On a Making Tide

by David Donachie

  With the start of the first race fast approaching the noise had increased till it was a continuous roar, in which few individual calls could be heard. Kathleen Kelly, no doubt flustered into her selection, jabbed a finger at one runner, waited until Greville acknowledged it, then dashed off to witness the race. Greville offered Emma his arm, and followed.

  ‘Was that wise, Charles?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you observe which horse she backed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have done, Emma. Never bet in haste, it is usually fatal. The nag our Arlington Street Abbess has chosen is a true donkey.’

  ‘It may still win. Tortoises have been known to triumph over hares.’

  He spun her slightly, to look straight into her eyes in a way that made her heart skip a beat, his words coinciding with the crack of the starter’s pistol. ‘That is a sustaining thought.’

  She thought he was going to kiss her then, in public, and she was confused about the prospect. But he turned her just in time to see the runners go by, their great hoofs throwing up sods of soft turf.

  ‘Look, Charles,’ Emma cried, ‘it’s Harry out in front.’

  ‘For now,’ Greville replied, but in a voice so low she didn’t hear it.

  Emma was aware of being slightly drunk long before they sat down to dinner, though she was far from alone. Half a dozen races had been toasted by the guests, either in triumph or defeat, so that the forty people who had been invited to stay were all feeling the effects of day-long imbibing. That lent a raucous edge to the gathering, which obviously pleased the host who headed the table, a beaming, red-faced Sir Harry.

  Emma sat near him, taking precedence over Kathleen Kelly and her nuns, who made up a third of the number invited to join in the feast. At one end of the great dining room a group of musicians played, their efforts overlaid by the unrestrained talk. The liveried servants were so numerous that there seemed to be one for each guest, ensuring that the delivery of food was prompt. So was the pouring of claret and champagne.

  No diner was allowed an empty glass, and consumption was encouraged with numerous toasts: praise to the King, the country and Harry’s victorious horse, Montenegro, interspersed with more libations damning such creatures as the French, the watchmen, and pious, quiet souls everywhere for their hatred of riot. By the time they got to the syllabub, things were getting out of control, much to Harry’s delight.

  There was no conversation now, just shouted exchanges of half-intentional insults. Several of the Arlington Street nuns were already embracing their neighbours at the table, while one empty seat, added to the benign smile and slouched attitude on the face of the man next to it, testified to the fact that a pleasing service was being provided out of sight under the linen cover.

  And still claret and champagne was being gorged by the pint. Emma lost track of the number of glasses she had emptied, and was so drunk that it was impossible to form an opinion on the state of everyone else. Things really degenerated after Harry, responding to a jest from one of his friends, aimed the remains of his pudding at the fellow’s head. It missed by several feet, and hit the laughing creature next to him in the gap between her neck and the swell of her breasts. The chill made her scream, but not as much as the sudden planting of a tongue on her flesh, eager to lick off the cream.

  Not to be outdone, another rake lifted his dish, pulled open the front of a dress, and emptied the contents down it, this accompanied by a loud cry to tell everyone present of his intention to eat it wherever he found it. Soon puddings where flying everywhere, the table abandoned by those either seeking to coat someone or to avoid the mess. Female squeals rent the air. Commanded by the host to play louder, the musicians launched into a sparkling reel that induced wild dancing.

  The servants withdrew, taking with them most of the candles. The room now plunged in gloom, Emma no longer had any idea of the person she was reeling with, male or female, or who was planting kisses on her bosom or seeking to lift her dress.

  She didn’t want to look at the other occupants of the great bed, four in number, sprawled in varying directions, all still asleep. The quick glance she had allowed herself showed three naked men, none of them Harry, and one half-clothed female. For the first time in her life Emma couldn’t clearly remember the night before, which had been a whirl of half-caught images, of dancing, laughing and lewd behaviour.

