Fanny (29 page)

“Very well,” says Kate, relenting. “But wear this blue one and hide the red one well within yer Shoe, or there’ll be Hell to pay with Coxtart. And mark ye—play the Virgin Bride! Curb yer hot Blood an’ play the unwillin’ Damsel, slow to heat an’ slow to vanquish. ’Tis Rape these Swains are after, not Romance! ’Tis yer Unwillingness they pay the Abbess for. Nothing heats their Blood like a good Chase ’round the Bed and fine white Underlinen stain’d with Pigeon Blood!”

So admonishing me, Kate departed, locking the Chamber Door behind her.

I sat upon the Edge of the Bed and waited, wond’ring what Manner of Man found Sport in taking a Maiden’s Virginity (and what Manner of Fool would believe that sly old Fox, Coxtart, when she avow’d the Authenticity of my Virginity!).

I was to find out soon enough when the Door open’d and a short, slight, bandy-legg’d Fellow with a pockmarkt Face, dress’d quite the Fop, with great Buckles upon his Shoes and an Emerald Waistcoat, trimm’d with silver Frogs, walkt, nay, bounded, into the Chamber.

“I am Theophilus Cibber,” says he, “Son of Colley, our renowned Comedian; and of all the hapless Virgins upon this spinning Globe, ’tis thy Precious Maidenhead I will deign to take!”

O I had heard tell of Colley Cibber, the Comedian, and his Whoremaster Son, Theophilus (who was then beginning his notorious Career as a Player at the Drury Lane), but little did I expect that such a noted Buffoon would be my first Swain at Mother Coxtart’s Brothel! E’en in Wiltshire, ’twas known that the young Cibber suffer’d mightily from his Father’s Notoriety, his Whoring, Gaming, and Debauchery—and sought to outdo his ev’ry Excess. Tho’ Theo was best at playing Clowns and Rogues, he aspir’d to Hamlet, Lear, Othello. Theo had already made some Name for himself playing Ancient Pistol in Mr. Shakespeare’s
Henry IV
, and Abel Drugger in Mr. Ben Jonson’s
The Alchemist
, but he wisht to play the great Tragick Princes, not the Foolish Clowns. That this simp’ring Buffoon thought himself born to be another Betterton was the Common Knowledge (and the Common Jest) of the Town. Alas, ’tis oft’ the Case—in Life as well as Art—that Clowns wish to be Tragick Princes (whilst Tragick Princes wish for nothing more than to be Clowns)!

“‘Lady, shall I lye in your Lap?’” says Cibber to me, quoting Hamlet.

“‘No, my Lord,’” says I, (as fine an Ophelia as you please). Whereupon I make haste to hide behind the Bed-Post—the better to inflame his Passion.

“Oho,” says Cibber, “‘Do you think I meant Country Matters?’”

“‘I think nothing, my Lord,’” say I, demurely.

“Oho, this is Excellent Sport,” says Cibber, “a Whore that quotes Shakespeare! Come, my little Bride, let me lye betwixt your Maid’s Legs.”

“‘You are merry, my Lord,’” say I, jumping up from the Bed and running away to escape his premature Embrace.

“Excellent Sport!” cries Cibber again, throwing himself at my Feet, holding my Ankles firm with his Hands and applying his Lips to my white silk Stockings. “Now I’ve caught you, little Bride!” Whereupon he darts one quicksilver Hand up under my Petticoats; but I am swifter than he, and with a quick Knee to his Nose, I escape again—if only for the nonce.

“’o, I dye, Horatio!’” quotes Cibber, holding his redden’d Nose.

“‘Good Night, Sweet Prince,’” I cry, “‘and Flights of Angels sing thee to thy Rest!’” Whereupon Cibber scrambles to his Feet again and pursues me madly as I skip upon the Bed, o’er it, and lead him a Merry Chase up, down, and around—now hiding behind the Bed-Curtains, now running quickly past him on my nimble Feet.

The Chamber is commodious enough for a good Rouzing Chase, and the red damask Bed-Curtains make a piquant Hiding Place for a Mock-Bride in white. Likewise, the Fire-Screen, with its Naked Nymphs, can be us’d as if ’twere the Shield of Achilles! O I am enjoying the Sport as much as he, for I mean to wear him out so much he’ll ne’er attempt my Mock-Virginity! Each Time I seem within his clownish Grasp, I slip away, as nimble on my Feet as when I am dancing a Jig.

“’o Mistress mine, where are you roaming?’” Theo gasps, changing, in his Weariness, from Prince to Clown. I see, with considerable Satisfaction, that I am beginning to weary him. He lyes at length upon the Floor, murmuring Love Songs from Shakespeare, and looking for all the World as if he will expire upon the Moment.

“‘Then come kiss me, Sweet and Twenty,’” he mumbles; “‘Youth’s a Stuff will not endure….’” Whereupon he swoons and faints, and all his Limbs grow heavy as Death itself.

