‘And I do? Well, thank you for that!’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. But I can’t go to Leda Sheridan’s unescorted, and I couldn’t think of any other way to persuade her to admit us, and to show us around. You should wear your very best clothes, and so will I, but I will be playing the part of your peculiar, and wear a mask, so that Mrs Sheridan won’t be able to describe me to George Hazzard afterwards.’
James reached across the table and laid his hand on top of hers. ‘I have to allow you this, Beatrice. You have the most devious mind I have ever come across, in any woman. But don’t take that badly – I admire you for it. In fact I envy you.’
Beatrice sipped her cup of coffee, and then she said, ‘What you must do is ask Mrs Sheridan if she has any unusual girls in her house – Chinese, perhaps, or mulattos, or Africans. I pray that Grace is not there, but if she is, that should encourage Mrs Sheridan to bring her out and show her to us.’
‘And if she is? Then what?’
‘While you engage Mrs Sheridan in conversation, I’ll take Grace aside on the pretext of asking her what unusual tricks she could perform for your party. I’ll let her know who I really am – that’s if she hasn’t recogniszed me already by my voice. I’ll ask her if she wants to leave Leda Sheridan’s and come back to St Mary Magdalene’s.’
‘And if she says no?’
‘If she says no, we wind up our fakery as quickly as we can, and make our excuses, and leave. If there is one thing I learned as a parson’s wife, it’s that you can never help those who have no desire to be helped, no matter how much you try to persuade them.’
‘And if she says yes, but Mrs Sheridan can call a flashman or two who won’t permit us to take her away? I was taught boxing at school, but I doubt that I could best some brothel bully.’
‘In that case, we call for a constable.’
James took out his watch and flipped open the lid. ‘Look, it’s nearly nine, and I have to be back in time for my class. What time were you thinking of going to Leda Sheridan’s?’
‘Not until this evening, at nine o’clock perhaps, after supper and after Mrs Smollett has retired.’
‘I don’t know, Beatrice. This sounds like a very dubious enterprise, to say the least. We could both end up in the river.’
‘I know it could be dangerous, James. But I can’t leave Grace at the mercy of some bawd like Leda Sheridan.’
James stared down at his cup of coffee. He picked it up and sipped it, but it had gone cold, and so he pushed it away. Beatrice could tell that he was deeply troubled.
‘James, say no if you really don’t want to do this.’
He grunted in bitter amusement. ‘You sound exactly like my poor late Sophie. She always gave me a choice, and that was the way in which she persuaded me to do anything she wanted.’
*
Beatrice was greatly relieved that evening when Ida rose from the table after finishing her supper and declared that she was going to retire early. She said that she was feeling exhausted after a long day teaching the girls how to comport themselves in refined company. Apart from that, she had drunk three large glasses of burgundy with her pork chop and parsnips, on top of the cider which she had drunk with dinner, and she had been mixing up her words when she had been saying after-supper grace.
‘Lord, you have fled us – fed us – from your gifts and flavours. Favours. Fill us with your mercy, for you live and live and live forever and ever. Amen.’
As soon as Beatrice had heard Ida close her bedroom door, she hurried upstairs to her rooms to change. It was only yesterday that she had opened the last of the five trunks which she had brought with her from America, and inside this trunk was the dark-blue silk dress which had been made for her to attend a celebratory ball in Concord. It was cut low with a ruffled white lace collar and ruffled white lace cuffs.
For a few seconds she held it to her face and breathed in. It still smelled of the perfume she had worn that night, when she had danced with Francis.
Once she had laced up the gown, she took out its matching bonnet of artificial blue roses and white gardenias, with dangling blue ribbons. It had been slightly squashed inside the trunk, but she managed to straighten it.
That afternoon, in Tompkins in Gracechurch Street, she had bought a papier mâché masquerade mask covered with pale-blue silk and decorated with silver sequins. She tried it on in front of the looking glass and thought she looked extremely elegant and mysterious, exactly as the mistress of a fashionable and wealthy young man might look. But her heart was beating hard and she was beginning to wonder if her plan to rescue Grace was far too dangerous.
