‘No, no. If we had wanted to be so closeted we would have stayed at home in our villages, ain’t that so? Besides –’ she glances quickly at Angelica – ‘I begin to suspect Mother Chappell is losing her touch.’
This is too far for Angelica to follow her. ‘Oh no,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘No, I do not think that can be so. Mrs Chappell is the premier abbess in all of London.’
‘She was,’ says Bel. ‘She is an old woman now. She cannot fathom the desires of the world as she could twenty years ago. There are younger madams coming up, while she depends on her old faithfuls.’ Thought animates her little person as she speaks: now her eyebrows lower in a frown; now she spreads her palms as if to gauge the balance of her argument. ‘Of course she has as fine an eye for beauty as ever she did, but lately I see she also has an eye for girls who will do as they are taught and no more. They do not transcend her the way they used to – the way they ought to. They are the most cultivated and educated whores in London, but a whore is a whore is a whore, ain’t that so?’
‘I daresay,’ says Angelica. ‘Why does she want me, then?’
‘You,’ says Bel, ‘have a genius that cannot be taught.’
Angelica wriggles in her seat. ‘I do?’
‘Yes. ’Tis what makes you a courtesan and not a jade.’ She leans forward in her seat. ‘Mother Chappell no longer dares take on girls with that genius, for she is afraid she cannot mould them. She hopes your attachment to her will make you biddable; that is precisely why you must not return to her.’
‘Oh.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Eliza says I ought.’
A shadow of disdain touches Bel’s face. ‘You still keep her with you?’
‘She has nobody else.’ Angelica does not mention Mrs Frost’s defection; she does not wish even to think of it.
‘She is a fearful woman,’ hisses Bel, seizing her wrist. ‘She seeks to make you less than what you could be. As Mrs Chappell does. This is the problem with women. Men are not fearful; they build one another to greatness. Women believe their only power is in tearing one another down.’
‘Quite! Quite! So I need your help. If I am to remain independent from Mrs Chappell I had better start making independent connections.’
‘I know a gentleman. Not your sort,’ Bel adds hastily. ‘But he admires you and you might favour him with a few hours’ company. The playhouses are opening again, are they not? Well, he has a box at Drury Lane.’
‘A good box?’ Angelica asks suspiciously. ‘One fit for me to be seen in?’
‘You never wonder whether you are fit to be seen in it.’
‘Fool; I know I am. I am fit to be seen in the box of the Prince of Wales himself if he would only extend me the invitation.’
‘Mr Jennings will have you, I know,’ says Bel. ‘He is a rogue – but not so much of a rogue – if your object is merely to broadcast your return, he will suit you very well. I shall write and have him keep a seat for you tonight.’
Angelica squeaks. ‘Oh, Bel! Thank you!’
‘Only behave yourself, and do not give me cause to regret it.’ The carriage grumbles to a stop in the shade of Berkeley Square, and Bel’s face clears like rainclouds chased away. ‘And ah, we are arrived! What will you have? My man can run in for the order.’
‘What, and lose the pleasure of browsing?’ Berkeley Square is a parade ground waiting for Angelica’s feet. ‘I want to go in there myself.’
‘Oh, please, do not make me. I cannot bear to be looked upon any more.’
‘Come, Bel!’
‘Why can we not take it away and eat it in the carriage?’
‘Because that is not why we are here.’ Angelica’s mouth takes a stubborn set; Bel affects not to see, but she cannot ignore her friend’s hand tightening on her wrist. Angelica takes a breath. ‘I have been away so long, Bel,’ she says, and now she breaks her gaze. ‘I need this.’
‘Oh, Jellie …’
As they descend, people turn to look at them; genteel girls nudge one another, and wives touch their husband’s shoulders.
‘Do you mark that?’ whispers Angelica. ‘We are retreated from the world and yet still we are not forgot. Don’t it please you?’
‘Not particularly,’ says Mrs Fortescue. ‘They have left off abusing me as a Jezebel; I suppose that is something.’
‘I like it,’ says Angelica, shifting her hips so the soft froth of her dress swirls around her legs, which are entirely naked save for her stockings and slip and two layers of muslin. What a thing it is, to be walking once again in London, furthermore in the company of the most gossiped-of lady in town, and looked at, looked at, looked at!
