Fanny (43 page)

“Fanny,” Coxtart says, “I owe ye a great Debt of Gratitude for all yer valiant Efforts to arrest Kate’s Escape. For the Baggage hath elop’d, and I doubt not but all yer Struggles with the Window were nought but the most valiant Essays to stop the Wench. For truly she hath deceiv’d us all. She spirited away the other Girls with the News of a great Auction in the Royal Exchange, which prov’d a Lye. And when I return’d from Market, I found the Baggage gone—with all my Plate as well!—and you bleeding in the Street where you had fallen in yer Loyalty to me! O there was a Young Fellow who came here enquiring after you upon that Night of your Initiation as a Nun—a Fellow from Wiltshire—a rough Country Squire who claim’d to be the Heir to a Great Estate. I would have sent him packing, but Kate insisted she herself would entertain him—the Strumpet—and I reckon ’tis with
him
she hath elop’d! But fear not, we’ll see the Strumpet hang’d, I warrant. O what Satisfaction ’twill be to hear the Snap of her foolish Neck and see her swing at Tyburn.”

I only moan’d and wail’d for Lancelot and did not answer, but in my Mind many Visions rose and fell. Could it be Daniel who had come in search of me, and had he then been set upon by Kate? Impossible, I thought; Coxtart must be mad. Kate had doubtless stolen the Silver and then fled, or perhaps her mysterious Tradesman had come for her at last. Still, what did I care for Kate’s Affairs, with Lancelot gone!

Oblivious of my Distress, Coxtart chatter’d on: “And mark my Words, you have slept thro’ the greatest Tumult London hath known since the Royal Entry of King George. Why, a Rebellion hath taken place in Newgate Prison and well o’er twenty Rogues and forty Debtors o’erpower’d the Guards and made away on horseback. ’Twas said they had Confederates without the Prison Walls who brought ’em Horses on which to escape—Stolen Horses, I’ll warrant—and the whole Town hath talkt of nothing else lo these three Days past!”

This News brought me suddenly to my Senses.

“And what became of the Mutineers?” I askt, my Voice hoarse with not having spoken a Word except to rave in three whole Days.

“See here,” says Coxtart, “I’ve
The Daily Courant
somewhere about.” And she lookt for it upon the Escritoire—but finding it not, she said: “No, no—’tis not here, but I’ll fetch it from the Parlour.” Whereupon she hasten’d towards the Door.

“Pray, Mother Coxtart,” I askt, “tell me, have I broken Bones? Will I be lame fore’er more?”

“I fear’d that, too,” says she, “for my beloved, dearest Fanny, but ’twas nothing more than a twisted Ankle, tho’ yer Leg swell’d so, we had to cut the Boot off. Clever Girl to pursue that Strumpet, Kate, in Man’s Disguise—but have no Fear, we’ll see her swing yet. Sure, Fanny, had ye not hit yer Head and knockt yer Brains to Heaven, that Ankle would have stopp’d ye—not to mention all the Blood ye lost from yer Wrist. Why, had ye wisht to suicide, ye could have done no better! Now then, I’ll fetch yer Tea and
The Daily Courant
, I’ll warrant there’ll be Love Letters as well from yer Fine Admirer….”

Coxtart bustl’d out the Door, full of counterfeit Love for me now that she saw still more Profits to be made off Lord Bellars’ Infatuation. I lay abed alone and moan’d with Anguish. I remember’d my Dream of Peace and Happiness and how I had awaken’d from it to this Nightmare. I curst my Fate which had orphan’d me fore’er more. Would I always be an Outcast, wand’ring the World, seeking my own Native Tribe, and finding it briefly only to be cast out again? I moan’d more with the Ache in my Heart than with the Pains in my Foot and Wrist. O why was I not dead if not with Lancelot? I wept until I soakt the Linens with my briny Tears.

Coxtart soon return’d, full of Chear and Bustle, placed a Tray before me set with Dishes of Tea and all Manner of Muffins, Buns, warm Breads, Butter, and Cheese.

“Come now, Fanny, dry yer Eyes. Lord Bellars will pay a Visit to ye anon,” whereupon the sly old Fox smil’d like a Tom Cat that tortures a Canary.

This News alarm’d me. Now, more than e’er before, Bellars must not see my Face! For surely if he knew I were his Step-Child, he would grow tired of me ere long.

“Pray, Mother Coxtart, you must keep Lord Bellars away from here until I am recover’d. I will not have him see me in this distress’d Condition. Why, Coquetry and Prudence
alone
dictate that he must ne’er see me in this Condition! I have sent Word to him already to await the next Costume Ridotto at The King’s Theatre and I’ll ne’er see him ere then. Do you think I have gain’d the passionate Loyalty of such a notorious Rake by letting him come to me at any Hour? Nay, Mother Coxtart, he will pay better for my Services if he is forced to wait!”

