The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  Epilogue

  London

  August 18, 1757

  The first blast shook the walls, rattling the crystal wineglasses and causing a mirror from the reign of Louis XIV to crash to the floor.

  “Never mind,” said the Dowager Countess Melton, patting a white-faced footman, who had been standing next to it, consolingly on the arm. “Ugly thing; it’s always made me look like a squirrel. Go fetch a broom before someone steps on the pieces.”

  She stepped through the French doors onto the terrace, fanning herself and looking happy.

  “What a night!” she said to her youngest son. “Do you think they’ve found the range yet?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Grey said, glancing warily down the river toward Tower Hill, where the fire-works master was presumably rechecking his calculations and bollocking his subordinates. The first trial shell had gone whistling directly overhead, no more than fifty feet above the Countess’s riverside town house. Several servants stood on the terrace, scanning the skies and armed with wet brooms, just in case.

  “Well, they should do it more often,” the Countess said reprovingly, with a glance at the Hill. “Keep in practice.”

  It was a clear, still, mid-August night, and while hot, moist air sat like a smothering blanket on London, there was some semblance of a breeze, so near the river.

  Just upstream, he could see Vauxhall Bridge, so crowded with spectators that the span appeared to be a live thing itself, writhing and flexing like a caterpillar over the soft dark sheen of the river. Now and then, some intoxicated person would be pushed off, falling with a cannonball splash into the water, to the enthusiastic howls of their comrades above.

  Conditions were not quite so crowded within the town house, but give it time, Grey thought, following his mother back inside to greet further new arrivals. The musicians had just finished setting up at the far end of the room; they would need to open the folding doors into the next room, as well, to make room for dancing—though that wouldn’t begin until after the fireworks.

  The temperature was no bar to Londoners celebrating the news of Clive’s victory at Plassey. For days, the taverns had been overflowing with custom, and citizens greeted one another in the street with genial cries condemning the Nawab of Bengal’s ancestry, appearance, and social habits.

  “Buggering black bastard!” bellowed the Duke of Cirencester, echoing the opinions of his fellow citizens in Spitalfields and Stepney as he charged through the door. “Put a rocket up his arse, see how high he flies before he explodes, eh? Benedicta, my love, come kiss me!”

  The Countess, prudently putting several bodies between herself and the Duke, blew him a pretty kiss before disappearing on the arm of Mr. Pitt, and Grey tactfully redirected the Duke’s ardor toward the genial widow of Viscount Bonham, who was more than capable of dealing with him. Was the Duke’s Christian name Jacob? he wondered darkly. He thought it was.

  A few more trial blasts from Tower Hill were scarcely noticed, as the noise of talk and music grew with each fresh bottle of wine opened, each new cup of rum punch poured. Even Jack Byrd, who had been quiet to the point of taciturnity since their return, seemed cheered; Grey saw him smile at a young maid passing through with a pile of cloaks.

  Tom Byrd, newly outfitted in proper livery for the occasion, was standing by the bamboo screen that hid the chamber pots, charged with watching the guests to prevent petty thievery.

  “Be careful, especially when the fireworks start in earnest,” Grey murmured to him in passing. “Take it turn about with your brother, so you can go out to the terrace and watch a bit—but be sure someone’s got an eye on my Lord Gloucester all the time. He got away with a gilded snuffbox last time he was here.”

  “Yes, me lord,” Tom said, nodding. “Look, me lord—it’s the Hun!”

  Sure enough, Stephan von Namtzen, Landgrave von Erdberg, had arrived in all his plumed glory, beaming as though Clive’s triumph had been a personal victory. Handing his helmet to Jack Byrd, who looked rather bemused by its receipt, he spotted Grey and an enormous smile spread across his face.

  The intervening crowd prevented his passage, for which Grey was momentarily grateful. He was in fact more than pleased to see the Hanoverian, but the thought of being enthusiastically embraced and kissed on both cheeks, which was von Namtzen’s habit when greeting friends …

  Then the Bishop of York arrived with an entourage of six small black boys in cloth of gold; a huge boom! from downriver and shrieks from the crowd on Vauxhall Bridge announced the real commencement of the fireworks, and the musicians struck up Handel’s Royal Fireworks suite.

