Again Hélène shakes her head. “I’m not giving you a tumble just because you’ve lied to your friend and found a quarter hour.” She removes his hands from her waist. “Why don’t you go to London Bridge? Or the ones in St. James’s Park? They’ll give you what you want.”
Thomas makes his puppy eyes. “No, I want you. And I apologize for the rush. I’m not taking you for granted.”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
“I’m sorry.”
He kisses her lightly on the lips. Then buries his warm face on her throat and neck. She feels something stir. It’s true, it has been a while. Far too long. Yet why does it always have to be so fast and furtive, as this is going to be?
“All right,” she whispers near his ear. Fast and furtive is better than not at all.
—
When they are done, they lie side by side, faces flushed and bodies wet with sweat. Thomas finds his hand going back to his favourite place.
Hélène gives him a tolerant look. “Delve and span,” she says.
Thomas stops. He props himself up on his elbow. “What’s that?”
“That’s what Jean said the other day. It’s a little verse the English have. Do you know it?”
Thomas shakes his head. “Maybe. What is it?”
“When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?” Hélène gives him a little smile.
Thomas frowns. “I don’t think Gallatin should be talking to you about something like that.”
Hélène grins. “It’s not about the act of fucking. It’s about that in the beginning there were no kings and queens and lords and ladies. It’s about— what did Jean say ... it’s a verse that speaks to a time when there were no classes or inequality at all.”
Thomas leans back. He feels a tightness in his chest. “Say it again.”
“When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?” Hélène gestures with her hands. “Tu comprends?” She twists to sit up on the bed, and picks up her chemise from the floor and pulls it on.
Thomas does the same, rolling off the bed on his side. “Yes, I think maybe I have heard that before.”
He sees Hélène set her lips as tightly as she can. Apparently she does not want to say another word.
They dress quickly and in silence. Since she is not putting on a fine dress, but only her stockings, chemise and skirt, Hélène has no need of any help.
“Sorry if my little verse annoyed you,” she says as she wanders over to the table where Thomas writes.
“It didn’t.” Yet Thomas has to admit that there’s an annoyed strain in his voice.
He watches her pick up the sample pages he is going to take with him in a moment when he hurries off to the Friend at Hand. They are the bits and pieces he has selected to read aloud to Ho-garth, Sam Scott, Henry Fielding and whoever else might be there this evening. Gallatin has already heard and read them all, and improved a good many. Thomas is hoping Edward Cave is not among the crowd tonight. He’d prefer to get suggestions from the others before he submits anything to the Gentleman’s Magazine.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asks.
Hélène swivels to meet his inquiring gaze. “I’m reading what you’ve written. It’s about London.”
“You ... are reading?”
“Not every word, but most. What is this?”
Thomas looks at where her finger points. “Ultimately. How did you learn, Hélène?”
“Jean instructs me at the shop when there are no customers around.”
Thomas’s gaze is locked. He cannot think of a thing to say.
—
“Should we not hire a link-boy?” There’s a waver in Thomas’s voice.
“Nah,” replies Hogarth. “The dark makes the heart beat faster, does it not?”
“Ah ... is that what we want?”
Thomas is keeping up with the fast-walking artist, but only just. His companion promised to take him somewhere he would find interesting for the London parts of his book. “You need more grit,” is what Hogarth pronounced after Thomas had read a few pages last Wednesday evening. “Some seasoning to your stew.”
Thomas asked what he would suggest. Hogarth shrugged, then replied, “Come with me on Saturday night. I’ll show you what I mean. We’ll get you some seasoning, we will.” And so here they are, following a route William Hogarth clearly knows, even if Thomas does not.
They go through narrow, stinking alleys, where abandoned crates and broken barrels have been cast aside. The smell reminds Thomas of meat or fish that has been too long in the sun. The sound of scurrying rats makes his heart race. Hogarth brings out a perfumed mouchoir to block out the stink. Thomas has only a regular, unscented handkerchief. It’s not much help. Beyond the nasty smells, there’s more than the usual sulphurous grit in the air. It bites his nose and throat.