“Clever Wench!” says Coxtart, her Eyes glitt’ring with Greed. “Very well, then, I’ll keep the Wolf at bay. But mark ye—there are Letters here,” whereupon she hands me no less than four Letters with Lord Bellars’ Seal. Now she draws a somewhat tatter’d Copy of a News-Sheet out of her Apron, sets it before me, and with many counterfeit Kisses and Fondlings (which near cause me to be sick upon the Bed), she takes her Leave of me.

I put the Love Letters aside without the slightest Hesitation and turn hungrily to
The Daily Courant
before I e’en taste my Tea. There I read these stirring Words upon the Page:

London, September 24.

We have receiv’d Information of a major Tumult Yesterday at Newgate Prison. The Turnkey, perceiving the Prisoners going into a Riot, sent Guards for a File of Musqueteers to prevent it, and a Tumult arose, in which there were seven Men kill’d and a like Number of Soldiers wounded, despite which Occurrence, well o’er Forty Prisoners escap’d upon horseback, doubtless with the Aid of Confederates without the Walls. A Committee of Council hath been form’d to look into this Disorder and the Warden hath been directed to take more effectual Care for the Future.

So the Rebellion had not fail’d! Yet who were the seven Men kill’d? Was Lancelot amongst them? And did they truly escape and reach the Isle of Wight? Upon this the News-Sheet was anguishingly silent. Was there no further Report, no News at all but this? Alas, the Paper was far more prolix upon the Subjects of lost Dogs, erring Wives, and facial Washes. For in the self-same Sheet I also read:

Lost September 24, 1724, betwixt St. James’ Sq. and the Old Palace-Yard, a little Cross-shap’d Dog, of the Lurcher kind, of a yellow-brown Colour. ’Twas taken up by an ill-lookt Fellow, a Notorious Dog-Stealer, and led by a blue String towards York Building. He answers to the Name of Bugg, and leaps o’er a Stick. Whoe’er brings him next door to the Great House in Dean’s Yard, shall have Two Shillings Reward. N.B. He will ne’er be worth a George to those who have him, his Marks being known.

’twas clear that lost Dogs merited a far more Precise Account than Prison Rebellions. Likewise, Lost Wives:

Whereas Dame Eliza Penny (Wife of Sir James Penny of York Place in the County of Surrey, Bart, and Daughter of Samuel Snellgrove, late of Deptford in the County of Kent, Shipwright), aged 23 years, or thereabouts, hath elop’d from her said Husband without any Cause, and endeavours to run him in Debt, by taking up Goods from Tradesmen and otherwise. The said Husband, with an honest Intent, that Tradesmen and others should not be impos’d on: Doth hereby give Notice of the said Elopement, and that he will not pay any Debts she shall contract. This Notice is further to Forewarn all Persons not to trust her; and to the End no Person may be impos’d upon by her under any False Names in the Future, all Persons are inform’d that she is a little Woman, light brown Hair, full grey Eyes, large Eyebrows, round Visage, pale Complexion, with a small Moon-shap’d Scar in the Middle of her Forehead, and hath a very voluble, deceitful Tongue.

Alas for the English Nation which hath e’er set a higher Value upon Dogs than upon Wives! I doubted not but Eliza Penny had good cause to leave her “said Husband,” and in my Heart I wisht her God’s Speed. Likewise Lancelot, tho’ I knew not whether he was alive or dead. O curse the foolish News-Sheet which had more Space for Notices of Aids to Beauty than for Notices of Rebellions in Newgate Prison! For now I glanced down the Page, where, in my Distress and Anguish, I allow’d my Eye to linger o’er the trivial Notices of Beauty Aids, many of which I already had employ’d:

The famous Bavarian Red Liquor; Which gives such a delightful blushing Colour to the Cheaks of those that are White or Pale, that it is not to be distinguish’d from a natural fine Complexion, nor perceiv’d to be artificial by the nearest Friend. Is nothing of Paint, or in the least hurtful, but good in many Cases to be taken inwardly. It renders the Face delightfully handsome and beautiful; is not subject to be rubb’d off like Paint, therefore cannot be discover’d by the nearest Friend. It is certainly the best Beautifier in the World; is sold only at Mr. Payn’s Toy-Shop, at The Angel and Crown in St. Paul’s Churchyard near Cheapside, at 3s. 6d. a Bottle, with Directions.

Would I now, having lost Lancelot, and all my Dreams of Liberty, devote myself entirely to being a Painted Whore, and fill my Life, like so many Women, with these Trifles? Then I had best read carefully, for this News-Sheet foretold my entire Destiny:

The true Royal Chymical Wash-Ball for the beautifying of the Hands and Face, as it is from the first Author, without Mercury or anything prejudicial, largely experienced and highly recommended by all that use them, and that for making the Skin so delicately soft and smooth, as not to be parallel’d by either Wash, Powder, or Cosmetick; and it being indeed a real Beautifier of the Skin, by taking off all Deformities, as Tetters, Ringworms, Morphew, Sunburn, Scurff, Pimples, Pits, or Redness of the Small Pox, keeping it of a lasting and extream Whiteness. It soon alters red or rough Hands and is admirable in shaving the Head, which not only gives an exquisite Sharpness to the Razor, but so comforts the Brain and Nerves, as to prevent catching Cold, and is of a grateful and pleasant Scent; which has been sold above this twenty Years at the Corner of Pope’s-Head Alley in Cornhill, over against the Royal Exchange, and is still continu’d to be sold at the same Place by Mr. Lambert, Glove-Seller, and at Mrs. King’s Toy-Shop in Westminster Hall. Price one Shilling each, and Allowance by the dozen. Beware of Counterfeits which may prove very prejudicial.

