Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8)

by M C Beaton

  “Strap me vitals! No! Want his favor.”

  “At court?”

  “Yas.”

  Mr. Caldicott nodded wisely. He had often heard the moans of Mrs. Barks that she had not yet been presented in the royal drawing room. Everyone knew the marquess of Canonby had great influence.

  “Wife complaining again?” he asked. He gave a spasmodic jerk of his head, took the implement euphemistically called a back scratcher out of his pocket, and applied it vigorously to his high-ladder toupee. A small gray louse rattled onto the table between them. Mr. Caldicott caught the insect between finger and thumb, popped it in his silver lice box, and snapped shut the lid with the satisfaction of a deer stalker bringing home a stag.

  “Never stops complaining,” said Mr. Barks gloomily. “That’s why I keep her in the country. But she writes to say she’s coming to Town next month and if she ain’t presented at court, she’ll move her mother and herself up to Town permanently.”

  “Gad’s ’oonds!”

  “I found out that Canonby will be thirty-one at the end of the month, so I thought if I could hit on a present for him that would really please him, then I could ask him for a favor.”

  “True. Vary true.”

  “Well, think of something.”

  Both men furrowed their brows in thought, making little cracks appear in the white enamel on their faces. Had they been washed and scrubbed, both men would have appeared different, Mr. Barks being fair and Mr. Caldicott swarthy. But blanc, rouge, wigs and powder, tight-lacing, high heels and the same affectations made them appear peculiarly alike.

  “He’s got everything,” said Mr. Caldicott slowly. “We must hit on something rare, something that’s hard to come by in this day and age.”

  “What about a virgin?” tittered Mr. Barks.

  Mr. Caldicott looked at his friend in awe.

  “Strap me. Blessed if you ain’t got it and with no help from me.”

  “Got what?”

  “The present. Get him a virgin. Not one of those pretend-virgins, not one of those whores, not a child neither, but a real slap-bang untouched fresh-as-day virgin.”

  “Where in God’s creation do you find one of those?”

  “Mother Blanchard.”

  “Ah. But she’ll charge high, that abbess will. Very high.”

  “Let me put it this way.” Mr. Caldicott leaned forward and rapped his friend on his embroidered knee with the ivory sticks of his fan. “It’s either a high price for a virgin, or it’s the wife and mother-in-law in Town—for life.”

  “You have convinced me. We had best go and see the abbess now.”

  Outside the club, the gentlemen climbed into two sedan chairs, Mr. Caldicott with his tall wig poking up through the trap at the top. The Irish chairmen with their exquisite burdens hurtled along the pavements in the direction of Covent Garden at a great rate, shouting, “Make way! Make way!”

  That famous “abbess,” Mrs. Blanchard, listened carefully to the gentlemen’s request. She looked more like a country housekeeper than the owner and manager of one of London’s most notorious brothels. She had a round apple-cheeked face and blue twinkling eyes, and wore a sober gown of lilac silk with a decorous cap of white linen.

  “I want beauty as well as virginity, mother,” said Mr. Barks after he had agreed to her staggering price. “And no money until I have inspected the goods!”

  “Of course not, my dear gentlemen,” cooed Mrs. Blanchard. “I shall go on the hunt this very day.”

  Polly Jones decided that her days of crime were over. As she sat on the London-bound wagon beside the waggoner, Mr. Silas Brewer, she thought with some wonder of how dangerously easy it all had been. She could not depend on such luck again. Now, she had enough money. She would never steal again. The day after the robbery, she had walked halfway to Hackminster before hiding behind a hedge and putting on her maid’s disguise and wrapping herself in the stolen cloak. Her hair was scraped up on her head in a demure knot under the white cap. She buried her old clothes in the field.

  Then into Hackminster, seeking a jeweller in the back streets rather than one where there might be too many curious people about. With maidenly lowered eyes, she produced candlesticks, snuffbox and figurine, saying meekly that her mistress, who wished to remain anonymous, was in sore need of money. Native cunning made Polly refuse the first two offers as being too low and she settled for the third.

