by Sean Russell
Half a dozen men his own age looked down at him, grinning. “Why, Samual Hayes,” one of them said, “have a drink,” and proceeded to pour wine all over Hayes’ face.
“Hume!” Hayes managed, almost choking. He pushed himself up, fending off the bottle.
The young gentlemen were laughing madly.
“Aye, have another drink, Hayes.” Hume began tilting another bottle toward Hayes, but he managed to push this one away, too.
“Flames, Hume, but you came just in time. I was being chased by footpads.”
“On Spring Street?” someone said, clearly certain he was joking.
“You’d have been better off with the footpads, I’ll wager,” someone laughed. “We’re celebrating Hume’s impending demise. Marriage, that is.”
Hayes struggled up into a crouch and stared out the rear window. He could see them now, a group of men at the run, but too far back to be distinguished. Too far back to catch them, that was certain.
“Blood and flames,” Hume said, twisting around to look out. “You were serious.”
“Let’s go back and give them what-for,” someone called out. “I’ve a rapier in here somewhere.”
“No!” Hayes said quickly. “Drive on.”
“Hah! Out of the frying pan into the fire, Hayesy. You’re with us now and our intent is far more wicked than any footpads. Driver,” the young man called, “The brothel!”
“The brothel!”
“The brothel!” The others took up the cry, and the carriage careened off down the street, only the fragile common sense of horses keeping the gentlemen from disaster.
* * *
* * *
The anemic light of coach lamps smeared across rain-oiled cobbles and lit the moving flanks of horses without having a noticeable effect on the overwhelming darkness. Avonel of an evening in early spring.
Erasmus Flattery stepped down from the hired coach and, with barely a nod, shook some coins out of his pocket for the driver. This was the address, he was sure. A doorman held an umbrella for him, interrupting a drizzle so fine it seemed more like a cool, falling dew, or the actual substance of darkness dribbling down from the heavens.
“Sir . . . ?” the doorman said expectantly, and Erasmus realized he was standing there as though unsure he would enter—like a young man who’d lost his nerve. In truth he had always avoided such places, though not on moral grounds. He was not a prude. But brothels were the haunts of foolish young men, and the old attempting to deny the truth of time. Either way it was a house of delusions, and, as such, repugnant to Erasmus. But then, Erasmus had come out of perverse curiosity.
Only the Marchioness of Wicklow could ever have brought off such an event, for who could refuse an invitation from Avonel’s principal hostess? Only a prude or a man who had much to hide, clearly. Any woman who did not attend would unquestionably be admitting that her husband frequented such establishments and that therefore she could not bear to even enter the place herself. No, the Marchioness had weighed things out with a kind of ruthless precision and cruel irony that Erasmus thought had to be admired. Of course, as a bachelor, he was in no danger here. His wife would not be watching, wondering if any of the matron’s comely employees seemed to treat him with just a bit too much familiarity.
So here gathered the cream of Avonel society, pretending to be engaged in something exciting, risque, and watching each other like predators. Erasmus thought that the Marchioness had gone a long way to expose the truth of Avonel society this evening. He, for one, was almost certain he could smell the sweat.
Erasmus was escorted quickly up the short walk and into a well-lit lobby. Smiling young women relieved him of cloak and hat, gloves and cane.
“Lady Wicklow’s party,” he said, and one young woman turned to the matron who approached and, still smiling, repeated his disclaimer.
The matron was a cheerful looking woman whose age could not be disguised behind even the layers of makeup she had applied. Erasmus thought that if you took away the makeup, she would look far more like the competent wife of a particularly boring, country squire than the proprietress of such an establishment. She should have been serving tea and exaggerating the accomplishments of her children.
“Mrs. Trocket at your service. And you are . . . ?” she asked as she curtsied, surprising Erasmus with a bright look of both intelligence and humor.
“Erasmus Flattery, ma’am.”
