Court of Foxes

by Christianna Brand

  Two days later, a white-powdered footman brought a letter to the door of the house in South Audley Street. Jake came up with it in his hand. ‘The man waits in the hall. Gilda! — the letter’s from the Earl of Trove.’

  Gilda was curled up in a chair of the ‘housekeeper’s room’ happily contemplating more mischief. ‘What — capitulation already? Call Mother, quick! Mother — a note from Mistress Blanche’s papa!’ And she read it aloud. ‘Oh, Mother, listen to this!’

  ‘The Earl of Trove begs to inform the Marchesa d’Astonia Subeggio—’ (‘Come, come, my full title!—not a word of bawd and strumpet!’) ‘—that on the day before yesterday, the wagon carrying his daughter’s chattels to Castell Cothi, was set upon by the highwaymen of the Court of Foxes and robbed of everything. The escort was given a message to be repeated verbatim, to your ladyship. That “the goods will be returned to Lady Blanche Handley if, one week from receipt of this missive, she will from a box at the playhouse, bow to the Earl of Tregaron’s strumpet, who will take care to be in the box opposite; and so make public apology for an insult no less publicly delivered.” The Earl of Trove deeply regrets that the terms of the message oblige him to refer to your ladyship by the above appellation.’ ‘Well!’ said Gilda, dropping the letter into her lap, ‘who could have believed it?’

  ‘Is this the doing of that Devil as he calls himself?’

  She thought it over, ‘I think it’s the doing of another devil: I think it’s the doing of the Fox himself.’ And for a moment her heart rose to him. ‘He won’t see me insulted. He won’t hear me called strumpet.’

  ‘Well, but so you are a strumpet,’ said Mrs Brown, reasonably, ‘when one comes to think about it.’

  ‘Not while I love only one man: not while I love him only and give myself to him only and never will to any other, even though he leave me. I was married — more’s the pity — and lived with my husband; a little only and unwillingly. Then I went to him I love. Two men in my life,’ cried Gilda, conveniently obliterating the memory of a rained chapel by a moonlit roadside. ‘Does that make a whore? No one shall call me so!’ And she scribbled on the back of the Earl’s note the one word ‘Done!’ and thrust it back into Jake’s hand. ‘Let the footman take that back to his lordship. Leave the letter open, so that the news may spread. Meanwhile…’ Unwieldy with pregnancy, but all alert now, with dancing eyes, she held out a hand to be hauled up from her chair. ‘Meanwhile, Mother — it must be the old dress, the old white dress and no jewels of course: I must be as I was in those other days.’ In the days of my purity, she thought, perhaps; but behind the thought lay ever that other, which to her was truth. ‘I love only him. I came to him pure because I never gave myself to any other man in love.’ ‘If we let out the gathers at the back, Mother, cover over all with the sac…’

  And so she sat once again in her box at the play, and once again was the cynosure of all eyes — the Unattainable Lady who of late had been somewhat too easily attainable perhaps; but dressed all in white, just the same, wearing no jewels, no touch of colour save for the soft, lambent marigold light of her hair. Once again the house rumbled and stirred as, lovely as a white flower with its pollen of gold, she came forward into the front of the box, her duenna at her elbow — for all London knew by now of the words spoken at Ranelagh Gardens ten days ago; everyone knew that the walls of the bijou fortress had been stormed, all were avid to learn more of the mysteries half disclosed, that lay within; and the brothers had used old tactics to spread abroad the news of the gage that had been thrown down for tonight. The Earl had replied with a promise, had later acknowledged the return of his property: now the debt was to be paid.

  A white flower, slowly settling into its place; a white flower, crowned with an aureole that shone, pale yet brilliant, a glimmer of gold against the dark crimson hangings of the box. Below and around her in the great ring of the auditorium, crimson-hung, bright with the glitter of candlelight winking in glass holders, heads turned to look at her, eyes stared, voices buzzed in gleeful anticipation of some sort of scene to come. It was whispered that Her Majesty herself was present, veiled and incognito; everyone knew for certain that Carlton House was represented; certainly half fashionable London had sent underlings ahead to fight for places and keep them warm until it should be convenient to claim them. The mob would be not so much hydra-headed, a wit was saying, as a Janus-mob, facing two ways: for all the men had been rivals for the favours of the Marchesa and all the women rivals with the Lady Blanche for those of the late Earl of Tregaron or his brother of Llandovery.

