A Catch of Consequence

by Diana Norman

  Fewer pennies were given to street beggars; she rarely saw any as she was borne by sedan chair to charitable Society functions, to balls, to soirées, to concerts. She and Dapifer entertained.

  On the last occasion that she risked being seen in the area of Grub Street, John Beasley accused her of joining ‘the fucking bigwigs’. They quarrelled. Anyway, she now had no need of him; the fashionable press had taken her up—America was news—and gave her publicity that had its own impetus. Her quaint sayings were reported, so was the perfume ‘Yankee Flowers’ created for her by M. Floret and the emphasis put on her bustle by Mme Angloss.

  Such bile as Catty and Conyers introduced to the scandal sheets became stale and was overridden by the more outré doings of the Duchess of Newcastle; in any case, it merely spread Makepeace’s name and underlined the fact that she was famous for being famous.

  Lady Judd was one of those who bowed to the inevitable. Living next door, it was impossible not to see the quality of the visitors now being ushered into Dapifer House. In any case, the woman had rescued a Judd child in danger of falling from the tree that overhung the Dapifer garden . . . ‘Climbed the branches like a monkey, my dear, despite her condition,’ Lady Judd told her friends, apologetically. ‘Oh yes, an Amazon but a good-hearted Amazon. What can one do? Invitations have been exchanged and accepted. Well, what can one do? And Sir Benjamin dotes on her . . .’

  Most men did. Her pregnancy was late in becoming apparent but its bloom suited her; she had become beautiful. Those who sat next to her at dinners found her conversation sometimes startling but generally more entertaining than that of the usual run of females. Not exactly comme il faut, of course, but perhaps Pip Dapifer hadn’t done so badly for himself second time around.

  She got on well with Sir Benjamin Judd. He was occasionally pompous but, like herself, an outsider, one of a new breed that the establishment was having to accommodate into its ranks. He’d begun life as a Black Country nailer but, acute enough to realize the possibilities of coke-smelting, had ended up with a vast foundry producing boilers and cylinders. That Makepeace didn’t hide the fact she’d been a tavern-keeper delighted him. ‘Mowst young ladies look down on trade. But mowst young ladies yowse their heads just to put their hat on,’ he said. ‘Business, that’s what makes this owld world turn. Yow and me, we understand that.’

  He put her up for the ladies’ section of his club, Almack’s, the gaming establishment in St James’s.

  At first she refused. ‘Don’t approve of gambling, Sir Ben.’

  ‘Noither do I, Lady Dapifer, noither do I. Not with cards and dice, any old road. But yow don’t go for the play, yow go to keep up with the new politics and such. Very forward-looking, Almack’s. Bright young woman like yow should know who’s who, what’s what, where the bodies is buried.’

  She wasn’t interested in interment, either, but, surprisingly, Dapifer agreed with Sir Benjamin. He was a member of Almack’s himself but rarely had the leisure to go. ‘You need not play but, since you’re embarking on the high life, you may as well join a club and Almack’s is a respectable Whig stronghold. Lady Rockingham’s a member of the ladies’ section, I believe.’

  Town and Country Magazine: Lady Dapifer is the latest recruit of the many-headed hydra that is St James’s. She has been elected a member to Almack’s, known for its depravity in permitting gaming to both sexes.

  Makepeace was not so far gone in high living that she didn’t hear the moan from her mother’s grave as she and Dapifer attended their first function together at the club—a reception given by the ladies’ section to the gentlemen’s. She persuaded herself that for Temperance Burke the term ‘gaming club’ had conjured up the hells of Cable Lane, not a tasteful suite of rooms hung with good portraits, crystal chandeliers and satin curtaining.

  ‘Gambling,’ groaned Temperance. ‘They cast dice for the garments of thy Lord at the foot of His cross.’

  ‘I shan’t play, Mother.’

  ‘Thy father said the same.’

  Almack’s was unique among gaming clubs, not only for having a ladies’ section in the first place, but in its balloting system; men voted for or against the women who were put up for membership, women for or against the men. It was made obvious fairly quickly to Makepeace that, had each sex voted for its own, she would have been blackballed.

