A Pretty Mouth (31 page)

“Robert Whitehall,” said St John thoughtfully. “Didn’t you get into a spot of trouble with the Roundheads over some poem—”

“Ah ha ha,” Whitehall laughed unconvincingly; there was no mirth in his eyes.

“—and then got into trouble with the Royalists for writing turncoat doggerel?”

“Ah ha ha
ha
,” he said, turning redder, if that was possible. “You are well informed, my lord.”

“I follow poetry.”

“Indeed, my lord? How
wonderful
,” Whitehall said, his fleshy cheeks wobbling as he smiled. “Well then, I must compose some verses in your honor, for a poetically-inclined gentleman has no need for food, drink, or love—for he has found the greatest happiness of all. Would you not agree?”

When Whitehall spoke, Rochester got a sloppy sort of worshipful look in his eyes that Henry didn’t like at all. Could the boy not see through the toady?

“I could not say,” replied Honor. “I suppose it depends on the poetry. If such is true, however, I’d advise those trying such a thing to be careful—insipid verses would likely cause anemia as easily as an inadequate diet.”

“Will you not shake hands, Rochester?” asked Henry, leaning over to converse with his friend. “You’ve not said a word to me.”

“Why are you here, ruining my night?” snipped Rochester, tossing back his wig-curls. “Go and join the rest of the Blithe Company, I saw some of them earlier—look, there’s Neville and Jones, they’re having a private chat, and you seem to enjoy breaking up that sort of thing.”

Oh, yes—there they were indeed, but Henry didn’t care.

“You’re sour as Belgian beer,” he said. “Whatever’s the matter with you?”

“Robert and I were having a lovely time before you barged in here.”

“I saw. Watch yourself, John, or you’ll end up spitted between the kidneys before this night’s out.”

Rochester’s eyes widened. “You’re vulgar common trash, Henry Milliner.”

He had said it so loudly that Honor and Whitehall both fell silent and looked at the two of them. Henry flushed, angry and hurt, but then he saw something and went cold as the Thames in winter.

“St John,” he hissed. “St John,
behind you
.”

Honor turned—and stiffened.

St John Clement Lord Calipash and his cousin Mr. Godfrey Fitzroy had just come in through the door of the Horse and Hat.

Chapter Fourteen: A History of the Unfortunate

“Shit,” said Honor.

Rochester had noticed why their attentions had suddenly been diverted; Henry knew it because the young Earl’s brow furrowed in consternation as he tried to puzzle out how there could be two St Johns at the Horse, identical but for the color of their coats. Henry was also curious, but Honor looked so panicked he didn’t want to bother her.

“Arrrround firthehrourse!” shouted the other St John, waving his arms to gesture at the crowded tavern. He almost fell over but Godfrey caught him mid-sway. “Drink up!”

Godfrey, Henry saw, looked mildly perturbed by St John’s behavior. Neither had yet seen Honor. Those in the bar didn’t seem to have noticed the doppelgängers, they were too busy hailing their unexpected luck and claiming tankards filled and passed out by the staff.

Then the other St John climbed up on a table, hoisting his mug, which foamed and spilled over his hand and long, ruffled cuff.

“Toats,” he slurred, “A toats to my breloved
sisterrrr
.”

“God
damn
St John,” swore Honor, looking increasingly cross. “I must leave—out the back—is there a way? I, I must …”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” said Henry. “St John? But you said he was at your ancestral home, did you not?”

“I did,” said Honor shortly, casting about for an exit and finding none. “Henry, do not speak to me about this now, I shall explain presently. Oh, we should never have come here!”

“Troday, I saw my sisterr joins inlussst—with an
asshole
,” shouted St John, and then he took a long pull on his beer. Revived, he began anew. “Not
my
asshole neither, mush t’my constipation.” He frowned. “Consertation.
Con
-ster-
na
-tion.”

Henry felt a yawning in his stomach, as if he had been climbing stairs in the dark and at the top felt his foot sink lower than expected, having thought he had one more to go.

“Honor,” he hissed. “Honor, is there something I should—”

“Oh
do
shut up!” she hissed back. She seemed frozen, unsure of what to do. To leave would mean walking past her double, past the Blithe Company members near the front, so she sat still and tall in her seat, eyes glued to the other St John, her brow growing increasingly damper. “I never thought he would—”

“You!”

“Huzzah,” said Honor, “he’s spotted us. Tonight just keeps getting better and better.”

St John, still atop the table, pointed at Henry with his beer-hand—sloshing ale all over some very unhappy patrons—and shouted.

“You!” he cried again.

Godfrey looked amused for the first time since entering the Horse and Hat; St John did not seem to find any humor in the situation. He jumped down more nimbly than he had any right to and commenced making a beeline for them, elbowing annoyed yeoman aside.

Honor stood and went forth to meet her twin. Godfrey kept up and when St John stopped, he stepped in between the two St Johns, obviously trying to make the best of things.

“Why, look, here we are assembled!” he tittered nervously. “Hello all—nice to meet you,” he said at Robert Whitehall, who looked more confused than anyone. “Cousin, you left a suit of clothes over at Christ Church, I gave them to Thomas to wear. He was quite upset when you wouldn’t spend any time with him on this happy day, the birthday of our sovereign Charles the Second. You don’t mind?”

Henry felt a momentary sense of relief—of course, it was just Thomas in a borrowed suit—but no, it couldn’t be. Godfrey was attempting damage control: The other St John had been speaking of his sister, not his mistress.

