Fanny (39 page)

Alas, my Pray’rs are all in vain, for he gropes his Way into the little Cave and strokes its moist Walls until he finds me!

“Now I have caught you, my Beauty,” says Bellars, seizing me and pressing me to him with such Passion that I fear my very Habit shall melt away as if ’twere Butter instead of Wool.

He clasps me to himself like Life itself and he a Dying Man. Ne’er have I felt such Need, such Desire. Whereupon he seeks to lay me on the Ground and make love to me there and then.

My Intellect rebels, but O my Heart and my Body are all too willing. He parts my Thighs with Kisses, fondles my Breasts ’neath the loose Nun’s Attire, and soon has his Way with me, sweeping away all my Resistance in a Flood of Passion more intense than any I have known.

O I have been swiv’d and roger’d in the Brothel and felt little but sweet Triumph or base resentful Submission o’er Man’s Foolishness, but here some Essence of my Soul is touch’d, and I must curse the Author of that Touch, because whosoe’er can make me sigh like this, can make me weep as well.

When the Act is done, I am undone, bereft. All the Self-Esteem and sweet Control of my Destiny I have nurtur’d, lo these last few Weeks, is gone! I scramble to my Feet, e’en as he seeks to fondle me and cover me with Kisses of Gratitude.

“Ne’er have I known a Cunnikin as sweet as yours,” says he.

“Ne’er?” say I, disguising my Voice.

“Once only, and that was in another County,” says he, punningly.

“What? And the Maid not dead yet?” said I.

“Only her Maidenhead dy’d,” said Bellars, “but I hope the sweet Maid is alive yet, tho’ surely I have lost her.”

“Sir,” said I, “I assure you I am no Maid, and have not been for some Time past. And now I’ll take my Leave.”

“Please stay,” says he.

“That I cannot,” say I.

“Where may I find you again?” says he.

“Nowhere,” say I. “I am a Phantom, a mere Chimera. In Daylight, I disappear.”

“I beg of you,” he pleads.

“Now will I vanish into thinnest Air,” say I.

“I beg of you on bended Knee,” says he.

“Then send for Madam Hackabout-Jones in care of Mother Coxtart,” say I, thinking myself daft to reveal my Whereabouts. But I tell myself that I shall plot Sweet Revenges against this Villain, Lover, Devil; and e’en as I flee, I promise my sullied Soul and punish’d Pride that I shall have the Upper Hand ere long and one Day be his Master!

CHAPTER X

Of Love and Lust, Pan and Satan, Longing and Loyalty, and other such lofty (or low) Matters; together with our Heroine’s Adventures at the notorious George & Vulture Inn, and how (with the Aid of some of the surviving Merry Men) she resolv’d the Dilemma of her Destiny.

I
N THE COACH RETURNING
to Coxtart’s Brothel, thro’ the Wee Hours of the Morning, I drows’d in my Blindfold, and sought to reflect upon the curious Doings of that fateful Night. I thought myself mad for giving Bellars a Way to seek me out, for I knew that my Passion for him had been but newly kindl’d and that now I should live in Dread of his summoning me. But the Words had flown from my Lips against my Will. I had been pow’rless to part from him without the Hope of seeing him again!

O what a vain and useless Thing was Passion! Lancelot I lov’d like a Brother, but Bellars, like the Devil, had stolen my Soul. Lancelot I would give my Soul to save from Death, but Bellars had my Body! And who is the Wit that says: “He that possesses a Woman’s Body possesses her Soul”?

I was torn betwixt two Loves—one Golden Pan and one Olive-skinn’d Satan! I wanted both—and both on my own Terms. I could give up neither—neither the Passion I knew with Bellars nor the fraternal Loyalty I knew with Lancelot. Were all Women so torn? Was Love a two-faced Beast (or two-faced God) that ne’er could be united in one Man?

What would I do when Bellars sent for me as I knew he must? What would I do with the curious Triumph of making him fall in Love with me when he knew not my true Identity? I wisht, above all, to disown my Body, for I felt that my Body had betray’d me. But how could I disown it now when ’twas ripe with Life and craving the Father of that Life more than e’er before?

These and other Questions perplext me during my Blindfolded Ride back to Coxtart’s House. I turn’d ’em ’round and ’round in my Brain like Wheels that had no Beginning and no Ending, until at length I grew weary and full of Despair and I resolv’d upon Sleep as the only Cure for my Perplexity. “Sleep that knits up the ravell’d Sleeve of Care,” as Shakespeare hath writ. I would sleep, I promis’d myself, and the Answer would come to me in a Dream.

But, alas, no Dreams attended me. When I return’d to Coxtart’s, I sank into the dreamless Sleep of the Dead. Morpheus sent no Messages; nought but Blankness came, blessed, useless Blankness.