  It took a hard tug to dislodge a sheet from under a couple of recumbent bodies, but since her clothes were nowhere to be seen she had little choice. Thus wrapped, she began to search the house, discovering that each bedroom was occupied by everything from couples to quartets. A pair of rakes had collapsed in the hallway, one, breeches round his ankles, sat in a pool of vomit and piss. The sound of argumentative voices coming from the dining room drew her.

  They were sitting at the table, surrounded by bottles, in a room littered with discarded clothes and half eaten food. Harry was perched on a chair in just his shirt, which was open at the front to reveal his chest. Greville wasn’t elegant, but at least he had on his coat and breeches, though his stock was loose and his wig was askew. Both were drunk, talking across each other with much finger-pointing. She watched them for several minutes, tightening the sheet around her body for comfort more than warmth. It was a glassy-eyed lover who, finally realising she was present, turned and peered at Emma as if he was attempting recognition.

  ‘A ghost, Charlie,’ he slurred. ‘We have a ghost.’

  Greville pointed towards the drapes on the long windows, one of which was open just enough to admit the light by which they could see each other. He spoke slowly, proof of inebriation. ‘I am reliably informed, my friend, that spirits cannot abide the light. You will see, Harry, should you cast a glance behind you, that the sun is up.’

  Harry had stood up, glass in hand, the long shirt covering him to mid thigh, and staggered forward. ‘If I want a fucking ghost, Greville, a fucking ghost is what I will have.’ He came close to Emma, the smell of stale drink strong on his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, the stubble on his chin picking up the glimmer of light. His voice dropped to a near whisper as he addressed her. ‘Have you been fucking, my ghost?’

  She couldn’t answer. Nor could she hold his penetrating look.

  ‘I hope you have, Green Eyes. I promised you to several of my friends. It would be a damned infernal nuisance if you’d let me down.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘I gave the Abbess a fair rogering,’ he continued, in a louder voice, his hand going unsteadily to his crotch to rub it hard. ‘She’s an ancient baggage I’ll grant you, but very obliging in the matter of portals. Old Harry can enter where he likes.’

  ‘How do you tell the wrinkles from the portals?’ asked Greville, collapsing in a fit of giggles on to the table. He was trying to say something about a slack arse but could not get it out.

  Suffering from a headache, with a tongue that resembled leather and the fear that she had, indeed, obliged several of Harry’s friends, Emma spun on her heel. She was aware of a feeling of disappointment. Not at Harry, he was as he had ever been – coarse and vulgar. It was Charles Greville’s condition that affected her, as if in a way he had fallen from grace.

  ‘Where you going?’ Harry demanded.

  ‘To the cottage.’

  Greville had pushed himself up from the table, waving one hand to encompass the whole room. ‘Then you will want your clothes, Emma. I assure you they are here somewhere.’

  ‘I grant you it was a crass remark, Emma, but it was at least well intentioned. I was, as you have so rightly pointed out, as drunk as a baronet.’

  Greville tried to look crestfallen and apologetic, but it didn’t work. He felt quite plainly that Emma was in no position to chastise anyone. The conversation that had preceded the complaint had been like a game; she enquiring in an orotund way about the events of the previous night, and he, with the limited amount he could recall, attempting to spare her blushes.

  He knew Emma to be relativel
y uninhibited when sober. Drink made her more so, but last night was the first time he had seen her truly intoxicated. She knew filthy songs as well as sweet ones, and delivered them with gusto, at one point baring her beautiful breasts to underline the lyrics. For all her present maidenly blushes, she had not objected to any of the advances made to her and had required no persuasion to enter into the orgiastic spirit of the previous night. Watching her now, sitting demurely before him, he felt he was looking at and lying to an altogether different creature. But for all that, it was impossible to avoid the fact that she had distributed her favours to those chosen by her lover.

  ‘It seems I am a chattel, then,’ she snapped.

  How could he say it? That Harry would lend her to a friend with the same alacrity he would provide a horse for a canter over the Downs? That he had enjoyed her but, very likely, was tiring of her? He couldn’t, because it would be too cruel, but he could move closer and hold her hand. And he could introduce a deeper note into his voice to establish his concern.