  In case their loss had already been reported, she decided it would be risky to find a place on the stage coach, although she could easily have afforded it. She had walked several miles along the London road before she had hailed the wagon she was travelling in now and persuaded the genial Silas to take her up.

  By the time the wagon lumbered over the cobbles of the City of London, Polly had heard most of Silas’s life story and the two had become fast friends—although Silas, a wizened little man who had talked for hours about his home in Shoreditch and his wife and three daughters, did not realize he had learned very little about his pretty companion.

  “Can ye write?” he asked, as Polly swung down from the wagon, carrying a basket with her money and a few belongings.

  “Yes,” said Polly.

  “See here. I’ve got this scrap of paper.” He held out a grimy piece. “Write down me name and address, and if you’re ever in need o’ a friend, come to me.”

  Polly wrote down his name and address and thrust the paper in her bosom.

  “I’m going to find work as a servant, Mr. Brewer,” she said proudly. “I’ll come and call on you and Mrs. Brewer, for you’ve been ever so kind to me. But I won’t need help. I can take care of meself.”

  She gave him a cheeky grin and a wave of the hand, and the restless, shifting London crowd swallowed her up.

  But when Polly had gone a little way, she stopped and looked about her in bewilderment. She was sure this was not the real London. That other London of parks and palaces must lie elsewhere. Where should she start looking for work?

  Fog was coming down, blurring the streets. The roar of the great carriages and brewers’ sleds rumbling over the cobbles was deafening. “Make way!” yelled a gouty-legged chairman, forcing her to dart off to one side. “Make room there!” screamed another fellow, driving a wheelbarrow full of nuts straight at her legs. Shouting voices in the streets assaulted her ears with a cacophony of sound. Have you brass pot, iron kettle, skillet or frying pan to mend? Two a groat and four for sixpence, mackerel! Stand up there, you blind dog. Will you have the cart squeeze your guts out? Buy my flounders. Turn out there, you country putt. Kitchen stuff, ha’ you maids. And above all the shouts, the terrifying blasts of a trumpet, the trumpet player carrying a placard advertising the rare sight of a calf with six legs.

  Polly found herself near a church. She retreated up the steps to the shelter of the porch and looked out over the bustle of the City of London. The streets presented a picture of luxury and dirt, color and grime, rags and riches. The brilliant clothes of men and women of the upper class, the colored and gilded coaches, the liveries of the footmen and of the Negro pages, the gaudy signs which hung above every house and shop—these wonders were offset by the thick mud of the streets, the overflowing filth of the kennel, the sore faces of the beggars, the reeling drunkards, and the draggle-tailed hawkers and ballad singers.

  But there was an excited, restless, strung-up excitement in the air which seemed to emanate from the very stones. Polly, defeated and dazed, nonetheless loved it all.

  “Excuse me, my dear,” said a motherly voice at Polly’s ear.

  Polly started and turned round.

  A plump, pleasant woman stood there, smiling at her.

  “You look lost,” she said. “May I be of some assistance?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Polly gratefully. “I want employment as a servant and I don’t know where to start.”

  The woman smiled again. “Just up from the country, are you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, now, we ar
e both lucky. I am housekeeper to a certain noble lord and am looking for a bright and willing girl. There’s a comfortable tavern near here. Why don’t we go along together and find out if we shall suit each other?”

  Dazed with her good fortune and reassured by the woman’s motherly appearance, Polly agreed.

  Soon she was drinking her first glass of gin and confiding in this comfortable woman who was so attentive and easy to talk to.

  “It seems to me,” said the woman, “that you are just what I am looking for. What is your name?”

  “Jones, ma’am. Polly Jones. My real name is Mary, of course, and I am nicknamed Polly.”

  The woman patted her hand, her little blue eyes twinkling in her round apple-cheeked face.

  “And my name is Blanchard. Mrs. Martha Blanchard of Covent Garden. Now, we’ll just have another gin and we’ll be on our way …”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The fact that this housekeeper had a carriage to take her home did not surprise Polly in the slightest. She assumed grand servants such as housekeepers must be on an almost equal footing with their masters.

