Sir John and Lady Fielding could not but notice that some ill feeling had arisen between Annie and me. He, being the just and gentle ruler I have named him, thought to cheer us and bring peace between us by offering a treat. As it happened, Shakespeare was unavailable (and since he was indirectly the cause of our falling-out, might only have complicated the matter between us), and so Sir John looked elsewhere for our diversion. He turned his attention to the Crown and Anchor. It was then, as it is now, a tavern of great dimension in the Strand; in those days it was the site of the Sunday concerts sponsored by the Academy of Ancient Music under the direct patronage of Lord Laningham. If Shakespeare would not do for us, surely a dose of Handel would serve as well. Annie, who had lately turned snappish and glum, would surely be cheered by the mighty choral strains of that late, great master. We knew her, after all, to be the best musician of us all; as a singer of ballads and old songs learned in Covent Garden she knew no peer.
And so it was set: we would be off to the Crown and Anchor for an early dinner with Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith, to be followed by a musical entertainment the equal of any in London. It would be an evening to remember, Sir John assured us. And so it was, reader, though not for reasons that any one of us could have foreseen.
Because of the limited capacity of the Bow Street Court’s strong room, it was necessary for Sir John, as magistrate, to hold a short session on Sunday. Saturday night brought him always a rich harvest of drunks. He dealt with them swiftly so that he and Mr. Marsden, his court clerk, might be on their way to enjoy the rest of the day. This usually meant that he dealt with them leniently. There were sometimes complications, of course. And as I remember, one such arose whilst I sat taking my ease on one of the back benches of the Bow Street Court, listening as the magistrate heard one case after another of public drunkenness. Having had part of the night and all the morning to return to themselves, they were now sober and repentant, though they appeared much the worse for their experience. The last of them, tall and thin and dressed in brown linsey-woolsey —but with a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style —could not pay the fine often shillings which Sir John imposed, for as he explained, he’d “drunk up” all he had in his pocket. His name he gave as Thomas Roundtree, and he claimed to be gainfully employed as a journeyman carpenter, one of a gang working on improvements to one of the great houses on Bloomsbury Square.
“Which great house is that?” asked Sir John.
“It’s that of the Lord Chief Justice,” said Mr. Roundtree.
“And what sort of improvements are you making?”
“We’re puttin’ in a new water closet, sir, makin’ it nice lor the ladies of the house, we are. I’m a good worker, sir, I am truly”
” Ah, well, I suppose in that case you would prefer not to spend thirty days in the Fleet Prison in lieu of fine. That is customary in this court.”
“No sir, indeed I would not, for I am a workingman and would have no job of work when I came out.”
“You put that quite reasonably, Mr. Roundtree. What, then, do you suggest?”
“Ah, well, I could pay it to you bit by bit, p’rhaps.”
“I have a better idea. Why not remain as our guest here at Bow Street for one more night? Then in the morning you may go to your place of work in the company of one of our constables and ask the master carpenter for whom you work for the loan of the ten shillings. If you are as good a worker as you say, then he should not hesitate to advance it to you. Him you can pay back bit by bit, as you proposed to do with me.”
Thomas Roundtree stood, hesitant, rubbing his chin. “Well, sir …”
“Have you family? ” asked Sir John.
“Nooo,” said he, though he hesitated a bit.
“Then you’ve no one to remark your absence one more night.” Sir John at last became impatient: “Come now, sir, it’s either that or the Fleet Prison.”
“Well, when you puts it so, I accept your invitation. I do hope for a better dinner than I got a breakfast, howsomever.”
“We’ll feed you. That is our obligation.” Sir John slammed down his gavel upon the table. “Mr. Fuller, conduct the prisoner back to the strong room. And Mr. Marsden, are there more?”
“None, sir,” said the clerk of the Bow Street Court.
“Then this Sunday session is done.” He beat down his gavel once more, stood, and stretched. “I’m for a nap before dinner,” he declared. “It will be a long evening ahead, and I wish to be fit for it.”
