Fanny (76 page)

O what a shar’d History we had! And how many Friends in common had we known—from Horatio to Annie Bonny! We shar’d the Pyrate’s Craft, the Robber’s Art, the Oath of Robin Hood, the Love of the Sea, and e’en the mutual Deception by that bonny Pyrate Queen!

As Acts that are oft’ tragick when they occur become comick upon Recollection and Retelling, the Incident of being “rap’d” by Annie became still another Bond betwixt us. E’en the tragick News of your incestuous Birth did Lancelot transform, thro’ his Philosophy, to Good.

“Fer we are all God’s Creatures, Fanny, Love, an’ God decides which Parents bear which Babes. Belinda is God’s Grace upon that Union which otherwise should have borne nought but Death. Can ye look upon such a lovely bouncin’ Babe an’ think that ye did wrong? ’Tis Twattle! Belinda’s Beauty is a Sign o’ God’s Forgiveness, a Covenant, i’faith, a Sign o’ Grace.”

And verily I could not but believe him. For, just as I know that Children are but lightly loan’d to their Parents and not given, I also know that the Accident of Birth oft’ yokes together Parents and Children that most ill-suited are. Thus, do we all feel like Orphans, (or e’en like Changelings) whilst we grow apace ’neath our Parents’ Roofs. In truth, the Accident of Birth is most capricious—for
all
of us, incestuous or no!

Besides, Belinda, ’twas clear to me that you had no greater Burdens than any other Babe. Because of all the Perils of your Infancy, you were e’en more cherish’d than another Child, and thus Love and Adoration surrounded you and held you in its Glow ev’ry Moment of your Youth. O all the usual Annoyances a Mother feels when a Child intrudes upon her Peace, I did not feel with you; for whene’er you strain’d my Patience and Affection, I remember’d how I rescu’d you from Death’s dark Jaws and I rejoiced merely to have you near!

When at last the Lawyer came, we learnt of many Things. Daniel indeed was dead. Kate had dy’d of a Clap, pregnant with his Child. Lord Bellars had not, amazingly, dy’d in Debt, but dy’d in great Wealth, having made so many thousands of Pounds in various Ventures that not only was Lymeworth free of Mortgages, but its Acreage was now so great that it brought in Rents of near seven thousand Pounds
per Annum
, making the Heir to Lymeworth one of the richest Landlords in all of England!

Who was the Heir to Lymeworth? I nodded and yawn’d at the Meeting of the Family with the Lawyer, for nothing puts me to sleep more readily than Talk of Wills, Trusts, Settlements, Jointures, Portions, Remainders, Doweries, and Pin Moneys. I know these Words make the weary World go ’round; and I know that Lawyers are unto these Words as Horses are unto Chariots—viz.
They make ’em go.
But I have ne’er been in a Chamber with a Lawyer when I did not wish either to scream with Desperation or else to fall into the deepest of Sleeps, e’en when the Matter concern’d my own Future most profoundly.

And so, ’twas not surprizing to me—tho’ perhaps ’twas to all the assembl’d Servants and Retainers, not to mention Mary—that I fell asleep, e’en as the Lawyer was reading all Lord Bellars’ various “Give and Bequeaths.” Why, the poor Man had made an Inventory of the entire House and all its Contents, and he had e’en troubl’d himself to give and bequeath silver Cream Potts, gold Watches, priz’d Wigs, and Waistcoats to some of the Servants, who, in their Ingratitude, had already departed.

Lady Bellars had the gen’rous Jointure call’d for in her Marriage Settlement. ’Twas eight hundred Pounds a year (but then she had brought Lord Bellars a Dowery of eight thousand Pounds with which he had made his Fortune, so ’twas surely her Due—for e’en in those Days Doweries were ten times Jointures). Mary and Isobel were both given Annuities, nor was Joan Griffith forgotten (tho’ alas, she was dead), with her Share to go to Isobel if she were deceas’d before Lord Bellars.

I remember no more of the Will, for after the Mention of Joan Griffith I fell asleep, and dream’d of Pyracy upon the Seas, of Galleons with Rainbow-colour’d Sails, and Brigantines that turn’d into Dragonflies, and Men o’ War that roll’d upon Waggon Wheels, and Slaves in bright Feather’d Headdresses and Golden Necklaces, and Annie Bonny winking at me as she leap’d across the Bowsprit into my Arms, fell to her Knees, and made the Sweetest Love to me that e’er was made in a Dream….

My Head was nodding upon my Breast, and my Thighs were so moist with Dreams that the tatter’d red Garter I still wore began to chafe, when lo, I awoke to hear I was Heiress to Lymeworth!

’Twas explain’d that Lord Bellars had adopted me quite legally; that I was now Life-Tenant of Lymeworth, to be succeeded by Belinda, to be succeeded by Belinda’s first-born Son.

“I object,” my Mother, Isobel, cried out. “Why not a Daughter?” Thus we see that e’en in our greatest Moments of Glory and Good Fortune there is always one who raises a Voice in Protest—and that one is usually our Mother!

