However, the tactic succeeded somewhat beyond its usefulness. Clara has come to enjoy Sewell’s fond attentions, as a way of topping up her required goblet of flattery. For Sewell, this has turned into something of a chore.
He arranges his face into a pleasant expression, smoothes his trousers, his sleeves and gloves. He reaches for the brass knocker, set in the jaws of a lion: hardly has he executed two strikes when the door swings wide open, as though the servant lurked behind it. Liveried in canary-yellow breeches, the footman inspects the visitor with a practised eye, as impersonal as a fence. He does not appear to recognize Sewell, although the latter has visited on a weekly basis for months.
‘A very good afternoon to you, Sir, and may I say welcome to Harewood Manor.’
‘How do you do, Bryson. I am very pleased to be here. Is Miss Greenwell at home?’
‘Please step in, Mr Sewell, and I shall be very glad to determine that for you.’
The footman admits Sewell into the house – or rather, into an ante-room devoid of furniture, a holding chamber in which to isolate the visitor until enquiries can be made.
Waiting in this marble cell, Sewell regards the framed verse on the wall:
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Cowper of course. Poet laureate to the Smug.
With a little squeal of pleasure, Clara Greenwell bursts into the reception room, in a froth of crinoline and lace, her golden ringlets brushed to dishevelled perfection by her chaperone, directly behind – tall and thin, dressed as a widow, a tragically plain woman whose heavy eyebrows gather above an aquiline nose. Indeed, the two women before him make a contrast so remarkable as to be almost deliberate – one pinched and worn at twenty-one; the other, five years her junior, a radiance of creamy, smooth, untouched flesh. Such a grim allegory on innocence and experience! Even Sewell is open to the illusion, though he knows well who is the virgin and who is not.
‘Dear Roodie, what a splendid surprise!’ Clara’s little hand slips into his like a warm dumpling, causing Sewell to redden uncomfortably, and to express himself with an awkward sincerity she finds delightful.
‘Miss Greenwell, you have the beauty of Bathsheba and the grace of Mary.’
‘You are so terribly sweet. Do you remember Miss Brown, my companion and confidential friend?’
Sewell bows, while grasping her companion’s chapped fingers. ‘A delight to see you, Miss Brown. I trust the afternoon finds you in the best of spirits.’
‘I am well within reason. I am obliged to you, Sir.’
Followed by Clara’s black-robed protector, in this muffled atmosphere of successive draperies and protective furniture covers, not to mention covers for the protective covers, the two young people enter a sitting-room containing three chairs, set in a broad triangle near the fireplace. Upon the mantel sit busts of the Queen and the Duke of Wellington, with a portrait of the Saviour between, gazing aloft with gentle blue eyes. Above the Saviour hangs an enormous, elaborately framed mirror, which doubles the weak illumination of gas and firelight (daylight having been banished from the premises), to suffuse the room with a rosy glow sufficient to flatter the most sallow complexion. On either side of the fireplace, a pair of ferns spill over their pots next to stands of hyacinths, the latter producing a moist, sweet aroma.
Incongruously, the mantel is supported by a pair of bare-breasted women, like the prows of ships. Their mahogany colour identifying them as Natives, the display of nudity is therefore as acceptable as with wild animals.
In the centre of the room is a square table containing a partially completed jigsaw puzzle depicting the World, with the Empire coloured red, the rest of the globe in green and blue. A second table by the fire is under preparation by the parlourmaid, setting a tea-tray and plates of wafer-thin bread and butter. As is customary in rooms where members of the opposite sex congregate, the legs of both tables have been concealed by embroidered tablecloths, down to the carpeted floor.
‘Thank you, Emma, that will be all.’ In speaking to the servant, Miss Greenwell employs the high voice recommended for commanding servants, with a rising inflection at the end to indicate that the girl is not to stray very far away.
For her part, Miss Brown takes a bundle of crewel work from her apron and seats herself in the chair closest to the fire so that the young people will be obliged to converse around her person, as though she is a tree.
‘And is life still so very jolly up at Oxford?’ asks Miss Greenwell, seemingly unaware that both Sewell and Harewood came down months earlier.
‘As it happens, at the end of term Reginald and I took a fancy to do London together. For the moment, Reggie has chosen to reside at the Fidelium, whereas I have taken rooms off Bruton Street at Number 34.’
Having made a mental note of the address, she enquires further: ‘Do you find yourself comfortably situated, Sir?’
‘Excuse me, Miss Greenwell,’ interjects Miss Brown, ‘but I hardly think an enlargement on the gentleman’s personal quarters to be a suitable direction for the conversation.’
‘Quite correct, Miss Brown,’ acknowledges Sewell. ‘I am obliged to you. May I say that, toward late afternoon, say around four-thirty, the light shows itself to considerable advantage on the east side of Berkeley Square.’
Miss Harewood’s violet eyes widen prettily. ‘I love the light at Berkeley Square, and agree that it sets off the garden to good advantage – especially under the plane trees. It seems to me that plane trees lend dignity to a garden – would you not agree, Miss Brown?’
