Slipper

by Hester Velmans

  She sprang back and shot him her severest expression. “Sir!” she scowled. “It is my final offer. The lace or the calico. Take your pick.”

  “The lai-ice, I s’pose,” he grinned, and watched, humming lewdly, his head almost between his knees, as she completed the operation of ripping the lace off the hem of the petticoat.

  Her face burning, both with embarrassment and with the physical effort (she had to crouch down in order to prevent the hawker and the gawkers who had gathered from catching a glimpse of her legs), she finally stood up. “Now give me the apron,” she said sternly.

  With a laugh, he held it above his head. “The lai-ice, first,” he teased.

  “On the count of three,” she compromised.

  To her great relief, the exchange was made without further mishap.

  “Heeyyh! Look what I got!” he crowed to his mates across the street, waving the lace over his head, “Laiydee dun giv’ me a pre-sent! In-nn’t she naiice !”

  Back at her post under the coffee-house steps, she found that she was trembling with rage and humiliation. But at least she had her slippers back.

  “Lamb! What’s happened to you! You look a sight!”

  “No time to explain now—Robert’s on his way. I ran—” she paused to catch her breath “— all the way, so he wouldn’t find me gone.”

  “Here, give me those!” Bessie took the telltale muddy shoes and hid them under a table, while Lucinda put on her slippers and retied her apron neatly. Bessie tried to smooth her pet’s wind-tousled hair. They heard the front door open, and his lordship bellowing for his valet.

  Moments later he appeared in the drawing room. Lucinda had composed herself somewhat, although her cheeks were still flushed.

  Robert raised an eyebrow.

  “Ready for supper yet, ladies?” he asked. “I am ravenous!”

  The ladies said nothing. They were confused by his good spirits.

  “I have something I must attend to,” he said. “Back in a trice.”

  “My lord!” exclaimed Lucinda.

  “Yes, coz?”

  “I…I am happy to see you back so soon, and—looking so well,” she said lamely.

  “Of course I am well!” He grinned. “Should I not be?”

  “Of course you should!” But when he was at the door, she blurted, “Did you find him in?”

  “Who, pray?”

  “You know.”

  “If it’s that cad Beaupree you mean, I can inform you that he will have to answer to me eventually.”

  “Oh?”

  “But the knave’s gone, don’t you know.”

  “Gone?” repeated Lucinda, open-mouthed.

  “Flown the coop. Back to his regiment. In France.”

  “Gone! Really!” exclaimed Bessie, tut-tutting in a relieved sort of way.

  “Really,” he echoed. “But it was to be expected, of a person of his breeding. It takes a noble man to stand and face the consequences.”

  “How—do you know?” It came out as a whisper.

  “My dear girl. It’s all over town. They’ve all gone—the Duke of Monmouth, Arlington, Villiers, the Marquis of Huntly, my Lord Rockingham’s sons, Churchill. They say the King of France is preparing to lead his army against the Dutch. In person! I suppose they are all hoping to curry favor with him. It seems,”— he dabbed at his nose in exaggerated amusement—”it seems Sarah’s suitor arrived here, found everyone gone, and took off after them in haste. Worried he might be missing out on some of the glory. Poor devil. Ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

  Lucinda found it hard to look sincerely amused.

  “Well then. I shall tell Klepton to prepare a feast.” He rubbed his hands. Turning to Bessie, he said sternly, “You, mistress, are henceforth to take your meals in the kitchen. And see to it that we are not disturbed.”

  He caught Lucinda’s indignant glare and, blushing, backed out the door.

  Lucinda and Bessie found lodgings that night in Clerkenwell, on the other side of London Bridge. By the time they arrived at the inn, they were exhausted and cross, and their clothes and footwear were spattered with filth. Bessie was trying to scrub the worst of it off, tsk-tsking about the loss of Lucinda’s lace.

  “We are going to France,” Lucinda said stubbornly for the fifth time.

