Authors: David Donachie
‘So I am to be a secret?’
‘You’re far from that,’ he said, trying to inject enthusiasm into his words. He pointed his knife at her plate. ‘And eat up or you’ll fade to nought.’
‘My appetite is quite gone.’
‘Mine ain’t,’ he cried, throwing down his napkin. ‘What say you to a tumble before we take the horses out?’
Emma stood, wrapped in a sheet, watching as they closed the main house, a stream of carts at the entrance loading all the things that both mother and son would need for their sojourn in the capital: plate, silverware and linen, clothes and crystal, dogs and pet birds. The senior servants had already departed to prepare the Piccadilly house for the arrival of their master and mistress. And, like the possession she was, she would depart too.
The state of Emma’s finances, not least in regard to payment for rent and provender, was mirrored in Mrs Mulderry’s face. That lady’s disposition, when Emma had taken possession of these lodgings, had been established by her beaming countenance and the happy chatter at her guest’s good fortune in ‘being under the protection of such a “noble gent”’.
Obviously Finch had not been discreet. Hot water arrived promptly, and the fire in the grate was kept blazing with a seeming disregard for the expense of wood or coal. Clean linen graced the bed twice weekly and the plentiful food was served on the best plate the household could offer. From her top floor window Emma looked down on a busy Whitechapel street, her residence close to the eastern edge of the City of London.
The room itself was pleasant: whitewashed walls and ceiling that made it light during the day, with heavy curtains and a good fire to blot out the cool night air. Her bed was in an alcove by the chimney-breast and on the other side of the fire she had a screened-off space to hang her clothes. Meals were taken at a table by the window; tea and comfort in the deep chairs that stood opposite the door, behind which stood a washstand, a good mirror and the chest that contained her possessions.
The constant congratulation had been the first of the Mulderry traits to evaporate, soon to be followed by the smile. One by one all those little habits that projected contentment followed, until, owed several weeks’ monies, she went about her daily chores in silence. Sir Harry not only forgot to call on his young ‘niece’. He also forgot to forward the requisite payment for her lodgings or any excursions. Letters to Charles Greville went unanswered, while the posting of them, to a man who was not the ‘noble gent’, only increased the depth of her landlady’s suspicions.
The time duly arrived when Mrs Mulderry was scowling continuously, with scarce a civil word to spare for her lodger. There were mumblings about the appellation of ‘niece’ being misapplied, though the terms ‘mistress’ or ‘bawd’ had yet to be uttered. Emma knew that she would have to act if she was to avoid being cast out into the street or, even worse, had up for debt. Harry’s injunction to send no letters to Piccadilly, two miles away on the other side of the city, had to be ignored: matters were approaching a crisis.
She did her best to ignore the change in her landlady’s manner. In her first weeks in the house the older woman had been all agog to hear about Uppark: the dimensions of the house, the Deer Park, the rolling acres of grounds that ran across the Sussex Downs, carefully landscaped by the famous Capability Brown. The shooting parties and race meeting, which her young guest described so colourfully, interested her immensely, though the old lady was spared too clear a description of the revels which had followed. She alluded openly only to the consumption of claret and champagne, an excess that was greeted by a satisfied nod.
Like most people of her station, Mrs Mulderry loved a lord, prepared to forgive actions by those she considered her betters that she damned without hesitation in those less fortunate. That was the only weapon Emma had left to dent what was fast becoming open hostility. She employed it relentlessly, her face and eyes alight with seeming happiness. But as she spoke now, she knew in her heart that the owner of the house was not going to be fobbed off for much longer with tales of grand living. That threw her back on to her last defence. Her lover’s station in life.
‘You cannot fathom the cares that a man like Sir Harry has to shoulder. His dear mother is not in the best of health, and he so dotes on her that his concerns give him great burden. He must see to his estates all the while or they’ll go to rack, with all his improvements yielding no gain. Then there’s his house in London, peopled, he tells me, with servants who would rob him blind if he didn’t keep a sharp eye on their doings.’
The scowl deepened, till the landlady’s eyes seemed to sink into her round, puffy face. ‘I has cares, Miss Hart, like paying for victuals and heat.’
‘That I know, dear lady. And I have penned a note to my uncle castigating him for his oversight in the matter of your payments.’
‘A week forgetful is oversight, a fortnight in any man I calls a disgrace. But three weeks and then a month without so much as a farthing! That, Miss Hart, makes me wonder if your uncle remembers your needs at all!’ The word ‘uncle’ was accompanied by a look that told Emma that Mrs Mulderry knew her to be no better than she ought. ‘I have no choice but to inform you that should his memory fail till Sabbath next, I’ll be required to take what I can from you to cover the loss.’