Of course
. Christ, he’d been such an idiot! Henry congratulated himself for finally figuring it all out. “Thomas” was St John Clement in disguise, masquerading as his own manservant, so his sister could masquerade as himself!

Or perhaps they switched off—what had Rochester said, and Aldous Clark confirmed? That St John had made love to a whore in the back room of the Horse while the whole Company looked on—quite the feat without a pizzle. He should have realized it sooner. And Godfrey, when he had spoken of marrying St John’s sister—it had been St John-St John leading the Blithe Company the night they tormented Lucas Jones. When Thomas had come to them it had been Honor, saving him from her wilder brother, speaking of black moods and hard exercise! Yes, yes.

Feeling rather smug, Henry stood, but before he could speak, someone else did.

“Ho now, what’s this?”

Neville and Jones had joined them, looking as confused as everyone else. When no one spoke, Neville snorted.

“How funny,” he said. “Is this a prank in honor of the restoration of the monarchy? Good one even for you, St John, this other really is your very double. So close I can’t—I say, which of you is really St John?”

“I am,” they both answered.

Jones laughed uncomfortably. Neville frowned.

Henry decided to take control of the situation.

“Thomas,” he said sternly, “you must stop making a spectacle of yourself here in public. You shame yourself, but more than that, you shame my lord, and—”

Something collided with the side of Henry’s face. When he came back to himself he was lying on the floor of the tavern, and realized it had been a fist—St John was rubbing his knuckles. Henry spit out a tooth and drew himself up unsteadily onto his elbows.

“We talked about this,” Honor was saying, looking about at all the people staring at them. She seemed far calmer than before, as if she had accepted the situation and given up on trying to control it. “It was the only way.”

“
You
talk’d’bout it.” St John was far more drunk than he was articulate. “You tol’me—”

“Let us talk about what I may have told you back at the college, away from everyone.” Honor’s voice was stern.

Henry got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “
I
propose—”

St John swung again. Henry, distracted by Rochester calling his name in alarm, failed to duck—and knew no more.

***

“I don’t like it. You said I wouldn’t mind, that I would learn to like it, but …”

“You must give it time, dearest. Just you wait—when my natural temperance has worked some changes to this flesh I’ll be more to your taste, I’ll warrant.”

“But you were perfectly to my taste
before
.”

“Life makes fools of us all.” A sigh. “I hope you will learn to adjust. I do love you very much. That is why I did it, you know.”

“I know. I just—I shall never see myself looking out of my own eyes again.”

“A narcissistic wish.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you meant, but do not despair. I am still, as I have been, wholly yours.”

The voice was so familiar, but Henry could not place it. Still, he felt very queer, so he chose to not yet open his eyes. He had come back to himself with no notion of how long he had been out; all he knew was that he was lying on his back on a mattress.

“And you’re … certain?”

“Perfectly. Last night the hue was unmistakable.”

“Well then. I suppose I must offer you my congratulations on the happy event.”

A laugh. Henry couldn’t place it. The last speaker had been St John, but as for the other …

“It will have to be a quick wedding, which always has the hint of scandal—but I suppose it can’t be helped.” A sigh. “Godfrey, you
would
fly the coop just as St John ruined everything. Oh, brother mine. I know you were never very happy about the plan, but really. Such outbursts, such intemperance … to say nothing of your putting yourself at risk for the clap, or worse. You forced my hand.”

“Surely you knew enough.” St John sounded sour.

“I knew
enough
, perhaps, but not all. I wanted to breed Lady Franco again, now that she is possessed of Pietra’s sensitive essence, to see if her offspring were still normal.” A laugh. “If the first is wanting, we may have to try again. Poor Henry. I wonder how he’ll feel about
that
.”

Henry opened his eyes upon hearing his name. His vision was strange, sharper than usual. The ceiling of the room was incredibly detailed in the candlelight. Looking to where the voices came from, the first thing he saw was … himself. With a black eye and a bruise on his cheek. He closed his eyes again. The two blows to his head must have done something to his brain.

“Why did you wake up faster? He’s certainly taking his sweet time.”

“Oh, he’s awake,” said Godfrey, from somewhere behind Henry’s head.

“Really?”

Henry opened his eyes again to find his vision remained queer. Still feeling rather peculiar, he sat up slowly—and again, was tormented by seeing himself standing off to the side, looking at him keenly. Good Christ, he looked gross and uncouth next to St John! When he was better, he would have to start cutting back at mealtimes. And stop getting himself punched repeatedly in the face.

“Weird not seeing you in you,” said St John critically, canting his head to the left. “I still don’t know about this, Honor.”

“I confess even I retain mixed feelings on the matter.” Henry watched his own mouth move, though he was not speaking. “I liked my body, to be sure, but now we may always enjoy ourselves, without worrying about my monthlies, or how to get ourselves an heir.”

“What is going on?”

Henry jumped at the sound of his own voice—it was higher than it had been since his balls were smooth as eggs. He looked down, and instead of his person, he saw a thin cotton
robe de chambre
covering a small but elegant bosom.

“Good morning, Henry,” said Henry.

Henry felt dizzy; he went to put his hands over his eyes and realized his left arm hurt. Looking at it, the crook of his elbow was wrapped with some sort of dressing, and a pinkish dot was evident on the cloth. He covered his overly-sharp eyes with his delicate right hand. “This is a nightmare, I will wake up, I will wake up soon.”

“You are not asleep, Henry,” said Henry. “I know this must come as a shock, but it’s nothing to worry about. I have transferred your soul to a different body, by transfusion of the blood—along with a few other processes, of course.”