Slipper

by Hester Velmans

  “No, pet, but it was an honest mistake, and he regrets it now.”

  “Why did he come here anyway?” She’d found it satisfying to see that fine-looking man squirm. Lucinda was used to put-downs; but to have the author of one of those insults beg her forgiveness! It was a novel sensation.

  “He is coming to me for advice.”

  “I hope you haven’t given him any.”

  “I have. He’ll be the better healer for it.” Bessie, sighing, inspected the backs of her stubby hands. “Poor souls—I mean your learned physicians and such. They’ve so much of their learning from books and cadavers, they haven’t time to pay attention to the living. They treat the sick with remedies of death.”

  “I always thought you despised physicians,” said Lucinda.

  “I don’t despise them, pet! No! I just think they are ignorant,” said Bessie. “They can’t help it. They don’t know any better.”

  “And you do!” said Lucinda, smiling.

  “There are some things I know, and some things I don’t,” said Bessie. “And the things I don’t know, I know which they are. And I don’t tamper with them.”

  “And the things you do know?”

  “I know that if you tell someone he is going to die, he will most certainly die. I know that if you let him watch his life-blood drip into a barber’s cup, he will lose strength and hope. I know— “She paused.

  “What?” asked Lucinda dutifully.

  “Never mind.”

  There were some things that any good midwife knew from experience, but you didn’t blab about it, in case people decided you were a charlatan, or worse. For instance, Bessie always muttered that earnest little ditty to herself before a birth—a prayer of sorts, it was, even though it was the most dreadful gibberish, she was sure. She couldn’t explain why she did this, but old Biddy Mudlin, to whom she had been apprenticed, had taught it to her. Biddy also used to wash her hands—of all things!—at a lying-in, even furtively using some spirits to clean under her fingernails, and Bessie had taken this habit over from her too. It was the sort of old-wives’ quackery that the physicians abhorred. But whether it was the prayer or the washing or simple blind luck, the childbed fever that killed so many new mothers seldom visited her patients. Bessie wondered what this Mr. Prynce, who seemed refreshingly broad-minded, would make of it.

  She turned her attention back to Lucinda. “I’ll fix you something nice for your supper. Corporal Billen’s wife traded me a mutton hash for my best cordial.”

  “I’m not hungry, Bess.”

  Six days had passed, and not a word from Henry. She had just found out he was seen strolling about the camp that very morning, hale and well.

  “Has the captain…?”

  “No!” Lucinda said bluntly. “Not yet.”

  “He is certainly—very busy, isn’t he?” said Bessie gently.

  “Oh, what do you know of it!” she exclaimed, tossing her head. “You don’t understand a thing!”

  “No I don’t,” Bessie sighed.

  The siegeworks were coming along apace. The main network of ditches was almost dug, with only the final assault saps left to go, and Vauban was able to promise the king that the trenches would be ready for a full attack in less than a week. Even the most war-hardened musketeers had to admit that this was the most sophisticated siege operation ever staged. With Vauban’s meticulous attention to detail, no one doubted that once the trenches were opened, the Dutch were done for.

  Again the Duke of Monmouth summoned his coterie to his tent.

  “Gentlemen!” he said. “It appears, sirs, an assault is not far off!”

  There was a cheer of bravura.

  “Are we ready, sirs, to storm the citadel?”

  There was another roar of assent.

  “Do we desire the victory to be ours?”

  “Aarhh!”

  “Shall we show these frogs what an Englishman’s mettle is?”

  “Rrrhh! Rrrhh!” the officers roared.

  “Very good,” said Monmouth, hushing them. “We are all agreed the glory by rights ought to be ours. Now we must ensure that the final attack will take place on our watch, not the frogman’s.”

  A rotation system was in effect, under which Monmouth shared with four French major-generals the daily command of the trenches at the Brussels Gate. Thus each general had to wait four days for his turn, relieving his predecessor in the trenches at dusk of the fifth.