Her face changed as she heard the name, and though she held a list of guests, it was immediately forgotten. “Ah, Mr. Flattery. It is a great pleasure, I’m sure.”
She motioned for him to escort her, clearly pleased to have a member of such an important family visit her establishment. The name, Erasmus thought, did occasionally prove useful—when it wasn’t a curse.
“Well, you’ll find we’ve created a place of refined entertainments for the discerning gentlemen—and lady—for we do not cater to gentlemen alone. Not at all.”
All of the “ladies” Erasmus could see were clearly in the employ of the able Mrs. Trocket, and they smiled at him less than coyly as he passed. One blew him a kiss. They wore gowns that one would not see in most Avonel homes, that was certain, and several seemed to have forgotten their gowns and wore only the most exotic Entonne lingerie. He tried not to stare, but they really were the most fetching creatures. And they laughed with the gentlemen present, flirting in the most open manner. Erasmus thought suddenly that the place was a bit too warm.
The air was redolent with the smell of perfumes which did not quite mask a musky odor that pervaded the rooms. Erasmus did not have to wonder what that scent was, his body reacted to it of its own accord, and likely would have had he never encountered it before. Love had its own scent.
They passed into another room, not so different from the first, though perhaps not so well lit. Here musicians played, and the men had shed their coats or loosened neckcloths. The women seemed to have joined in the spirit, and were less encumbered by clothing as well. Some couples—or even threesomes—were dancing drunkenly, pressed close while others were locked in more passionate embraces, too drunk or too aroused to care that they were in public. On either end of a divan a naval officer sprawled, like tumbledown bookends, insensible with drink. So much for their evening with the ladies, Erasmus thought, though it would not likely stop them from boasting, all the same.
A woman put her hand on Erasmus’ arm as he passed, and she did it with such familiarity, meeting his eyes so calmly, that for a moment he thought he knew her, and he was sure he looked at her with the greatest surprise. Mrs. Trocket led him through the next door.
They entered a hallway with large rooms to either side, and through the open doors he could see that several “refined entertainments” were underway. He glimpsed near-naked dancers through one set of doors, and heard singing from another. A farce, played out in elaborate and outrageous costumes, was in progress in yet another room.
“We try to have something for everyone,” Mrs. Trocket said, noting his interest. “And things change often—nothing stale at Mrs. Trocket’s. Amusement with wit and charm, that is our goal. A bit too . . .” She used an Entonne word that did not have an exact Farr equivalent, though its meaning lay somewhere between “racy” and “fashionable.” “. . . for many of the worthies of Avonel. But for a young man such as yourself . . .” She smiled knowingly.
Erasmus was thirty—not so young by the standards of Farrland—and was, despite his name, no longer easy prey to flattery.
Up a broad flight of stairs and finally into the most eccentric library Erasmus had ever seen. It belonged in an ancient abbey or college for studies in the arcane. The room was polished oak from the floor to the very top of the shelves—some two stories up—and was all nooks and alcoves and stairways and carrels. Balconies were suspended precariously overhead, backed by cliffs of books. Sliding ladders, at odd angles to everything else, ran
up to bronze railings. People stood on these ladders, surveying the crowd or holding forth to groups who gathered about their feet.
Erasmus realized that Mrs. Trocket had left him alone. Perhaps she had even bid him farewell.
The room was crowded with people, and there was such a hum of conversation that he thought of his beehives in far off Locfal. It was, to Erasmus’ eye, a typical gathering of the educated classes of Avonel, though to one well-versed in such things, it might have been a more fashionable group than was common. Erasmus did not much care for such distinctions.
He noticed that everyone seemed a bit more animated than usual, as though they were trying to hide their discomfort, or perhaps they were merely thrilled to find themselves in such a place, for certainly none of the ladies had been in a brothel before. Many of the men looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Erasmus was sure it wasn’t because this was their first visit—but they had unquestionably never been here in the company of their wives. They were likely terrified that some young woman was going to recognize them, though Erasmus knew that the able Mrs. Trocket would have advised her young ladies beforehand. Still, it was good sport to watch the husbands shying like nervous foals.
