For Our Liberty

by Rob Griffith

  My darling sister Lucy had a house in said square and was about the only one who would take me in, she was also more than used to me turning up at her door well above par. Golden Square in those days was not the fashionable address it had been, but nor was it full of foreigners as it is now. Rather, where it had been the home of Earls and Dukes before Mayfair drew the Ton away, it was currently home to their mistresses. The now infamous Mrs Jordan, long time mistress of the Duke of Clarence, the late King William IV of course, and mother of ten of his children lived at number 30. My own dear Lucy lived just around the corner. Golden Square was close enough to both St James’s and Mayfair to enable the rich suitors of my sister to pop in and enjoy the hospitality of the house they were paying for.

  Now, let me be honest dear reader, my sister was not a paragon of virtue; like me she could not afford to be. She was, in the common parlance of the day, a demi-rep. She was a courtesan whose virtue, if not for sale, was open to negotiation. She lived by her wits and by her beauty, and she had plenty of both. I often felt quite sorry for the poor coves that became ensnared in the web-like intrigues of her romances but in her dazzling company and warmth they more than got their money’s worth. Besides I am in no position to judge her morals, and the very kindness of her soul, I think, will ensure her a place in heaven whilst I will, no doubt, will be somewhere a tad warmer. What’s more, society looked far kinder on her type before Harriet Wilson began to publish her memoirs and blackmail her former lovers, my old chief the Iron Duke amongst them, and before the icy winds of German morals blew in from over the North Sea with the accession of our dear Queen.

  Now, where was I? Stumbling up to my sister’s door as I recall. I rang the bell and slumped against the railings, fighting the urge to flash the hash on the well-scrubbed steps. I waited for only a few moments before the door opened. The maid screamed as I fell across the threshold. I stood up and announced myself, shouting for Lucy. It must have been later than I thought because the house was dark until I saw the light of a candle spiralling down the elegant staircase. It was Lucy, looking like a ghost in pale grey silk, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. She was berating the maid for the noise and then she saw that it was me. She stopped and screamed my name and jumped the last few steps into my arms, splashing me with hot wax and singeing my hair with the candle.

  “Ben! I can’t believe it’s you. Oh God, Ben. I thought you were dead or locked up by Bonaparte or something!” She was crying and I dare say my own eyes weren’t entirely dry.

  “Lucy, my dear Lucy. You can always count on me coming back,” I said as I embraced her.

  “Only when you are drunk or up tick river again. Which is it this time?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “Both,” I admitted.

  The next thing I remember it was morning, or at least the next day. The strength of the sun burning my eyes as Lucy opened the drapes led me to suspect that noon had been and gone. My mouth was dry and the sour feeling in my stomach had returned. I groaned. Not because of the pain, although my head was pounding, but because I had remembered the night before. I think a man who has vowed to better himself needs at least one final relapse to remind himself of just how debased he can get. I struggled to recall the name of the poor country lad I had fleeced. I attempted to recollect just how much I had drunk. I failed on both counts and contented myself to feeling guilty and ashamed. I groaned again. I couldn’t help but think what Dominique would have said if she had observed me in the Tun; she wouldn’t have cared to know me I felt sure.

  Lucy came and sat on the side of my bed and handed me a glass of Hock and soda. She was a good girl and knew not to speak until the restorative had begun to take effect. The room was elegantly decorated in shades of forest green, the sheets crisp and expensive and the furniture smelling of freshly applied beeswax. Lucy had obviously spent the last year far more profitably than me I thought as I put the empty glass on the bedside table and looked up into her kind cow eyes. Her hair was in tight ringlets and she wore a simple muslin dress in a pale cream that complimented her complexion.

  “Hello, sister.”

  “Hello, brother. Do you feel as bad as you deserve to?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt it,” she said as she straightened the covers in a motherly manner.

  “You’re probably right,” I admitted.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “Well, whenever you turn up at my door drunk there is invariably a girl at the bottom of it somewhere.”

  You see? I told you she was sharp. I wasn’t in a fit state to recount the whole story so I just told her the pertinent parts. Whereas I had omitted much of what passed between Dominique and I when I told my tale to Brooke, with Lucy I spoke of little else. She listened with her customary sympathy, and then told me what a fool I was. She had a point and I knew it. She knew I knew it as well and so quickly disabused me of any notion I had of defending myself.

  “What matters,” she said as she tidied up my discarded clothes before giving them to a maid to throw away, “is what you do now. No amount of drink can ever drown regret or sorrow. I know. So what are we going to do with you?” she said, hands on hips, standing above me like mother had done so many times. Even the words were the same.

  “Well, get me a tailor for one thing since you’ve just thrown away the only clothes I own.”

  “Be serious, Ben.”

  “I was,” I said. “Lucy, I’m too tired to think too far ahead now. I need some food, and some clothes.”

  “And then you’ll go and see our dear father,” she said, in the careful but determined manner of someone lighting a fuse to a rather large keg of the black stuff.

  “Why on earth would I want to see him, of all people? He seldom improves my temper or my sobriety. The bastard has stuck his nose into my business quite enough.”

  Lucy let me rant on for a couple of minutes before interrupting.

