Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 09]

by The Adulteress

  Charles Forster could make me forget. That was significant in some ways. For my part I was so anxious to make him lighthearted, to make him forget whatever it was that oppressed him. I understood what it meant to be oppressed in such a way.

  We were in a mood to enjoy the day, both of us. Charles was such an interesting companion when he cast aside his gloom. I found his conversation lively and he made me realize how much I had been tucked away from affairs. Vaguely I remembered the excitement of being with my father, who used to talk to me sometimes. He had never been serious like Charles, but he had talked of worldly matters; I realized that I had been rather shut in between my mother, Sabrina and yes … Jean-Louis.

  However, I was determined to enjoy the day and as I was sure Charles felt the same, it was inevitable that we did.

  Charles knew London so well that he could explain so much to me. First he took me riding through the streets, for he said that Ranelagh should not be seen in broad daylight. It was meant to enchant like a veiled beauty who might not be able to face up to the harsh reality of a too bright sun.

  I said: “That throws a new light on your character. I should have thought you stood for the bare stark truth.”

  “There are times when it is better to veil it,” he said.

  “So you are a romantic after all?” I asked lightly.

  “I see that you have put me into a niche—unromantic, dour, looking on the grim side of life. … Had you?”

  I hesitated. “I thought there was a certain sadness about you. But beneath it … well, I just think if you could throw that aside you might be very merry.”

  He put his head on one side, smiling at me.

  “For today,” he said, “this very special day, I am going to do that.”

  “Can you?” I asked.

  “With your help,” he replied. “You will see.”

  “Tell me your plans.”

  “We ride through the streets to an inn I know of where it is possible to get the very best steak pies in London. Do you like steak pies? Ah, I see you hesitate. Withhold your verdict until you have tried the Rainbow variety. The Rainbow is an inn in Fleet Street. They have excellent roast beef and pork, if you prefer that. It is the place to eat for those who like good food. Will you trust me?”

  “I am in your hands,” I said.

  So we rode out. We rode slowly through those crowded streets. I was fascinated by all I saw. He showed me where the great fire had started and where it had been stopped; he pointed out the magnificent churches which Sir Christopher Wren had built to replace those which had been burned down.

  “A moral,” he said. “Out of the ashes rises the phoenix.”

  He talked of the streets as though they were old friends. Cheapside, the center of the mercers and the haberdashers. Paternoster Row, where the makers of rosaries and those who earned their livings by writing text had resided; Cowcross Street with its cook shops and tripe and pork: Billingsgate, which smelled obnoxiously of fish; Fleet Street, the home of the lawyers. …

  He was amusing, even witty. I saw another person emerging and I thought: This is how he was meant to be; and I knew that it had something to do with me and that made me very happy.

  We skirted one area—the Whitefriars quarter, which he called Alsatia. “It stretches from Salisbury Court to the Temple,” he told me. “It’s a sanctuary of debtors. They dare not emerge and debt collectors dare not enter. They’d risk their lives if they did.”

  “Could we not take a look?”

  He shook his head. “I might not be able to protect you, and you wouldn’t like what you saw. It’s getting late. It’s time we made tracks for the Rainbow.”

  At the Rainbow Inn we left our horses in the stable yard and went into the dining room.

  The innkeeper’s wife appeared; she was very obsequious and I realized that she knew Charles well.

  “I’ve brought a friend to try some of your steak pie,” he said.

  “And you’ll take William’s home-brewed cider with it, I’ll be bound.”

  He said we would and we sat down opposite each other.

  He regarded me steadily. “I think.” he said, “you are liking your jaunt in the big city.”

  “I never realized it was quite so exciting before, though I do remember long ago … when we lived here. My father used to take me out with him sometimes.”

  “You look sad now,” he said. “You were very fond of your father, weren’t you?”

  “He was wonderful … or so he seemed to me. He was a gambler. My mother was the steady one. He was killed in a duel—senselessly.”

  “Don’t think of sad things … today,” he begged.

  “If I don’t, you won’t. Is that a promise?”

  “It is.”

  The pie was brought and with it flagons of cider.

  I agreed I had never tasted such food. But I knew in my heart that everything would be good today.

  He talked more about London, about the contrasts one could see during a short walk through the city. Such luxury, such extravagance, and such poverty.

  “Like that place we passed.”

  “Whitefriars, oh yes.”

  “Have you ever ventured there?”

  “I did once … for a patient.” He shuddered.

  “Were you alarmed?”

  “I was going to see a sick person. I didn’t think beyond that. It became like a nightmare. A young girl ran up to me when I was passing and cried out that her mother was dying. I said: ‘I’m a doctor. Take me to her.’ And she took me. As soon as I stepped into that maze of streets there was the sound of horns blowing. I couldn’t understand what it meant. Then I learned that the whole community was being warned that a stranger was in their midst. The young girl screamed out that I was a doctor and she was taking me to her mother. I realized then what a fool I had been to come. I could have been murdered just for my watch. But I was going to a patient … and at such times one doesn’t think much beyond that.”