Scattered among the people attending the party were both servants and working girls and they talked and laughed with the guests and plied them with spirits and delicacies. The atmosphere here, in the center of the Marchioness’ circle, was less bawdy and brazen than Erasmus had seen in the other chambers. Passions were well under control where one’s reputation could actually suffer some damage. After all, the usual code—that one did not speak of who or what one saw in a brothel—would not be in effect this night. People would likely talk of nothing else for days.
Erasmus began searching the room for familiar faces, and though there were many that he knew by sight, he couldn’t find anyone he thought might offer interesting conversation, and he saw several he knew for a fact had never said an intriguing thing in their lives. He thought the rather intense looking man across the room seemed vaguely familiar, and then realized that it was his own face in a looking glass, and this made him laugh.
Well, he certainly won’t have anything to say that I haven’t heard before, Erasmus thought.
He backed up against the wall of books, and thinking he would keep people at bay if he were engaged in some activity, he took a volume from the shelf and opened it. In two lines he realized that it was erotic fiction, and returned it to the shelf. What pleasure could such an activity provide if one could indulge it openly? All the books he could see were of the same variety, so he turned back to the gathering.
“Isn’t it divinely wicked?” a young woman said to him, and he realized he was looking at a daughter of the Shackleton family, though his memory would not cooperate by supplying a name. She waved a glass of wine expansively, the look of drunken delight not varying measurably. “Only the marchioness would dare such an evening.” She looked at him suddenly, her manner inquisitive if a little unfocused. “Don’t I know you?”
“Erasmus Flattery,” he said, and watched her expression change from drunken delight.
“Really?” she managed, remaining fairly collected. “You’ve been to our home, I think.”
Erasmus nodded.
“I so wanted to ask if the rumors were true, but I was too shy, and my mother warned me to mind my manners. But tonight I’ve had enough wine. . . . Is it true you served Eldrich?”
He shook his head. “Vicious rumor. I once visited a school chum at Lord Eldrich’s home—he was a great-nephew or some such thing. But it was all very ordinary, and the legendary Eldrich never appeared. Not even to my school chum, if he’s to be believed.”
“Too bad,” she said, her look of delight fading a little more. “Too many good stories end up that way. The truth is a bit of a bore, isn’t it?”
Erasmus shrugged.
“Well, that’s what I’ve found anyway,” she said resignedly, placed a hand on his chest rather clumsily, then backed away into the crowd, waving theatrically, as though she had lost all capacity for the unself-conscious gesture.
Dora, Erasmus thought as he watched her disappear into the crowd. Dora Shackleton, although “Simpleton” might be more appropriate.
Nearby a gathering of people swayed and bobbed, all trying to view the object of interest that lay at the very center of this movement. Drawn by what force Erasmus did not know—perhaps merely because the audience was almost entirely young ladies—he found himself looking over the heads of the watchers. Heads of lustrous swaying hair that fell to bare shoulders and beyond.
“But you see she is completely relaxed,” a man was saying. “In fact, she will wake from this refreshed, as though she had slept the night through and experienced only the sweetest of dreams.”
The man bent over a young woman seated in a chair. He sported both an ostentatious mustache and a monocle and looked too much like a player on the stage—the foreign count whom no one trusted, despite his charm. He laid a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, but she did not stir, and kept her eyes closed. Indeed, she seemed to be asleep sitting up.
“But what will she do?” a woman asked, a little embarrassed by her question.
“Or not do,” another added, and they all giggled at her boldness.
“Clara will do nothing in her present state that she would find objectionable while awake. She is mesmerized, but her morals are perfectly awake, let me assure you.”
“Can you cure illnesses, then?” someone asked. “Some make such a claim.”