But then she thought: What can they do to me, even if they unmask me? And the risk must be worth it, if I can manage to save Grace from a life of depravity.
She had told Judith that she was going to Snow Hill to visit some old friends who had known her father when he had first opened his apothecary shop in Giltspur Street. Judith promised to look in on Florence from time to time during the evening, in case she was woken up by a bad dream, or needed a drink.
Beatrice was ashamed that she was finding it easier to tell lies, but she knew that she had to protect herself and Florence. Although she had her suspicions, she wasn’t yet certain who she could trust, and who was behind the elaborate satanic warnings that she had been given. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Satan.
She had asked James not to come and knock at the door, but to be waiting outside with a hackney coach at nine o’clock sharp; and when she went across the landing and looked out of the window, there he was, five minutes early. She took down her cloak from the peg on the back of the door and then she went downstairs as quietly as she could, her slippers pattering and her silk dress whispering against the banisters.
It was cold outside, with an easterly breeze blowing, but dry. James helped her up into the hackney and said, ‘Brydges Street, please, by the Theatre Royal.’
‘I have to admit that I’m very nervous,’ said Beatrice, as they jolted down Ludgate Hill towards Fleet Street.
James took hold of her hand and said, ‘Do you want to change your mind? We could always go somewhere else for a drink, perhaps. Or we can simply turn around and go back.’
‘No, James. I can’t abandon Grace now.’
They went up Fleet Street and along Butcher Row into Wych Street, and then into Drury Lane. Brydges Street was at the back of the Theatre Royal, and a performance must have been coming to a close, because it was lined with hackney coaches and crowded with street musicians and link boys and beggars and prostitutes old and young. The evening was filled with a cacophony of fiddles and flutes and hoarse-voiced singing and laughter. Two prostitutes were having a violent fight and screaming at each other and scratching each other’s faces, while people stood around them cheering them on and clapping.
Leda Sheridan’s house was a tall narrow four-storey building at the end of Brydges Street, on the corner of York Street. Its front door was painted glossy red, and there were two oil lamps burning either side of it, but there was nothing to indicate that this was one of the most celebrated brothels in London. Beatrice and James climbed the front steps and James rang the bell.
The door was opened immediately by a burly flashman in a scarlet military coat and white buttoned-up leggings which resembled the uniform of the Grenadier Guards, although a ratty white wig was perched on top of his head instead of a guardsman’s mitre. His nose was broken into an S-shape and most of his front teeth were missing.
‘Be of service to you, sir?’ he said, in a tone that was halfway between obsequious and sarcastic.
‘I wish to speak to Mrs Sheridan,’ said James, clearing his throat. ‘I’m hoping to arrange a party here for my friends.’
‘And your name, sir?’
‘Do you not know me? Viscount Wolstenholme, of Wolstenholme Hall.’
‘I do beg your pardon, your lordship. Please come in. I’ll advise Mrs Sheridan that you’re here.’
Beatrice and James ent
ered the hallway. It smelled strongly of musky perfume, and the walls were papered in lurid pink with scenes of naked nymphs and well-endowed shepherds and fauns playing pan pipes, as well as being hung with swags of crimson velvet drapery. Beatrice could hear laughter coming from upstairs, and running feet, and a girl crying out, ‘No, you duddering rake! How dare you!’ although it was obvious that she was teasing rather than angry.
The burly flashman ushered them into the drawing room, which was also wallpapered, this time in mustard yellow, with pictures of Romans in togas surrounded by naked dancing girls. Over the fireplace hung a huge oil painting of a satyr and a large-bottomed woman making love, and a log fire was burning in the grate. The room was furnished with two immense camelback sofas upholstered in purple velvet, and four matching armchairs.
‘My first time in a house of ill repute,’ said James, looking around. ‘I have to say that I’m quite impressed.’ Then, nodding towards the painting over the fireplace, ‘You’re not offended, are you?’
Beatrice smiled and said, ‘Life in New Hampshire could be very basic at times, James, and I have seen women’s posteriors before.’