The bubbled-glass window of the confectioner’s is lined with tall jars filled with sugarplums of all kinds, all lacquered and sunrise-tinted, and a multitude of sugar sculptures that shimmer like ice, and a palace cast from jelly, glass-clear, with tiny air bubbles frozen about the redcurrants and apricots and grapes suspended within.
Inside, it is a veritable temple to sugar which betrays nothing of the heat and toil – the boiling and skimming and coaxing and measuring – that must go into its making: everything here is cool and sparkling, with knots of gentle women and men chattering cordially at the marble tables. The back wall is lined with bottled liqueurs and syrups of all colours and all flavours – bergamot, muscadine, cinnabar, rose – and frothy-headed syllabubs are lined up on slabs of chilly marble, and from the back room comes an endless processions of fine things. Striped jellies are borne forth to the chattering diners beyond; sparkling sherbets, little frozen bombes and mice and lions and turrets. On the counter, glass salvers are piled with cakes and fancies: tiny amber caramels and tarts of translucent custard, and leathery fruit-paste jumbals contrived in true-love knots. Angelica’s favourites are the millefruits, crisp clouds fragrant with orange-water, their surfaces rugged with cochineal and gold leaf and almonds and angelico.
‘Like jewels,’ she sighs. ‘Delicious little carbuncles. I shall take some home with me.’ She knows from the air of the room that she is being watched and listened to; the conversation is not the same busy lapping it was when first she entered it, and as she moves towards the fruit display she hears the rustle of sleeves and cravats as their owners shift to keep their view. The confectioners, although their real talent lies in marrying fruit to alcohol, sugar, cream, are wise enough to present the finest offerings from London’s gardens and hothouses in their most virgin state: peaches and plums ripe to bursting; tangles of redcurrants; polished strawberries; melons breathing their musk out in great waves, pineapples wound about most artfully with vines. ‘Oh! Pineapples!’ Angelica cries. ‘Bel, I want one.’
‘Now is your chance.’
Angelica colours, charming in any woman let alone one of such beguiling embonpoint, and lowers her voice to a plaintive whisper. ‘Eliza will not be pleased.’
‘That woman is not your keeper,’ hisses Bel. ‘Buy a pineapple.’
‘She says such things make trouble.’
‘Well, that is what pays her way; if you did not need an attendant she would be sewing sheets in a garret.’
‘Oh, but she is a tyrant with the purse-strings. She says in our –’ and now she only mouths the words – ‘current situation we must forgo luxuries.’
‘Then she’s a fool. Even if you have nothing else, you must have luxuries. What, would she have the world see you eking out pease porridge for your meals?’ She sighs. ‘Well, so be it. There is one way left to get it.’
Angelica’s lips twitch up at the corners. ‘Really! You think it will work after so long?’
‘Of course.’
Angelica looks about herself to gauge the attention of the room. And yes, the eyes of the customers flick discreetly over her; not only the women peeping over their almond biscuits, but the men too, and some of them, she sees, are of the first water. She draws a deep breath. ‘Pineapples,’ she says with a penetrating coquettery, ‘are my favourite.’ Bel’s eyes are shining, and she continue
s with renewed enthusiasm, ‘To my mind they are the finest of all fruit. I wish I had one, that I might enjoy it at my leisure.’
‘Come away, Mrs Neal,’ cries Bel with a shudder. ‘I cannot stand the sight of the horrid things. I will not have one in my carriage.’
‘Would you deprive me of my pleasure?’
‘Aye! Madam, I would. You will go without today.’ They turn away, and Mrs Fortescue raises an eyebrow. ‘Well played,’ she whispers.
‘You think it will work?’
‘Wait and see.’