  She seemed oblivious of it: sitting there, still as a flower, with her crown of pale gold, looking down, modest, cool and quiet, at her white, folded hands.

  Opposite, the box remained empty.

  If they don’t come! she thought; and panic rose in her suddenly, panic and a hint of her own ever-ready self-mockery. A fine fool I shall look, sitting here all dressed up, waiting to crush her with my condescension — if she doesn’t even turn up!

  But the door of the box opposite opened at last, a curtain lifted and the old woman, the Countess, came through, black-faced, grim, in her feathers and jet; and at her side a vision in pale blue, ice blue, dazzling against the red and gold; brilliant with diamonds, powdered hair swept up into a snowy cone with small blue feathers and flowers — who came forward, not hesitating, to the front and centre of the box, leaving the rest of the party clustered behind her, and stood there, looking over the sea of powder and feathers, the velvets and silks, the up-turned, goggling faces, into her rival’s eyes.

  She did not move from her seat; merely sat there, calmly gazing back — Miss Marigold Brown of Aston-sub-Edge-Madam Vixen of the Court of Foxes — Marigelda, Marchesa d’Astonia Subeggio: pale as a lily in her white dress, cool as a lily in her indifferent disdain, quietly sitting there, staring her rival down. White unadorned, versus shimmering pale blue silk at the height of the mode: sheen of gold hair versus shimmer of diamonds: radiance of a warm loveliness beyond perfection, matched against a flawless beauty as cold as snow. Between them the house stood staring and held its breath.

  (If she doesn’t bow after all! If she doesn’t bow!)

  But she bowed. Coolly, condescendingly, the tiniest sketch of a bow; and the Lady Blanche unhurriedly averted her eyes, looked round with chill indifference at the gaping crowd beneath and, in one studied, graceful movement, quietly sat down.

  She had not reckoned with this: Miss Marigold Brown. Humbly born herself, she had not reckoned with the in-born, unassailable hauteur of a long tradition of lineage, wealth and culture. Before it her own eyes fell; for a moment she saw herself through the eyes of this other girl — small, cheap, shoddy, an adventuress, without truth or purity, mistaking boldness for courage, insolence for pride. Up over the white skin flooded a tide of scarlet. She knew that all about her the silent house was coming alive with rustlings and murmurings: with the dangerous beginnings of an amused contempt…

  She was barely conscious that her mother came to her side, made a bob curtsey, placed something between her white hands, tightened now into fists in the lap of the white gown. Only — suddenly there was a fragrance that acted upon her half-swooning senses like a glass of champagne: half-forgotten, heavily sweet, at this moment exquisitely evocative — the scent of red roses.

  And she lifted her head; and saw, standing in the open doorway of the box opposite, a small, slender figure — bright eyes laughing at her across the wide space of the auditorium, the old, teasing, half-sweet, half malicious smile. And a word was spoken and the Earl of Trove jerked to his feet and stood, mouth a-gape; and spoke in turn into his daughter’s ear. She also rose; turned her head in one brief, startled glance towards the back of the box, turned back and faced the box opposite. The house was silent again, holding its breath; and the Lady Blanche looked across once more into the eyes of her rival, and this time bent her proud, beautiful head and sank into a deep, slow curtsey that had nothing in it but abject humility; and stood e
rect again — waiting.

  Cool, condescending, ironical — scornfully triumphant now, the golden head bowed back.

