Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  All manner of people filled the cramped ways. The so-called fancy ladies, with their garish outfits and brash voices, strolled with cutpurses and princes alike. Hawkers sold wares from shadowy booths, claiming they had perfumes from Paris and gold baubles from Constantinople. Pamphleteers and beggars vied for space on the street corners. The night was noisy, crowded, smelly—and thrilling. Every breath Abigail took smelled of untold adventure. Every sight revealed mysteries her mother tried so hard to keep from her.

  They entered Cambridge Circus, a far smaller and more dreary affair than the better-known Piccadilly Circus further west. Two new theatres had recently opened. One sought to emulate the West End halls with their grand performances. The other, however, was something else entirely.

  It was toward this second hall that Derrick now headed.

  For the first time, Abigail hesitated. She had heard whispered tales of this place. Word of Cambridge Theatre’s rank reputation reached even into the most respectable of drawing rooms. How could it not, when the king’s own cronies consorted there? It was rumored the royal highness himself attended on occasion, masquerading as one of his own staff. The place held to a vile reputation. The term music hall was a mere guise for acts no decent person would ever care to witness.

  Jack, her appointed escort, leaned down. “Leicester Square is but a stone’s throw from here, Miss Aldridge.”

  Well did she know it. Abigail stared at the side street beckoning her back to the world she knew. She felt a tug of fear.

  “None would think the worse of you for leaving us here, you know,” he encouraged.

  She glanced ahead. Derrick was already marching down the alley leading to the hall’s side entrance. “N-no, I’ll accompany you.”

  Jack started to say more, then subsided. “Stay close, then.”

  Chapter 3

  As fate would have it, the first person Lillian saw at that evening’s dinner party was none other than Lavinia Aldridge. They knew one another in the casual manner of ladies who occasionally attended the same events. The former U.S. deputy minister plenipotentiary’s wife was slipping from her outer wrap, revealing a modest high-necked frock of taffeta and cream lace. Lillian was filled with a pressing desire to return home, bolt the doors, and wait for all the world to disappear. But her son’s face swam there before her eyes, as did the promise she had made to her late husband on his deathbed to do her best by the boy. She had never truly loved Grantlyn, not in the manner described by all the novels she so enjoyed reading. There had never been any great sense of bonding with the man. Grantlyn had been more than twice her age and showed all the mottled signs of hard-lived years. But Grantlyn had been direct and honest with her, what they would term a thoroughly straight man. He had made Lillian an offer and stuck to his side of the bargain. And she would do the same by him, even though it turned out he had left her penniless and chained to the despicable Simon Bartholomew.

  “Countess?” Lavinia Aldridge walked over and touched Lillian lightly upon the arm. “Are you quite all right? You look as though you’ve taken a chill.”

  The unexpected gift of sympathy was almost enough to shatter her internal barriers. But Lillian must not speak of her secrets. For the sake of her son, she must not. “Life,” she replied, hearing the hoarse tremble to her own voice, “is not what it should be, I fear.”

  Almost any other woman and certainly all the men would have taken this as their cue to recite all the wondrous advantages held by the lovely young dowager countess, even considering her widowed state. But Lavinia examined her with a face of deepest sympathy. “I am sure this must be a difficult time, just over a year since your late husband’s demise. I do so hope you haven’t received an additional shock.”

  “Of the worst possible sort.”

  “Would it do some good to talk it through?”

  “Thank you, but none whatsoever.”

  “Then I will say no more about it, except for one question, which I fear will plague me all night unless I speak it aloud. Nothing has happened to your child?”

  “No. Byron is safe at boarding school.” She spotted a tall figure aimed like a dark-suited arrow her way. She turned her back to the room. “Oh my goodness, please spare me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, forgive me, I referred to the gentleman headed our way. Lord Avery will pester me all night, asking for my hand. I believe he feels he’s being humorous, but I cannot abide his heavy-handedness this night.”

  “Then we must stop that before it has a chance to begin. Come.” Lavinia took a firmer grip upon Lillian’s arm. “Let us pay our formal respects to our host.”

  The approaching gentleman was what Lillian’s late husband would have described a middling sort—middling nobility, middling wealth, middling honesty. His every phrase was accented by a slight sniff, as though he scorned even himself. “My dear Lady Houghton,” he called as he rushed over, “had I but known you were attending, I would have spared no effort to ensure you were my partner for dinner. How thrilling it would be to escort—”

  “Do please excuse us, sir,” Lavinia said quickly, hurrying past him with the countess safely in hand. “We must pay our respects to the host without further delay.”

  “He will do everything in his power to have me seated beside him,” Lillian whispered, resigned to a tedious and endless night.

  “Then we must move swiftly.” The women passed through the two side parlors with their roaring fires and milling guests. They entered the rear chamber, scarcely more than an alcove in size, but domed by a grand cupola and ringed by glass doors fronting an interior courtyard.

  The marble fireplace was smaller, to fit the size of the room. Before it sat a very erect man, whose sharp features had scarcely been marred by his advancing years. “Mrs. Aldridge, what a delight it is to see you. Do come sit here beside me. And Countess Houghton, what an honor. Forgive me for not rising. Nathan, bring us another chair.”

