by Roy Lewis
I tell you, boy, a man experienced in the ways of women knows these things.
So I waited quietly until at two in the dark morning. I picked up my candle and eased open the door of my bedroom, stepped silently into the dark passage beyond.
A single light gleamed on the stairs and cast a faint glow on the high ceiling but the corridor itself was unlit. I had noted earlier that Marianne’s room was a little way distant from mine, behind a bend in the corridor, and I moved hesitantly in that direction, shielding the candle with my left hand. I walked on soft feet, slipper-shod, quiet, and the house was silently conspiratorial about me except for the occasional creaks and groans of ancient timbers. I passed a shuttered window and caught a ghostly glimpse of my face, pale, candle-lit, seeming to glow with desire at the thought of the woman who I knew was waiting for me, tense, expectant, willing.…
In my careful progress it seemed an age before I reached the corner in the corridor; there I paused, took a deep breath, calmed my excited nerves. It’s always thus, isn’t it, before you reach the moment of attainment, the satisfaction of an uncertain conquest? I paused, then moved on. The door to Marianne’s bedroom was a few yards away. I hesitated again, took a tremulous breath and eased my way around the corner. I walked softly, more quickly now to the door, gathered myself for a moment as my heart hammered, and the blood thundered in my veins, then I raised my hand to tap quietly on the panelled wood.
I never touched the door, for further down the corridor I suddenly caught the gleam of another light.
Biting my lip, I stepped back, quickly snuffed my candle and moved away silently until I regained the cover of the corner I had just rounded. I waited, hardly daring to breathe while I considered what I should do. I still burned for what I was convinced lay waiting for me beyond that bedroom door and I was reluctant to retreat from my prize, seek my own room immediately. Rather, still uncertain, I waited, watching for the approaching dim glow of the shielded candle in the corridor.
He came softly, a thief in the night like me, almost silent on his own slipper-shod feet. He held the candle low in his right hand, extended carefully in front of him as he guided himself with his left hand on the wall beside him. As he approached I could see he was somewhat deshabillé, his thinning hair disordered, his baby face shining, his shirt gaping, his pantaloons untrussed. And it was with a sense of shock that I saw him finally pause, then stop uncertainly at Marianne’s door. He looked about him, and I cleaved to the dark wall of the corridor. My heart thudded against my ribs as I saw him raise a hand, tap at the panelled door.
There was a long, excruciating pause. He tapped again, lightly still but more urgently and the light of the candle wavered, began to splutter. I thought I detected a rustling sound from inside the bedroom but it might have been my imagination. I caught a glimpse, a gleam of light under the door and then there came the sound of a bolt being carefully withdrawn. There was a brief pause, then the door moved, inched open and the candle in the corridor was raised higher as the man used his free hand to push lightly against the door.
It was then that I recognized him and swore under my breath.
The door slowly opened wide. Marianne stood there like a vision of unbridled desire, her own candle raised to her cheek, the flickering light gleaming on her almost naked shoulders. Her hair was loose, unbraided, and hung about her like a cloud; she wore a shift only, and as I saw her standing there with shadowed, barely covered breasts I knew that I had been right, there on the balcony. Marianne had been expecting me, she had been waiting in the darkness, knowing that I would come to her, feeling what I had been feeling, the churning excitement of a heightening desire. I thought I detected a gleam of tense anticipation in her eyes but as she raised her candle higher I saw the gleam die, to be replaced with a flash of horror as she recognized the man who stood before her.
She gave out a low gasp of distaste. The man in the corridor stood still, transfixed. The candle in his hand shook, sending dancing shadows across the corridor. Unable to contain myself in my own lustful disappointment I stepped forward, eased my way towards the door where Marianne stood thunderstruck, glaring at the surprised man in front of her.
