Infernal Revolutions

Cover

‘Is it Palladian?' I blurted out at last, not caring whether it was or not.

‘Oh, it speaks. How wonderful.'

‘Well, is it?'

‘Is what Palladian, Mr Oysterman?'

I fancied I was being toyed with, but I dared not unbend and allow intimacies.

‘That,' I sneered, nodding towards the house.

‘Yes of course it is. Adam built it.'

‘Adam who?'

There was a clap of hands and a shriek of laughter.

‘Mama – I am in love!'

I knew very well who Adam was, but had feigned ignorance in another futile attempt to antagonize her. Now, to my horror, I was making her laugh, and being entertaining. Quickly, I tried to bring the conversation back to its former level of dullness.

‘And the gardens are by Capability Brown, I suppose?'

‘Why, they are, yes. Fancy knowing that, and not knowing who Robert Adam is.'

‘My knowledge of the world is very bitty.'

‘
Imperfect
, I think you mean.'

‘Do I? Well, there you are, you see. Even my knowledge of language is poor. All in all, I am afraid I do not know much about anything.'

‘But surely,
knowing
that you don't know much is the beginning of wisdom. And a wise man is just what Papa wants for me.' She twinkled at me as she reached once more for the teapot. ‘So, more tea, sweetie?'

Wincing at the appellation, I sighed and accepted my fifth cup of the afternoon, miserably aware that the meeting with Miss Amanda Philpott was not going well, from my point of view. For try as I might to be uncommunicative, surly, stupid and rude, Amanda had taken an inexplicable fancy to me, and I greatly feared the consequences, viz. forced marriage to Amanda followed by forced participation in the affairs of the Sussex landed gentry. I feared these things not just because they were grisly in themselves, which they were, but also because they interfered with my avowed intention to be a published poet by the age of twenty-five. My
Night Thoughts On Melancholy, Indolence, Poverty, Disease, Madness & The Grave
I felt sure was a nascent masterpiece, and on good days I fancied I could hear Immortality calling to me on the breeze. The trouble was, nascent was the word. In two years of crucifying mental exertion I had managed just forty-seven lines, and my irascible tobacco-merchant of a father was losing patience with me, despite his former assurances of lifelong financial support. For as he kept telling me in his letters, times had changed since he had bought me a garret in Brighthelmstone for my eighteenth birthday, and he could not afford to keep me there much longer. This was due, apparently, to the decline in his business fortunes since the beginning of the troubles in the American colonies, though personally I suspected that business was bad due to factors closer to home, viz. his excessive whoring, gambling and drinking in the fleshpots of London. Whatever the true reason, however, my father wanted me off his hands, and quick, hence the hastily-arranged meeting with Amanda, who was the only daughter of his boon companion Thomas Philpott, a brewery magnate with money and energy to burn. Capitulation or Grub Street loomed large, and both options meant the end of whatever talent I possessed. I was damnably depressed, and wished now I had taken the Grand Tour that had been on offer instead of the garret; at least no-one could have taken that away from me once completed.

‘So Harry intends to follow his father into business, I presume?'

This was Amanda's mother, the flintlike Mrs Elizabeth Philpott.

‘Yes,' said my mother, ‘'twas always the intention, was it not, my dear?'

I grunted ambiguously, keeping my gaze on the admittedly splendid Philpott Hall, the finest building in Steyning if not the whole of the county.

‘Yet I hear that he spends all of his time writing verse. Poor preparation, I ween.'

‘I disagree, Mama,' piped up Amanda, with sad inevitability, ‘even a merchant should be a man of parts, and have genteel pursuits.'

‘Nonsense, girl!' stormed Mrs Philpott, vigorously waving a fly away with a cream-coloured fan. ‘Do you think we would be living as we are now if your father was a man of parts? A good merchant thinks of one thing, and one thing only. Money. He must be dedicated, ruthless and utterly insensitive to the needs of others. He must grasp every opportunity which either betters himself, or damages his competitors. He must not have his attentions diverted by the fripperies of life. He must, in short, be the total opposite of a
macaroni
.'