Fit for it we were and dressed for the occasion as we set off by foot for the Crown and Anchor a little before five. It being January, the day was all but gone; sunset had gone to twilight and twilight to dusk. But the lamplighter had been out upon his rounds, and our way —Russell Street to Drury Lane, Drury Lane to the Strand—was well lit and filled with London folk enjoying the last of their day of rest. Sir John, well refreshed by his afternoon nap, led the way with Lady Fielding upon his arm. As long as he was here in the Covent Garden district that he knew so well, there was little chance that he would make a misstep, but should he perchance do so, his good wife was there to put him back on course. Annie and I followed at a near distance.
“What of this Handel music we go now to hear, Jeremy? What do you think of it?” Annie asked her question as we marched along Russell Street.
“Well,” said I, “from what I’ve heard, I think it quite fine. Gives you a sense of the grandness of nature, it does. Raises your spirits.”
“All that? To me it just seems terrible loud. I can’t make out the words.”
“Sir John certainly loves his Handel,” I said, making a mild reproof of a neutral comment.
“Oh, indeed he does. Me, I like a good ballad, a street song.”
“You know them all.”
“I know many,” she agreed. Then, with a sigh: “Still, be it good or foul, I look forward to eating any meal cooked by another. Sir John and the good lady wish us to be well entertained this evening, and I, for one, am determined to be so.”
So saying, she lapsed into a silence which lasted until the hanging sign of the Crown and Anchor was in sight. There was, in any case, no mistaking our destination. Closed carriages, coaches, and hackneys crowded the entrance of the place, discharging their passengers, ladies and gentlemen, onto the walkway. There was a bustle of excitement to the scene before us which seemed to bespeak our entrance into the great life of our great city.
“Oh, Jeremy,” said Annie beside me, “this is indeed exciting. Just look at them all, how fine they are dressed! How they seem to glide, like they was walking on air, you might say. Damn me, but I must work on my walk if I’m to look the part of a lady.”
“Onyour speech, as well,” said I. “Ladies don’t say ‘damn.’”
She stopped and turned upon me, looking as if she was about to give me a sharp retort. But then she softened and said most seriously: “Right you are to correct me. I know I speak like a slut more often than not. I must learn better. I will learn better.”
Having halted even so briefly, we had fallen somewhat behind Sir John and Lady Fielding. They now stood at the entrance to the tavern. They waited, I supposed on us, yet our lady seemed to be staring ever so intently at a coach which four matched horses had just drawn up to the walk.
It was indeed a remarkable coach. It rode upon carved, gilt wheels, and as we drew nigh I saw that it had upon its door panels scenes of the countryside in winter and spring most beautifully painted, clearly the work of an artist of great skill. Somehow, without running round to make sure of it, I knew that the two panels on the far side of the coach would display similar scenes depicting summer and autumn. When the footman jumped down to open the coach door and assist the occupants to the walk, I saw that he (as well as the driver) was dressed in a remarkable silver livery which glittered and shone even in the dim light of the streetlamp.
Lady Fielding was whispering a description of this garish vehicle to Sir John as Annie and I came up to them. I could tell from the amuse
d expression upon his face that he recognized it from the likeness she sketched with her words.
“That coach,” said he, full-voiced, “can only belong to one man. Let US linger here a moment and greet him.”
I should not have been surprised had the Prince of Wales himself emerged from the coach with a party of his royal siblings. Yet one man only descended from the interior of the coach; and though richly dressed, he did not appear to me a prince—though perhaps a duke. Nevertheless, he was well acquainted with the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.
“Sir John!” cried he. “You’re looking well, I must say.”
“Though I can’t, alas, say the same to you due to this fault of my eyes, I will say your voice, Sir Joshua, has never sounded heartier.”
“Well said, well said, and you may take that as an outward sign of my inward health.”
