Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea

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by Kage Baker


  Upon reading this, Mrs. Corvey sighed, rummaged through her trunk for the encryption book and settled down to write a long and detailed letter.

  The Royal Hotel stood prominently at the intersection of Victoria Parade and The Strand, and was therefore an easy five minutes’ walk from the Ladies’ lodging house. The windows blazed with light as they approached and a great many people milled about the entrance, peering in; for balls were an infrequent occurrence in Torquay, given that so many of its visitors were invalids hoping to restore their health.

  A gentleman of indeterminate status, in a powdered wig, bowed them across the threshold and directed them inward. They were able to find their own way to the ballroom, following the strains of “Sir Roger de Coverly”, and on entering beheld a grand salon with walls painted in the Etruscan style and no less than three chandeliers casting their blazing light on what must be admitted to be a rather poor turnout. Some four or five couples were doing their best to comprise a set as Mr. Pickett watched gloomily from beside the punch bowl. His face brightened immeasurably, however, when he spotted Lady Beatrice.

  “Miss Beatrice!” he said, easily audible over the orchestra, as he advanced upon her. “And your charming family. I am delighted, ma’am, just delighted that you all could h’attend. Ma’am, may I h’offer you a cup of punch?” he said to Mrs. Corvey as he more or less swept her off to a chair by the wall.

  “Too kind,” murmured Mrs. Corvey.

  “Waiter! A cup of punch for the lady!” bawled Mr. Pickett. Turning to Herbertina, he said: “There’s a bar right through that door yonder, with cigars and brandy, sir, if you’re so disposed.”

  “Oh, jolly good,” said Herbertina in relief.

  “And I reckon this thing is h’about bloody done—” Mr. Pickett looked over his shoulder at the Roger de Coverly set, which was coming to its anticlimactic close. “There! I thought they’d ’ave to get it over with sooner or later. Hi! Give us a waltz next,” he ordered the orchestra.

  They obliged promptly. He bowed to Lady Beatrice. “Miss Beatrice, may I ’ave the honor of this dance?”

  Lady Beatrice extended her hand and found herself borne out onto the dance floor. She had not danced since her days in Simla, and was at first concerned lest she display some clumsiness on that account. She soon saw that she need have no fears, Mr. Pickett proving so domineering a partner that she might as well have been a dressmaker’s dummy on wheels.

  As they whirled around, Lady Beatrice glimpsed some of the gentlemen guests eagerly approaching the newcomers; who, with fluttering fans and demurely downcast eyes, were giving a formidable imitation of respectable debutantes. Herbertina, on the other hand, appeared to have been ambushed in her progress to the bar by a number of hopeful females, and was looking extremely annoyed at being obliged to do the gentlemanly thing and ask one of them to dance.

  “May I just say, Miss Beatrice, you look h’exceptionally lovely this h’evening? ’Ow seldom it is one finds oneself in the company of one so h’exquisitely refined,” Mr. Pickett shouted over the music.

  “Thank you. Mr. Pickett, surely you are an American?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Aw. You smoked me, then?”

  “The—Bowie knife, was it? That was quite distinctive, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Beatrice said with some understatement, “and your voice does betray a certain hint of the Southern areas of America.”

  “I thought I had the lingo down pat. And here I’ve been paying that butler good money to teach me the accents of the mother tongue,” said Mr. Pickett, growing somewhat redder in the face than even his vigorous dancing might have induced.

  Lady Beatrice quelled an urge to laugh. “They are correct for the East End, I believe, but not really suitable for a gentleman of your station. Your…natural accent is quite charming.”

  Mr. Pickett scowled. “If he’s been having fun at my expense, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t. See, the truth is, Miss Beatrice—I am English, by blood and descent. The Picketts were cavaliers who left for America when Oliver Cromwell was running things over here. They should have gone back home after things were set to rights, but they didn’t, somehow. They stayed on in America, which was a fatal mistake. It’s no country for gentlemen, that is for certain sure.”

  “I have heard that opinion expressed,” said Lady Beatrice cautiously.

  “Well, I’m here to tell you it’s true. I have turned my back forever on the land of my nativity and returned to the mother country! What kind of a nation is it, I ask you, that puts a miserable county tax assessor in a position to insult a man of quality? With impunity too, may I say, because you just can’t demand satisfaction of that kind of low-born churl.”

