The Skull and the Nightingale (37 page)

I looked down, startled, to see that the speaker was the little Puck. On the wrist of his proffered arm was the bangle that revealed him as Kitty.

“With all my heart,” I cried, with an impulse of joy, and picked her up to kiss her and whirl her about.

“Fair sprite,” said I. “Will you leave with me when the evening ends?”

“If you undertake to use me well.”

“On my honor as a god. Let us meet by the great clock at midnight.”

“By the clock at midnight,” cried Kitty, and danced away from me.

There was a sweet little bird in the hand—now for the other in the bush. It was time to find Sarah again. Hot and thirsty I refreshed myself with more punch before embarking on a second tour of the house.

Beyond that point the succession and duration of events are not clear to me. Only snatches remain. I recall that the white-gloved nun detained me for a moment:

“Mr. Hermes,” she cried, “we must end the evening in one another’s arms.”

“Might not Colonel Jennings object?”

“Never fear: he will be unconscious by then.”

And she was away with a yelp of laughter.

I found Diana again, a little apart from the crowd. She received me with serene confidence, standing tall, her headdress glittering.

“Are you pursuing me, Mr. Mercury?”

“I confess that I am.”

“Then have a care. In this garb I find myself imperious.”

“I will be obedient to your commands.”

“Will you indeed? I am not convinced.” Her eyes were bright through the half mask. “I suspect you mean mischief.”

“What mischief could I possibly intend?”

She did not reply: her eyes strayed past me. Glancing round I saw that Brother Ogden had entered the room; but he was looking away, and perhaps had not seen us.

“I will find you later,” I murmured, and moved on.

My heart was beating hard. Sarah had been stirred by the unrealities of the night: before it was over, I would stir her more—extract an admission, even a promise. There would be opportunity enough. The great clock told me that I had still an hour in hand. I took another glass of punch from a passing imp and drank it down.

Drunk as I was, I sensed that the mood of the evening had changed. At Vauxhall the intensity was diffused into the open air: here, enclosed by walls, it impregnated the house. The air had surely been thickened by scented, intoxicating fumes. The masks on the wall seemed to leer and wink at me. There were cackling freaks and monsters on all sides. Some lurched aimlessly, others clung together.

I stumbled my way back to Heaven, on uncertain feet. The singer had returned and was warbling ethereally, but his audience had degenerated: hands were straying. In the dark room I saw no one, but heard panting and groans. The sounds being suspended as I passed, I cried: “Do not mind me, friends—let the sport continue.”

Here was the place to bring Sarah, to tempt her to a touch, a kiss, a crucial concession. I advanced into the blue bower, hoping she might be there, but she was not. The burning of so many candles had made the room intolerably hot. More couples were embracing here. In two distinct stages of recognition I saw in a corner Latimer, in his episcopal garb, pawing at a breast he had laid bare, and then perceived that his inamorata was the white-gloved nun, still wearing her mask. This rising young statesman was fondling a woman old enough to be his grandmother. The idea so tickled me that I left the room doubled over with laughter, laughed my way down the stairs, and staggered away, still laughing, at the bottom.

“I see you are amused, sir.”

Sarah was beside me, regal but smiling. Drunk and dazzled, I could not find words. Fortunately she spoke again:

“I am no longer sure who I am. Can you tell me?”

I made a great effort: “Who do you think you might be?”

“Either the goddess of the moon or a girl you once knew in York.”

“You are both.”

My words were lost as those nearby sprang aside, shrieking, to avoid the fire-eater, once more breathing flame. When order was restored Sarah had gone.

Resuming my search I passed Crocker, solitary upon his throne.

“Will you dance, Tom?” I asked him. “Will you sing?”

“No, sir,” said he, whey-faced and fuddled. “I find myself languid. Also I am drunk, and from time to time unloose a great fart, to keep my subjects at bay.”

He waved a feeble hand. “My entertainment becomes disgusting. We stink like a costumed cattle market.”

Lurching uncomfortably on his throne, he made an effort to sit upright. He drew one or two deep breaths and then shook his head, as though to clear it.

