Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  What a dark room, she thought, peering into the gloom at all those shadowy figures swaying head to head, a dark secret sort of place, and green as a bottle with its heavy flock wallpaper and its looped curtains and that mottled green cloth on the table. But even as the thought was in her mind, a bright light came burning through the second door at the far end of the room and advanced towards her and the table. It was a servant with a tray full of oil lamps and his arrival brought a startling change.

  As he set the first lamp in the centre of the table, the green setting receded into insignificance and it was the faces she noticed, intense, passionate faces leaning towards the light, foreheads burnished olive and amber, luminous eyes reflecting the bright flames beneath them, dark mouths all talking at once and in very loud voices.

  The man who was speaking as Nan and William Henry came into the room had a heavy German accent. ‘Aye! Zat is ze nub of ze argument,’ he was saying gruffly. It was a surprise to Nan to hear such a deep guttural voice coming from such a small odd-looking man. He had a face like a cat, a triangular face, all forehead and little mouth, with yellow slant eyes and a long straight leonine nose and a mane of white hair silky as fur. ‘Vhat are ve to say of mankind?’

  Mr Johnson was sitting quietly at the head of the table, presiding. He had an expression on his face that she hadn’t seen before, a proprietorial pride like the keeper of the menagerie when his beasts are being wondered at. Now, as a lamp was set on the wall beside him, he looked up and saw William Henry waiting to be noticed.

  ‘Here are Mr and Mrs Easter come to join us,’ he said. ‘How say you, Mr Easter? Are we humans all the same? Pray do sit here. We have kept two places for you.’

  William Henry was embarrassed at being the last to arrive. ‘I am grieved to be tardy …’ he began.

  But Mr Johnson waved his apology aside. He was in a most expansive mood. ‘But are we all the same?’ he insisted, smiling his wry superior smile. ‘How think you?’

  ‘’Twould make for a pretty dull sort of life if that were the case,’ William Henry said, as he and Nan took their places at the table. ‘Allow me to present my wife, Nan.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Nan said, smiling at them all as they smiled and nodded towards her, and feeling honoured to be one in such a company, but a little overawed too, it had to be admitted.

  ‘Und my wife, Sophie,’ the cat-like man said, narrowing his yellow eyes and turning his head towards the woman sitting beside him.

  So he must be Mr Fuseli the artist, Nan thought, and she’s the model he’s married. Can’t say I’d fancy him for a husband. He looks a rum un. But she looked at Sophie with admiration, for she was young and extremely pretty, with a well-rounded bosom and a fine white neck and huge, dark-blue eyes dramatic in the fragile heart-shape of her face. Her hair shone a rich brown in the candle-light and was plainly naturally curly, for it massed about her face in splendid disorder as though she had just that moment risen from her bed. But it was the expression on her face that made Nan warm to her most strongly. For, despite her beauty, she looked vulnerable, like a child lost in adult company. She’s shy, I’ll wager, Nan thought, and she smiled at her new acquaintance with fellow feeling, for truly the men at this dinner party were an overpowering lot.

  The servant returned with a tureen of soup which he served discreetly as the conversation continued. The rum un growled into speech again. ‘Ve must give ze most serious consideration to this matter,’ he said, his yellow eyes teasing. ‘Either ve are greated equal or ve are not. Und if ve are not, then our cousins in America a gross error have made.’

  What is he talking about? Nan thought. What cousins in America?

  And Sophie Fuseli looked across the table at her and winked. It was such a roguish expression it completely altered her face. The vulnerable air was gone in an instant, as though she’d suddenly woken up. Now she looked positively mischievous. Nan was intrigued, and winking back, she decided she liked her more than ever. But they didn’t get a chance to talk to one another, for the conversation was dominated by the men, and they talked so fast and so passionately the three women couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

  They questioned everything, almost as if they were deliberately going out of their way to stand the world on its head, and although they all talked at once, it didn’t take Nan long to realize that the leader of the group was the guest of honour, Mr Paine.

  He sat in the middle of the table, in the middle of the room and all attention radiated towards him. A rugged man and certainly not handsome, Nan thought, for his nose was too prominent and his eyes too deep-set, the brows slanting quizzically towards each other as though he was perpetually on the verge of mocking laughter. But a tough man, she decided, watching as those sharp eyes assessed the company, and uncompromising. Not a gentle creature like her Mr Easter. He wore his own grey hair, simply cut, and had the confident air and weather-beaten skin of a soldier or a traveller, brown as leather against the pale London faces all around him. A leader without a doubt.