‘Madam,’ I heard him gasp throatily, ‘Lady Dacre—’
Marianne stepped back, still holding the door but her features were frozen with shock. Her glance slipped past the unwelcome intruder and I knew she had caught a glimpse of me in the shadows of the corridor. Then her eyes turned once more to the man who stood helplessly, impotently, in front of her and she raised her head in a gesture of furious pride and closed the door firmly in his face. I heard the bolt slam home with a determined clang.
A burning sensation rose in my throat and I clenched my fists helplessly, frustrated in my desires: I knew Marianne Hilliard would not be opening to another knock that night. I stood just behind the man with the guttering candle and he stepped back, almost colliding with me. He turned and I saw his wide-eyed surprise, as he stared at me, for some moments uncomprehending, failing to recognize me immediately.
Then he bared his ivory false teeth in frustration, disappointment and chagrin. His bald head shook from side to side and he crouched as though his stomach ached in shame. ‘The wrong door,’ he moaned low in his throat. ‘The wrong damned door!’
Making no further acknowledgement of my presence, he turned away and with spluttering candle extended he shuffled away, back down the corridor, mumbling almost incoherently to himself.
I stood watching him till he disappeared. I was trembling with anger and disappointment. I stared at the closed, barred door to Marianne’s room. It was an insurmountable barrier to my passion. There was nothing more to be done. I turned away; my stomach was in turmoil as I groped my lonely way back to my bedroom. I found it with some difficulty after clawing ineffectually at several doors along the corridor. I was cold with disappointment, my feverish expectations of a hot encounter dashed, and as I lay at last in my own bed I was unable to sleep, turning, twisting, shifting restlessly against the pillows until the first few slanting gleams of dawn crept in through the shuttered windows, dancing dust motes mocking my restlessness.
I lay sleepless, seeing still in my mind’s eye the hunched, despondent form of Viscount Lord Palmerston as he shambled away disconsolately from his expected assignation, and it was only with a sense of personal frustration that I heard over and over in my brain the words he whispered drearily on disappointed lips as he faded slowly into the darkness of the corridor.…
‘Je suis foutu! Je suis absolument foutu!’
PART TWO
1
My younger brother Henry took not to the law but to medicine. He eventually came to specialize in the treatment of female urethral disorders—he was always a man of an exceptionally serious disposition—and I well recall numerous grave late-evening discussions with him regarding my view that sexual connexion was absolutely necessary if one was to prevent atrophy of the testicles. I’m not certain whether these conversations were an attempt on his part to give me some support in the consummation of my evening proclivities or a subtle essay in advising me to slow down, but either way it did nothing to change my ways. After all, wet dreams can be nothing more than a God-given safety valve, and the real thing cannot be surpassed for satisfaction.
Yes, my boy, I’ve always held that sex is good for a man’s health and sexual deprivation is damaging. I’ve known many women who held the same view, in direct opposition to that fool Acton’s comment that the majority of women are not much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind. He had not moved much in high society, I tell you!
Since hearing of my frustration at Lord Yarborough’s Friday to Monday, you’ve expressed some interest in hearing more about that side of my life, and I’m happy to talk about it, on the principle that I can trust you not to mention such matters to your dear mother, of course. Like other young men, my early adventures were in the Strand, naturally enough, because of the slimness of my purse: the ladies of the night who w
ere habituées of that area could not be regarded as of the higher class. And there were many street encounters, for the Strand had many corners where the doxies copulated like cattle in the shambles, dark places where low-class whores plied their wares, and relieved themselves afterwards in the gutters … the police never interfered, as I recall, unless the encounters occurred in the main thoroughfare.
At the time of my early escapades there were occasional, largely ineffectual attempts by the authorities to clean up the area, and by the time I had progressed to the theatres, where it was possible to pick up the amateurs, the dollymops out for a good time, mingling among the crowd outside, the peelers had begun to force the whores out of Leicester Square and the Strand. It was a pointless exercise, of course, since the ladies simply moved on to the casinos like Evans’s and the Holborn and the Argyll Rooms. Pickings were good there, I warrant you: I was able to move on from the £3-whores and make my choice among dancing girls and actresses of note (some of whom, interestingly enough, I later acted for in court). Incidentally, you could always tell the whores at the Argyll Rooms easily enough: they were the ones who left at dawn in cabs.
