Fanny (37 page)

I mus’d upon these Melancholick Thoughts as I left Newgate and found a Chair back to Coxtart’s Brothel, for Lancelot’s dire Warnings might portend my Fate. Far better to cast my Lot with the Merry Men than waste away of Pox and leave an orphan’d Babe—or worse, see my own Child waste away for Want of Food.

Now I had Money to ride in a Chair. Now I held my Head, all too briefly, above the Rabble. But what would happen when I grew great-bellied as I must in a Month or two? What would happen when I could not earn my own Bread? Or if I contracted a fatal Fever in Childbed? Or if, i’faith, I dy’d and left a Babe to Coxtart? Perish the Thought!

From the Height and Isolation of my Chair, I lookt down into the London Streets. There clamour’d all the sundry London Throng—ragged Orange Women, Serving Maids, Street Urchins, and Chimney Sweeps. Nothing separated me from their Fates but a few Months’ Work upon my Back and my Goddess-given Beauty, which someday soon should fade. E’en riding in a Chair, I could scarce forget that a fearful Fate awaited me upon the Streets! I had but narrowly escap’d, and not for long. Fortune’s Wheel might turn again and leave me helpless as before. I might be thrown in Prison by one of my own jealous Swains, condemn’d to Bridewell by a miserable Magistrate who found his greatest Joy in blaming Harlots for the Sins of Men! I myself had seen Harlots flogg’d in Newgate, and heard tell of many who beat Hemp in Bridewell. What did it profit me to cast my Fate with respectable Society? What had respectable Society e’er done for me? My Fate was with the Outlaws! For despite my Finery, a red Witch’s Garter lay beneath it all! And despite my hir’d Chair, I was a Wayfarer, a weary Pilgrim, a Traveller upon Foot! E’en my Magick Steed was lost to me by now and the only Witchcraft I possess’d was in my Garter and my long red Hair. Better to cast my Lot with Lancelot, than, by and by, to starve in London.

Very well, I thought, I’d return to the Brothel for the nonce, and wait for further Word from Robin Hood.

CHAPTER IX

Containing a most edifying Excursion into the World of London Clubs, in which our Heroine journeys to the Centre of the Earth, meets the Devil, and finds him a more familiar Figure than she otherwise would have guess’d.

P
ERHAPS YOU WILL RECALL
that upon my first Acquaintance with the fair Wenches of Mother Coxtart’s Emporium, I mention’d that four of the Girls were away, upon my Arrival, for they were employ’d at a Private Revel. These Ladies were Melinda, Sophia, Rosamund, and Bridget; and they were, in many Ways, the most skill’d Wenches in the whole Establishment. They specializ’d, so to say, in Private Revels, and they were better paid, I learnt, than the other Wenches; but what they did remain’d mysterious to me, for they were always coming and going, and did not ply their Trade within the Brothel itself.

I was eager to learn what private Business they were engaged in; howe’er, as you may guess, the Girls were not so eager to tell their Doings, fearing, as they did, my Competition. For ’twas true that I was better-looking than most of ’em—at least to their Eyes. And tho’ I myself knew, having been beautiful my whole Life long, that Beauty creates as many Woes as it bestows Advantages (not the least of which is the Envy of other Women), they, lacking Great Beauty, and fancying it a Cure for whate’er ail’d ’em, did not share this Wisdom.

Of these four Wenches who carried on at Private Revels, Melinda was the most amiable and the least suspicious of me. She was a pretty Thing, with light brown Hair, and a Merry Face (which, sad to say, was marr’d by Pockmarks). ’Twas bruited about that she was of Noble Birth, but had been banish’d from her Home in Yorkshire by an evil Father, who ne’er forgave her Refusal to marry a deprav’d and ancient Suitor whom she loath’d. Melinda, herself, soon bore out the Rumour; for she was no poor Country Girl like the others but carried herself like a depos’d Princess (tho’, in truth, her Father was no King, but only a Baronet). She’d grown from Girlhood at Gigglesden Hall in the West Riding, and spoke often and longingly of its mullion’d Windows, its great Gables, its beauteous circular Window of eight Lights, and its brooding Topiary Garden, casting ominous Shadows upon Velvet Lawns. No sooner did she make my Acquaintance, than she wanted me to know that she was no Common Strumpet but a banish’d Bride, that she was accustom’d to Finery beyond these tawdry Brothel Rags, that she found the Manners at Coxtart’s Tea-Table distasteful in the extream, and that the Life she liv’d Today was but a pale Reminder of her former Glory.

“Oft’times I dream I’ve dy’d and gone to Hell,” says she, speaking of the Brothel Life. “My Childhood was the sheerest Paradise. At Gigglesden, we din’d off golden Plates and had our Wine brought in Venetian Goblets of Emerald swirl’d with Amethyst, like unto an Adriatick Sea whereon a low Sun sets.”

