Part Two

London 1789

Archie gave a little sigh of relief as he slipped through the door to the library, letting it close softly behind him. With heavy velvet draperies drawn across the deep-silled windows, the room was dark and silent, in spite of the fact that it was still only afternoon on a bright day in early summer. Among the guests much had been made of the beautiful weather, the brightness of the sun, the warmth of the day, the splendor of the townhouse gardens, blooming at their peak. All elements had conspired, it was agreed, to contribute to a perfect wedding day for his eldest sister, Alice, and the Earl of Langford.

The dark was oddly comforting to him, and the silence, he realized, so very unaccustomed. Solitude was rare to nonexistent aboard Justinian, crammed as she was with humanity, and indeed, it was never really a thing to be sought, no matter to what degree one might long for it. When not on watch, one would seek the company of as many fellows as possible, and even then…

But even if he was unused to being alone, at times it seemed that loneliness was indeed his closest friend, and this occasion was no exception. He was surrounded by family—father, sisters, brothers---and yet there seemed to be no time to speak to anyone beyond polite greetings and superficial niceties, and an awkward fourteen-year-old, fresh off the ship was, in any case, a little on the periphery at such a grand society affair. Not that he should have known how to begin a meaningful conversation with any of his siblings, let alone his father, had the opportunity presented itself. They were all such strangers now, scattered to the four winds since his Mama had died when he was six---the girls to live with their Aunt Cecilia in Town, his brothers to school, and to the Army, and he, at just twelve, to the Navy. They had all come together over the years only on rare, and usually formal occasions, and Archie believed he could count the times he could remember on the fingers of one hand and still have digits to spare.

His memory had served him reliably, too, as to the personalities of his two elder brothers. Still fractious and full of themselves, as the afternoon had worn on they had been getting proportionately drunk and quarrelsome, and he had thought it prudent to absent himself from their company whilst they were still preoccupied with abusing each other, and not casting about for fresh game!

He'd found the library, he fancied, almost purely by chance. He felt he hardly knew this house; it seemed he had spent so little time here growing up. Whenever the household was in London he had forever been running off, as young as he was, to haunt the playhouses in Drury Lane. It had never really occurred to him before that it was in anyway odd that no one had every really seemed to notice or to care.

It seemed a good room, he decided, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Not large, but square and symmetrical in proportion, with shelves lining all the walls but the chimney front, and reaching from the floor all the way to the high, coffered ceiling. It smelled a little dusty and disused, but as he approached the nearest shelf and put out a hand to touch the first volume he had to smile; the smell of the old leather bindings seemed, almost more than anything else he could think of, to make him feel at home.

Gently he eased the heavy book from the shelf, squinting to see the title embossed in tiny gold lettering on the spine. "The Compleat Works of John Webster, Being Two Tragedies and Eight Other Plays".  Archie wrinkled his nose. No. Especially not after an afternoon spent in the company of Malcolm and Duncan.  Next in the line proved to be a volume of Shakespeare. Hm. With the uncommon luxury of an entire collection at his disposal, mightn't he try to find something he did not already know by heart?

As he went to replace the second book, he found he had some difficulty and discovered, upon investigation, that a slim volume, which had apparently been laid across the tops of the other two, had dropped into the space. Flimsy, bound in plain red leather with no backing and no printing on its cover, he drew it out, returned the Shakespeare, and walked to the window to see what he had.

With one hand he drew back the heavy drapery a little, and the book in his other hand fell open at random. He glanced at the page that began:

"With this stripling, all whose art of love was the action of it, I could, without check of awe or restraint, give loose to joy, and execute every scheme of dalliance my fond fancy might put me on, in which he was, in every sense, a most exquisite companion. And now my great pleasure lay in humouring all the petulances, all the wanton frolic of a raw novice just fleshed, and keen on the burning scent of his game, but unbroken to the sport: and to carry on the figure, who could better THREAD THE WOOD than he, or stand fairer for THE HEART OF THE HUNT?"


Archie certainly did not recognize that passage, or indeed the style of prose, which to his mind was more than a little over-extravagant. And what did he or she mean by "threading the wood"? And this book belonged to his father? It must be one of those dreadful ladies' novels that Alice and Margaret used to titter over. Barely interested, he turned to the frontispiece, and was enlightened:

"Fanny Hill, Or, The Harlot's Progress: Memoirs of a Woman Of Pleasure" by John Cleland."

Oh.

