The Skull and the Nightingale (18 page)

I traveled to Vauxhall in a hackney coach along with Latimer, now a foppish Spanish grandee, and Horn, who had become an Indian chieftain, with painted face and a headdress of feathers. Already I could feel my expectations confirmed. Our conversation was halting: well as we knew one another, we were no longer ourselves.

As we entered the Gardens we were by chance caught up in a great swirl of movement that separated me from my companions. I was swept along one of the wide alleys amid a noisy throng of grotesque beings. Here were a witch, a pirate, a walking tree; there was Father Time with his scythe, one arm round a skeleton. Over us all, comprising one man on the shoulders of another, towered a Cyclops, with a single great eye below a false forehead.

There seemed to be a general liberty, even between the sexes, to accost, jeer, jostle, or clutch. Among the couplings were some lewd conjunctions: a scarlet-clad cardinal fondled the breasts of a milkmaid, and a young nun was warmly reciprocating the embraces of a gorilla. I could not even be confident as to gender: a princess who ogled me had the physique of a man. Many behaved as I had done before the mirror, adapting their actions to their assumed characters. A highwayman swaggered and cocked a wooden pistol; a bear lumbered along pawing at passersby. I myself, with no conscious intention to do so, was threatening strangers with my beak, and sometimes opening out my wings with a sharp cry.

The music from a bandstand was all but drowned by the hubbub of high-pitched voices. All around me I heard the shrill squeak affected by masquers as a further gesture of disguise: “Who am I?” “I know you, madam!” I was more than once hailed myself: “Who are you, sir?” “Who are you, Mr. Falcon?” It should be said that some visitors wore merely a loose, enveloping domino and a plain mask, or a hood. Yet this seemed to me as great a dissimulation as any other, in falsely proclaiming “I am nobody!”

The crowd surged on, past a great arcade where there was eating and copious drinking. I could see much that was foolish or even sordid, but I could not share my friends’ detached view of such entertainment. There was something truly a little disturbing in being leered at, mocked, or seized upon by strangers. In the real world Mr. Fenwick is forbidden to embrace a lady he has never seen before, but here a bird of prey was free to throw his wings around a passing princess.

Looking out for Kitty, I more than once squeaked a greeting to a possible manifestation of her, only to be derided by a stranger. Horn waved to me on one occasion, by now hand in hand with a Moorish slave girl: he was hurrying her on toward the darker avenues beyond the arcades. From every side came extravagant gestures and screeched challenges.

I began to be aware of a deeper level of disorder. However absurd the costumes, most of those present seemed eager, even feverishly eager, to escape from their habitual selves in hope of adventure. It must surely be that there are energies and desires swimming below the surface of society like fish below ice. In the course of the evening I glimpsed several carnal engagements in the darker corners of the park; but for each individual so occupied I would hazard that a score were tantalized by faint intimations of such a possibility. After all it would not be one’s “self” that was sinning but the temporary usurper—a harlequin, an animal, or a demon.

Moving past the arcades in the direction taken by Horn, I found the crowd thinner. On either side of the main avenue ran narrower ones, illuminated only intermittently by pools of greenish light diffused by lamps set among the trees. Looking about, I spied a slim figure clad in white that I fancied might be Kitty. She saw me and at once slipped down a side path. I could make out that this was a water nymph, in a single clinging garment, her face half concealed by the long straight hair provided by a headdress of thin reeds. Surely this must be Kitty—yet I still could not be certain; and when I was within a dozen paces of her, she slipped aside once more. Spreading my wings, I hastened after my prey.

In pursuing her I rejoined the main path where the crowd was thicker. A hand clutched my arm as a voice squeaked, “Hold, Falcon!” I turned to see a pregnant woman of enormous size, with prodigious false breasts and a red wig. She squeaked again:

“Sir, you are responsible for my condition.”

“Perhaps so,” I squawked. “But I acted under compulsion. You ravished me!”

“Impudent fellow!” roared the large lady. “Do you dare insult me?”

Only then did I recognize Crocker, his big belly molded into false pregnancy and cushions of bosom wedged into his bodice.

