On a Making Tide (28 page)

‘You could choose to go from here if you wanted.’

‘How can I,’ Hilda spat, ‘being indentured? I’ve been bought an’ must stay.’

Emma turned away from the loathing in her eyes, the jutting jaw and disapproving mouth. She fingered her silk dress, wondering if she, too, was indentured.

‘I often wondered, when I first enjoyed a tumble with your father, if there was any change in me afterwards that people could see.’

Emma hadn’t noticed her in the doorway, and her heart jumped as her mother emerged and spoke. She seemed smaller somehow, her face more lined, her staid clothing adding to the impression of someone shrunk from former distinction. But her eyes were still as penetrating as ever. That, added to a determined stance, made her seem quite formidable. Emma fought to compose herself, to show that she was not afraid.

‘And was there, Mother?’

‘Should I call you Miss Hart? That is how you style yourself now, is it not?’ Emma nodded, but declined to add that she had changed her name only because her parent had set the example. ‘I will not enquire if your first experience of a man was pleasant.’

‘You may, if you wish, and I will tell you that it was most pleasant.’ The eyes were hard and unblinking to support the lie. ‘Captain Jack is a gentleman.’

Mary Cadogan raised one eyebrow. ‘He was never that when I knew him.’

‘
You
knew him?’

‘He’s a rake, girl, and has been since he was a mere midshipman. Being a bosom friend to the Prince of Wales makes no odds. There’ll not be one of Kathleen Kelly’s nuns has not suffered his attentions, and they would tell you so if you asked them.’

Emma was damned if she was going to tell her mother just how unpleasant it had been, not just the searing physical pain at the loss of her virginity, but the boorish behaviour of the man who had won her in the auction. He had been drunk from his victory celebration, where he had crowed over the losers while filling the entire assembly, himself included,
with claret. Then he had insisted on showing off his conquest in half the bagnios and coffee-houses in Westminster. In each one he consumed more claret, braying that he was about to pluck the sweetest flower, which left the object of this intention blushing and crushed. Everyone who knew Jack Willet-Payne bellowed crudities and traduced his prowess, offering her a better awakening to the joys of the bedchamber.

His gross consumption of drink had spared her on that first night, apart from ten minutes of painful rumblings, after which she lay sleepless due to the resounding snores of a companion who made her think of a beached whale. He lay, his great white belly free from its corset, rising and falling, arms akimbo, breeches half undone, as he sought by sound alone to dislodge the rafters from the ceiling above. He took his prize in the morning, his breath stinking fractionally more than his heaving body, the voice by her ear cursing his lack of spark one minute, the next mouthing filth to aid his purpose. Then it was her screams that sought to loosen what his snores had failed to fracture the night before.

‘Then he has changed,’ observed Emma’s mother.

He had thrown the bloodstained sheep’s intestine at Emma with a command of such insensitivity to see it washed that she had wondered about crowning him with the now redundant warming pan. She might have done it if the pain inside her had not rendered her almost immobile.

‘The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you’ve found true happiness.’

‘I have found my place, Mother.’

‘After a fortnight of Jack Willet-Payne I daresay you’re glad to be back in it.’

Then it was hard to maintain her look of ease and confidence. The fat slug had had the temerity to say that he was tired of her. Not that she was sorry. But it hadn’t been all bad; he had sobered up eventually, and though he would never be a capable lover according to the little she had gleaned after that first night, he had more than once been less gross than on that first morning. And she had plucked up the nerve to reject him when he was drunk or hung over. When he had treated her as a normal mistress, those who had yelled bawdy abuse at her turned out quite pleasant companions, eager to compliment her and tell her that they were waiting in the wings.

The real joy came from being on the arm of a well-known and well-heeled man of parts. He knew his duty in the article of gifts, and Mrs Kelly’s dressmaker was kept busy running up new gowns for the entertainments to which he took her. What a pleasure it was to sit in the stalls of Drury Lane, rather than be an underpaid runner engaged to deliver a costume. Though he rarely introduced her to anyone of importance at Ranelagh or Vauxhall she was at least free to enjoy the jugglers, the acrobats, the singing and dancing as though she was indeed a person of some standing. When she sat in the barge hired to take them to picnic at Hampton Court, she occupied the place reserved for someone of quality, and received as her due the love
sonnets of the lute player that Jack the Whale had employed for the journey.

‘How many times have I approached this doorway and wondered at the notion of turning away?’ Mary Cadogan asked.