  Sitting beside him was another man with equally strong opinions. They called him Mr Blake and were almost as ready to defer to him as they were to Mr Paine, which was odd considering how shabby he was and how often he trailed his sleeves in his food. But he certainly looked extraordinary, like a man ablaze. She watched him, fascinated, as he talked and talked, round cheeks fiery red and bulging eyes lustrous with emotion. The candles looked quite pale beside him. But he was making a terrible mess of his sleeves. And she would rather have talked to Sophie.

  But the meal and the conversation went on and on, and although the food was excellent, the talk was baffling. Fancy saying that men were created equal when it was obvious that there were rich and poor and always would be. But no, according to them, it was the world that was wrong and the world that would have to be changed. There had already been a revolution in America, and soon, so they said, there would be another in France. They spoke of freedom and ‘man’s liberty to attain perfectability’, which sounded most peculiar and couldn’t be right either, could it? Surely all human beings were imperfect, born that way. But no, they disagreed with that too. Original sin was wrong. In fact Mr Blake declared he saw no evidence for it ‘save the prejudice of priests’ and they all applauded him and weren’t shocked at all. Although she was, terribly.

  But that night’s topic was undoubtedly the inequality of wealth and how wrong it was and how it should be changed, for that was the topic they returned to again and again.

  ‘Ideally,’ Mr Fuseli said in his gutteral voice, ‘ze aristocracy should see to it, zat zeir great wealth is distributed viz greater justice. Und if they vill not do this for themselves, from zeir great love for humanity, then humanity, from its great love for ze aristocracy, must do it for zem. No?’

  And at that they all laughed as if the idea were some great joke.

  ‘Society is ripe for revolution,’ Mr Paine said, calmly. ‘Change must surely come and so must the re-distribution of wealth. For I tell you the clergy and the aristocracy cannot hold back the populace for ever.’

  She knew she was staring at them in amazement, but she couldn’t help it. What an extraordinary idea it was. If they weren’t rich, the aristocrats would be just like everybody else. The Easters would be just like everybody else. And wouldn’t it just serve them right! Cutting her poor William Henry like that.

  ‘I have just come back from Paris,’ Mr Paine said, ‘and I tell you, patience there is running very thin. Last week the price of bread was so high, the Parisians were deliberately overturning the bread wagons and auctioning the loaves at a price they could afford. Authority is being questioned, now, on every street of the city.’

  ‘The aristocracy would do well to remember that the people are many and that they are few,’ Mr Blake said fiercely. ‘Howsomever, Tyranny is invariably blind as well as cruel.’

  ‘Liberty has been tried and tested in the American colony,’ Mr Johnson said. ‘Now, if I mistake not, we shall
soon discover whether it will transplant and take root in the old world of Europe. I must confess, I have my doubts. Europe is not America.’

  ‘We have unleashed an idea,’ Mr Blake said mopping his plate with a chunk of bread, ‘and thought has the most powerful emanation.’

  Oh dear, Nan thought, I can’t understand a word of this. I wish they’d get to the brandy and let the ladies retire. And at that moment, as if she’d actually given him the order, the servant came into the room with the decanter.

  She and Sophie were on their feet at once, and although they waited politely for Mrs Wotherspoon to precede them through the door, which was only right and proper because she was an older woman, once they were all safely on the landing, and the door shut behind them, they lifted their skirts and went running up the stairs, giggling like schoolboys let out of school.

  ‘Quick! Quick!’ Sophie said, ‘where’s the closet for pity’s sake? I burst for want of it.’

  ‘Me too!’ Nan said, close on her heels. ‘’Tis all that wine.’

  ‘’Tis the door at the turn of the stairs,’ Mrs Wotherspoon called as she came puffing up behind them.

  ‘That’s a mercy!’ Sophie said, leaping towards it.

  And it certainly was. Much relieved, the two girls continued their climb to the little room on the third floor that the servant was indicating. There was a good fire in the grate and a kettle boiling on the hob and a tray set with tea things on a little side-table, but the room itself could hardly be said to be comfortable. It obviously did duty as library and withdrawing-room and repository for ancient manuscripts and old boots and a good deal else besides. There were cobwebs festooned from every corner and the dust lay silver-thick on the piles of browning paper.