Emma knew that that would amount to very little, something of which Mrs Mulderry must have been aware since she had observed the quantity of luggage, a single light chest, with which her guest had arrived. When Emma had been ensconced at Rosemary Cottage, Sir Harry had been spared the expense of fitting her out in the kind of clothes she would have needed to cut a dash in town. He had been content to let her wear what garments she had brought from Mrs Kelly’s – that is, when she wore anything at all.
Nor had he seen fit to supply her with any jewellery that she could pawn. Anything she had been given to wear had been borrowed from his mother’s box, to be replaced on the following day. Certainly there was insufficient in her chest to pay off the outstanding rent. There was the riding habit he had
given her. That was worth something. Her mind went back to those days on the Downs, racing through the tall meadows with wild abandon, jumping hedgerows that even some of Harry’s cronies had shied away from. It was less than six weeks ago, yet it seemed like an age.
And she had no chance to ride now. If she didn’t return to Uppark the garments were useless. She opened her mouth to offer them to Mrs Mulderry, only to be interrupted by a loud and sustained banging, as someone beat heavily, with what sounded like a club, on the downstairs door.
‘The devil damn that noise,’ cried Mrs Mulderry, and rushed out the door.
Emma suspected it was Harry, though her first fleeting thought was that Mrs Mulderry had sent for the tipstaff. But not even a bailiff arresting her for debt would set up such a racket. Uppark Harry would, especially if he was taken with drink. His voice, floating up the stairs, confirmed her suspicions. Lately Mrs Mulderry had experienced no difficulty in showing
condescension
to Emma. Now, by the sound of her whining voice, she was grovelling before the noble gent she had been traducing a mere minute ago.
‘Surely you cannot be concerned about such a trifle, madam.’
‘Saving your honour’s presence, it never crossed my mind that you wouldn’t take proper care of your pretty niece. It’s only …’
‘A few guineas, madam.’
‘Naught to you, sir, an’ who’s to say that a man of your parts don’t deserve it? But to a poor woman like me a-struggling to make ends meet, with the price of all and sundry differin’ from one day to the next?’
The chink of coins followed the voices. ‘I will require some wine.’
‘At once, sir,’ Mrs Mulderry replied, in a satisfied tone.
‘Not your normal cellar-made strap. Send out for something that a decent man can drink.’
Emma couldn’t help herself. She had sworn that if Harry answered her call for help she would be cold, this so that he should know what trouble he had caused. But his voice, loud and demanding, sent the blood racing through her veins, and induced in her a longing that had been barely submerged since he had left her six weeks previously. She rushed to a small mirror glass that stood above the jug and washbasin, biting her lips and pinching her cheeks to induce some colour.
As she brushed her hair she had to fight not to laugh. She would keep him here all night, and with a damn to what her landlady thought of their relationship. Not that she imagined Mrs Mulderry would be shocked. As long as the old woman was paid promptly, she would rest content, and sleep even if the whole house shook.
Her mind was full of images of the time they had spent together. Surely he had not forgotten the pleasure he had taken in her company. Emma certainly hadn’t. No other lover had induced in her such sensations. Greville, though accomplished, was different, a man who would devote a whole afternoon to observation and touch before consummation. Harry was
her bull, man enough, drunk or sober, to perform prodigiously, with a devil-take-the-hindmost attitude that made their couplings as full of humour as they were of lust. She had learned early how to tease him, how much he liked to see her demure and virginal; then overwhelm her supposed innocence and debauch it, playing the lord and master having his way with his inferiors. Luckily, she was dressed in a simple white garment that showed her figure clearly when she moved. It would offer no bar to speedy gratification.
She had to get back into his close favour. It would be a torment to be stuck here, in these lodgings, waiting for such occasional calls; much better to return to her little cottage. The thud of his boots announced that Harry had reached the small landing. Emma grabbed her embroidery, threw herself into her chair by the fire, and sought hard to give the appearance of a truly innocent girl, pressing the edge of the sewing ring into her lap in a futile attempt to suppress her desire.
‘Damn that woman,’ he said, from the open doorway. ‘D’ye know she had the gall to dun me for a month’s rent?’
Emma spoke without thinking, or raising her eyes to look at him. ‘Consider yourself fortunate, sir. My ears have been dunned these last fourteen days. Assaulted till they are sick of it, and not a word of comfort from you to set against it.’
