The Gilded Lily (41 page)

Jay helped himself to a glass of wine. He waved Ella to the upright chair near the door. She sat down, hot with humiliation. She sat still, unsure what was expected of her, and wondering how
long she must watch them play cards. The room blazed with the heat of the fire and a number of dripping candlesticks, both free-standing and on the table. The table was a delicate item of expensive
polished wood, but the surface of it was marred by great pools of wax from the candles, and numerous drinking cups sitting in wet patches of wine.

The men continued to play, all except Jay, gambling for larger and larger sums of money. Ella sat upright on the chair, whilst the men ignored her, as if she was an unwanted item of furniture.
But before long she became engrossed in following the game. The amount of the wagers horrified her. They were betting their gold, their horses, even their land. At one point the corpulent man, whom
they called Sedley, was on a losing streak, and she heard him say to Jay, ‘Bridge us a loan, won’t you, Whitgift?’

Jay nodded, and brought out a fat purse. ‘Two shillings to the pound, by the end of the month,’ he said. He counted out the coins and they shook hands, the game continuing until the
gentleman with the lovelock, Buckhurst, who was obviously the worse for drink, bet his entire stable. Ella could not imagine how anyone could do such a thing. She was mightily relieved when he won,
and his horses were saved, to much rowdy cheering from the men.

‘Hey, fellows, did you hear about Winstanley?’ Sedley said.

‘No, what about him?’ said Mohun.

‘A few years ago he gambled his estate away to Lord Wessex in a dispute about a horse. They played dice. The one who won got the nag and the house. Winstanley lost, and he had to pack his
wife and family off, send them to the back of beyond – Kingsbridge I think it was, to live with his sister. About a month ago he persuaded Wessex to play again, and guess what? He won it
back!’ There was much laughter.

Sedley continued. ‘He’s turned simple since though. He’s had the emblem of the winning card, the Ace of Clubs, included in the family crest and now it’s everywhere
– on the border of the tapestries in the hall, above the front door, even on the caps of the chimneys. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a club on all the piss pots too!’

The men laughed uproariously.

‘Good old Winstanley!’ said Buckhurst, glancing at Ella to see her reaction.

Ella pretended to laugh, a small sound from the back of her throat, but privately she was appalled. To think of the poor wife! That her home, everything she held dear, all her precious things,
could be lost overnight on the mere throw of a dice! And yet she must live under his roof again, knowing that everything she owned might be lost on a whim, with no warning at all.

Jay laughed along with the rest of them. He seemed to find it all a cause for jest, and suggested that all the men might like to include some fanciful item in their family crest. Many lewd
suggestions were made until Jay coughed and they all looked round at Ella, still sitting politely in the corner.

‘Another round. My deal,’ Sedley said.

‘Hey, where’s old Wolfenden these days?’ Wycliffe said.

‘Back on form,’ said Buckhurst with a grin. ‘You know he was months having treatment in the tubs for the French pox. And his face has rotted so much now that he had to get a
silversmith to fashion him a new nose.’

‘Is it really that bad?’ Wycliffe asked.

‘He tried everything. Last I heard he was on doses of quicksilver. Made him retch for England, and cost him that fine racehorse he had. He was mighty cast down with it all. Still, it seems
to be working, which he’s mighty glad about. Says he can’t afford much more treatment. Blames that French jilt on Lukener’s Lane.’

They carried on playing, engrossed in the game, until Mohun said, ‘I’m out,’ and the rest threw their cards down on the table. Buckhurst raked in the winnings.

‘Pass us another drink,’ said Mohun. ‘Let’s talk about this idea we’ve got for the new play at Vere Street.’

Wycliffe stood up, filled a glass and passed it over, and said to Ella, ‘My apologies, madam, I have offered you no refreshment. Would you like some wine?’

Wycliffe was a short, slight man with a girlish voice. Ella was aware of all the gentlemen suddenly watching her, and she felt uncomfortable. Wine reminded her of her father and it made her
retch. She did not really want any but thought it rude to refuse it, and she could not ask for ale – not in this company anyway.

‘A small glass, thank you,’ she said in her best accent. The men looked amused, and Wycliffe poured a thimbleful into a cup. ‘Is this enough?’