  I said: “I think you must be a very good doctor.”

  “A very ordinary one,” he said.

  “Tell me about Whitefriars.”

  “The woman I was being taken to was in labor. I delivered a child. That was my profession. … It was fortunate that the girl had run into a doctor. I think she thought it was a sort of miracle. Afterwards I escaped in possession of my watch and coins in my pocket. Looking back I think that was the real miracle.”

  “So you really did have a glimpse inside.”

  He was thoughtful. “For some time I felt I wanted to do something for those people. I wanted to take them out of Whitefriars. I had the usual dreams and ideals which beset the young until they realize that all they can do is what they’re qualified for. I was meant to care for the sick. It was for the politicians and such like to change the living standards of the people.”

  “You have always been devoted to your work?”

  He looked at me steadily. “It is like a crutch,” he said. “It helps me through life. When I am weary and melancholy and I feel no great enthusiasm for living … I work … and that soothes me. I limp along on my crutch and get by.”

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask him. I was certain that there was some tragedy, some shadow hanging over him, something which had happened in the past and which he could not forget. But this was a day for forgetting, a day for enjoying.

  I said: “How shall we get to Ranelagh? Shall we ride?”

  “Good heavens no. We shall go in the traditional manner. We shall wait till dusk and then we shall take a wherry along the river. We shall alight at Ranelagh; we shall walk through the enchanted glades and at the Rotunda there is a treat in store. There is a young genius who has come to this country for a short tour. I was determined to hear him. He is but eight years old and a composer already.”

  “Is that possible? A boy?”

  “Possible with this boy. Apparently he was astonishing people when he was but six years old. It will be interesting to hear
if he is really as good as we have been led to believe. He has come to England from Salzburg with his father and sister. Marianne, I think. A musical family, it seems. He will play some of his own compositions on the harpsichord.”

  “I so look forward to hearing him.”

  “As well as Master Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart we may also hear the chorus from Acis and Galatea and “Oh, Happy Pair” from Alexander’s Feast. I think that Tenducci is singing the solo.”

  “I can see it is going to be most entertaining. I wonder you live in the country when you could obviously find so much to enjoy here.” I waved my arms as though to embrace the town.

  He said quietly: “I had my reasons. …” And there was that in his voice which told me I should ask no further questions on that matter.

  We sat for a long time in the Rainbow Inn and when we came out we left the horses there and walked down to the river. There we took a boat and were rowed along the river past Westminster and right out to Hampton.

  The red-brick manor house, which had been transformed into the palace of Hampton Court, looked magnificent.

  “A palace of great importance in the country’s history,” commented Charles. “I have heard it is an interesting place. The Tudors enjoyed it and King William and Mary were fond of it. The alterations they made have transformed it into a most magnificent palace.”

  “I should love to explore it,” I said.

  “It’s full of ghosts and shadows, they say. Memories leaping out from every corner. I have heard that the ghost of Catherine Howard appears in the gallery along which she is reputed to have run seeking the king when she knew she was accused. Poor girl, remembering the sad fate of her cousin Anne Boleyn, she must have known what hers would be.”

  “There must be pleasant memories, too.”

  “It’s strange how the unpleasant ones are those to be remembered. I heard that our present George won’t go there because it is said his father once boxed his ears in the state apartments. As there were others present he felt so humiliated that whenever he sees the place he remembers the incident.”

  “Poor George. People seem to enjoy humiliating him.”

  “It must be something in his nature which provokes the teasing spirit.”

  “And being a king that must be doubly hard to bear.”

  “Don’t let’s waste sympathy on him. It’s not going to help him in any case. I should like to go along the river to Windsor but if we are going to get to Ranelagh to hear our child genius there would not be the time.”

  Oh, what a happy day that was, sailing along the river, among hundreds of others who had had the same idea as we had. I thought the company added to my pleasure. It was good to see so many people laughing, calling to each other; there were some who had music on board, and the sound of it was very sweet to me.

  We took the wherry just as it was beginning to get dark and we went along to Ranelagh.

  The pleasure garden was like a fairyland. Thousands of golden lamps illuminated the scene and as we stepped ashore we heard the strains of music coming from a band hidden somewhere among the trees.

  Charles took my arm as we started to walk through those laid-out paths paved with gravel and bounded on each side by hedges and trees.

  Beautifully dressed women with male companions strolled by. Pleasure was in the air; one knew that everyone here was bent on enjoying the evening.

  “There are more and more attractions every year,” said Charles. “Every time I come I notice something new. It can’t be much more than twenty years since the grounds were purchased from Lord Ranelagh and what has been done with them is amazing. We will eat before the concert begins. I believe it is possible to get an excellent cold collation and that is by far the best.”

  I allowed myself to be led into that enchanted garden. We walked past grottoes, lawns, temples, waterfalls, delightful colonnades and rotundas with their decorated pillars and statues. The lamps were beautifully arranged to look like constellations. Because it was a warm, fine night tables had been set under the trees and here we sat and enjoyed the cold collation Charles had mentioned and watched the passersby until we left for the concert in the Rotunda.