This last remark, I fancied, was a verbal slap across my chops, dressed as I was in an enormous bag wig, a tight-fitting blue frock coat, a yellow slit-pocketed waistcoat, red and blue-striped breeches, white silk stockings, and flat-heeled dancing pumps with round buckles. My mother's pet doll for the afternoon, I was, in short,
macaroni
'd up to the eyeballs.

‘Oh, you can be assured, Mrs Philpott, that my son is not one of that mincing number, even if he does ape their fashion somewhat.'

‘I am pleased to hear it,' said Mrs Philpott, suddenly tilting her fan at a forty-five degree angle and yawning behind it theatrically. Unfamiliar with the intricacies of Fan Language, I nevertheless suspected that she was not happy, a view given credence by the abrupt way she changed the subject.

‘Time for a little music, I think.'

No sooner was the wish expressed than a loitering butler gestured to a group of musicians seated in front of the house. Moments later, the delightful sound of a Scarlatti string quartet wafted across the gardens. Conversation, to my great relief, stopped, and we all sat back to listen, or to give the impression of listening. Free from overt scrutiny at last, I took the opportunity to have a closer look at the scene around me, and imagine what life would be like if I did prostitute myself by living here. The setting was elegant, undoubtably, and the Hall itself was a fine building, with its shiny black-tiled walls handsomely offset by the white of its facings. In the ornamental gardens a fountain tinkled and glinted amidst walkways and colourful, fragrant flowerbeds. On the lawns pegs, iron rings and lanterns lay ready for midnight games of quoits. ‘Twas all most enchanting, and in the June sunshine it looked the epitome of tasteful living, but what would it look like in the dead of winter, with the rain and the mud and the clouds sapping all hope? More to the point, what would Amanda look like in the dead of winter, when she sapped all hope in me now? Shyly and slyly, I ventured another glance at her, thinking that perhaps nerves and obstinacy had coloured my first impressions.

They hadn't. She still had the disjointed look of a girl destined for the madhouse, and useful though this eventuality would be for my
Night Thoughts
, I did not wish to buy a whole cow in order to know what a steak tasted like. Dressed straight out of
Lady's Magazine
in a hooped open robe and starched Medici collar, with hair piled high under a straw hat, her fashion sense could not be faulted, but the pug's face, the squint, the twitchings, the dribblings and the snortings marred it for me, somehow. Indeed, even as I watched her she began to pick cake out of her rotten teeth with the prong of a fork. Satisfied I had seen enough, I was about to look away in disgust when I noticed that she did, however, have a fine pair of orbs, between which sprouted a bunch of fresh flowers in a bosom bottle. Interested in something at last, I craftily ascertained that no-one was watching me, then began to gaze boldly on these in rapture, personal antipathy being no barrier to lust. My eyes were still feasting like babies when I became aware that someone had spoken. I looked up in a daze to see everyone looking at me expectantly.

‘What?' I croaked, dry-mouthed.

‘I said I did not know that you liked flowers so much, Mr Oysterman.'

‘Oh, no, neither did I,' I blustered, squirming in my chair. ‘Lovely, they are, though,' I added, nodding towards the heavenly display.

‘It is surprising how men are so captivated by them.'

‘Indeed.'

‘They give such uncomplicated pleasure, don't they?'

‘Aye, they do.'

‘And they feel so beautiful too. So soft. So delicate. So
crushable
.'

‘Twas obvious from the
double entendre
nature of the remarks, and the contempt with which Old Flintface delivered them, that my lechery had been discovered. I waited in agony for the subject to change.

‘Oh, leave him alone, Mama,' said Amanda at last, tugging up her bodice, ‘he was only staring at my tits. At least it proves he is no
macaroni
.'

Mrs Philpott snorted indignantly, and stuck her nose in the air, defying anyone to speak to her further.

‘Harry!' admonished my mother in a hostile whisper. ‘Now look what you've done.'

‘Oh, don't worry, Mrs Oysterman,' said Amanda, complacently picking her nose. ‘I inspire this sort of madness in men – some fight for me, some simply lose their wits. One even hung himself from a church belfry. Now poor Harry has caught the disease, I'm afraid. The difference is, though, I spurned all my previous admirers. I will not spurn Harry.'