  She and Lady Judd were visiting the ladies’ ‘retiring room’, a carpeted chamber with pier-glasses, dressing-tables and discreet, curtained stools of easement. A small group of women were already in there, conversing in tones more generally used to strike terror into foxes in the next county. Makepeace recognized the Duchess of Grafton and the type of the others: elderly Whig autocrats, a fearless breed of Valkyrie who regretted that the fine old custom of drawing and quartering trespassers had fallen into abeyance. She’d encountered them before. Catty supporters.

  Twittering, Lady Judd tried to introduce her to the Duchess of Barnet: ‘Your grace, I don’t think you’ve met our new member, Lady Dapifer . . .’

  She was dismissed by the wave of a fan. ‘I do not recognize usurpers.’

  Makepeace gritted her teeth. For the sake of the sinking Lady Judd she would say nothing.

  Lady Rockingham came hurrying out of one of the closets to the rescue. ‘They’ll be calling supper, ladies.’

  Makepeace turned to go but was hailed back by Lady Brandon, another of the coterie. ‘You,’ she brayed, ‘what’s-your-name. Dapifer. You might as well know that I wouldn’t have voted for you. I don’t believe in elevating colonials.’

  Too much. Makepeace nodded to her over her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t have voted for you either. Only way we colonials elevate old witches is by hanging ’em.’

  Outside, she apologized to Lady Rockingham and a tottering Lady Judd. ‘But they ain’t chasing me out.’

  ‘My dear, you were glorious,’ the Marchioness said. ‘Wait ’til I tell Rockingham. They’re trying to chase him out too.’ The Prime Minister’s efforts to conciliate America and other colonies was proving distasteful to the school that believed in parliamentary supremacy over the empire. His administration was crumbling as its ministers resigned; the Duke of Grafton was one of those helping to crumble it.

  ‘I gather blood’s been spilt in the ladies’ room,’ Dapifer said, taking her into supper.

  ‘Where do they get their manners—the hogsty?’

  ‘Just think of them as a lot of blue-blooded Goody Busgutts.’

  The thought comforted Makepeace through supper, though Goody Busgutt had never attacked the bottle with quite the frequency and gusto of these old women. Nor would even she have forced a pretty niece’s head down onto the table in order to display the fact that her thin hair was reinforced by padding, as Lady Brandon did during the meal. The girl’s humiliation was painful to watch.

  Makepeace prepared herself for battles ahead—and not just with the old guard. Through the dining-room door she had glimpsed gaming tables for the first time. She had not intended to enter the salon; she would stand aloof, ‘I do not play’, an American Puritan in the midst of suzerain depravity.

  But there was a smell . . . from heated baize table-tops like emerald lawns under the blazing chandeliers, from packs of cards being set out by the footmen, from the leather of dice-boxes. It settled in her nostrils like the scent of clothes belonging to a forgotten but exciting and dangerous lover. She’d never smelled it before but somebody had smelled it for her.

  Ancestral addiction. Oh God, she was her father’s daughter.

  It was impossible to remain in the dining room after supper; the men had reached the port, politics and vulgarity stage; they wanted women gone. She left Dapifer to it and followed Lady Judd into the salon, trying to make her walk casual and less like an iron filing drawn to a magnet. The heavy gamblers had gone in already, putting on leather sleeves to protect the lace of their cuffs, trying to attract the Goddess of Fortune to their side with propitiations. Some of the men were wearing their coats inside out; th
e Earl of Orme had on a lucky hat adorned with buttercups. Lady Emily Sturt had donned a mask.

  ‘Wickedness.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ And felt the sinful champagne fizz in her veins.

  The whist tables Makepeace found uninteresting; the game was unknown to her, depended on skill and, anyway, seemed protracted. It was hazard that drew her, raw gambling. Lady Judd took two minutes to explain it. Makepeace understood within one.

  ‘ ’Tis the most bewitching of games with dice,’ Lady Judd said. ‘Sir Benjamin has forbidden me, for when one begins to play one doesn’t know how to leave off.’

  It was the biggest table in the room. The air round it vibrated with concentration; there was an intensity and accompanying little noises irresistibly reminiscent of the sexual act. Players whispered the calls of their mains, murmured the laying and taking of odds.

  Dapifer was standing next to her. ‘I said, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Grafton and I are going to take a turn round the park for half an hour or so to clear our heads. I’m trying to persuade him not to resign. Do you want to take the carriage and go home?’

