Fanny (28 page)

The Conversation at Breakfast was perfunctory enough. I observ’d how subdu’d the Girls were in Coxtart’s Presence—almost as if they fear’d her. They chatter’d readily enough when they were alone, but under her watchful Eye, they were restrain’d, and Roxana and Nell plainly lookt unwell, perhaps consumptive. ’Twas alarming how sick the Wenches all seem’d in the clear Light of Day.

“Now then, Girls,” says Mother Coxtart, rubbing her hands together. “I have Assignments fer ye all….” Whereupon she read off a List of Names from a grubby Sheet of Paper, assigning one Swain (or sometimes two) to each Girl. I thought I recogniz’d some of the most distinguish’d lit’ry Names of the Day, but I doubted they would frequent such a Place, so I told myself I must surely be mistaken: these must be their younger Brothers or obscure Cousins.

“And as fer Madam Fanny,” she went on, “I shall have an Assignment fer her presently, but first we shall outfit her as befits a Lady of her Beauty. Pray, eat. We must away.”

I gulp’d my Chocolate and a Bit of toasted Bread, but i’faith, I was too distress’d to eat heartily. Betwixt my Worries that I might be with Child and my Worries about what had become of Lancelot, not to mention my Worries about what Plans Mother Coxtart had in store for me, I was quite untranquil.

Before long, my new Employer hurried me away from the Table, down to the Streets and into a waiting Chair.

The sly old Fox, being too frugal to call for two Chairs, and telling me I was slender enough to share one with her, bounded into the Chair first, lifted her Panniers and Petticoats to make room, and said, “Here, me Love, there’s plenty o’ Space.”

But ’twas hardly so, and finding no Space to put my Bottom (let alone my Petticoats) I half crouch’d, half stood erect whilst we made our bumpy Journey thro’ the teeming Streets of the Town.

We were bound for the Royal Exchange, where, Coxtart promis’d, we should find a dazzling Array of Baubles to outfit me for my new Life. I was content enough just to be let out of the Chair, where I had fear’d I would be squasht, shaken, or smother’d to Death.

The Chairmen discharged us at a wond’rous Arcade of Golden Stone, fill’d with Shops of ev’ry Description. ’Twas a pav’d interior Courtyard, newly built after the Great Fire, and ’twas crowded with Travellers, Idlers, Shoppers, Merchants, Servant-Girls in search of Places, Ruffians looking for Victims to kidnap and carry off to the American Plantations, Spaniards with their Moustaches full of Snuff, Dutchmen in Caps, long-hair’d Jews, Porters, Hawkers, Orange Girls, and Ragmen; there were, as well, talkative Irishmen, taciturn Scotsmen, lazy Apprentices, flirting Sempstresses, insolent Footmen, Husbands in search of Mistresses, and Wives in search of Lovers.

Little Notes conveying likely Employment were pinn’d to the Columns, where they flutter’d slightly, like dying Moths; these Notices the Crowd consulted indiff’rently if at all. For they had come to talk and tarry, flirt and gossip, not to seek an honest Day’s Work!

We hasten’d into a Draper’s Shop, where the Profusion of fine Stuffs quite bedazzl’d the Eye. Tho’ Lady Bellars’ Draper was wont to visit us at Lymeworth with Bolts of Silk, Satten, and fine Muslin, in truth, I had ne’er seen the like of the Selection that a London Shop provided.

The Draper himself, a wretchedly thin Giant of a Man who seem’d quite compos’d of Angles, greeted us with a prodigious Bow and Cringe, offer’d us Dishes of Tea, and set the Shop Clerks scurrying to take down Rolls of the newest Stuff from the highest Shelves.

“And what shall Madam have Today?” the Draper askt with all possible Deference. If he knew Mother Coxtart’s Profession, certainly nothing in his Manner betray’d it.

“I must outfit this fine young Lady—my Niece lately come from the Country—for a Season in Town,” says she. Mother Coxtart’s Voice became haughty and refin’d when she spoke in publick Places; last Night, in the Bedchamber, and this Morning as well, her Speech had scarce been so elegant.

“Ah, Madam,” says the Draper, “allow me to show you our newest Stuffs. We have Pudsway Silks, Mowhairs, Flower’d Damasks, Poplines, Crapes, Plushes, Grazets, Shalloons, and Serges, not to mention the fine new Indian Stuffs—the Sooseyes, Succatums, Taffaties, Seersuckers, Chintses, Morees, and Pelongs.”

Then, having first directed a Clerk to bring him some rich, bright Mustard-colour’d Stuff, he spread it before Mother Coxtart, bow’d, and said, “This, Madam, is a diverting Silk. My Stars! What a fine Gown this would make!”

“Not for a red-headed Beauty, I fear,” says Coxtart in her elegant Style. “My dearest Niece looks rather ill in Mustard. Better Green or Blue. And Rose, to be sure, sets off her lovely Pallor, whilst a Flower’d Lustring might suit her well, if ’twere pale enough.”

