Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “What? No! It seems to be servants’ soiled clothes, and—” At the sound of approaching footsteps and an angry male voice, John dove into the basket, burrowing into its evil smell. Gagging while the maid arranged heaps of filthy, reeking garments around him, John’s attack of fear added to the existing stench of sweat and other bodily functions.

  His was a difficult choice—whether to inhale putridity or suffer suffocation. John could not help but gasp, though, when he heard Mrs. Waters speak to the two footmen guarding the scullery door.

  “Quickly, now!” she ordered. “Carry that basket to the—”

  Although his hearing was muffled by layers of stinking cloth, and although his hiding place was being toted away—someplace safer, John prayed—he could still discern that angry voice, the one he swore he could almost recognise.

  “There you are, unfaithful wife! And where is your young swain? When I get my hands on Thorpe, I shall have his guts for garters! Then I will—”

  Along with the basket he had been in, and various articles of reeking fabric, John floated through the night air. Then came laughter, followed by a tremendous splash. Splash?

  Then all was frigidness, panic, and an instinct to not breathe as he sank below the surface of the river. Bloody hell! So, this is drowning. What rotten luck! My greatest fear will also mean my demise. Darkness began closing in on him from all sides. Wait! I cannot die now! John flailed his arms and kicked his legs. I have forty guineas to spend and a damned fine curricle to procure!

  He emerged—splashing, spluttering, and gulping lungsful of air—with a lace-trimmed chemise draped, like a matron’s mob cap, over his head and a crayfish attached to the fall of his breeches.

  The damned seduction did not succeed! The money River gave me is now forfeit. Well, hell! Coughing and beset with Thames water and misery, John detached and flung both undergarment and crustacean back into the Isis and climbed the riverbank, only to be accosted by Mrs. Waters.

  “For my own amusement and to avenge your indecent assumptions, I sent that note, pretending to welcome your advances.” The water in John’s ears did nothing to silence her sneering voice. “But I was never interested in your boorish prattle or in having any sort of further intercourse with you, other than paying off my debt in coin!”

  Mr. Waters, whom John recognised as Mr. River, stood nearby laughing with two burly footmen. “Well, well! That proves you can lead an ass to water, but you cannot make him sink.” Walking over to his wife, he kissed her fingers. “Madam, I apologise for suspecting you of making me a cuckold.” In this silky voice, he whispered, “You are my untainted Rose, and I am your servant.”

  Wheezing, shivering, and dripping all over High Street on his long walk back to his lodgings, John arrived in the foulest of moods. He called for Wignall and another warm bath.

  Morland set aside a book he had been reading to study his friend. Then, holding out a blanket, he said, “I have heard it is not unusual for ladies to reject the addresses of a man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favours.”

  “By God, Morland! If you know what is good for you, you will stop talking this instant! I am that far,” said John through chattering teeth while holding thumb and forefinger together, “from planting you a facer!”

  His tough skin had been somewhat puckered after a dip in the Isis and a soak in a tub; but, young, irrepressible, and of a hot character, John survived both ordeals.

  Women, the sly creatures, often change their minds. Refusals may be rescinded. Everyone lies. Which reminds me. I must dash off a letter to Isabella, asking her opinion.

  His sister’s response was lacking in advice; but it was, at least, sincere, if one overlooked its hyperbole:

  Dear John, I have one hundred things to tell you. In the first place, I am in raptures just thinking of your friend’s visit the last week of Christmas holidays. The time until I again see Mr. Morland shall be nothing short of misery and infinite tedium. I know the wait will be the death of me. Speaking of one’s demise—no, no, not Uncle Graham’s!—Maria has developed the worst cough in the entire world. I did not sleep a wink all night for hearing it, and today I am fatigued to death. ’Tis the most unfortunate circumstance imaginable! Yet it may be a most fortunate one as well. Our mother is talking about a trip to Bath, so that Maria may drink the water there. Is that not a famous good scheme? What do you think of it? I am wild to receive your reply.

  Isabella

  John scribbled a terse reply which was received with even less warmth than it was written.

