P N Elrod - Barrett 1 - Red Death

by Red Death(Lit)

  "That's the only bath 'e's like to get in a twelvemonth," the grinning keeper confided to me. "Lord knows 'e needs it." Considering the speaker's own utter lack of cleanliness, I thought he had no reason to judge another, especially one unable to care for himself. With my handkerchief firmly in place I caught up with Oliver, who was talking to a lad whose sullen expression reminded me of young Nathan Finch back home.

  "I don't belong 'ere," he insisted, '"m not like them others. I never 'urt no one nor meself, so they got no call to put me 'ere."

  "Is this true?" Oliver asked our guide.

  '"Tis true enough the way 'e tells it. He never 'armed 'imself or others, but they put 'im 'ere anyways." "Why? If he's not mad-"

  "Oh, 'e's mad enough, sir, for they found 'im 'sponsible for slittin' open the bellies of a dozen cattle. Said 'e could 'ear the calves 'nside callin' ter get out 'n' 'e were just 'elpin' 'em along lest they smother. They'd a lynched 'im at Tyburn for 'is mischief, but 'e were judged to be too lunatical for it to do 'im any good, so he were brung 'ere. Leastwise 'e won't get no more chance to cut up no more cattle." Laughing heartily at this observation, the guide patted the lad on the head, and moved on. Looking back, I saw the boy make a murderous face at us, followed by an obscene gesture. Harmless or not, I was glad to see that he was solidly chained to a thick staple set in the floor.

  The hideous stenches, the noise, the pervading sadness, anguish, and rage assaulting us from every direction were exhausting. After two hours, even Oliver's earnest quest for knowledge began to flag and he inquired if I was prepared to leave. Out of consideration for his feelings, I tried not to appear too eager, but indicated that a change of scene would not be unwelcome to me.

  He consulted with the guide and he quickly led us to the entrance where we settled with him and were invited to return at our earliest convenience. Again, he laughed at this, giving the impression that he was not expressing hospitality, but something more sinister. We were outside and well down the lane before finally slowing to a more dignified pace.

  "What did you think of it?" asked Oliver.

  "While I can appreciate that seeing the sights within was a rare opportunity, I can't honestly say that they were entirely enjoyable."

  "I'll be the first to agree with you on that point, but it was certainly of excellent value to a student of the medical arts. I hope I can remember everything for Tony later."

  "If not, then please consult me. I'm sure I shan't forget a single detail for the rest of my life. I hope that man of his does as promised with my clothes, the stink of the place clings to me still. I shall want to change them, but what I'd most like is a decent bath."

  "Well, if you think you need one," he said, but with some doubt in his tone. "I'm sure something can be arranged before

  the party tonight. There's the Turkish baths at Covent Garden, but we haven't the time or deep enough pockets, I should think."

  "How much could it cost for a bit of soap and water?"

  "Very little, but it's the extras like supper and the price of the whore you sleep with that add up, and that can go as high as six guineas."

  I abruptly forgot all about Bedlam. "Really?"

  Oliver misinterpreted my reaction. "Yes, it's disgusting, isn't it? Even if you forgo the bath and meal, the tarts there will still demand their guineas. And they're not much better looking than the ladies that trade at Vauxhall, who are considerably more reasonable in their prices, I might add."

  My head began to reel with excited speculation. "Where is this place?"

  He waved a hand. "Oh, you can find it easily enough. But another time, perhaps. We'll have to get back to Tony's before that barber he promised disappears."

  It was just not fair. I'd spent a horrid afternoon in Bedlam when I could have been wallowing in a scented bathing pool like a turbaned potentate with any number of beauteous water nymphs seeing to my every need. Though Oliver and I had much in common, it seemed that our ideas on practical education were quite different. I wanted to ask him more about his experiences at Covent Garden and Vauxhall, but we'd reached the end of the lane and had to consider our mode of transport.

  After expressing my preference of a cart over a sedan chair, we managed to find one going in the desired direction. This one had outward facing seats and was crowded with other passengers, two of whom were ladies of the respectable sort. Their inhibiting presence kept me from obtaining more details from Oliver, so I had to content myself with conversation on less exciting topics than the tarts of London.

  Our trip seemed shorter, whether by speed of the horse, or the amusing nature of my cousin's comments as we traveled. The streets were just as busy as ever as people hurried to finish their errands before nightfall. Oliver said that the city could be a deadly trap to the unwary or the unarmed and if the footpads were bold enough during the day, they were positively bloodthirsty at night. Since we would be going over by carriage,

  with footmen running before and behind with torches, we would probably be safe enough.

  "Can you defend yourself?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes." With an easy twist, I opened my walking stick to reveal part of the Spanish steel blade within. Oliver whistled with admiration. "It was a present from Father," I added. "He'd ordered it nearly a year ago, intending it for my last birthday, but delivery was delayed. As it was, it made a fine parting gift for my trip here."