FIVE
Mr Hancock has been in and out of the coffee-houses around the Exchange for thirty years; it does not take him long to light upon one in which to show his mermaid. It was once a favourite of his father’s, and to those with long memories and moderate imagination has a reputation as the place to overhear great discourse on biology. The level of debate therein is not now what it once was, it serving mainly middle-aged merchants who flatter themselves on their scientific bent, and what man of some means is not now-a-days a man of science? It is known as the Pineapple, ‘so called,’ says its proprietor Mr Murray, ‘for this was the first place in all of London where such a fruit could be tasted of. And since then we have displayed all sorts of wonders to the satisfaction of all. Miss Jermy, patched black and white like a cow, she was one of ours. And the little lad with feet for hands and hands for feet, the Lord rest him; and the African mask with the terrible curse on’t; and that little white fox. Destroyed the wainscoting,’ he adds regretfully. ‘I shall be wanting a deposit from ye, in case of damage.’
‘I cannot imagine it will cause you any trouble of that sort.’
‘Humph. I have heard that before. What of its diet? And how large is its tank?’
‘Why, it is not alive,’ says Mr Hancock. He has swaddled it in an Indian shawl as once belonged to his mother, and in the office of the coffee-house he unwraps it with some ceremony. He expects surprise from Mr Murray, but he betrays none as he inspects it. He looks at it as if it were no less ordinary than a bushel of apples, although he has the courtesy to wipe his hands upon his breeches before picking it up.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘More of a sea-goblin, ain’t it? That’s what I’d call it.’
‘Its appearance is unlovely. Do you think it will draw any crowd?’
‘Why would it not? A marvel’s a marvel.’ He taps his nose wisely. ‘To my mind, its ugliness adds to its appeal. Folks don’t mind being scared when they know there’s a pie and gossip to be had downstairs.’
‘And so you would have it?’
‘Aye, why not? We’ll call it a mermaid, draw ’em in. And I get twenty per cent.’
SIX
Mrs Fortescue chooses a jelly, rosolio pink. At their table she traces the rim of her spoon against its surface before piercing it with slow purpose. She puts a morsel to her mouth, and meditates on it. Angelica, delving into the sweet wine under her syllabub, is silent too. She would have liked to sit further into the middle of the room, where she might be admired from more angles, but Bel’s patience for spectacle has been exhausted already.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she says. ‘Shh, now do not make anything of it. I do not want these people’s attention.’
‘Well?’
Mrs Fortescue bounces her spoon against the taut jelly. ‘I may get married.’
‘Oh!’
‘Hush! Hush! Don’t raise your voice.’
Angelica looks about her furtively and leans forward to whisper, ‘To Lord—’
‘Do not say his name here!’ Bel draws herself up; her eyes blaze warning. ‘I cannot stand to be the subject of any more gossip.’ Her voice is gentler as she continues, glancing about herself. ‘Of course to His Lordship. I have not been in the keeping of anybody else these last three years, have I? And the countess died this spring, so really there is no obstacle.’
‘I see obstacles,’ growls Angelica. ‘I see what he is and what you are.’
‘I will be whatever I choose to make myself. Have I not come this far?’
‘But, Bel!’ She puts down her spoon. ‘You!’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You do not remember what you used to say? “Never shall I be a wife, Jellie –”’ she affects a stern little frown and wags her finger, although her voice trembles unaccountably – ‘“for that is a life of servitude, and servitude I do denounce.”’
Bel gives a little sigh, and taps her bottom lip with the bowl of her spoon. ‘I denounced it, but it did not denounce me. I have all my life sought freedom for myself, but now I think – the world being what it is – that freedom cannot be got. More expedient, do you not think, to choose its best imitator?’
‘But you are already well set,’ says Angelica. ‘A fine house all of your own, and a carriage to drive where you will. He has even let you keep your friends.’
‘Aye, indeed, and I read as I wish, and he is not afraid for me to meet men if I find them interesting or useful to my learning.’
‘So how can it be better? What would you wish changed?’
Bel knits her chocolate-brown eyebrows. ‘’Tis not secure.’
‘Money is its own security.’
‘And how am I to come upon that when I grow old and ugly, and he casts me off? I’ve nothing in my own name. Have you any savings put aside?’
‘Not a penny!’
‘And so what d’you suppose will happen? We cannot be novelties all our lives.’ She spreads her hands beseechingly. ‘Jellie, he asked.’
‘And you said yes.’ Angelica is stung, although she cannot say quite why. It is as if Bel has laughed off a vow that Angelica imagined they both took with equal solemnity. She looks about the confectioner’s nervously, for in her surprise she has forgotten to modulate her expressions and her movements. She would not like to be observed as uncomfortable.
