The Quality of Mercy (15 page)

“Which pieces are those, sir?”

“It was all a plot against me. The cloth was bought through Goddard and Fisher, they had their placemen on the purchasing committee.”

Kemp remained silent for a short while. His father-in-law was back in 1754, when some bales of cloth, of a quality inferior to the sample sent but still marked up on the price, had been sold through a company in which he had a share. “The court exonerated you, sir, as you will remember,” he said at last.

He met again the old man’s eyes, at once enraged and fearful under their disordered brows. Once more he was pierced by the irony of his present relations with this wreck of a man before him. He had never wanted to go into sugar; it had been the quickest route to wealth at a time when he was beleaguered by debts. He had wanted to take active part in a future he saw coming, build the roads and cut the canals that would transport the products of the factories and mines to where they were most needed. And now here he was, extolling the sugar trade as an antidote to madness. In his father-in-law’s plight he felt a quality, not of justice exactly, but of appropriateness. After Sir Hugo’s long and successful career of chicanery and aggrandizement, his avenging angel had arrived in the form of this demented gamble, this delusion of a race against time. The bank’s estates in Jamaica were no longer very extensive; most of the plantations had been sold, the land and the negroes on it. Little more than a sideline now, but magnified in the old man’s mind to enormous proportions, a terror of impending ruin that only desperate remedies could prevent.

Such perceptions of incongruity came frequently to Kemp now; they were unwelcome, they undermined and subverted what he thought of as the proper order of things, like the forcible
intrusions of a stranger, and he entertained them only half willingly, as if they involved some betrayal of principle. Sir Hugo’s confusion was past mending, it would only get worse—he was obliged to recognize this at last. But he was aware as he quit the room that his own motions of mind were very far from possessing the order and clarity that he would have desired and thought proper.

Some hours later, dressed with extreme care in a suit of dark green velvet, close-fitting at the waist as fashion dictated but severe of cut otherwise, Erasmus Kemp issued from his house and engaged a sedan to take him to Westminster Bridge, where he found boats plying for hire all along the Embankment. The light was fading when he arrived at the river, but a deep stain of sunset still lingered in the sky. The hot, dry weather had continued; the air was grained with dust, giving a spreading splendor to the sunsets during these days.

The crowd by the water was jostling and noisy, with people thronging for boats and waiting in lines on the quays. Today had been a hanging day at Tyburn, one of the eight in the year. He had not known this, but Hudson had made mention of it while helping him to dress, and he had immediately wondered whether Spenton had chosen the day with this in mind.

Hanging days were occasions for public holiday, and there was a festive, jubilant air in the crowd. Street musicians and beggars and performers of all kinds were taking advantage of this concourse of people. There was a man juggling with pointed spikes, a troupe of dwarf acrobats, a legless ex-soldier, still in tattered uniform, on a little wheeled cart. Pies and sausages were being offered for sale, and a bareheaded Gypsy woman was holding out
to passersby a single white rose that she claimed had come from the buttonhole of one of the men executed that day.

Kemp was put out by the proximity of so much humanity, most of it unwashed and vociferous. His clothes were not ostentatious, but they were clearly expensive, and he was aware that he would be an object of interest to pickpockets in such a press of people. He should have brought Hudson with him to guard his back. He was annoyed at his failure to do this, and annoyed at having to wait. Anything that came to delay or impede his purposes irked him as if it were part of a deliberate design. He thought of attempting to hire one of the boats for his use alone, but this would have aroused the hostility of those waiting and exposed him to risk of violence.

He hesitated for a short while, then began to walk away in the direction of Lambeth, keeping close to the embankment. After ten minutes or so he found a small barge with a single oarsman, who agreed to take him to Vauxhall Stairs for two shillings. It was twilight as they set off, and the passenger boats out in the river were lit up with small lanterns set along the rails. As the air darkened, the shapes of the boats were defined by these lamps; beyond them, moored out in midstream and flooded with light, were the bigger boats, Bishop’s restaurant and the floating brothel known as the Folly prominent among them. Voices of revelry and the sound of orchestra music carried clearly over the water.

