But Elspeth was different. She made herself available and accessible to him but without any of the subtle signposts that guided him forward and told him the lady was ready and ripe. He undressed beside the bed then positioned himself on top of Elspeth. He entered her but without the sound of reciprocal pleasure to which he was accustomed. He struggled for a while and considered he should stop. But then a picture of himself with Alice Winfrey came into his head and after a few short strokes he achieved his pleasure.
Immediately he felt guilty and melancholy. A man can go from the summit of ecstasy to the slough of despond in an instant and he deeply regretted his action. He turned to Elspeth.
“I’m sorry. I should not have done that.”
“No, no,” she said, but without any warmth in her voice.
“No. Thank you.”
Back in his room, Hugh silently cursed himself. Then, after some reflection, a beacon lit up in his mind. Was Elspeth acting on her father’s instructions? Was she to be the seal on the arrangement? Or was her unexpected trysting simply her sad attempt to resurrect her dead husband?
*
The weekend passed in a seemingly unending procession of shooting, cold meals, rain, the occasional glass of whisky, more rain and damp clothes.
Each night there had been a quiet knock at his door but he did not wish to repeat the obligations with Elspeth.
On Tuesday morning, fog enveloped the house and surrounding moors making further shooting impossible.
Drew had summoned his lawyer, Ross, a short stout man with an unsmiling countenance and – presented as a fait accompli – Hugh signed the papers for the loan after a cursory look. Arrangements were agreed for the transfer of money.
His departure was arranged. During the weekend Elspeth had made no eye contact with him as their paths crossed. Perhaps their joyless union, he now realised, was simply a conjunction of bodies, mandated by Drew, to seal the obligation.
As the carriage clattered off through the fog, he looked back at the crenellations of the Drew castle through the encircling mist and silently promised that he would never return.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In sharp contrast to the idle excesses of Hugh Wortley and his fellow Dogs in Bath in the late 1780s, life for most in Paris was one of penury, misery and conflict. Colette Renard and her husband Toussaint had moved to the French capital to escape the grinding poverty of Ribeauville, a nondescript village in Eastern Alsace.
Toussaint Renard was a pedlar whose family of itinerants had pitched up at the village where Colette lived with her parents. They had estimated that the poverty there was a land of milk and honey by comparison to the beggary in Eastern Europe, whence they came. Toussaint had one overriding charm: his good looks and brown eyes, framed by dark eyelashes, were said to bewitch any woman who looked at him. Certainly Collette fell prey quickly to his sexual magnetism and surrendered her virginity enthusiastically in a hayloft at the age of fifteen. Their relationship was essentially one-sided. She was blind to his faults as he was serially unfaithful and almost continuously drunk on a cocktail of calvados and cider. When drunk, he was violent, often accusing Colette of making eyes at other men when he was the transgressor and she was stainlessly true. Colette clung to him like ivy to a wall despite the beatings, always assuring herself that he was, at heart, a good man and that deep within him he surely loved her.
Home was a rat-infested hovel in the third arrondissement of Le Marais. Colette would toil as a washerwoman for fourteen hours a day, scrubbing sheets and ironing petticoats for well-to-do Parisians. Meanwhile, Toussaint would play pitch and toss and drink the meagre family income away. Colette, even when fearing a fist or dragging him to bed in a drunken stupor could only think of those flashing black eyes and the animal magnetism of their first meeting.
In March 1790, at the age of seventeen, Colette fell pregnant. This incensed Toussaint, who accused her of getting ‘fat, like an elephant’ so that he was ashamed to be with her. Colette clung to him, limpet-like even when one day, whilst in drink, he pushed her down a flight of stairs near Montmartre. When the child was born – a girl – Colette thought that Toussaint would love the child and her for bringing her into the world. Neither happened. Toussaint resented the squalling addition.
“Keep that brat quiet or I’ll do it for you!”
And she learnt to keep herself and the baby out of fist distance until he would fall drunkenly asleep.