  ‘No, I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘I’ve persuaded Lady Brandon not to run you through.’

  ‘Good.’

  He turned her face to his. ‘You look like Odysseus tied to the mast. Blow me down, Procrustes, you want to play.’

  She said: ‘I don’t play.’

  When he’d gone, she retied herself to the mast, looking askance through her mother’s eyes at the towers of guineas by each player, hearing her father’s siren song: Just once, just once. For that soul-clutching moment when the scales tremble.

  Around midnight, there was a rowdy entrance by a young man bringing with him the scent of night air, alcohol—and Catty Dapifer.

  The two of them began circulating the room, noisily greeting friends. The man was unsteady on his feet. Almack’s’ owner, William Macall, watched them from the door like a man whose house had just been invaded by exuberant untrained puppies worried for his carpet.

  The first thing Makepeace had done before agreeing to join the club was to make sure that Catty hadn’t. This was planned humiliation. The woman was already dividing the room into two camps: one embarrassed; the other settling down in happy anticipation of the confrontation to come.

  Withdraw? Makepeace thought. That’s what she wants; send me running. No, by the Lord. I ran from Boston. Here’s where I stand.

  She kept her eyes on the hazard game, listening to Catty’s trills as she moved from table to table, gathering her forces, coming closer.

  I wish Pip was here. No, I don’t.

  Makepeace was always to remember that none of those in the room whom she knew came to stand next to her.

  She waited.

  A charming voice said: ‘Oh my goodness, there’s my husband’s Indian. What is it doing here? They told me it stood on the back of his carriage.’

  A low Scottish mumble from Macall, who’d come up.

  The voice again. ‘But I am a member, Mr Macall. It said so in the papers, “Lady Dapifer,” it said. “Elected to Almack’s,” it said. How nice, I thought. Such a surprise.’

  Scots mumble.

  ‘Let me get this clear, dear Mr Macall. You are permitting squaws to play, but not respectable wives?’

  At the word ‘respectable’ Makepeace turned and looked straight in Catty’s eyes.

  Catty fluttered her lashes. ‘Then I shall circulate. Come with me, Henry.’

  The young man said: ‘Goin’ to try my luck here, Catty.’

  ‘Very well. Now, where is that husband of mine?’ She moved off, to the applause and embraces of Lady Brandon and the Duchess of Barnet at a nearby whist table.

  The boy she’d called Henry was arguing with the club-owner. Macall spoke more clearly; he was on firmer ground now. ‘I’m no saying ye’re not entitled to play, Mr Headington, I’m saying ye should not. I understand ye’ve already lost too much tonight elsewhere.’

  ‘Got the stake here.’ Headington waved a piece of paper to which a ribboned seal was attached. ‘Deed of property. Good as guineas any day.’

  ‘Only coin of the realm at Almack’s tonight, I fear, Mr Headington.’

  ‘But the lady’s relented,’ Headington said. ‘Lady Fortune’s relented, can feel the warmth of her smile.’ He began to go round the hazard players, pushing the document at them. ‘Worth it,’ he kept saying. ‘Good bit of land, this. Thousand or more acres. Fowl an’ fish an’ . . . oh, all sortsa things. Scenery. Who’ll sport me a monkey on it?’

  There was a general shaking of heads. ‘Go home, Henry.’

  One of the players said: ‘Where is it?’

  ‘North’mberland.’ Headington waved his arm towards the window as if Northumberland was located somewhere in the region of Highgate.

  There was general laughter. ‘A thousand acres of damn all. Suggest you go and live on it, Henry. Healthier for you than Mayfair.’

  Desperately, the young man staggered towards Makepeace. ‘You’ve a kind face, ma’am. You’ll sport me a miserable monkey, eh? Here’s m’security. Nice little property? Got an inn on it, I believe.’

  Close to, he radiated an ill health caused by neglect. His flushed skin fell in beneath the cheekbones, he vibrated as if from fever and his linen, while fine, smelled rancid. His eyes were terrified.

  ‘You go home,’ said Makepeace, gently. ‘Have a nice sleep.’

  ‘No, no. M’luck’s turned, ma’am. The goddess is smiling at last, I can feel it.’ He pushed the paper at her. ‘Jus’ a monkey.’