“Some illnesses, yes. I have had encouraging results treating nervous dyspepsia, insomnia, dropsy, and brain fevers, to name but a few. Consumption, I regret to say, it will not affect, though it will take away some discomfort from the consumptive patient. Irrational fears I have treated with great success. Recurrent nightmares I have solved utterly.”
“Can people really remember back to their very childhood, Doctor? To their birth, even?”
“I have seen long-lost memories surface, often, but I cannot claim perfect success. I treated the great Lord Skye, who as you know can remember nothing that took place before his childhood accident, but we were unable to recover his past. It is lost, I believe. Lost when he suffered his terrible injury.”
“But his intellect was not affected . . . ?”
“Only his speech, slightly. But otherwise we do not know. Perhaps if he had not suffered his tragedy, he would have shown even greater genius. But what is a memory? Can it be weighed or measured? If one is forgotten, does the brain weigh less? How is it that we hold so many in our minds? And where are they kept?” He looked around at the gathering as though expecting answers, but when none were forthcoming, he continued. “There are those who claim the mind and the brain are not one and the same, but clearly when the brain is injured, so also is the mind. Thus Skye lost his memories—as though they were destroyed when his brain was damaged. But in an undamaged brain I believe the memories are never truly lost, but only misplaced. Memories of every event and smell and taste and emotion, all there, like perfect novels in infinite numbers. The novels of our lives. It is one of the mysteries that empiricism has yet to explain.” He turned to the sleeping woman. “But let us see what Clara can remember. Perhaps she has some memories long forgotten. Clara? I want you to turn your mind to your childhood. . . . Your very earliest memory.”
Erasmus drifted away. He had seen such displays before. Fascinating the first time or two, but largely quackery, he thought. This man had made more modest claims than most, who were milking the ignorant for their hard-earned coin with promises to cure all manner of illness and deformity, and much more. Which only made this man slightly less of a charlatan.
But what is memory?
Perhaps not an entirely foolish question, Erasmus thought, but he was more interested in knowing why one could not forget. Or how one could forget. For that he would hand over his
own money, and gladly.
A young woman offered him a glass of champagne. She was wearing nothing but lingerie of black lace, sheer black stockings, and an astonishing tumble of dark curls.
“You look, sir, as though you might require some help erasing that troubled expression from your brow,” she said in a lovely warm voice. Erasmus was usually easy prey for a beautiful voice.
“I cultivate looking troubled,” he answered. “It keeps people at a distance.”
“Ah,” she said, stepping aside to let people pass and pressing herself softly against him. “Are you trying to keep me at a distance, then?”
“It’s very likely, I fear.” Erasmus glanced around the room. “I’m looking for friends, actually.”
“Do they have names?” she asked, speaking near to his ear in a tone so intimate that Erasmus could hardly help but respond.
Erasmus hesitated. “I believe so, though they’ve never told them to me.”
This caused her to pause for a moment, then she laughed.
“Ras! Short for rascal, I see,” came a voice from behind. Erasmus felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Barton, an old classmate from his Merton days. “Come out for an evening of wickedness, I see?” The man was beaming at him a bit foolishly, as though overcome with delight at finding Erasmus Flattery in a brothel, of all places.
“I was invited by the marchioness,” Erasmus said, not quite sure why he was trying to explain his presence.
“Oh, to be sure! As were we all.” Barton laughed. “But have you seen the contortionists? Well, I tell you, it will fire your imagination. Possibilities undreamed of!” He laughed again, and snatched a glass from a passing tray. Barton’s face was red; even his now completely bald pate was flushed. “You look a bit out of sorts, Ras,” he said sympathetically, and then suddenly looked a little self-conscious himself, as though afraid he’d been caught in the act of frivolity. “I hear you’re setting your stamp on the Society. Making quite a name for yourself,” he offered, perhaps searching for some topic that would put Erasmus at ease.