  Mrs. Blanchard had fallen silent. Polly gazed eagerly out of the carriage, always looking for the palaces and gardens of her dreams. But the fog was closing down as the carriage made its way under the ghastly severed heads of executed criminals stuck up on the gate at Temple Bar. Then, before they swung off the Strand to enter the crowded lanes of Covent Garden, Polly had one little glimpse of heaven.

  A lady was alighting from a carriage, holding out her hand to take the helping hand of a young gentleman. The carriage lamps were lit and so the little tableau was surrounded with a soft circle of gold light. The young gallant was wearing a flowered waistcoat, tight to the figure, under a white satin coat. He had lace ruffles at his wrist and a foam of lace at his neck. He carried a gold-laced three-cornered hat. His sword had a gold hilt sparkling with jewels, and a sword sash of white silk embroidered with gold lay across his chest. He had silk stockings and gold-buckled shoes. His young clean-shaven face smiled out from below the shadow of an exquisitely curled and powdered Ramillies wig. But it was his lady who held Polly’s fascinated gaze.

  Her gown had a flowered silk body and cream-colored skirts trimmed with lace. She had light blue shoulder knots, an amber necklace, brown Swedish gloves, and a silver bracelet. Her flowered silk belt of green, gray and yellow was tied to one side in a large bow. Her white powdered hair was covered with a large straw hat decorated with large green and yellow flowers. The carriage jolted on and the scene was lost to view. But it was a picture out of a fairy tale and Polly no longer saw the filth and grime or flinched at the noise and roar of the streets.

  “Here we are, dear,” she realized Mrs. Blanchard was saying. Polly stepped down and Mrs. Blanchard followed. The house was tall and narrow with overhanging gables. Mrs. Blanchard produced a large key from her pocket and opened the door, then ushered Polly inside.

  The hall was in darkness. There was a scraping of flint and then an oil lamp blossomed into life. Picking it up, Mrs. Blanchard pushed open a door that led off the hall. “Come into my little parlor,” she said over her shoulder to Polly.

  Polly walked in and looked about her in amazement. Surely a housekeeper could not possibly be allowed such a principal room on the ground floor. Mrs. Blanchard was lighting branches of candles. Long, heavy brocade curtains were hung at the windows. The room boasted three red silk sofas and even had a thick carpet on the floor.

  Then Polly’s heart began to race. Her country upbringing had given her an almost animal sense of danger. She felt it in the closed and scented air of the room.

  “I do mind, Mrs. Blanchard,” said Polly carefully, “that I left some of my traps over in the City. I’ll just be off to fetch them.”

  Mrs. Blanchard smiled and pulled hard on a bell rope. “As you will,” she said, “but first, let us take a dish of tea.”

  “No, I thank you, ma’am,” said Polly firmly. She walked to the door, which opened before she reached it. Her way was blocked by two men in footmen’s livery. One was very tall and thin, and where his left eye should have been was a mess of criss-crossed scars. The other was small and broad with broken teeth, a blue chin and a low forehead.

  “Come back and sit down, Polly,” said Mrs. Blanchard.

  “No,” said Polly. “I …”

  She broke off as she saw the smaller of the two men was holding a pistol, and that pistol was pointed straight at her.

  She backed away, collided with a sofa and sat down abruptly. “She looks galleyed,” grinned the man with the pistol. “Introduce us, mother.”

  “Certainly, my dears. This is Polly Jones. Polly, the smaller gentleman is Barney and the tall one with the beautiful eyes is Jake.”

  “You don’t want me as a servant,” said Polly, fighting for calm. “Am I to be raped?”

  This caused much hilarity. “No, no, my chuck,” said Mrs. Blanchard, wiping her streaming eyes. “I promised you you would go into a nobleman’s service and so you shall, if you’re a good girl. Take off your cap.” Barney raised the pistol menacingly. Polly slowly took off her cap.

  “Unpin your hair.”