  Lavinia Aldridge permitted the footman to hold her chair, then waited for Lillian to be seated alongside. “How are you, sir?”

  “Oh, there are good days and bad, you know.” The earl of Lansdowne kneaded the top of his cane, his attempt at hiding the palsy that shook his limbs. “Where is my good friend Samuel?”

  “I fear my dear husband has been called to Brussels, sir. A crisis that could not wait. Our representative and partner has passed away quite suddenly.”

  “How tragic. Do please extend to him my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thank you, sir. He asked me to convey his sincere regrets. He was looking forward to another of your far-ranging discussions.”

  “Then we shall arrange for precisely that immediately upon his return. And in quieter surroundings than these.”

  Despite his age and infirmities, the earl of Lansdowne was an immensely popular figure in some circles. His father, the former earl, had been first minister to King George III, the present monarch’s father. The former king’s portrait hung over the mantel in this small parlor. It was in this very same room where the Declaration of Peace, ending the war between the former American colonies and the Crown, had been signed.

  When Thomas Jefferson had arrived in London to seal the peace treaty, King George III had claimed that illness kept him from attending the negotiations. In truth, the king did have numerous bouts of ill health. But on this occasion, the monarch was livid over the loss of his American colonies and refused to accept the credentials of Thomas Jefferson, the American representative. It was this very same attitude which resulted in the War of 1812, which in turn had brought Lavinia and her husband, Samuel Aldridge, to England.

  The old king was dead, the new king now four years upon the throne. And never had there been a more divisive rule. King George IV was known far and wide for his licentious behavior and the immorality of his court. Many of the former ruler’s closest allies were openly critical of George IV and his cronies, the earl of Lansdowne among them. The present earl was a devout Anglican and he openly
condemned the new rulers. As a result, he was attacked by those who sought favor with the Crown.

  Some of the assaults he endured were scandalous. The Lansdowne estate formed one corner of Berkeley Square. It had been his beloved wife’s cherished home, a place she had transformed into a haven of beauty and peace and good friends. But she was gone now. And with a sweep of his pen, the current first minister had decreed that Curzon Street, a fashionable road lined with clubs and shops frequented by the royal’s new set, would extend into Berkeley Square. To do this, the first minister had chopped away one side and the entire front of the Lansdowne home. Gone were the pillars and entrance stairs. One wing had been partially gutted. No court would dare overturn an act that clearly held the king’s own invisible seal. Despite it all, the earl of Lansdowne maintained his criticisms of the regime and its loose morals. And he was admired far and wide for his courageous stand.

  “My husband did so regret missing this opportunity to visit with you,” Lavinia repeated.

  “There will be other times, God willing.” The earl turned to Lavinia’s companion. “My dear Countess, I hope you will not consider it untoward of me to say how lovely you look tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Are you keeping well?”

  Lavinia answered for her. “It is for this reason I am approaching you, sir. The Lady Houghton would prefer an evening away from, how shall I put this . . .”

  “Gentlemen who might view her as a fox would a wandering chicken,” the earl finished with a smile. “Were I but a few years younger myself, I fear I might be tempted to do the same.”

  “I was hoping you might allow us to be seated together,” Lavinia finished, “so that we might continue our discussion and permit the lady a peaceful repast.”

  “Only if you agree to have me at your other side, Countess.”

  “I would be honored. Thank you.”

  “Splendid. I shall publicly apologize for the incorrect spacing of men and women at the table’s head by saying the countess is standing in for my absent friend, Samuel Aldridge.” The earl turned to his footman. “Nathan, see to the rearranging of the place cards, would you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good man.” His smiling gaze flickered back to the parlor’s opposite corner. “And not a moment too soon. I spy a gentleman waiting for the chance to pounce.”

  “We are in your debt, sir.”

  “Nonsense. Whoever would consider it an imposition to be accompanied by two such lovely ladies?” He leaned heavily upon his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Perhaps now would be as good a time as any to lead everyone to table.”

  Abigail and Jack hurried to catch up with the others further down the alley. She spied the young pastor having words with a woman, one scarcely more than a child yet bearing the world-weary gaze that seemed Soho’s unique stamp. This one was different, however, for as they spoke together Abigail saw a light come into the young woman’s eyes. One that shone even in this place.

  The side alley led to a set of crumbling brick stairs, and they to a narrow door propped open. A pinch-faced lad lolled in the doorway. When the young woman tried to lead the group past, he drew himself erect and cried, “Here now, what’s this? You know the rules good as me. No outsiders during the performance.”

  “Use your eyes,” the lady snapped. “Don’t you recognize this bloke?”

  The boy squinted suspiciously. “No, I don’t, and even if I did his name ain’t down.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good if it was, would it. Seeing as how you can’t read a lick.” She cocked her thumb at the squat pastor. “This here’s Derrick Aimes, the Soho Smasher.”

  The lad’s eyes widened. “Go on. He’s not.”

  “He is, I tell you. Show him your fist, Derrick.”