‘That is not a notion I have ever had, Mother. You may enter now if you wish.’

‘No, Emma. And not just ’cause Kathleen Kelly wouldn’t make me welcome. Age has made me put behind what sense should have done long ago.’

‘I’m never to be free of this, am I?’

‘I won’t disown you.’

‘Will you cease to carp?’

Mary smiled gently, in a way that her daughter remembered so well. Emma wanted to tell her that she loved and esteemed her, but was afraid to do so lest the freedom she had gained be lost.

‘I am finished at Graham’s medical folly, and have taken service in a house not three streets away in Jermyn Street. Number fifteen, if you ever need comfort or even just a sip of tea. I have the key to the caddy.’

The touch of the hand was soft but heartfelt, then Mary Cadogan was gone.

1778

‘That’s Uppark Harry, my dear Emma. Called Fanshaw, though they choose to spell it Featherstonehaugh.’

Her companion, a marine captain named Lyttelton, spelt it for her, planting a kiss at the end of each finger to go with every letter. ‘Eight thousand a year, a palace on the Downs and a mad passion for women, horses, shooting and the tables.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘Nonsense. Everybody likes Harry. He’s so damned generous.’

‘Why have we not entertained him before?’

‘The Abbess has, before your time. He’s been on the Grand Tour. Came back from Italy with all sorts of virtu, sculpture, paintings, pots and the like, as well as tall tales of escapades with the ladies. Probably not so tall tell the truth.’

He was singing lustily, a Purcell song called ‘Come All You Spheres’, and at the last word of the title he tried to kiss the breasts of the nuns who surrounded him. All were drinking champagne at his expense, and that included the half dozen male companions he had brought along.

‘He has tremendous dos at Uppark,’ Lyttelton added. ‘Up to fifty guests at a time. Gaiety ain’t the word.’

‘He seems full of himself.’

‘That will be because he is. Uppark Harry bends the knee to no one except his mother, and that is only because she holds the key to the last of his inheritance, the house itself.’

‘It does no harm to disobey your mother,’ said Emma, grinning. The song reached a crescendo, with a dozen voices singing at once. Emma looked over to where Kathleen Kelly stood. Normally such a racket would have had her intervening, but not tonight. She watched instead with a benign look on her face, of the kind a tender mother might bestow on a favoured child. Perhaps it was as her marine had said, that everybody loved Uppark Harry.

‘I will require you to introduce me, Captain Lyttelton.’

‘Even at the risk that I might no longer enjoy your company?’

Emma looked at him, to see that even if he was smiling he was far from joking.

‘I’ll wager that Harry has already clapped eyes on you, Emma, and has marked you down as a conquest to make.’

‘This seems scarce to trouble you.’

‘Why should it? I am an honourable man who has enjoyed your favour. Given that your vocation demands that you shower affection on more than one deserving case, it would be churlish to stand in his way.’

‘You are a gentleman.’

‘I have tried to be,’ Lyttelton replied, again kissing the end of one of her fingers.

Emma wanted to tell him how different he had been after Jack the Whale: tender, a handsome man with a body to admire and a regard for hers that bordered on adulation.

‘Let us do it now,’ he said, standing, taking her hand and bringing her to her feet.

They moved across the crowded room, through tables where men of all ages, from mere boys to aged, creaking specimens sought to continue their exchange of endearments despite the din. Lyttelton had to shout to make himself heard, and push hard to get himself and Emma into the centre of the group surrounding his quarry. But he did so eventually, bellowing loud enough to make the introduction.

‘Damn me, girl, you took your time.’

The babble of noise and chanting died away. Emma examined Uppark Harry intently, now that she was close enough to do so. The skin of his face was smooth and full, the eyes dark brown and dancing. The smile filled out his ruddy cheeks, and her impression was of a happy man under the influence of continuous debauchery.

‘In what way?’ asked Emma.

He shouted then, throwing up his arms. ‘God’s teeth, I’ve been here an hour and you’ve yet to kiss me.’

His arms enveloped her and his lips were full on hers before she could move. In that split second she smelt him, a mixture of tobacco, drink, a perfume and his own powerful odour. All she could hear were cheers and laughter as his coterie egged him on. His arms had slipped below her waist, and he pulled her forcibly into his grinding groin. Good sense told her to put her hands on his chest and push him away, but the taste of his tongue as it forced its way into her mouth stopped her. Somehow it felt right.