  "Or anywhere," he added, his eyes lighting up with a touch of envy. "I shall have to take you along to the fencing gallery we have at Cambridge so you can show us your skill. Tell me, before you left, did you have any opportunity at all to put it to use against the Indians?"

  My lengthy explanation about the lack of hostile natives on Long Island disappointed him, but served to fill the time until we reached Tony Warburton's front steps. Though ostensibly a guest in the house and therefore not subject to paying for lodging and board, I might have spent much less money had I remained at The Three Brewers. The many vails were adding up, and my supply of pennies dwindled before I came to an understanding with the butler that all things would be settled at the end of my visit. This promise, rather than putting the servants off, caused them to be more attentive than before, so my request for a bath was greeted as an easily met challenge rather than an impassable obstacle.

  Because Mrs. Warburton was a great believer in maintaining a clean body (hence the family holiday at Bath), facilities were at hand, even if they weren't exactly ready. Two stout boys carried her bathing tub to my room and then lugged bucket after bucket up the stairs to fill it, while another man lighted a fire to warm the room. Though it was August, the weather was cool today, and they weren't going to risk my catching a chill while under their care. Their concern might also have been that if I died from that chill I should be unable to pay them for their trouble. Even so, the water they brought was barely lukewarm.

  Ah, but it was water and I sank gratefully into the cramped tub for a much-desired soak. With a fat bar of soap and a flesh brush I was a happy man. Oliver and Tony came in for a short visit to view "the antics of this rustic colonial" as they joked to

  me. In turn, I shocked them by briefly recounting the many times on the crossing voyage that I had voluntarily stripped and had myself doused with seawater from the deck pump.

  "Well-a-day, man, 'tis a wonder you're not dead," Oliver exclaimed with hollow-eyed horror.

  "On the contrary, I found it to be refreshing and greatly improving to the appetite." I left off telling them about the awful food.

  "He is still alive," Tony pointed out.

  My cousin conceded that I was, indeed, still alive, by the grace of God and no thanks to my foolish habits.

  "You made mention of Turkish bathing, Oliver. How is it so different from this that it is better for the health?" I asked.

  "For one thing you're not slopping about in a drafty room, but working up a proper sweat wrapped in a hot blanket."

  This didn't sound much like the marble-lined pool surrounded by the grac
eful seraglio I'd envisioned. He apparently didn't hear my invitation to continue his description, suddenly recalling a task he'd left undone in his room. Tony chuckled at his departure.

  "Oliver is a bit bashful when it comes to talking about his wenching," he said. "It seems he'd rather do it than waste time in discussion, which is quite sensible, after all. Perhaps later I can persuade him to take you 'round to meet some of our fair English roses after the the party."

  Well-a-day, I thought, a deep shiver coursing through me at the prospect. I applied the soap to the brush, and the brush to my flesh with happy diligence.

  As the boys carried the buckets of dirty water back downstairs, I worked to get my hair combed and dried before the fire. Mother had insisted on fitting me out with a wig, which I suffered to accept in order to keep the peace. However, the one she chose was a monstrous horseshoe toupet nearly a foot high with a sweep of Cadogan puffs hanging from the nape. No doubt another man would look quite handsome in it, but my first glimpse was enough to convince me that my own appearance would be extremely grotesque. I would sooner sport a chamber pot in public than to be seen wearing that thing. Brightly oblivious to my pained expression at the buffoon in my mirror, Mother pronounced that it would be perfect for any and all social functions I should be fortunate enough to attend and gave me

  lengthy instructions for its proper care. This upcoming musical evening would have met with her rare approval.

  But she was thousands of leagues away and unable to command my obedience; I blithely cast the wig aside. This was no light decision for me, though.

  During today's travels, I had ample opportunity to observe that no matter how mean their station in life, every Englishman I'd clapped eyes on that day (except for only the worst of the wretches in Bedlam) had worn a wig. Foreigners like myself who chose to eschew the custom were either laughed at for their lack of fashion sense or admired for their eccentricity. Since I had a full head of thick black hair, I would take a bit of sinful pride in what God had given me and wear it as is, tied back with a black ribbon. In this I was almost copying Benjamin Franklin, at least in general principle.

  He'd made himself quite popular in polite society by choosing to dress simply and make an affectation out of his lack of affectation. He'd made a sober, but good-humored contrast to all the court peacocks, and had enjoyed no lack of female companionship. Though I utterly disagreed with his politics and those of his fanatical friends, I could admire his wit.

  Tony Warburton's barber came and went, leaving my face expertly scraped and powdered dry. He grumbled unhappily over my attitude about the wig, which he had expected to dress. If all gentlemen made such a calamitous decision to go without, he would lose more than half his income. Before sending him on, I compensated him with a generous vail, having made it a practice to always be on good terms with any man who plays around my throat with a razor.

  Crispin had lived up to his reputation; all my clothes had been cleaned, aired, and laid out as though new. After careful thought, I picked my somber Sunday clothes, but offset the severe black with an elaborately knotted neck cloth, and highly polished shoes with the new silver buckles. One of the younger footmen had been detailed as my temporary valet and I was pleased with his attention to detail, though I said little lest he develop an exaggerated idea about the size of his vail when 1 left.