But the pressure soon moved to these establishments with spoilsports like Macready and Acton making life difficult for them, egging on the magistrates and the police. So it was fortunate for me that I had formed the acquaintance with Cockburn. Along with another couple of lawyers of similar inclination, he’d formed a private Cock and Hen club and eventually I was invited along. He’d taken a lease of discreet premises in St John’s Wood and I was invited to join the club where we entertained bored wives in the afternoons, particularly during the Long Vacation. The location was an unexceptional double-fronted villa tucked away in an attractive shady little cul-de-sac. The Club became a sort of seraglio for us where four or five young ladies who were uninterested in permanent liaisons (being married to wealthy and usually elderly men more interested in shooting grouse than taking part in erotic adventures) attended for conversations of an intimate character, if you understand what I mean. Port wine, songs around the piano, a rustle of discarded skirts in cool shadowed bedrooms above and post-activity relaxing cigars.
As I recall, I took advantage of Cockburn’s Cock and Hen club for perhaps two years, but by 1847, when Cockburn was elected to his seat at Southampton it was no longer convenient for him to enjoy the St John’s Wood afternoons. So within a year the villa was regretfully released to other tenants and was no longer available to me, but by then the money from election committee hearings was rolling in and I was of the inclination to find somewhere discreet on my own account. I decided I would look around for a place where I could set up an establishment similar to that which I had enjoyed with Cockburn, where I could entertain whom I pleased … and discreetly. I found such a property at Rusper, near Horsham.
The irony of its former history rather pleased me: it had been a retreat for ladies who had taken the veil. The Nunnery, it was called. I rather enjoyed the irony of that, and so did Cockburn. We met there regularly for afternoon assignations with complaisant ladies, drank French and Rhenish wine, smoked excellent Havana cigars and admired the beautiful ladies in their resplendent gowns. Of which we usually divested them in the course of proceedings. And fine fun it was. Thackeray joined us occasionally, as did several members of the Temple. Wilkie Collins came along once. But we kept members of the club few in number, to ensure discretion.
And oddly enough The Nunnery played its part in the next phase of my life, which began when I kept my dinner appointment at the Reform Club with the Attorney General, Sir John Jervis.
As a seaman wandering the oceans of the world, you won’t know the Reform Club in Pall Mall. The magnificent new house was built by Charles Barry in 1841: it opened its membership to Radicals and Liberals; every bedroom had a white marble basin with hot and cold taps and valets always stood by ready to shave and dress you. The famous chef Alexis Soyer ran the kitchen using gas for cooking—quite an innovation then—and there was even a gas flame in a little alcove by the main door where you could light your cigar. Ah, yes, the Reform.… I also joined the Garrick, of course, and gambled in Boodles in St James’s Street, and I regularly frequented White’s as my practice flourished. But the Reform was necessary to pursue my political aspiration: the grand interior entrance, the portraits of eminent former members, the political atmosphere which hung like scented smoke in the air.…
Sir John was a gracious host. He did not keep me waiting long in the colonnaded hall of the club, and I was soon ushered into his presence in a small side room occupied only by two elderly gentlemen dozing over editions of The Morning Post. He rose to greet me, lean, elegant, affable, gracious of manner, and waved me to a seat at some little distance from the other members. He raised a hand to the attentive waiter, arranged for a brandy and water to be served me, while he contented himself with a glass of Madeira.
‘I’ve been looking back over your career so far,’ he mentioned after we had indulged in some polite inanities of the kind which are socially necessary at meetings of gentlemen who are not well known to each other. ‘I believe you commenced your practice by concentrating on work in the bankruptcy courts.’