  “I don’t raise my fists unless I’m going to hit someone,” Derrick replied, cool as the night.

  The awestruck lad stepped aside. “I suppose it’s all right, then.”

  “ ’Course it is.” The young woman led them all inside, then heaved a great sigh. “There goes me job.”

  “You don’t want to stay on here,” Derrick reminded her. “You told me that yourself.”

  “Aye, but it’s not just the job I’m leaving behind. It’s the life.”

  “A tough but necessary step.”

  The girl studied his face, and she must have seen something there that gave her the strength to grin and ask, “Is it always so hard to leave the old ways behind?”

  “Always,” Derrick solemnly agreed.

  “Right.” The girl led them down the cramped hall. “This way.”

  Abigail followed the others through the chaotic dressing areas. She scarcely saw what she passed, both because she kept her eyes aimed downward and because of the exchange she had observed back at the side entrance. The truth was clear on that young woman’s face. Derrick Aimes could reach these people. Abigail could not. The honest directness of Derrick’s question stabbed at her anew. Why was she here? Was the Lord’s work merely a convenient guise to venture out against her parents’ wishes?

  She realized the others had stopped. Abigail raised her eyes and gasped aloud.

  They had arrived at the edge of the stage. From where she stood, Abigail could see both the audience and the performers. She was deeply shocked by both groups.

  The stage held a five-piece string orchestra and a new type of spectacle that had gained great favor with the court. It was called a tableau vivant and was a scene as from a painting, yet formed by living people. The critics, and there were many, declared it was merely a means of keeping unemployed actresses’ names in light. Abigail had seen one such display before, but nothing so dramatic as this. There must have been two dozen actresses and four or five actors filling the stage. They were set as gods and goddesses lolling about a disused temple. There was so much to look at Abigail’s mind could not take it all in.

  Then she gasped a second time. For she realized that the ladies were unclothed.

  She swiveled away, her face aflame. Yet the hall was scarcely any safer a place to look. The chamber rose up in four tiers of gilt and red velvet. Tallow candles burned from any number of gilded chandeliers and sputtered upon the walls. Their black smoke competed for space in the crowded air with plumes rising from hundreds of clay pipes. The men were elegantly dressed, either in evening wear or officers’ uniforms. They packed the hall with their noise and their laughter and their fancy ladies. There were many of them, all dressed in peacock finery and all bawdy in their manner. The longer Abigail looked, the more she saw, and the more she saw, the greater was her shame.

  “Greetings in the name of the Most High God!”

  This was no mere shout. This was a fighter’s roar. Derrick’s power was enough to silence the entire hall. A single violin scraped one last note. Someone coughed. A woman tittered nervously. Then a hush descended.

  “The apostle Paul once stood before the pagan temple and proclaimed the God unknown!” Each word was a verbal fist of authority. He stood at the center of the stage, planted upon legs as strong as the hall’s supporting pillars. “The people who heard Saint Paul that day were innocents, for they had never heard the Messiah’s call. But you! You have been raised in a land that dares call itself Christian! Even so, you are gathered in a temple dedicated to your own sin.”

  One of the younger women at the closest border of the tableau vivant slipped out of the vines that offered her a semblance of modesty. She covered herself as best she could and came toward Abigail. She could see the woman was weeping. Abigail swept off her own coat and slipped it over the woman’s bare shoulders. She whispered, “Would you care to pray with me?”

  The woman hesitated a moment, long enough to cast Abigail a single tearful glance. Then she fled for the dressing rooms.

  More women were moving from their positions and escaping in shame and tears. Most took aim for the exit opposite where Abigail and her fellows stood.

  Derrick Aimes paid th
em no mind. He kept his back to the stage and gave the hall the full brunt of his righteous wrath. “Brothers and sisters, I stand before you this night to say that it is not too late! Jesus Christ has died so that we sinners might find a path to glory!”

  A woman, somewhat older than most, spat on the floor by her feet and shrilled, “Ah, you Methodist! Why don’t you go have yourself a bath!”

  Derrick’s authority was such that it halted the laughter before it managed to form. “Shame on you, I say, shame! You threaten to pull down not just your own houses, but the house of this great land!”

  An officer in glittering uniform drawled, “Do find yourself another soapbox; that’s a fine lad. I’ve paid good money for this table.”

  This time the laughter was louder. But Derrick was not cowed. “The Lord calls to each of us. Do not harden your hearts to His plea! All you need do is turn! Turn from your sinful ways, and embrace the Cross!”

  The theatre manager appeared from the other side, flapping his arms in a futile attempt to both shoo Derrick from the stage and keep the ladies from departing. But the actresses and actors and now even the musicians were slipping away. The hall’s mood suddenly changed, from irritation to genuine fury. Abigail could almost feel the abrupt shift.

  The officer, flushed in anger by Derrick’s roaring invective, plucked up a potato from the half-finished meal upon his table and flung it at the stage. A woman slipped off her shoe and tossed that as well. These were followed by a hail of vegetables and tankards of ale and gnawed bones and pipes. The theatre manager backed away from the sudden barrage, but Derrick merely stood with arms outstretched and called, “Repent, I say, repent!”