  “Ben, you have many virtues, though you do your best to hide them, but forgiveness is not one of them. Father has done his best to make amends for his mistakes. He loved mother, for all that he treated her badly.” She held her hand up to forestall my outraged tirade. “I wonder how much worse you have treated some of your lovers?”

  That shut me up more effectively than the raised hand. She, as always, had a point, but I was damned if I was going to concede it.

  “Lucy, dear sister, among your many faults is a blind faith in people, especially our father. You were younger so you didn’t see the hurt that he caused mother…”

  “Don’t you dare patronise me Benjamin Blackthorne. I am in a far better position than you to appreciate mother’s situation. Father acted honourably in his own way. It is time you stopped blaming him for your own problems.” She stopped pacing back and forth and came and sat down beside me. “Ben, you have a chance now to put your past behind you. He can help you as he has me.”

  “How as he helped you?”

  “Ben! Whose house do you think this is?”

  “You took this from father?” I spluttered.

  “Yes. He has given me some independence at last, and I didn’t have to jump into some old Duke’s bed to get it so I’ll be dammed if I’ll apologise to you for taking the money,” she said, her eyes dark with anger. I felt ashamed for a second time.

  “Lucy, I’m sorry. You are right, as always. I will go and see him, though what I will say I know not.”

  “Well you can start by thanking him for paying off most of your debts.”

  “He did what?”

  “After you left for Paris we tracked down your creditors and paid them. You are free of them.”

  I doubted that father’s benevolence had gone as far as paying off Oldfield and Bennett but I didn’t think it the time to mention that particular problem to Lucy. I took a deep breath and said something I never thought I would.

  “In that case Lucy I shall go to father and thank him. I’ll also thank him for involving me w
ith the Alien Office and nearly getting me killed.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. You can thank me for your little adventure,” she said, grinning fixedly but moving away from the bed at the same time.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes and glaring at my sibling.

  “Well,” she said, fussing over the room some more in an effort to distract me, “I happened to meet Henry Brooke at Almacks and came up with the idea, father was just the messenger, although he did approve. Of course we had to make Mr Brooke think it was all his own idea.”

  “What? So the two people dearest to me, well one person dearest and my only other blood relation, decided it would do me good to be chased across France, shot, betrayed, imprisoned and nearly killed?” I said, without really believing it.

  “Yes.”

  I imagined for a moment what would have happened if I had been rounded up with the rest of the Englishmen in Paris. I would have been sent to Verdun and would have given my parole. I would have then spent the rest of the war playing cards and getting drunk. The boredom alone would have been the ruin of me. I didn’t say anything and Lucy sensed it was time to leave me to my thoughts. She had planted the seed and knew that I would come to agree with her. She also knew that hell would freeze over before I admitted as much, or thanked father for anything at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I had been standing under the statue of William III in St James’s Square for ten minutes before I finally crossed the street and rang the bell of my father’s house. His house was in the Palladian style, graceful, proportioned and with tasteful classical decoration. His neighbours were Lord Castlereagh and the Duke of Cleveland. The Duke of Leeds, The Bishop of London and the Earl of Buckinghamshire also lived on the Square. Piccadilly, Haymarket and the Strand were close by. A more fashionable address could not be conceived. Coaches of the finest manufacture circled the Square on straw-covered cobbles, so the noise did not disturb the residents. Fat dowagers in sedan chairs waddled to and fro calling on their fat friends. I felt as out of place as the pigeon daring to excrete on King Billy. This was not my first visit here but every call had been marked by raised voices and bitter memories. I hoped, but did not expect, that that day might be different. The weather was warm and the sky cornflower blue, a lavender tinge just appearing in the west. I was determined that nothing would spoil the day, especially not my temper. I would be polite. I would be firm. Lucy said I was to be nice as well but I felt that was too much to ask of myself.

  I had spent the previous two days completing a number of necessary tasks before finally admitting to Lucy that I was just prevaricating. I had visited my army agent and collected my half-pay and cashed Brooke’s cheque. I then paid off such debtors that Lucy had not been aware of and that I could afford to settle with. Oldfield and Bennett were not one of these, which was unfortunate since they were the only ones liable to break my legs. The humbler tradesmen I visited seemed slightly taken aback to be paid, accustomed as they were to waiting many years for settlement from their clientele.

  Wishing no repetition of that last shameful night of debauchery I avoided previous haunts. I had ventured forth to acquire a new wardrobe. I visited my boot-maker in Cockspur Street, the French Comte, who was most distressed at the state of my battered footwear and who did his best to repair and polish them to their former glory.

  New shirts came from Baker’s in Pall Mall and my tailor, who is far too good and far too cheap for me to share his name here, supplied black leather breeches, a crimson waistcoat and a rather fetching frock coat in the Incroyable style, with a high collar and wide lapels, and of darkest green colour. Lastly I succumbed to temptation and popped into Locks of St James’s Street for a new hat; my usual broad brimmed style in black. The new clothes lifted my mood and emptied my pocket book, the perfect combination to convince me to call upon my father.