A few moments later, a small woman in a red-and-black dress came into the room. Her dress was cut so low that her ample breasts were forced upward and it looked as if she would only have to sneeze and they might both tumble out. A lacy black shawl was draped around her shoulders and she wore a sparkling hat with three huge black ostrich plumes on top, which almost doubled her height.
Beatrice thought that she must have been very attractive when she was younger, because she had high cheekbones and a small curved nose and sensual heart-shaped lips, but her eyes were so puffy now that they were nearly closed, and she had three black-velvet patches attached to her face, two stars and a crescent. Sticking a patch next to her left eye was supposed to indicate passion, while the patch on her upper lip suggested coquettishness, and the patch on her cheek meant pride. They also probably meant that she was hiding sores caused by syphilis.
‘You’re most welcome, your lordship,’ she said. ‘Leda Sheridan at your disposal. May I ask what brings you here this evening?’
‘Of course,’ said James. ‘And may I introduce Miss Pandora Stevens, my companion?’
‘Miss Stevens,’ said Leda Sheridan, nodding her ostrich plumes, although she gave Beatrice only the briefest of glances. It was plain that she had little respect for mistresses, no matter how eminent their keepers might be.
‘A good friend of mine is about to be wed, and I would like to arrange a jolly pre-nuptial celebration here for him and sixteen other gentlemen,’ said James. ‘I was thinking about the ninth day of next month, if that is convenient.’
‘I think I should be able to accommodate you and your party, your lordship,’ said Leda Sheridan. ‘Is there any particular theme you had in mind?’
‘Exotic, that’s what I’m looking for,’ said James. ‘A variety of girls of differing nationality, if it’s possible. Say a Chinee or two, and an Arab, and a Hottentot, if you have any such girls available.’
‘I have two Chinese girls... well, one Chinese and one Japanese,’ said Leda Sheridan. ‘I can also provide you with a dark-skinned Berber girl from Morocco and one from Spain who has a very dusky appearance.’
‘No black girls at all?’
‘I may be able to acquire one or two for you. Won’t you be seated, your lordship, and I will tell you exactly what manner of entertainment I am able to provide, and what refreshment, and what the cost is likely to be.’
‘Very well,’ said James, and he sat down on one of the camelback sofas. Leda Sheridan sat next to him, very close.
‘May I please use your lavatory?’ asked Beatrice.
Leda Sheridan glanced at her quickly and tutted. ‘It’s at the very end of the hall, on the right.’
Beatrice said thank you, and left the room. She knew she had very little time, and from what Leda Sheridan had said about black girls, it didn’t seem likely that Grace was here. In spite of that, she crossed over to the staircase, where a bronze statuette of a voluptuous naked woman stood on top of the newel post. She could still hear laughing and footsteps running around on the first-floor landing, so she turned back towards the drawing room to make sure that Leda Sheridan couldn’t see her, and then she quickly began to climb up the stairs.
As she reached the landing, a door opened on her left and two girls came bursting out, a redhead and a brunette, both laughing. The brunette was wearing only a short linen chemise and the red-haired girl was bare-breasted and had nothing on except her petticoats.
A coarse man’s voice from inside the room shouted, ‘I’ll spank the both of you for that!’ He sounded as if he were drunk, or drugged.
‘’Allo, lovey!’ said the redhead, when she saw Beatrice. ‘Are you new ’ere?’
‘Oh – yes, yes I am,’ said Beatrice. ‘But I’m looking for a friend of mine. A black girl called Grace.’
‘Come back here or I’m coming out after you!’ the man shouted. ‘Pissing all over me like that!’
‘Oh, shut your trap!’ the brunette called back. ‘You loved it, you cully! I’ll come back and give you Sir Reverence next!’
‘There’s a blacky girl ’ere but ’er name ain’t Grace,’ said the redhead. ‘Mrs Sheridan calls ’er YaYa.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Beatrice.
‘’Ere, I’ll take you to ’er. She’s ’avin’ a bit of a Bo-Peep, I expect. There’s goin’ to be a big party at midnight and she’s the main attraction, ain’t she, Ellie?’