The two shook hands warmly, and Sir John presented us to Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of portraits. Annie and me he introduced as “members of his household.” A few pleasantries passed between them as we moved toward the door of the Crown and Anchor. Once inside, we proceeded at a good pace, yet Lady Fielding kept a good, tight hold on her husband’s arm, guiding him gently through the uneven row of empty tables toward the inner doorway which led to the site of the evening’s festivities. Annie and I kept very close so as not to miss any titbit of interest that might pass between them. We were not left unrewarded.
“When, pray tell,” asked Sir Joshua Reynolds, “will you allow me to paint your portrait, Sir John?”
At that Sir John let forth a booming laugh. “Never, I fear. The modest budget I am given by the Lord Mayor’s office includes no allowance for personal vanity.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. Vanity’s got little to do with it. A good likeness is a gift to posterity.”
“He’s right, Jack,” put in Lady Fielding.
“I doubt posterity will have reason to remember me,” said Sir John.
“Not so, sir. And putting all that aside, you’ve a face whose strength I should like to capture. It appeals to me as an artist.”
“Be willing to put aside your fee, would you?” Sir John said it in a teasing manner.
“Jack!” scolded his lady.
“Ah, now there you have me. I am an artist, true, but I am also a man of business. Yet an adjustment of some sort would not be out of the question.”
The three stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Before them was a great multitude seated at tables and milling about.
“Ah, but here we are,” said Sir Joshua. “My table is at the far side with some of my colleagues of the Royal Academy, and so I shall leave you here. Delighted to meet you, Lady Fielding, and you two young people, as well. Always a pleasure to see you, Sir John.”
He danced down the three stairs leading into the ballroom, and at the last he turned. “Do give some thought to what I suggested,” he called back.
“Oh, we shall, sir,” Lady Fielding replied. “Indeed we shall.”
Then with a wave, he was away, weaving through the crowd.
“Kate, please,” grumbled Sir John. “Don’t encourage the fellow. Have you any idea what he would ask? A hundred and fifty guineas, or so I have heard.”
“Oh dear,” said she. “Well, we may speak of it later.”
“But not a word of it at table.”
“Agreed.”
The Crown and Anchor is like unto many a tavern and inn in London, though more respectable than most. What sets it apart from all, however, is the great ballroom at its rear. At the head of it there is a stage, where at that moment, music stands and chairs were being assembled for the evening’s entertainment. The floor of the ballroom (on which there would be no dancing that night) was crammed with tables set so tight there was bare room enough for servers to pass between. Yet pass they did, for dinner had begun at many of the tables, and at the rest wine flowed freely. Arranged so, as many as four hundred could be seated in the grand ballroom, and it appeared that near that number were already present.
Annie and I stepped forward, for our eyes were keener than Lady Fielding’s, who was a bit shortsighted. We swept the assembly back and forth until at last my gaze fell upon a familiar figure, standing and waving to us from a near-empty table quite near the stage. It was unmistakably that of Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, formerly ship’s surgeon, now recently appointed (through Sir John’s intercession) as medical advisor to the coroner of the City of Westminster. I waved back and bade all follow me.
Wending our way through a narrow, devious path, squeezing past servers and many engaged in idle conversation, we came at last to the table where Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, the noted author, awaited us. Both were standing, smiling, greeting us in the most welcoming manner. How good it is to be among friends on such occasions. We seated ourselves, and at once the talk did bubble up as from a fountain.
Mr. Goldsmith jested about Mr. Donnelly’s sudden rise in society: “So many invitations has he now that he has quite forgot the taste of his own cooking.”
“What was ill to the taste is well forgotten,” said the surgeon. “In all truth, dear friends, you should know that Noll here —that is, Mr. Goldsmith —has connived most of these invitations for me, certainly those to the grandest houses.”
“But do tell, Mr. Donnelly,” inquired Lady Fielding, “areyou now well set in your new surgery?”
(At year’s beginning, Gabriel Donnelly had moved from his small place located in a walk-up in Tavistock Street to more spacious and altogether grander quarters in Drury Lane, formerly the surgery of the late Dr. Amos Carr.)