“Ah, Madam, I have just the Thing!” says the Draper, and clapping his Hands for another Clerk, he sends him bounding up a Ladder to fetch a Bolt of Silk, bluer than Heaven itself. As soon as the breathless Clerk descends with the heavenly Silk, the Draper gathers it up into a Sleeve and drapes it seductively ’round my Shoulder.

“Behold, Madam! A Vision!”

“’Twill do, ’twill do,” Coxtart says without much Enthusiasm. ’Tis plain that she is already preparing to haggle o’er the Price.

This Process continues for at least two Hours as innumerable Rolls of gorgeous Silk are brought down from the Shelves and the tall Draper repeatedly bows, cringes, and grovels before Mother Coxtart. I am us’d chiefly as a Tailor’s Dummy, and Stuffs are drap’d upon my Form as if I had neither Will nor Wit of my own. Tired and fretful, I gaze out the Window at the teeming Arcade, where, suddenly, to my considerable Astonishment, I see a tatter’d Beggarman gazing in at me and screwing up his entire Face in a Squint, as if he is trying to determine whether or not he knows me.

He is an old Man, dress’d in piteous Rags, and his Beard is grizzl’d. I turn away, now grown fearful of his Looks, and pay Attention instead to the twinkling Cloth of Silver that is just now being drap’d across my Bosom.

“Ye Gods, Madam,” says the Draper, to my “Aunt.” “Would I had ten thousand Yards of this! But alas, all that remains you see here, and I doubt that I can get e’en a Yard more. Pray, consider your Niece’s splendid Hair against this glitt’ring Silver! She looks a perfect Moonbeam, shining across the Ev’ning Sky!”

“Fifteen Shillings a Yard,” says Coxtart coldly. The Draper lookt fair to faint at the very Words.

“Fan me, ye Winds!” cries he. “Why—should I part with it for such a Price, the very Weavers would rise up in Arms against me! Nay, Madam! Four Guineas per Yard is the lowest I can go. And yet, for your Ladyship, because you are a worthy Customer, I shall come down a Shilling or two.”

“Two Guineas,” Coxtart retorts. “’Tis a Remnant of the Winter Season. Lord knows what next Year’s Fashion Plates will show.”

“Madam, surely you jest. Cloth of Silver is e’er
a la Mode
.”

“Two,” says she sternly.

“Three,” says he.

“Two and a half,” says she.

“Done!” says he. “But you must swear an Oath you’ll breathe no Word of this abroad—for just Yesterday my Lady Farthingswood had it of me for four Guineas! You drive a hard Bargain, Madam.”

When the Accounts had been tallied and the Draper and his two Cow’ring Clerks had bow’d, cringed, and clickt their Heels together more Times than I could count, the Trio of ’em escorted us outside the Shop and offer’d to get us a Chair, a Hackney Coach, the very Moon itself if we would but nod our Heads in Assent.

“Nay,” says Coxtart, “we’d best walk, for we have spent all our Money here with you!” ’Twas hardly true, in fact, for Coxtart ne’er bought for Cash when she could for Credit; but it had the desir’d Effect upon our Friend the Draper.

“Not a Penny ill-spent,” says he, to which Coxtart merely says, “Harrumph,” as she leads me away.

Thus went our Visit to the Draper’s. Next, we call’d upon a Sempstress, then a Shoemaker, a Toy-Shop (for I must have my painted Fan and Snuff-Box), a Milliner, and finally a Perfumer nam’d Charles Lillie, who sold us Chymical Wash-Balls, Oil of Rhodium and Oil of Roses, a Concoction call’d “
Eau Sans Pareil
,” as well as Jessamine and Cordova Waters. Mother Coxtart also insisted that I have a Bavarian Red Liquor to give an added Bloom to my Cheaks, and Rose Lip Salve to stain my Lips. Despite my Protestations, she caus’d me to select an astonishing Array of Patches—some shap’d like Stars, some like Crescents, some like Flow’rs, some e’en like Dogs or Cats.

All the while, as we went from Shop to Shop (sometimes on Foot, sometimes by Chair), I caught Sight of the Beggarman following us and I grew e’er more untranquil. Sometimes we seem’d to lose him; sometimes he lagg’d back behind Corners or behind Peddlars’ Carts, but there could be no doubt of it, he was upon our Trail.

At last, laden with Purchases, we prepar’d to find a Chair to take us homeward; whilst Mother Coxtart was engaged in finding a Chairman, the Beggarman made bold to approach me.

“Madam Fanny?” he askt, in a hoarse Whisper.

“’Tis I,” I said, with all unthinking Honesty. Whereupon he thrust a dirty Paper in my Hand and scurried away.