He did know of it. In fact, it was rather an old book. Hether owned a copy (and others of the same sort) that had made round after round of the oldster's berth, but Archie, being the youngest in the mess, had never quite gotten his hands on it, and as it was, was fairly mystified by passages read aloud that seemed to have the effect of sending his mates into fits of laughter interspersed with groaning despair. He could only ken that it was meant to be titillating stuff, and that it had to do with the natural relations between men and women, a topic in which he had been, he knew, most unreliably educated thus far.

Mildly curious, he separated the drapery still further and clambered up onto the deep windowsill that provided a wide, sunny seat. With his back against the window frame, and his knees drawn up, he made himself quite comfortable. He didn't suppose he much cared where he began, so he let the book fall open again at random, and found his heroine still engaged--or rather about to be engaged---with the same young rustic.

"---my young Sportsman, emboldened by every freedom he could wish, wantonly takes my hand and carries it to that enormous machine of his, that stood with a stiffness! a hardness! an upward bent of erection! and which, together with its bottom dependence, the inestimable bulge of  lady's jewels, formed a grand show out of good indeed! Then its dimensions, mocking either grasp or span, almost renewed my terrors, for I could not conceive how, or by what means I could take, or put such a bulk out of sight! I stroked it gently, on which the mutinous rogue seemed to swell, and gather a new degree of fierceness and insolence; so that finding it grew not to be trifled with any longer, I prepared myself in good earnest!"

Archie frowned and held up his hand, forming an "o" between thumb and fingers. His hands were small, admittedly, but try as he might, he could not quite believe in the lady's accounting of her young man's endowments. In living for two years on a ship in the company of nothing by men and boys, one saw a few things---quite a variety of things, in fact---but this, he concluded, was surely a bit of an exaggeration. He read on:

"Slipping then a pillow under me, that I might give him the fairest play, I guided officiously with my hand this furious battering ram, whose ruby head, presenting nearest the resemblance of a heart, I applied to its proper mark. He was at the mouth of the indraught, and driving foreright, the powerfully divided lips of that pleasure thirsty channel received him."

He read, unable to deny a certain fascination and curiosity, but becoming a little aware, at the same time, of an uneasy confusion within him. There were things he was reluctant to let come into his mind, feelings he did not wish to acknowledge that were at war with what he knew, from the overheard conversations of his shipmates, was the perfectly normal curiosity of his age and sex. This "Fanny" used such terms---of "terrors", of violent action, that suggested a kind of menace associated with masculinity, of a force big and fierce and overpowering. And yet of pain, or true fear she said nothing. Indeed, to submit to this treatment seemed to be what she desired above all things and she described what she felt as "sweet agony, the melting moment of dissolution, when pleasure dies by pleasure."

It all seemed so contradictory, and yet even he could understand that there must be some reason why it was called "the act of love". It was the thing, this desire, this pleasure, that inspired the greater part of poetry, after all. It was one of the reasons people married. His mother and father, and now his sister. He could not imagine…

He could only imagine that this was meant to be the way of things. The other, the thing of which he would not allow himself to think, had nothing to do with pleasure, or with love. That he understood, and that was why he must try, must fight, to keep it separate, apart from the rest of him forever.

****

Archie let the book fall shut on his knee, and turned his head to look out the window. From high on the second story of the house, behind tiny panes of squiggly leaded glass, he imagined he was well concealed from view. Below him, drenched in brilliant sun, the garden was alive with color. Deep banks of roses were already lining the edges of the lawn and still more climbed the high, white stone walls; fruit trees blossomed, and the beds of the formal plantings, divided by pathways, and laid out in elegant parterres, were bursting with flowers, herbs and greenery.

He remembered so little, but he remembered that his mama had loved her roses.

The party appeared to be in full swing still, and the pretty, pale silks and muslins of the ladies' frocks, the canaries and blues and greens and reds of the gentlemen's finery only added to the bouquet, creating an abstraction of motion and color through the glass. Looking down, he did not believe he could pick out a single person that he knew.

There was a sound in the room, the sudden and somewhat violent opening and subsequent slamming of the door, and he turned to look, although he could see nothing, hidden as he was behind the thick drapery. There was an active rustling of silk, quick steps, a woman's gasp. Through the thinnest sliver of an opening in the curtains he glimpsed a whisper of pale green gown, a man's arms encircling a slender back.

"Come here," the man's voice was cool and smooth. "Don't you dare run away from me."