  "Heavens!" exclaimed Tony when he and Oliver came to collect me. "They'll think you're some kind of Quaker who came by mistake."

  "That or a serious student of the law," I returned with dignity.

  Oliver agreed with me. "I think he's made a wise choice. Everyone will expect him to be either an uncivilized savage or an insurrectionist lout. Dressed this way he looks neither; they may trouble themselves to stop and make his acquaintance first out of sheer curiosity at the lack of spectacle."

  "Thank you, Cousin. I think."

  "Don't mention it," he said cheerfully, and led the way downstairs.

  With footmen running before and behind our coach, their torches making a wonderful light in the darkness, we suffered no interference from criminal interlopers on our coach ride to the Bolyn house. It was a big place, and though it probably presented a pleasant face to the world, I hardly noticed for all the people. There seemed to be hundreds of them milling about, reminding me of the crowds I'd seen in the streets earlier, but infinitely better dressed, with less purpose and more posturing. Oliver wanted to stop and talk whenever he saw a familiar face, but Tony kept us moving, as he was anxious to see his Miss Jones again and introduce her.

  We did pause long enough to pay our respects to our host and hostess, and Oliver's prediction that my garb would inspire a favorable impression proved true, at least with them. I was asked many questions about the colonies, which I rather inadequately answered, hampered as I was by having lived in only one small part of them. Most of the interesting news had happened elsewhere, though I was able to provide some information regarding Philadelphia. For that I could thank Dr. Theophilous Beldon, who had quite exhausted the novelty of the subject in his efforts to cultivate my friendship before my departure.

  He would have loved it here, for I saw many dandies of his type roaming the house and grounds, bowing and toad-eating to their betters to their heart's content. Several in particular stood out so much from the rest that I had to stop and gape. Elizabeth often accused me of being a peacock, but then she'd never seen these beauties.

  Their wigs were so white as to blind an observer and so tall as to brush the door lintels. Instead of shoes, they appeared to be wearing slippers; a silver circle served in place of a buckle.

  They were painted and powdered and so richly dressed that for a moment I thought some members of the court had wandered in by mistake.

  I had certainly given thought to augmenting my own wardrobe while in London, but if this was an example of fashion, I would sooner go naked and said as much to Oliver.

  "Oh, those are members of the Macaroni Club," he informed me.

  "A theatrical troupe, are they?"

  "No, scions of wealthy houses. They've done their grand tour of Europe and brought the name back from Italy."

  "Name?"

  "Macaroni."

  What Italian I had learned did not include that particular word, so 1 asked for a definition.

  "It's a kind of dish made of flour and eggs. They boil it."

  "Then what?"

  "Then they eat it."

  I tried to work out how boiled flour and eggs could be made edible and gave up with a shudder.

  "Everything these days is done a la macaroni, you know. You could do worse than follow their example." He looked upon them with childish envy.

  "Truly," I said, as though agreeing with him while thinking, if worse existed. "If you admire them so much, why don't you?"

  "Mother won't let me," he rumbled, and for a few seconds a singularly nasty expression occupied his normally good-natured face. I'd seen it briefly last night when we'd talked about ourselves and our families while getting so terrifically drunk. It worked across the lean muscles of his cheeks and brow like a thunderstorm. Even without any knowledge of our family ties, I would have recognized the Fonteyn blood in him at that moment. He seemed aware that he was revealing something better left hidden and glanced away as though seeking any kind of a distraction to help him mask the thoughts within.

  "Awful, isn't it?" I said aloud, without meaning to.

  Though surprised, he instantly understood my meaning and looked hard at me, his eyes oddly clear and sharp with sudden weariness, as though waiting for an expected blow to fall now that I'd gotten his attention. None did.

  The odd silence between us lengthened. "I just know it really is awful," I murmured, trying to fill it, but unable to think of anything better to say.

  Some of the tightness of his posture, which I hadn't noticed until he shifted restlessly on his feet, eased. The anger and hatred against his mother that had battered against me like the backwash of a wave began to grad
ually recede.

  "Yes," he said, the word emerging from him slowly, as though he were afraid to let it go. He sucked in his lower lip like a sulky child.

  There was more that could have been voiced, months and years of it, perhaps. But nothing more came from him. Vacuous good humor reasserted itself on his face, first as a struggle, then as a genuine feeling. He dropped a hand on my near shoulder with a reminder that we should not lose sight of Tony, then carefully steered me through the crowd of Macaronis like a pilot taking a ship through dangerous waters.

  Despite the people pressed close around, each talking louder than his neighbor to be heard, I discerned the clear tones of a harpsichord nearby. This was supposed to be a musical evening. Being unable to play myself, I had cultivated an appreciation for the art and expressed the hope that I might be allowed the time to enjoy the artist at hand.