  Isabella,

  A trip to Bath? No bloody way! Mother must cease her half-witted talk! Such expense should not even be considered let alone undertaken! Has she gone damned daft? Have you? I suspect you females are all barmy enough for Bedlam.

  John

  P.S. Dearest sister, might you consider a loan in the form of a bank draught? Your allowance, or any part thereof, would be greatly appreciated.

  Desperate to win the wager with Bathos and having decided upon Mrs. Field as the next recipient of his mental and physical itches, John sent the lady a series of billets-doux copied from a book. The woman was a cheerful sort and handsome enough to tempt him, although John had once mentioned to Morland that he suspected she had thick ankles.

  After two days of unanswered love letters and one all-night party in an acquaintance’s rooms—in which, upon average, five pints a head of famous good wine were cleared—a note was slipped under John’s door while he slept off his share.

  At the next gloaming, John arrived at the home of Mrs. Field, who greeted him and led him on until they were upstairs, behind closed doors. While he stood there in the bedchamber, wondering how to proceed, the door opened with a bang.

  Bursting into the room in a theatrical manner, wringing her hands and sobbing, a dry-eyed maid wailed, “’Tis your husband, madam! Alas! … and … Fie! He has returned home!” Flinging a forearm across her brow, she spoke as if by rote. “Oh, Mrs. Field, whatever shall we do?” She winked at her mistress before slumping to the floor. Then, tugging at her skirts to ensure her legs were covered, the maid succumbed to a swoon.

  John had a sinking feeling that history was about to repeat itself.

  Flinging her arms in the air, Mrs. Field rolled her eyes. Bending down, she hissed at the servant. “Stop being excessively dramatic!” Turning to John, she wailed, “’Tis my husband, sir! He has returned home!” Wringing her hands, she added, “Alas! Whatever shall we do?”

  Before John could form any thought at all, a well-dressed man made a dramatic entrance. “Aha!” Taking a wide-legged stance, he flung out an arm and pointed at John. “I have caught you! You, you … blackguard!”

  Crinkles, the pug, trotted in and attached its teeth to John’s stockinged calf while Mr. Field landed a blow on John’s chin. The fist did not make contact again, but the canines would not let go— not even when its master, then grappling with John, marched him into the passage, down the stairs, out the back door, across the lawn, and tossed him into the Isis.

  As man and dog sailed through the air, the painful grip on John’s leg lessened. Then came two splashes—one small and one not—followed by iciness and fear. John held his breath until, sooner than expected, his bottom hit bottom. Then, something brushed against him, and he stifled an urge to scream bloody murder. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God, what was that? Oh. Huh. ’Tis probably dear little Crinkles moving towards the surface. Clever beast! John kicked off from bottom and immediately emerged into the blessed night air after sitting in less than five feet of water.

  Spluttering and swearing, he hauled his sodden body up the riverbank, hardly acknowledging the pain as Crinkles, breathing noisily through its nose, reattached itself to his calf. Upon being summoned by its mistress, the pug let go and trotted away, snuffling and shaking off water droplets.

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Field, snuggling into her husband’s arm, “thank you for participating in our little ruse. I must visit dear R
ose on the morrow and tell her how well it all went.”

  “When you do, be sure to pass along my regards and my thanks to our friend and to Luke Waters.” Flexing the fingers of his right hand, he smiled down at his wife. “You are a sly creature, my sweet Matilda. I must remember to never turn that devious mind of yours against me.”

  As the couple moved towards the house, Mrs. Field spoke in an overloud voice. “Husband, do you know why most men are like gooseberries?”

  “I hesitate to ask, but I suppose you will not be satisfied until you tell me.”

  Before they walked out of earshot, John heard Mrs. Field giggle. “Because any woman can make a fool of them.”

  Gritting his teeth did not work. They were too busy chattering. ’Tis a damned sure thing that I shall never, ever, eat gooseberry fool again! Head bowed and arms folded around himself, John heaved a weary “heigh-ho” and shivered and sloshed in his shoes all the way back to his lodgings. There he found James Morland reading by candlelight. In an absolute miff, he slammed the door and summoned Wignall and yet another warm bath.