I stop in my Tracks, look at him quizzically, stand back to make sure he is well and truly expir’d, and then, feeling myself to be a vanquishing Queen of Vengeance, I climb upon the Bed, loose the silver Ropes and Tassels from the Bed-Curtains, and prepare to make him my Captive.

I creep towards him, with my Silver Bonds—but lo!—just as I am upon my Knees and making ready to bind his Ankles, the cunning Rogue wakes from his Mock-Sleep of Death and leaps upon me, pinning me to the Floor instead!

“Thou Villain!” I cry.

“Little Bride! I have thee now!” cries Theo, gath’ring me up in his skinny Arms, carrying me to the Bed, where he proceeds, with great Care and Solicitude to tye each of my four Limbs to each of the four Bed-Posts with the Silver Bonds I had intended for him!

Now I am truly trapp’d in my own Snares, my Arms and Legs spread wide upon the Bed so I can make no Resistance, my Ankles and Wrists chafing ’gainst the Silver Cords.

Triumph seems to make him play the Tragick Prince again—but now ’tis Othello, not Hamlet, he quotes, though he looks less that Part than e’en Prince Hamlet or Prince Hal.

“‘Put out the Light, and then put out the Light,’” declaims Theo, lifting my Petticoats and Apron and tossing ’em above my Head (until, indeed, I
am
in Darkness). Then he makes bold to attempt my Privy Place with no Preliminaries whatso’er. What can I do but submit, being so bound? Yet I am not gagg’d, and if he can play Othello (pale and pockmarkt as he is), sure I can play Desdemona.

“‘A guiltless Death I dye!’” I cry (from ’neath my Petticoats) as Theo’s Privy Member makes its Presence felt near my not quite unsullied Altar of Love.

“O Excellent,” he exclaims, “keep quoting Verses, my Sweet Desdemona—for nothing heats my Blood like Shakespeare!” Whereupon I grow silent to spite him, and as he sinks upon me with all his Weight, and wraps his bandy Legs ’round my own, he shouts.

“‘’Tis the very Error of the Moon! / She comes more near the Earth than she was wont, / And makes Men mad!’”

Now he is properly lodged inside me and moving up and down like a very Candle Wick, being dipp’d in Beeswax by a busy, zealous Housewife; and yet I swear he is so slight a Presence in my Privy Place that it more tickles me than stirs my Blood.

What matter tho’, for Blood we have aplenty in the bit of Sea-Sponge conceal’d within Love’s Temple; and presently his Hot Lust begins to discharge it (along with other Secretions of a paler Nature), and seeing the Bewitching Colours of bright red ’gainst white Linen, Theo is e’er more inflam’d and cries: “’o Blood, Blood, Blood,’” like some Bedlam Lunatick that, in his Madness, fancies himself Othello.

But what is this?—I seem to hear Applause, and sundry Chears and Lewd Jests! And now the Chandelier begins to sway (as if the whole House were shaken by a Hurricano) and now it swings precipitously—as if ’tis about to drop to the very Floor—and from my Bondage upon the Bed I see sev’ral Pairs of beady Eyes staring at me from a Crescent-shap’d Peep-Hole in the wainscotted Ceiling!

“A fine new Wench, is she not?” comes Coxtart’s muffl’d Voice thro’ the Ceiling Slit.

“Aye,” says a male Voice.

“Aye, Aye,” says another. How many Swains are paying for this one Performance? I wonder. But, in truth, Theo is more shockt than I. For now he rises from the Bed of Bliss (tho’ not
my
Bliss, I’ll warrant) and brandishes his Sword (where before he had brandish’d nought but his Cock) and swears Vengeance upon ’em all.

“Villainous Whore! Thou Rogues!” he screams. “Make light of Theo’s Wooing, will ye? I’ll see ye roast in Hell!” And he storms out of the Bedchamber, Sword in Hand, to wreak his bandy-legg’d Vengeance upon Coxtart and her paying Swains.

For my own part, I am as amus’d by this new Turn of Events as I was unamus’d by Theo’s Am’rous Play, and I lye upon the Bed in all my Helplessness, laughing merrily to myself as Thumps and Bangs echo upon the Ceiling, and Screams reverberate above my Head.

All the while, my Mind is going like a Swiss Clock. How shall I abort this Babe, the loathed Offspring of Lord Bellars’ Loins? How shall I get out of my Brothel Bondage and to Lancelot in Newgate Prison? How shall I form some Scheme to turn my wretched Fate as a bloodied barter’d Bride to Advantage? Perhaps by persuading Theo (or some other Player) to try me on the Stage?

I am scheming thus in my Bonds upon the Bed, when Kate returns to rescue me. The Hullabaloo above my Head begins to quiet down by now, and I can only conjecture what Coxtart hath done to make Peace and end the Fray.

“Ahoy, Madam Fanny,” cries Kate, “the Abbess is well-pleas’d with yer Performance. She says yer a fine Virgin an’ she means to keep ye as the House Virgin as long as there are Gulls to pay fer yer Deflow’rin’s. ’Ere, let me untye ye.”

