An Experiment in Treason (19 page)

There was one thing Mr. Goldsmith had neither exaggerated nor altered in his description of Shakespeare’s Head, and that was its nearness to the theatre. It was literally down the colonnade but a bit from where we were at that moment. With Mr. Goldsmith leading us on, we started out. Somewhere along the way I caught Mr. Donnelly’s eye — or perhaps he caught mine. Our eyes met, in any case, and what I saw in his look was not so much fear as it was uneasiness. He, who lived so close by, must know the reputation of this place to which we were headed.

With a sort of flourish, Mr. Goldsmith gestured to the door of the tavern, opened it, and ushered us inside. He prevailed upon the first waiter he saw to take us to the private dining room, which he had reserved. The waiter passed us on to another who started us on our long walk through the narrow aisles and past the tables, toward a few closed doors at the rear of the place.

The place was relatively quiet — yet at the same time fairly dark, so that one wondered just what it was that went on in the quiet that could not be seen in the dark. I, who brought up the rear, received a signal from Clarissa just ahead: eyebrows high and eyes wide, as if to say, who could have expected this? What had she seen?

We came to a halt, and over her shoulder I spied the surprise. ‘Twas a man seated between two women, an arm around each, and each hand cupping a breast. The women were broad and brawny; they busied themselves pleasuring the man between them with kisses and love pats; each whispered earnestly into his nearest ear. The man seemed foolishly drunk; his square spectacles had dropped down his nose and were attached only to his left ear. He seemed oblivious of his state but happy, more or less.

The name of this sorry fellow was Benjamin Franklin.

Molly, who had halted our little caravan, thrust her face at the three and asked loudly, “Dr. Franklin, is that you? What are you doing here?”

He had no proper answer for her.

Next day, when I made my report on our outing to Sir John, I included something of our meeting with Benjamin Franklin in Shakespeare’s Head, telling the story (I fear) as a bit of gossip. Yet Sir John was uninterested, dismissing the incident as of little or no importance.

“Such a silly fellow,” said he. “I had heard it said by some that he was a libertine, but I never credited it till now. Still, what surprises me more than his commerce with bawds is that he should appear to you and the rest to be inebriated. He is one — or so I have heard — who keeps close watch upon his health.”

“Strange, is it not. Sir John,” said I, “that one so admirable in so many ways should seem foolish, even contemptible in others.” (Yes, reader, I confess that I said this, or something quite like it, for in those days I was much given to such priggishness.)

“I find that not in the least strange. We are none of us complete human beings — neither completely good, nor completely bad. Why, you may find this difficult to credit, but even I may have a fault or two.”

I let that pass without comment.

Sir John was pleased to hear of Mr. Goldsmith’s triumph at the Covent Garden Theatre. He bridled up a bit, however, when I gave it as my opinion that
She Stoops to Conquer
was the best of all comedies.

“Of all comedies?” he echoed. “Frankly, Jeremy, I am surprised. Do you hold it higher than the
Midsummer Night’s Dream
, or
Much Ado About Nothing
, or
The Comedy of Errors
, or … or …”

“Or any of Shakespeare’s?”

“All right, it’s you who’ve said it. Do you hold it higher than any of his? “

“Ah well, Sir John, ‘tis a different sort of comedy from those others by Shakespeare.”

“Different in what way? “

“Well, Mr. Goldsmith himself makes the distinction between Laughing and Sentimental Comedy.”

“I hold no brief for the so-called sentimental stuff, but what has that to do with Shakespeare? “

“Mr. Goldsmith also would make the distinction between Laughing comedies, and comedies of character, comedies of wit, at which one may smile but seldom laugh aloud.”

“And naturally,” said Sir John, “his sort of comedy he finds superior.”

“Not necessarily, but I would say that his audience at the Covent Garden certainly would find it superior.”

“And so you vote with the many — is that it?”

With that final thrust, he felt he had won the argument. I held my tongue, allowing him to think so.

What I find odd as I think back to the occasion, and others that followed, is that never once did he question me regarding the behavior of Mr. Donnelly and Molly, which, presumably, was why he had sent us to accompany them. Nor, for that matter, did he ask me or Clarissa about our own conduct.