“Scratch an itch, fellows?”
It’s a woman’s voice coming out of the dark. Thomas nearly jumps, which makes Hogarth laugh. The woman is leaning against a wall at the entrance to a close. There’s a smell of rotting fish coming from a barrel of something godforsaken not far away. The woman, who looks to be not much more than twenty, hikes her skirt up well above her knees. “A guinea for you both. What say you to that? No better price.”
“No thanks, dear,” says Hogarth, not even breaking stride. “We’re going to a different church.”
“Anything you want,” the woman calls after. “Make it quick, I can.”
“We’re going to a church?” Thomas puts a hand on Hogarth’s sleeve.
“Honestly, Tyrell, you really are something sweet. No, we are not going to a church. But listen, my friend, under no circumstances do you ever go into an alley with one of them. Understood?”
“I was not tempted,” Thomas explains as they hurry on.
“Good thing. Did you notice the black patches on her cheeks?”
“I did.”
“They hide sores, I’m willing to bet. And if the diseases don’t get you, her billy-boy, who was likely hiding somewhere nearby, will.”
The dark thins as the two men turn a corner. All at once there is open sky overhead. A little more than half a moon gives the cobbled ground and surrounding buildings a milk-white glow. There are lamps in front of several buildings.
“Ah,” says Thomas, recognizing where they are. “Covent Garden.”
“The one and only. So you’ve been here before?”
“Of course, for the market.”
“At night?” Hogarth scrutinizes Thomas’s face.
“I have not. Is this where my seasoning starts?”
“It is indeed.” Hogarth waves vaguely at the northeast corner of the piazza. “Around here, if I may change the metaphor, is the church I spoke of before.”
In the dark Thomas can just make out a small crowd of men standing in front of a couple of establishments on the north side. There are several coaches, with horses pawing the ground, and three sedan chairs. So, quality are at whatever place that is. “Theatregoers?” Thomas asks.
“Of a sort. Only the plays they’re in have no scripts. It’s life itself.”
Thomas laughs. “Where are we headed?”
“Across the piazza to a place called The Rose. It’s my inspiration for a series of paintings I’m working on. I thought it might do something for you as well.”
“Lead on, my friend.”
—
“You mentioned this place inspired a painting of yours,” Thomas says as he and Hogarth give way to two men who exit through the front door of The Rose.
“A series of eight I’m going to call ‘The Rake’s Progress’.”
“What is a rake?”
“Ah, an example to avoid. It’s a gentleman who follows his immoral whims and inclinations, and pays the price.” Hogarth points a thumb at t
he tavern they’re about to enter. “This particular place is where I have placed the third scene. It accelerates the rake’s decline.”
“The Rose, then, it is not safe?”
Hogarth’s face crinkles in amusement. “Safe? In what regard?”
“For our purses?”
Hogarth laughs. “Once inside, most men gladly give their money away. So don’t worry about theft.”
Thomas furrows his brow at the reply. The entrance to the tavern is now clear. Coming from within he can hear oohs and ahs, followed by silence. He glances at Hogarth. The painter nods.
“Just wait,” Hogarth says.
There comes a loud roar.
Hogarth gives Thomas a knowing look. “Cardamom and ginger, I think.”
“What?”
“The seasoning you’re about to experience. Lead on, Tyrell.”
Within The Rose Thomas finds a room packed with a crowd of standing men. On each man’s face is an expression Thomas has seen before. Excited and slightly glazed. They seem to be holding their breath and the shortest are up on tiptoes. All eyes are trained the same way. Something is going on in the centre of the large ground-floor room. Whatever it is, Thomas can see that it must not be a fight. No, this must involve a woman.
