A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Helen insisted that she would take her own way when she had tidied herself up a little, and with a final admonition to take care, the Captain left her alone.

  “Roll up now, roll up now!” bawled the showman. “Come on, ladies and gents, where else can ye see lovely ladies like them?” He indicated a trio of females clad in off-white garments decorated with tarnished spangles and with their faces set in the performer’s fixed smile. “Lovely ladies a-dancin’ for ye, followed by a play so full o’ horrors that ye’ll all be clingin’ to yer seats, an’ all for a penny! Only a penny! Where else, I say, can ye get such good value for money? Roll up, now. Step inside. Only a few seats left, but a good view from every one! Roll up.”

  “Now, ’ere’s a game as’ll make ye laugh,” shouted a man in charge of a round board on which stood three thimbles and a pea. He manipulated the thimbles dexterously until the pea was covered. “Now, sir, what d’ye say, sir?” addressing a member of the gaping crowd which stood about him. “Would ye like to make a guess which o’ them thimbles covers the pea? I’ll wager ye anything from sixpence to a ’alf sovereign as ye can’t guess right. C’mon, sir, it’s a bit o’ sport, an’ by the look o’ ye, ye’re a sportin’ cove. What d’ye say?”

  The young man being addressed felt himself nudged in the ribs by a pretty girl at his side.

  “Go on, then, Jack,” she said, encouragingly. “Show a bit o’ holiday spirit!”

  Thus adjured, the young man sheepishly proffered sixpence to the showman, then bent over the board trying to decide which thimble to choose. After listening to several shouts from the crowd offering conflicting advice, he finally picked one up, as gingerly as if he expected it to bite. Predictably, it was the wrong thimble.

  “Oh, ’ard luck, sir!” commiserated the showman, who had long since pocketed the loser’s sixpence. “Care to ’ave another try? The luck can’t always desert ye. Ye only need to watch, see? One, two, three, three, two, one, an’ it’s gorn! Now where is it? C’mon, sir, never say die. ’Ave another go!”

  Rowland Carlton, watching apathetically from the fringes of the crowd, placed an arm about Phyllis to steer her onwards.

  “Might have a go at that lay,” he said, dubiously. “What d’you reckon, Phyl? I daresay I could learn to do it after a bit. Trouble is, there’s not much to be made out o’ it — doubt if it’s a living.”

  “Ye couldn’t set up ’ere, anyways,” she reminded him, “not against ’im.” She indicated the glib showman with a movement of her head. “They’d all be out for yer blood, if ye tried that on.”

  “Gawd knows what I’m to do, then,” he said, gloomily. “Astley’s finished weeks agone, and all I’ve got ’ere so far was two shillings for playing the back legs o’ a bleedin’ ’orse. And naught in view whatsoever. Leastways—”

  “What?” She uttered the word sharply, perceiving that he was weighing some possibility in his mind.

  “Oh, naught,” he answered, after a lengthy pause. “Anyways, you’re all right for the moment, fixed up with that circus troupe for the rest o’ the summer. No tellin’ where it might lead, either. That feller’s taken a shine to ye, an’ if ye plays your cards right—”

  She clung to him, rubbing her face against his sleeve. “I want naught to do with ’im. You’re my man, Rowly. Come with me. At a pinch we can make the money stretch for both o’ us, and mebbe ye’ll find something while we’re on tour. There’s Bartholomew Fair in August, too—”

  “Three months off,” he scoffed. “Living ’and to mouth until then, just on the off chance. Besides, that feller Pollock wouldn’t ’ave me around to spoil ’is chances with you, don’t ye think it. ’E’d soon give me the push, Don’t ’ardly blame ’im. I’d do the same in ’is shoes. Wish I was in ’is shoes, all the same,” he added regretfully.

  “If only we’d some money,” sighed Phyllis, as they made their way with some difficulty through the excited, jostling crowd. “We could set up our own troupe, with you in the lead, Rowly, an’ me doin’ my act on horseback!”

  “Ay, if only pigs could fly,” he answered sardonically. “Look, Phyl, ye’d best get back to the caravan now to get changed for yer act. I’ll just take a turn or two in the Park, an’ see ye later.”

