by P. N. Elrod
My head began to reel with excited speculation. “Where is this place?”
He waved a hand. “Oh, you can find it easily enough. But another time, perhaps. We’ll have to get back to Tony’s before that barber he promised disappears.”
It was not fair. I’d spent a horrid afternoon in Bedlam when I could have been wallowing in a scented bathing pool like a turbaned potentate with any number of beauteous water nymphs seeing to my every desire. Though Oliver and I had much in common, it seemed that our ideas on practical education were quite different. I wanted to ask him more about his experiences at Covent Garden and Vauxhall, but we’d reached the end of the lane and had to consider our mode of transport.
After expressing my preference of a cart over a sedan chair, we managed to find one going in the desired direction. This one had outward facing seats and was crowded with other passengers, two of whom were ladies of the respectable sort. Their inhibiting presence kept me from obtaining more details from Oliver, so I had to content myself with conversation on less exciting topics than the tarts of London.
Our trip seemed shorter, whether by speed of the horse, or the amusing nature of my cousin’s comments as we traveled. The streets were just as busy as ever as people hurried to finish their errands before nightfall. Oliver said that the city could be a deadly trap to the unwary or the unarmed, and if the footpads were bold enough during the day, they were positively bloodthirsty at night. Since we would be going over by carriage, with footmen running before and behind with torches, we would probably be safe enough.
“Can you defend yourself?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.” With an easy twist, I opened my walking stick to reveal part of the Spanish steel blade within. Oliver whistled with admiration. “It was a present from Father,” I added. “He’d ordered it nearly a year ago, intending it for my last birthday, but delivery was delayed. As it was, it made a fine parting gift for my trip here.”
“Or anywhere,” he added, his eyes lighting up with a touch of envy. “I shall have to take you along to the fencing gallery we have at Cambridge so you can show us your skill.”
“I should look forward to that.” It had been ages since my last match at home, and I wanted the practice.
“Tell me, before you left, did you have any opportunity at all to put it to use?”
“Use? What? Against the rebels? They’re miles from where we are.”
“No-no-no! I meant against all those bloodthirsty red Indians!”
“Eh?”
He explained his eagerness to hear whatever exploits I might have had fighting savages, being under the misapprehension that the colonies were comprised of besieged forts under constant threat from roaming hoards of feathered fiends. My lengthy explanation about the complete lack of hostile natives on Long Island disappointed him, but served to fill the time until we reached Tony Warburton’s front steps. Though ostensibly a guest in the house and therefore not subject to paying for lodging and board, I might have spent much less money had I remained at The Three Brewers. The many vails were adding up, and my supply of pennies dwindled before I came to an understanding with the butler that all things could be settled at the end of my visit. This promise, rather than putting the servants off, caused them to be more attentive than before, so my request for a bath was greeted as an easily met challenge rather than an impassable obstacle.
Because Mrs. Warburton was a great believer in maintaining a clean body (hence the family holiday at Bath), facilities were at hand, even if they weren’t exactly ready. Two stout boys carried her bathing tub to my room and then lugged bucket after bucket up the stairs to fill it, while another man lighted a fire to warm the room. Though it was August, the weather was cool today, and they weren’t going to risk my catching a chill while under their care. Their concern might also have been that if I died from that chill I should be unable to pay them for their trouble. Even so, the water they brought was barely lukewarm.
Ah, but it was water, and I sank gratefully into the cramped tub for a much-desired soak. With a fat bar of soap and a flesh brush I was a happy man. Oliver and Tony came in for a short visit to view “the antics of this rustic colonial” as they joked to me. In turn, I shocked them by briefly recounting the many times on the crossing voyage that I had voluntarily stripped and had myself doused with seawater from the deck pump.
“Well-a-day, man, ’tis a wonder you’re not dead,” Oliver exclaimed with hollow-eyed horror.
“On the contrary, I found it to be refreshing and greatly improving to the appetite.” I left off telling them about the awful food.
“He is still alive,” Tony pointed out.
My cousin conceded that I was, indeed, still alive, by the grace of God and no thanks to my foolish habits.
“You made mention of Turkish bathing, Oliver. How is it so different from this that it is better for the health?” I asked.
“For one thing you’re not slopping about in a drafty room, but working up a proper sweat wrapped in a hot blanket.”
This didn’t sound much like the marble-lined pool surrounded by the graceful seraglio I’d envisioned. He apparently didn’t hear my invitation to continue his description, suddenly recalling a task he’d left undone in his room. Tony chuckled at his departure.
“Oliver is a bit bashful when it comes to talking about his wenching,” he said. “It seems he’d rather do it than waste time in discussion, which is quite sensible, after all. Perhaps later I can persuade him to take you ’round to meet some of our fair English roses after the party.”
Well-a-day, I thought, a deep shiver coursing through me at the prospect. Perhaps this very night I would at last learn the pleasures of physical love. I applied the soap to the brush, and the brush to my flesh with happy diligence.