Ella nodded, and they all laughed.

‘Only jesting,’ said Wycliffe, sloshing a generous measure into her cup and handing it to her. His hand was unsteady and it slopped into her lap. She hastily brushed it away, but
there was a stain spreading on her borrowed red gown and nobody offered to fetch a cloth. There were no servants, they must all be abed. The tart smell of the alcohol catapulted her thoughts back
to Netherbarrow, and her father.

‘Drink up,’ said Wycliffe. Ella obediently lifted the cup to her lips and, holding her breath, took a small sip. ‘Your good health!’ he said. ‘Now, how would you
like to be on the stage?’

‘Beg pardon, sir, but I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Can you recite anything for us?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked to Jay in appeal, but his eyes were on Wycliffe.

‘Come on, you must know something. Any little ditty. What about a song?’

Ella felt her stays digging into her ribs, she did not think she could sing. ‘I don’t know . . . I could try reciting “Maid in a Garret” . . .’ she said.

‘Fine, go ahead. Stand there.’

She stood where he pointed, in the middle of the room, painfully aware that this was not at all what she had in mind when she climbed into the carriage on Friargate. She was not sure what they
wanted but she began, hesitating over the first few words:

They were laughing uproariously already. She felt as if she were shrinking, getting smaller every moment like Hop o’ my Thumb. She hesitated.

‘No, no, go on,’ spluttered Wycliffe. ‘She’s priceless,’ she heard him say. She rallied herself by speaking a little louder.

They sniggered and whispered one to another the whole time she was reciting. Wycliffe was crying with mirth, his hand clapped over his mouth. In a desperate attempt to salvage
herself she tried making some gestures, as she declaimed:

When she stopped they stamped and whistled, but fell to laughing with each other, not applauding her. She felt two inches tall.

‘I’ll marry you myself! Sure I will! How about you, Whitgift?’ Wycliffe said.

He gave a tight-lipped smile, at which the rest of the company exploded into guffaws.

‘Still don’t think she’ll do, the fashion in the theatre is for dark girls – not yellow,’ said Mohun.

‘Shame,’ said Buckhurst. ‘It would have been a good advertisement for that knocking shop of yours, Whitgift. You got any dark girls?’

Jay had no time to reply before Wycliffe said, ‘Hey, Sedley, did you see Fanny Gurney at the old tennis court?’

‘What legs!’ Sedley said, pointing his toe in mimicry.

‘I’d give her one!’ shouted Buckhurst.

Ella seemed to have been forgotten already. She went back to her chair, relieved to escape the focus of their attention. But it was short-lived.

‘Hey, you’re not drinking,’ Buckhurst said, spotting her half-empty glass. ‘Drink it up now, like a good girl.’

Ella took a deep breath and drained the rest of the cup. The smell of the liquor made her feel ill. It tasted sour on her tongue. Wycliffe took the glass out of her hand and refilled it, passing
it back to her. She looked down at it helplessly, unable to drink it.

‘Oh, fellows,’ Mohun said, ‘I’ve just had a snappy idea. It’s Allsop’s birthday next week and we’re meeting him in the King’s for a few.
Wouldn’t it be a caper to have your yellow-haired girl recite her poem. A bit of entertainment. If it goes down well, you never know, I might reconsider, put her in my new play,’ said
Mohun.

‘I’m not sure she will be to Allsop’s taste,’ Jay said, looking discomfited.

‘Fiddlesticks. Of course she will. What could be better?’ Wycliffe said.

‘I don’t think Allsop cares—’

‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.’ Wycliffe turned to Ella. ‘That’s settled then. Jay will bring you over in the carriage and we’ll drive you over to Allsop’s
later to surprise him. Get her to wear something pretty, Jay. Mr Allsop likes ladies to look pretty.’

‘I will make sure she is suitably dressed,’ said Jay tersely.

Ella brushed at the stain on her skirt again. She was nervous. She had never heard of Lord Allsop, but the men of the Wits club had a reputation. Buckingham had set it up, and he was known as a
rakehell. People had lost count of the number of mistresses he had. One of them had even been set up in a house of her own, but there had been wild talk of kidnappings and rape too.