The Rest of the Tale, you know, Belinda: How the Settlements were amended to give the Inheritance of House and Title to a first-born Daughter, how you were rais’d by Lancelot and the Merry Men, as well as Isobel, Lady Bellars, and myself, how Mary became as obsequious and grovelling to me as she had previously been scornful and haughty; and where she had once spat and scream’d, she now fawn’d and flatter’d. (Alas ’tis oft’ the case with Persons of Inferior Character that they know only two Modes of Behaviour: one being Contempt and the other being Sycophancy; whereas Persons of Superior Character treat ev’ryone with similar Good Humour, if not Deference, and do not inflict, e’en upon their Servants, Manners with which they would not treat their Friends.)

All this you know. What you do not know is the curious Chain of Events which caus’d me to write this Book, which is the Proper Purpose of the ensuing Epilogue.

But first, imagine me upon that Day when I first became Mistress of Lymeworth. ’Twas a sere Day in January and all the Gardens were frosted with Winter’s Brush. Venus wore a Blanket of Snow about her Bare Feet, and the Hedgerows of Lymeworth were bare of Leaf.

You were less than a Year old, and play’d before the Grate in Isobel’s Chamber, attended by your loving Grandmother, (who e’en then was determin’d to teach you Witchcraft and the Worship of the Great Goddess). Your other Grandmother, Lady Bellars, lay upon her Bed of laced Pillows, playing with her Dogs and talking to ’em. She was enough recover’d of her Senses by now to have her Birds about her, undrap’d in their Cages, but e’en then she scarce knew the Diff’rence betwixt Birds and Persons—nor betwixt Dogs and Persons—nor did she till the Day she dy’d. Her favourite Poem in all the World (which she had woven into a Tapestry and hung above her Bedstand) was one which went:

Reason in Man cannot effect such Love,

As Nature doth in them that Reason want;

Ulysses kind and true his Dog did prove,

When Faith in better Friends was very scant.

My Travels for my Friends have been as true

Tho’ not as far as Fortune did him bear;

No Friends my Love and Faith divided knew,

Tho’ this nor that once equall’d were.

But in my Dog whereof I made no store,

I find more Love than them I trusted more.

As for Mary, she was growing accustom’d to her new State in the Household, as People do, and beginning to falter in her Resolution to bring Lawsuits against me, Isobel, Lord Bellars’ Lawyers and Bankers, for fear that she should thereby lose all. Her Annuity was large enough to dampen her Resolve to sue, tho’ ’twas hardly all she wisht. Thus, doth Money mellow e’en the most furious of Furies and calm the most fever’d of Brows. Lancelot had sent Word to the Merry Men that they might make their Way to Lymeworth, and now, as we walkt the Winter’s Gardens, wrapp’d in Cloaks ’gainst the Cold, our Boots sinking into the Snow, we talkt of our Plans for the Great House and the Gardens—for is it not e’er the case that after Pyracy and after Love comes Architecture, as we pour our Hearts into building a Great House in which we may embody all our Dreams?

“Here we shall hoist our Pyrate Flag,” said Lancelot, pointing to the great Palladian Pediment of the new Facade, “an’ here make
Libertalia.
The Merry Men shall till the Soil, develop new and curious Fruits and Flow’rs, and Lustre shall be the greatest Stud Horse England hath e’er known.
This
is
Libertalia
, me Girl, an’ we shall build it accordin’ to our Hearts’ Desires….”

His green Eyes blaz’d; his wild red Hair seem’d a Fire ascending from his Soul into the Sky. I said, “Aye, aye,” and kiss’d him on the Lips; but in my Mind’s Eye I seem’d to see Anne Bonny’s Galley on the Tropick Seas, and in my Heart, I sail’d away with her.

EPILOGUE

In which our Author explains the curious Chain of Events which led to the Writing of this History.

A
ND SO AFFECTION FOR
the Country got the better of all Thoughts of Town, and Land came to satisfy our Dreams of Sea; and we changed the Name of Lymeworth to Merriman Park (tho’ certainly not without hearty Protestations from Isobel, who wisht the Name to be Merriwych Park), and we liv’d there in Peace and Harmony, cultivating our beauteous Gardens, breeding Lustre’s lovely Progeny, raising you—a frolicsome, merry, red-headed Marvel of a Girl—in the green and fertile Wiltshire Countryside.

I was rich enough to keep the Law at bay, for Justice, as Lancelot always knew, is the Province of the Rich. So, too, is Literature, I fear; for ’twas only when I well and truly found myself an Heiress, and when I had Lancelot and the Merry Men (as well as Isobel and Lady Bellars) to aid in raising you, that I sat down at my Writing Bureau and began in earnest to be the Bard I wisht to be.