  Polly drew out the wood pin from the knot at the top of her head. Her heavy chestnut tresses cascaded about her shoulders.

  “Better and better,” murmured Mrs. Blanchard. “Now take off your cloak.’”

  “Aren’t we at least going to play cards?” asked Polly sarcastically. She had heard gossip from the village boys that in London some of the grand folk would play cards, the loser each time having to take off a piece of clothing.

  “A wit, i’ faith,” said Mrs. Blanchard in a hard voice. “Do as you’re told, girl.”

  Polly took off her cloak. Over her black gown she was wearing the leather tight-laced bodice of the country girl.

  “I think she could do with a dish of tea, mother,” said the man called Jake, drooping his one good eye in a wink.

  “You are become soft-hearted, Jake,” grumbled Mother Blanchard. Her two henchmen sat down on one of the sofas facing Polly while Mrs. Blanchard got out the teapot, took out cannisters and pot, and then put a small silver kettle to boil on a spirit stove.

  Polly’s mind raced. She must be calm. She must wait and watch for a means of escape. At last, Mrs. Blanchard handed her a cup of tea. Polly drank it, grateful for the taste of the refreshing, scalding liquid.

  “You must tell me why you have brought me here,” she said loudly.

  Neither of the three said anything. They watched, and waited. Polly saw Barney lower the pistol. She stood up to make a dash for the door but her head whirled, the ground rushed up to meet her, and she plunged down into a great black pit of nothingness.

  Mrs. Blanchard stooped over her. “Off with you,” she said to Barney and Jake. “I want to examine the goods in peace and quiet.”

  Polly Jones came slowly awake. She felt sick and groggy. At first she did not know where she was and wondered why her surroundings were so unfamiliar. Then it all came rushing back—London, Mrs. Blanchard, Barney and Jake, and the tea!

  She sat up and groaned and clutched her stomach, feeling dizzy. After a while, the sickness passed. She found she was in a narrow bed and that she was naked. A blush of shame crept over her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She pulled a blanket about her and climbed out of bed and looked about. The small grimy window was barred. The door was locked. Apart from the bed and one chair, and one chamberpot under the bed, there was not another piece of furniture.

  Gone were her money and her belongings.

  From downstairs came noise and music. Polly threw back her head and screamed “Help!” at the top of her voice. No one came running. No voice answered.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes. “No, Polly Jones,” she said aloud. “Now is not yet the time for weeping.”

  There came the scrape of a key in the lock. Polly scrambled under the bedcovers
and pulled them up to her chin.

  Jake came in with a pile of clothing over one arm and a tray of food. “Eat this,” he said curtly, putting the tray on the floor. “There’s wine and it ain’t drugged. I’ll be back for you in fifteen minutes. Be ready.”

  “What for?” demanded Polly.

  “For yer eddication.”

  “Education? What in?”

  “Geography,” said Jake, and fell about laughing at his own wit.

  Then he went out and shut the door behind him and locked it.

  Polly got out of bed and examined the clothes. There was a sack gown made of tabinet with box pleats forming the straight back, a muslin shift and a lawn petticoat with huge bell ruffles at the end of its three-quarter-length sleeves. Polly put on the clothes, pulling the ruffles of her petticoat out of the sleeves of her gown. The gown was cut very low, exposing the top halves of Polly’s round firm breasts. In the summer at Upper Batchett, she had worn only her leather bodice and petticoat and had exposed just as much skin. But Mrs. Blanchard was the serpent who had entered Polly’s garden of innocence, and for the first time she felt immodest. She bent down and, lifting up her skirt, tore a long strip of lawn from her petticoat and tucked it into the top of her gown to form a kerchief. She looked at the food and wine, wondering whether it had been drugged. But she was ravenously hungry and knew she must keep up her strength for whatever lay ahead. There was a large piece of cold meat pie, a heel of bread, and a jug of wine. Polly demolished the lot. She sat nervously on the bed, waiting anxiously to see whether she would become dizzy again, but time passed and she began to feel remarkably well.