It would not be wise to refuse, and half of her was curious. After all, Allsop was probably a wealthy man. But a part of her warned her to be wary. She looked over to Jay for reassurance; she
sensed he had not been so keen on the idea of her meeting Allsop. It gladdened her that he was protective of her reputation. After all, he was likely taken with her himself. She cast him an
alluring glance. But Jay was staring morosely out of the window into the dark, a glass of wine at his lips.

The wine had started to go to her head. She couldn’t think straight. She reached as if to put the wine cup down on the side table, but Buckhurst saw her and said, ‘Not wasting it,
are you? Here.’ He took a great swig from her cup, before passing it back to her.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Ella, trying to push it back to him, ‘but I’ve had enough wine.’

‘Enough wine! One can never have enough wine, isn’t that right, Wycliffe?’ Buckhurst said.

‘Quite right,’ Wycliffe said.

‘Mr Allsop will expect you to drink with him, make sport and be merry. He won’t want sour-faced abstainers at his party. We had enough of all that in Old Noll’s day,’
Sedley said.

Jay was looking at her, frowning. Ella coloured. She was already too hot, and the powder she was wearing made her face feel tight. She fanned herself with her other hand. Her head was swimming.
Nauseous, she gritted her teeth and drank the cup to the dregs through barely parted lips.

‘There you are, see,’ said Buckhurst.

Jay smiled thinly. Ella sat very still, feeling her stomach heave and the bile rise to her throat. She swallowed it down. She heard Sedley say, ‘Thanks for the loan, Whitgift. You’ll
get it back when my new play is produced. I’ve brought you that chased silver salver we talked of. It’s on the console in the hall.’

‘Very good. Nice to do business with you. It will be part of my private collection. I already have a silver salver in a similar style. Embossed with a hunting scene – a stag at bay,
and hounds, most lifelike.’

‘A stag, you say.’ Wycliffe smiled at Jay, a complicit smile that was not lost on Ella. Jay looked down, a faint tinge of pink washed over his face. He busied himself pouring another
drink. Wycliffe moved to the cask too and wound his arm around Jay’s waist before tilting his head up to kiss him on the neck. His lips lingered there. Jay’s hand moved slowly around
Wycliffe’s back, hitched up his coat and rested on his buttock, where his fingers traced long slow circles.

Ella dabbed her forehead with the back of her arm. She felt sick and faint. Her brow was clammy. The point of her wooden stomacher pressed into her belly so that she shifted uncomfortably on the
chair. There was a humming in her ears and the candle flames turned hazy and began to swim before her eyes.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. She stood up shakily and hurried out of the room onto the landing, where she tottered down the stairs to the chilly hallway. There she clung to the newel post
of the staircase and gulped great breaths of cold air.

Jay did not follow her out. A manservant, who must have heard the bang of the door, appeared from downstairs. His demeanour was frosty.

‘Is anything the matter, madam?’ he asked.

‘I feel faint,’ she said. ‘Get us some water from the kitchen, will you?’ She did not bother to disguise her country accent.

The servant glared at her, bowed and went back down the dark stairwell. Ella tasted his disapproval though he had not spoken. He thinks I’m a jumped-up bitch, she thought, and who can
blame him? Having to wait on the likes of me. I’ll bet he’s straight downstairs to tell all the kitchen staff.

She longed for the companionship of being in service. She pictured the chats around the kitchen table, the easy gossip, the sense of camaraderie. She had a sudden urge to follow him downstairs.
She imagined loosening off her tight stays, sitting comfortably with the rest of the servants over a jug of well-watered ale. But she had put herself above all that. Or perhaps beneath it, she did
not know.

She held more tightly to the banister. Her sickness was fading and her head felt clearer, but she did not want to let go. She was stuck, caught between the glittering fashionable world upstairs,
where she was evidently an object of derision, and the world downstairs where she had betrayed her class.

The servant handed her a chipped earthenware cup of water. He had not bothered to put it on a tray. It was a deliberate insult. She took the cup anyway and drank it down in one. The cold water
revived her determination.

‘That will be all,’ she said, in her best clipped accent, thrusting the empty cup towards him. The man took it, but looked up at the sound of footfalls upstairs. Above, she heard the
door open and voices saying goodnight as the men prepared to depart. Her shoulders sank with relief.