As the boys carried the buckets of dirty water back downstairs, I worked to get my hair combed and dried before the fire. Mother had insisted on fitting me out with a wig, which I suffered to accept in order to keep the peace. However, the one she chose was a monstrous horseshoe toupet nearly a foot high with a sweep of Cadogan puffs hanging from the nape. No doubt another man would look quite handsome in it, but my first glimpse was enough to convince me that my own appearance would be extremely grotesque. I would sooner sport a chamber pot in public than to be seen wearing that thing. Brightly oblivious to my pained expression at the buffoon in my mirror, Mother pronounced that it would be perfect for any and all social functions I should be fortunate enough to attend and gave me lengthy instructions for its proper care. This upcoming musical evening would have met with her rare approval.
But she was thousands of leagues away and unable to command my obedience; I blithely cast the wig aside. This was no light decision for me, though.
During today’s travels, I had ample opportunity to observe that no matter how mean their station in life, every Englishman I’d clapped eyes on that day (except for only the worst of the wretches in Bedlam) wore a wig. Foreigners like myself who chose to eschew the custom were either laughed at for their lack of fashion sense or admired for their eccentricity. Since I had a full head of thick black hair, I would take a bit of sinful pride in what God had given me and wear it as it was, tied back with a black ribbon. In this I was almost copying Benjamin Franklin, at least in general principle.
He’d made himself quite popular in polite society by choosing to dress simply and make an affectation out of his lack of affectation. He’d made a sober, but good-humored contrast to all the court peacocks, and had enjoyed no end of female companionship. Though I disagreed with his politics and those of his fanatical friends, I could admire his cleverness.
Tony Warburton’s barber came and went, leaving my face expertly scraped and powdered dry. He grumbled unhappily over my attitude about the wig, which he had expected to dress. If all gentlemen made such a calamitous decision to go without, he would lose more than half his income. Before sending him
on, I compensated him with a generous vail, having made it a practice to always be on good terms with any man who plays around my throat with a razor.
Crispin lived up to his reputation; all my clothes had been cleaned, aired, and laid out as though new. After careful thought, I picked my somber Sunday clothes, but offset the severe black with an elaborately knotted neckcloth and highly polished shoes with the new silver buckles. One of the younger footmen had been detailed as my temporary valet, and I was pleased with his attention to detail, though I said little lest he develop an exaggerated idea about the size of his vail when I left.
“Heavens!” exclaimed Tony when he and Oliver came to collect me. “They’ll think you’re some kind of Quaker who came by mistake.”
“That or a serious student of the law,” I returned with dignity
Oliver agreed with me. “I think he’s made a wise choice. Everyone will expect him to be either an uncivilized savage or an insurrectionist lout. Dressed this way he looks neither, and they may trouble themselves to stop and make his acquaintance first out of sheer curiosity at the lack of spectacle.”
“Thank you, Cousin. I think.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said cheerfully, and led the way downstairs.
* * *
With footmen running before and behind our coach, their torches making a welcome light in the darkness, we suffered no interference from criminal interlopers on our coach ride to the Bolyn house.
That revealed itself to be an enormous pile, and though it presented a pleasant face to the world, I hardly noticed for all the people. There seemed to be hundreds milling about, reminding me of the crowds I’d seen in the streets earlier, but better dressed, with less purpose and more posturing. Oliver wanted to stop and talk whenever he saw a familiar face, but Tony kept us moving, for he was anxious to see his Miss Jones again and introduce her.
We did pause long enough to pay our respects to our host and hostess, and Oliver’s prediction that my garb would inspire a favorable impression proved true, at least with them. I was asked many questions about the colonies, which I rather inadequately answered, hampered as I was by having lived in only one small part of them. Most of the interesting news had happened elsewhere, though I was able to provide some information regarding events in Philadelphia. For that I could thank Dr. Theophilous Beldon, who had quite exhausted the novelty of the subject in his efforts to cultivate my friendship before my departure.
He would have loved it here, for I saw many dandies of his type roaming the house and grounds, bowing and toad-eating to their betters to their heart’s content. Several in particular stood out so much from the rest that I had to stop and gape. Elizabeth often accused me of being a peacock, but then she’d never seen these beauties.
Their wigs were so white as to blind an observer and so tall as to brush the door lintels. Instead of shoes, they appeared to be wearing slippers; a silver circle served in place of a buckle. They were painted and powdered and so richly dressed that for a moment I thought some members of the French court had wandered in by mistake.
I had certainly given thought to augmenting my own wardrobe while in London, but if this was an example of fashion, I would sooner go naked and said as much to Oliver.
“Oh, those are members of the Macaroni Club,” he informed me.
“A theatrical troupe, are they?”
“No, scions of wealthy houses. They’ve done their grand tour of Europe and brought the name back from Italy.”
“Name?”
“Macaroni.”
What Italian I had learned did not include that particular word, so I asked for a definition.
“It’s a kind of dish made of flour and eggs. They boil it.”
“Then what?”
“Then they eat it.”
I tried to work out how boiled flour and eggs could be made edible and gave up with a shudder.