  ‘My dear Emma, you must not dwell on that which you cannot recall. You will create fancies that are worse than truths.’

  ‘That I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Do you find it so strange that men desire you?’ She stiffened slightly, so he carried on quickly. ‘I cannot disguise the fact that I am smitten.’

  The head went down. ‘You should be more of a friend to Harry then, Charles.’

  ‘Believe me, Emma,’ he replied huskily, ‘I am friend enough.’

  That made her look into his pale grey eyes, her own gaze half shameful, half curious. His grip on her hand tightened, and he moved so his thigh was touching hers. ‘I fear I am not rake enough in these matters. Do not accuse me of having higher standards for I assure you my thoughts are as base as those of the next man. Harry has invited me to approach you more than once. Were we not here two whole weeks without him being present?’

  ‘He proposed—’

  ‘Hinted, Emma. Yet I shied away, out of weakness, from such a gift, even if in my heart and soul I longed to possess it. The fool in me wants to know you intimately, but for you to give yourself willingly. Not as part of some Faustian bargain.’

  ‘I do not know what that means.’

  ‘It is a legend, recently penned in the modern idiom by a German fellow named Goethe. His man Faust sells his soul to the Devil so that his wishes may be gratified.’ He sought to interpret the look in her eye, but that would have foxed Goethe’s devil, Mephistopheles.

  Part of her was thinking that Greville could not help showing away with his knowledge; the other half was grateful that he took the trouble to explain. Not many men she had known had tried to defeat her manifest ignorance outside the bedchamber.

  ‘What I mean, Emma, is this. That I do not fear to be here in this cottage with Harry absent. Should he happen by, there would be, in my case, no brawl over the slight to his honour. Damn, I’ve made you cry.’

  ‘Not you, Charles,’ Emma replied, wiping the first tear from her cheek.

  That made Greville move back, still holding her hand but breaking all other bodily contact. He was experienced enough to know that tears were a poor precursor to lovemaking; that to press his suit now was not only vulgar, but doomed. Yet a clever man, aroused, rarely falters when seeking a solution.

  ‘Nothing would permit me to press my attention upon you under Harry’s roof.’

  ‘Did that apply last night?’

  The question, he realised, was partly a fishing expedition. It was a pleasant coincidence to be able to nod, without saying that he had been unable to get close to Emma the night before, so eager and numerous were the suitors who had got there before him.

  ‘What I would ask is this. That you come to visit me in London.’

  ‘I do not go to London.’

  That was said with a sense of regret and longing, but also with a degree of caution. Emma knew enough to be aware of what Greville was saying, and was, as yet, unsure of how she wanted to respond.

  ‘You have but to ask. Harry will provide the means and the money. It will not surprise him to find that you wish for company, and entertainment.’

  ‘Go when you please,’ Harry shouted, ‘you don’t have to ask. Just tell the coachman and leave me a message. I will instruct Finch to provide you with something to spend.’

  They were pounding across the downs at a steady canter, the morning sun and their mounts’ withers picking up the last of the dew from the tall stalks of grass.

  ‘I thought tomorrow,’ Emma called back.

  As she did so she lifted her eyes, trusting her horse, looking hard to see if Harry could discern any hint of her intended destination. Greville’s suggestion had alarmed her, but then, as the prospect of cuckolding a man who had treated her so shabbily took root, it excited her. A dry stick compared to Uppark Harry, Greville did not arouse the same feelings of excitement in her breast as her present lover. His suggestion that she ask Harry for the means to visit, where most men would have offered their own, was typical. But, for all that, he had qualities she liked, not least in the way he sought to please her as a person, not just as a lover. In a way, she had come to trust him.

  Harry’s next words seemed to confirm exactly where she stood in his affections. ‘I am off coursing in Hampshire, so I’ll be gone from here anyway.’

  ‘You came,’ said Greville, as he personally opened the door.

  ‘I’m expected, am I not? I wrote.’