  “I am so sorry to hear it, Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Beatrice, noting the red glare in his eyes as he worked himself into a rage. She predicted he would gnash his teeth next, and was obscurely pleased with herself when he did so.

  “Varlets! That is just exactly the word for what they are, Miss Beatrice. A whole nation of varlets. I will not dismay you with an account of the circumstances of my departure; I will only say I suffered intolerable abuse at the hands of petty tyrants. No, I’m well rid of America and pleased as punch to be back on my true ancestral soil. I want nothing more than to become as one hundred per cent an Englishman outwardly as I am in my heart.”

  “What a noble goal,” said Lady Beatrice, thinking to herself that it was going to be a long evening.

  Mrs. Corvey sat in her appointed chair against the wall, sipping from her cup of punch and watching the dancers. The waltz ended; couples disengaged, bowed or curtsied, and most made for the punchbowl. Mr. Pickett showed no signs of relinquishing Lady Beatrice, however. He called for a galop, the orchestra struck up a lively tune, and Mr. Pickett and Lady Beatrice went speeding away down the dance floor. A pair of misses settled down two chairs from Mrs. Corvey, fanning themselves energetically.

  “Well!” said one of the young ladies. “Mamma won’t be pleased. He seems quite taken by that minx in the red gown.”

  “She’s welcome to him,” said the other young lady with a shudder. “He really is the most frightful eccentric!”

  “I thought I should die laughing at that accent!”

  The other miss leaned toward her friend, and in what was presumably her best imitation of stern matronly tones said: “But, my dear, he’s as rich as Croesus!”

  “There is that,” said the first young lady. “Tabby says he’s paid a year’s lease on Waldon House.”

  “A year’s lease! Fancy living here year-round. He isn’t going up to London for the season?”

  “I don’t believe he is aware of our customs,” said her friend primly. “Why are the rich ones always complete barbarians? Mamma said that she heard he intends to buy the land along the cliff tops by St. Mary’s Bay, because he wishes to build a mansion there.”

  “Fancy anyone wanting to live over there with no Society but the sheep!”

  “Clearly he is of a romantic nature,” said the one. The other rolled her eyes and they lifted their fans to discreetly mask their giggles.

  At this point Mrs. Corvey spotted Herbertina emerging from the bar in a cloud of cigar smoke. She hurried to the punch table, ladled herself a drink, and took a seat beside Mrs. Corvey.

  “My God, he’s smitten with her, isn’t he?” she said, nodding her head in the direction of Lady Beatrice and Mr. Pickett.

  “Seems to be,” said Mrs. Corvey.

  “Several fellows were discussing him in the bar,” said Herbertina. “They’re all sick with envy for his racing yacht. Designed her himself, someone said. I gather she’s won three races already. The Sceptre, I think they said she’s called.”

  “Anyone know why he talks like a Stepney greengrocer?” said Mrs. Corvey.

  “People assume he’s a bit mad, though they agree he’s brilliant at ship building,” said Herbertina with a shrug. She reached into her waistcoat pocket and felt about. “Damn! I left my lucifer case in the bar.” She rose has
tily and went off in search of it.

  The galop is not normally a conversational dance, since so much effort is required simply to breathe while dancing. However, even storming through it like a wild mustang of the Western plains as he did, Mr. Pickett’s lungs proved equal to the challenge.

  “I must say, Miss Beatrice, you speak in a splendidly refined manner,” he roared. “Would you be at all agreeable to giving me elocution lessons? I’d pay handsomely.”

  It was a moment before Lady Beatrice could reply, caught as she was between astonishment and the need to inhale. Mr. Pickett, watching her face closely, went red once more.

  “Miss Beatrice, I must apologize! I certainly intended no offense. I hope you’ll forgive a poor scion of Britain raised among ruder stock,” he implored.

  “Quite,” said Lady Beatrice, as the music thudded to its conclusion. “Mr. Picket, I confess I am somewhat fatigued. Might I be escorted to a chair?”

  “Would you be at all inclined to some liquid refreshment, Miss Beatrice?” said Mr. Pickett as he bowed her to her seat by Mrs. Corvey, who sat presently alone, dance partners having claimed all the other staff of Nell Gwynne’s for a stately quadrille.

