Rake's Progress

by Beaton, M. C.

  Gradually his eyes focused on the beautiful face so close to his own. In a dazed way, he saw the tenderness in her eyes, he felt the warmth of her bosom and the pressure of her arms. He did not know where he was and he did not care. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the mouth, more passionately than he had ever kissed a woman in the whole of his life. Esther’s concern for his welfare was so acute that she did not resist for one little first moment, and that moment was her undoing. She felt her body leap into flame, and if the deafening cheer from the onlookers had not brought her to her senses, she might have begun to kiss him back.

  She jerked away, her face flaming, and said between her teeth, ‘You seem determined to make a vulgar spectacle of me. Drive on!’

  Lord Guy looked about him in a startled way, cursed under his breath, and picked up the reins. He was in despair. About every notable in London society appeared to be on the scene. In even more black despair, he saw the florid features of the Prince of Wales, his corpulent figure perched high in a swan-necked phaeton. Lord Guy bowed, and Esther, her face the colour of beetroot, bowed as well.

  ‘What’s going on, heh?’ called the Prince.

  ‘Lord Guy Carlton at your service, Your Royal Highness. May you be the first to wish me well. Miss Jones has done me the honour to grant me her hand in marriage.’

  ‘Spring in the air, what!’ cried the Prince with a jolly laugh. ‘It’s the nesting season, heh. I said, the nesting season.’

  Everyone about dutifully laughed.

  ‘Invite me to the wedding,’ said the prince in high good humour. ‘Can’t ’member when I was so entertained.’

  ‘We shall be honoured,’ said Lord Guy easily, ‘to welcome Your Highness’s presence at our marriage ceremony.’

  ‘Do not forget,’ said the Prince. He moved on, and society clicked and urged their mounts as they followed in line behind him.

  Esther and Lord Guy were left alone.

  ‘I could not say anything else,’ he said plaintively. ‘Miss Jones, you can call it off, but we must send a notice of our engagement to the newspapers.’

  ‘Never!’ said Esther. ‘You tricked me. You only pretended to go into a trance to get my sympathy.’

  ‘No,’ said Lord Guy sadly. ‘I would that were true. It was that volley of shots that affected my brain. I am haunted by nightmares, even during the day. I came out of my nightmare to find you in my arms. The transition from hell to heaven was too fast for me. Miss Jones, you must forgive me.’

  Esther clutched her head. ‘Oh, the shame of it all!’ she cried. ‘After all my good intentions – to be tied to a rake!’

  ‘You are not tied,’ he pointed out. ‘We shall be engaged this week, which will immediately make our scandalous behaviour respectable. Then, having satisfied the morals of society, we can be separated the next. I shall soon be going back to the wars.’

  ‘You, my lord, are in no fit state to go to any war.’

  ‘What else happened while I was out?’ said Lord Guy. ‘Why, for example, is there a strange and bleeding horse behind my carriage?’

  Curtly, Esther explained.

  ‘Then the least I can do is buy the mare from you,’ he said.

  ‘Fustian,’ said Esther roundly. ‘Since you are returning to the wars, you will not be able to look after a horse, let alone a wife.’

  ‘Oh, do not make me even more ashamed than I feel,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What am I to do?’ cried Esther. ‘The Prince of Wales . . .

  ‘Society will have something else to talk about next week,’ he said. ‘An engagement for a week will quieten scandal. You do not want Peter and Amy to suffer because of my behaviour – behaviour, I may point out, which was really no fault of my own. I did not know what I was doing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Esther bleakly, feeling very sad. Then she rallied with an effort. ‘One week, then, my lord,’ she said firmly. ‘And during that week you will behave like a gentleman. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Lord Guy meekly. He picked up the reins and turned his head away so that Esther should not see the triumphant smile on his face.

  SEVEN

  ‘Morning Post’ (‘The Times’ won’t trust me), help me, as I know you can;

  I will pen an advertisement – that’s a never-failing plan.

  ‘WANTED – By a bard in wedlock, some interesting young woman:

  ‘Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

  ‘Hymen’s chains,’ the advertiser vows, ‘shall be but silken fetters,

  ‘Please address to A.T., Chelsea. N.B. – You must pay the letters.’