  But next morning all London rang with the news: the notorious highwayman, Gareth the Fox — apprehended right here in the heart of the Metropolis and safely caged up for good and all in Newgate Gaol.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LITTLE JAKE CAME TO HER, heartbroken. ‘It was my fault. It was my fault for detaining him outside the playhouse…’

  Gilda sat huddled in the huge armchair, up in the attic room, her feet on the fender. ‘No, no, not your fault, dearest; they must have been watching for him.’ She held the small hard brown hand tight in her own. ‘But tell me, tell me again — everything he did, everything he said…’

  ‘Why, I told you, Gilda, last night. I heard they were saying in the Bag o’ Nails what she planned — that Blanche! — to humiliate you, to keep only to the letter of the bargain. So I ran to the playhouse to warn you. But they wouldn’t let me in; and just as I was arguing with them — there he was! So elegant, Gilda, dressed like a fop as he always was in those old days, you remember? — in his green brocade coat…’

  ‘He had it off a rich gentleman travelling by coach towards Fishguard: took it off the man’s back — to come courting the Marchesa Marigelda.’ Even now, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, but go on—’

  ‘Well, and so he caught me up in his arms and laughed and ruffled my hair and seemed so happy to see me. And said I was the very fellow he needed, for I should carry the roses to you.’

  ‘He wouldn’t bring them himself?’

  ‘No, for I asked him and he said — Gilda, he said it was as much as his life was worth to be recognised in that place; for whatever the family might promise, there was still a price on his head, for the shooting of the Earl of Tregaron.’

  ‘But he did come in,’ she said, a cold hand on her heart.

  ‘Because of what I told him was being said — that she’d make a sport of you. Then he laughed no more, his face grew quiet, his eyes — his eyes flashed, Gilda, like a — like a sort of fire…’

  ‘So I have seen them,’ said Gilda, ‘often enough.’

  ‘And he said: ‘We shall see about that. I have made a bargain with them—’

  ‘Then it was he who held up their wagon. He must indeed be back at the Cwrt.’

  ‘Why yes, and said he brought you a thousand messages, and they couldn’t but laugh at your tricking them all and wished you good fortune out of it — especially since they learned no ransom would have come to them even had you stayed. And then he — he caught me by the arm and asked me how you did, and were you happy—?’

  ‘You told him I was so? — deliriously.’

  ‘I told him you were happy and — and with child.’

  ‘And he—?’

  ‘I told you, Gilda, yesterday. Made a bow and a scrape and said I should give you his felicitations.’

  ‘And after that smiled no more?’

  ‘Well — he smiled, Gilda; only not with his eyes. And then — and then we saw the Earl of Trove’s carriage drive up, and waited in a dark corner till they were gone through the entrance and towards the boxes. And then he said: “You go that way, little brother—” little brother, he called me, Gilda, “and I this,” and started off into the house after them. I caught at his coat and begged him not to place himself in danger; but he brushed away my hand and said…’

  She held the small hand tight. ‘Yes, well, continue… Tell me again what he said. Last night I hardly listened, but now that he’s apprehended, and all through me, that I be not made a mock of… Come, tell me again. He said he would not hear me called slut and strumpet—’

  ‘Although — although a slut and a strumpet indeed you were — but should not be called so in a public place and by a woman who would sell herself for wealth and position, and to the very man whose slut and strumpet you were. Not—’

  ‘Not—?’ said Gilda.

  ‘Not while you bore his name,’ said little Jake; and fished suddenly in his pocket. ‘Why, but that reminds me that all this time I’ve forgotten the note that was to go with the roses.’

  The old message: the same message. ‘… till I die.’

  She sent for her brothers. ‘You must help me, you must find out what’s going forward, you must arrange for me to see him.’ Against their protestations she was adamant. ‘For me, entirely for me, because he wouldn’t have me publicly insulted — he’s got himself into this terrible situation. There’s nothing I must leave undone, that I can do to save him.’

  ‘Gilda, for heaven’s sake! — what is this fellow to you?’

  ‘Among other things he is my husband.’

  ‘A forced marriage — a trickery.’

  ‘Legal and binding,’ she insisted, shrugging. ‘If not, do you think David wouldn’t long ago have married me, Blanche or no Blanche?’