Beware, indeed, of Counterfeits! Would a Bavarian Red Liquor cure a pallid aching Heart and make it robust and red again? Would a Royal Chymical Wash-Ball cleanse Deformities from the Soul? O the News-Sheet did not answer this! But how informative ’twas upon the Subject of Perfume for Wigs!

The Royal Essence for the Hair of the Head and Perriwigs, being the most delicate and charming Perfume in Nature, and the greatest Preserver of Hair in the World, for it keeps that of Perriwigs (a much longer Time than usual) in the Curl, and fair Hair from fading or changing Colour, makes the Hair of the Head grow thick, strengthens and confirms its Roots, and effectually prevents it from falling off or splitting at the Ends, makes the Powder continue in all Hair longer than it possibly will, by the use of any other Thing; by its incomparable Odour and Fragrancy it strengthens the Brain, revives the Spirits, quickens the Memory, and makes the Heart chearful, never raises the Vapours in Ladies, & c, being wholly free from (and abundantly more delightful and pleasant than) Musk, Civet, &. c, ’tis indeed an unparallel’d fine Scent for the Pocket, and perfumes Handkerchiefs, & c. excellently. To be had only at Mr. Allcraft’s, a Toy-Shop at The Bluecoat Boy by Pope’s-Head Alley against The Royal Exchange, Cornhill, seal’d up, at 2s. 6d. a Bottle with Directions.

O Mr. Allcraft, sure I could use some of your Craft! For ne’er did my Brain need so much strengthening, nor my Memory so much quickening, nor my Spirits so much reviving, nor my Heart so much chearing! O I must go to Mr. Allcraft’s Toy-Shop presently! I must have this Royal Essence to revive my Spirits! I must cover my aching Heart with Paints and Patches, my aching Brain with perfum’d Powder for a Wig, my sadden’d Soul with Petticoats and Panniers, my sunder’d Spirit with silver Lace or gold. Alas, Belinda, we read the News-Sheets for News of Life and Death, Survival of our Souls in Worlds to Come, Reunion with our Loves and Lovers—and we find nought but Notices for Toys and Toy-Shops, Beauty Aids and Scents! The Printing-Press may have a certain Pow’r, but it doth nought to bring us back our Friends nor heal our Hearts! And when we read the News for Comfort and Consolation—Cosmeticks are all we get!

My Tea was now cold as Ice, likewise my Breads and Muffins; and, putting ’em all aside, I crumpl’d the accursed News-Sheet into a Ball and fell to weeping again as if I must discharge the stor’d Tears of an entire Lifetime. O that my briny Tears were the briny Sea and I were aboard the
Hazard
with Lancelot! But ’twas not to be. The Fates had other Jests in Store.

CHAPTER XIII

Containing a most Edifying Comparison betwixt Life and a Masquerade, as well as our Heroine’s Meditations upon Maternity and the curious Bargain she struck with the Devil to ensure the safe Arrival upon this Earth of her unborn Babe.

W
HEN THE TIME CAME
for the next Costume Ridotto at The King’s Theatre, I was near recover’d of my Strength, tho’ the Condition of my Spirits was, to say the Truth, not much better than upon the Day I sought, all fruitlessly, to run away. Ne’ertheless, I had settl’d into a sort of fatal Resignation about the Loss of Lancelot, and I knew I must now apply myself to Thoughts of providing for my Babe, since before long, my Condition would begin to show; there was not a Minute to spare. Already, I was beginning to notice a slight Thickening in my Waist. O ’twas nothing the World could see—especially when I wore my Corset drawn as tight as was the Fashion then—but ’twas a Warning to me. No longer could I tarry in Regret and Indecision; I must determine how to make the best of my Destiny.

Truly, I languish’d with the Loss of Lancelot and the Merry Men, but I was quite distraught as well about my foolish Innocence in trusting Kate. For in the Days that pass’d after her Elopement, I found that she had stolen various Articles from me—small Things in the main: a painted Fan, a Patch Box, a pair of red-heel’d Slippers of green Silk, as well as sundry Cosmeticks, Ribbands, and a Hat of Butter-colour’d Straw with pale pink Ribbands. I curst myself for being so unwary of her—for had I taken better Care, I might now be aboard that dashing Brig, the
Hazard
, with my beloved Lancelot. But I had underestimated the twin Pow’rs of Envy and Hatred. Since Envy was not my Ruling Passion, I fail’d to understand it, quite, in others.