  The two girls grimaced at one another to show their disapproval of it, but Mrs Wotherspoon settled herself into the most comfortable of the three ricketty chairs drawn up beside the fire and commenced to make the tea. ‘Female company is rare in this house, my dears,’ she explained, ‘but he keeps a fine tea, I assure you.’

  ‘Do you dine here often?’ Nan asked.

  ‘No indeed,’ Mrs Wotherspoon said, stirring the pot. ‘I only came tonight to keep you company. When my dear Mr Wotherspoon informed me that there were to be two new brides at Mr Johnson’s tonight, I knew ’twas my duty and acted accordingly.’

  You were quizzy, Nan thought. You wanted to see what we were like. And the same thought had obviously occurred to Sophie, for while their eager chaperone was pouring the tea, she gave Nan another of her winks.

  ‘What do ’ee think of London, my dear?’ Mrs Wotherspoon said, handing the first cup to Nan.

  ‘’Tis an uncommon fine place, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you been to the theatre? There is a fine play at Drury Lane, they tell me.’

  ‘We saw it a’ Thursday,’ Sophie said, tossing her thick curls. ‘Heinrich didn’t like it.’

  ‘Do you call your husband by his Christian name?’ Nan asked in wonder. The casual use of such an intimate address had given her quite a shock.

  ‘Why yes, indeed,’ Sophie laughed. ‘’Twas his suggestion, my dear. ’Tis the new fashion.’

  ‘’Tis not a fashion to which I could accustom myself,’ Mrs Wotherspoon said disapprovingly. ‘Nor Mr Wotherspoon neither.’

  ‘Heinrich is an artist d’ye see,’ Sophie said proudly, ‘and ’tis the purpose of art to set fashions. Or so he says. You should try it, my dear,’ she said to Nan. ‘It makes for such ease in conversation.’

  Nan didn’t want to disagree with her new friend, so she said she might and agreed that she and Sophie would call one another by their Christian names from then on, but privately she knew it would never do for her husband. Mr Easter was too old-fashioned for such things. It would shock him, just as it had shocked her, and he was much too nice and much too kind to be shocked unnecessarily.

  ‘’Tis the opening night of the Ranelagh season on April 15th,’ Sophie went on. ‘There are to be fireworks and music by Mr Handel and Mr Geminiani. ’Twill be uncommon fine. Shall you be there, Mrs Wotherspoon?’

  ‘Indeed yes,’ Mrs Wotherspoon said. ‘I would not miss it for the world.’

  ‘And you, Nan?’

  Nan had to confess that she didn’t know. ‘We do not go abroad much,’ she said, adding, ‘as yet,’ in case they thought Mr Easter mean.

  ‘You must make one with our party,’ Sophie said at once. ‘I insist upon it. I could do with some young company, in all conscience. Heinrich’s friends are all so old.’

  ‘Is there dancing?’ Nan asked.

  ‘Indeed there is. ’Tis the principal attraction. Why, what’s the matter? Do you not dance?’

  ‘I know the country dances, of course,’ Nan said, feeling most inadequate, ‘but I fear the new ones would be …’

  Sophie put down her cup and sprang to her feet at once. ‘Why then we will teach you, will we not, Mrs Wotherspoon? They are easy enough in all conscience, once you have mastered the steps. Come, push the chairs away.’

  So a space was cleared in the middle of the untidy room and the dancing lesson began, with Sophie humming the tunes and Mrs Wotherspoon clapping the rhythm, and the three of them jumping and leaping their way through reels and mazurkas, pavanes and gavottes and gallops until the steps were mastered and they were all so cheerfully hot that Mrs Wotherspoon said there was nothing for it, they would have to ring for the servant and have more tea sent up.

  So the tea was brought and the fire made up, and after refreshing themselves the two girls returned to their lesson, Mrs Wotherspoon declaring she was too fatigued to stir. ‘’Tis a deal too much for my old bones,’ she said, adjusting the fire-screen. ‘Would I were as young as you, my dears.’

  ‘Are you so young?’ Sophie asked as she and Nan took up their positions in the middle of the carpet.

  ‘I shall be sixteen Oak Apple day,’ Nan told her.

