good, for God’s sake, when provided by princes. Tom Taylor was right, gloves would have looked better, they gave the right finish: but since gloves didn’t seem to be part of this bedroom equipment, she must take it on trust that they didn’t mean much to His Highness. She stalked downstairs with dignity and grace. Here was a chance to show him her stock-in-trade. He didn’t notice: he bustled her in to supper, then roared like a bull because the soup was cold.
“God damn it, how often have I had this happen? Three times in one week. I must sack the cook. My stomach yawns for food. Bring me some bread.”
The soup plates were removed. Steaming new rolls were presented, followed at once by freshly heated soup.
“Service,” she thought. “I’ll hand it to his staff. Had it been Martha!”
He lapped his soup as George did, like a puppy, and for lapping she always sent George from the table. A fig for royal manners and behavior. Was she supposed to talk, or sit like a dummy? At any rate she could eat, not wait for him. He demolished sole bonne femme in a couple of mouthfuls, so she played with hers, guessing a roast would follow. It did. A saddle of lamb, with all the garnish. While he was attacking this with relish, his waistcoat burst, and a button flew like an arrow across the table. Prince Charlie… the clan Mackenzie… the fallen fortunes. This was an omen, and one she couldn’t resist.
“Do you mind,” she said, “if I give that to my brother?”
She saw the footman stiffen behind his chair, as she reached and picked the button out of the salt. The Duke looked up and grunted.
“What’s the idea? The buttons only fit these waistcoats, which are specially made by hand by some fellow at Windsor, who knows the measure of my solar plexus.”
“I didn’t mean to wear… to have as a symbol.”
“Symbol of what? Increasing embonpoint?”
“My brother’s only twenty, and slim as a reed. No, perhaps to wear on a watch chain, a sort of charm.” She wondered, should she tell him, or would it be tactless? Hanoverian feelings were still raw, perhaps, after fifty years.
“You see, we hail from Scotland, the clan Mackenzie. And one of our forebears had a silver button, a personal present from the Young Pretender, unfortunately lost, but supposed to be lucky. This isn’t quite the same, I know, but still…”
“Can’t do you any harm? I’m not so sure, if you’re a Jacobite.”
“Oh, but I’m not.”
“You Scots are all alike. Bad as the Irish. Give you a chance
, you’d stab us in the back. I’d shoot the lot.”
“How very bloody of you.” Seeing the servant’s face, she added quickly, “Bloody in the sense of being warlike, truculent. Of course it’s your profession, the way you’re trained.” It wouldn’t do at this juncture to rouse his anger. Now she was here she must see the thing through to the end, be gay, be accommodating, earn her night’s lodging fully as an honest woman.
“I gathered from your chat in Taylor’s rooms,” he said, “that we’re not long for survival. Booked for the tumbrils at an early date.”
“Listeners hear no good of themselves,” she began, then swallowed: she must remember whom she was with. “Listeners like myself”—she changed the sentence—“hear lots of nonsense, and read drivel too, all in the daily papers and in the pamphlets. I merely echoed this nonsense to uncle Tom.”
How fatal if he turned her from the door at this late hour, the horses unharnessed and bedded, and expected her to foot it home to Bloomsbury! How did a woman gauge the royal mood and sense if she’d lost favor? Perhaps a ride in the carriage was all he demanded? Supper, and out… Different from Cripplegate, and Burton too. She flashed a look at his face, the third course finished. He seemed unmoved, and mellow. Ready to eat quince tart and drink Sauternes.
“So,” he said, fixing his eye upon her, “you think I’m a tyrant, do you? Down on my brothers?”
He had heard—every word. Missed nothing, soaked it in. Hell’s bells, there was nothing for it but to be honest and take what came. If he flung her out on her ear she had only herself to blame.
“You must admit,” she said, her arms on the table, “it’s hard on the Prince of Wales to have no command. If the old man… if His Majesty gets light-headed again, then the Prince of Wales, as Prince Regent, can turn all the tables; and you’ll be the one in search of a job, not him.”
The footman filled his glass, and hers as well, and she caught a glimpse of the fellow’s face in passing. His eyes were glazed like a fish whose life was ebbing.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” said the Duke; “the King commands. I merely obey his orders, and pass them on.”