‘Do all the world take lovers?’ Nan wondered. She and Sophie were walking in the sunshine in St James’ park, watching the ton drive by.
‘I daresay they do,’ Sophie said lightly. ‘’Tis the fashion.’
‘There was a time,’ Nan confessed, ‘when I was of the opinion that lovers were a deal of trouble.’ Now she was beginning to wonder.
‘Well as to that, my dear, it depends on how you take ’em,’ Sophie said, and she chuckled, showing her neat white teeth.
‘Do you take lovers, Sophie?’ Nan asked, greatly daring.
Sophie looked at her for several seconds before replying. ‘I will tell ’ee, my dear,’ she said, ‘if you give your solemn oath not to breath a word of it to Heinrich.’
The solemn oath was given, breathlessly.
‘I have been an artists’ model since I was twelve years old,’ Sophie said. ‘An agreeable occupation, if a trifle chilly. Sometimes, before I married Heinrich you understand, when the painter was attentive, one thing led to another, and then, if I had a mind to, I let ’em pleasure me.’
‘Did they pleasure you?’ How extraordinary to hear pleasure spoken of so lightly and easily.
‘Indeed they did, or I would not have allowed it.’
What an admirable cast of mind, Nan thought, and her face showed her admiration.
‘And you, my dear,’ Sophie asked, giving her friend a sly look, ‘have you never felt the power of passion?’
‘Well …,’ Nan hesitated, annoyed to feel a blush creeping into her cheeks.
‘Never trembled with desire, nor thrilled to a kiss, nor gazed into his eyes and seen them burn with longing, nor yearned to be held in his dear, strong arms?’
‘Well, no,’ it had to be admitted. She could hardly imagine Mr Easter’s eyes burning with longing. Even at those times. In fact, now she came to think of it, she realized that he always kept them closed at those times.
‘Then you have missed a great deal, my dear, and I trust you will remedy it as soon as you may.’
‘Take a lover, you mean?’
‘Why not?’
It was a tempting idea. She’d danced with enough handsome partners by now to know how pleasant it was to be held in a young man’s arms, and now and then when they quizzed her and paid her compliments and told her she was ‘uncommon handsome’ she had wondered with a vague but decidedly pleasurable longing how it would feel to be held and kissed by them. But as to whether there would really be no harm in it, as Sophie seemed to imply, she couldn’t be sure. Finally, after pondering upon it for nearly fourteen whole days and nights, she decided to test out her husband’s opinion upon the matter. If he thought it permissible, why then she might do as all the others did. When all was said and done, surely she had as much right to pleasure as anyone. If that awful Lord Raffles could be rewarded so, then why not Nan Easter?
She chose her moment carefully, waiting until one warm moonlit evening when she had allowed him her favours, which was at least a comfortable exercise now that she had learned how to position her body properly, but totally without sensation, of course, as always. As they lay side by side in their companionable way and his breath was beginning to purr towards sleep, she turned her head to look at him and venture her important question.
‘They say Lord Ponsonby has took another lover,’ she observed. ‘What think ’ee of that, Mr Easter?’
‘As little as I am able, my love,’ he said, amiably.
‘I don’t know of a single person hereabouts what en’t in love,’ she said.
‘No, indeed.’
‘Is it wrong to take lovers, think ’ee?’
He pulled himself back from sleep, alerted by the intensity of her voice. ‘’Tis a mortal folly, my little one,’ he said, ‘for the pleasure of it is sure to be short while the pain may be life-long.’
‘Oh no, Mr Easter, surely that en’t so. The ton take new lovers every other week, an’ I’m certain sure I seen no sign of pain in any on ’em.’
He put an arm under her shoulders to cuddle her, for that fierce face of hers was uncommon serious. ‘They would not wish the world to see their pain,’ he explained, ‘even if they were kind enough to feel it, which I sometimes doubt. Howsomever, you need not bother your head about such things, my love, for you have a greater happiness than any they may aspire to.’
‘Have I sir?’ That was a surprise.