  Morland set aside his book to study his sopping, sneezing friend. “What, again?”

  “If you know what is good for you,” said John, “you will bury your bloody nose in that blasted book and pay me no mind at all.” Sniffing while the valet struggled to peel away his wet coat, John said, “Good God, Wignall, do you smell fish?”

  “Yes,” said Wignall, wrinkling his nose. “Now that you mention it, sir.”

  “Well, hurry the hell up! I intend to soon drink myself into a stupendous stupor so I can bloody well forget this damned night ever existed. Quickly, now! Restore me to my usual fastidious standards.”

  “I beg your pardon, Thorpe,” said Morland with a chuckle, as the valet hurried away with the wet coat. “Did you say fastidious, or fast and hideous?”

  “This close, Morland!” said John, snivelling and pressing thumb and forefinger together. “I am this close to planting you a face–”

  An ungodly squeal erupted from the tiny dressing room seconds before Wignall flew into the room, holding his nostrils with one hand and a dead trout in the other.

  Hours later at their favourite table at the Kings Arms, John continued his grievance to Bathos. “The Fields treated me like dirt! Tossed away I was, like so much rubbish.” Upon ordering three pints and having them delivered and lined up in front of him, he downed the first without pausing. “And now,” he sniffed, “I have the worst cold ever imagined.”

  “That,” said Bathos, tucking into a plate of trout which smelled a bit off, “reminds me of the time I snuck into and was ejected from Almack’s. But I should not complain. The patronesses treated me decently.”

  “They did?”

  Bathos nodded. “They had me thrown out the back door. But when I explained that I came from a very good family, they had me picked up, brushed off, and escorted back into the assembly room. Then I was thrown out the front door.”

  After a series of sneezes, John asked what business Bathos had at Almacks’s in the first place.

  “What do you suppose I was doing at the reputed Marriage Mart?”

  “You will have to tell me. When I have a cold,” said John, swiping at his nose, “I become remarkably dull and stupid.”

  “Gadzooks, Thorpe!” Bathos saluted him with his mug of ale. “You are much to be pitied, then. I suspect I have never seen you without a cold.”

  A string of choice words was flung at his friend’s head with John stopping only to blow his nose and then say, “I suppose you were at Almack’s in pursuit of a woman.”

  Bathos described the baronet’s daughter he had fallen for. “I proposed to the girl and would have married her, if not for something she said.” At John’s inquiring look, he grinned. “She said, ‘No!’”

  “Women,” John grumbled. “Why must they act so damned coy and uninterested?”

  “You know, Thorpe, ’tis not only to my benefit those wives you tried to seduce could not be got. It is also an advantage for you.”

  “Eh? I bloody well understand your benefit. You would end up winning the damned wager. But how can it be to my advantage to not succeed in bedding someone’s wife?”

  “If successful, you actually could lose everything; and I do mean everything. Have you never heard of Crim-Con trials? My father, you may remember, is a renowned barrister. Such cases are nothing but nasty, salacious, costly scandals.”

  The debacles with Mrs. Waters and Mrs. Field had created no scandals and hardly raised any eyebrows. John himself, however, was appalled. Mrs. Waters still owes me twenty guineas. Damnation! I owe her horrid husband the forty guineas “River” gave me. And I have yet to win my stupid, ten guinea wager with Bathos!

  The next day made a bad situation worse.

  “Mr. Thorpe.”

  At the silky utterance, a tingling sensation crept up John’s neck. Reining his horse to a halt on the towpath along the Isis, he turned the animal and faced Mr. Waters. Tipping his hat and gritting his teeth, he silently waited in the drizzle for the gentleman to speak.

  “That is a decent animal you have there.” Waters walked around John’s horse, assaying its merit. “What do you suppose to be its worth?”

  “My horse?” John petted its neck while speaking in a strained voice. “Corporal Nym is a true blood. Made for speed. I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness.” And it can certainly outrun a man on foot along this accursed river! About to urge his mount into a galloping escape, the option was snatched away as swiftly as was his horse’s rein.

  “High praise, indeed,” said Waters, holding fast to the leather strap. “And his worth?”

