‘Some ale, Mr Harris?’
A thin, white hand was raised palm out before the face. ‘No ale, indeed. When one is a martyr to the Stones, as I am, one watches one’s volume. But I have taken delivery of a fine Armagnac, if you gentlemen …’
Ede gasped, for he was especially fond of such distillations and Harris was known for smuggling in only the best from the country with which England had been at war for three years. But Jack interposed. ‘No hard liquors, thank’ee, sir. As you know, we need clarity for what is ahead.’
‘Ah, yes, the Initiation.’ The way the word was breathed out between scabrous lips made Jack shudder slightly. He had no doubt as to the cause of Harris’s ‘martyrdom’ for his so-pale face was studded with eruptions that the thick, rouged powder only highlighted, the visual expression of an internal malady. The man was plainly poxed; which, given his honorific title – ‘Pimpmaster General of London’ – was scarce surprising. It reminded Jack to sift all advice given; for if Harris had been before, he wanted none of his Mohocks to follow after.
‘Yet do not let us stop you.’ Jack signalled to a boy servant in the doorway. ‘A glass of Armagnac for Mr Harris and more …’ He indicated the empty jugs.
‘You are kind. Yet I cannot stay long. Tonight, in the Burbage Room, there is a gathering of the Senior “Cyprians” and they will demand my attendance.’
All there knew to what he referred, for Harris hosted a weekly meeting of the top whores where all ‘matters pertaining’ would be discussed, interlopers dealt with, gentlemen with bizarre requests found a willing partner for a suitably high fee. A fee from which Harris would take a considerable cut.
‘An opp … opp … opportunity, Jack,’ declared Fenby. ‘We can accomplish Rites Three, Four and Five under one roof. As if we were at F … Fortnum and Mason’s.’ He gave a nervous laugh.
‘Oh, gentlemen,’ breathed Harris. ‘The Cats next door would not serve your purposes so well. They are … venerable, to say the least. And Peep o’ Day Boys such as yourselves deserve something more … succulent. Some fresh tit up from the country, eh? Eh?’
The young servant returned with the porter and Armagnac. The latter was raised while ale was swiftly poured out. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Harris, regarding them fondly over the lip of crystal. ‘To the Night of the Mohock.’
‘Mohock!’ came the cry as bumpers were swiftly drained, then banged upon the wood.
Harris set his down gently, rose. As he did, he pushed the book toward Jack. ‘This is fresh from Digby’s Press in St Paul’s Churchyard. I will leave you to its perusal. I have taken the liberty of marking, in red, certain entries. I have not got out to visit them myself, alas, given my recent struggle with the Quacks. But my diligent scouts tell me those indicated are the cream of a very fine crop. The cost of the book will, of course, be added to your bill. Gentlemen.’ With a bow, he was gone, passing another servant in the door who entered with the turtle soup.
As Marks ladled from the tureen, Jack lifted the book, and despite his eagerness, opened it carefully, spreading out the pages from the centre so as not to break the spine. The volume was worth the care, Digby’s the finest printer in London. After all, only the best would do for Harris’s List of Ladies, the sine qua non of Whores’ Directories, in which Fanny had once appeared.
With the book in one hand, Jack slurped as he studied the listings. Each entry bore at least an initial, though a name often followed the Miss or Mrs. A price range was given, set sometimes by duration, sometimes by peccadillo or speciality. Yet the body of the text was reserved for the delights on offer, delineated in the purplest of prose which seemed to prove that its author, ‘John Harris, Esquire’, had indeed had a classical education.
They had decided that each would choose for another and drawn their victim’s name from a hat. Jack had got Fenby and he swiftly found the perfect entry. He took pity on his friend’s nerves by selecting someone who was not so old or experienced that she would terrify the little fellow. But she also had attributes that would turn the encounter into a good story.
‘“To all lovers of carrots,”’ he read, ‘“we recommend this nymph of scarce sixteen. Inclinable to be lusty, she takes her evening excursions on Compton Street where her clients may put their case to her either in a tavern or in her own apartments.”’
Hoots enfolded little Fenby, as he coloured and sought to speak.
‘A red-head, Fenby, with a temper to match, I’ll be bound.’ Marks slapped the smaller man on the back, causing him to spit soup.