  Helen had never seen anything like Greenwich Fair. A hackney hired outside her Uncle’s house had dropped her right in the thick of it, and the noise was deafening. Girls screamed; boys shouted in excitement; vendors bellowed their wares or rang strident bells to save overstrained voices; monkeys jabbered as they swung from chains tethered to their owners’ wrists; a mangy lion in a cage gave vent to the occasional half-hearted roar; while dogs barked and scampered about, adding yet another hazard to the difficulty of negotiating a safe passage through the dense crowd, all pushing in contrary directions with the fixed determination not to yield an inch to those who wished to go another way.

  She tried hard to keep on the edges of the crowds about the various stalls and sideshows, hoping by this means to make some progress along the road; but her lively curiosity kept getting caught by first one spectacle and then another, so that she soon found herself jammed tight among a mass of people, unable to budge.

  Fortunately she was not at present dressed in a style to stand out from the rest of the crowd. She had prudently borrowed a plain gown of cheap material and a bonnet to match from the young housemaid whose duty it was to clean her bedchamber. Martha had a great admiration for Helen, and had been only too eager to make the loan, promising secrecy for what she understood was some kind of harmless prank. Helen had taken the borrowed clothes with her to her Uncle’s house and changed into them after he had left her alone. Thus equipped, she felt certain of escaping unwelcome notice.

  She almost forgot her real purpose in coming, so entranced was she by the lively scenes about her. She would have liked to try her luck at the pea and thimble game, even though she realised it was a take-in; but she soon observed that no other females were taking part in this sport, so judged it wiser to refrain. Instead, she watched the others at it until the spectacle began to pall for those members of the crowd who were blocking her exit, and then she moved away with them to find some fresh entertainment.

  She found herself standing before the play booth, and before long she yielded to the impulse to tender her penny and go inside the stuffy tent to sit upon a narrow wooden bench crammed tightly with London’s humbler, but on the whole respectable, citizens. Nobody took the slightest notice of her; the fact that she was an unescorted, unchaperoned young female did not seem to matter here in the slightest. She drew in her breath with excitement, feeling an unaccustomed sense of freedom. How pleasant it was to be accountable to no one for her actions, to be able to come and go as she chose and to share in the delights and diversions of these simple, unsophisticated people! At this point in her thoughts, one of the men seated alongside her wiped his nose on his sleeve. She grimaced. Well, perhaps they were something lacking in social graces; but, after all, they had never been taught any better. She fixed her attention on the stage.

  The spangled ladies danced for a while amid suitable encouragement from the male section of the audience and indignant protests from their female escorts of “For shame, Ted!” or “Hold your tongue, do!” Then the play began, a melodrama in which a wicked baron — whose costume and social manners were quite unlike those of any of his Society counterparts with whom Helen was acquainted although she would not have cared to vouch for any difference in character — gave an extremely bad time to a deserving poor family, one member of which was a beautiful young girl. The lovely creature was within only a moment of being ravished by the villain amid the jeers, catcalls, and cascade of orange peel and banana skin contributed by the excited audience, when she was saved in the nick of time by the hero of the piece, a well set-up young man who kept a lion as a pet. This noble beast of the jungle might have appeared unconvincing to more critical eyes than those of the present audience, for it sagged in the middle, and its front and back le
gs did not move in unison; but they had paid their pennies and by this time were well into the spirit of the piece They cheered loudly as the lion fell upon the wicked baron and the curtain closed waveringly upon the doubtless bloody scene which ensued.

  With one accord they all rose and began pushing towards the exit, Helen helplessly crushed in among them. She grabbed at her bonnet just in time to prevent it from being swept off into the crowd and felt her hair sliding down onto her neck as the pins became loosened. Her feelings of enjoyment began to be replaced by slight panic; at that moment she would have been glad of a strong male arm to protect her from the buffeting of the mob about her. Borne along helplessly in this way, she presently found herself outside the booth and being steered in the direction of the Park.