‘I have heard Mayfair is a costly neighbourhood,’ observes Miss Brown, taking her cue, for which she expects to be paid five shillings.
12
The Fidelium
Reggie’s club is situated among other clubs while remaining somewhat different from its neighbours, being an older institution whose founding members, their dues paid-up in perpetuity upon their seniority and therefore having nothing further to contribute, have had the effrontery to remain alive. As a result, at the Fidelium new members are assiduously courted, the only requirement being that they be male and somebody, and gambling is encouraged.
So irrelevant have the founding members become to the day-to-day running of the Fidelium that, when an elderly gentleman collapsed in the foyer, patrons took bets as to whether he was dead or in a fit. Upon another occasion, it was not discovered that a founding member had passed on until someone took notice of the fact that the Telegraph shading his face was the previous day’s edition.
In such a club, even while in disgrace, Reginald Harewood is always welcome.
Sewell finds Harewood in the lounge: ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Am I late?’
‘How should I know?’ replies Harewood testily. ‘I don’t have a watch.’
‘Of course. Sorry to have brought it up.’ Indeed, Sewell is worried about his friend, who has not been quite the same since the robbery. ‘Really, you’re going to have to put the incident behind you.’
‘I cannot. She robbed me. It is like being raped. She took my rugby ring!’
‘A devastating loss, to be sure.’
‘An irreplaceable memento, that ring. Really, I should have reported her to the police, if it weren’t for the particular circumstances.’
‘Indeed, you have displayed exemplary restraint.’
Reginald Harewood signals for brandy and cigars. ‘What do you say we dine together?’
‘Here?’ enquires Sewell uneasily, for the Fidelium is not known for its cuisine.
‘I suppose we must, because it is so much trouble to go anywhere else. Could do with a few quid. Financial picture damned rum. Bloody impudent Irish fellow followed me back here yesterday, buttonholed me in the foyer wanting to be paid for something – in front of the company, don’t you know!’
‘What did the fellow want?’
‘By his trousers
I suspect he wanted something on account for the horses.’
‘Blasted cheek! How did it end?’
‘He paused in his damned yammering and I gave him a cigar. While he was biting the end of it, I went straight upstairs. Didn’t come back down for twelve hours, by which time he’d got tired of waiting, I suppose.’
‘If we might go hunting together, I would pay your groom something to keep him happy.’
‘I should like nothing better, old chap, but as I told you, I daren’t go outside in daylight.’
‘What a nuisance. In the meanwhile, any softening of the Governor’s position on Clara?’
‘Not a bit of it. Blessed if I’ve seen a shilling in a fortnight.’
‘The way the city is populating, the Harewood holdings will double in value. A marriage within the family will keep it in the family, don’t you see.’
‘You have a point, Roo. Still, one don’t give in to pressure. Not the thing at all. Besides, I’m not ready to go into business, signing this, buying that.’
‘You’d be the possessor of a great deal of money.’
‘I care not a fig for money – as long as it keeps coming in, of course. Which it is not.’
Sewell, who can see that his friend needs cheering up, presses a five-pound note into his hand. ‘On the bright side, I’ve had a word with your comely cousin, as requested.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘It is settled. Four-thirty at Berkeley Square. Provided, of course, she can negotiate a price with that glowering hag of a governess.’
‘Well done. There’s a good chap.’ Reginald pockets the money as though it were his handkerchief.
‘You could do worse, Reggie. She’s terribly taken with you.’
‘I say, Roo, you should be one of those fellows in a French comedy, who carry messages, move things along, unite the star-crossed lovers, all that sort of thing.’
‘Without being a lover himself?’
‘Not everyone’s ticket, is it? One might as well try to teach a person how to be tall.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ replies his shorter, plainer friend.
By half-past four the London afternoon is transformed utterly by fog, an almost daily occurrence, in which a thick, sooty curtain drops between everyone and everything, noon becomes night, and the city assumes the cloistered gravity of a confession-booth; in which nobody sees anyone else but as a shadow in the mist; when the immanent roar of machines and men is silenced, leaving only the muffled clatter of nearby horseshoes on stone, and the occasional disembodied voice, whose speaker remains anonymous and untouchable.
Today the grey fog has taken its turn, the most common version of the London particular, an eerie grey like the ghost of stone or the lingering shadows of departed walls – the perfect medium for an illicit liaison. When it is the yellow fog, people and objects may be discerned and recognized, albeit with difficulty; but once the grey sets in, the city becomes a well-kept secret, even from itself.
Lit by a weak flicker of gaslight, the fog swirls around a maroon phaeton as it clatters onto Berkeley Square. Nestled under a rug, Clara peers into the mist expectantly, smiling to herself. Perfect.
As a dense cloud of fog enveloped her carriage, she felt a slight flush inflame her cheek, knowing that he awaited to envelop her in his arms, ready to devour her. Already she felt his presence …
She taps the bottom of the driver’s chair with her umbrella, commanding him to stop beneath a plane tree whose branches hold the fog in tufts, like cotton.
‘Remain here, Grimes, if you please.’
‘As you wish, Miss.’
