Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “’Tis not so!” Bits of gingerbread flew from his mouth as John spluttered. “He said he never, ever, wants to see me before him again!”

  “The headmaster is a difficult man,” said Mrs. Thorpe. Leaning towards the other woman and speaking in a half whisper, she said, “Hard on the pupils but easy on the eye, if you know what I mean.” Then, winking at her eldest child, she crowed, “John is quite the favourite at school, and the other boys look up to him. Though not the academic sort, he excels at all scholarly pursuits. I would not hear of it, of course, but quite soon after enrollment it was recommended that John be taught at home. I expect the assistant masters thought there was nothing else for him to learn at Merchant Taylors. And after just one term! Imagine!”

  Turning a fond look upon her dearest son, Mrs. Thorpe told John his father would have been exceedingly proud of him. Then, in a more meditative mood, she gazed a while into the grate’s flames and sniffling, pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve to wipe at her eyes and nose. “How my dear Aubrey, the best of husbands”—the widow’s voice cracked with emotion—“loved a good blaze.”

  Mrs. Shepherd patted her hand. “There, there, Mrs. Thorpe.” With only a moment till her visit was cut short, the woman added, “Surely your husband is gone to a place with a very fine fire.”

  At her departure, John stamped his way to the fireplace and stabbed at embers. “What a cock and bull story you sold that old biddy.” Throwing down the poker, he paced the small room. “My school was founded by an association of tailors, but was it really necessary to pull the wool over Mrs. Shepherd’s eyes?” He knelt at his mother’s knee and, with head bowed, spoke gruffly. “The thing is, I do rather poorly at Merchant Taylors, you know.”

  “I know, son.” Mrs. Thorpe patted his head and imparted her own philosophy. “But little white lies never hurt anyone. Embellishment of fact and a version—or aversion—of truth are oft justified and may be used to one’s advantage.”

  John settled beside her on the sofa and, gorging himself on more gingerbread, weighed one of the Ten Commandments against another. “Honour thy father and thy mother” soon tipped the scales. “I think I understand. At school, we read part of The Prince by that Italian fellow. He says one should never try to win by force what can be won by deception.” Deep furrows on his brow cleared. “By Jove! Lie-ability is actually an asset!”

  Mrs. Thorpe affectionately tweaked his nose. “Such a clever boy! There never was a young man so beloved as you.”

  Being so well praised and tweaked did much to heal John’s bruises. But, back at Merchant Taylors, when something or other of his was presented as larger or better than it really was, he was proclaimed a “rattle,” a “fibber,” a “hollow-hearted rascal,” and worse.

  “Four and a half? Pshaw!” cried John, surrounded by senior boys. “Six, if it is an inch!”

  “Thorpe, you lousy lout,” sneered one, “you lie like a rug!”

  “Like a sieve,” said another, “your stories do not hold water.”

  Those declarations prompted John to a loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct except the frequent oaths which adorned it.

  So what if I have told a falsehood or two? Glory and survival justify duplicity. To achieve one’s goals, such means are acceptable, according to both Machiavelli and my mother. One of them, at least, cannot be wrong. And the devil take the rest of the world, I say!

  Taunts and torments John endured by laughing them off. To his family, and in his candid manner, he claimed such provocations touched him not. “They are just jealous, is all. Because of me, we won four—no, five!—no, all of our games against Harrow.” Crossing arms over his chest, he said, “Furthermore, I, more than anybody else, make the other boys laugh.” While that remark was in accordance with fact, what he did not admit was they laughed at him, not with him.

  Notwithstanding his half-hearted attempts at an education, John was eventually awarded a fellowship for undergraduate study at St. John's College. And his mother was thereby granted another excuse to boast of her own child. Her brother—belonging as he did to the guild that originally founded Merchant Taylors—was instrumental in funding John’s admittance to Oxford; but Mrs. Thorpe denied the fact that, due to the family’s situation, her son might otherwise never have been admitted to university.