Harry grinned. ‘A small price to pay, Emma, is it not, to have a connection to a fine fellow like me?’
There was nothing emollient in that slurred reply, only arrogance. That, coupled with her state of libidinous anticipation, made Emma snap at him, something she had rarely dared before. When she looked up her deep green eyes blazed with anger, and the colour in her cheeks owed nothing to being pinched. ‘I scarce call it attention, sir, to be left to shift for weeks without even any knowledge of you or your whereabouts.’
His lack of sobriety was obvious: his face was flushed and the thick fair hair a mess. Emma felt as though she was looking at him for the first time, since his puffy appearance robbed him of that which she had previously considered handsome. Even his brown eyes had lost their lively, mischievous look, seeming glazed and dull. He blew out his cheeks angrily, which did nothing to decrease her impression that she was looking at a rake going to seed. Harry didn’t raise his voice to counter her accusation, replying in a tone that was as flat as his general demeanour. ‘What I’m about, girl, is none of your concern. Nor am I obliged to inform you of my doings. You’d best recall that you’re merely here to serve any purpose I command.’
Part of Emma’s brain was willing her to stop, to rise from the chair and throw herself at his feet, there to beg for his mercy. She ached to hold him close, to subdue the unbearable tingling that filled her body. But another part of her was too incensed to let matters drop. Furious at being ignored, even angrier at his indifference, she threw her sewing on the floor and stood up.
‘A plague on your purpose, Harry. It’s no service to be left here to beg for my supper. To have to write you—’
‘Which I expressly forbade you to do,’ he shouted. ‘I do not want letters from the likes of you on my salver. Especially when my mother is present to enquire as to where the damn missive is come from, an infernal scrawl with a House of Commons frank that I suspect you extracted from Greville.’
‘Forbade? I am to starve rather than risk upsetting your precious mother! Are you afraid that she might discover that her dear sweet son is nowt but a whore-chasing coxcomb?’
Harry emitted a barking laugh. ‘I have scant need to chase the likes of you. King Street doxies queue up for my company, and the door of Arlington Street is never closed.’
‘The wine, your honour.’ He spun round to see Mrs Mulderry standing in the doorway. She was holding two dust-covered bottles. ‘A fine claret of the Brion variety, so the vintner tells me. Says it’s a rare ’un.’
‘Leave them!’ he snapped.
Her servile manner had gone now that she had been paid. Clearly, with guineas in her possession, she had less of a mind to be talked down to. ‘I hates to see a family quarrel, your honour. Breaks my heart, it does.’
Harry’s stick was in the air, and Mrs Mulderry was gone before he issued his threat to break her head. He swung it round towards Emma, only to see that her anger had evaporated and that her chest was heaving with laughter. Emma saw his eyes drop to her breasts, clearly visible in their shape through the thin white dress.
‘Oh, Harry, I’ve missed you so.’
‘Take it off.’
‘With the door open?’ she asked.
He turned swiftly and slammed it. By the time he spun back to look at her Emma was naked, the dress crumpled in a heap on top of the sewing ring. The stick was flung into the corner as he charged towards her, pressing her back against the sharp edge of the wooden mantel. His head dipped immediately to suck one erect nipple, while his hand rammed up between her legs, his grunt of pleasure matched by hers. Harry dropped to his knees and his tongue ferreted around, poking forward, seeking entry. That pushed her even further to the fire, which threatened to scorch her backside.
‘Oh, Harry,’ she gasped, ‘my arse is near burning.’
He jumped to his feet and let out one of those whooping hunting calls she remembered so well. Spinning her round, he threw her back on to the bed, wrestling with his coat and breeches. ‘It will be so, Emma, my girl. I’ll burn your arse, and no mistake.’
‘But I don’t want to stay here, Harry,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to do except sit and embroider, or listen to Mrs Mulderry moan about her rent. I don’t even have the money to cross the street.’
His voice had the sated quality of a man who had drunk too much.
Certainly his promise had remained unfulfilled. Given her knowledge of his prowess, plus his allusion to Arlington Street, Emma had the feeling that he had probably stopped at some point on the way here. He lifted the goblet of claret to his lips, taking so a deep a gulp that some spilled over and ran down his hairless chest. Emma licked it eagerly. The smell of cheap scent on his body confirmed her suspicions. Even so, she employed her hand to try and revive his ardour. The continued flatness of his tone was evidence that she was wasting her time.