  “His worth?” John narrowed his eyes while doing quick calculations. “Why, I would not sell Corporal Nym for less than a hundred!”

  Waters laughed with a great deal of scorn. “A hundred! You are a greedy man, Mr. Thorpe! You already have my forty. What say you to ten?”

  “Ten? Ten! Good Lord! Your wife owes me twenty!”

  Clenched jaw evident, Waters warned John to never again mention his wife. “Very well, then.” With his free hand, he reached into a breast pocket and counted out twenty guineas into John’s palm. “Now, Mr. Thorpe, dismount, if you please.”

  A cold, driving rain began just as Waters rode Corporal Nym out of sight. Tempted to spend some of his new coin on hackney coach fare, John instead pocketed the money and trudged onward.

  Morland, about to enter the Kings Arms, spotted his bedraggled friend rounding the corner. Clapping a hand on one of John’s slumped, sodden shoulders, he said, “Come, man. I will buy you a bottle of claret. You look as though you need it.”

  Chin to chest, John shuffled along behind. “What the devil was I thinking, Morland? I have lost much, including, obviously, my mind.” With a snarl, he shooed away a stranger who had dared take a seat at their customary table. Elbows on the wooden planks and head in his hands, he muttered, “Do you happen to know how long a man can live without brains?”

  “No,” said his laughing friend. “I am afraid I am not privy to such knowledge. By the bye, what is your age, Thorpe?” Sobering at John’s sneer, Morland poured and passed him another glass of claret. “Here. Now, let me ask you this relevant question. What four qualifications enable a sheep to join the Jockey Club?”

  “What?” scoffed John. “I have just lost my horse and am swimming in debt. How is such an elite club relevant?”

  “Indulge me.”

  At Morland’s smug expression, John heaved a sigh. “I have never been to that establishment, my friend; and the way I am going, I never shall become a member.” Leaning back in his chair, John stretched out his legs and folded his arms. “Go on, then. Amuse me.”

  “Both sheep and Jockey Club members are bred on the turf, gambol in their youth, associate with blacklegs, and are fleeced at last.”

  The quip did little to improve John’s humour, and he reconsidered inviting Morland to s
pend the last week of the Christmas holidays with him, his mother, and his sisters.

  The visit, however, took place as scheduled and did much to vanquish any hard feelings on John’s part and to recommend, in fact, that he and Morland become brothers in the future.

  * * *

  During the festive occasion in Holborn, the Thorpes attended an assembly in company with their friends and neighbours, one of whom was a Miss Eveline Andrews.

  Upon arrival, Isabella—whom Miss Andrews considered a particular friend and staunch supporter—paid the girl no mind other than a quick peck on the cheek, faint praise for her puce coloured sarsenet, and an introduction to James Morland, followed by fulsome compliments for said gentleman.

  Already in his cups and merrier than a grig, John noticed the poor girl’s dismay at being slighted and so stood beside her and expressed his goodwill. Never would he have admitted such to himself, let alone to others, but, early on, he had formed a bit of tender regard for his sister’s sweet-natured friend and often felt sorry for her. Although Miss Andrews was a fan of those horrid, Gothic novels, and although no other man admired her, John thought her rather lovely.

  Isabella, surrounded by a bevy of John’s compeers and quite a favourite with the men, feigned vexation with them and laughingly threatened to not dance—even with James Morland or Captain Hunt!—unless they admired Miss Andrews and allowed her to be as beautiful as an angel.

  “Pay her no heed,” said John to Miss Andrews in a half whisper. “My sister will be hoist with her own damned petard, for she dearly loves to dance.”

  “Are you implying, Mr. Thorpe, that no man in Isabella’s fawning coterie will compare me to a divine being?”

  “Oh, damn it! I see now how that might have sounded. May I make amends somehow? Shall I fetch us some tipple?”

  Upon Miss Andrews’s request, John diligently lurched through the crowd towards the refreshments table and procured a cup of tea for her and one of laced punch for himself. Slopping the former while more carefully transporting his own potent drink, he made his way across the room again, eyes peeled for one reddish-purplish-brownish dress amongst a sea of pastel muslin.