The woman's voice was muffled, the man's arms enveloping her. Almost immediately Archie came to the conclusion that if he did not make his presence known, he might well be about to bear witness to the very act of which he so recently had been reading!

"No! Let go of me, Philip!"

Oh, perhaps not. A lover's quarrel, then? He should announce himself, certainly, but how, without startling the pair rudely in the midst of their argument and causing everyone embarrassment?

More noises, more rustling, hectic motion, and then the sound of tearing fabric, an anguished, "Oh!" and something heavy crashed to the floor. Archie got quietly to his knees and peered through the opening, holding his breath. A small mahoghany side table had overturned and the delicate Chinese porcelain cachepot which had been its ornament lay shattered on the parquet.

"Now see what you have done," the man's voice was calm. "And torn your gown as well. Ah, well, I trust t'was not my money that paid for it? Whose, then? As if I could not guess."

"Stop, Phillip!" the lady's voice was tremulous. "You don't know what you're talking about and you are drunk. Let us just go, please!"

"Oh, we shall, we shall, my love," the man said. "Right away. In truth, I cannot wait to get you home."

Archie dared not to breathe. Perhaps it was best for him simply to wait until they had gone, and let no one be the wiser. He got as close as he could to the opening in the curtain, trying to see. The woman was standing back to him. She was tallish, but slightly built, and the expanse of skin that showed above the back of her gown was milky white. Her neck was long and slender, her hair, thick and abundant and red as flame.

The man raised his hand towards her, and she turned her face a little to the side, quickly, as if she anticipated a blow. Archie recognized her. Georgiana Edgeworth was a family friend, the daughter of an Irish baron who had been his father's fellow at Oxford, and his wife, a distant cousin on Archie's mother's side. "George" was a year or two older than Alice, and the two were friends, George even having shared the schoolroom at Kennedy Manor with Alice and Margaret for a year while her parents traveled abroad. She had married, a good deal younger than Alice, a premier Irish peer, considered exceptional among that generally impoverished company, it was thought, for both his wealth and the antiquity of his title. Was this man her husband, the Earl of Trim?

The man did not strike Georgiana; he merely placed has hand on her neck and drew her slowly towards him. The hand looked huge and dark against the whiteness and delicacy of her neck, and Archie thought he could see the fingers digging into the softness of her flesh. The man was tall, darkly handsome. Archie could not see his eyes.

"We will go home, sweet Georgy, my dear little wife," he whispered lowly. "It has been so long. And to think that I might have for the taking that which so many others have paid good coin to obtain! I must say, I admire l'effronterie with which you set your price! Indeed, it is the first rule of commerce, is it not? Never to sell oneself short?"

She twisted away from him. "You are mad, Phillip, I have told you---Frederick is one of my oldest friends! He lent me money to cover my debts because he knew I was afraid of you! I never meant for you to know---"

"And you have so many kind old friends, don't you Georgy?" he said coolly, advancing on her once more and taking her by the arms. "Always with money to gamble, no matter how I might encourage you in matters of economy!"

"Oh, let go! You are hurting me!" she cried, and Archie swallowed hard. What must he do? He should try to stop this, but he felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

"I, hurting you? My dear, I think you do not begin to know. But you shall. And so will your lover. Before breakfast tomorrow, on Hounslow Heath."

"He is *not* my lover! And I cannot believe that Frederick would ever answer a challenge made by you!" Georgiana spat angrily, while at the same time pulling away from him, looking, again, as if she expected to be struck.

"No indeed, and he did not answer," Trim replied. "In point of fact, it will be his friends who wait on me and mine tomorrow. What a scene he made, my dear! Langford did try to intervene, but I am afraid everyone knows everything now. Such a scandal. I fear the victor will next have to fight Julian, to answer for spoiling his so-perfect nuptials. And you, my love…your reputation is completely forfeit, I fear."

"How I hate you!" Georgiana said, her voice beginning to sound thick, as if choking back tears." I hope to God he kills you!"

The Earl laughed, and his white teeth flashed in the darkness of the room. "Oh, my dear girl, I think you had better hope so."

Archie sat in the window long after they had gone. He felt cold, and there was a knot in his belly that felt as heavy as a ball of lead. He was ashamed that he had only sat and watched. To the very depth of his soul he knew what he had seen. He recognized the menace behind the expression on that smooth, handsome face. He knew the very timbre of that cool, dangerous voice, and he understood, with every fiber of his being, the fear---and the defiance---in Georgiana's heart.

Go to Part Three