  SIR THEODORE MARTIN

  ‘What has our Lizzie been up to?’ asked Rainbird as Mrs Middleton dragged the blushing scullery maid into the servants’ hall.

  ‘Our Lizzie has a letter and refuses to let me see it,’ said the housekeeper.

  ‘Now, Lizzie,’ said Rainbird, ‘girls in your position are not supposed to receive letters without telling their betters where they come from. You don’t have any family, so who has been writing to you?’

  ‘It’s private, Mr Rainbird, sir,’ said Lizzie desperately.

  Rainbird felt uncomfortable. Mrs Middleton was right, of course. On the other hand, it did seem terrible that Lizzie was forbidden any private life at all.

  ‘Let her keep it,’ said Alice slowly. ‘Seems to me we do have some rights. Lizzie wouldn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘She’s bin writing for jobs, that’s what,’ cried Dave.

  ‘You shouldn’t ha’ taught ’er to write.’

  ‘You haven’t, have you, Lizzie?’ asked Rainbird.

  ‘Not a job, no,’ whispered Lizzie.

  ‘Here comes that Manuel,’ called Joseph.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later, Lizzie,’ said Rainbird. The staff were united in their dislike of Lord Guy’s servant and never discussed anything personal in front of him.

  ‘That ees that,’ said Manuel furiously.

  ‘What ees what?’ mocked Jenny.

  ‘My lord tell me to go to the Times and put an advertisement in to say he wed this Miss Jones.’

  They all cheered, and Manuel looked at them angrily. ‘It mean he no’ go back to Spain. I rot here in this stinking country.’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ said Rainbird. ‘If you’ve been told to put in an advertisement, go and do it, and don’t stand around here sulking and glooming. Off with you.’

  ‘One day, you be sorry you speak to Manuel with disrespect,’ said the servant, charging out.

  ‘Good,’ said Rainbird. ‘I’ll say one thing for that Spanish onion, he don’t stay around very long, always creeping here and there.’

  ‘What do you say to this idea?’ said Angus MacGregor. ‘We wait until he’s asleep tonight and take a look in his wee book. He must keep it on him, for I searched his stuff and it wasnae there.’

  Mrs Middleton let out a squawk. ‘You are not taking those children seriously, Mr MacGregor?’

  ‘Aye, I am a wee bit. I hae a mind to make sure.’

  The men fell to discussing ways to stay awake to search Manuel’s clothes when he fell asleep. Lizzie began to edge away towards the door.

  ‘No, Lizzie,’ said Rainbird, his quick eye catching the movement. ‘Come here. I am afraid we are going to have to see that letter.’

  Tears started to Lizzie’s eyes as she reluctantly handed it over.

  Rainbird read it aloud. ‘Dear Miss L. O’B,’ he read. ‘In answer to your advertisement in the Morning Post, I am a single fellow of comfortable means and I feel we should suit. I am not ill-favoured and have a cobbler’s stall at the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard. If you call, we can discuss matters to our mutual benefit. Yr Humble Servant, Josiah Dancer.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Alice, round-eyed. ‘Our Lizzie has gone and advertised for a husband. Why, Lizzie?’

  ‘I don’t want to be a servant any more,’ said Lizzie, twisting her apron in
her work-worn fingers.

  ‘But we only need about two more Seasons,’ cried Rainbird, ‘and then we can have that pub, and you will be independent.’

  ‘But never really, please, Mr Rainbird, sir,’ said Lizzie. ‘You see, we’ll all keep our ranks, I know we will. You and Mrs Middleton will be in charge; Mr MacGregor will cook; Joseph, Alice, and Jenny will wait; Dave will do the pots; and I will be the scullery maid, just like always.’

  ‘No, Lizzie,’ said Rainbird, ‘we will hire a couple of servants for the heavy work. You will be an independent lady.’

  ‘I want to use my share of the Vail Box for a dowry,’ said Lizzie, drying her tears with a corner of her apron. ‘I want a home of my own.’

  ‘Did you give this address to the newspaper?’ asked Rainbird.

  ‘No,’ said Lizzie. ‘I collected the reply. There was only the one.’