“Ah, very well indeed,” said he. “There is a waiting room of larger size for my patients —and the living quarters are separate and quite commodious. It is indeed a proper surgery for a better clientele.”
“And has such begun to appear?” asked Sir John.
“Oh, certainly, yes. I seem instantly to have inherited all the late Dr. Carr’s patients.”
“And shocked they must have been at his — ” Sir John searched a moment for the proper word. “At his sudden passing.”
“Ah yes, each must discuss it with me.”
“And has his ghost come to visit?”
“Not a bit of it. I’ve erased all trace of him—with alcohol and strong soap.”
“But,” said Mr. Goldsmith, “he is far too modest. Already his ascent into polite society has brought him patients of the gentler sort.”
And though his eyes twinkled at having spoken thus, his meaning eluded me, and perhaps it was so with the rest in our party, as well.
Perceiving this, Mr. Goldsmith leaned across the table and said in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd, “The … ladies, friends, the ladies. They seem to flock to him with all manner of ailments —a positive epidemic of female troubles of every sort seems to have hit the best houses in London. He brings it with him wherever he goes.”
A distinct blush did then appear upon the cheeks of Mr. Donnelly. We all laughed wickedly at his discomfiture. Thus was he forced to confirm Mr. Goldsmith’s tale-tattling. “There is some truth to it,” he admitted. “I’ve had a dozen new patients this past week. All but two of them are women. It’s taken some effort and no little study to keep up with their complaints. After all, I began my career in medicine as a ship’s surgeon, and there was precious little call for such knowledge aboard a man-of-war. Apart from birthing a few babies in Lancashire I’d not had much experience.”
“There was my dear wife Kitty,” put in Sir John. “You alone diagnosed the truth as to her situation.”
“And, as I have heard often from Jack,” said Lady Fielding, “you greatly eased her passing, may God rest her soul.” There were solemn grunts and pious nods around the table until she resumed on a note no less serious but not so somber: “Indeed, I believe Mr. Donnelly should do well as a doctor to women. I observed him during his visit to the Magdalene Home just before Christmas. He has a sympathetic manner
with his patients, but above all, he listens. What women want most is to be taken seriously”
“Hear! Hear!” came the impetuous cry from her who was seated next me.
“Thank you, Annie,” said Lady Fielding with a gracious nod.
Then from behind, a new voice: “Jack, dear fellow, is it you?”
Yet Sir John recognized the voice before I could turn and identify the face. He was up on his feet, thrusting out his hand toward the speaker. “Alfred Humber! How good to meet you— and where better to find you than here at the Crown and Anchor.”
“We were regular Sunday attendants tor a while.
“And then I found my Kate. You met her at our wedding reception.”
“Of course, of course/’ said Mr. Humber.
He bowed as low as his considerable girth permitted and bestowed a kiss upon her hand. And then did Sir John introduce him around the table and invite him to take a place with us. As it happened, he chose to sit next to Mr. Goldsmith just as two servers came our way and, without a word, slammed down our dinners before us; they left as they had come, at a run. It all happened so swiftly and with so little ceremony that we could not but laugh.
“Well, Mr. Humber,” said Mr. Goldsmith, “we seem to have exhausted a bottle of wine already. Will you open another?”
“I should be happy to do so, sir.”
As Mr. Humber busied himself with cork and corkscrew, Mr. Goldsmith asked him if he was in trade.
“In a manner of speaking, yes I am, sir. You might say that I am in the money trade. I am a broker at Lloyd’s Coffee House.”
“Aloney, is it? Now, that is a topic which interests me greatly. I sometimes have sums to invest. How might I put them best to work?”
Thus did Alessrs. Humber and Goldsmith begin a conversation which lasted through dinner. The unfortunate Goldsmith, who died deep in debt but a few years later, ever had dreams of making a great fortune. The investments he spoke of were mere fantasies, I fear. But poor man, he did wish to be well informed when and if the opportunity to invest should ever come his way.
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 2