I awaken’d late to hear a persistent Rapping at my Chamber Door. ’Twas Mother Coxtart herself—now quite as obsequious to me as she had once been arrogant (for, since I was lately bringing her Establishment a handsome Profit, she could not do enough for me, it seem’d, but would fore’er be grovelling, cringing, and scraping to do my Bidding). How fickle was Fate! What a Lottery was Life! Two Months before she’d scorn’d me as a Beggar; now she grovell’d to me as to a Duchess. But, alas, knowing of her Fickleness, her Grovelling was of as little Use to me as her earlier Scorn.

“Madam Fanny,” says she, “an’ beggin’ your Pardon for this rude Awak’ning, but there are Letters for you—or should I rather say,
Billets Doux
.”

I could not bear to see her fawning Face—so I bade her slide the Letters ’neath my Door, whereupon I tiptoed out of Bed to fetch ’em.

Indeed, there were two, one seal’d quite unmistakably with Bellars’ Seal, the other scrawl’d upon a dirty Piece of Foolscap that had known the Mud of the Kennels and bore no Seal at all.

When I saw these two Missives (and especially the one bearing Bellars’ Seal), my Hands began to shake like Leaves upon a great Autumnal Oak. I sav’d the Bellars Missive for later, fancying that ’twould cause me the greatest Inquietude, and open’d the one that was splotch’d with Mud. I read the Scribblings of a hasty Hand:

My Dearest Fanny:

Robin Hood bids me inform you that all is in Readiness for the Greatest Triumph of his Career. Go at once to Horatio at The George & Vulture in Cornhill, St. Michael’s Alley, and he will make all known to you. I beg of you, do not tarry. Horatio awaits. Dubious as I remain of this Enterprise, I am Sworn to do Robin’s Bidding, as are you. I trust your Noble Heart will ne’er let you forget.

God Bless You.

Yr. Affectionate Friend,

Littlehat.

The News that Horatio had rejoin’d the Merry Men and that Lancelot had fixt all for his Great Rebellion gave me less Apprehension, oddly, than Bellars’ Letter, which now I tore open with trembling, icy Hands:

Adorable Creature,

I know not what to say—my Mind is in greater Turmoil than a Bedlamite’s. Since we parted in those Stygian Caves last Ev’ning, I have slept not a Wink, being toss’d upon a Sea of Doubts and Fears, the like of which I have ne’er known. I feel that my Heart is a leaky Boat, tormented upon Storm-cross’d Seas, that should I fail to see you again, I am little better than a Crusoe without his Friday. A dreadful Cloud seems to hang o’er my Heart when I consider that you and I may be parted fore’er more. I ask you to search your Soul for whate’er Humanity and Compassion you possess and grant your Humble Suitor but one further Audience. If I cannot then convince you that I have Pow’rs to make you the Happiest of Women, I shall withdraw and quit your Sight for all Eternity. Send to me presently with your Answer in order to assuage the intolerable Torment that afflicts the Heart of your most Faithful,

Bellars.

P.S. If you are still loath to reveal your Identity, I shall gladly meet you at a Masquerade. But I must meet you again! Adieu.

Reading this, my Mind suffer’d as great a Tumult as Bellars had described in his own. What Answer should I make? Should I meet him in Disguise and seek to wreak my Vengeance upon him? Or would Vengeance melt into Submission the Moment my Eyes beheld him?

Moreo’er, if Bellars was so determin’d to see me, why did he not accost me at the Brothel and seek to hire me as a common Whore—tho’ ’twas against the Hell-Fire Rules. E’en as I wonder’d this, I knew the Answer. A common Whore would not be to his Taste—he who told his Lover of his Liaisons! No, he must have Intrigue and Masks and Masquerades; he must make me rare enough to warrant his uncommon Loving; he must swive me as a Lady or a Nun, ne’er a Strumpet! For a Man of Lord Bellars’ Parts pleasures and disdains “mere” Strumpets and must win, at all costs, more than a Cunnikin: he must win a Heart.

Yet I could not ponder long my Response to this Dilemma with Lord Bellars, for I was bound to meet Horatio at The George & Vulture and learn of Lancelot’s Rebellion, wherefore I hastily sent Answer to My Lord that I should seek him in the Costume of a Spanish Nun—for our Hell-Fire Nuns’ Robes were forbidden ev’rywhere but in the Club itself—whilst he should seek me in the Garb of Satan, at the next Costume Ridotto to be held at The King’s Theatre.

Having sent such Reply, via Coxtart herself (who prov’d quite willing to play the Go-Between for me), I hastily dress’d and took a Chair for The George & Vulture.