  “But my liege!” said Sir Thomas Armstrong. “Surely the French king will want the prize to be yours. Why, otherwise, would he have given you the top command? He is so very fond of you— “

  “Indeed,” said Monmouth, smiling at the dazzling ring he was wearing on his left hand, a reward from Louis to his young nephew for the valor he had displayed in the previous season’s campaign, “we have reason to believe that he is. But that does not solve our problem. We cannot be seen to curry favor, or to pull rank, gentlemen. After all, who is to say that de la Fieuiliad, de la Rochfort, de Lorge, or even de Rohanez are not as deserving of the honor as we are?”

  There were murmurs of protest. Captain Churchill stumbled forward and fell to his knees. “Sir! I would give my life…” he choked.

  Monmouth looked pleased. “Rise, dear heart! Rise!” he chided, extending his hand.

  The sight of that gloved hand under Churchill’s elbow was too much for Henry.

  “We should all gladly give our lives,” he snapped. “Every last man among us. But surely we could try to come up with a more practical solution?”

  The Duke turned to him. “Ah, Beaupree! Did you have something in mind then?”

  “Indeed I do, sir.” Henry was forced to do some quick thinking. “There is a way…” he said, stalling.

  “Let’s hear it, then!” said Churchill, dusting his knees. “Let’s hear it from Captain Beaupree, our master tactician.”

  Goaded by the sarcasm in his rival’s voice, inspiration struck Henry at last. He said quietly, “I have some influence, sir, of a personal nature, with Vauban. I believe there may be a way to arrange the timing suitably.”

  “Some influence with Vauban? You, Beaupree? How so?” said Monmouth.

  “Please, sir, may we discuss this privately, in your tent?”

  38

  THE FEN-JADE’S FEATHER

  “Bess! Bessie!”

  “What is it, lamb?”

  “Cornet Stickling is here. Henry has sent for me!”

  “Oh pet! I told you…”

  “Help me into this gown, please Bess! Oh, and where are those new ribbons…”

  “Stand still, lamb, let me lace you up. There! Bless you, you look a treat. There’s really no need for paint—”

  “ Just a little powder…? You see? You see! I knew he would!”

  To tell the truth, Lucinda was laying it on a bit thick—she was not as excited as she was pretending to be. Her feelings for the captain had cooled considerably in the past couple of weeks. But it was unthinkable not to go at this point. Henry had sent for her, after all! And tonight might very well be the night when her patience was finally rewarded, when he declared himself and plighted his troth. Perhaps her friends had been right after all about kissing that frog. She had invested so much in this man—not just time and effort, but her innocence, her bankable virtue—that it was inconceivable not to see it through to a profitable end.

  She piled her hair on top of her head. “Do you mind if I go?” she asked guiltily, remembering her promise to help Bessie tonight.

  “Not at all, lamb. Lieutenant Prynce and I have some matters to attend to anyway.”

  Lucinda felt a pang of envy. Turning around, she took a hairpin out of her mouth.

  “You two are quite the pair,” she teased, sticking the pin into her topknot. “Has he insulted you lately?”

  “Not at all!” protested Bessie. “I wish you would let bygones be bygones, lamb. I like him. I like him very much.”

  “That’s clear,” sniffed Lucinda.
/>   “And so would you, if you gave yourself half a chance.”

  “Oh yes?” said Lucinda, twisting a ringlet around her finger.

  “Yes you would. He is a good man, a thousand times better…”

  “Than who?”

  “Oh, never mind. He’s a good man, that’s all. He has a heart.”

  “Oh, I see!” teased Lucinda. “How nice! Well, good luck with capturing that poor man’s heart, Bess!”

  “Oh lamb!” Bessie exclaimed, shaking her head. Because that wasn’t what she’d meant at all, and Lucinda knew it too.

  Henry, who was standing outside his tent, dismissed Cornet Stickling, and without wasting time took Lucinda inside for a tumble on his field bed.

  That done, he let Lucinda nestle her head on his shoulder, and drew his arms around her. “Missed me, then?” he asked.

  Lucinda looked up at him. “Henry!” she sighed. “Of course I did! It has been so long!”

  Henry sighed. “There has been much to attend to, pippin. This is serious business, you know. But once all this is over, and the citadel taken…”

  He did not elaborate, or commit himself any further.

