Death And Damnation: Book 2 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 5: Libertarian Or Libertine? free porn video
By now we had received the lists of those who had attended the Shelleys' wedding, and also those who attended the after wedding entertainment, hosted by Lord and Lady Lane at Taplow Court. I asked Colonel Slade why he always referred to the entertainments at the Lanes' as 'Rowley's Revels'. He laughed and explained.
"You may recall that King Charles the Second had the soubriquet of 'Old Rowley'? The reason being was that the king had the stamina, and the appetite, of his favourite stallion, Rowley, who had sired many a fine race horse. Rowley Lane has an equal, if not greater-- err—prowess in the fornication and procreation stakes and was given the same nickname. He was so pleased that he uses it as a forename; in reality his forenames are Cuthbert Cecil."
Slade chuckled, a most unusual action from the man. "Many people think that her Ladyship has the forename of Penelope, when actually it is Charlotte. However, when she was working in the stews of Covent Garden she would open her legs for a penny, and so now she is known as Penny Lane. They are a well matched pair of depraved and debauched libertines. Rowley Lane is a member of the Wig Club; that is wig as is worn on the head not Whig as sits in Parliament. If you do not know what happens at the Wig Club then I will not enlighten you, as it is best that you stay in blissful ignorance. Suffice it to say that the Prince Regent is an honorary member, although honour and Wig Club are uneasy bedfellows. The Lanes hold orgies from time to time, but we do not bother to keep them under surveillance as all they are interested in is fornication, and in the many and degrading ways in which that occupation can be 'enjoyed'. They are in fact libertines, not liberals." He laughed at his jest.
I thought of what Bridey Murphy had told Woody concerning the 'rascality' at the Shelleys' villa and thought to alert him to the notion that some liberals could also be libertines.
"Colonel, far be it for me to cast doubts on your theory but isn't it true that those whom aspire to 'freedom for all' are also at the forefront for the complete sexual freedom of both genders. Doesn't it follow that many liberal minded people could also be libertines--and vice versa -- if you will forgive the pun..." Colonel Slade shot me an exasperated look, and I hurriedly continued, " ... and so called libertine meetings, ostensibly for the gratification of the flesh, could be a cover for sedition and plotting?"
Colonel Slade rubbed his chin in thought. "By Jove, Greenaway, you make a valid point. I shall talk this over with the brigadier directly. We may have to change the thrust of our surveillance. Meantime, let us peruse the lists from the wedding."
On the list of those who only attended the wedding were well known radicals, and friends, of the Shelleys, such as Leigh Hunt, Thomas Love Peacock, William Hone and Thomas Wooler. I saw Zinnia Teazle's name but not Rebekah's, and I assumed she had been indisposed or was visiting her new publishers. There was one name I recognised, on both the wedding list and the list for the after wedding revels, and was surprised to see it was that of Octavius Hardy. I pointed it out to Colonel Slade.
"I have met a Captain Octavius Hardy, of the Twelfth Foot. Our companies were posted alongside each other on the Kennet and Avon canal. Could he be this Octavius Hardy?"
Slade nodded. "Yes, I suspect that is 'Kissme' Hardy, who is quite a lecher in his own way. When the Twelfth were stationed at Windsor Castle 'Kissme' took an active part in many of Rowley's Revels, accompanied by one, or more, of the merry wives of Windsor. However he is now a major in the Sixty- Sixth Foot."
Colonel Slade frowned. "Unfortunately we cannot tell who was accompanying whom at the wedding or at the revels. It would be helpful if we knew what gent was with which lady." He thought a few moments then said. "Of course, both your sister and her companion were there at the wedding and supper. You can ask them to recall who was with whom, and if the Hardy on the lists is the one we think it is."
"I did not see my sister's name on the list, Colonel, although I expected her to be there."
The Colonel peered at the sheet of paper and then pointed. "See there? Your sister now goes by her nom de plume - Becky Sharpe. Many female writers do not wish that their families are brought to the public's attention, and indeed many families do not wish to be associated with a female author."
I confess I was surprised to see the diminutive of Rebekah being used by her. My parents always referred to her by her baptismal name; however we, her siblings, referred to her by the diminutive until she was about eight years old. Personally, I like the name.
Zinnia and Rebekah, or Becky as I now should refer to her, had returned to London a week after the Shelleys' wedding, and I decided to pay them a visit, ostensibly to discuss the hiring of staff for my own place in Queen Street. I say ostensibly as I had already taken on a cook, a Mrs Bridges, who was highly recommended by Krish, who employed her sister in a similar role. A rather comely house maid by the name of Abigail had been sent from the domestic agency used by the Bureau, and I saw no reason not to employ her, although I made it plain to Woody that he must not gallop her. He had nodded in agreement, saying that there were plenty of available females in the surrounding houses who would be only too pleased to be galloped by him, and in any case he never shat on his own doorstep.
All that was lacking in my domestic staff was a 'tweenie, a young girl who helps both the cook and the housemaid. Mrs Bridges had advised me to employ one of the girls from the local Workhouse, and indeed I had a mind to do just that. One afternoon I had just left Boodles and was walking from St James Street into Piccadilly when I felt a hand delving into my tail coat pocket. I whipped round and collared a tangle haired, grimy faced girl, of about fourteen years of age.
"Well miss, you are set on a course for the gallows if you continue to steal from people." She was unabashed, fixing me with a pair of large, startlingly violet coloured eyes.
"Let me go mister, and I'll suck your pego!"