As if to stress her Longing always to be in the Past, not the Present, she spoke in a Voice that was more a Child’s than a Woman’s; i’faith, for all the gorgeous Rhetorick she us’d when speaking of her long-lost Home, she seem’d at other Times to lapse into Baby’s Prattle. Before long, I won her Confidence by refusing to mock her Dreams of vanish’d Grandeur (as the other Wenches did), and indeed, by becoming the only Wench in the House with whom she could reminisce o’er her Youth. I appear’d, in fact, to share her Obsessions with her Past; and I paid her Tit for Tat—her Memories of Gigglesden with mine of Lymeworth. Soon we form’d a Pair and were fast Friends; whereupon I took the Liberty of enquiring about the Nature of these Private Revels.

There were, she told me, many Clubs in London, and most of ’em met in Coffee and Chocolate Houses ’round the Town. Some were Lit’ry Clubs, some political, and some were Clubs for Pranksters, like the Golden Fleece, wherein each Member assum’d a new Name, such as Sir Whore-Hunter, or Sir Boozy Prate-All. There was the celebrated Mollies Club, whose Members dress’d up as Women and titter’d behind their painted Fans. They had a Secret Couplet which was the very Proof of Membership, and they delighted in reciting it to each other, thus:

Tell me, gentle Hobdehoy,

Art thou Girl or art thou Boy?

There was also the Ugly Club, whose Members were suppos’d to be the most loathsome-featur’d in all of England; and the Lying Club, whose Members were mostly Lawyers; and the Divan Club, whose Members fancied Turkish Dress, Turkish Tobacco, Hashish, and Revels in the Turkish Style. But the Clubs that concern’d Melinda (and the other three Wenches) were those formerly known by the name of Hell-Fire Clubs, and regarding these, great Secrecy and Discretion were requir’d, for just a little over three Years previously, a Royal Proclamation had been issu’d ’gainst blasphemous Clubs in London; and since that Time, the Hell-Fire Clubs had all changed their Names and conducted their “Amorological Rites,” their “Corybantic Orgies,” their “Tahitian Fertility Rites,” most privily.

No longer did they meet at the notorious Rose Tavern nor at well-known scandalous Bagnios, nor e’en at Chocolate and Coffee Houses, but instead conspir’d to find more sequester’d Quarters, usually at some small Distance from the Metropolis.

One such Club, said she, had initiated her into Membership, but she could tell me no more about it. Only if I were an Initiate myself and sworn to Secrecy could I learn of it, whereupon I would be committed to its Rules for Life. Did I wish to take on such a heavy Oath, she askt; for were I e’er to break it, Satan himself should come to fetch my Soul.

“Do they worship the Devil, then, Melinda?” I askt her.

“Aye, Fanny, and ’tis on Penalty of Banishment to Hell forthwith that you break their Vows of Secrecy. Moreo’er, once you are initiated you must serve that Club and that alone; you may see no Swains within the Brothel here.”

“Would you take me with you?” I askt.

“Fanny, do you dare?” she said in her Child-like Cadences. “Pray think on’t. For there are Times I wish I ne’er had seen that cursed Club.”

I thought of my Friends the Witches and all I’d learnt from them of Witchcraft. Could a Club of London Fops be more terrifying than what I’d witness’d upon Stonehenge Down?

Why, it seem’d hardly likely! Besides, these Private Parties paid far more than all of Coxtart’s Swains together. Since the Babe I carried would start to show ere long, I’d better make my Fortune whilst I might!

“I dare and dare again,” said I, as brazen as you please. Somehow I was certain that ’twas all the sheerest Twattle, and now that I’d determin’d to escape with Lancelot, I felt free to try whate’er I wisht; i’faith, I felt invincible.

Mother Coxtart, presenting no Obstacle to our Plans, (indeed she encouraged us in ’em, owing to the Fact that she herself stood to gain more by my new Occupation), sent Word to the Founder of the Mysterious Club, that a new “Young Nun” was to be “prepar’d for Vestalship,” and fixt my Initiation for that very Week.

When the appointed Ev’ning arriv’d, Melinda came into my Chamber carrying my “Holy Vestments,” lockt the door behind her, and show’d me how to dress myself like a Nun of that “Sacred Order.”

She brought with her two Habits, all in white and made of the finest, thinnest Wool. These loose Garments (which, indeed, conceal’d our Forms) we were to wear with no Undergarments whatsoe’er. Our white silk Stockings we would roll above the Knee and fasten with red Garters (one of which I possess’d already); but we were to be free of Stays or Boddices or Underlinen of any sort. Ne’ertheless, chain’d ’round our naked Waists, we were to wear inverted iron Crucifixes upon iron Chains.