As you wish indeed, thinks Clara, having purchased the servant’s co-operation with five shillings she stole from the housekeeper, and having ensured her chaperone’s silence by making her a present of the romance Uncle Miles gave her at Christmas, in return for a kiss on the mouth.
Reggie must have been waiting behind the tree, for suddenly he is beside her, having vaulted into the carriage in the most graceful manner: now she imagines the two of them as runaways, alone despite the wishes of their parents, moved by their mutual passion, the fierceness of their desire.
She emits a little gasp: ‘Oh, Reginald, you frightened me.’
‘My darling,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘You’ve come.’
He steps down onto the cobbles and assists her out of the phaeton: ‘Wait here please, Grimes, there’s a good fellow. Miss Greenwell and I wish to take a stroll.’
‘Very good, Sir,’ replies the driver, watching the two lovers disappear into the fog.
Clara affects a little shiver, inspiring him to hold her more tightly in his arms. ‘Darling, you’re cold,’ he murmurs.
‘A little,’ she replies, gazing into his face. Her violet eyes widen, prettily.
He kisses her on her lips, made swollen by deliberately biting them. His tongue reaches for hers, whereupon she gently pushes his chest with her little hands. ‘Oh, Reginald,’ she gasps. ‘You’re too much for me.’
‘Please forgive me, Clara. Don’t you see? My love for you is uncontrollable – you must know that, surely.’
She glances downward, modestly.
Clara loves Reggie and is determined to have him, having concluded that handsome, practical men make the best husbands. No Heathcliff for Clara, thank you very much. And although she does not know exactly what it is she craves in her heart, certainly it will be more attainable if she is independently wealthy, and can have what she wants, and make people do what she wants. This much seems obvious.
She affects another little shiver and holds her head so he may kiss her on the mouth again. He has scent in his whiskers. She allows his tongue to remain somewhat longer this time.
‘Oh darling, you’re still cold.’
‘I am a bit, my Reggie. I fear I am not as toughened to the elements as you. Oh my dear, won’t you please take me somewhere warm?’
‘Of course I will, dear Clara, you mustn’t get a chill.’
Clara smiles, while submitting her plump little hand to the strong grip of her future husband and protector.
His hands trembling (she is a hot little treasure), Reginald Harewood fumbles with the brass key to Sewell’s rooms, there to be alone together, while the compliant Roo consigns himself to an evening spent walking the streets.
In the reception room, she tilts her head so that he will kiss her on the mouth again – which, of course, he does.
Peering over his shoulder while she allows him briefly to slip his hands where he shouldn’t, Clara can see through the open door to the bedroom. In her mind she puts aside her fantasy of Miss Brontë and replaces it with something more French – more like the novel she made Uncle Miles obtain for her while in Paris, in return for her continued silence on the subject of certain liberties taken.
He undresses her, layer after layer, then marvels at the white body beneath, from the tiny foot and ankle upward to the mysterious spots and crevices, which he has come to know but still views with childlike fascination. (As a child he was told that a woman went down to the ground in one piece, like the trunk of a tree.)
The door closed automatically behind him. A soft voice said in French: ‘Is that you, mon chéri?’
‘Yes, it is me, my love.’
She could hear his heart pounding like a steam-hammer as he stood over the bed.
She lay there, her buttons carelessly undone. He bent down and she embraced him passionately, darting her little tongue into his mouth. His manhood responded to her fingers and he lifted up her skirts.
She parted her thighs. Her legs were bare. A delicious perfume emanated from her skin, mingled with the perfume of her odoer di femmina. He gently placed his hand on her cunt.
She murmured: ‘Let’s fuck. I cannot wait. Naughty man, you have not been to see me in a week.’
Instead of replying, he pulled out his formidable weapon and climbed, thus armed, onto the bed, ready to train his sights and to thrust himself ferociously int
o the breach, whereupon she gasped in feigned wonder, then began to wriggle her buttocks while crying out: ‘Put it all the way in! You are making me come!’
13
Coldbath Fields
Situated atop Mount Pleasant, Coldbath Fields, or ‘The Steel’, is of a design pioneered in America, consisting of a building with two galleried wings and a common area in the centre; this arrangement has proved especially beneficial in enforcing the now-standard ‘separate system’.
Elegantly simple, the separate system requires convicted criminals to sleep, eat and work separate from one another, and to refrain from speaking for all but one hour a day, an arrangement which contributes to the benefit of all. From the standpoint of the prisoner, reform is achieved through Christian penitence, counting the months with only a wounded conscience for company; for the state, there is enhanced efficiency, a few warders being sufficient to monitor a large number of cells; for respectable citizens, there is the solace and reassurance in knowing that the perpetrators will suffer more than their victims ever did.
In keeping with its philosophy of diligence and order, governorship of The Steel has traditionally been conferred upon officers who have served successfully in the army or navy, who have learned to obey and to command with equal assiduity.
In general, inmates at The Steel serve sentences ranging from two hundred days for serious rental arrears, to fourteen years for the theft of a gentleman’s greatcoat. None is considered beyond redemption. All receive the benefit of the most modern theories, in which Governor Cornwallis has taken a keen interest.
The Fiend in Human Page 11