  “No, pet! The journey! Think of it! We might drown at sea, or be stolen by pirates, or set upon by Frenchmen, or…”

  Lucinda couldn’t help giggling. The image of Bessie set upon by Frenchmen struck her as very funny. She couldn’t help herself. The giggles turned into tearful, uncontrollable laughter. It was infectious, and Bessie had to laugh too. Soon they were both rolling around the narrow little room, gasping for air.

  Other images came to mind that had not seemed funny at the time, but now struck them as hilarious.

  “His lordship!” Lucinda shrieked, “and his rapier!”

  “Oh, cruel, cruel!” gasped Bessie, “You wicked girl, he all but soiled his breeches!”

  “He may well have, for all we know!” Lucinda choked.

  “I wonder if he’s enjoying his ‘feast’…” Bessie snorted, for the tears were rolling down her cheeks and irrigating her nose.

  “Yes, I hope he enjoys his feast,” screeched Lucinda, “and his lodgings, and his valet, and his coffee-house, and his tavern, and his shops, and his tailor.” She was holding on to the bedpost, her belly sore with laughter. “The only thing missing is his harlot; the concubine his lordship had picked out was no good. Flown the coop, don’t you know.” Her last sentence came out as a whoop.

  “Lord!” panted Bessie, recovering. “Lord!” She gave a few last gasps. Then, disappointingly, she composed herself. She started shaking her head in an all-too-familiar way, and Lucinda, who was still laughing, but less energetically now, braced herself for what was coming. “Poor Lord Hempstead. Poor, poor boy. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. And us running out on him like that, without so much as a by-your-leave. We are wicked to make fun of him. He can’t help it.”

  Given Bessie’s sudden change of heart, it was impossible for Lucinda to keep laughing. She too turned sober. Stone cold.

  She let herself fall spread-eagled on the bed. “Sorry for him,” she mimicked, exasperated. “Good God, Bessie! That’s what you always tell me, you’re always telling me we have to feel sorry for people. That they can’t help the way they are. But do they ever return the favor? They don’t! They make you feel soiled! They are mean! They are disgusting! They are…cruel!”

  “Yes, dear, but we can…” Bessie began.

  Lucinda slapped angrily at the ripped hem of her petticoat, which was hanging over a bedpost to dry. “Why should it be our responsibility to be nice, to be forgiving, to feel sorry for them, to see things their way? I’m sick and tired of it! I should like to be mean for a change!”

  Bessie, who had totally forgotten the impulse that had made her spit at Robert Fetshank in Bitterbury, shook her head earnestly. “Christ the Lord, my lamb, teaches us to forgive, to be merciful—” she intoned.

  “Oh, Bessie!” groaned Lucinda, “don’t start! Please don’t start on that!” And to forestall a long and boring sermon, she pulled the covers up over her head and then stuffed her head under a pillow for good measure.

  PART TWO

  32

  THE KING’S NEW CLOTHES

  The year was 1673. The place was Courtrai, in French Flanders, where a magnificent army was drawn up awaiting the much delayed arrival of the king.

  The king in this case was “le roi” if you were French, or “the French king” if you were English; to his contemporaries, there was no need for further identification. But in the history books he is identified as Louis the Fourteenth—not to be confused with Louis the Sixteenth, who was to be guillotined a century later. This Louis was the Sun King, builder of Versailles—the most magnificent, the most pompous, and arguably the most outrageous monarch ever to rule France. He was said to have paraded around his palace naked as the day he was born,
on the pretense that he was wearing breeches of a special fabric that could be detected only by those who truly loved their king. There exists only one eyewitness account of this incident, in the memoirs of the Danish ambassador, but—what a story! Is this not characteristic behavior from a monarch who also made his top sycophants vie for the privilege of attending him as he defecated on that other throne? Do we need more proof that the man was not only a narcissistic show-off, but a sick exhibitionist as well?

  The king had announced his intention of leading the upcoming military campaign against the Dutch Republic in person. He deemed it necessary to teach these ingrates, these republican peasants, a lesson. But now the army was twiddling its thumbs, with the king still held up at Tournai. He had set up a court there for the queen and two of his mistresses, and had gallantly sworn not to leave the ladies’ side until Mme de Montespan, who was near the end of her term, was delivered of the royal bastard.