  There was an interval of silence, during which Henry dozed off for a few moments while Lucinda groped for words, suddenly remembering the sly insinuating looks of Henriette and Sabine. “But,” she finally guessed, playing with his chest hairs and feeling her heart knocking in her chest, “I heard that you had a visit from some—some other women. Here in your tent.”

  His eyes snapped open. “You heard that, did you? Who told you?”

  “The—women. Told me.”

  “Ah,” said Henry slowly. “They told you. Well, I can explain…”

  But he did not explain; instead, he tried to distract her by nuzzling her neck.

  “I wish you would,” she whispered.

  “Wish I would what?” came his voice from somewhere beneath her hair.

  “Explain.”

  He sat up, aggrieved. “I see now,” he said severely, “that whereas I had hoped my lady was longing for me every minute we were apart, she has deemed fit to exercise a suspicious nature which I must say I am most astonished to…”

  “No!” exclaimed Lucinda hastily. “Oh, Henry, forgive me, I did not mean to imply…”

  “No, no, I must confess the whole lurid episode, of course. Else your little mind will jump to all sorts of nasty conclusions, and we can’t have that, can we?” Clamping her chin between his thumb and middle finger, he jiggled her jaw playfully. “Can we!” he teased. But she could not summon the required smile. She looked down.

  He let go, sighing. She could tell that he was very disappointed in her.

  “The women—strumpets—were summoned for a spot of entertainment. As an officer it is one’s obligation to provide such…divertissements for one’s superiors from time to time. I can scarce expect you to understand. I find it very distasteful myself. But surely you appreciate that one has a position to uphold. Else one stands to be trampled upon by every upstart trying to make an impression…”

  He sounded so bitter that Lucinda felt contrite. Of course there were so many expectations of you if you were a man, expectations hard enough to live up to without this kind of petty rebuke from her! “I’m sorry!” she said again. “Please! Forgive me. I had no right…”

  He sighed again. But she could tell he was mollified. “You had every right,” he said. “You had every right, my turtle-dove, my juicy little vixen, my dainty baggage.”

  “Wenching again, Beaupree?” Churchill sneered. The English officers had just been treated to a touching farewell scene between Lucinda and the captain.

  Henry did not deign to reply, but, brushing past Churchill, made his way to Monmouth’s tent and was announced without delay.

  “I wonder what his so-called plan is all about,” muttered Churchill.

  “My Lord Monmouth is certainly taking it seriously enough,” said Sir Thomas Armstrong. “And I understand it has everything to do with the wenching you disapprove of so heartily.”

  “Ah?” said Churchill. “How so?”

  “I understand,” smirked Sir Thomas, “that our Vauban has taken a fancy to Beaupree’s little English baggage.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Churchill. “A bawd, our Beaupree! I would not put it past him!”

  “Wait a minute!” protested John Prynce. “You don’t mean to say they would compromise a lady…”

  “Ah, but the lady is already compromised, as we know,” said Edmund Mayne with a laugh.

  “No!” said Prynce. “Surely they would not…”

  At this moment Monmouth came strolling out of his tent, his hand on Henry’s shoulder.

  Churchill stepped forward. “So!” he said. “What do I hear, my lord! The secret’s out, you know. You cannot hide it from us any longer.”

  “What secret is that, sirrah?” asked the duke.

  “Why, Beaupree’s little cunt-trivance, of course! Sir Thomas tells me that you’ll have us license lickerishness!”

  Monmouth looked baffled.

  “What the captain is alluding to, your lordship,” explained Vernon, his secretary, smoothly, “is Vauban’s er—weakness for the fair sex…”

  “Ah yes, ha!” laughed Monmouth. “Cunt-trivance! Contrivance! Ah yes, very good, sir, very good!”

  “What is it exactly,” asked Beaupree smoothly, his face a fraction too close to Churchill’s, “that you object to, fondest?”

  “I? Nothing!” said Churchill quickly, “No, no, I think it is an excellent plan, a most amusing plan! No, but our learned friend here, Mister Prynce, has been raising objections…”

  “What is it with you, Prynce?” exclaimed Beaupree, turning on him. “Can’t you ever take a joke?”