I agreed that this was so.
‘And you even chose to write a book on reform of the laws in that sector,’ Jervis observed.
I smiled. ‘I cannot claim a great success for it. It did not run to a second edition.’
The Attorney General smiled. ‘It nevertheless demonstrated two things: one, that you have thought deeply about legal matters of reform, and that you are perhaps thinking of a political career in due course.’
I nodded thoughtfully, fixed a frown of concentration on my features. ‘It is why I applied for membership of the Reform Club.’
‘Quite so.…’ A slight, gentle smile touched Sir John’s thin lips. ‘After you had been blackballed at the Carlton Club.’ As I opened my mouth to explain he raised an elegant hand. ‘It’s quite all right, James. I understand that a young man interested in politics might wish to take his first steps with the party that happens to be forming the Government of the day.’ He paused, eyed me reflectively. ‘And I understand about the blackballing also. It seems you have made enemies of some powerful people in the Tory party.’
I grimaced. ‘One in particular.’
Sir John Jervis nodded. ‘Yes. None more powerful. Leader of the Tory Party in the House … you refer to Lord George Bentinck. He makes his … dislike of you very apparent. From what do you believe this arises?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s because I struck at him where he feels himself vulnerable. His love of horse racing.’
Jervis laughed quietly. ‘His own father criticized him for years over his attachment to the Turf. And the extent of his gambling, not to mention the low characters he has been involved with at Newmarket and elsewhere. But your verbal blows … they arose out of the Running Rein affair, I understand.’ He eyed me closely. ‘Matters there were never satisfactorily resolved, I believe?’
I nodded. I did not feel able to tell him all I knew of the business: the chicanery involved, the body of a woman in the Thames, the beating of a man to death. All that had to remain a secret between me and that unscrupulous villain, Lewis Goodman. To whom I still owed a great deal of tin. I made no reply.
‘It’s of no consequence,’ Jervis remarked after a little while, as he sipped his Madeira and watched me with eyes that seemed to be seeking confirmation of a view. At last, he remarked, ‘You are not a close friend of my son.’
‘We have met from time to time in Westminster Hall,’ I admitted, ‘but we are not confidants.’
‘Yet you went out of your way to assist him that evening in the Strand.’
I shrugged diffidently. ‘It was a matter of circumstance. It’s merely chance that brought me into proximity with what happened on that occasion outside the night house. At the tables, I could see that your son was winning a considerable amount of money. And my guess was there was a
certain amount of chicanery at the table. He was on a winning run, which would lead him finally to be fleeced. So I thought it wise to step in, advise him he should leave. But then, well, you see, Sir John, it’s not been unknown for unscrupulous dealers to reach an arrangement with undesirable characters outside the night house, lurking in the dark. They allow a gull to win a considerable amount and then their confederates outside relieve him of his winnings. The money is then split between the garrotters and the dealer. I cannot be certain that was what occurred that night but your son … well, I deemed that he might be vulnerable. It seemed to me to be sensible to make sure that he found himself a cab, when he left. Even without the possible conspiracy I mentioned, the early morning streets can be dangerous.’
I paused: I saw no reason to mention that it had been that villain, Lewis Goodman, who had asked me to take care of young Jervis, nor that the actual physical side of the rescue itself had been largely down to that plug-ugly, Porky Clark.
‘In any event, it’s beyond dispute that you assisted my son John,’ the Attorney General remarked softly, ‘and put yourself into danger. That places him, and me in your debt.’
‘I would not seek to take advantage of such feelings,’ I lied.
The Attorney General raised his glass almost in salute. ‘Nevertheless, I feel that I remain in your debt. And I would like to repay you, while, at the same time, suggesting that there is a further service that you might be able to provide me … to your benefit, as well as mine.’
‘You need only to ask, Sir John.’
‘I believe that a little while ago you took the lease of a property at Rusper, near Horsham.’