“I know you, madam!” I squeaked, pecking at Tom’s breasts with my falcon beak.

We talked for a few minutes. I had never seen Crocker in better spirits: he seemed delighted to have been able to lose himself so completely in his hideous disguise. It was a fine night, completely dark by now, but still warm, with a faint breeze blowing. I enjoyed the moment: a monstrous pregnant woman and a bird of prey in amicable conversation under the trees. As we stood there I noticed, from the corner of an eye, a Roman legionnaire hovering near us, one hand on the hilt of his short sword. A second glance translated him into Francis Pike, presumably present as escort and protector to the pregnant maiden.

When I moved on I again caught sight of my water nymph, peering at me from behind a tree. Renewing the chase, I was at last able to fold my wings about her, gasping, “I know you, madam! I have you, madam!,” while she squeaked, “Spare me, spare me, god of the skies!” Having thus secured my victim, I bore her away for supper and a glass of wine in one of the arcades. Even here she preserved her character, peeping from behind her waterweed hair and then averting her gaze, as if in fright, or starting up, as though she might fly from me once more. Pleasingly warmed by this show of unwilling submission, I was glad, at last, to take her hand and lead her out of the gardens, pushing our way through the leering masqueraders. Before we left I saw the full-breasted Crocker once more, conversing with a red-coated soldier, whom I recognized as Jane Page when Kitty waved a greeting.

She and I retreated to a chamber I had reserved in a nearby hostelry accustomed to guests of exotic appearance. The success of my experiment was already manifest. Miss Brindley was no longer the simple girl with whose body I had become familiar, but an elusive, almost ethereal creature. She maintained her performance to the very last, so that I could half believe that I was about to violate a naiad, and experienced almost a shock as I flung up the skirts of her costume and saw again the dark bush of hair. As I forced myself upon her, Kitty was still in character, crying out piteously for mercy as she thrust her loins against me to deepen the intrusion. Lost in the fantasy, I was masterful and cruel. Never have I more keenly relished the ridiculous game of joining giblets. Kitty later told me that even during the act she had almost thought herself a water nymph, pitilessly despoiled but unable to resist the physical joy of surrender.

Recovering ourselves, we drank more wine and fell to talking, still in excellent humor and a warm frame of mind. Kitty spoke of her early life in the country, and recalled a particular afternoon when she and several others gathered to watch a bull brought to a cow. She vividly described how the passion and scale of the act, the sight of the great shaft being steered to the cleft and then forced home again and again, fired the blood of all those watching, including herself, so that in imitation of the performance she lost her maidenhead to a young farmhand an hour later. She instanced that experience as persuading her of the raw animal impulses behind desire, and the contagion of those impulses even between one species and another. I so far justified her words as to fall an instant prey to this contagion, even at second hand, plowing Kitty with farmyard vigor till she cried out again and again that yes, yes, and yes, I was a better man than her rustic first love.

As on the previous occasion I woke up after some hours and lay thinking amid the fading odors of lust. This time I could not flatter myself with illusions of objectivity regained. It seems that a man’s body is so thoroughly animal as always to be capable of renewed desire and hence renewed susceptibility to illusion.

There was a little more to the letter, but nothing of note. The paragraphs last quoted, which I had hoped would tickle my godfather into fantasies of his own, were a calculated misrepresentation. Kitty had indeed described the scene with the bull—but in a very different spirit. The recollection, so far from exciting her, made her laugh so helplessly that she rolled off the bed onto the floor, with a loud thump. When I helped her back and asked what she found so amusing, she could say only that the proceedings necessary to the creation of new life struck her as ludicrous. I was, as I truly wrote, seized by a contagion, but it was the contagion of laughter. Kitty and I made love again, and very pleasantly, none the less so for giggling so persistently that we could barely complete the act.

Thinking that I had, for the time being, fired off all my ammunition, I was resolved not to write again to Mr. Gilbert until I had received a reply. Within days came a letter saying that he had urgent reasons for requiring my presence at Fork Hill as soon as I could get there.