  ‘I am older by more than a twelvemonth,’ her new friend said, ‘for I was seventeen the day before I married Heinrich.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Wotherspoon sighed, because she was five and thirty although she would never have confessed to it. ‘Mere babies!’

  ‘No we en’t,’ Nan said. ‘There’s many a one married a deal younger than we are, and all legal and above board.’ Which was perfectly true.

  It was nearly midnight when the dinner party came to an end and well past one o’clock before Nan and William Henry got back to Chelsea. All the street lamps had already been snuffed out, but there was a full white moon so they and their horse had enough light to see by. The moonlit village looked cool and peaceful after the heat and clamour of Mr Johnson’s crowded rooms, even though the river smelt most pungently of tar and hemp, wet wood and rotting vegetation. As they clopped along Cheyne Walk, between the crescent of sleeping houses and the avenue of newly fledged lime trees, with the church tower casting a black oblong against the dark blue of the sky ahead of them, Nan was humming one of the new dance tunes.

  ‘’Twas a pleasant evening, was it not?’ William Henry said.

  ‘Oh, indeed sir, it was, it was.’

  ‘And what were you ladies doing above our heads when you retired, pray?’ he quizzed her. ‘’Twas an uncommon active retirement.’

  ‘Sophie was teaching me to dance,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘She says she means to invite us to join her party for the Ranelagh Gardens opening.’

  ‘Does she indeed,’ he said as the carriage drew up in Cheyne Row. The news put him into something of a quandary, for if they accepted he would have to offer a return party of his own and that would be a greater expense than he could really afford. But her eager face was attracting him so strongly, he could not bear to deny her. ‘Then we must not disappoint her I think,’ he said, making his decision firmly. He could dip into his capital. Just this once.

  It was a most successful evening, for Nan found the Ranelagh Gardens very much to her taste and the Fuselis were excellent hosts. They dined on roast beef and stuffe
d quails in one of the little oriental supper houses in the grounds, and then they took the air along the avenues and arbours, as an aid to digestion, while Mr Handel’s music was played in the grandstand and the fountain played in the pond, and finally they all repaired to the Rotunda, which stood in the centre of the grounds like a great circular palace, drawing in dark crowds through all three of its gilded doors.

  Nan thought it was the most exciting place she’d ever been in. It was so full of grand people, and the women were beautiful, dancing with attentive partners, their elegant gowns swaying like bells, or sitting in the side-boxes, fans a-flutter, absorbed in animated conversation. Many of them, so Sophie said, were members of the ton and yet they danced among the crowd for all the world like ordinary mortals. And Nan and Sophie danced with the best, for after their first turn upon the floor with their husbands, neither of them were short of partners, Sophie being much sought after because she was so pretty and Nan attracting attention because she was so lively and enjoying herself so much. By the end of the evening she had worn a hole in one of her dancing pumps, and earned invitations to three more Ranelagh evenings.

  ‘You are launched upon zociety my dear,’ Mr Fuseli said when they parted. And Sophie kissed her saying, ‘I shall call upon you tomorrow.’

  ‘London,’ Nan told her husband when they’d finally said their prayers that night, ‘is the best place in the whole world.’

  ‘If you are in London, my love,’ William Henry said, smiling at her bright face, ‘then I must confess I am inclined to agree with you.’

  It was a most entertaining summer. They went to suppers and to parties and to spectacular firework displays, and they took regular trips to Vauxhall and Ranelagh Gardens and the Theatre at Drury Lane, and Sophie Fuseli came to visit at least twice a week to tell Nan about the latest fashions or pass on the latest gossip.

  And what gossip it was! The ton might look like gods and goddesses in their splendid clothes, but as Nan soon discovered their deity was undoubtedly of the Greek variety, for they all seemed to be having passionate love affairs and most were conducted quite openly as though they were proud of them. ‘Look ’ee there!’ Sophie would say. ‘There goes Lord Alvanley in his carriage with his latest light o’ love. And there’s Lord Ponsonby, I do declare. That man, my dear Nan, is the greatest rake in London. Seduced three ladies in one evening, so they say, and I can well believe it for he’s uncommon handsome. And there’s Miss Battersby a-riding with Lord Raffles, and a fine diamond in her hair, d’ye mark. ’Twill be his gift I warrant.’