  John Prynce, regimental chirurgeon to the Royal English, grumbled to himself about the utter idiocy of this plan, the daftness of an entire army awaiting a woman’s pains, giving the Dutch all the time in the world to prepare themselves for the impending attack. What kind of a monarch was this, to bring his women so close to the theater of war? An English king would never dream of doing such a thing. Louis wanted to show off to his womenfolk, of course, but didn’t anyone have the guts to tell His Royal Highness that this was not a game?

  Lieutenant Prynce had just finished bandaging a foot soldier’s festering blisters, and was on his way to one of the canteens, run by an Italian sutler named Marino, to inspect the latter’s field kitchen. This was not ordinarily a task that fell within the surgeon’s jurisdiction, but a number of English soldiers had come to him within the past two days with nausea and the flux, and the one thing they had in common was that they had all eaten at Marino’s. He had made the usual report to the Intendant, but since that was unlikely to produce any result, and since he had nothing better to do, he decided to take on Marino himself.

  He crossed the narrow creek that separated the orderly rows of army tents from the chaos of the camp followers’ encampment: carts and wagons drawn up every which way, laundry hanging out to dry, women kneading dough and chopping vegetables, barking dogs, hawkers waving merchandise about, children playing outside closed-up tents, groups of soldiers drinking ale and playing cards. There was a game of skittles going on here; a cockfight over there. A provocatively dressed and powdered woman leaned down out of a wagon and brushed John’s head with her scented shawl.

  “J’vous plais?” she moaned, huskily. “I please you?”

  He slapped the shawl out of his face, but could not suppress a grin at her pretty pout. “Madame me fait fort plaisir,” he said smoothly. It was true, she was a looker. Riddled with the clap, most likely. He did not stop.

  Ah, there was Marino’s. Marino’s operation consisted of a flat cart that functioned as a table, several barrels of ale stacked up behind it, and two women cooking over an open fire. His was one of the more popular canteens, especially with the English. This was because the voluble Marino spoke a few words of their language.

  “Ah! Eenglesich Dottore !” he now called out to the surgeon, “Eenglesich! Comma here! Guarda! Da Eenglesiche donne !”

  Lieutenant Prynce saw that Marino had his arms draped around two shabbily dressed women. They shrank from him; the Italian’s enthusiastic stranglehold did not sit well with them, apparently

  “What is it, Marino?” Prynce said sternly. “Assez! Enough, let go of them!”

  “Eesa Eenglesich, Signore Dottore,” fawned Marino, bowing low. “A lookeeng a fora da Eenglesiche offeecers…”

  The younger woman walked briskly over to him. “Sir,” she began. “I wonder if you could help us…”

  Prynce, for a moment, was stunned. Had they met? Something in her manner reminded him of someone. Perhaps it was the voice—

  “We have just arrived from England. I am here to meet my betrothed…”

  He shook himself. Nonsense—when was he going to learn not to fall for their little tricks? He smiled sarcastically. “Betrothed, eh? Got yourself knocked up, eh?”

  “Sir!” gasped the girl. It was a fair imitation of ladylike sensitivity, offended.

  “Yes, sir!” exclaimed the older one, “I mean, no, no, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong. We’re not…”

  “Marino,” said Prynce coolly to the Italian, who had turned to go. “A moment, my man. I desire a word with you.” He turned back to the fluttering women. It was his duty to tell them what was on his mind. But he felt uncomfortable looking into the younger one’s eyes, and consequently found himself brusquely addressing her companion. “I wish you ladies good luck in your enterprise. I am sure that you’ll do well here, our men are sorely starved for English females. But it was still very foolish of you to come, a very foolhardy thing to do. I hope you understand the risk. This is no place for women. You could get yourselves killed. This is war, you know.”

  “But we—” the older one began.

  “I am sorry. I cannot help you. I do not get involved with that sort of thing. Find yourselves another pimp.”