  Two-thirds of the guests surged out onto the terrace for a better view, leaving the hard drinkers and those engaged in conversation a little room to breathe.

  Grey took advantage of the sudden exodus to nip behind the bamboo screen for relief; two bottles of champagne took their toll. It was perhaps not an appropriate venue for prayer, but he sent up a brief word of gratitude, nonetheless. The public hysteria over Plassey had completely eclipsed any other news; neither broadsheets nor street journalists had said a word on the subjects of the murder of Reinhardt Mayrhofer, or the disappearance of Joseph Trevelyan—let alone made rude speculations concerning Trevelyan’s erstwhile fiancée.

  He understood that word was being discreetly circulated in financial circles that Mr. Trevelyan was traveling to India in order to explore new opportunities for import, in the wake of the victory.

  He had a momentary vision of Joseph Trevelyan as he had been in the main cabin of the Nampara, standing by his wife’s bed, just before Grey had left.

  “If?…” Grey had asked, with a small nod toward the bed.

  “Word will come that I have been lost at sea—swept overboard by a swamping wave. Such things happen.” He glanced toward the bed where Maria Mayrhofer lay, still and beautiful and yellow as a carving of ancient ivory.

  “I daresay they do,” Grey had said quietly, thinking once more of Jamie Fraser.

  Trevelyan moved to stand by the bed, looking down. He took the woman’s hand, stroking it, and Grey saw her fingers tighten, very slightly; light quivered in the emerald teardrop of the ring she wore.

  “If she dies, it will be the truth,” Trevelyan said softly, his eyes on her still face. “I shall take her in my arms and step over the rail; we will rest together, on the bottom of the sea.”

  Grey moved to stand beside him, close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve.

  “And if she does not?” he asked. “If you both survive the treatment?”

  Trevelyan shrugged, so faintly that Grey might not have noticed were he not so close.

  “Money will not buy health, nor happiness—but it has its uses. We will live in India, as man and wife; no one will know who she was—nothing will matter, save we are together.”

  “May God bless you and grant you peace,” Grey murmured, reordering his dress—though he spoke to Maria Mayrhofer, rather than Trevelyan. He smoothed the edge of his waistcoat and stepped out from behind the screen, back into the maelstrom of the party.

  Within a few steps, he was stopped by Lieutenant Stubbs, burnished to a high gloss and sweating profusely.

  “Hallo, Malcolm. Enjoying yourself?”

  “Er … yes. Of course. A word, old fellow?”

  A boom from the river made speech momentarily impossible, but Grey nodded, beckoning Stubbs to a relatively quiet alcove near the foyer.

  “I should speak to your brother, I know.” Stubbs cleared his throat. “But with Melton not here, you’re by way of being head of the family, aren’t you?”

  “For my sins,” Grey replied guardedly. “Why?”

  Stubbs cast a lingering glance through the French doors; Olivia was visible on the terrace, laughing at something said to her by Lord Ramsbotham.

  “Not as though your cousin hasn’t better prospects, I know,” he said, a little awkwardly. “But I have got five thousand a year, and when the Old One—not that I don’t ho
pe he lives forever, mind, but I am the heir, and—”

  “You want my permission to court Olivia?”

  Stubbs avoided his eye, gazing vaguely off toward the musicians, who were fiddling industriously away at the far end of the room.

  “Um, well, more or less done that, really. Hope you don’t mind. I, er, we were hoping you might see your way to a marriage before the regiment leaves. Bit hasty, I know, but …”

  But you want a chance to leave your seed in a willing girl’s belly, Grey added silently, in case you don’t come back.

  The guests had all left off chattering, and crowded to the edge of the gallery as the next explosion from the river boomed in the distance. Blue and white stars fountained from the sky amid a chorus of “ooh!” and “ahh!”—and he knew that every soldier there felt as he did the clench in the lower belly, balls drawn up tight at the echo of war, even as their hearts lifted heavenward at the sight of flaming glory.