  ‘Come on, Liz,’ wheedled Joseph. ‘You can’t leave us. Look, I got you a present.’ He drew the red silk rose out of his pocket and held it out. Lizzie winced and turned away. She recognized that rose, the rose given to Miss Hunt, the rose which had nearly broken her heart and had made her spend most of her precious bonus of two pounds putting an advertisement in the Post.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ she said, putting her hands behind her back. ‘It was for Miss Hunt.’

  ‘I really bought it for you. Honest, I did,’ said Joseph. ‘Luke was there, and I couldn’t tell him it was for a scullery maid, so I lied and said it was for that Miss Hunt. Luke made me try to give it to her.’

  ‘I want permission to go out, Mr Rainbird,’ said Lizzie in a shaky voice. ‘I’ll always be the scullery maid here, and even Joseph is ashamed of me. Mr Dancer sounds nice and he’s literate.’

  ‘Lizzie, Lizzie. He paid someone to write that for him.’

  ‘I want to go,’ said Lizzie, stamping her foot.

  ‘Know your place, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Middleton, ‘and don’t ever speak to Mr Rainbird like that again.’

  ‘Oh, leave her,’ said Rainbird wearily. ‘Go on, Lizzie, ’fore my lord gets back and starts ringing the bells and makes me change my mind. We’ll manage without you for a little.’

  When Lizzie had left, they all looked reproachfully at Joseph.

  The front-parlour bell began to ring, and Rainbird ran to answer it.

  Lord Guy and Mr Roger were sitting together. ‘Bring us a bottle of the best burgundy, Rainbird,’ said Lord Guy.

  ‘Certainly, my lord,’ said Rainbird, ‘and allow me to offer you my congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, but your congratulations are not in order. Miss Jones became engaged to me because I involved her in a scene before the Prince of Wales and had to propose to her to save her reputation. She plans to terminate the engagement in a week.’

  ‘All sorts of things can happen in a week,’ said Mr Roger bracingly.

  ‘I received a note from Miss Fipps that they are to go to the opera tonight,’ said Lord Guy. ‘I hope some fool does not let off a squib or I might go into a trance again. What a milksop I am! London’s full of fighting men who don’t faint and turn green at the memory of battle. You don’t, Tommy.’

  ‘Doesn’t affect me that way,’ said Mr Roger with a shrug, ‘but I get some devilish nightmares.’

  ‘But nonetheless, Rainbird,’ said Lord Guy, ‘I am indebted to you for the idea of the children’s party.’

  ‘I felt sure it would provide you with an opportunity to appear in a good light, my lord,’ said Rainbird.

  ‘There is that,’ said Lord Guy. ‘It was also enough to put me right off any idea of setting up my own nursery. Bring that bottle, Rainbird, and then tell Manuel I need him to help me dress.’

  ‘I believe he has stepped out, my lord.’

  ‘Then send someone to find him. I really must think seriously about sending Manuel home. He has turned most odd since his arrival in England.’

  Lizzie walked all the way to the City, anger with Joseph speeding her steps. Dancer was a happysounding name, she thought. He had his own stall, therefore he was independent. Through him, she could escape her basement life, a life where she was not allowed to marry. Even if they got the pub, Joseph would never ask her to marry him. He would always think of her as a scullery maid.

  Evening was falling, and fog was beginning to creep up from the river. She crossed the Fleet Bridge where nuts, gingerbread, oranges, and oysters lay piled up in movable shops. Saloop stalls were dotted at the corners of the winding City streets. The saloop stall was a small kitchen table on wheels, with cupboards, and fitted with an urn for the making of the saloop – an infusion of sassafras, sugar, and milk, sold at three halfpence a bowl. Its price made it popular with workers, who found the price of tea and coffee too high.

  One of the Prime Bits of Gig of the all-night Bucks, successors to the Mohocks, was to overturn these stalls and wreck the owners’ livelihood. But it was not only the loutish members of the aristocracy who put decent folks in danger. The lower orders had been getting uppity ever since the French Revolution and were just as happy to molest a respectable female or throw an elderly gentleman in the kennel.

