Ace, King, Knave (24 page)

He said, ‘The girl may have it and welcome’ (Betsy-Ann lecherously licked her lips to show the wisdom of his decision) ‘but for myself, I find the taste perfectly nauseous.’

He thought he’d got himself out of it. Poor fellow! So far Kitty had only been sparring; now she closed with him in earnest.

‘Most gentlemen are of your opinion, at first, but with a little experiment, a little experience, they come to appreciate its benefits.’ She turned on her prey the smile which, along with the voice (and other less mentionable talents) had made
Hartry
one of the most celebrated names of her day. ‘Ratafia, Sir, is an inestimable boon to the male sex. Let a lady partake of a glass or two and she is pleasantly warmed and
tickled
, you might say.’ She bent towards the man and murmured confidingly into his ear. ‘That, in itself, is such an incalculable advantage to her lover that sometimes’ (a plaintive sigh) ‘I quite accuse myself of treachery towards the Sex, for so rigging the odds in the gentleman’s favour.’ Not even the stupidest cull could be expected to swallow this and Kitty did not intend it; her face, dimpling with wicked wit, invited anyone who heard her to share her in the joke. ‘But Sir, a lover wise enough to join with his lady, and partake of a glass or two, profits ten times more. The refreshment cheers – strengthens – fills him with courage for the amorous combat. The mature devotee of pleasure finds himself flush and sturdy with regenerated youth. As a certain lord said to me the other day, ‘O Mrs Kitty! I haven’t ridden so long and hard since I was sixteen!’ – and his lordship is seventy-two.’

‘I’m sure it’s of the greatest service to him. But if I may speak, Madam ―’

Kitty cut him off. ‘None of the
cognoscenti
would omit to take a glass or two. Why, Sir, they consider it as indispensable as rum before a naval battle – and you know, Sir, our navy is the terror of the world.’

Surely this must settle the business; but no, the man stared down at the carpet and would not be budged. Betsy-Ann perceived, by a hardening line at the edge of Kitty’s mouth, that her employer was almost out of patience (a commodity in which she was never overstocked), and indeed, at this instant Kitty made a furtive sign to someone nearby. At the same time she began urging loudly, so that others could hear: ‘My dear Sir, consider what you are about! You make yourself too ridiculous. You may
shopkeep
all the rest of the year, if you must, but a debauch is not a time to pinch and scrape.’

As many a plucked heir knows to his sorrow, it is easier to shame a man into extravagance than into virtue. Though he continued to study the floor, the quarry’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Ratafia may be of benefit for
elderly
gentlemen but in my case – at least, I am not aware ―’

A big-built young buck, already stripped to the waist by a girl who was clinging to him and fiercely kissing his chest, appeared to have been listening to the lecture, for at this moment he interrupted.

‘If I don’t mistake, Sir, you were speaking of ratafia.’

The cull did not reply, so Betsy-Ann put in innocently, ‘Why, yes, Sir. Do you care for the drink?’

‘Worth a hundred pounds a glass. Puts a prick on a man like the town bull.’

The cull looked up.

‘Don’t
you
take no more though, John,’ pouted the nymph, ‘or you’ll be needing two of us,’ and she tugged jealously at his arm, as if unable to spare him even long enough for such brief talk. The young man shrugged amiably, as if to say
Such is the penalty for possessing such attractions as mine
, as she pulled him away and up the gilded staircase to Kitty’s private rooms.

‘You seem thoughtful, Sir,’ remarked Kitty. ‘You have perhaps seen that gentleman before?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the cull wonderingly. ‘Going upstairs with that girl, there ―’ He pointed to another whore and broke off, harpooned by envy.

Betsy-Ann found it hard not to laugh. Men were so green! Only see this booby, who couldn’t spy out something as plain as the nose on his face: the whores were under instructions to dote on John, an out-of-work footman hired by the day; tomorrow there would be George, another rented Adonis with a supposed passion for ratafia. These men went upstairs with one girl after another, hour after hour; once upstairs, they stretched out and smoked while the whore in question rested and perhaps had a wash. Not even John’s good timing (for he had, of course, been on the watch for Kitty’s signal) had awoken the suspicions of the wretched flat. He could only think that the handsome young fellow was mighty as a stallion, while he, twenty years older, was not availing himself of all possible advantages.