  “Yes,” he heard himself say, in the moment’s silence between one explosion and the next. “I don’t see why not. After all, her dress is ready.”

  Then Stubbs was crushing his hand, beaming fervently, and he was smiling back, head swimming with champagne.

  “I say, old fellow—you wouldn’t think of making it a double wedding, would you? There’s my sister, you know …”

  Melissa Stubbs was Malcolm’s twin, a plump and smiling girl, who was even now giving him an all-too-knowing eye over her fan from the terrace. For a split second, Grey teetered on the edge of temptation; the urge to leave something of himself behind, the lure of immortality before one steps into the void.

  It would be well enough, he thought, if he didn’t come back—but what if he did? He smiled, clapped Stubbs on the back, and excused himself with courtesy to go and find another drink.

  “You don’t want to drink that French muck, do you?” Quarry said at his elbow. “Blow you up like a bladder—gassy stuff.” Quarry himself had a magnum of red wine clutched under one arm, a large blonde woman under the other. “May I introduce you to Major Grey, Mamie? Major, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “A word in your ear, Grey?” Quarry released Mrs. Fortescue momentarily, and stepped in close, his craggy face red and glossy under his wig.

  “We’ve got word at last; the new posting. But an odd thing—”

  “Yes?” The glass in Grey’s hand was red, not gold, as though it contained the vintage called Schilcher, the shining stuff that was the color of blood. But then he saw the bubbles rise, and realized that the fireworks had changed in color, and the light around them went red and white and red again and the smell of smoke floated in through the French doors as though they stood in the center of a bombardment.

  “I was just talking to that German chap, von Namtzen. He wants you to go and be a liaison of sorts with his regiment; already spoken to the War Office, he says. Seems to have conceived a great regard for you, Grey.”

  Grey blinked and took a gulp of champagne. Von Namtzen’s great blond head was visible on the terrace, his handsome profile turned up to the sky, rapt with wonder as a five-year-old’s.

  “Well, you needn’t decide on the spot, of course. Up to your brother, anyway. Just thought I’d mention it. Ready for another turn, Mamie, m’dear?”

  Before Grey could gather his senses to respond, the three—Harry, the blonde, and the bottle—had galloped off in a wild gavotte, and the sky was exploding in pinwheels and showers of red and blue and green and white and yellow.

  Stephan von Namtzen turned and met his eyes, lifting a glass in salute, and at the end of the room the musicians still played Handel, like the music of his life, beauty and serenity interrupted always by the thunder of distant fire.

  Author’s Notes and References

  Most of my information on the mollies of London comes from MOTHER CLAP’S MOLLY-HOUSE: The Gay Subculture in England 1700–1830, by Rictor Norton, which includes a fairly large bibliography, for those looking for further details. (I was interested to see that—according to this reference—terms such as “rough trade” and “Miss Thing,” currently in use, were in existence during the eighteenth century as well.)

  While most of the locations mentioned as “molly-walks” are historically known—such as the bog-houses (public privies) of Lincoln’s Inn, Blackfriars Bridge, and the arcades of the Royal Exchange—the establishment known as Lavender House is fictional.

  While some characters in this book, such as William Pitt, Robert Clive, the Nawab of Bengal, and Sir John Fielding, are real historic personages, most are fictional, or used in a fictional sense (e.g., there likely were real Dukes of Gloucester at various points in history, but I have no evidence to suggest that any of them were in fact kleptomaniac.).

  Other useful references include:

  ENGLISH SOCIETY IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY (from THE PELICAN SOCIAL HISTORY OF BRITAIN series), by Roy Porter, 1982, Pelican Books. ISBN 0-14-022099-2. This includes a good bibliography, plus a number of interesting statistical tables.

  THE TRANSVESTITE MEMOIRS OF THE ABBÉ DE CHOISY, Peter Owen Publishers, London. ISBN 0-7206-0915-1. This book deals with the subject of the title, in seventeenth-century France, and is more interesting for the sumptuous details of the Abbé’s clothes than anything else.