*
The child, Marie, had been born into a troubled family at a troubled time in Paris. The American Revolution, in which William Wortley had perished, had stirred strong feelings in the Parisian populace. A tiny percentage of those at the pinnacle of society lived a life of ease, comfort and opulence. The rest worked long, lived in squalor and stayed poor. The price of bread was kept artificially high by a small elite and those at the bottom of the societal triangle suffered from hunger and malnutrition. The rich built fine houses and travelled in carriages avoiding the sight and stench of the poorer quartiers. The Third Estate, representing the peasantry, eventually organised sufficiently to table a list of grievances but these had been summarily dismissed, sparking riots in the streets.
The impoverished and hungry rabble stormed the Bastille as a cri de coeur and called for a National Assembly to rid the country of feudalism. Many wished for the abdication of the king, Louis XVI and a mass petition was arranged. A huge mob came to the Champs de Mars to sign away the royal family. Toussaint Renard was in the crowd throwing stones at the National Guard who had been called up to restore order. The riot escalated. The order was given to shoot. Toussaint’s brief, drunken, unhappy life was extinguished by a musket ball through the head, putting an end to his disordered existence. Colette was left alone, a young widow, with a babe in arms.
For a while after Toussaint’s death, Colette was inconsolable. But after some time the pain eased as did the strain on the family finances of Toussaint’s drinking. Her life became calmer and began to stabilise. Work in the laundry was tolerable and there was no brooding malign presence on her return home – just her pretty child left during the day for a few sous in the care of a warm-hearted matron called Madame Delaunay.
By the turn of the century, the child, Marie, had grown into a lissom young girl who had inherited her father’s startling looks. Large black eyes with long lashes in a perfect heart-shaped face were framed by thick, shining tresses of black hair. Even at the age of ten her looks enchanted all those who met her. Nature had blessed her with a happy combination of her mother’s good temperament and her father’s spellbinding appearance.
One day she was glimpsed, as she stopped to buy apples in the Latin Quarter, by the proprietress of a music and dance salon, Madame de Poignant, an ample woman of middle years with a practised eye for young talent. Seeing the proportions of the girl, coupled with her exquisite features, Madame de Poignant sensed an opportunity. She enquired of the girl where she lived and the following day appeared at her door. Seated in the dingy room that served all of their needs she addressed Colette, Marie shyly standing behind her chair.
“Thank you for seeing me, Madame. I am the owner of a music and dance college in Montreuil. I noticed your lovely daughter in the market and I believe she moves like a dancer. I would like to school her in music and dance and I believe she has potential for the stage.”
Colette demurred.
“I am sorry, Madame. Before you, you see only a humble widow, a washerwoman. The cost of any education for Marie is beyond me. I thank you for your enquiry but you will appreciate it is not possible for us.”
Marie’s dark eyes saddened. However, Madame de Poignant persisted.
“Allow me to explain. Every year I take on a few pupils who show potential. My patron, the Duc de Touraine, provides money for tutelage and if we are accurate in our predictions the dancers and musicians pay us back handsomely through a proportion of their earnings i
n stage or orchestra. The fees from the other pupils, the largesse of the Duc and a tithe on future earnings make the proposition sound. Believe me, Madame, I am not often wrong. Unless I miss my guess completely, young Marie here will soon be delighting the audiences in the Paris Opera. This is a commercial opportunity not charity. And finally let me assure you, Madame, that not only will she receive the best education but that I treat the girls as my own. They are cared for and watched over. There is never any hint of impropriety such as you may get with some of the…” she cast her eyes heavenwards in disapproval, “… less reputable schools.”
Colette smiled.
“In that case, Madame, I thank you for your offer and we will be very happy to entrust Marie to your care – assuming Marie is happy with the arrangement?”
The young girl jumped and clapped her hands delightedly.
Within the week, she had been enrolled at the Academie de Poignant. Life was disciplined. Pupils, of which there were about a hundred girls between the ages of ten and eighteen, were given a simple breakfast of bread and coffee before the young ones assembled into groups to receive the rudiments of an education in literacy by a strict tutor, Madame Blancmaison. Later the emphasis was on the finer arts including music, poetry, singing, Latin and Greek which Madame de Poignant felt trained the mind in conjunction with training of the body.