Chapter 11

“I
am sorry that you could not occupy your usual room. There are reasons for the change—reasons which may, perhaps, emerge. But I hope you slept well.”

“I slept very well.”

We were sitting in the drawing room, the morning following my return to Fork Hill. Once more I was impressed by the silence of the house in contrast to the incessant noise of London, and relieved to be sitting on a solid chair after two days of being flung about in a coach. As yet there had been no explanation for the urgency of my godfather’s summons: I had an irritated suspicion that he enjoyed sending me to and fro at his bidding. A little dulled by the journey I listened to him warily, trying to follow the drift of his thinking. He seemed particularly animated and free.

“We will have a great deal to discuss while you are here—a great deal. To begin at random: I was interested to hear that you met Mrs. Jennings. Thirty-five years ago—more—I was well acquainted with that lady, and so was your father. We were all three in London together, all three of us young. In those days, of course, she was Miss Bella Thorpe. Was her husband present when you met her?”

“He was physically present, but rarely spoke: it appears that he is stone-deaf.”

“Ben Jennings stone-deaf ?” My godfather seemed pleased. “Who could have foretold it? But bodies are frail: there are so many parts to go amiss. I hear that Yardley has twisted his knee and can scarcely walk. Which reminds me—indirectly reminds me: I believe that you also saw Mr. Quentin?”

“He paid me a brief visit, but very little passed between us. He seemed preoccupied. I gathered that his wife’s treatment had proved painful.”

“That does not surprise me: it had been delayed too long. I have yet to meet her since her return, but Quentin tells me that she has all but recovered. We will see for ourselves, for they are to be guests here soon.”

He mused for a moment with pursed lips, his immobility at one with the stillness of the room. “Miss Thorpe was a spirited, humorous lady, as I recollect her.”

“She is so still.”

“It was plain to me that she was drawn to your father, who was her match in both qualities. Unhappily for her, the flame was not mutual, though he liked her well enough. Perhaps she married too carelessly in her disappointment. Ben Jennings had but two virtues: an affable disposition and a great deal of money. He laughed easily but was as dull as a sheep. He must have been astonished to capture the vivacious Miss Thorpe. It was a match between chalk and cheese: she will often have puzzled him over the years.”

He smiled at the thought. “That time remains vivid in my mind. Yet it must be twenty years since last we last spoke. You say she remembered me clearly?”

“She did indeed. She spoke of you as witty and shrewd, but circumspect.”

“Circumspect I was—perhaps too much the observer. But I have remained aware of Mrs. Jennings from a distance. When I heard that her nephew was destined for the church, I was pleased to be able to help him. Thorpe seems comfortable in Fork Hill, and is well liked by his parishioners. But he has rarely mentioned his aunt.”

Here was my godfather positively loquacious, happy to jump from topic to topic. He jumped again:

“The portrait that you saw has been completed. A few guests are coming to see it, and I wanted you to be one of them. Needless to say, this little ceremony is not for my benefit but for that of the artist. Mr. Rowley came to me well recommended, and would seem to be an accomplished portrait painter—perhaps a rival for Gainsborough. But you must judge for yourself when the picture is laid bare. Rowley will be here for the occasion.”

He suddenly rose and crossed the room to reach into a drawer. I had a moment to reflect upon the reference to Quentin. My godfather knew of the visit that I had chosen not to mention. Was this a hint to me that I had been under observation? Even if it was, I had no way of knowing whether he had asked Quentin to report on me or Quentin had himself elected to do so. Mr. Gilbert returned with what proved to be a songbook.

“Look this through at your leisure. After the success of your last performance I hope that you will sing again with Mrs. Hurlock for the pleasure of our guests.”

I murmured polite assent while glancing through the pages. Most of the songs were fortunately already familiar to me.

“You will see that they are pastoral and sentimental pieces—calculated, I hope, to appeal to Mrs. Hurlock. She has been sent a copy of the book, as has Mrs. Quentin, who has kindly agreed to play the harpsichord.”

“I am glad that she feels ready to venture into company again.”