  Lizzie had learned to keep a weather eye out for trouble. With her hair covered with her shawl, she hurried on up Ludgate Hill.

  But before she could reach St. Paul’s, she had to crouch back against the houses to let a crowd of dustmen go by. One dustman was being subjected to Burning Shame, having been found in bed with another dustman’s wife, and tried in a City tavern. His hat was decorated with a crown of holly and two large carrots. He was mounted on the shoulders of four dustmen, and a procession was formed, with the chief dustman leading it, and another, with a bell, announcing the crime. Then came the rest of the dustmen, wearing their fantail hats, each decorated with holly and a lighted candle. Behind rode the mounted culprit, considerately provided with a pot of beer and a pipe, and the rear of the procession was made up of the dustmen’s wives and daughters.

  Lizzie backed into a dark doorway, not out of fear of the people in the procession, but because she did not have any money with her. The dustmen with boxes were collecting money on either side of the street. When they considered they had enough, then the whole crowd, including the culprit and the wronged husband, would settle down for a whole night’s drinking in one of the taverns.

  When the last candlelit hat had bobbed past down Ludgate Hill, she hurried on. The fog was thickening and taking on that greyish-yellowish hue that meant it was going to become a suffocating pea-souper.

  By the time she reached St. Paul’s churchyard, she was anxious to have the meeting over and done with so that she could return to Clarges Street while she could still see her way.

  She hesitated a little all the same, overcome with shyness, peering through the fog at the row of little stalls like medieval booths, lined up against the churchyard railings.

  She saw the cobbler’s stall. There was a young man in front of it. He was well set up, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and good legs. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.

  Lizzie took a deep breath and started forward.

  ‘Lizzie!’ A hand caught her arm.

  In a fright, she wrenched her arm away, and then found herself looking up into Joseph’s round blue eyes.

  ‘Don’t do it, Liz,’ he said.

  ‘I shall do as I please,’ said Lizzie, made heady with power. What a weakling Joseph now seemed compared to that strong young man. Joseph was out of his livery. He was wearing a suit of ordinary brown wool with a coarse cotton shirt and a belcher neckerchief.

  The sight of an ordinary Joseph – no longer flattered by black-and-gold livery – strengthened Lizzie’s resolve.

  ‘Leave me be,’ she said. With head held high, she walked toward the cobbler’s stall.

  But as she approached, the young man walked away along by the churchyard, whistling to himself. Lizzie watched him go, and stood irresolute. He had been only a passer-by.

  ‘Lizzie,’ came Joseph�
��s voice in her ear again.

  ‘Leave me alone, Joseph, do,’ said Lizzie, but in less determined tones than she had used before. ‘I came to see this Mr Dancer, and see him I will!’

  ‘Well, let me come with you, just to make sure he’s honest,’ said Joseph.

  Lizzie looked about. The fog was getting thicker. A drunk reeled past, staggered, and swore.

  ‘All right, then,’ said Lizzie, ‘but you’re not to interfere.’

  Together they approached the stall. A wizened little man popped out from the back and looked up at them curiously.

  ‘Mr Dancer?’ asked Lizzie timidly, thinking this might be the father.

  ‘Not me,’ said the man. ‘Minding ’is stall for ’im. Be back soon. You wantin’ ’im?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘See ’ere. I wants to go for a pint o’ shrub. Keep an eye on the place. Be back in a tick.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he scuttled off into the fog.

  ‘Let’s go, Liz,’ wheedled Joseph.

  ‘No,’ said Lizzie. Somehow, she was sure Mr Dancer would turn out to be someone like the young man she had seen, someone to be proud of, someone to keep house for.

  They waited uneasily while the fog thickened. Lizzie could barely see Joseph’s face.

  Night had fallen. The fog had silenced everything. Carriage wheels were muffled. Passers-by loomed up as blacker blobs in the gloom and then disappeared. Lizzie shivered and drew her shawl more tightly about her.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Joseph, ‘and I think I heard the name Dancer.’

  Suddenly, unnaturally loud in the fog, a woman’s voice said, ‘I hopes you know what you’re a doing of, Mr Dancer. Wot if the law gets you? What’ll become of me and the childer?’