by John Drake
“Well,” she said, pausing for breath, and giving me a slow, wide smile, “you got a fine room with a bed in it, Loo-tenant, and I got a fine room with a bed in it. So: are we gonna stand here all day, or are we gonna do this thing properly?” It was the longest sentence I’d ever heard her deliver, and certainly the most welcome, so without further delay, I tossed her bodily in the air and caught her again as she came down, to get her comfortably close to me, with her cheek next to mine, her arms around my neck and my arms curled beneath her thighs and the small of her back.
For that’s the way a gentleman should carry a lady when she’s declared it’s bedtime at three in the afternoon. Another thing to remember is always to use your own bed and your own room on such occasions and never hers. That way, should she change her mind at the wrong moment, you can’t be accused of forcing your way into her room, and she has to explain what she was doing in yours.
Lucinda loved this treatment. She was used to men being smaller than her, but all women like to feel dainty in the presence of a man, so a hulking great chap like me that swept her off her feet like a child was exactly what she was looking for. She screamed in mock-fright as I swung her up into the air, and threw her head back in peals of laughter. Why not, after all? There was only the two of us to hear.
The change in her was amazing compared with her usual dour manner, but it was nothing to what she did once I’d got her safe into my room with the door locked behind us.
She was all over me, running her tongue into my ear, pulling open my shirt and digging her nails into my chest and sliding her thigh over mine. It was all I could do to concentrate on the vital matter of getting her out of her gown. What with her laughing and my growing excitement and the waves of delightful shuddering passing up and down my back from the games she was up to, it was worse than splicing a parted line in a hurricane.
“Kiss me, honey!” says she, and folded her arms behind my head and brushed her lips over mine. By George, she smelt beautiful and tasted wonderful!
So we staggered around a while with me doing my best to cast off the lashings at the front of her bodice, and her laughing at my clumsy efforts. Finally she pushed me away and took pity on me.
“You get yourself comfy, honey,” says she, “and leave it to me.” So that’s what I did. I hauled off my things and sat on the bed while she dropped the grey gown to the floor, with a collection of white linen undergarments to follow, and last of all the red head-scarf that she always wore bound tight around her head. And so she stood up stark naked with one hip jutting forward and her arms stretched over her head. By George she was a gorgeous creature. And didn’t she just know it, and wasn’t she just proud of it?
She shone like satin, with long smooth limbs and a superb shape. I’d assumed she got some sort of tackle underneath to nip her in at the middle and push her breasts up, but no — it was all Lucinda, unaided. Fortunately for the honour of Old England, I could see that Lucinda was as impressed with me as I was with her. An Italian Count once said to me: “Your body, eet ees so beautiful, eet could be ze model for ze sculptures of ze Greek Gods.” But he wore pink satin and chased boys, and I had to kick his dago arse for his impertinence. But to see much the same thought in the eyes of a magnificently lovely woman is something else. Especially when the sunlight is playing on her naked skin and she’s wriggling her hips at you.
I made a grab at her but she laughed, ducked under my arms, and seized hold of my shaft which was standing on tip toes to join the party. And damn me if she didn’t open her mouth, fasten her lips on it and lick it like a lollipop.
But enough was enough and I swung her on to the bed, got on top of her and folded my arms around her to stop her confounded wriggling. “Now then, madam,” says I, “no more of your games. Got you at last!” She laughed, then her eyes widened in horror and fixed on something over my shoulder.
“Oh my Lord!” says she. “Mizzah Cooper!”
I jumped in shock and twisted my head to see … To see nothing! Lucinda nearly choked with laughter and I took my revenge in the best possible way.
I got my knees between hers, forced them apart and drove deep inside her, kissing her all the while like a thirsty man fresh from a week in the desert. Nearest thing to rape I’ve ever done, except that she had her legs twined round me and was urging me to it.
9
It is with deepest regret that we are obliged to report the death, upon the field of sport, of one of Staffordshire’s most prominent gentlemen.
(From The Clarion of the North of 15th September 1793.)