  That shut them up. They both shrank from him, looking passably outraged, and as he sauntered after Marino, he could not help reflecting with amusement that here was a pair unlikely to have any trouble conning some poor English soldier—or an officer, why not?—into providing them with food, ale, and a base of operations.

  “But why can’t we cross?” cried Lucinda. She was fighting back tears. “We have had a horrible journey to get here, and we MUST see Captain Beaupree! He is expecting us!”

  “Expecting you, ma’am?” twinkled the English corporal, who had been fetched by his French colleague and was now blocking their way into the military sector. “I don’t think so, no. Not the captain. He never said nothing to me about no ladies.”

  “But that is because he doesn’t know…!” Lucinda stammered. “Please believe me! If he knew I was standing here, he would…”

  “Rules is rules, you see, Miss. And rules is, no unaccompanied ladies in the camp. Else what would this place look like? It would be overrun, a giant brothel, wouldn’t it, ladies. I don’t make the rules, you know; I don’t even like the rules. But what our officers like, what the duke likes, what the French king likes, is discipline. We can’t have people like you just coming here any time of day or night, see, flouting the rules as you please.”

  “I understand,” Lucinda pleaded. “Please. I do not wish to make trouble for you. But if you could just…”

  “See here, sir,” Bessie broke in. She had fished a piece of silver out of the pouch that was tied beneath her petticoat, and brandished it under his mustachio. “This is for you. If you would let the gentleman, er, the captain, know that his lady is here…”

  “Well!” puffed the corporal, “Well, well! His lady, eh?” He stole another doubtful look at Lucinda. “I’ll see what I can do.” He pocketed the écu discreetly, then turned to the French guard. “Veillez à c’qu’elles ne bougent pas, make them stay here,” he instructed, and leapt nimbly back across the creek.

  “Lucinda!” Lucinda shouted after him, “Lucinda! That’s my name! Sir Edmund Nayerdell’s niece, from Dorset!” Then she caught herself, and snapped, “What, Bess?”

  Her defiance did nothing to dispel the anxious look of sudden comprehension on Bessie’s dust-streaked face.

  33

  LOVE IS

  “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable here,” said Lucinda brightly the next morning. She was looking around the tent procured for them by the captain’s adjutant. There was a tin bucket, some fresh straw for their pallets, and a pile of neatly folded horse blankets embroidered with Henry’s crest. They had not been touched. She had found Bessie seated stiffly on the hard floor, her back against one of the tent poles. She didn’t look as if she had slept.

  “Mmm,” came the noncommittal reply.

  “Henry said, anything we need, we can
ask Cornet Stickling. Is there anything?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  In the ensuing silence, Lucinda stretched demonstratively. She yawned. She swung her arms around, first in one direction, then the other.

  Finally she pouted, “Oh Bessie, don’t look so glum! Aren’t you happy for me? You should be happy for me.”

  “Of course I am happy, pet.”

  “Oh. Good!”

  “I’m happy if you are happy.”

  “And so I am! I am!”

  “Well, that’s good, then.”

  To give herself something to do while Bessie came up with a positive way to express her negative emotions, Lucinda knelt down and started unfolding the blankets, inspecting them for lice.

  “Pet,” Bessie began at last.

  “Yes, Bessie.”

  There was another pause.

  “I know you think you are happy. And Lord knows that is what I want for you, above all else in the world, lamb. But I wish…”

  “What?”

  “I wish—I only wish you had been a little more honest with me.”

  “What should I have told you?” Lucinda sat back on her haunches and put her hands on her hips defensively. “That the captain did not actually tell me, in so many words, that I should come after him? But I had to, don’t you see? If I hadn’t, you know you’d never have let me come!”

  Bessie was shaking her head.

  “I’d have come anyway, Bess, I just would have—I just would have come without you.”

  This threat gave Bessie pause. “Well, lamb,” she said, grudgingly. “I’m glad you did not go without me.”

  “Oh, Bessie! You know I would never leave you!” Lucinda put her arms around her from behind, and squeezed. She was hoping that would be the end of it. But Bessie did not return the hug.