‘There you are, girl,’ he cried, as he released her. ‘Your first taste of Uppark Harry, and I’ll wager not the last. I eyed you the minute I entered, and I mean to leave in your company. Where’s that damnable woman Kelly?’

That would have earned any other man a meeting between the outside pavement and his head, but not this one, loud, brash and seemingly unconcerned for whatever rules governed the running of the house. Kathleen Kelly came forward, to be embraced and kissed in a like manner.
The way her lower body moulded with his gave ample proof that whatever her affectionate feelings towards him they were not motherly.

His face emerged from the embrace coated in powder. ‘God Kathleen, there’s a ride or two in you yet.’

Emma had never before seen Mrs Kelly simper, but she did now, in a face that was too much like floured tree bark to carry it off.

‘I’ve a good mind to stick my hand on your muff and see you squirm.’

‘Oh, get away with you now, Harry,’ she trilled.

‘I’m hung like a stallion, as you know, Kathleen, and ready to impale you here on the floor.’

Emma tried to conjure up an image of this young rake and the Abbess at it, and just could not. But clearly, from the look in Mrs Kelly’s eye, it had occurred in the past.

‘But I want Green Eyes.’

‘Emma?’

‘Is that her name?’ he said, looking at her, taking in the Titian hair, the eyes and the figure that was now fully developed. ‘I’m not a man to share. How much?’

‘She’s a jewel, Harry, worth a mint of money to me.’

‘You’ll never see my cock again, Kathleen Kelly, if you price her too high.’

‘This should be a private bargain,’ she murmured.

‘You’re right.’ He spun round and called to Emma, ‘Drink champagne. Eat, if you want, on my tariff. I will be back shortly.’

With that he took Kathleen Kelly by the arm, and, with scant manners, hauled her from the room, accompanied by loud cheers.

Everything Harry did had a breathless quality, as though there were not enough hours in the day to encompass his requirements. How he struck his bargain with Kathleen Kelly was not discussed, but he had Emma and half a dozen of the other nuns – one for each of his companions – out of Arlington Street and into carriages within half an hour. In seconds Emma was on her back, a champagne bottle still in her hand, silk skirt and undergarments around her ears, with Uppark Harry heaving away before the closed carriage pulled out into Piccadilly.

What he had said about his endowment was no lie: it gave pain and pleasure in equal measure. Yet for all his behaviour it was impossible to be angry with him. His deep voice in her ear, mouthing endearments, was warm, the movements inside her exciting in a way that they had not been with Jack the Whale or gentle Lyttleton. In a house of whores, who were free in their private discussions, Emma knew what pleasure she should expect, just as she knew she had yet to experience it.

Was it his voice, the smell of his body, the girth and length of his cock, that wayward finger playing with her arse or just the sheer excitement of being ravished? It made no difference as she felt the waves of sensation ripple through her. The groans she fought to contain escaped anyway, low
and pleading to begin with, high and demanding to follow, ending in a series of screams and frantic jerking, nails digging into her grunting lover’s coat. Then she began to giggle.

‘You’re laughing, damn you,’ he hissed, with difficulty, his chest heaving.

She was panting too, her body still racked by the slowly decreasing waves of pleasure. ‘Is it not good to laugh when you are happy?’

There was just enough light from the interior lantern to see his twinkling eyes, as well as the sweat on his brow. Then he smiled and moved his body, inducing even greater sensations. ‘By damn Green Eyes, you’ll do.’

She awoke in the morning, naked in the large dishevelled bed, wondering where she was. The call of the crowing cockerel had penetrated his brain too, but he only turned from one side to the other. The recollection of the wild night came back slowly to Emma. Of Harry and his companions drinking, each one attached to the lady of his choice, each couple eventually slipping away to a room of their own. Uppark Harry had been the last, drunk himself, with an equally inebriated Emma on his arm.

What had followed was wild, as Harry, who had whored his way around Europe, set out to teach her in one night everything he had learned in several years. Drink seemed to affect him little, except in the article of emissions, and he had taken her in every way his imagination could recall. Parts of her body ached, but the overall feeling she had was of sated languor. The only question in her mind was whether he could have used her so freely had she not been drunk. It was with that thought, with a warm hand on her lower belly that she drifted back into sleep.