  Following his first three terms at Oxford, John bounded up the stairs of Bartlett’s Buildings and into the parlour, where he was received with squeals of delight and exulting affection.

  “Mother, how do you do?” He suffered her crushing, aromatic embrace, then stood back. “Good God, woman, what a quiz of a dress! You look like an old hag. Oho, and here are all my ugly brothers and sisters, too!”

  Inquiries were made and intelligence given, with them all talking together, as was their wont, far more ready to give than to receive information, and hearing very little of what another said. After the best part of an hour of such babble and clack, John tugged at his cravat and took to pacing.

  “Damn it, but this room is stifling! ’Tis as hellish hot as Hades in here!”

  “Those are not polite words.” Anne scowled first at her eldest brother and then down at the mess she had made of her embroidery. Tossing it aside, she gazed longingly at the window and said she would not complain of the heat, that sunshine was nothing short of glorious, and that she much preferred it to the cold and damp. Frowning at the closed drapery, she made a comment about the room’s upholstery already being faded and asked why they had to block out sunlight.

  “Pish!” said Edward. “The moon and stars are more useful than the sun. The moon provides light at night when we need it. The sun only appears during the day, when we have no occasion for it.”

  “Blockhead,” said John. “Have you learnt nothing yet at school?”

  “If Edward is just wasting our money,” said Isabella, waving a fan in front of her face, “we should not send him back to Merchant Taylors. Then we could all remove to Margate for the summer. Sea-bathing must be the most revivifying sensation in the world. I am dying to try it and shall surely die if I cannot.”

  “No bloody way!” Despite the heat of the room, John shuddered, hairs on his skin standing upright. “Egad! How could you even suggest such a thing, knowing my aversion to immersion? I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach at the very thought.” Ignoring his mother’s admonishments to not open the curtains, he peered out onto the scorching street. “Oh, dang, if it is not that aptly named Mr. Nutter darkening our door. I believe the old coot has taken a shine to you, Mother.”

  Mrs. Thorpe tittered and insisted she did not welcome his advances.

  “He would take care of you in your dotage.”

  “I had thought you would see to me then, John.”

  “Lord, Mother, I would … had I a wife to do it!”

  Isabella leapt to her feet. “I will not stay here while that bald, speckled codger makes sheep eyes at our mother. Take me out in the gig, John.”

  “I shall be delighted—as loath as I am to be seen about Town in that damned, decrepit, old buggy of Father’s. I shall have our man Jenkins add a splash of paint to the sides, but that will do little to brighten the plodding gait of the nag attached to it. We shall just have to make do until I purchase a finer curricle.”

  “We do not even have a curricle now,” said William, carving a curiosity from wood and letting shavings fall to the floor. “A curricle is pulled by two horses. Ours is a one-horse gig.”

  “Well, little brother,” said John, “if you are so smart, then why in bloody hell are you joining the navy? You will be out there, surrounded by water! Your frigate might sink,” said he with another shudder. “Then where would you be?”

  “Hopefully, unlike you,” muttered Isabella, “he would be able to keep his head above water.”

  “Oh, my darling William,” said his mother, “I wish you were not going to sea. I shall worry endlessly. If only you could be awarded a fellowship like your eldest brother was
.” Giving John a pat on the back, she crowed about what a learned young man he was becoming.

  “Do not be so damned daft, Mother!” John scoffed. “One does not attend university to learn! One goes there to make important connections—friends and patrons to help him along later in life.”

  “And have you made many such friends, son?”

  “Of course, I bloody well have! I can name dozens—nay, scores!—of fellows.”

  * * *

  With Isabella, the one closest to him in age and character, John was always more forthright. Many weeks later, in the dressing room that served as sitting area for all three girls, he sought his eldest sister. Poking his head around the door, he asked, “Am I disturbing?” He then walked in without invitation.

  Offering a deep sigh, Isabella tossed aside the Gothic novel she had been reading. “Yes, John. You are always disturbing, offensive, and oafish. You quite plague me to death.”