‘Indeed you have. You are young and beautiful and faithful, a pearl among women in this naughty world. I’ll wager there are many must envy your purity. And although I am a deal older than you are, my dear, you must know that I love you now and will love you till I die, “forsaking all other and cleaving only unto thee.” That is a great good fortune, little Nan, and not to be thrown lightly away.’
It was true, she thought, lying quietly beside him. And she knew she couldn’t take a lover, after all, but it was a disappointment, for she would have enjoyed being pleasured. Oh, indeed she would. Sighing, she turned upon her side and settled to sleep.
The sigh rebuked him, for that and her conversation confirmed his suspicion that his love-making meant little to her, and the knowledge saddened him and made him feel inadequate. This is all on account of that empty-headed Mrs Fuseli, he thought. Her talk is all folly. Would that she was elsewhere. And he wondered whether Mr Fuseli would be taking his usual autumn tour back to his native Switzerland. ’Twould be as well for all of us if that were the case, he thought. In the meantime I will pet my Nan. Their frequent entertainments were eating into his capital, but what of that? She was the dearest creature and deserved to be happy.
Chapter Eight
True to his established habit, and to Mr Easter’s considerable relief, Mr Fuseli set off for the continent in the first week of October, exactly the same as usual, except that this time he took an excited Sophie with him.
‘What an adventure ’twill be,’ she said to Nan when the two of them were taking tea in Cheyne Row for the last time before her departure. ‘I shall not see you again until the spring, my dear, which is the greatest sorrow, but think of it. We travel through France. Right through France. So without doubt we shall stay in Paris for at least a day or two! Paris, my dear! The very seat of fashion. I cannot wait to be there, I tell ’ee.’
Nan didn’t doubt it. ‘How I do envy you Sophie,’ she said. ‘’Twill be uncommon dull without you.’
And so it was, for she had grown used to Sophie’s lively company and although there was plenty of work to occupy her time and Mr Easter was particularly loving and attentive, she missed their tête-à-têtes, and Sophie’s endless gossip.
‘I shall buy you a news-sheet every day,’ William Henry promised. ‘They sell them upon the streets nowadays, I notice, and Mr Johnson tells me there is a new one out called The Times which is passably well printed. Mr Fuseli is well known in Switzerland, so there may be news of him from time to time, which you would like to read, I daresay.’
She thought him very kind and thanked him prettily. But there was no news of the Fuselis, only the most dismal accounts of bread riots and murders and gloomy prognostications that revolution was about to break out in Paris at any moment.
‘I hope they don’t go starting that ol’ revolution when Sophie’s there,’ Nan said.
But Mr Easter said he thought it most unlikely. ‘’Tis my opinion,’ he said comfortingly, ‘that the French are too civilized to descend to revolution. Nothing will come of this, my dear, you may depend upon it.’
And as the weeks passed and nothing did, she was reassured. By November she had decided that as the news-sheets contained nothing but gloom and were barely worth reading she would turn her attention to the matter of new winter clothes, for William Henry needed new shirts and Mr Dibkins’ coat was worn shiny and Mrs Dibkins could do with a nice thick skirt to keep her warm. But William Henry had developed a taste for the news, and now he bought The Times at regular intervals, to see how the world was wagging.
At the turn of the year he w
as much concerned over what he and the newspapers called ‘a grave constitutional crisis’.
King George III had grown so mad as to be virtually certifiable and rumour had it that his son would soon be acclaimed Prince Regent. ‘And then what will become of us I cannot imagine,’ William Henry said, shaking his head sadly.
‘King or Regent, what’s the odds?’ Nan said, sewing the last button onto his new flannel chemise. ‘’Tis all one to me.’
He explained patiently that the King supported the Tories and the Prince was surrounded by Whigs. A change such as this would mean that that terrible man Fox would become the Prime Minister instead of Mr William Pitt. ‘And that is a change which can hardly be contemplated with equanimity.’
‘Perhaps ’twill prove all talk like that ol’ French revolution,’ she said sagely, biting off the thread.