  I was enchanted by the music. Everything was of the newest fashion. For the first time I heard the cello, that instrument which was only just being introduced into the country, and to hear the great Pasqualino perform was wonderful. The band played the overture from Doctor Ame’s Thomas and Sally, which was wildly applauded. But the great event of the evening was the appearance of the child prodigy. I admitted afterward to Charles that I was prepared to be skeptical. It did not seem possible that a boy so young could play to compare with the experienced, but that he should compose was surely just too much to believe. Stories about the boy had been circulated to arouse people’s interest and bring them to the Rotunda to see him. There they would be entertained by superb artists and forget that they had been brought there under false pretenses.

  Just talk, was what I thought, an unusual story to arouse people’s curiosity enough to bring them to the child.

  How different was the truth! He came onto the stage—a small figure, dressed like a man in a blue coat and embroidered waistcoat, white cravat and frilled lace cuffs. His breeches, knee-length, showed beneath the waistcoat as his coat was unbuttoned and he wore silken hose and black shoes with silver buckles. I heard that his clothes were copied in a larger size from his gala suit, which had been presented to him by Maria Theresa of Austria on the occasion of his playing before her two years before when he was six years old. On his head was a crimped wig tied back with a black ribbon. Dressed thus in an adult style seemed to have the effect of making him seem more of a child than he actually was.

  There was an air of self-assurance about him as he sat down at the harpsichord; and a silence reigned which I can only describe as indulgent. The audience had settled to hear a clever child perform for them.

  But how mistaken we were! As the boy sat there and played we were transported from this fashionable rotunda. I don’t know whether others felt as I did, but it seemed to me that I was flying through space and the music so delicately played, so inspiring and yet so mysterious, was carrying me along.

  I glanced sideways at Charles. He was sitting very still, completely entranced.

  I think a good many of us that night realized that we were in the presence of genius.

  When the boy stopped playing there was silence for a few seconds before the applause rang out.

  The boy bowed calmly and then walked off the stage with dignity. I could see a man waiting for him in the wings and I presumed this was his father.

  We did not want to hear any more music that night. To hear that child play his own composition was something I wanted to carry away with me, to remember forever, as I was sure I would.

  Charles whispered: “I can see you were as impressed as I was.”

  “It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe it was that little boy who was playing as he did.”

  “Let’s get out into the fresh air. We can take a little walk if you wish before we get the wherry back.”

  I said I should like that.

  Silent, still under the spell of the music, we were leaving the rotunda when I heard a voice cry: “Charles.”

  A woman was coming up to us. She was exquisitely dressed in a gown of blue silk cut away in the front to reveal an embroidered petticoat in white satin. On her head was a most elaborate hat of white straw on which was perched yards and yards of blue ribbon the same color as her dress, niched in the front and culminating in an enormous bow at the back where it was tilted forward over her elaborate coiffure.

  The woman went on to call her companion. “Ralph! Here, Ralph. Who do you think I’ve found? Charles … Charles Forster.”

  A man appeared, fashionably dressed in velvet frogged coat with large turned back cuffs, long waistcoat, fine silk hose and buckled shoes; under his arm he carried a cocked hat.

  “Charles!” he cried. “My dear fellow
, what a delightful surprise. Haven’t seen you for years … since … er …”

  Charles said: “I am escorting a friend of my sister’s. Mistress Ransome. … Dr. and Mrs. Lang.”

  We bowed.

  “Have you just come from the Rotunda?” asked the woman. “Did you see the child prodigy? Quite interesting, wasn’t he? Wonderful for his age. What about supper … ?”

  “We ate before the performance and I really think I should be taking Mistress Ransome back to her friends.”

  “Oh, come, Charles,” said the woman. “There’s no need to rush, surely? We were talking about you the other day, weren’t we, Ralph? We said it’s such nonsense of you to bury yourself in the country. You ought to come back. All that trouble is forgotten now. People soon forget. Nine days’ wonder and all that. I doubt whether anyone would remember if you came back now.”

  Charles had turned rather pale. I felt the magic of the evening slipping away.

  Ralph said: “Sybil’s right, Charles. Anyhow let’s talk of pleasant things. You and your friend must sup with us. We have a table near the colonnades. It’s very pleasant there and you can hear the band in the background.”

  “No,” said Charles. “Thanks, but we must go. Goodbye.”

  “Are you in town for long?” asked the man.

  “No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Pity. I should have liked to talk. I wish you’d bring Mistress … er … Ransome? along to see us before you go.”

  “Thanks but there’s no time. Good-bye.”

  “Au revoir,” said the woman.

  Charles took my arm. I could feel the tension in him.

  He was silent on the way back and I knew that that chance encounter outside the Rotunda had spoiled the day for him.

  He was different now. The mask of melancholy which I had flattered myself I was helping to remove was now in place firmer than ever. I wished I could have asked him about the nine days’ wonder, whatever it was, which people would have forgotten by now.