“Damn these impertinent Chairmen,” says Coxtart, plainly anger’d by her own Ineptitude at finding a Chair. “We’ll be obliged to take a Hackney Coach!” So saying, the sly old Fox walks away and begins to haggle with a nearby Coachman concerning his Fares; thus I am briefly at liberty to read the Paper without being observ’d.

My Love, (it says), I am alive and in Newgate Prison—Come to me presently—Robin Hood.

My Heart heav’d in my Bosom with Passion. Indeed, it seem’d so loud to me that I doubted not but ev’ry Passerby on the Street might hear it. I thrust the Paper in my Boddice to keep it near that passionate pounding Organ.

“Come!” commanded Coxtart, stepping heavily into the Hackney Coach, with the Driver’s Assistance.

“I am here,” I said, breathing a deep Sigh, but my Mind was in Newgate e’en as I spoke.
He is alive!
I thought;
Goddess be Prais’d!
And I touch’d my own Bosom to feel the comforting Crackle of Paper ’neath the tatter’d green Silk as the Hackney Coach took us back once more to my Place of Captivity.

CHAPTER III

In which our Fanny meets a Frog who thinks himself a Prince and loses her Virginity for the second Time (which Doubting Thomases may profess to be impossible, but Readers wise in the Wicked Ways of the World will credit).

M
OTHER COXTART HAD PLANS
for me that very Night—Plans which precluded my going to Lancelot—tho’ they certainly did not prevent me from dwelling upon my other principal Worry, namely: was I or was I not with Child?

In that Regard, I must report that, altho’ I certainly could not confide in any of the Wenches concerning my Fears (lest they betray me), I had some Proof of my Condition that Afternoon in the form of a Copy of the Daily
Courant
, casually left upon the Parlour Tea-Table by one of the Girls, and bearing the ominous Date of July the 28th, 1724.

Since the Date of Lord Bellars’ Betrayal was sear’d in my Memory, as if branded by red-hot Iron upon the Shoulder of a Slave—for how could I but remember his Letter to his London Mistress of June the 21st?—and since I had last had my Monthly Visitation a Week before that, sure I was near two Weeks o’erdue!

I tried to calm my unquiet Mind by telling myself that ’twas inevitable I should be late owing to my terrible Adventures, my Prodigious Fever, my Fears for the Future, and all the other Terrors I had known in the past sev’ral Weeks; but ’twas no Use to deceive myself, for ne’er before had my Monthly Flow’rs been anything but regular as a Swiss Clock, dependable as a trusty old Servant, and prompt as Afternoon Tea at Lymeworth!

Still, perhaps I was mistaken. If only I had stay’d long enough with my Friends, the poor slaughter’d Witches, to learn their Herbal Receipts! Surely
they
knew a Way to prevent an unwanted Babe from being born—an Herbal Remedy, swiftly swallow’d, which would loose the dread Homunculus from the Womb without Harm to the Mother!

O I was mad with Rage! In my Mind and Spirit alternated Disbelief at my Condition and sheer Fury at Lord Bellars, i’faith at all Men, for having the Joys of Love yet bearing no Burden of the Responsibility!

But I could not long dwell upon my Condition, for Mother Coxtart had directed me to dress and make ready for my first Encounter with a Swain that Night. She had order’d Kate, the blonde, pale-skinn’d Damsel (whose lovely form had so astonish’d me last Ev’ning), to prepare me for the Encounter. And ’twas Kate herself who presently join’d me in the Bedchamber, carrying all Manner of Bridal Garments and various other necessary Items of Equipment.

“Come, Mrs. Fanny,” says Kate, throwing an armful of white Clothes upon the Bed, “yer to play the proper Bride this Night—fer the Swain that hath purchas’d thy Mock-Virginity is daft fer Brides—the Fool—an’ loves no Colours better than bright red Blood ’gainst white Satten!”

Straightaway, she helps me wash and paint my Face, provides the Sponge and Pigeon Blood for my pretend Virginity, e’en shows me how to squat, as o’er a Privy, and stuff it in my Cunnicle. Then she dresses me all in Virgin White—white Corset, Stomacher of white Satten laced with gleaming silver Thread, Dress of Satten, white as Driven Snow, e’en satten Shoes, and white silk Stockings with silver Clocks. My Apron, too, was white, embroider’d with Gold and Silver; and on my Head I wore a Cap of old French Lace, which gave me quite a childish Air.

“Now,” says Kate, compleating my Toilette, “’twill ne’er do to wear this nasty red Garter, which, methinks, more befits a Witch than a Bride. Ye must wear Blue.”

“That I cannot,” I cried, now truly alarm’d, for with Lustre gone, and my dear Witches gone, and Lancelot in Prison, and e’en Black Horatio vanish’d from my Life, what Magick had I left but my red Garter?

“’Twill ne’er do,” says Kate, snatching it from me.

“O gentle Kate, I beg of thee,” I said, sinking to my white-stocking’d Knees. “Please give it here, I shall not wear it, but keep it in my Shoe, I swear.”