  ‘Yes!’ He smiled, and pulled her gently into the hallway, nodding to his servant to take her cloak, as he thought about that note, so badly spelt, so stunted for grammar, that had announced her acceptance of his invitation. Everything was prepared for her visit. Cold food and champagne, enough of the latter to break down the residue of her tenuous fidelity.

  In the end, the seduction of Emma was easier than he had supposed. Having determined to indulge him, her mind had been working on the prospect throughout the journey from Uppark to Westminster. By the time she made his front door, Emma was as eager to use his bed as he was himself, determined to demonstrate that this was a mutual bargain, not the seduction of a gormless young female booby. The cold collation and champagne provided an epilogue rather than a prologue to their first coupling.

  ‘… and this is an emerald, Emma. Were it extracted from the surrounding rock and polished it would match your eyes perfectly, especially when held up to sunlight.’

  ‘And that?’ she demanded, pointing with a chicken leg to a dull black lump that stood erect on the glass shelf of the cabinet.

  ‘Lava. The product of Mount Vesuvius, which as you will know spouts continually outside the city of Naples.’

  ‘I don’t know that.’

  ‘You’re a rare thing, Emma,’ he replied, leaning forward to kiss her, catching the grease from her chicken on his own lips.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You admit easily to ignorance, which is not a common trait in any class of society. Most people pretend to knowledge they do not possess.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Greville grinned, which completely changed his normally serious demeanour. ‘I am a Member of Parliament, Emma. To feign knowledge one does not possess is a demand of the occupation.’

  ‘When you know as little as I do, Charles,’ she replied, her eyes running over the rows of books that stood above the display cabinet containing his mineral samples, ‘it would be foolish to pretend.’

  ‘Yet I sense you are eager to learn.’ The smile, as well as the demure dropping eyelashes, encouraged him. ‘I would happily be your tutor.’

  ‘When I was taught the little gifted to me there was a fee.’

  Greville pulled her close and slid his hand inside his dressing-gown, which looked better on her than it ever had looked on him.

  ‘To be paid in kind.’

  It was a game, entertaining and full of pleasures, two lovers instead of one, the contrast so great. Harry would call on her at Rosemary Cottage after shooting, hunting o
r arguing about matrimony with his mother, his method of lovemaking usually reflecting his passionate mood. He would be a physical, frequent and ardent lover, still the boastful, spoilt Harry she had first met, a man who saw his life in a roseate glow.

  She would visit Greville for an altogether less frenetic afternoon of copulation, mixed with a tender care for her continued education. It seemed that Greville wanted her to change, to develop, to become a companion in conversation, to cease to be, in all respects bar one, the Emma that Harry had plucked from Arlington Street.

  She loved the way that small things excited Greville. It seemed that a deft turn of her ankle could rouse him as much as her entire anatomy, a word he had taught her early, just as he told her which painting he had in mind as he ran his hand over her soft skin. He compared her raised foot to a Michelangelo drawing, her breasts and belly to a work by Giotti. And dressed again, Greville would read to her from books she could never have understood on her own, teaching her words in French and Italian, insisting that she broaden her mind, inordinately proud that she remembered a great deal of what he imparted.

  His gentle attention stood in contrast to Harry’s coarseness. Emma, curious to test the difference, attempted to apply some of Greville’s tutoring to Harry, careful to disguise the source, pretending that it was her own knowledge she was disseminating. It didn’t fall on deaf ears so much as a scowling indifference. Harry wasn’t interested in art, books or foreign languages as much as he was in himself, hunting, fishing and shooting. He seemed to see her attempts to converse as a device to diminish him.

  Yet Harry’s enthusiasm, when he was allowed to gabble, as well as his rustic wit, with which she could naturally identify, could still bury Greville’s tenderness. Alone, she would compare the two men, totting up their good and bad points. Harry’s generosity set against Greville’s careful way with money; the joy of riding flat out across the Downs with sessions listening to the writings of Greville’s Dilettanti Society friends; riotous couplings that left the cottage a mess set against the fastidious neatness of Greville’s bachelor lodgings after their lovemaking.