This last shift of Kitty’s proved decisive: two bottles were purchased. Should the fool come to his senses while upstairs and grow as limp as his empty purse, Betsy-Ann would find ways. Later she would exclaim in amazement, finding him ‘monstrous strong’ for a man of his age, indeed, almost more than she could cope with.

Kitty smiled benignly and drifted away, surveying her realm. Even Betsy-Ann, whose skin stiffened every time she looked at the woman, had to respect her abilities. Appearing to carry off everything by sheer charm, Kitty was as practised a strategist as any Admiral of the Fleet. Every establishment of this type employed bullybacks to keep order, but Kitty went one further. She kept men whose constant task it was to spark jealousy and emulation: not only the athletic John and George, but fellows who appeared to bespeak suppers (at exorbitant rates) for the most beautiful whores and in return were publicly distinguished by doting caresses. There were also ‘hollow legs’ able to put away stupendous amounts of drink, and sharps who laid odds not only on cards, but on certain acrobatic games played in the parlour. All of these instructors combined to bankrupt, by their example, a great many fools. The experienced Corinthians knew who they were and what they were about; the naïve, particularly the young fry eager to compete in debauchery, were swept into the net.

The profit on ratafia being scandalous, Kitty’s whores naturally took nothing else. Betsy-Ann, who had an unforced partiality to the drink, did everything she could to get a glass or two down her cullies: it did nothing for their pricks, but was a useful sweetener of the breath.

A gift of ratafia, an invitation to Haddock’s: each a brazen call to pleasure, to the inventive and delicious vices of the Age. Betsy-Ann flatters herself she is woman enough to answer the call. Mr Shiner has departed. Long live Mr Hartry.

28

There are disadvantages to being waited on by domestics. One is that (as Sophia discovered during her honeymoon) they are liable to overhear what they should not. Another is the impossibility, even with no servant in attendance, of going out unobserved.

She has tried walking alone and has found the experience beyond anything she endured in Bath, so disagreeable indeed as to be almost impossible. On first arrival, she persuaded herself that such was the nature of town life. London is not like the countryside, where a lady travelling within her own district can expect to be recognised and looked up to. Life here is teeming and anonymous. The most infamous women go lavishly caparisoned and keep carriages, so that even the practised eye can scarcely distinguish virtue from vice. It follows that all females, even the most respectable, are subjected to advances from guttersnipes and even from men – she will not call them gentlemen – of family who have sunk and degraded themselves.

Such was her understanding a few weeks ago. Now she has come to a conclusion yet more distressing: while females anywhere in London may be exposed to casual insult, it would appear that the Zedlands inhabit a peculiarly unpleasant district. Impossible to imagine a gentleman of any delicacy wishing to live here, let alone bring home a bride. She wonders, not for the first time, if the house really belongs to Edmund. He has lied about so much, why not about that?

Not wishing to go alone to the Receiving House, she has ordered Titus to accompany her on her walk. It is high time he was let go and an English boy obtained in his place, but there is a use for everything and on this occasion Fan, with her sharp eyes and quick understanding, would never do. If only she had a footman! It was understood that a brace of them would be engaged but then Edmund said it was not worthwhile for such a short stay. Nothing, it seems, is worthwhile: engaging proper staff, decorating the house, inviting her parents have all been repeatedly put off.

So they progress along the pavements, first the mistress, then Titus. Sophia keeps her eyes downturned and clasps her bag in both hands, crossed over her stomach. Despite the awkward gait thus produced, she prefers to keep her arms in front, never allowing them to approach her sides, lest some brute should imagine she is twitching up the edge of her gown.

Gazing downwards is both tedious and uncomfortable, especially when one has been bred to hold up one’s head. From time to time she is absolutely obliged to ask directions, lowering her voice in the hope that Titus will not understand. Even that proves mortifying: one young man shies away from her as if fearing to be accosted.

The humiliation of this last incident is still rankling in her when she at last spies her destination. Across the road is a large, comfortable-looking inn, its façade gilded by fragile sunshine. The picture thus presented has a certain old-fashioned charm.

It is the first time she has consciously approved anything in London and at the realisation Sophia suffers a pang. Everybody who can afford to spends time in this city: with a loving husband, she too would surely have come to relish it. She could defy the smoke, the relentless noise, the foul odours, even the improprieties enacted upon the streets, had Edmund only been what he ought, and her home a place of safety.