*
In a low, red-brown blur of movement, the fox shot through a gap in the hedge and half-jumped, half-tumbled down the steep bank into Church Lane. The narrow road ran deep-sunken between high-banked hedgerows of immemorial antiquity, and any man or beast coming across the fields towards the road could easily be misled by the tall thick hedge into thinking the road ran level with the field instead of nearly ten feet below it.
But the fox was small and nimble. He gained his feet in an instant and, turning left, he ran for his life down the lane, past St Luke’s Church and into the village of Goostrey. One of the mowers, trimming the grass in the churchyard, saw him go and called to his mate to look. But the fox was stretched out at top speed and was gone even as the man turned his head.
“Aye,” said the mower’s mate giving a full two seconds to the monosyllable in his dull Cheshire burr, “him’ll ‘ave the ‘unt arter him … listen.” And the two men stopped work and turned towards Church Lane, expecting to see the spectacle of the Tabley Hunt in full flood come pouring out of the lane and into the village. Unfortunately, the curve of the lane hid from them exactly what happened next, or they would have been excellent witnesses at the subsequent Coroner’s inquest.
They did indeed hear the frantic baying of the hounds, and the hunting horns and the heavy thunder of charging horses, but they didn’t see the hounds pouring through, over and under the hedge, nor the mad jam of animal bodies as they cascaded on top of each other in the totally unexpected trough of Church Lane.
Nor did they see the awful sight of a powerful black hunter, lathered with foam, sailing clear over the hedge with the leading rider of the field low over his mount’s neck. The rider was a magnificent horseman, but one whose blood was so fired with the chase that he was riding ahead of the Master of Fox Hounds: a severe impropriety and a deadly error for one who did not know the ground.
In fact nobody saw the last split seconds of the life of Mr Cecil Forster, magistrate of Lonborough in Staffordshire, Master of Fox Hounds of the West Staffordshire Hunt, and riding upon the 15th September 1793; as a guest of Sir John Fleming-Leicester’s Tabley Hunt.
Even Forster himself barely had time to perceive his mistake before the horse fell dreadfully into the seething mass of hounds down in the pit of the sunken lane. There was a heavy crunch of flesh and bone as the big hunter came down with an impact that splintered its forelimbs and drove its broad chest into the mass of struggling hounds, crushing the life from three of them and catapulting Forster out of the saddle at a meteoric velocity, and to instantaneous extinction as his head drove into a tree-trunk and smashed like an apple under a sledge-hammer.
Later there were tears and recriminations as the dismayed members of the “Tabley” stood among their steaming horses in Church Lane, telling each other that everyone knew what a death-trap it was, and that it was impossible that Forster had not known, and surely it must have been somebody’s duty to tell him? And if only Forster hadn’t ridden ahead of Sir John, and who would tell Mrs Forster?
In the event, kindly man that he was, Sir John himself rode that very day the long fifteen miles to Lonborough, and broke the sad news to Forster’s wife. To his great relief, she took it philosophically and commented that this was just the death that her husband would have wished, had he been given the choice. Her brave sentiments became public knowledge and were much admired locally. All classes of society were united in the opin
ion that these were the words of a true-born sporting lady and showed real British “bottom”.
In due course all this was reported in Lonborough’s principal newspaper, The Clarion of the North, when it published a long and respectful obituary on Forster. But the Clarion tactfully ignored another snippet which was also public knowledge, namely that the hideous condition of the corpse had caused even Mr Sorrel the undertaker to be sickened to his stomach when he removed the stained cloth that covered the head in the privacy of his laying-out room.
(Neither did the Clarion report that, with the hunt abandoned, the fox escaped and dined that night on a large goose, which he liberated from a farm, on his way home.)
*
By 1794, Polmouth, in Cornwall, always one of the principal seaports and centres of trade, had grown to the point where only Portsmouth itself was more populous or important among England’s southern seaports. As well as the town proper, from about 1780 onwards there had grown up a lesser Polmouth, based on the village of Polcoombe, once separate from Polmouth, but now merging slowly into the city, as each grew and advanced its new building towards the other.