“Though I’ve not been robbed on any visit here,” Hogarth explains, “it’s always sage to be on your guard. It’s not always the poor who steal,” he whispers, waving at a couple of tables of well-dressed high-born types. “That’s how many of the rich got their start.”
Thomas smiles and nods that he agrees with this assessment.
“Here, let me go first,” says Hogarth. “We want a table up front. Otherwise, there’s not much point in being here at all.”
Thomas follows Hogarth as he clears a path. “Excuse me. Make way. Coming through,” he hears the artist utter as he pushes his way through the crowd. What amazes Thomas is that some of the men actually stand aside. It must have something to do with the tone of voice. Thomas can learn from that. As he follows in Ho-garth’s wake, Thomas mutters, “Thank you, thank you.” It doesn’t seem that anyone hears or cares.
The advance halts abruptly when Thomas bumps into Ho-garth. “Easy there, Tyrell.”
They have come to a table that has six men seated at it, each looking immensely pleased. Thomas follows where their attention is directed. He spies a completely naked woman walking away, heading toward a darkened doorway. She swings her hips side to side like no one would ever do walking down a street. Every voice in the room gives vent to a roar. She pauses at the doorway, sticks out her ass, then disappears from sight. Thomas swings his attention back to the men at the table before him and Hogarth. Their eyes are slightly dazed. Their grins are wide.
“Gentlemen,” Hogarth says.
All six faces, plus a few from nearby tables, squint the painter’s way. Hogarth holds up a fist. Suddenly he’s a magician performing a trick. All eyes go to the upraised hand. The conjurer opens the fingers of that fist and reveals two bright coins.
“A reward for a consideration.” The painter’s gaze does the circuit of the table. “Two seats, no more than that. A coin for each.”
Four men are up and off their seats.
“Two, I said, only two.”
The first two men to get to Hogarth – both costermongers is Thomas’s guess based on their frayed clothes – take what’s in the hand.
“Well done,” Hogarth says. “Kindness is alive and well in London town.” He grips the back of one of the two emptied chairs and gestures for Thomas to do the same.
“Are you richer than I thought?” Thomas asks close to Hogarth’s ear.
The artist smiles. He leans to his side so only Thomas can hear. “The pretence of wealth is great fun.”
“Who are you?” asks the chap seated directly across from Ho-garth. He’s an aging fellow sporting a long wig filled with curls that is at least a decade out of style. The man is reaching underneath the wig to scratch his head. The smudges of ink on his fingers tell Thomas he’s a printer by trade.
Hogarth stands and bows. “I am from the Duchy of Utope, and this....” He turns a deadpan face Thomas’s way. He flicks out a hand. “And this is my plenipotentiary to France, Tommy Jene Saisquoi.”
The long-wigged questioner and his tablemates cast dubious looks at the answer. “Utope? Where is that?”
“In the north.” Hogarth scans the table, looking closely at each of the four faces. “Our Utope is what stands between dear England and that barbarous land above.” Hogarth pretends to look around the room as if he is in some conspiratorial game. He lowers his voice. “No Scots, I say, no Scots.”
“That’s it,” beams the bewigged man with ink-stained hands. He looks to his tablemates and each one nods in turn. “We’re with you, sir. That’s what we say as well.”
“No Scots! No Scots!” rises from the table like a chant. Thomas hears a faint echo of it here and there around the room.
“All right then,” says Hogarth when the chant is finished. “Where are we with the night’s entertainment?”
“The next moll will be along,” the long-wigged tablemate says. “I think we’re due for the candle.”
“That we are,” chimes in another.
“What luck. That’s why we’re here.” Hogarth gives Thomas a knowing look.
Thomas maintains a non-committal face but beckons Hogarth lean his way for a quiet word. “Why does he talk of a candle? Une chandelle?”
“The same. They call them posture girls. Ah, here she comes.”
Thomas, and every other man in the room, turns toward the doorway through which a naked woman departed a few minutes before. Now there’s a woman with long brown hair wearing a skimpy gown, a long linen chemise. It goes down to her ankles. She’s standing in the doorway looking around the room. She seems to be looking for someone or something. Thomas hears a few shouts from around him.