‘Stay here,’ she tells Titus before dodging the traffic and entering the inn where her business is swiftly transacted. The letter to Papa and Mama changes hands, vanishes, has already begun the first stage of its journey. When she comes out, Titus is lolling against a wall opposite, looking as stupid as ever.

*

‘Where’d she go, then?’ demands Mrs Launey.

‘From here,’ says Fortunate. ‘Then along, and along.’

‘Lord,’ she mutters in exasperation.

‘There was a corner.’ He tries to remember something nearby. ‘An inn. She said wait outside.’

The cook rolls her eyes. ‘And did this inn have a name, Snowball?’

‘A Receiving House,’ says Eliza. ‘She went to a Receiving House! Am I right, Titus?’

He shrugs.

Fan says, ‘How d’you make that out, Liza?’

‘She had a letter she didn’t want him to see.’

‘It could be, indeed,’ Fan says to the cook. ‘Why else would she leave him outside?’

‘A rendezvous?’

Fan shakes her head. ‘She was only there a minute. My money’s on a correspondence.’

Eliza hops up and down, as if delighted with her own cleverness.

‘I don’t pretend to understand half of what goes on,’ the cook complains. ‘He’s out so much it’s not worth cooking him a supper.’

Fortunate suggests, ‘Ask Mrs when her husband shall be home.’

All three women laugh together. Mrs Launey says, ‘I tell you what, why don’t
you
ask her?’ and they laugh again.

He thinks, I will never understand these people. He feels something brush against his coat, then a gentle pinch at his right buttock: Eliza. He stares in disbelief but she only smiles and winks.

*

‘Not the
very
best room in the house,’ says Ned, lying outstretched on the bed, ‘but I trust you’ll be comfortable.’ He waves his arm towards the mirror over the fireplace, a forest of silver candlesticks framed within its glittering borders. The waft of beeswax mingles with the scent of apple logs.

‘I thought it was always coal in town,’ she says wonderingly.

‘These smell sweeter. Or shall I ring for coal?’

‘O, no! Leave them.’

Burning apple wood: a memory of a place long gone, a lost field, grass sloping down to the hedge and a calf lowing in the night.

In the far corner, away from the fire, stands a marble table holding refreshments. Until now, the seraglio formed Betsy-Ann’s idea of stylish debauchery, but this is several cuts above Kitty’s.

‘Who’s got the best chambers, then?’ she says, flinging herself down next to him.

‘His Majesty and his dear friend John Wilkes, how should I know?’ He laughs. ‘Now
that’d
be worth seeing. You’ve heard of Wilkes, Betsy?’

‘O, yes! Everybody says he’s for the people.’

‘For Woman, undoubtedly, though he’s ugly as Satan – why
is
that, my sweet?’

‘What?’

‘Why is your sex so forgiving of ugliness? It pains me to see Beauty kissing a toad, even a toad as witty as Wilkes.’

‘That’s your vanity, Ned,’ Betsy-Ann says, teasing. ‘Any woman would wish to meet the celebrated Mr Wilkes.’

‘Humph! Not Mrs Zedland, I assure you.’

‘Is it true he’s in France?’

‘He didn’t take me into his confidence. One thing I do know – he’s safer away from here.’

The bolster has been polished with an iron. ‘Starched,’ Betsy-Ann says, nuzzling into it. ‘Is there really a bath?’

‘I believe there’s a tub somewhere. So, we like the treat?’ murmurs Ned, rolling over towards her.

She always forgets how big his mouth is. You wouldn’t think so to look at him, but he has the jaws of a wolf, ready to swallow her entire. She doesn’t dislike that thought.

‘Naked,’ she suggests. ‘In the linen. Lie back, my lord. Allow me.’

‘My lord, is it?’

She pulls back the bedcovers and helps him off with his waistcoat, untucking his shirt and sliding it over his head. He unfastens the breeches, wriggling out of them. Betsy-Ann pushes him back onto the bed. His skin: his fine skin. She runs her hands over him until he’s tight and trembling as a stringed bow.

She takes her time in undressing. When she is naked she lies down beside him again, pulls the sheet across and feels it close over her, cool and inviting.