‘Rather ’er than me,’ said the brunette, and gave an exaggerated shiver.
The redhead led Beatrice along the landing to the last door. The carpet was rumpled up so Beatrice had to be careful not to trip.
‘She only come yesterday and she’s been sleeping most of the time so I ain’t ’ad the chance to talk to ’er,’ said the redhead. She opened the door without knocking and went inside.
The room was small and dark and smelled of musk and sweat and some apple aroma like tansy. There was a large brass-framed bed in the middle, with heaps of cushions but no blankets, even though the room was chilly. A black girl was lying asleep on the horsehair mattress, dressed in nothing but a white cotton nightgown which had ridden right up to her waist.
‘Is this your friend?’ asked the redhead.
Beatrice entered the room and edged her way around the end of the bed. The black girl had one hand in front of her face, so she knelt down on the bedside mat and gently lifted it away, and it was Grace.
‘Grace,’ she said, shaking her shoulder. ‘Grace.’
The redhead said, ‘I’d best get back. ‘Is nibs is goin’ to start ’ollerin’ for Mrs Sheridan and wantin’ ’is money back. I’ll see you later, lovey, all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Beatrice, but immediately turned back to Grace and shook her again.
‘Grace, can you hear me? Grace, this is Beatrice. Grace!’
She shook her three or four times more, and then Grace opened her eyes. She stared at Beatrice for a long time without saying anything, and then licked her lips.
‘Grace, please try to wake up. I’ve come to take you away from this place.’
Grace’s eyes were filmy and unfocused, and Beatrice wondered if she could see her at all. She licked her lips a second time and then said, in a croaky whisper, ‘Where am I?’
‘Grace, you’re in a brothel. George Hazzard took you away from St Mary Magdalene’s and brought you here. Please, Grace, try to wake up. We need to get you out of here quickly.’
‘Who are you?’ said Grace.
‘It’s Beatrice, Grace – Beatrice. Little Florence’s mother. Please, Grace, we have very little time. Do you think you can stand up?’
Grace didn’t answer her, and after four or five seconds she closed her eyes again and started to breathe deeply and steadily.
There’s no question, she’s been drugged. What with, God alone knows – probably laudanum. But if they�
��ve had to drug her, that almost certainly means that she didn’t come here to Leda Sheridan’s because she wanted to.
Beatrice stood up, uncertain what to do next. She could go out and call for a watchman, but she would then have to prove to him that Grace had been abducted. Leda Sheridan would only have to deny it and it was unlikely that the watchman would take any further action. From what the girls at St Mary Magdalene’s had told Beatrice about brothel-keepers, Leda Sheridan would either be bribing the watch to turn a blind eye to whatever happened behind her front door, or granting the watchmen free usage of her girls, or both.
Even if Grace had woken up by the time he arrived, and told him herself that she had been brought here against her will, Grace was black, and a prostitute, so no matter what she said she wouldn’t be believed.
Beatrice could go downstairs and tell James that Grace was here, and James was probably strong enough to carry her out in his arms, but she seriously doubted that he would be able to force his way past Leda Sheridan’s flashman.
The red-headed girl had said that Grace was going to be the main attraction at a midnight party, so presumably she was expected to have woken up by then. Beatrice thought that if she could manage to hide in the house until Grace had fully recovered consciousness, it might be possible to find a way for both of them to escape.
She went hurriedly back down the staircase and into the drawing room. James and Leda Sheridan had finished their discussion about the party that ‘Viscount Wolstenholme’ was keen to arrange, and James said, ‘Ah! Pandora! I think everything has been worked out to our mutual satisfaction. Are we ready to leave?’
The front doorbell jangled, and the scarlet-uniformed flashman passed by the drawing room on his way to answer it. Beatrice heard the door open, and then raucous men’s laughter, and the sound of women chattering like a flock of chaffinches. Thirty or forty people came crowding into the hallway, and some of them peered into the drawing room and raised their hands to Leda Sheridan in salute.
Leda Sheridan said, ‘In any event, your lordship, I must bid you good evening. I have to entertain my guests.’
The Coven Page 23