In fact, as it happened, the conduct of all four of us (or five, counting Mr. Goldsmith) was quite above reproach. ‘Twas always a pleasure to hear Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith trading witticisms. And Clarissa and I found, to our great enjoyment and amusement, that Molly Sarton could hold her own with them. She, by the bye, pronounced the turtle soup at Shakespeare’s Head to be all that Mr. Goldsmith promised. Save for the embarrassing sighting of Benjamin Franklin in his state of disarray, which we never afterward discussed between us, we had a fine time that night. Clarissa pronounced it the best evening she had ever had, and I concurred, saying that I, too, knew of no better and could think of none to equal it.

Thus it was that Benjamin Franklin passed out of our sight for weeks, even months. His name was not even mentioned. The investigation, so energetically undertaken, was allowed simply to come to a halt. There were no new developments, because those who might be questioned — chief among them, the burglars Skinner and Ferguson — were nowhere to be found. ‘Twas as if the two had been quite erased from the population of London. Constable Perkins looked high and low for them, in and out of every dive in Bedford Street, and Bess, his snitch, made discreet inquiries of all her scarlet sisters. All to no avail.

Yet we remained not idle through that autumn of 1773. Sir John sat in judgment before the usual stream of miscreants, petty litigants, and the like. There were letters of all sorts for me to take in dictation and deliver. I put in a good deal of study upon the law, and even had occasion to put my studies to practice: Sir John’s clerk, Mr. Marsden, fell ill with a severe catarrh, which Mr. Donnelly had taken to calling by its more exotic name, “influenza.’ Sir John appointed me to work in his stead. I could manage it easily, combining it with my other duties of correspondence, running errands of a miscellaneous sort, et cetera. My duties consisted of interviewing prisoners and witnesses, gathering statements of complainants and defendants in matters of dispute, and then, during the court session, prompting and advising Sir John at any extent necessary. I enjoyed the work whilst I did it and found it most instructive. Though it may seem cruel to say so, I was really rather sorry to see Mr. Marsden return. At last to be working in the law! And to hear from Sir John that I had performed my duties competently! That bode well for the future.

By far the most important event of the autumn was a long overdue visit from Tom Durham, Lady Fielding’s son by her first marriage and now Sir John’s stepson. He, now a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, owed his career and indeed, his very life, to the magistrate. When his father died, he and his mother, Katherine Durham (later Lady Fielding), immediately found themselves in reduced circumstances. Tom fell in with bad companions and took part in the robbery of a shopkeeper in the Covent Garden area. They were apprehended, and Sir John had no choice but to send the three boys to be tried for robbery at the Old Bailey. Found guilty, they were condemned to be hanged — at age thirteen. Sir John petitioned for clemency and put forward a proposal: that young boys be given the option of enlisting in the Navy rather than be sent off to Tyburn Hill. When his petition was granted, Tom Durham shipped out on the Royal Navy frigate, Adventure. And when that proposal, which had appealed greatly to Queen Charlotte, was made into law, John Fielding was knighted by the king, and he became Sir John Fielding.

After he married Tom’s mother. Sir John intervened a second time in the boy’s behalf, making it possible for him to become a midshipman, and thereby opening up to him the probability of becoming an officer and living his entire life before the mast, if such was his desire. Being a bright lad, strong, and blessed with a good sense of priority, he had little difficulty with his apprenticeship at sea. At the earliest opportunity, he took and passed the lieutenant’s test and was commissioned an officer in the King’s Navy. He was now reassigned to a ship of the line, the Reliant, with a full seventy guns and a complement of over a thousand officers and men. But the Reliant was to be re-outfitted before its voyage out to its next station in the Caribbean. That left Tom Durham with three weeks leave which he might spend as he chose. And he did choose to spend them in London with us.

From the first I sensed that much had changed in Tom Durham — perhaps not many things but one big thing. What it was I could not say for a considerable time. And when at last I came to recognize it I was loath to accept it.

It fell to Clarissa to accompany Lady Fielding to the Post Coach House to meet Tom, for as it happened, this was the first day on which I was called upon to substitute for Mr. Marsden, and the time of arrival of the Portsmouth coach coincided precisely with the beginning of Sir John’s court session that day. So off went the two women at some time near midday to welcome Tom to London.

Lady Fielding had not seen her son for over a year. While he did write, ‘twas not often enough to suit her. Yet considering that he was most often on shipboard, I did not think he did badly. There was little to write home about, one day being much the same as the last. As a result, his letters, which she read aloud at table, seemed lately to become more impersonal.

Clarissa, who had never met Tom Durham, gave her opinion to me that he was rather a stiff sort of fellow — and rather boring, judging from his letters. When I insisted he was not like that at all, she shrugged.