  “That would be most kind.” Lady Beatrice opened her fan and fluttered it in a not-quite-dismissive manner to speed Mr. Pickett on his way.

  “Your cheeks are pink and your pupils are dilated,” observed Mrs. Corvey. “Having a good time, are we?”

  “An energetic one, at least. I would appear to have an admirer,” said Lady Beatrice. “It appears that Mr. Pickett desires to alter himself into an Englishman, and has been led astray in this enterprise by his butler. Evidently he was convinced that bizarre accent was correct.”

  “Hears what he wants to hear and then believes it, I dare say,” commented Mrs. Corvey.

  Lady Beatrice, remembering the glaring eyes and gnashing teeth, nodded thoughtfully.

  “He is understandably unhappy with the results, now. Do you know, he asked me to give him elocution lessons? And then was struck with mortification when he realized he had offered me money.”

  “Money, eh?” Mrs. Corvey suppressed a chuckle. “What a thoughtful gentleman, to be sure. Well, I should tell him Yes to those elocution lessons, my dear.”

  “Truly?” Lady Beatrice glanced sidelong at Mrs. Corvey.

  “Oh, yes. I think our Mr. Pickett bears watching,” said Mrs. Corvey, just as that gentleman returned and presented Lady Beatrice with a cup of punch.

  “Sweets to the sweet, and refreshment to one who refreshes all eyes,” he said, with a gallant bow.

  “Thank you so much, dear Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Beatrice. “Mamma has agreed that it would be quite proper to assist you in learning more suitable accents. My only fee, of course, shall be that Mamma be permitted to attend us and so partake of the restorative air for which Torbay is so well known.”

  “Indeed, young man,” said Mrs. Corvey, gazing at a spot some two feet to the left of Mr. Pickett.

  Mr. Pickett grinned hugely. “Why, certainly,” he said with a broad wink at Lady Beatrice. “Mother shall certainly come along as a chaperone. When may I call upon you, and at what o’clock, Miss Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey? I have a fine four-in-hand and we can take in something of the countryside.”

  “Perhaps the day after tomorrow, in the early afternoon,” said Mrs. Corvey. “My girls are late sleepers.”

  Next day, as shortly after midday as could possible be construed to be “early afternoon,” a messenger with a gift called upon Lady Beatrice. She and Mrs. Corvey went downstairs to the lodging house parlor to receive it.

  The messenger was a man in good new suit that in no way disguised his dubious origins. His face bore a notably crooked nose, and his hands were calloused and bent into permanent half-open fists; despite which, a fine gold ring gleamed on the right one. His voice was a pleasant tenor with a much better-bred accent that the unfortunate Mr. Pickett; however, his half-smile and bold gaze quite gave the lie to his obsequious tone. Also, he leered at Lady Beatrice.

  Introducing himself as Mr. Felan, “Mr. Pickett’s man,” he was well-spoken enough as he proffered Mr. Pickett’s compliments and a lovely Chinoiserie vase full of scarlet roses.

  “Mr. Pickett said to tell you, ma’am,” Felan said in mock-serious tones to Mrs. Corvey, “that he sent the flower of his gardens to the flower of yours.”

  Lady Beatrice took the vase. “What lovely roses! They are very fine, Mamma.”

  “How thoughtful,” Mrs. Corvey replied icily. “Please convey our thanks to Mr. Pickett. Beatrice, do help me back upstairs now.”

  Being apparently blind did mean she never had to pay much attention to other people’s reactions, and she was pleased to turn her shoulder on Pickett’s man and return back up the stairs. His face fell and his smile twisted rather nastily as she and Beatrice departed—of course, as Mrs. Corvey was most emphatically not really blind, she was also able to see and note this alteration in his demeanor.

  “An impudent servant; and a nasty piece of work, I shouldn’t wonder,” she said to Lady Beatrice as they passed the first landing. “And a boxer once, I think—did you note the fellow’s hands?”

  “I did. They have seen hard usage,” said Lady Beatrice.

  “And dealt it out, I’ve no doubt. That sort often goes for a bully-boy, once they get too slow for the ring,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Reminds me of one of Lord Brougham’s followers, was a bit of an enforcer in that to-do back in ’45 about changing the Coroner’s Laws; you may recall, there was quite a bit of resurrectionist scandal then.”