‘Dear heart. Dear Jellie.’ Bel sighs. ‘I have tried all other kinds of prostitution, why not this? ’Tis simply the best contract I ever saw drawn up, and its terms are for life.’
‘His life or yours?’ Angelica scowls into the curds of her syllabub.
‘That’s not for me to guess.’
‘’Twill be yours if he gets a baby on you,’ says Angelica. ‘Those little hips weren’t built to bear much.’
‘Well, so be it. It cannot be said I passed my life idle, nor unexamined.’
‘Can we leave this place? I want some air.’
‘Of course, of course. A turn around the square?’ Bel’s voice is kind and coaxing. ‘A peek in the jewellers’ windows, what say you?’
‘Oh, very well.’
They depart with their arms linked. ‘I have missed your company, Jellie,’ whispers Bel. ‘Truly, although your tempers are hot and never what you claim them to be.’
She returns to her apartment to find a great pineapple waiting for her outside its door, with a card bearing the regards of Mr Such-and-Such who begs her forgiveness but … happened to observe this afternoon … extends this gift as a token of his warmest friendship … &c &c &c … but still no Mrs Frost. The living room is still in disarray, its curtains still drawn and its crockery still soiled and scattered; observing this, and feeling the sting of a double abandonment, Angelica comes close to weeping.
‘This is worrisome,’ she says aloud. ‘Perhaps she has been hurt. Or drugged. Perhaps she don’t realise I have need of her. Surely there is some way I might send for her.’ But they are so very rarely apart this eventuality has never arisen before, and besides, Angelica has never so much as wondered where her companion might go when she is not by her side. As an hour passes she begins to fret. ‘For I am to be seen at the theatre tonight,’ she laments, ‘and I cannot very well dress myself for that.’
She paces the room, wringing her hands, until the girls trading on the ground floor protest at her ill-use of the floorboards by banging up with a broom handle. Then she strips off her gauzy smock and her silk slip as smooth as skin, and lets them fall und
er her feet since there is nobody present to collect them up. She sets about lacing up her hefty court stays with much tugging and panting, but first they are skewed to one side and then to the other; then the tape snaps in her hand and she shrieks with rage.
There is a little tap on the door.
‘Eliza?’ she calls hopefully, but it is only Maria their maid, who sleeps in the scullery and eats their crusts. ‘Where is Mrs Frost?’ demands Angelica.
‘Sent me, mum.’
‘I see that. Did she tell you where she would be?’
‘Not my business.’
‘’Tis my business. You might tell me.’ Angelica presses a sixpence meaningfully into Maria’s hand, but after briefly inspecting it the girl pockets it and says not another word. ‘Christ almighty,’ says Angelica. ‘If I were your mother I’d have drowned you at birth. You had better lace me in, then. Wash your hands first – my word, at least wipe them – this silk costs more than your year’s wages.’
Since Maria is too stupid to help carry the table, they must prepare Angelica in the cramped dressing room. ‘Now smooth it in,’ says Angelica, opening the jar of pomade, ‘just a little at a time. Is that within your powers?’
But it is not. Maria is confounded by every item she comes across: she showers the room with hair powder and boxes Angelica’s ear with the bellows. Her attempts to heap and pin Angelica’s hair into place gives her the appearance of a haystack in a gale; she spears her thumb with a jewelled pin and blots the blood on Angelica’s best kid gloves.
‘This will not do!’ says Angelica. She feels the tears coming and chooses rage instead: ‘Useless, unhelpful girl!’ Maria upturns a bottle of rouge onto the rug. ‘I cannot bear this! Why, you are fit for nothing! I am better off by myself.’
‘Or with another assistant,’ says Mrs Frost, who stands in the doorway of the dressing room shaking out her shawl.
‘Oh, Eliza, Eliza, at last you are here. What am I to do?’ rattles Angelica. ‘Bel has arranged for me to go to the theatre, and I am a state! You must help me.’ By the sour look of her friend’s face, she is not yet forgiven, but I will let her have her temper, thinks Angelica, since it don’t inconvenience me.
The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock Page 5