Now, The George &. Vulture had, of all London Inns, the most sinister Reputation. ’Twas thought to be a Resort for Ghosts, Goblins, and all Manner of Demons—a Reputation which the sinister Landlord not only did little to discourage, but in fact encouraged owing to his Belief that it brought more Custom to his House—tho’ indeed a strange kind of Custom. The Inn was notorious for being the Meeting Ground of Mountebanks, Thieves, Astrologers, and Fortune Tellers.

This was the sort of Place where I was to meet Horatio; and indeed, it liv’d up to its Ill-Fame, for hanging o’er the Portal was a creaking wooden Sign whereon was painted the Image of a dreadful Vulture, preparing to swoop down upon its Prey. Within the Innyard itself sat the living Likeness of this Bird, a terrible Creature who regarded all Comers with the clearest, coldest Eye.

The Landlord welcom’d me. He was a Man nearly as terrible as his Bird, with a similar Beak, Eyes, and Mien. ’Tis said that Men grow to resemble their loving Dogs; but I can also attest that they grow to resemble their Vultures should they keep such Pets!

The Interior of the Inn was dark, tho’ ’twas little past Noon, for the Windows were kept shutter’d ’gainst prying Eyes. A Fire burn’d in the Grate, and sitting near it, at a Table in the Corner of the Room, was Horatio himself flankt by Francis Bacon and Puck Goodfellow!

Horatio’s Skin glow’d chocolate brown in the flickering Firelight, whilst the Sword-sharp’d Scar upon Puck’s Visage seem’d more ominous than e’er before. Sir Francis Bacon rose and greeted me first, saying, “What a fine Beauty you’re growin’ into, Fanny!” And then Horatio embraced me with his usual Lust; and after him, the tall and fearful-featur’d Puck Goodfellow.

“Pray, be seated, Sweetheart,” says Horatio, “and Welcome! Let’s drink a Toast to this unexpected Reunion.” Whereupon the Landlord, who had hover’d about us all the while, fetch’d a round of Claret, and we all drank with genuine Good Humour and Chear.

“Bless me if you’re not more beautiful than e’er before, my Fannikins,” says Horatio, “but, in the sacred Name of Friendship, I’ll refrain from doing Nature’s Bidding—tho’ such, I vow, is ne’er the Path of Wisdom. For doth not Juvenal himself say:
‘Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dixit’?
… Or, for you ignorant Prigs,” says he, glancing at Bacon and Puck, “‘Ne’er does Nature say one Thing and Wisdom another’!”

“’Tis good to see you, Horatio,” say I, “and hear the Latin Syllables roll from your Tongue, but pray, what News have you from Lancelot?”

“He’s mad as e’er he was,” says Horatio, “but now he hath a new Plan which surpasses all his other Plans in Daring. And, if I may say so, in Stupidity….”

“Not Stupidity!” cries Bacon, always ready to defend Lancelot’s Honour, “but Bravery.”

“Stupid Bravery,” says Horatio, “for he means to lead the Prisoners out of Newgate and to the London Docks or e’en as far as Southampton or the Isle of Wight, where he plans to commandeer a Ship to take ’em to the New World. There he hopes to build a new Eden in the Wilderness—a ‘True Deocracy of Christian Souls,’ or so he calls it.”

“Where will he get the Ship? And why the New World? I thought Lancelot hated all Mention of the Colonies and thought America a Land of Savages!”

“And so ’tis, Fanny, so ’tis. Dare I, with my Skin my very Brand—e’en if I had no Brand—set Foot upon that savage Soil? Why, here in England I may starve, and yet I’m free, but in the Colonies, I’m nought but a hunted Slave!”

“An’ yet you are not free in Law,” says Bacon.

“’Tis true, good Francis,” says Horatio, “but in Britannia we are not mere Lambs to slaughter, whilst in the Colonies the Fate that awaits a Runaway is harsh indeed.”

“But Lancelot means to sail to Boston Harbour or Providence,” says Puck, “not to the Sugar Isles or to Virginia or the Carolinas.”

“You are as much a Fool as Lancelot!” shouts Horatio. “Do you think that the sanctimonious Puritans are any less brutal to the Black Man than the Plantation Owners? Sure, they keep only a few domestick Slaves themselves—but the Wealth of all the Ship Owners in New England is built on Slaving! Boston Harbour runs sticky with Rum and Blood! Do you know my Worth in New England, Puck, my Friend? ’Tis a hundred and fifteen Gallons of Rum—no more, no less! I’d have a better Chance as a
Cimmarone
in Cuba or upon a
Quilombo
in Brazil than as a Black Man in saintly Boston or sanctimonious Providence!”

“Pray, what are
Cimmarones,
Horatio? And what indeed
Quilombos
?
.
They sound like Things to eat!” said I, hoping to add some Levity to this distressing Conversation.