  THE QUEER DUTCHMAN: True Account of a Sailor Castaway on a Desert Island for “Unnatural Acts” and Left to God’s Mercy, by Peter Agnos, Green Eagle Press, New York, 1974, 1993, ISBN 0-914018-03-5. The (edited) journal of Jan Svilts, marooned on Ascension Island in 1725 by officers of the Dutch East India Company, who feared that his “unnatural acts” would bring down the wrath of God upon their venture, as upon the inhabitants of Sodom.

  LOVE LETTERS BETWEEN A CERTAIN LATE NOBLEMAN AND THE FAMOUS MR. WILSON, Michael S. Kimmel, ed. Harrington Park Press, New York, 1990. (Originally published as Journal of Homosexuality Volume 19, Number 2, 1990.) This deals with the homosexual world in England (London specifically) during the 18th century, and contains quite an extensive annotated bibliography, as well as considerable commentary on the actual correspondence, which is included.

  SAMUEL JOHNSON’S DICTIONARY. ISBN 1-929154-10-0. Various editions of this are available; a recent abridged version is done by the Levenger Press, edited by Jack Lynch. The original dictionary was published in 1755.

  A CLASSICAL DICTIONARY OF THE VULGAR TONGUE, by Captain Francis Grose (edited with a biographical and critical sketch and an extensive commentary by Eric Partridge). Routledge and Kegan Paul, London. There are several different editions available of Grose’s original work (which the Captain himself revised and re-published several times), but the original was probably published around 1807.

  DRESS IN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY EUROPE 1715–1789, by Aileen Ribeiro, Holmes & Meier Publishers, Inc., New York, 1984. Well illustrated, with an abundance of paintings and drawings from the period, and several useful appendices on eighteenth-century currency and political events.

  Greenwood’s Map of London, 1827. This is the oldest complete map of London I was able to find, so I have used it as a general basis for the locations described. It’s available at a number of Internet sites; I used the site maintained by the University of Bath Spa: http://users.bathspa.ac.uk/imagemap/html.

  The Malaria Cure. Finbar Scanlon’s notion of deliberately infecting someone with malaria in order to cure syphilis was a known medical procedure of the period—though not nearly so common or popular as the various mecury-based “cures.”

  Oddly enough, in very recent times, a few observations have been made of people suffering from chronic infective diseases, who then acquire a separate infection causing extremely high fever (in excess of 104 degrees) over a prolonged period. Such fevers are very dangerous in and of themselves, but what was remarkable was that those patients who survived such fevers were in many cases found to no longer have the chronic disease. So there is indeed some evidence—though still very anecdotal at this point—to suggest that Mr. Scanlon’s re
medy might well have worked. For the sake of Joseph Trevelyan and Maria Mayrhofer, we’ll hope so!

  Transvestite. The use of this word as a noun dates only from the mid-twentieth century. The practice, however, is plainly a great deal older. Given Lord John’s Latin education, the use of this Latinate construction as an adjective—“transvestite commerce”—is more than reasonable.

  To Margaret Scott Gabaldon and Kay Fears Watkins,

  my children’s wonderful grandmothers

  Acknowledgments

  Interviewers are always asking me how many research assistants I employ. The answer is “None.” I do all my own research—because I simply wouldn’t have any idea what to tell an assistant to go look for!

  However, the answer also is “Hundreds!”—because so many nice people not only answer my random inquiries about this, that, and the other—but then helpfully provide lots more entertaining information that I would never have dreamed of asking for in the first place.

  In conjunction with this particular book, I’d especially like to acknowledge the efforts of …

  … Karen Watson, of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, who kindly spent a lot of time sleuthing round London (and assorted historical records) to verify the feasibility of various of Lord John’s movements, and also was of invaluable assistance in locating appropriate venues for skulduggery, as well as suggesting picturesque bits of arcana like the heroically amended statue of Charles I. I have taken small liberties with some of her information regarding London police jurisdictions, but that’s my fault, not hers.

  … John L. Myers, who inadvertently started this a long time ago, by sending me books about queer Dutchmen and Englishmen who were a little odd, too.