  ‘If they should hang him… Gilda, once he was dead…’ But James brushed the thought away. ‘Well, no: we couldn’t wish that.’ And he confessed: ‘There is after all a — something — about him…’

  ‘There’s nothing about him,’ said Gilda, crossly. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. You’re dazzled by the memory of a man in a green brocade coat who flourished and made pretty speeches while you handed round cakes—’

  ‘It was I who ate the cakes,’ said Jake. ‘But I’m not dazzled by a man in a grand coat. I remember that he’s a highwayman, brave and daring and clever and gay—’

  ‘There’s nothing brave and gay about a highwayman,’ said Gilda. ‘If you were a frightened woman in a coach on a lonely road, you’d soon discover that!’ But there came back to her the memory of herself, hanging down from the branch of a great tree, to look into just such a coach: and of how his bright eyes had looked across into hers from the opposite window; and she burst forth for a moment into laughter. ‘Well, well! — perhaps there is some romance in it, after all. And in him some — charm; though he’s nothing but a rogue…’

  ‘A rogue and a robber,’ said George, steadily.

  ‘And murderer to boot,’ said Sam.

  ‘Who offers his life that a slut and a strumpet — as he civilly calls me — shall not be insulted in public. Which life I shall save if I may, and you cannot refuse me your assistance.’

  And that very day she went, with no escort but little Jake, her elder brothers being constrained by their occupations from accompanying her — and joined the throng of other women clamouring at Newgate Gaol for a sight of the highwayman. To visit such unromantic romantics was the fashion, and, curious, excited, shameless in sensation — seeking, they crowded the foetid, narrow corridors leading to his cell-bright in their silks and velvets, the great ladies of high society, struggling like alley-women for a glance from him, a word from him — from him who had robbed just such women of their property, rough-handled their menfolk, not seldom ‘insulted’ themselves with his violent attentions. Thief, plunderer, murderer — now safely caged, he was to be the hero of the few brief days remaining to him; and they his slaves.

  Little Jake struggled along behind her, the tears streaming down his face. ‘Gilda, this is a terrible place…’

  Yes; it was terrible. Due to be pulled down soon and re-erected on lines at least a little more humane, it consisted now of a higgledy-piggledy of dark, dank passages of sweating stone into which no gleam of daylight entered; lined with abominable cells — mere niches in the walls, ten feet long, perhaps and not half that width across, windowless except for the barred upper half of the wall fronting on to the corridor — itself windowless; furnished with a stone bench built against the inner wall — and with nothing more. Through the bars, hands reached out as they passed: filthy, unshaven, poor wretches due for death craved a last charity of the great ladies pressing by. But the ladies held their muffs to their noses and hurried on; and at last came a mob so dense that Gilda, following, knew that they must be near him. ‘Oh, Gilda,’ said the little boy, raising his pale child’
s face to hers, ‘if we should find him in such a kennel as these—!’

  ‘What gold can buy him, dearest, he shall have.’

  What gold could buy had been bought already. She should have known him better! He had bribed his way to a cell twice the size of any other, with good blankets, a warm carpet of deep, clean straw on the stone floor, a table and two chairs. His face was cleanly shaven, his dark hair, caught back by its black velvet ribbon, was smooth brushed as ever; he wore his green coat and if the ruffles at his throat and wrists were a little soiled, no matter for she saw that fresh shirts had been brought to him and lay in readiness, spread out on the bed — the fine ladies, it seemed were well versed in the needs of such heroes and only too eager to forestall them. And the table was laden with wine bottles and good things to eat; and he, with a pretty girl on each knee was feeding himself and them alternately with hothouse grapes and exchanging badinage with the mob outside the bars.

  A turnkey, filthy and villainous, barred Gilda’s way with outstretched palm. ‘No nearer, Madam. Orders is orders.’

  ‘Others are right inside the cell.’

  ‘Lord knows by what means; unless it may be said,’ he mumbled, slyly insinuating, ‘that they have greased the key.’

  She looked at him, revolted. ‘I see grease enough already.’

  He refused to be offended. ‘Doubtless, Madam, for this is a greasy old place. But the ointment I speak of is golden.’

  She gave way: sovereigns chinked and he forced a way through for them, roughly jostling the fine ladies as he went, and so left them at last, close up against the cage. But now that she was here, she grew frightened, the women behind her, indignant at having being ousted from their places, pressed forward, she was afraid of being crushed against the bars, afraid of danger to her unborn child. Within the cell, he sat laughing, pouring brandy for the girls, bandying mockery with those outside. She called out sharply: ‘Gareth!’ but he did not hear her. ‘Oh, Gilda,’ whispered Jake, ‘it’s no good, it’s all horrible — let us go!’