Our Headdresses were made to look like Nuns’, but with the Addition of white silk Masks, which cover’d nearly the entire Face; and our Hair was also tuckt away so that we could in no wise be recogniz’d by its Colour. O’er all this Costume, we wore black velvet Cloaks with ample Hoods so that our Nuns’ Costumes could not be seen at all by curious Passersby; and in these Disguises we had just attir’d ourselves when a Footman came to say that a Chariot awaited us without.

’Twas Twilight in the London Street when we stepp’d into the waiting Coach, drawn by four white Horses. The Carriage Door was bare of Markings; no Coat of Arms reveal’d the Owner to our View. But within was our Guide, a Maskt Man in a black velvet Cloak, made like ours, (and ’neath that were brown Monks’ Robes, we later discover’d).

“Good Ev’ning, Ladies,” said he, welcoming us, with great Formality, and presently we were off across the London Streets, with our Guide saying not a Word to us all the while.

When we reach’d Oxford Street he produced two scarlet silk Handkerchiefs and, with great Solicitude, bade us blindfold ourselves; for ’twas one of the Rules of the Club that female Acolytes must not know its Meeting Place.

I began, then, to grow wary; for there is nought quite so unsettling as rattling along in a Coach without knowing the Direction of one’s Journey, and there is, withal, a Sense of Helplessness owing to the Fact that one cannot see one’s Way to escape, should Escape prove necessary. I remember’d my blindfolded Journey with Lancelot and grew e’er more untranquil. But I reminded myself that I had bargain’d for just such an Adventure, so I strove to quiet my own Fears.

We drove for a Time; just how long I cannot say, most probably due to the Effects of the Blindfold upon my Senses, but after a while, I could readily feel the pav’d Road turn to an earthen one and the Coach go slower and yet begin to rattle still more than before. I could smell that we were in the Country. The sweet Odour of mown Hay ascended my Nose and I heard the Sounds of ev’ning Birds communicating in the Dusk. I laps’d into a Sort of Reverie, owing to the Motion of the Coach and the Effects of the Blindfold, and I sought to imagine what my Life would be like after I bore my Babe, and ran away to the Forest with Lancelot and the Merry Men. I essay’d to picture the Face and Features of the tiny Life I carried so hidden within me; but i’faith, I could not. This Babe was as mysterious to me as God—a Presence that determin’d all my Fate, yet which I could not see.

We must have ridden longer than I reckon’d, for ’twas black as Pitch when the Coach came to a stop and our Guide bade us remove our Blindfolds. We had stopp’d before a ruin’d Church curiously cut into a Hillside, surmounted with evil-looking Yews, and a full Moon caught upon one of their Points like a Head upon a Pike. The Façade of the Church was inlaid with strange Stones and Pebbles, curiously workt in what seem’d a Runick Design, and, indeed, it appear’d more pagan than Christian.

Here we dismounted, and our Guide nodded towards the Entrance of the Church. A Shiver shook my Shoulders, for the Church seem’d the very Image of Evil, but I had come too far to give in to idle Fears, so instead I clasp’d Melinda’s Hand, and we advanced to the Portal.

“Are you afear’d, Fanny?” askt she, her infantile Voice quavering despite all her Efforts to control it.

“No,” said I, lying as much as she.

We walkt, following our Guide, into a low vaulted Passage, which led into a Tunnel hewn from the sheerest Stone, in which the Marks of Pick-Axes could still be seen. The Caves were damp and dark, illuminated here and there by single Tapers, stuck in Sconces, mounted along the rustick Walls, but these gave pitifully small Illumination. Our Footsteps echo’d upon damp Stone; and we heard as well the continual Sound of running Water, dripping from the stony Eaves. At Times our Feet falter’d, but our Guide urged us e’er onward, saying, “Come, Ladies, there’s nothing here to fear.”

’Twas cold Comfort to us, for as we proceeded deeper into the Bowels of the Earth, we grew more terrified. We seem’d to pass dark little Alcoves cut into the Stone, whence came the low Sounds of Masculine Laughter and the higher Sounds of Feminine Laughter. At one Turning, I nearly dy’d of Fright, for there, carv’d above an Archway, and illuminated by half a dozen Candles, was an Image of the Devil as ravenous and open-mouth’d as you please, and dangling from his bestial, pointed Teeth was a Woman’s white silk Stocking—as if indeed the Foul Fiend had eaten her alive!

Beyond this Archway, we advanced timidly to a Place where the Walls were honey-comb’d with tiny Chambers, within which I seem’d to hear Stirring; but these Chambers were so dark, i’faith, that I could see nothing more than shadowy Forms. We continu’d onward o’er a Bridge that cross’d a Black River, and on the opposite side took a sharp Turn to the Left thro’ the narrowest of Passages, where suddenly we saw before us, all illumin’d by Candles set within Skulls, a Pagan Catacomb.