‘Let us pray so,’ he said.
‘This chemise is ready to be fitted,’ she told him, holding up the heavy garment for his inspection.
He took off his jacket, smiling at her. ‘And an uncommon handsome chemise it is,’ he praised.
Despite everything, the King recovered and the speculations did prove to be all talk and Mr Pitt remained in office. But the next item of news to catch William Henry’s eye was a great deal more serious. He had bought a copy of The Times in an idle moment from a news-seller down by the Physic Garden without knowing it contained the terrible news that his brother Joseph was dead. He had taken a fall while out hunting and broken his neck. ‘The title which he would otherwise have inherited will now pass to his eldest son, Osmond, who is presently at the University of Cambridge’ the paper said.
It was quite a shock. ‘Poor Joseph,’ he moaned. ‘And Father always bragged that he had such a good seat on a horse. Oh dear, oh dear! They will be sure to want me to attend the funeral, of course my dear. A chance for reconciliation perhaps. We must hope so.’
She didn’t argue with him, although she had very grave doubts about whether the family would actually invite him to the ceremony. Which in the event proved accurate, for they went on ignoring him. But by then it was the end of February and she had a piece of news of her own that she knew would comfort him.
On the day the funeral was reported in The Times he was much cast down. ‘’Twould appear that my parents meant what they said at our last meeting,’ he grieved. ‘The rift between us is final, I fear. ’Tis hard indeed that I could not pay my last respects to my own brother. I confess we were never close, but he was my brother, in all conscience.’
‘Never you fret yourself, my dear,’ Nan said, patting his hand. ‘For there is another member of your family you may pay your respects to whenever you wish. And one who will love you dearly, I dare swear.’ And when he looked at her, wonderingly, ‘A child of your own, my dear. How say you to that?’
He was enraptured by the news, and called her his own dear Nan, and his sweetest wife, and urged her to take the greatest care of herself and not to get overtired, and to be sure to tell him of the least little thing she wanted, for he would be sure to procure it for her. ‘Oh, how I shall care for you, my dear,’ he said, ‘for now you are doubly precious to me. You shall be wrapped in cotton wool until the child is here, I do declare.’
‘Fie upon you, Mr Easter,’ she laughed at him. ‘There en’t no call for that, I can tell ’ee. I’m as fit as a flea and like to stay so.’
To his great delight, the baby grew daily and visibly and Nan remained splendidly well. By the time Sophie and Mr Fuseli returned to London in April the pregnancy was extremely obvious. Sophie said she was delighted by her friend’s good news and came back the next day with an armful of flowers to congratulate her, and so much gossip it took the better part of three hours to recount it all.
‘What a joy to see you so well,’ she said. ‘Some women droop so when they carry, but you fairly bloom, I assure you.’
And it was true. Pregnancy suited Nan Easter, and although she thought it undignified and ugly, waddling about with that great belly swollen out before her wherever she went, she kept her opinion to herself. Sometimes she woke in the morning yearning for the child to be born and for her own neat figure to be returned to her again. And sometimes she woke anxious at the thought that the child would soon be in the world and that she would have to care for it night and day even though she was sure she didn’t have the faintest idea how to do it. And sometimes she woke with her head full of the most curious dreams, of visiting France, seeing the revolution, making a fortune, showing the Easters what was what.
But at last it was the middle of July and her time was up. She was relieved and surprised to find that giving birth felt so normal. It was hard work certainly, all that pushing and straining, but there was nothing frightening about it, and the baby was the prettiest little creature. A daughter, with pale blue eyes and her father’s round bland face. Ann Easter, born on July 14th 1789, just six weeks after her mother’s eighteenth birthday, on a day which the French were later to call ‘the first day of the first year of liberty’.
But for Nan it was the first day of an unexpected enchantment.
Suckling the child was so pleasurable it made her want to purr like a cat. It was a sensual pleasure. There was no question of that, she knew it instinctively. But this time it was one she could share with her husband. To see the little creature rounding out day by day, learning to smile and coo and pat her bosom with its little fat hands was a continual and increasing joy to both of them.