Ede had the last word. ‘At least you will not be able to fool us as to the accomplishment of Rite Five. Assuming she is a true Carrot.’
He took the book, selected one for Marks whose main virtue was ‘a most consummate skill in reviving the dead’, necessary, Ede declared, because Marks was known to fall asleep standing up in a crowd. She also was said to be ‘fit for keeping by a Jew Merchant’, and though Marks scowled at the implication, he had expressed a desire to find and set up a regular mistress. Ede was thus helping his friend.
Marks returned the favour by searching through the book for ‘a Lady in Mourning’, as Negresses were designated. It amused Marks to think of that most ivory of Honourables contrasted with an ebony. That she had ‘as pretty a pair of pouting bubbies as ever went against a man’s stomach’ was incidental.
That left Jack. Fenby seized the book and, in a spirit of vengeance, tried to force him to visit one Miss Bird who was ‘short, fat and corpulent’, spoke in a northern brogue and was ‘too often in a state of intoxication’. ‘Let’s see you compose an Ode to her, Sir Poet!’ he’d exclaimed. Jack had eluded the choice as this particular bird roosted in Brydges Place off St Martin’s Lane and the hunt had been strictly designated for Soho. While the argument continued, Marks flicked through the pages and suddenly thrust an entry before Fenby who peered at it through his spectacles then beamed.
‘Yes. Oh yes!’ He cleared his throat. ‘“You have admired this student of Thespis on the stages of the Garden and the Lane. Any who saw her Juliet would want to be her Romeo and claim his dawn’s delight. The mysteries of Miss T, who always wears a mask, will be revealed only to one who can raise both a gold guinea and his own Love Dagger.”’
‘An actress!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘You can’t make me go to an actress. What if I know her?’
‘Exactly!’ yelled each of his friends and this time there was no gainsaying them.
Jack scowled but there was little he could do. At least the location was perfect; for she laboured in St Anne’s Court, a nasty lane of rookeries that ran between Wardour Street and Dean Street. Jack had other business on the latter thoroughfare that his fellow Mohocks need not know of – attendance at the Assembly Rooms for his mother’s play. Since their rendezvous to report was set for midnight, he had four hours to both perform the Rites and still be a dutiful son.
It was all settled. The jugs were emptied, the tureen drained. As they stood to leave, Marks reached into the pocket of his coat and threw the contents onto the table. Four sachets of yellow silk lay there, tied with a red ribbon.
‘Cundums!’ came the cry as the packets were snatched up.
‘Not just any, my warriors. Look at the label.’
Ede lifted a packet to the tallow candle. ‘“Mrs Philips at Half Moon Alley”.’
‘But, M … Marks,’ said Fenby, ‘I’ve brought my old stalwart. Soaked in vinegar these three days.’ A thin and mottled piece of linen emerged from his pocket.
Jack hid his smile. To Jack’s certain knowledge, because he had heard the confession, his friend’s ‘stalwart’ had seen action just the once and that very, very briefly.
Ribbons were pulled off, contents examined. ‘Gut, by God!’ said Jack. ‘Must have cost?’
Ede sniffed, grimaced. ‘Not … pig, is it?’
Marks glared, his eyebrows melding. Jack interceded. ‘Never fear,’ he declared, ‘Mrs Philips only uses the finest sheep’s intestine.’
To anothe
r ‘huzzah’, the cundums were put away. Jack took up his, in a spirit of clansmanship though he already knew that, however his fellow initiates fulfilled Rite Five, he was not going to use it. If his liaisons with Fanny produced a certain guilt regarding his emerging love for Clothilde, any visit to a whore would have been quite unacceptable, and, given Fanny’s freely given delights, unnecessary.
The thought of these two produced a sudden feeling of concern. He knew Clothilde was safe within the walls of her father’s house, but Fanny? He wondered if she had been much abused by Lord Melbury, if she yet retained her position. He had hopes that sometime during that evening a moment could be found to return to Golden Square and find out. If she’d been thrown out … well, as the cause of that, he had an obligation. She must be provided for until she could again provide for herself. If his allowance would not run to the expense, his skill with the billiard cue must; perhaps, he remembered, as soon as tomorrow, in the match arranged against Craster.