But while Polmouth was devoted to commerce, Polcoombe was devoted to pleasure. It had become to the West Country what Brighton was to London and the South-East. Spreading out from the fine sandy beaches of Polcoombe Cove, the village had grown at a tremendous rate and now offered a solid frontage, gazing down upon the bay, of inns, tea houses, pleasure gardens, barber shops, hotels, lending libraries and even a small opera house which staged musical entertainments every weekday of the season and twice on Saturdays. The beach itself offered the latest in bathing machines: huge, high vehicles upon four wheels, drawn by horses out into the deeper waters of the bay. The machines were entirely enclosed, enabling clients to disrobe in privacy, and were provided with collapsible awnings by the use of which young ladies could take their sea-baths naked, and yet not offend propriety.
Tickets for these machines were to be had at one shilling and sixpence for one hour, from the better tea shops. Tickets could also be had, though at two shillings per hour, for the telescopes set up on the terrace of the Royal George Hotel, supposedly to enable guests to view the shipping, but which were more usually employed by gentlemen in a close examination of the bathing machines.
A further attraction of the Royal George, was its large and excellent tea-room. This was the acknowledged centre of Pol-coombe and a place of such unquestioned respectability that unaccompanied ladies might enter and take their pleasure and be entirely at their ease.
Just such a lady entered the tea-room from the connecting doors to the George, at two o’clock in the afternoon of 19th September 1793. She was modestly dressed and immediately took a table which put her back to the run of windows which lit the room and gave a view of the bay. There, she could see everybody who came in, while she was little more than a silhouette.
The lady ordered Lapsong Suchong and rout drop-cakes from the waiter, and sat composed reading a book and keeping a steady watch on the door. She was Lady Sarah Coignwood and was taking a calculated risk.
In the first place, there was the possibility of her being recognised from the many prints and cartoons in circulation purporting to represent her. These were the only means whereby the general public might recognise a celebrity’s face, and fortunately the likeness was generally poor. The real risk was the chance arrival of someone who knew her. But this Lady Sarah had to accept, for perfect safety was no longer available to her. Even had she locked herself away in the Greenwich house, there was always the chance that some servant might betray her. And more important, simply to hide and do nothing was impossible to a woman of her will and greed for life.
So Victor had been packed off to Lonborough, and the creature Slym set on the trail of the Brat, while she herself took the cheapest public coach to Portsmouth and Lonborough; not a post-chaise nor even the Mail. It had been galling but wiser. To go post-chaise would have been to invite danger. The vehicle was private to the hirer, but postilions had a far better knowledge of the “Bon Ton” than other Londoners, since the high cost of the fares ensured that most of their passengers were the rich and the famous, so the risk of being recognised was too great. Victor, of course, fancied he had the perfect answer in posing as a woman but Lady Sarah had her doubts. Victor’s movements were excellently feminine, but even fresh-shaved his skin was too rough and his Adam’s apple too prominent. His was a clever effect for night-time or at a distance, but close to he would always be one of the “Bulgarian” persuasion, and not a woman.
For herself she dressed plainly and wore layers of undergarments to alter the shape of her figure. She curbed her natural exuberance, shrank herself mentally and thought herself into the role of a timid widow living on a modest bequest. This she believed was better than an elaborate disguise which could itself attract attention.
Fortunately, Polcoombe itself should be safe enough. It was a place that previously she would not have gone near for all the gold in the Indies. For Polcoombe was pretentious, middle-class, noveau riche and risible. It was a watering hole for vulgar merchants and their fat wives. And if Lady Sarah thought this, then so would the very people who would be most likely to recognise her: her own friends, her own Dulwich Square set.
Above all else, the risk was a necessary risk, for Lady Sarah had not made the long and boring journey to this ridiculous place for nothing. She was here on vital business. Business that justified any risk. She looked at the large long-case clock, shining in its scarlet-lacquered chinoiserie, that decorated the centre of the opposite wall. It was a quarter past two. Her “guest” would arrive at any minute.