  Once inside the Park the crowd was able to disperse a little to permit her some breathing space; although here, too, masses of people were congregated. All kinds of sports and games were in progress among the various groups scattered about the grass. One in particular seemed to be causing great merriment; and as soon as she could move about freely, Helen walked over to watch it. There were three steep slopes in the Park, one of these leading up to the Royal Observatory building, which had been constructed in the seventeenth century on the foundations of a much older castle. The sport was for all the young men to drag their protesting female friends almost to the top of this hill; then when all the participants were lined up ready, a signal was given for them to make the descent, each male hurrying his lady down at breakneck pace. It was all very rowdy and improper, for frequently the girls fell and finished the descent by rolling over and over with a most immodest display of undergarments. Helen smiled as she watched, however; in spite of the tumbles, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves like small children at play.

  “Like to have a go? Come on!”

  Absorbed in watching, she had failed to notice anyone approach her. She now felt her hand seized as she was dragged forward towards the hill at an unseemly rate.

  “Oh, no, no!”

  She dug her heels into the soft turf, attempting to withstand the sudden onward rush. Her captor paused for a moment as she looked up into his face with frantic appeal.

  Her expression changed momentarily as she stared hard at him. He was a tall, well-built man in his mid twenties, with auburn hair and a face which she recognised instantly. He was the man whom she had seen on two previous occasions with Durrant.

  “Why d’ ye stare so? Ain’t afeard of me, are ye? I’ll do ye no ’arm. C’mon, now. I’ve seen ye watchin’ the others and I can tell ye’re longin’ to have a go. Come on, it’s rare sport, I promise ye!”

  So saying, he took a fresh grip on Helen’s hand and began to drag her onwards, laughing loudly at all her indignant protests. She did her best to oppose him, but her strength was no match for his.

  The panic which she had begun to feel in the crowded play booth now overtook her more strongly. She had enjoyed watching the populace at play, but she was of no mind to take part in a romp such as this. Shaldon had been right in saying that it was a ramshackle notion to consider setting aside the proprieties to the extent of coming to such a place, and especially unattended. And what had she hoped to learn from it, in any event? True, this man was here, and he was connected in some way with Durrant; but at the moment, her only desire was to get away from him as far as she could. If only she had been wise enough to curb her wretched curiosity! She might well have left it to Shaldon to investigate whatever there was in his interest to discover at the Fair — if, indeed, there was anything — and herself remained safely at home. Shaldon had assured her that he intended to come here today. Hot on the heels of this thought followed a yet more unnerving one; what if either Shaldon or Durrant were to appear now, and see her in this undignified fix?

  While these incoherent thoughts rushed through her mind, her captor continued to pull her relentlessly, laughingly, up the first gentle rise of the hill, although she opposed him every step of the way with all the strength at her command.

  All at once, their progress was halted by a flying female form which flung itself upon the man and dealt him a stinging slap across the face.

  “Let this ’ussy be, ye blackguard, will ye?” bawled the newcomer, a pretty girl whose hostile face seemed to Helen vaguely familiar. “As for ye, wench, keep off my man and get one o’ yer own, or I’ll scratch yer eyes out, an’ so I warns ye!”

  Helen backed a pace, fearing attack.

  “I — I don’t want him,” she said, breathlessly. “He seized upon me, and I’d no choice but to go with him. Pray believe me, do!”

  To her relief, the girl seemed ready to credit this. Ignoring Helen, she turned on the man with a flood of angry words. Helen at once seized her opportunity and ran off, leaving them to their lovers’ quarrel.

  Because of the crowds thronging the Park, she did not get very far towards the gates before she felt her arm seized and turned to find the girl once more confronting her. Her heart sank; was she now to become involved in a vulgar brawl?

  But to her surprise, the girl spoke propitiatingly.

  “I’m sorry if I was sharp, Miss. I could see it weren’t nohow yer fault. Ye was truly doin’ yer best to get away from ’im, not shammin’ it fer fun, like the other wenches. But Rowly’s my man, see, an’ it fair makes me mad to see ’im goin’ after other wenches, which ’e does soon enough if ’e gets the chance, worse luck!”

  Helen gave her a wavering smile. “I’m sorry it occurred, but it was all a misunderstanding. I don’t think your — your friend meant any harm, either. He truly thought I wished to take part in the game. I trust you’ve forgiven him and made up your quarrel.”