With another raucous tribal ululation, the lads leapt down the stairs. The three others set out ahead, racing in different directions, for each would travel separately to their hunt, solitariness being a necessary state for a Mohock stalker. Jack, last to leave as he settled their bill, was tapped on the shoulder near the door.
John Harris was behind him. ‘A word, Mr Absolute?’
‘At your service, Mr Harris.’
Because of the noise in the corridor, with waiters clattering past bearing liquors and soups and a party of men just beginning a rendition of ‘Nan Dawson’ in the main room, Jack was led by the arm into a snug where the only occupant, a hefty young gentleman in a salmon-pink jacket, snored, his face obscured by his tricorn hat.
‘You know I am fond of you, sir.’
‘I have always relished our acquaintance too, Mr Harris.’ Jack kept any distaste from his voice, ever the actress’s child. He was concerned that Harris was going to offer him some particular tip from his book. But the words that came were more alarming still.
‘Watch your back this night,’ came the whisper.
Jack pulled away, looked into the other’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have heard a rumour. One hears them in my position. No names, you understand.’ A thin finger was raised to tap those poxed lips. ‘But there is someone in the Town who wishes you ill.’
Jack felt a flush to his neck, the hairs there rising. ‘Lord Melbury—’
‘Shh!’ Harris pulled away, glanced down at the sleeping youth. ‘I said, no names. I can neither confirm nor deny. I can only warn, as I have done. For the sake of the Old School.’
With that and a squeeze to the forearm he was gone. Jack shivered again, then went out onto the Piazza. It was pell-mell as ever, especially on the south side where Tom King’s three coffee houses stood. Jack made for the middle one, the Green Man, stood in its entrance looking back to the Shakespeare’s Head. People came and went and it seemed the entire tavern had joined in the chorus of ‘Nan Dawson’:
Of all the girls in Town
The Black, the Fair, the Red and Brown
That dance and prance it up and down
There’s none like Nancy Dawson.
A huge cheer went up. The pink-clad youth, who’d snored in the snug while he and Harris conversed, emerged, talked briefly to someone inside, then strode along the porticos, disappearing up James Street. Was there something familiar in his gait? Yet fear yielded neither memory nor a name.
As Jack moved off across the Piazza, the bells in St Paul’s church struck eight. Late again. Jack rolled his shoulders, shrugging off the feeling between them of being watched, which, now Harris had mentioned it, had seemed to reside there most of the day. It was all nonsense! Lord Melbury, one of the country’s most powerful politicians and senior member of the Duke of Newcastle’s cabinet, would not waste his time over a boy such as he, surely?
Increasing his pace, Jack headed up James Street, the same one the naggingly familiar youth had taken. Even if it led through the notorious rookeries of Seven Dials it was still the swiftest route to the Assembly Rooms in Dean Street, Soho.
He was still late, of course. A fact his mother noted the moment she saw him at the theatre entrance, her anger bringing that touch of Irish to her tongue. ‘And how many times, sure, must I underline the word “sharp” after the hour for you to recognize it?’
‘A thousand apologies, Mama. I was studying for the Trinity Election and quite lost my way in Cicero.’
An arched eyebrow indicated that he was not believed; but the sight of him seemed to placate enough for her cheek to be offered, which was duly kissed. Standing back, he noticed a man behind his mother regarding the reunion with a smile.
‘So good to hear youth is still diligent in its studies,’ the man said, thrusting out a hand. ‘And I understand you attend the very place that gave me my start in learning.’
Jack’s hand was gripped, held, another coming over to make it fast. Jack had no desire to break away, for the man’s mellifluous voice, his steady eye, captivated.
His mother spoke again. ‘This is a friend of mine and a fellow playwright. Jack Absolute … meet John Burgoyne.’