“But won’t Word get ’round soon enough that I have lost my Maidenhead Time and Time again?”

“By an’ by, ’twill be bruited about that there’s a new Wench in the House, ’tis true. But Men are Fools. The Abbess knows that as well as we. She’ll dye yer Hair if need be, or she’ll have ye use yer Charms upon Foreign Rogues—Italians, Spaniards, an’ the like, that are more easily gull’d than True-born Englishmen.”

“Pray, Sweet Kate, what does she charge ’em when they watch thro’ the Peep-Hole?”

“Two Guineas fer watchin’, five fer an old Girl, ten fer a new Girl that she passes off as Virgin. I’faith, they gets ’em a special cheap Rate when they enjoy in Armor, but none o’ the Swains likes an armor’d Cock as well as a bare ’un.”

“In Armor? Pray what is that?”

“Fanny, me Girl, yer sure to be clapp’d soon enough or else with Child unless ye learn these Things. What—did no one tell ye about Armor?”

“Evelina said I must use Sea-Sponge and Vinegar.”

“Well, that’s no good against the Clap—tho’ some say it preserves the Womb from Fruitfulness. I have me Doubts.”

“What shall I do?” I cried. “And what if I should get the Clap or get with Child?”

“’Tis nothin’ that cannot be undone—fer a Price, that is. The Child, I mean. Clap is quite another Story. ’Ave ye ne’er seen the Handbills o’ Mrs. Skynner o’ Peter Street?”

“No, Pray what are they?”

“Methinks I’ve got one, ’ere.” And having finish’d untying me, she goes to the Escritoire whence she produces a tatter’d Handbill advertising the Wares, “commonly call’d Implements of Safety,” produced by a certain Mrs. Skynner, whose excellent Merchandise is attested to by these Lines:

To guard yourself from Shame or Fear,

Votaries to Venus, hasten here;

None in my Wares e’er found a Flaw,

Self-Preservation’s Nature’s Law.

“Kate,” says I, “I must pay a Call on this Mrs. Skynner.”

“Well, whate’er ye do, Sweetheart, don’t tell the old Bitch I sent you. She has her own Skins an’ Bladders she likes to sell an’ she’ll charge ye double fer ’em, tho’ they be e’er such poor-quality Stuff, an’ are fair to burst the Minute yer Swain puts one on.”

“Will you take me to Skynner,” I ask. “Upon the Morrow?”

Kate looks at me appraisingly. In my Eyes there is true Pleading, a piteous Sense of Desperation.

“Very well,” she says, “if we can get away from the old Bitch. But I’ll be expectin’ ye to return the Favour someday, don’t ye forget it.”

CHAPTER IV

In which we follow Fanny to Mrs. Skynner’s Emporium, are initiated into some Mysteries to which Wise Women have been privy thro’out the Centuries, and subsequently make our Descent into London’s own Hades, namely, Newgate Prison.

T
RULY KATE WAS NOT
a Bad Sort, tho’ Life in the Brothel had harden’d her. She was but twenty Years of Age and had spent six of those Years with Mother Coxtart. Ivory-skinn’d and pale as she seem’d, she was wise in the World’s Wickedness, and far more hardy than she lookt.

Coxtart she saw as her Enemy, not her Protector, but an Enemy to be wheedl’d, cajol’d, and outwitted, whilst the other Wenches she conceiv’d not as True Friends, but rather as Temporary Allies, to be woo’d when they could proffer Aid and Assistance, yet avoided like the very Plague when they could not. In half a dozen Years, she’d seen twice that many Wenches dye of Consumption, Clap, or tainted Gin, and seen Coxtart bury ’em in plain pine Boxes, with as little Ceremony as she might drown a Litter of Kittens. Kate was determin’d not to go that Way herself, but enough Natural Kindness was left in her harden’d Heart for her to take Pity on my Plight and carry me to Mrs. Skynner’s Establishment.

We crept out of the House in the wee Hours of the Morning, whilst Coxtart lay abed with the Butler (he who was the proud Possessor of “Master Shorty”), and we travers’d the fetid London Streets before the Fashionable World was abroad. We saw nought but Ragmen and ’Prentices at that Hour, as well as Tradesmen delivering Provisions (or Duns) to the fashionable West End Houses, and plucky Chimney Sweeps going on their Way to their dusky and dangerous Duties.

Kate had a Lover she would meet in Peter Street (’twas doubtless the True Reason for her Generosity in taking me to Skynner) but she would disclose little about him. Truly, she seem’d to waver betwixt wishing to trust me as a True Friend and fearing me as a potential Betrayer. She would tell me only that her Lover was a wealthy Tradesman, but married, alas, and that he promis’d to find a Way to bring her out of the Brothel and set her up in a Shop of her own.

She directed me then to Skynner’s Establishment, bade me meet her promptly at Eleven o’ the Clock in Golden Square, chid me sternly not to betray her—for if Coxtart learnt we had been abroad without so much as a By-your-Leave, ’twould go hard with her, and consequently she would go hard with me, and ran off to meet her Mysterious Tradesman.