“What then is he like?” she asked, putting the burden on me.

Well, reader, if you have ever been challenged to describe what another is “like,” then you know what a bootless task it can be. I bumbled and blathered and started and stopped, and realized at last that there was little could be said.

“You’ll find out soon enough when he comes for a visit.”

And then, of course, he came for a visit.

My first day as acting clerk for Sir John went well enough — as so he assured me — though I was to remember to lower my voice whilst prompting cases, witnesses, et cetera. I took this modest criticism in good stead and counted the day a success. Then did I remind him that Lady Fielding and Clarissa had no doubt returned from the Post Coach House with Tom Durham in tow. And, seeming specially eager, he consented to look in on them and wish young Tom a happy homecoming.

All were present there in the kitchen. Molly had baked some scones and boiled up a pot of tea, which were set out upon a cloth of Irish lace. Yet none sat at the table. Lady Fielding stood talking to her son, as Molly and Clarissa looked on with interest. They fell silent and turned as we entered.

“Sir John!” called Tom as he dodged round his mother and moved quickly to his stepfather’s side. Moving to embrace him. Sir John found instead a hand proferred to be shaken. He shook it right enough and gave a properly warm greeting to him. Then was there an awkward pause.

“Sit down, sit down, all of you,” Molly called out. “This is an occasion for tea or something stronger. What will you. Sir John?”

“Tea will do.”

“And you, Lieutenant?”

“Something stronger.”

She produced a bottle of French brandy and filled a dram glass for him. Then did she pour tea all round for the rest of us. Sir John rose from his chair, tea glass in hand, and offered “a toast of welcome to Lieutenant Durham — and may he prosper in his chosen profession.”

All drank as Tom raised his glass.

“I’ll give you Sir John Fielding, knight of the realm, a man famed for his fairness, his generosity, and his love of justice.”

To that I gave a “hear! hear!” as all joined in to raise glasses in tribute to the magistrate.

Thus was it that Tom’s return was celebrated. The table fell into a single conversation in which Lady Fielding and her son participated and the rest did merely listen. But no, Molly also asked a question now and again (“Have you sailed round the world to get here?”) as did Clarissa (“What is the most beautiful place you have seen?”). Sir John and I merely listened. And, in truth, I am not at all sure that he remained awake during that time at the table, so deep within himself was he. For my part, I simply looked and listened. And I concluded that of all those at the table, Clarissa behaved the most strangely. There was something altogether odd about the way that she looked there at the table, as she stared at Tom Durham. I could scarcely suppose what had got into the girl. It was not until the little party was done, and Clarissa and I were close together, doing the washing up, that I got some sense of what was troubling her.

“Jeremy, ” she whispered, “why did you not tell me about Tom Durham?”

“I thought I did.”

“I asked you to tell me what he was like.”

“Well, I tried.”

“You did not tell me he was so
handsome!
”

Handsome? I turned that over and over again in my brain during the next few days, trying to determine just what she had meant by that. It’s true, as I knew, that women (and girls most specially) set great store by handsomeness — but what, actually, did it mean? To be handsome, I supposed, had to do with a certain set of facial features. Height, too, would play a part, as would bearing. Yet, during the early days of Tom’s visit, I would look at him and wonder what it was that made him handsome and another … well, ordinary looking. His nose was suitably placed; he was neither cross-eyed, nor wall-eyed. But so was it with the greatest number of men one might happen to meet whilst walking upon the streets of London. I, for instance — was I handsome? I found myself staring into the looking glass and asking myself that question. Frankly, I hoped I was, yet none had ever remarked upon it. My nose, too, was placed as well as Tom’s, and the pupils of my eyes were also properly set, neither inward- nor outward-looking. Still, no one had ever named me handsome — not even Clarissa who, in most particulars, had seemed to find me quite satisfactory, at least in the past. Oh, what did it matter? I asked myself. I took solace and strength from the old proverb “Handsome is that handsome does.” I would do handsomely and let the rest take care of itself.

Indeed, Clarissa’s all-consuming interest in me seemed a thing of the past. She now opened no discussions of ethical or literary matters. She asked no questions regarding what Sir John might be up to. She plotted no romances, nor did she spin tales of histories past that had kept me fascinated, in spite of myself. Even less did she seem desirous of resting her head upon my shoulder, as she had done in Black Jack Bilbo’s coach on our final visit with them there. No, none of that — and, in truth, I missed her.