‘A mere pretender to your mother’s throne.’ The man’s eyes searched Jack’s face. They were deep-set, of a grey that pushed to blue, his hair a brown that stopped just short of black. It was exquisitely, unostentatiously styled, making Jack wish to run his fingers through his own ill-laid hedgerow. Burgoyne’s clothes were of an equally simple elegance, rich material precisely cut, brilliantly dyed. He exuded a scent of sandalwood and musk, undoubtedly made only for him by some parfumier in Bond Street. The total effect was almost perfect, could have led to accusations of foppishness. But John Burgoyne, in his grip, his gaze, had an authority that would belie any such imputation. In that one moment, Jack wanted to be the man’s friend, even as he was aware of the absurdity of the idea. Burgoyne was ancient, thirty-five if he was a day.
‘Yes,’ murmured Burgoyne, ‘I can see your father in you, too.’
‘You know him, sir?’
‘Not well. We have encountered each other. Both Dragoons, d’ye see? Indeed, I am raising a regiment now.’
Ah, that’s it, thought Jack, that’s what’s beneath the finery. A military man.
Jack’s hand was released as Lady Jane began to push through the throng towards the stage. He could see two boxes beside it but knew his liberally-minded mother would not be heading for them but for one of the front benches. She preferred to be in the Pit, among the people.
‘I am surprised,’ said Burgoyne as he and Jack trailed through the gap his mother rather forcefully created, ‘not to see Sir James here this night.’
Jane gave a rather unlady-like snort. ‘You can’t know him that well. My husband has never learnt how to behave at one of my plays. He does not understand the,’ she waved at the raucous audience, ‘collaborative nature of theatre. If someone were merely to cough during a line, he would attempt to thrash them for the disrespect.’ She indicated the stage where, as always, benches had been provided for the wealthier audience who liked to be close to the action. Jack could see that the Harlequin and his Pierrot, engaged in an entr’acte, were having difficulty executing their romantic dance between two rowdies more concerned with the actress’s supple legs than the art before them, lowering themselves with loud guffaws to the floor to look up her short dress. Jane continued. ‘These fellows would be assaulted in a moment. No, it is best for all that he keeps away.’
She gave a sigh. Yet within it there was something affectionate, almost proud, that made Jack shudder. Though he knew that when he and Clothilde were at last united, their love would continue, undimmed, a thousand years, there was something disquieting in parents displaying the same passion.
The dance ended, and they made their way to the benches. Three fellows in apprentices’ smocks rose, accepted the sixpences Burgoyne placed in their hands, touched their hats and gave up their seats. There was a brief interlu
de as a cloth dropped, indicating a bucolic scene with a farm cart wheeled on before it.
‘Is this yours, Mama?’ Jack was a little puzzled. His mother usually wrote for an urban setting.
‘Mine,’ said Burgoyne, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together. Jack was surprised to see the footlights reflecting in the sheen on his brow. ‘Mine,’ he said again, and swallowed.
Music struck up. Given the financial limitations of the Assembly Rooms, this was not the orchestra to be found at the large venues but merely a drum, French Horn and fife. Those limitations were noticed again in the cast that eventually entered, for the Harlequin of before was here transformed into a rubicund country gentleman with rouged cheeks, while his Pierrot returned as a simple country maid. Jack, who had noticed not much more than her stockinged legs before, now saw that she was indeed rather pretty, with a beauty spot nestled next to lips both full and rosy. A hitherto unseen younger gentleman entered and the piece began. Burgoyne leant forward eagerly, his mouth mouthing the words along with the players … until a sharp elbow from Lady Jane made him desist.
Whereas his mother used the obscurity of the Assembly Rooms to sneak her anti-government satires past the Lord Chamberlain, Jack knew that many playwrights saw them as a proving ground, aspiring to the larger houses with plays as conventional as any that would be seen at the Lane or the Garden. Just such a play was Burgoyne’s. The country maid, the impoverished noble who loved her, the lecherous guardian who ‘would have her or none would!’ all interspersed with the bursts of country dancing and song required by the form. Yet this was, at least, better crafted than most and with a simple story that struck Jack’s heart. For he saw himself in the smitten youth, Clothilde in the sad maiden, even – and this was a reach, he knew – the smirking Claude in the squire’s leers and lust. And when the young man, upon his knees, told of the maid’s immediate banishment to a far land and declaimed, ‘I will follow thee over all the seas in heaven and through every flame in hell,’ Jack, reminded of his own watery poem recited only that morning to his love, was held on the line, as hooked as any merman.