Marie’s appetite for learning was voracious. Her especial favourite time was the afternoon when practical lessons were given in dancing, piano and violin. Dancing lessons began with loosening exercises and, being over two to three hours in duration, demanded the stamina of an athlete with the expressiveness of a ballerina.
Violin lessons were compulsory for all but by the age of twelve, the class had resolved itself into ten or so who were felt to have a special aptitude and potential. The classes were taken by a moustachioed martinet by the name of Francois-Joseph Sauret who always taught the class while wearing full evening dress ‘to preserve formality and correctness’. He eschewed Geminiani’s Art of Playing the Violin. Tartini’s manuscript to Signora Lombardini which had served Faith Cross so well. He harboured a deep distrust of florid Italian technique. Sauret, in his adamantine Gallic way, unshakeably knew that France was the unquestioned leader of the cultural world and so used the book of theory written by M. Abbé le Fils. Marie’s diligence and zeal coupled with the early signs of a precocious talent were especially favoured by Sauret. When he heard rogue notes in a rendition he would peevishly tap his lectern.
“No, no, no! Listen to Marie!”
And Marie would play faultlessly while Sauret half-closed his eyes and murmured approbation. It was soon apparent that Marie was gifted beyond the abilities of the other girls and was called on to perform solos when the Academie gave concerts. The combination of Marie’s playing and her freshness and dark beauty brought admirers to the performances, particularly since a female virtuoso violin soloist was still a rarity, it being considered that competence in a woman was all very laudable but brilliance – perhaps – was over-demonstrative.
Marie began to repay Madame de Poignant’s investment handsomely. She was also able to find better lodgings for herself and Collette with meat and cheese on the table every day. She also supplemented her Academie income by playing on street corners. Her mother was able to move to a less demanding job than washerwoman. She became an assistant at a dress shop in Rue de Lafayette and life became tolerable and even comfortable, despite the privations still common in Paris at that time.
One evening in 1805, with Marie now a beautiful young woman of fifteen with her black hair pinned up winningly and her girlish figure enhanced by a ball gown, the Academie were booked to play an afternoon concert in the Halle des Suisses in the Paris Opera. Patronage of the arts had become acceptable again after the revolution and it was de rigueur to be seen supporting the theatre and music, much as it had been in Georgian England. Madame de Poignant’s young soloists and quartets were unique and attracted a devoted following.
On this particular evening in the audience was a French nobleman, the Comte de Villiers whose family and estates in the Loire Valley had been untroubled by the revolution. A gentleman from a different, gentler era, now in his mid-seventies, he enjoyed attending musical soirees when in the capital because of a chivalrous patronage of the arts and a love of music.
He watched through his opera glasses as Marie played a brilliant repertoire of virtuoso pieces. He handed the glasses also to his wife and their eyes met and they nodded.
At the end of the performance with tears in his eyes he turned to his wife and said, “Does she remind you of anybody?” knowing the answer already.
“Yes, it is almost as if she has been reincarnated.”
After the concert Monsieur le Comte sought out Madame de Poignant and asked to be introduced to Marie. In a dressing room the two aristocrats sat opposite Marie and the Comte held her outstretched hands.
“My dear, God has put a special talent in these hands.”
“Thank you, sir, you are very kind,” replied Marie modestly. “However the music has been put into my hands by my tutor Madame Sauret, but perhaps God may have put a little passion into my heart.”
The Comte looked at his wife and said, “It is her, isn’t it?” His wife smiled, yes.
“Marie you will not know this but you remind me so of our daughter, Jeanne. She was young, beautiful and talented like you, but sadly left us many years ago. Never a day goes by that we don’t miss her with a heavy heart. My sincere wish,” he looked at Madame de Poignant, “is to become your patron to help you with your career, your further training, your expenses. In return we ask for nothing other than an occasional private concert and the deep satisfaction of watching you astound and delight audiences with your virtuosity. Perhaps, in some small way it will also help us to remember our daughter and smile at last.”