Reaching the Stairs, Kemp paid the boatman and made his way to the Corinthian columns and triumphal arch of the portico that gave admittance to the gardens. An old man with a powdered wig, dressed in the red-and-silver livery of those employed in the gardens, was taking the money at the turnstile; two younger men, wearing the same livery and armed with batons, stood at the sides of the counter to make sure no one tried to enter without paying.

He had arranged to join Spenton’s party at their supper box in the front arcade of the pavilion, and he made his way there now, passing up the river stairs and thence along the central avenue, crowded with strollers, its trees ablaze with lamps, to the
main garden and the supper rooms. He had not met Spenton and had no idea what he looked like, but there were only three boxes in the gallery at the front of the arcade and the whole area was brilliantly lit, so he was not troubled by fears of failing to find him. And in fact, while still at some distance, he recognized his banking associate, Sir Richard Sykes, who was standing at the balcony of the box on the right. Sykes saw him at the same time and waved.

As he drew nearer to the pavilion he was approached by a liveried footman, to whom he gave his name and who led him not to the box containing Sykes but to the middle one of the three. This directly overlooked a raised platform that had been set up amid the shrubbery; he noticed that four men with musical instruments were seated there. There were several people in the third box too, and someone he did not see called out a greeting to him. So Spenton had hired all three of the supper boxes, the best ones, allowing a view over the avenue and the passing crowds …

It was Spenton who stood up now, as he entered the box, to shake him by the hand and perform the introductions. Kemp heard the names and uttered the prescribed phrases of acknowledgment without paying a great deal of attention to the faces: the Honorable James Conway, the Viscount and Viscountess Mowbray, Sir Joseph Golding, Miss Sheridan, Major and Mrs. John Winslow. His main interest was reserved for his host, who gripped him lightly by the arm and said, “Come and sit here by me, my dear sir.”

As he sat down, Kemp noticed that Spenton had Miss Sheridan on the other side of him, and that she was young and full-breasted and good-looking, with dark hair dressed up on her head and large eyes whose color he could not determine. Sykes had said that there was a Lady Spenton but that she did not care for London life and spent most of her time on the family estates in the north of England.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Kemp said.

“And I yours. I believe we have matters to discuss. But we will
save that for a stroll together after supper. So we can aid digestion at the same time, eh?” He turned in his chair to smile full upon Kemp. “If you are agreeable, that is.”

“Yours to command.” A man of affable touch and condescending gesture—so much might have been expected. There was a good deal of charm in the manner, but the face that was turned to him was strangely at odds with itself; the high, clear forehead and the delicate molding of bone at temple and cheek were at war with the narrow-lidded, rather protuberant brown eyes and the heavy jaw with its strongly marked cleft, like a dimple that continued too far. He was resplendently dressed in a dark crimson suit with a high collar and buttoned sleeves, and a lace-edged cravat tied in a bow under his chin and secured at the throat with a diamond stock pin. “Yes, yes,” he said, “all in good time, we will kill two birds with one stone.”

He looked away as he spoke, and Kemp allowed his face to relax from the smiling expression it had assumed. Smiles never came easily to him. His gaze fell on Miss Sheridan, and she raised her head slightly and widened her eyes at him in a way that seemed provocative. It came to him that this was a lady who had seen some mixed company in her time, for all she was so young. He was wondering what more he might say to Spenton when he found himself being addressed by the viscount, who was sitting at his left.

“We are to hear some singing, sir. This gifted young lady is shortly to oblige us. Did you ever hear La Petunia sing ‘Lasciami piangere’? Egad, sir, she could melt a heart of stone. I once wrote a sonnet to her nipples. Do you enjoy the opera? The English are generally too coarse for it.”

“The ballad is a form more congenial,” Kemp said coldly. He did not like to hear his fellow countrymen criticized and thought the reference to this foreign woman’s nipples in very questionable taste, with the viscountess at the table and within earshot, arguing as it did an acquaintance that went rather further than
merely listening to her sing. However, glancing at the lady, he could detect no sign of displeasure. “We do not like all this Italian posturing and gesturing and pretended passion,” he said.

“We are patriotic, I see,” the viscount said. “Very commendable.” He gestured toward the rococo decorations in the columns of the arcade. “It was those same posturing fellows that designed all this,” he said.