  She nodded and was about to turn away, but the girl addressed her.

  “Ye talk like ye was gentle born, Miss. Ye don’t seem to belong ’ere. Be ye abigail to some lady, belike?”

  “Something of that nature,” hedged Helen. “Well, good-bye — er—”

  “Phyllis is me name,” supplied the other, helpfully.

  “Oh. And is the — that is to say, was that your husband?” asked Helen, curiosity once more getting the better of discretion, which urged a speedy retreat from the scene.

  Phyllis laughed and shook her head. “Not yet. One day, p’raps, if I can keep ’im long enough.”

  “I see. Well, I hope matters will turn out to your advantage, Phyllis.”

  She was about to go, when a sudden realisation of her extremely dishevelled condition made her pause to ask if Phyllis knew of any respectable place where she might go to make herself more presentable.

  “Ye can come to my caravan and welcome,” offered the girl, generously. “Bain’t much o’ a place, but it’ll be better nor the taverns on a Fair day for the likes o’ ye.”

  Judging by what she had seen of the tipsy crowds frequenting the taverns in the vicinity of the Fair, Helen was bound to agree. She followed Phyllis out of the Park. With difficulty they made their way along the crowded streets beyond until they reached an open space where several caravans stood. Phyllis led the way to one of these, gaily painted in red and green but somewhat spattered with mud. The place was deserted at present.

  The interior of the caravan was dingy and depressing. Two narrow shelves a few feet from the floor extended the full length on either side; these evidently served as beds, for there were rugs and pillows flung down upon them amid a jumble of clothing and other personal possessions. A cupboard on one wall and a spotted mirror hung askew on the other comprised the rest of the furnishings. A small window beside the door was covered by a grimy curtain and afforded little light.

  Helen could not repress a grimace of distaste as she climbed into this unprepossessing shelter, but fortunately she altered her expression quickly so that it escaped Phyllis’s notice.

  “Mebbe ye’d like to wash yer ’ands,” suggested her hostess, reaching under one of the shelves for a tin bowl.

  “Oh — no, thank you,” said Helen, hastily. “If I might
just put up my hair again before your mirror and replace my bonnet, that will do very nicely.”

  She produced a comb from her reticule. Phyllis watched incuriously for a few moments, then moved to the window and drew aside the curtain a fraction to look out.

  Helen had just finished pinning up her hair neatly again when Phyllis uttered an exclamation which made her turn away from the mirror.

  “What is it?” Helen asked.

  “Rowly’s with that swell cove again. I saw ’im at Astley’s. Mebbe ’e’s come with a job for Rowly this time.”

  This information brought Helen in a flash to the other girl’s side. Two men were standing in earnest conversation only a short distance away, beside one of the now deserted caravans. The man whom Phyllis called Rowly was one; the other, as Helen had suspected, was Durrant.

  “What kind of job?” she asked, brusquely.

  “I dunno, though it’d be somethink in Rowly’s line, I reckon, somethink to do wi’ fairground work. But ’e was cagey when I asked ’im about it afore — said ’e was mistook and the cove ’ad nothink for ’im. I knew ’e was lyin’, though — got the feelin’ somethink ’ad scared ’im, and ’e didn’t want to talk about it. I knows Rowly.”

  Helen watched the men for a few moments longer while she digested this information in silence.

  “Your friend isn’t likely to bring that man in here, is he?” she asked in sudden alarm, moving away from the window and snatching up her bonnet.

  “Wot’s yer worry?” replied Phyllis, still watching. “Anyways, they’re movin’ off now towards the Park.”

  She released the curtain and turned to face Helen.

  “Ye knew that cove, didn’t ye?” she accused. “I could tell from the way ye looked at ’im.”

  Helen nodded. “Yes, and he must not see me here!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because — oh, because I’m not supposed to be here, and — and he would tell—”

  “Peach on yer, would ’e?” said Phyllis, knowingly. “Come out on the sly, ’ave ye? Well, it’s none o’ my business, and I’m not one to give the game away, specially when I takes a fancy to a body, as I ’ave to ye. Who is ’e, though?”