Marie stood and bowed deeply to them both. The Comte struggled to his feet with the aid of his cane and bent to kiss Marie’s hand.
“No, my child. Having heard you play, it is I who should bow to you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hugh Wortley leased the four-storey Regency house in Beauchamp Place in the spring of 1786. He stuffed it with elegant furniture, silk carpets, a fine wine cellar and had the walls and ceilings of the public rooms frescoed with bucolic scenes of hunting, harvesting, young lovers, sylvan glades and neoclassical follies. In truth, it was a garish melange.
The house was staffed, whether he was in residence or not, with a surfeit of menials – housemaids, housekeeper, cooks, butlers, valets and a chef de mission called Chandler who came highly recommended by the Bairds.
Johnny lived no more than a mile away near Regent’s Park and he was Hugh’s entrée to London life. By arranging to call on the great and good via a series of tightly coded formalities, Johnny progressively introduced Hugh to a social life that made Bath society look positively provincial. And Hugh was a welcome and novel addition to the capital’s upper social strata. It was not every day that a handsome, wealthy and extremely eligible bachelor made his debut in the salons and drawing rooms of the wealthy. The word went round like a flame in a forest fire. Mothers with marriageable daughters schemed on how to contrive a meeting.
“Such a fine young man – and an orphan, you know. Property in London and Bath. Fine fiddle player and charming company.”
Fathers and brothers admired his wit and élan upon making his acquaintance in the better London clubs. He responded modestly when Johnny encouraged him to bring his violin along to gatherings. The crisp resonations of the Italianate were equally admired when played in a capricious Irish jig or a sad, fragment.
As well as the social round of courtesy calls, formal visits and dinner parties, Johnny also initiated Hugh into the more cosmopolitan world of drinking, gambling and whoring. They became habitués of the London outpost of The Beggar’s Benison. Originating in the unlikely
venue of Anstruther in Scotland, the club was simply a means for rich, idle men to indulge in extreme eroticism.
The location of the club was a close secret known only to the initiates who were members by special invitation only. The club was devoted to the convivial and unselfconsciously obscene celebration of unbridled sex. Copious draughts of drink, served in phallus-shaped goblets were taken to loosen inhibitions. Young, lower class girls, selected for their physical attributes and sauciness, were inspected while they danced or posed naked in tableaux supposedly mirroring classical paintings. The dancers were given a few shillings but were able to make significantly more if they accompanied a gentleman to one of the readied, curtained suites at the rear of the premises where sumptuous beds, lit by dim red lights, were available for whatever kind of pleasuring could be negotiated.
Hugh revelled in this unfettered sexuality and libertinism and took his fill of drink and young, available women. He confided in Johnny.
“I believe I have an ineluctable addiction to the female. Just the thought of a finely-shaped breast, a firm, curved, alabaster behind, nipples like ripe fruit, or the hidden delights of the mound of Venus and I must be satiated.”
And satiated he became. As well as the intermittent club nights of The Beggar’s Benison, Hugh almost nightly frequented the seedier districts of London where he could take any sort of pleasure for a few coppers, with the whores who served the low life and the sailors.
He also began to be enslaved by drink.
“A good servant but a bad master,” his father used to say in a long-forgotten saw.
A day would begin with a large glass of port or madeira poured unquestioningly by Chandler as Hugh scanned the daily journals and planned his day. Wine would be taken in his club to be followed by brandy over long lunches with various intimates. Sometimes champagne would be served for any insignificant excuse he and his coterie could invent. By his early thirties, the constant consumption of alcohol had become to take its insidious toll. What had been a fine, handsome face now began to show signs of excess. Where clear blue eyes once stood out in a pleasingly symmetrical, open, healthy aspect, there was excess flesh with eyes now sunken into pillows of skin and broken red veins criss-crossing the nose and cheeks.
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