Lancelot serv’d as Steward for the Estate (for he would entrust that Post to no one but himself); and verily he greatly increas’d our Prosperity and made our Fields and Gardens, not to mention our Stables, among the Marvels of the Countryside. Mary, as you know, married Francis Bacon, whereupon they proceeded to torment each other for the Duration of their Lives together (since your Aunt Mary, from earliest Girlhood, lov’d nothing better than a good English Roast Beef, whereas Francis Bacon referr’d to the same as “Dead Cow” and made her quite miserable for eating his “Four-legged Friends”).

I will not trouble you with all the Particulars of my Lit’ry Career, much of which is already well-known. Suffice it to say, that I began, like most Scribblers, with Imitation of the Ancients—a Great Epick of my Travels and Adventures, couch’d in Perfect Heroick Couplets, which I call’d, after the Fashion of the Day,
The Pyratiad.
In this Epick I told all I knew of Sailing Ships and the Spanish Main, of the Travels of a Group of Valiant Pyrates call’d the Merry Men (whom ev’ryone believ’d were mere Inventions of the Poet’s Fancy), of the famous Female Pyrate, Anne Bonny, as well as Slavers, Slaves, the Buccaneers, the Pyrate Round upon the Eastern Seas—which was by then, the latter 1720s, entering the Realm of Legend (and consequently, becoming more and more the Subject of Books and Poems). I was wily enough, by this Juncture in my Life, to sign my Name Captain F. Jones, which ev’ryone presum’d was a Man.

This Epick Poem was a dazzling Success! The Criticks rav’d; the Publick bought out the Printings ere the Ink was dry. Ev’ryone in London clamour’d to meet Captain Jones! Belles sigh’d for him and Beaux wisht to interrogate him o’er the Design of Ships; Matrons wisht to present their Marriageable Daughters, and Composers wisht to collaborate with him in styling Entertainments for the Stage. Why, the King Himself askt a Royal Audience, and Letters pour’d into Merriman Park, inviting me to London, Paris, Rome, Boston, New York, e’en Constantinople!

Seduced by this Success, thinking that the World at last had recogniz’d my Goddess-given Gift, I dreamt of leaving my Solitary Chamber, journeying up to London, and revealing myself as Fanny Jones, the Author of the Epick! ’Twas a piteous, tho’ natural enough Mistake. But O ’twas boring in the Country, tho’ beauteous, and besides, what Scribbler doth not dream of Excuses to leave her Writing Bureau and mingle with the
Beau Monde
in Town? Writing is a lonely, melancholick Art; and the newly famous, in particular, are inclin’ed towards Foolish Fancies concerning the Pleasures to be had in Town—the Balls, Assemblies, Masquerades, and Musicales; the Coffee-Houses, Plays, and Operas, all the fashionable Strut of brittle London Life.

Isobel warn’d me not to go—tho’ the new and mellow Lancelot was e’er indulgent with my Fancies. But Isobel said: “When they discover Captain Jones is but a Wench—and a luscious one at that—they will account your Person more and your Writing less, mark my Words.”

I scoff’d at this, thinking Isobel e’er too sensitive concerning Woman’s Lot and e’er wary of Persecution as a Witch. Besides, I dreamt of a Royal Audience whereby I might secure the Pardons of all the Merry Men, so that henceforth we should not live with the nagging Ghost of Fear.

In short, I disobey’d my Mother, and I went.

The King was amaz’d to see a Wench where he had presum’d a Man, and in a Fit of Generosity (and perhaps Lust) he granted all the Pardons that I wisht—for myself, Lancelot, and for the Merry Men. He also marvell’d o’er my Knowledge of the Seas (for, as Captain Jones, I was
presum’d
to be a great Sailor, but now that I was seen to be a Woman, the King Himself was quite amaz’d that I should know a Foresail from a Mizzenroyal, a Bowsprit from a Boom! ’Twas suddenly as if I had become the Village Idiot who writes, by chance, a clever Couplet; or a Babe that babbles, by mistake, a Latin Word!

Nor did the Estimation of the Town fail to change—much to my Astonishment. I understood at once how naïve I had been to assume that the self-same Standards prevail for Female Scribblers as for Male. If any Grub Street Hack had written
The Pyratiad
, he would have been securely enthron’d upon Parnassus, but O, ’twas not the case when that same Poem issu’d from a Female Pen! For tho’ the Offers of Audiences, Assemblies, and Balls did not cease, there was now an unmistakable edge of Lewdness to ’em. Moreo’er, the very Coffeehouse Wits, and e’en the Criticks themselves changed their previous Estimation of
The Pyratiad.
Where before my Style had been “strong and manly,” ’twas now said to be “weak and effeminate.” Where before the Characters of the Merry Men had been much admir’d, ’twas now bruited about that, as one Scribbling Rogue hath put it, “A Female Pen is insufficient to portray the Characters and Passions of Men.” I was further denounced for being a vain, unsext, unnatural Woman, a vile Seeker after Fame and Fortune, a Slut and a Whore. Humiliated, my Innocence once again outraged by the Calumnies of the World, I fled Home to Lancelot and Lymeworth—or rather to Merriman Park.