‘My daughter,’ William Henry said with pride every time he saw them together, and when the news arrived that his daughter had been born on the very day that the long expected revolution had begun in France, he took it as a well deserved compliment.
‘On the very day,’ he said, pink in the face with excitement. ‘I heard the news at Mr Johnson’s. Mr Wotherspoon is just returned. He says the people of Paris have taken over the city. Imagine that! It appears they stormed the most terrible fortress, a dungeon called the Bastille. Muskets against cannon. What courage! And released the prisoners, who were all good men and wrongfully imprisoned, so Mr Wotherspoon assured me. And now they have declared a Republic in the great names of liberty, equality and fraternity. ’Tis a triumph. I never thought they would do such a thing, but they have, and all on the very day our dear Annie was born.’
‘Well o’ course,’ she said, easing her nipple from the baby’s sleeping mouth. ‘A special day for a special baby. What d’you expect?’
The special baby grew into a placid toddler, who sat in her own high chair at the dining-room table with her parents and babbled at them as they ate their meals, and was fed the choicest tit-bits by her doting father and allowed to cling to his cravat even with greasy fingers, because she was the ‘prettiest baby alive’.
And when she was fifteen months old and heading towards the second Christmas of her life, her mother was happy to announce that she was expecting again. ‘This time, Mr Easter, you shall have a son,’ she promised.
And although William Henry protested that he would be perfectly happy with a family of girls if they were all as pretty as his dear little Annie, a boy it duly was. A fine fat boy, with the same blue eyes and pretty round face as his sister, born on March 28th. They christened him William Edward and called him Billy.
He was a happy little baby with a prodigious appetitie, and for the first nine months of his life he grew and thrived like his sister before him. Now William Henry had two babies to pet and play with and soon there were two high-chairs at the dining-room table and two eager red mouths to be tempted with tit-bits.
But when Annie was two and a half and little Billy a mere ten months, Nan grew suddenly and alarmingly ill. For three days she felt so sick she couldn’t eat, and on the fourth day when she tried a little light arrowroot, she brought it all up again immediately, heaving and retching for such a long time that she felt quite weak afterwards.
William Henry was terribly alarmed. ‘Should we send for a surgeon?’ he asked, as Nan la
y panting on the bed when the fit had passed.
Mrs Dibkins was sponging her mistress’ forehead. ‘A midwife, more like, sir,’ she said, ‘if you’ll fergive me fer taking the liberty a’ saying.’
‘Oh!’ Nan groaned. ‘I can’t be pregnant. I feel so ill.’
But pregnant she was, and this time it didn’t please her. ‘Am I to be sick like this all through?’ she asked the midwife.
‘No, no, Mrs Easter,’ the midwife assured her. ‘’Twill pass by the third month, or the fourth at the most.’
But Nan was still being sick in March, when Billy was a year old and the new baby six months on its way.
‘I can’t abide much more of this,’ she said to William Henry, after a particularly miserable day. ‘There’s never any end to it.’
Mr Dibkins had been hovering outside the bedroom door until she’d finished being sick. Now he came clomping into the bedroom. ‘You jest let me take that ol’ chamber, Mrs William dear, now you’ve a-finished with it,’ he said tenderly. ‘You’ll feel a deal better with that out of the way.’ And he covered it quickly with a thick napkin to deaden the smell.
‘Thank ’ee kindly, Mr Dibkins,’ Nan said wearily, and feeling she ought to apologize, ‘I’m uncommon sorry to be such a nuisance.’
‘You ain’t a nuisance, Mrs William dear,’ the old man said warmly and at once. ‘Ho no! I won’t ’ave that. ’Tis only nature when all’s said an’ done. Don’t you go fretting your head.’ He stopped at the door to look back at her with misshapen sympathy and she smiled at him, thinking how kind he was and what a lot of dreadful work she was making for him with all those awful chamberpots day after day. ‘We’ll ’ave ’er quite chirpy by an’ by, won’t us, Mr William?’
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