Kemp checked the sharp reply that rose to his lips. He had not come here to quarrel, and it had occurred to him that the other might be slightly drunk. The whole back of the box was occupied by an enormous painting of Britannia Victorious, receiving the victor’s wreath from Mars. He turned his head pointedly away from Mowbray and fell to studying that.

Perhaps feeling some strain in the silence that ensued, the major’s lady, Mrs. Winslow, said, “They have very good concerts at Ranelagh Gardens nowadays too. Did any of you go to hear Mozart perform there on the harpsichord? His own composition, you know. Only eight years old, quite amazing.”

Conway, a thin, languid man with eyeglasses, now spoke for the first time. “He will not last, he will burn out. Charles Blenkinsop, the organist at St. Paul’s—now there is a man.”

“Now would be the time for your performance, my dear,” Spenton said to Miss Sheridan. “I will escort you.”

Leaning forward and resting his arms on the outer rail of the box, Kemp saw the couple emerge from the arcade and walk arm in arm through the crowd, which was growing denser as the evening advanced. He saw them reach the stage, watched Spenton hand his companion up, then mount the steps himself and exchange some words with the musicians waiting there. It was all for her benefit, then. Spenton had hired three supper boxes in the front arcade, the most expensive part of the pavilion; he had filled them with his acquaintance, a good many of whom, judging from those in his own box, had an interest in such concerts and probably some influence in the world of opera; he had engaged
musicians to accompany her; he must also have hired the space for the stage and paid for its construction; no doubt he had also ordered supper for everybody, to be served when the performance was over. Miss Sheridan had her charms, there was no doubt of that. But for a man in need of a loan it seemed a lot to spend.

At the suggestion of Mrs. Winslow, the two ladies of the company took the occasion to go down and join Spenton, who had descended from the stage but remained close by. The three would constitute the beginning of an audience; others would join them, as is the way of passersby, and Miss Sheridan would get off to a good start.

Something, perhaps the departure of the ladies, or delayed excitement at the thought of La Petunia’s beauties, seemed now to rouse the elderly Sir Joseph from a state of apparent torpor. He leaned forward confidentially and said, “The loveliest of all was Miss Lily Somers. She was a most exquisite performer, a voice that was as clear as it was sweet. There were nightingales within her.”

“One can well imagine where they would make their nest,” the viscount said, as if to himself.

“I heard her sing Cleopatra at the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket.
Da tempeste il legno infranto
. Forty years ago now. I had roses sent to her dressing room. She gave me the two ribbons she had used to tie up her hair, red ribbons.” His voice had risen in the excitement of these reminiscences. For some reason he had fixed his eyes on Kemp. “Sir, I tied them together and knotted them round my testicles. For years I put them on with my clothes. I wore them till they rotted away.”

“Egad, sir, rotted away, did they?” The major cast a droll look round the table. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said.

Before any more could be said on this subject of mortality, the musicians struck up, and Miss Sheridan’s voice rose to them from below. She had chosen her opening song very well, the patriotic ending to “The Kept Mistress,” well known to everyone after the success of the play.

She followed this up with “Art Thou Troubled?” from
Rodelinda
and, in artful contrast with the stateliness of this, several spirited airs from works by Vivaldi. She had a soprano voice, strong and warmly modulated, and it carried far over the gardens. Mrs. Winslow had been right: a considerable audience had gathered to listen, and there was a good deal of applause at the end of each piece.

Kemp was content to watch the crowd and listen to the singing and wait for the private talk that Spenton had promised him. From here he could see a good way across the gardens. The columns of the pavilion were lit with glass lamps, and these cast a brilliant light over the singer and the orchestra and the crowd round the stage. There was no breath of wind and the day had been sultry, but there was a freshness in the air, which he thought must be due to their nearness to the river. Perhaps it was full tide—he fancied that there was a faint tang of salt. Light rained down from the lamps in the trees along the avenue, falling onto the standing or moving figures in a way that was curiously capricious in spite of its fullness, making bright, metallic shoots of emerald among the foliage, casting a deep glow on the dyed feathers in the ladies hats, glittering briefly on powdered wigs.