  “Saucy chit! You tease like my university friends; but, of course, none of you actually mean anything by it.” John flumped beside her on the settee. “What is that damned smell? Perfume? By God, it smells like a bloody brothel in here.” The room’s overpowering bouquet had aroused a memory of his one and only experience in such an establishment.

  “What is a brothel?” asked Maria, tucked away, unseen, in the window seat.

  “Oho, little dandiprat!” cried John, jumping up and turning red. “I did not notice you there. I … I was just saying the room smelled like … like, um … broth!” Sitting, he crossed an ankle over his knee and bobbed his foot. “I … I am a bit peckish, I suppose.” Looking anywhere but at his youngest sister, he whistled tunelessly through his teeth. “So, do you suppose there will be soup with supper?”

  Maria flung her book on the cushion and, folding her arms, stood in front of her elder brother and sister. “You said brothel. I have heard the word before but know not what it means nor why it should smell like the rosewater I spilt earlier. And why would broth smell like perfume?”

  “Go away, brat,” said John, tugging his cravat. “I need to”—check hidden corners, watch my language, and forget an embarrassingly brief episode in a bawdy house in which things went off prematurely—“speak privately with Isabella.”

  Maria stuck out her tongue and, with a toss of her head, left the room.

  “It is a good thing Mother did not witness that,” said Isabella. “She would have boxed your ears.”

  “Look here, I know I am not particularly erudite but neither am I dull nor ignorant. Why must Mother always exaggerate my achievements? And—damn it!—why can I never come out ahead? The other blockheads are scheming cheaters, the stinking lot of them! There can be no other explanation.”

  Making room for her brother’s stout, sprawling form, Isabella shifted uncomfortably against the bench’s wooden arm. “What have they done now?”

  “After losing at hazard and thinking to step up my game, I wagered someone I could best him in a stair-climbing race. But, being rather short-shanked and frightfully gin-soaked at the time, I fell neck and crop and came out second best again. I suspect the long-legged stinker tripped me.” Springing up to pace around the cramped, cluttered room, John examined its delicate knickknackery, dropping only one out of ten figurines.

  “John, you oaf! That squirrel is Anne’s favourite piece.”

  “Was her favourite,” John grumbled, kicking at the shattered remains of a porcelain, bushy-tailed rodent. “Fine! I will replace it … if you will grant me a loan.” Stopping in front of the settee, he dragged palms down his face. “I am short on blunt and in debt to more than a few fellows. Will you help me, Bella?”

  “We are English, not Italian!” Isabella flounced past him. “If you must shorten my name, call me”—primping at the mirror, she rearranged a few curls—“call me Belle. It has an amazingly exotic ring to it, do you not think?”

  “I suppose Belle does have a certain ring, but—pish!—never mind your nonsense. I am in a monstrous spot and was hoping you would see me clear of it.”

  “Lord help you, brother, for I cannot.” Turning back to the mirror, Isabella spoke through gritted teeth. “Ask one of your friends for assistance.”

  “Ha! Not bloody likely! What a stupid head you have.” He walked to the window and fidgeted with its pulley. “Those skinflints are quick to single me out for a bit of gaming, yet they must know I can ill afford it. Even Peregrine Bathos and James Morland have turned down my entreaties for a loan, and Morland is such a devilish good friend that I am thinking of inviting him here for a visit. It might be a bit embarrassing, though.” John eyed the peeling paint and threadbare drapery. “I believe he comes from a wealthy family.” Hands balling into fists, he barked an ugly laugh. “They have it all—every bloody advantage, all presented to them on silver plate! How can I possibly hold up against those privileged fops with their innate elegance and ease?”

  Hands clasped together beneath her chin, Isabella informed him that, of all things in the entire world, it would be the most wonderful.

  “Eh? What would?” he blustered.

  Something like a sigh escaped as she answered. “To be held up against a fit, wealthy gentleman.”