“You see me at a disadvantage, Dick. You see me vulgar. The night has been too much for me. Ears, eyes, and nose—all besieged. The mind confused.”

The glimpses I recall become briefer. I was in Hell once more, where the dance around the flames had become more abandoned. Sarah was not among the revelers. Puck appeared from nowhere, saying: “Soon, Mr. Mercury.”

“By the clock,” I cried. “I shall be there.”

I was in one of the drawing rooms, where I saw Ben Jennings snoring in a chair, his wig askew, his Quaker hat on the floor.

I was blundering up the stairs in pursuit of Diana, and caught up with her among the gauzes of Heaven.

“Winged messenger, what do you want of me?”

“I hardly dare to say.”

“Can a god fear to say what he feels?”

“Come with me.”

I led her down into the darkened chamber. Most of the candles being by now burned out the darkness was intense, but in her white garb Sarah was faintly luminous.

“What is this place? I cannot see.”

“But are you not Queen of the Night?”

There was a movement between us: she had drawn an arrow from her quiver and the point of it was at my breast. I heard a low laugh.

“You are in mortal danger, sir.”

“But I am a god.”

I clutched at the arrow and it collapsed in my grasp, being no more than rolled paper. Throwing it aside, I pulled Sarah to me and kissed her mouth with a famished fury that she reciprocated.

How long we clung together I do not know, but we broke apart when there were exclamations around us. Something was leaping and bounding and scuttling about the room. Those within, Sarah among them, ran to the doors as my brain sluggishly comprehended that the intruder must be Trinculo.

When I had felt my own way out, I found that the panic had spread from room to room. The screaming subsided only when Francis Pike appeared with Trinculo in his grasp and carried him off toward his cage.

The mood of the gathering had been changed by this alarm. A number of the guests took it as their cue to leave. Cursing the interruption, I went to find Sarah again, to renew our moment of intimacy. She would have returned to the dark room, surely, in the expectation that I, too, would return. And so I would.

The steps had grown steeper. I took them one at a time, priding myself on my caution. Heaven, where the light appeared weaker than before, was occupied solely by a monk—who was Ogden. We did not look at each other as I went past.

In the dark chamber I floundered my way through the black gauzes, calling out “Diana! Diana!” Reaching the blue room, I saw with joy that Sarah was standing at the far end of it, facing me. But she was in conversation with Medusa. She looked at me past the snaky locks of her companion but continued to talk to her as I stood and waited. At length she turned, and the two women left together. After a moment of blankness I set off after them, hobbling down the stairs.

In the hallway Sarah was standing apart from the chattering groups. I approached her with relief, but she spoke before I could:

“Mr. Fenwick, I have breathed some night air and am myself again. I am ashamed at what passed. It must never be repeated.”

“Why not?” I asked doltishly, but she was already walking away.

I stood on the spot, hardly able to take in what had happened, beyond a puzzled sense of having clambered to a summit only to slither straight down the other side.

At this time, or perhaps later, I glanced at the clock and saw that midnight had long passed. I let out a cry which attracted some little attention. Was I to lose even my second prize? In a show of fatuous indignation I stood directly beneath the clock, and looked about as though Kitty might have been hidden in the vicinity.

“Mr. Fenwick,” said a voice.

It took me a moment to get my eyes and my mind into order.

“Mr. Pike?”

“Are you looking for Miss Brindley?”

“I am. I am looking for her. Where is she? She should be here.”

“She waited here for quite some little time, sir, and seemed to be expecting you to come. But at last she left with Mr. Horn.”

“With Horn? With Nick Horn?”

I lurched out of the front door among other guests who were leaving.

“Nick Horn!” I shouted. “Nick Horn!”

I was very angry and very bewildered. There was a bright moon in the sky. Of Kitty or Nick Horn there was no sign.

How I made my way back to Cathcart Street I cannot remember. My next recollection is of standing in my parlor and contriving, after several attempts, to light a candle. Seeing a strange reflection in the mirror, I stripped off my helmet and black whiskers. I was in need of something. Tea—a dish of tea. I had to have a dish of tea.

“Mrs. Deacon!” I called, then opened my door.