  ‘A monkey’ was one of the few pieces of slang Boston and London had in common. Five hundred pounds.

  She was shaking her head when a pretty voice called out: ‘Don’t bargain with a Yankee, Henry. Americans won’t even pay their taxes.’

  Makepeace looked up. Catty’s eyes were sapphire chips. A challenge, pure and simple.

  Through the cackling of the old guard, Makepeace heard a voice say: ‘I’ll play you for it.’ It was hers.

  Headington brightened. ‘Straight game? My land against your monkey?’

  Catty applied the goad. ‘It’s my husband’s money at risk. Do he and I want a piece of Northumberland heath, I wonder?’

  ‘Seventy guineas,’ said Makepeace, desperately. It was all she had left from saving Dapifer’s life, the rest had gone on buying him a fob watch for his birthday and on Beasley’s expenses. ‘My own money. I earned it.’

  ‘I expect she did, darlings,’ Catty announced reasonably, ‘in a tavern.’

  More laughter. Somebody shouted: ‘Seventy guineas for a thousand acres? Damn cheap even for Northumberland.’

  People were leaving the other tables and closing in.

  ‘Are you satisfied by this, Sir Pip?’ Macall asked.

  Dapifer had come through the crowd. He put his arm around Makepeace’s shoulders. ‘Of course. It’s my wife’s own money and honestly gained, I’m proud to say.’ Quietly he said: ‘Don’t do this, Procrustes. The lad’s possessed. He’s been wagering property all over London.’

  ‘I can’t back out now.’ Headington was an inconsequence. She was duelling with Catty as sure as if they stood in the dawn with pistols pointing at the other’s head.

  They both saw Catty indicating them from the other side of the table and making Lady Brandon laugh. Dapifer tightened his grip round his wife’s shoulders, kissed her and raised his voice. ‘May the best woman win.’

  ‘Seventy guineas it is, then.’ Henry Headington would have played for buttons as long as he could play.

  Immediately it became An Event with Procedures. This might be one of the smaller wagers of the evening but there’d been none as interesting.

  The table was cleared of all other bets. A lawyer was brought from the dining room to draw up a promissory note for Makepeace in the event that she lost. She signed it with her maiden name to show that it would be paid with her personal money. A
deed of transference of Headington’s property from him to her, in the event that he lost, was also drawn up. Again, she signed with ‘Makepeace Burke, formerly of Boston’.

  The Earl of Orme straightened his buttercup hat. ‘I shall be groom-porter for this throw. Does either caster object?’

  Now that he was to placate his daemons Headington’s distraction left him. Surrounded by his supporters, he prepared for battle by jogging on the spot, flexing his knees and wrists, calling for and mixing a beverage he called a ‘gullet-gripper’.

  ‘Make your sets, lady and gentleman,’ said the Earl of Orme.

  Headington laid his property deed on the table. Makepeace put her promissory note beside it. They shook hands.

  ‘Call your main, Lady Dapifer.’ The box holding the dice was passed to her. She could call five, six, seven, eight or nine. Her mind went blank. She could hear the dice vibrating in the box as she held it. The only number in her head was that of Creation’s days. Lord, forgive me. ‘Seven.’

  Headington called five. Should either of them throw the number they’d called they’d ‘nicked’ it and had won outright. Makepeace had two chances of winning; if she threw eleven it also ‘nicked’ it.

  Makepeace cast her dice. A three and a two. ‘Five to seven’ called the Earl of Orme. From this point on if she threw a seven she’d lose, five being her number to win.

  Headington threw. Four and three. ‘Seven to five.’ Now the odds were in his favour; there were three ways of throwing a seven and only two of throwing five.

  Around the table the betting began as spectators became players by betting on the chances of the two casters. The Duchess of Barnet’s ring-knobbled hands stacked guineas on the baize. ‘Five hundred on young Headington, my lord.’

  It don’t matter, Makepeace tried telling herself, I can afford to lose.

  And saw Catty’s eyes. No, I can’t.

  She threw again. Eight.

  Headington had a peculiar habit of rattling the dice-box before he threw, first against one ear then the other. ‘England and St George,’ he said.

  The table cheered him. Lady Brandon hallooed: ‘Go it, my boy. Let’s win back those taxes.’