“The candle!”
The woman raises a single finger as if she’s just recalled what it is she is looking for. She pivots and goes back into the dark, out of sight. The whistles and boos are loud.
Out she comes again, this time with a metal tray. She parades in a circle twice around the small stage. She holds the tray up at the height of her eyes.
“Candle, candle,” is shouted from here and there in the room.
The woman nods and smiles. She brings down the pewter tray low enough for all to see. There is indeed a candle there.
“Here we go,” says the bewigged printer across the way.
“What I thought you should see, Tyrell,” whispers Hogarth into Thomas’s ear. “First, she does the sculpture garden, then— then you’ll see.”
The woman peels off as slowly as she can the almost see-through linen shirt. Completely naked at last, she starts to pose. She becomes a statue in a park or on the grounds of some great estate. It’s quite a sight. She crosses her ankles and makes like she is flying a kite. Then her legs go wide apart and she is using a bow. Or she’s seated on an invisible bench reading a book. Each pose brings a cheer. Then she covers her charms with her hands and puts on a shocked face. It brings a roaring laugh.
“Come on, you know what we want,” cries out a voice far off to the right.
The woman speaks. “And can you not wait?”
“No!”
“’Tis a problem with you men, isn’t it?”
There is much laughter and a few shouts of “Shame!” and “Not me!”
Now the woman holds up her shiny pewter plate. It brings a cheer. At once she fixes her gaze above the heads of the onlookers and seems to go into a trance. She starts to use the tray as a mirror, standing, squatting and lying on her back reflecting her curves and crannies to a wide-eyed, breathless room. Then comes the final act, the one everyone has been waiting for. She takes the candle and makes it disappear. Ther
e isn’t a sound in the room.
—
“See what I mean?” Hogarth is looking at Thomas like he has just imparted a valuable lesson in life.
“How could I not?” Thomas takes a deep breath.
“Anything like that in Paris?”
“Not that I ever saw. How can such a thing be allowed?”
“Allowed?” Hogarth blinks. “This is England. We don’t put up with French regulations or police.”
“So I’m often reminded.” Thomas’s eyes narrow in thought.
“We had good seats.” Hogarth is making conversation, apparently trying to determine Thomas’s mood.
“Any closer and we’d have been up her ass.”
“Tut, tut, no need for that.”
“No?”
Hogarth chooses not to keep the exchange alive. The silence allows Thomas to reflect on the so-called posture girl. Of course, he was aroused. His loins decide that all by themselves. But his cock is not his brain, thank God. It saddens him to see a woman having to splay and spread-eagle like that. He loves women and the delightful mysteries of their bodies as much as anyone. Yet this kind of public display of their private parts is wrong. Such secrets and pleasures should not be on display in some leering room. It reminds him of the poor bull tied to the stake. Only here the men are the dogs. A posture girl is not about sex at all. It’s about the power of being an observer who gets to watch someone doing something they’d never do themselves.
“The show didn’t please?” Chin resting on his fist, Hogarth is staring intently at Thomas.
“No, it did not.” Thomas exhales loudly. “C’est mauvais.”
“What did you say?” A frowning William Hogarth meets Thomas squarely in the eyes. “Mauvais? As in bad?”
“I did.”
Hogarth leans back with a satisfied expression. Thomas nods at his friend. Does the painter also disapprove of what just went on, he asks with his eyes? Hogarth nods back. Aha, so that means this nighttime visit to The Rose was simply to give Thomas a peek into a part of London’s nasty underworld. Thomas’s chest relaxes at that thought.
Thomas notices that the four other faces at the table are either squinting at him or fixing him with a sour look. Oh-oh, he is showing dislike for a show they like very much. Thomas climbs to his feet. He makes four half bows, one to each of the strangers with whom he shares the table.
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