“Mrs. Deacon!” I roared. “Mrs. Deacon!”

There were sounds on the stairs and my landlady entered in her nightgown. I had never seen her in a nightgown before. Nor had I seen her angry before.

“Mr. Fenwick, what is this uproar? You will waken the whole street!”

I stared at her, struggling to make sense of the situation.

“Mrs. Deacon,” I said at last, “take off your nightgown.”

I took a step toward her.

“You are drunk,” she said. “Go to bed.”

Not to be deterred, I made to seize her in my arms, but she pushed me away.

“You are repulsive,” she cried.

As I reached for her again she snatched up my helmet and struck me a ringing blow on the head. I staggered back, half stunned.

“Go to bed!” she cried again.

“Mrs. Deacon,” I said, with a hopeless attempt at dignity, “there has been a misunderstanding.”

She left the room without speaking again.

After some moments I moved once more. Having blown out the candle at the third attempt, I fumbled my way up to bed and was pitched into instant oblivion.

Chapter 20

H
alf awake, I made to turn over, but found that I could not. My face was stuck fast to the pillow. In a panic I wrenched it free and sat up. I was giddy and had an aching head. It seemed that my cheek had been glued down by dried blood, and that my movements had set the wound trickling again. I pressed my sleeve to it. As the events of the preceding night came back to me, one mortifying recollection succeeding another, I closed my eyes and groaned aloud. This was the worst morning of my life: everything I had played for I had lost.

When I forced myself to look about, I could judge from the light that the day was well advanced. I got uncertainly to my feet and stumbled to the mirror. One side of my face was scabbed black, with fresh blood oozing down; the other was pasty. My eyes were small and bleared. Moving a dry tongue, I became aware that my mouth was foul and that I was exceedingly thirsty.

I lowered myself into a chair, and struggled to think. Somehow—yes—I had been rejected by three women in a single night. The worst of it—what
was
the worst of it? Yes—that I might be turned out of my lodgings and denounced for assault. I would have to make my peace with Mrs. Deacon. But how to do so until I had washed and dressed myself and set my mind working once more? For all I knew Mrs. Deacon might be already on her way to see Mr. Ward and demand that I be removed from her house. After sitting for some time huddled in despair, I tested fate by ringing the bell.

To my unspeakable relief Anna, the maidservant, knocked on my door as usual and set off, obedient to my request, to fetch me tea and hot water. When these supplies were delivered I drank the tea thirstily before beginning to put myself to rights. I cleaned the blood from my face and hair: the wound was tender but not serious. I stripped off the Mercurial robe—soiled with sweat, blood, and punch—in which I had fallen asleep, and steeped it in the water to wipe down my whole body. Having drunk more tea, I opened the window and pushed my head out into a slight breeze and the noises of the street. I left it out there for some minutes to adjust to the conditions of normal life. A little revived, I put on a clean shirt and clean stockings, which restored me further. My head still throbbed, but less painfully. With a little adjustment I made my wig all but hide the damage Mrs. Deacon had done to it. I felt hardly less wretched, but I was myself again.

One thought in particular came to my aid. This predicament was mine to deal with, as a ship’s captain must deal with a storm at sea. Chance had led me into a strange career—living by pintle and pen. That being so, I had now to exert myself to cope with the difficulties into which I had strayed. My first task must be to secure my home ground by making peace, if I could, with my landlady.

I summoned Anna once more and asked her to tell Mrs. Deacon that I would be most grateful if she would spare me a few minutes, since there was something I needed to say to her. Anna went composedly about the business, conveying no sense that she had heard mention of an attempted ravishment.

Mrs. Deacon came in, as calm as ever, and looked at me with an appraising eye. My defense had been hastily prepared. I would put on a show of abjection, and had in reserve two further cards to play.

“Mrs. Deacon, I must apologize most humbly for my misconduct last night. I could not feel more ashamed.” I played my first card: “You will not need to be told that what I did was the effect of drunkenness.”

She remained expressionless for a moment, but then I thought that I detected the merest glint of a smile.

“Are you suggesting, Mr. Fenwick, that only a drunken man could covet my person?”