  Things did not start out well. A liveried footman with a face like an undertaker opened the door and inquired my business in the supercilious tones that only the servant class can master. He was new and did not know me so he let me in and took my hat. My newly soled boots slapped on the checkerboard tiles as I entered the hall. The footman left to announce me and I idled a couple of minutes away looking for family resemblances in the dour and dark portraits that lined the wall. I didn’t have to look too hard to find a resemblance in the figure stomping down the stone staircase. He was my height, my stature and had my nose. I know because he was looking down it at me. He was my half-brother George and dressed in a pale blue coat, pink striped waistcoat and buff breeches so tight he could hardly walk. Nor could he move his head, trapped as it was between a huge collar and a cravat so stiff I’m surprised he hadn’t cut himself.

  “What the Devil are you doing ‘ere?” he said, looking around for someone to throw me out. He affected one those whining Whig drawls and dropped his aitches pretentiously.

  “George, dear brother, good day to you. I hope you are well?” I asked shaking his hand warmly. Don’t worry, I wasn’t taking Lucy’s advice, I just knew that my affable and familiar manner would infuriate him.

  “You’ve come to touch father for another few hundred Guineas I suppose? What is it this time? Hazard? Whist? Horses? Or have you got some doxy blackmailing you to support her bastard?” he sneered.

  “I have missed you, dear brother. It is pleasant to be reminded that despite sharing a father we share so little else, including wit.” My temper was being strained already but I would not let myself fail so quickly. “Is all the family in good health?” I asked through clenched teeth, smiling as best I could.

  “All the better for not seeing you for a year. What’s the matter? Did your French whore get tired of you?”

  Fortunately for my half-brother, and me, I was prevented from the particular violent retort I was minded to by the appearance of my father. He opened the door from the library and George and I froze like a couple of lads caught scrumping.

  “Benjamin, I wondered when you’d deign to come and see me. Catching up with George? How nice,” he said as he walked over and took my hand, grasping my shoulder warmly as he did so. “Dear boy, it is good to see you.”

  Now, as you have no doubt gathered, there are more than a few things that I dislike about my father. Calling me by my full name is one, his predilection for sarcasm another, but worst of all is his habit of surprising me. His greeting was sincerely meant and I swear I saw a tear in his eye. As ever I felt my anger towards him ebb and the guilt we all feel towards our neglected parents replace it. Then I remembered what I really disliked about him was the fact that he was a manipulative bastard.

  “Father,” I said, as coldly as I could, “I need to speak with you.”

  “Yes, yes, Benjamin. I know. George, ask Jenkins to bring us some brandies, we’ll be in the library.”

  We left George spluttering in the entrance hall and entered father’s sanctum. I had never been in his library before. The walls were lined with rich Moroccan leather bindings and the room had the rich musty smell of a bookshop. The furniture was mostly of English oak, rather than the more fashionable garish woods from South America. His desk was an exception, it was dark and richly carved, an old family piece that had come back from India, I am writing at it now since it was included in a surprisingly generous bequest on my father’s death. A large globe stood in the bay window, a quick glance told me that it was as out of date as the rest of the room; Van Diemen’s Land wasn’t marked and the fabled great southern continent that Captain Cook had proved was myth was embellished with dragons and fiery mountains.

  Father sat behind the desk and indicated that I should sit in a comfortable leather chair in front of it. I stood. The last year had aged him I thought, as Jenkins, the footman who had been foolish enough to admit me, brought in the brandies. Father’s hair had once been black but was now peppered with grey and he still wore it unfashionably long so that it constantly fought against whatever grooming regime he adopted. His large nose h
ad taken on a ruddy hue and his girth had expanded. He was not yet fat but he was surely travelling in that direction. It is always disconcerting to see the effects of age on a parent and then try to judge the way that time will take its toll upon yourself. I vowed there and then to refrain from beef pies, porter, and French pastries and to take a daily ride around Hyde Park. I took a brandy and sat without thinking, noticing a slight smile on father’s face as I did so.

  We sipped our brandies for a moment and looked around the room. The house was very different to the one I grew up in. The books alone were probably worth more than all my mother’s possessions. The bill for the green fleur-de-lys wallpaper probably came to more than the monthly rent of the small terraced house that was our home. I hoped he looked around the room and felt guilt. I wondered if he still kept our small house in Hans Town and if another unfortunate victim of his libido was in residence.

  “Will you be staying for dinner, Benjamin?” he asked, more, I think, to say something rather than to actually invite me to dine with the rest of his miserable family. George was not the worst of my half-siblings and he knew I couldn’t bear the sight of his wife.

  “No,” I said, “thank you,” I added half-heartedly.

  “Well then, this is just a social visit then? How unexpected!”

  I told you he was prone to sarcasm. It was time to say what needed to be said.

  “Lucy told me about your little scheme to get me involved with the Alien Office,” I said. He winced and held up his hands.

  “Now, Benjamin that was little of my doing. Your sister was concerned about you and came to me for aid. I felt that she had a right to be worried and so could not refuse her.”

  “You seem to be assisting her a lot recently,” I said, unable to keep the accusation from my tone.

  “I do what I can, but it will never be enough,” he mumbled uncharacteristically.

  “What do you mean? Never be enough?”