  “I believe I heard of it,” said Lady Beatrice. She followed Mrs. Corvey into their suite.

  “We entertained the fellow on his master’s business a few times,” continued Mrs. Corvey, “when it was a matter of some concern to the Gentlemen that there might be a resurrectionist ring attached to Lord Brougham’s household.”

  “And was there? Was he indeed a resurrectionist?” Lady Beatrice asked with interest, setting the vase on a table where the roses caught the light.

  “O, yes, some little business deal between the Lord’s wine steward, this bully cove and the College of Surgeons; all manner of mischief in their respective cellars…but Mr. Pickett’s man brought him to mind because he had just that same manner of speaking you soft and yet being snarky. And he was very rough with the girls, especially Erato. I finally had to remove him.”

  Mrs. Corvey, having shed her gloves and shawl, settled down in the armchair by the table. Lady Beatrice, arranging the roses to best show in the sunlight, gazed at her a little moment.

  “How did you have him removed, if I may ask?” she inquired finally.

  “Shot the bugger in the head and had him dumped in the Thames,” said Mrs. Corvey with a reminiscent smile. She looked sharply at Beatrice, her lenses whirring to a close focus. “You watch yourself around that one, Beatrice. His master may be a Southern gentleman, but our Mr. Felan is a wolf.”

  Lady Beatrice nodded. “I shall do so.”

  “Wear your garter knife, then,” Mrs. Corvey said with an air of maternal authority; and leaned back in her chair with a worried frown.

  At precisely half-past one the following afternoon, a boy from the front desk knocked on the door of their suite, and informed the ladies that Mr. Pickett had arrived for their outing.

  “Mind you get him talking as much as ever you can,” Mrs. Corvey said to Lady Beatrice, to whom she had explained her suspicions.

  “I don’t believe that will prove difficult,” said Lady Beatrice as they entered the boarding house’s parlor.

  It was certainly not difficult to spot Mr. Pickett where he waited by the front door. He was attired in a coat of brilliant crimson with lace at the throat and cuffs; it confirmed Mrs. Corvey’s tentative identification of him as the water-walking yachtsman she had seen. Though the rest of his clothing was fairly sober, it could not offset the effect of the coat, which made Mr. Pickett look rather like a pantomime highwayman. H
e strode forward, seized Lady Beatrice’s hand, and kissed it resoundingly.

  “Your chariot awaits, Miss Beatrice,” said Mr. Pickett. “Your servant, Mrs. Corvey, ma’am. Let us take the salubrious air.”

  He led them out to what was in fact an open barouche, drawn by four fine bays. He had evidently come alone, acting as his own driver. Mrs. Corvey was deposited within the carriage; Lady Beatrice was handed up to the driver’s seat, into which Mr. Pickett vaulted a moment later. They set off, taking the beach road south.

  They drove first to Tor Abbey, admiring what could be seen of its stately ruins while Mr. Pickett discoursed at length and with admiration on Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.

  “It takes a good strong-willed Englishman to stand up to the Pope,” announced Mr. Pickett.

  He further pointed out the antique barn in which Sir Francis Drake had imprisoned a quantity of Spaniards following the Armada. Thereafter he spoke for some time on the subject of Britain’s naval glory, with Lady Beatrice managing to interject the occasional “Quite” or “Really?” all the way to the unbearably quaint village of Cockington. At the sight of its thatched roofs and mellow brick there were positive tears in Mr. Pickett’s eyes, and he spoke for a quarter-hour straight on the rural charms of Devon.

  “In just such a village,” he cried, “the great Sir Francis Drake would have been born. There’s a hero for you! Circumnavigated the globe, and brought honor and glory to his native land. They don’t breed ’em like that nowadays.”

  “He is a particular hero of yours, then, “ said Lady Beatrice.

  “Oh, indeed, Miss Beatrice, ma’am! And, if you will excuse the opinion of a poor Colonial returned to the fold, I do think it’s a sin and a shame our present Queen hasn’t men like that running her Navy.”

  “How true,” remarked Lady Beatrice, with a glance back at Mrs. Corvey.

 

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