  “This has nothing to do with you and your ungodly desires. Here I am mired—nay, drowning—in debt, yet you dare make light of my plight.” John affected a pitiful mien. “Truth is, I really am in dun territory. You have no idea what it is like to be surrounded by temptation all the time!” Head bowed, he sat upon the vacated seat, his sunken, beseeching eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “These are dark, dark days, Belle.” With wry amusement, he added, “I can scarcely afford a candle.”

  “Well, do not think to prevail upon me for any part of my allowance. Such fixed amount hardly meets my own basic needs.” The perfect picture of petulance, with the back of one hand against her brow, Isabella proclaimed she was thrown into the acutest agonies because of it. “So, you, brother dear, will just have to become more temperate in your habits.”

  “Deny myself every common indulgence?” John stamped around the room. “I bloody well think not! Lawks! Such a deuced existence sounds as much fun as plucking nose hairs.”

  She called him an odious, crude man and then asked of what indulgences he spoke. To which he replied sheepishly that, other than field sports and horses, his particular pleasures were gaming and drink and women.

  “One of those is considered immoral, is it not?” Isabella held up a variety of ribbons, testing them against her complexion. “We, as a family, must give the appearance, at least, of respectability.” Gasping at her reflection, she rubbed her brow. “See what you have done! You have put me quite out of countenance, and frown lines on a lady are wretchedly unbecoming.”

  “You put them there yourself, silly goose, with that sulky expression you have perfected. And how little you know of the world. In placing a few wagers, I am no worse than a man who is no bettor. And, sister dear, you need not worry about a few insignificant, little wrinkles marring your appearance.”

  She turned to him with a brilliant smile which faded into a pout upon being told her face was already hideous. “John Aubrey Thorpe! You are the beastliest brother ever!”

  “Beastly?” He laughed while dodging a poorly aimed cushion. “Well, I do own the lion’s share of brains and bravery in this family of younger brothers and squeamish females.”

  “Speaking of beasts, why not try your hand at a racecourse?” asked Isabella with no lingering concern over the immorality of gaming. “One could make a small fortune on horses, right?”

  “’Tis possible, I suppose.” Fingers drumming on the seat, John muttered, “If one starts out with a rather large fortune to whittle down to a small one.” Sweat broke on his brow, and he reached for a handkerchief. “Honestly, you are such a simpleton at times.”

  “Well, I am astute enough to know that, before you end up wagering all our money away, you must marry exceedingly well. We all must. ’Tis the only way, at least until you
come into Uncle Graham’s bequeathal.”

  “Our eccentric, liberal-minded relation is taking his good old time in passing … and in passing along my inheritance. Now, now,” said John, holding up a hand, “before you call me beastly again, or worse, all I mean is that the old coot is racked with pain. His passing would be a mercy.”

  “And an amazingly blessed thing for us. But, until then, you really must find an heiress to woo. And I, with utterly beguiling charm, shall have a wealthy suitor fall head and ears in love with me.” Abandoning the mirror and while contemplating her seated brother, Isabella tapped a forefinger against her cheek. “I suppose, with enough time and much effort, I could teach you to be charming.”

  “Oh, no! No, no, no! There is no damned way I am going to smile and flirt and flutter my lashes. Next, you would have me loosening my cravat and collar and bending forward so low that one could see all the way down to m–”

  She clouted him.

  “Lawks! What was that for? I have witnessed you in action, you know.” Taking her place at the mirror, John squared his shoulders then ran fingers through his forelock. “This marrying scheme of yours, I concede, is a famous good notion. But I hardly need a girl’s missish advice on courting.” Pleased with his reflection, he faced Isabella. “Oxford ladies eye me with devilish interest, let me tell you!”

  A handful of Oxford denizens had shown mild interest in John Thorpe, and one or two of those were, indeed, female. Such interest, however, was rarely the appreciative or sympathetic sort. People in Oxford were no different than people in, say, Hertfordshire. They still made sport for their neighbours and laughed at them in turn.

  * * *

  In early November, walking beside Peregrine Bathos and behind two fashionable ladies, one of whom was carrying a pug, John spoke within earshot of the women.

  “What say you, Bathos? There go a fine pair, I am certain.”