‘Oh!' wailed Mrs Philpott, before cupping her mouth with her hand, rising, and scurrying back to the house as fast as her dress would allow her.

‘She does not approve of the proposed match then,' said my mother, after an eternity of finger-drumming embarrassment, during which even the heavenly Mr Scarlatti sounded discordant.

‘Not much,' said Amanda, without concern. ‘But it does not matter what she thinks. My father approves of the match, and that is all there is to it. The only stumbling block now is Harry.'

I gulped, and looked at my mother with panic in my eyes.

‘Well, that is something you must sort out between yourselves. I am going to see if Mrs Philpott is all right.'

‘Yes,' I gabbled, already halfway out of my chair, ‘I will come too.'

‘No, you stay there, Harry, and talk to Amanda. I will not be long.'

I sagged back in my chair, and watched my mother depart with a feeling of utter betrayal. Then I looked at Amanda, and suddenly knew what a rabbit felt like when a hawk was circling overhead. I shuddered, and asked for more tea.

‘You will be pissing all the way back to Brighthelmstone at this rate, sweetie,' commented Amanda, pouring out another cup nevertheless.

I agreed I would be, then launched into my salon prattle, with which I hoped to keep Amanda at bay until my mother got back. It certainly kept other girls at bay, even the ones I wanted.

‘So, Amanda, will you be going to Ranelagh this season?'

‘No, I prefer the New Spring Gardens.'

‘Do you? I have not been there since I was a little boy. Is it any good?'

‘It is when I go.'

‘And what about plays? You have seen
She Stoops To Conquer
, I trust?'

‘I saw it as soon as it came out, back in seventy-three.'

‘Splendid, splendid. I hear the King is well.'

‘Harry.'

‘Surprising, in view of the trouble in the American colonies. Wouldn't be surprised if we don't lose the damn place. Will, if Lord North doesn't pull his finger out quick.'

‘Harry.'

‘What soap do you use? These days I favour
Joppa
, with a little
Spirit Of Ambergris
dabbed behind my ears. Devilishly good.'

‘Harry.'

‘What cards do you play? I'm a devotee of ombre, cribbage and loo myself, though I've never won a penny on any of them. Don't know why I do it, really.'

‘Harry?'

‘Yes, what is it my dear?'

‘You see those bushes over there?'

Unwilling to turn my back on her, I shot a quick token glance behind me, and said that I did.

‘Take me into them, pull my skirts up, and give me a good hard rogering. I want your baby, Harry, and I mean to have it.'

The feared attack had begun, in a brutal full frontal swoop. I struggled to hold my position.

‘Aye, well, ‘ I blustered, ‘there's more to it than that. There are things to consider.'

‘Such as?' cried Amanda, suddenly becoming very passionate.

‘Just…
Things
!' I answered peevishly.

‘Listen to me, sweetie. The only person who objects to our marriage – apart from you – is my mother. Our baby will present her with a
fait accompli
; then ‘tis up to her whether she accepts the situation, runs off with the butler, or commits suicide. Whatever she does is irrelevant, because by then the baby will have united the houses of Philpott and Oysterman forever.'

‘She might kill the baby,' I said, perhaps unwisely getting involved in the imaginary drama, and giving hope where none existed.

‘Then we will kill her, and have another one. After all, I'm young, am I not? I'm beautiful, am I not? And I've got these…'

With not so much as a discreet look over her shoulder, she removed her bosom bottle, unbuttoned her bodice, and lolloped out her bubs for my inspection. Though horrified at this development, I dared not betray my horror with any sudden bodily movements, for fear she might make a final desperate attempt to entice me, and disrobe completely. I therefore rubbed my chin and pretended to study the globes with the air of a connoisseur, before announcing that I was well satisfied with their general condition. I then begged her to put them back.

‘Not until you say that you will marry me,' came the outrageous reply.

‘But Amanda, this is blackmail!'

‘I know!' she giggled, eyes glittering madly. ‘But all is fair in love and war. Now say it!''

‘No!,' I cried, ‘I won't!'

‘If you don't say it, I will simply tell our mothers that you said it anyway. So you may as well say it.'

This was vile, twisted logic, and I got angry.

‘I may as well not, Madam, because I will not marry any woman capable of such strategems.'