The curtains were open, and the sun was up, birds singing when she woke again. Harry was still asleep, his blond hair tousled and his full face bearing the expression of a petulant child, the lips thicker in repose than when awake. Pulling a sheet around her she examined him in the increasing light. He was handsome, even without the gaiety that animated his features. She touched his mouth with one finger seeking to lift the corner to produce half a smile. The hand that brushed hers away struck his face, causing him to wake with a start.

‘Green Eyes,’ he mumbled, producing the smile she wanted.

‘Sir Harry,’ she whispered, tracing the outline of his cheek.

‘My mind is blank, yet I think we took great pleasure in one another last night.’

‘I can speak only for myself.’

‘Then speak.’

Instead she moved closer to him, first planting a kiss on his forehead, them snuggling down till her body was against his. ‘I feel this is a better answer.’

The crack of a gunshot, distant but clear, made him jerk away from her, his eyes alert and fearful. ‘In the name of Christ, what time is it?’

‘I do not know.’

He was out of bed, dashing naked to where a dressing gown lay folded by a jug of water and a basin. The water went first down his throat then over his head. ‘Get up, damn you. Get dressed.’

‘Why, that’s rich.’ Emma was hurt.

‘Do as I tell you,’ he shouted. ‘Now!’

He was struggling into his dressing gown, his eyes full of anger, and coming towards her. Emma was out of the opposite side of the bed in a flash, grabbing her clothes.

‘Put your dress on,’ he snarled, pulling furiously at a bell rope. ‘Never mind the rest – you can carry those.’

Emma was confused, trying to equate this furious man with the fun-loving fellow she had met the night before.

‘Just do as you’re told.’ The door opened to reveal a liveried manservant, who stood in the doorway and bowed. ‘Damn you, Finch, why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Your own instructions last night forbade me, sir.’

‘I was drunk, man,’ Harry screamed, grabbing Emma by the wrist and dragging her towards the door. ‘When have you ever had any reason to listen to a word I say when I’m drunk?’

‘When you’re drunk, sir,’ Finch replied, not seeming in the least bit cowed.

‘My friends from last night?’

‘Are still abed, I believe,’ Finch said.

‘Then rouse them out, man. Get the coaches round to the north entrance.’

Suddenly he spun to face Emma, his face seeming confused as he looked into her eyes.

‘Rosemary Cottage, Finch. Send someone down to get it ready for occupation.’

‘Sir.’

‘Quickly, man.’

The bow was low and courteous, the departure slow and measured. Whatever panicked his master clearly hadn’t fazed the servant. Harry, still holding Emma by the wrist, rushed past him. He took her down the long corridor, their bare feet silent on the highly polished floors. He was out of the house by the first available set of windows, running across the still damp grass dragging Emma behind him, down the slope towards a line of trees that, when she got close enough, Emma could see hid a stream.

The cottage nestled under the branches of the biggest; small, grey-walled with a thatched roof and crabbed windows. Harry scrabbled at the door, cursing to find it locked, his temper not improved by the time it took a servant to arrive with the key. Behind him came a line of maids, bearing sheets and the means to clean the place. As soon as he had Emma inside, Harry made to leave. ‘I must attend upon my mother before she completes her toilet.’

‘But—’

‘I will come back to see you this afternoon,’ he called as he made his way out of the door, his last words barked at a servant. ‘Get some food down here!’

Emma found it hard to maintain her dignity as the trio of maids dusted, made up the fire and lit it and laid sheets and blankets on the bed. She was still wearing only her dress: her shoes were in her hand, the rest of her garments still back in that bedroom in the main house. She felt close to tears. The maids didn’t look at her, but went about their business as if she didn’t exist, eloquent testimony to the way they thought of her. That invisibility brought forth anger, then the first smile. That was followed by a fit of giggles, which forced them to look at her, but as if she was mad, not bad.

Sir Harry Featherstonehaugh did not arrive until the evening, but food preceded him, delivered to a girl tucked up in bed and asleep. Really she should have gone back to Arlington Street, but as she had little idea of where she was, and even less how to get home, no money and
inappropriate
clothes, staying in place seemed the best option.

His servants were efficient enough. A cold lunch followed the untouched breakfast, and a supply of candles arrived long before the light began to fade. When she awoke to attack the cold fowl, there were flowers in vases, a bowl of fruit, water to drink and wash in, and a clean chamber pot under the bed. A pair of footmen arrived with baskets brimming with bottles of claret. They greeted her question as to their master’s whereabouts with the information that Sir Harry was waiting upon his mother’s pleasure.