  “A lady’s honor is scarcely a joke, sir,” said Prynce stiffly.

  “Oh, spare me!” groaned Beaupree.

  “I can’t believe that this humorless fellow claims a kinship with our dear Lord Rochester!” Churchill put in.

  “Yes, what’s the matter, Prynce?” Monmouth said. “How did you come to be such a prude?”

  “What I object to, my lord,” said John, looking around for an ally, “is the apparent disregard for the consequences of…such a course of action, for the young lady in question. Consider her feelings. She is to my knowledge no common whore, and…”

  “Of course not! That is what’s so rich!” exclaimed Beaupree. “In lending her to him I shall be doing Vauban a great favor, a favor the old goat doesn’t deserve!”

  “What my esteemed colleague means,” Churchill explained gravely to the surgeon, “is that, God willing, she will not teach the good Seigneur de Vauban any…French, if you understand my drift.”

  “Yes, Prynce,” smirked Beaupree. “To put it in your own cousin Rochester’s immortal words:

  I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,

  I dally about her, and spew in her lap.”

  This witticism found an appreciative audience. “Yes! Yes! That’s very good!” the duke laughed, dabbing at his eye with his handkerchief. “Ho, ho! Very good indeed!”

  “Or how about this one?” shouted Beaupree,

  “’Tis known the fringe of the fen-jade’s feather

  Oft harbors pestilential weather.

  Since I durst not risk a pox i’ the south,

  I migrated up north, and came in her mouth—”

  “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s even better!” guffawed Monmouth. “Ha ha! Dear Rochester, I miss him. What a wit!”

  “Actually,” coughed Beaupree modestly, “That was not Rochester’s.”

  “Oh no?”

  “No, it is mine…”

  “You amaze me, sir!” said Monmouth, still chuckling. “I had no idea you were a poet! You must recite more for us, forthwith!”

  “My lord,” said Beaupree with a smirk, which Churchill was certain was aimed at him.

  Damp morning, reeking of earth and dung. Puffs of mist clung to
the ground in the distance; the muffled silence was interrupted every so often by the indignant clatter of drops shaken loose by the wind. Lucinda had found Bessie and Zéfine seated side by side on a hummock overlooking the camp. Bessie was showing the African woman the English way to swaddle a baby. Zéfine seemed unusually quiet, and Lucinda noticed a blackened puffiness around her jaw and neck.

  Bessie too had surely noticed the bruises, but she was smiling comfortingly at the young mother.

  “What a lovely, lovely boy,” she cooed. “Tell Josephine, pet.”

  “Qu’il est adorable,” she translated. The baby was light-skinned but had a flared nose and frizzy hair. The novel combination fascinated her.

  Zéfine smiled quietly. She traced the baby’s cheek with her finger, then faltered, and suddenly gathered him up in a passionate hug.

  “Nous-deux et moi?” she whispered into his hair, “Nous-deux et moi.”

  “Us two and me?” said Bessie. “Is that what she’s saying, pet?”

  “Mmm,” Lucinda assented.

  They both looked away, toward the river, because the emotion was overwhelming; because it made Bessie remember the time when Lucinda had been a helpless infant in her arms; because for the first time in her life the possibility of that kind of love stirred inside Lucinda; because there was nothing else to say.

  “Bessie!” Lucinda said suddenly. “Isn’t that your good friend, Mr. Prynce?” He was striding up the hill towards them.

  “Don’t go—please stay, pet!” Bessie pleaded quickly. “It would be uncivil of you to…”

  But Lucinda made no move to leave. She even smiled at him coolly as he approached.

  “Ladies…” He made a formal little bow. Bessie and Zéfine got to their feet. Lucinda remained seated, nonchalant.

  “A lovely day, isn’t it, Mister Prynce?” Bessie said.

  “Indeed,” he said, looking at Lucinda. There was an awkward pause.

  “This is Josephine,” Bessie explained, “and her little one, Noé.”

  John nodded, not taking his eyes off Lucinda.

  “So…” Lucinda said, gathering up her skirts, “no doubt you two have matters to attend to…”