She looked down at her book again. Between the open pages was a neatly-clipped piece from a newspaper. It was an obituary. Her lips twitched into a smile which she smartly extinguished. The luck of it! The damned incredible luck of it! In her mind’s eye she saw Victor’s letter bubbling with joy and amazement. His pen had flown over the page, chattering about his gratitude to “my demonic equivalent of a guardian angel”, which he assured her must have been “sent from the Infernal regions to take my part”. Her lips twitched again. Victor included a little Satanism among his amusements.
But nevertheless, there was now a list in a drawer of Lady Sarah’s room at the George which looked like this:
Fletcher
Mr Forster the Magistrate
Mr Pendennis the Polmouth merchant
Mr Richard Lucey the solicitor
Mr Taylor the bookseller (& wife)
Mr Forster’s Constable
The Constables two brothers.
She was just beginning to wonder how Victor would fare with the Taylors when a heavy, soberly-dressed figure filled the doorway and a little thrill of fear ran through her. This was the most dangerous moment. It was just conceivable that Pendennis would screw up his courage and bring officers of the law with him to arrest her.
Ahhh! She sighed with relief. Pendennis was alone, and wearing a look of desperate worry on his big red face.
He looked so funny that for all her biting her lip and digging her nails into her palms, she could not hold back the laugh and heads turned to the musical, cascading sound. Sarah Coignwood could harpoon men in a hundred ways and one of them was with that laugh, even when she was trying to withhold it.
Fortunately only one person in the room knew whose laugh it was. Standing in the doorway of the Royal George Teashop, Mr Nathan Pendennis, Lord Mayor of Polmouth, was swept with conflicting emotions. There was fear that he should be seen at this business. There was horror at the prospect of what this woman could do to his reputation — nothing less than utter ruin. And worst of all, with the captivating sound tinkling in his ears was the terrible, guilty desire that he’d tried to uproot and destroy. One look at her, even though he had to squint to see her against the light, brought back the memory of a wonderful half-hour in her London drawing room, on a sofa as soft as a feather bed, when for the first and only time in his serious,
respectable life, an exceptionally lovely woman had allowed him the intimacies of her body. And not only allowed, but joined eagerly into the business with such skills that he never knew existed.
He’d had half an hour of that before the Lady cut the cord that dangled him over the pit, and brought in her powder puff of a son and six false witnesses to a trumped-up charge of rape. So now the woman had him in her power like a bull that’s led to market by the ring through its nose. He was so enwrapped in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the waiter grovelling at his side. Pendennis came but seldom to Polcoombe — he hadn’t the time for such things — but the waiter knew the Lord Mayor when he saw him.
Pendennis allowed himself to be led to a table and ordered tea. Then he followed the instructions that had come with the package of documents that had been delivered to him on the night of his dinner party. The documents were copies of witnessed depositions by six persons that he, Nathan Pendennis, had upon Sunday, 31st March 1793, inflicted the cruel and shameful crime of rape upon the person of Lady Sarah Coign-wood, of Coignwood Hall in Staffordshire. They had been sent as a reminder. And they were accompanied with a letter from the woman herself, telling what was required of him.
This was quite simple. He drank his tea and spoke to nobody. He watched as Lady Sarah paid her bill and left the room. He waited ten full minutes by the clock. He paid and left.
He went to the terrace and saw her sitting on a bench reading a book. He went and sat beside her. He made no attempt to speak. Five minutes later she got up and walked briskly off towards Mr Cicero’s Pleasure Gardens. Pendennis followed. She paid and entered. He paid and entered. The Gardens were full of little nooks and arbours where private conversations could take place.
Just over an hour later Lady Sarah left the Pleasure Gardens. Fifteen minutes later, by his watch, Nathan Pendennis left the Pleasure Gardens. Anyone who knew him would have said that ten years had fallen from him and some mad joy had entered in its place. It was all he could do to stop himself throwing his hat in the air, and he who never gave a gratuity left Mr Cicero’s gatekeeper with a half sovereign in his trembling hands. The gatekeeper earned just ten shillings a week and could hardly believe his luck as he watched Pendennis stumping off up the street, trying to coax his bulk into a boyish swagger.