“Everything these days is done a la macaroni, you know. You could do worse than follow their example.” He looked upon them with wistful envy.
“Truly,” I said, as though agreeing with him while thinking, if worse existed. “If you admire them so much, why don’t you?”
“Mother won’t let me,” he rumbled, and for a few seconds a singularly grim expression occupied his normally good-natured face. I’d seen it last night when we’d talked about ourselves and our families while getting so terrifically drunk. It swept across his lean cheeks and brow like a thunderstorm. Even without any knowledge of our family ties, I’d have recognized the Fonteyn blood in him in that moment. He seemed aware that he was revealing something better left hidden and glanced away.
“Awful, isn’t it?” I said aloud, without meaning to.
Though surprised, he instantly understood my meaning and looked hard at me, his eyes oddly clear and sharp with sudden weariness, as though waiting for an expected blow to fall now that I’d gotten his attention. None did.
The odd silence between us lengthened. “I just know it really is awful,” I murmured.
Some of the tightness of his posture, which I hadn’t noticed until he shifted restlessly on his feet, eased. The harsh feelings he held for his mother—who was apparently even more domineering than mine—that had battered against me like the backwash of a wave began to gradually recede.
“Yes,” he said, the word emerging from him slowly, as though he were afraid to let it go. He sucked in his lower lip like a sulky child.
There was more that could have been voiced, months and years of it, perhaps, but nothing more came from him. Vacuous good humor reasserted itself on his face, first as a struggle, then as a genuine feeling. He dropped a hand on my near shoulder with a reminder that we should not lose sight of Tony, then carefully steered me through the crowd of Macaronis like a pilot taking a ship through dangerous waters.
Despite the people pressed close around, each talking louder than his neighbor to be heard, I discerned the clear tones of a harpsichord nearby. This was supposed to be a musical evening. Being unable to play myself, I had cultivated an appreciation for the art and expressed the hope that I might be allowed the time to enjoy the artist at hand.
“You’ll have buckets of time, I’m sure,” said Oliver. “The fellow here is frightfully good, but new here and his name escapes me. Knowing Bolyn’s ambitions, he’s probably German.”
“What’s his ambition to do with his taste for music?”
“It’s well known that the king prefers German music, and Bolyn must be hoping that an evening like this will somehow get him royal attention.”
“To what end?”
“Who knows? He’s probably angling for at least a knighthood; they usually are. I never saw much point to playing such games. There was one fellow I knew whose father was knighted and the only advantage he noticed was for the tradesmen, who doubled their bills.”
We moved out of range of the music, through some wide doors, and into a graceful garden surrounding the house. Lanterns hung from flower-festooned poles, taking the place of the sun, which had departed on our drive over. Here we caught up with Tony, who had grown fretful.
“She’s supposed to be here,” he told us. “Mrs. Bolyn assured me that she acknowledged her invitation.” Nervously, he tugged at his neckcloth. The afternoon’s rest had restored his color and now it all seemed gathered in two dense spots high on his cheeks.
Love must be a frightening thing indeed to put a man into such a state, I thought, and wondered if I would turn into a similar wreck if the conclusion of this evening lived up to my expectations. I was in pursuit of physical gratification, though, and aware that other young men achieved it without exhibiting Tony’s alarming symptoms. Perhaps if I were careful, I would not fall in love with my hired mistress, and thus be spared such agonies. I was willing to take the chance.
The estate had a marvelous garden with thick grass and a hedge maze lighted by paper
lanterns. Somewhere within musicians played. A table with cold meats and other things was set up near the entry along with many chairs and benches. Though Tony claimed to have no appetite and moved restlessly on, Oliver and I tarried to take full advantage of the offerings. We each promised the other not to overindulge in the matter of wine and with that understanding made up for it by our consumption of food. In between bites, he would point out this person or that to me, always with some amusing note about them, which helped to fix their names in my memory
“Over there is Brinsley Bolyn—that’s Charlotte’s brother, you know. She’s the raving beauty this year, but no one’s been allowed to propose to her yet. They say their father is holding out for someone wealthy enough to do his family some good.”
“Are they descended from Anne Boleyn? Or rather from her family?”
“No, but they like to think it and have put the story about so long and so often that people are beginning to believe them. I’d put as much stock in that claim as I would the footman who takes on his master’s name and title and insists on being called ‘my lord’ by other servants.”
“Are there any real titles here?”
“I’m certain of it. Bolyn’s spent enough on this to try to impress them. They wouldn’t dare not be here.” Oliver nodded in the direction of a slight fellow conversing with a fat man. “There’s Lord Harvey, for one. His title outlived the family fortune and he’s looking around for an heiress to help him recover his lost dignity. Of course he hasn’t a chance with Charlotte. Her dear papa guards her too well. I wonder why he’s talking with old Ruben Smollett? That’s Robert’s father. Robert’s part of our group, y’know. Unfortunately for Lord Harvey, Smollett’s oldest daughter only just turned twelve. I doubt if his creditors will wait until she’s old enough to be married off.”