"How do you know I wouldn't hand you over to a constable, after you had sucked my pego?" I covered my astonishment by asking a question, a well-used ploy of the Bureau.
The little minx gave me a radiant smile, which completely won my heart, and said. "You have an honest face, sir!"
And that is how I met Monday March, a runaway from the Foundling Home, who became the 'tweenie in my house, at Number Eighteen, Queen Street. I presented her to Mrs Bridges, who took one look at her and started boiling up a tub of water to scrub the layers of grime off the girl.
When Mrs Bridges learned her name she said. "That will never do; she got called that as she was left outside the Foundling Home on a Monday, in March. I shall call her Molly."
And Molly March she became.
I was about to leave the kitchen when I noticed Mrs Bridges eying me questioningly. "Yes, Mrs Bridges?"
"You know that Molly is a runaway from a Foundling Home, sir?" I nodded, waiting for her to continue. "You know how them poor girls, and boys, are fearfully abused, by men with the base desire to debauch young children... ?" Her voice tailed away, and I realised she was seeking, in an oblique way, to determine if I too held those desires, and if that was my reason for bringing the waif home.
"A year ago I discovered the body of a young runaway, brutally abused, and then murdered, in Wiltshire. I brought-- err-- Molly here to save her from a similar fate, for life on the streets would have led her to that same end eventually. That was my only reason, Mrs Bridges."
She favoured me with one of her rare smiles.
"Lord love you, sir. I knew you weren't one of them preverts..." I think she meant perverts " ... Doctor Armityge wouldn't have had you as a friend if you was."
Becky and Zinnia were renting a house in Bloomsbury Square, which although small was well appointed, and I could see that both girls were pleased to be living in an area which was beginning to attract writers and artists from other areas of London. I listened attentively as they gave me the benefit of their experience, regarding the hiring of staff, and setting the rates of emoluments. As casually as I was able I steered the conversation around to the Shelleys' wedding, and asked if they remembered seeing an Octavius Hardy at the reception.
"Oh, yes," said Zinnia. "I remember him well; a very jovial gentleman, with a ready laugh. Quite a portly sort of fellow."
"Portly!" Becky snorted with laughter. "He was extremely plump, bordering on the corpulent."
That sounded if it was indeed Major Octavius Hardy of the 66th Foot.
"Do you remember if he was accompanied by a lady?"
"Indeed he was, by an exceedingly beautiful French woman." Zinnia replied. "Actually I was quite surprised that such an elegant woman would associate herself with someone who was certainly no Adonis..."
" ... more like a Falstaff." Becky interrupted, and both girls laughed.
"Do you know the name of this French woman?"
They both shook their heads, but Zinnia said. "I heard Octavius call her 'Louise'."
I managed to obtain several more pairings of names on the lists. When asked why I was interested I made up some cock and bull story that kept Becky satisfied but Zinnia gave me a searching look. Becky then announced that she had an inordinate amount of writing to do, and went upstairs to her study.
"She seems happier, now that you're back in London." I was just making small talk, and was quite unprepared for what followed. Zinnia turned to me, and I could see the glint of tears in her eyes.
"I'm losing her, Jack. She has gone upstairs to write a letter to Byron. She is still infatuated with him, and writes every day, then mopes around the house until he replies, completely neglecting her writing."
"And does he reply?"
"Eventually, thereupon she goes singing around the house, and does some work on her latest novel. However as time goes by she waits for the next letter and pines and frets. She says she will move out to Geneva to be near him, but if she went she would just spend all her time hovering around him like the several other silly girls all obsessed by him. He will tire of her, as he tires of all his mistresses, and then she would be bereft."
Zinnia wiped a teardrop from the corner of her eye. "I have tried to make her see what her infatuation is leading to, but she maintains that she loves him, and that he loves her and they are meant to be together. She says she will be able write in Geneva just as well as in London, and that I should encourage her to follow her heart and her destiny."
She sighed. "It is a far cry from that bright, ambitious, young woman, who took to the literary life as a duck to water. We should never have gone to Geneva with Shelley and Mary; you remember what I told you of that trip, at Marlow?"
Indeed I did, and my theory, of libertarians and libertines being different sides of the same coin, was well borne out by the amoral antics of those artists.
"I suppose as her brother it is my duty to forbid her to go to Geneva; and if she disobeyed me to travel out and fetch her back. If she had been ... uh ... compromised by Lord Byron then I would need to call him out."
Zinnia laughed. "Dear Jack, you are such an old fashioned fellow. Becky is of full age and is her own woman. If she is hell bent on destroying her career, and her reputation, that is her business. I may well disagree with her course of action but I will fight, with every breath in my body, that she should be free to make that choice. Which is probably not exactly what Voltaire had in mind when he made his famous statement I would suppose?"
"Could you not accompany her to Geneva? Your presence there might dissuade her from doing anything ... err ... foolish."
She shook her head emphatically. "No, I am an Englishwoman, and I do not appreciate foreign climes. My French is weak, my German equally weak, and my Italian non-existent. I coped with the strangeness last time as there were other English people about me. Byron is now largely shunned by those English living in the vicinity, other than the literary or artistic, and quite frankly I have had enough of literary and artistic people. They exhibit such overbearing egos, coupled with such a lack of self-confidence, it is hard to correlate the different feelings they express in almost the same instant. One minute they go exulting in their God given gifts; the next they are plunged into the depths of despair if some other author throws doubt on their aforementioned gifts."
She shook her head, as if dumbfounded by the emotional instability of artists, and continued. "Their pretentiousness, their arrogance, their pettiness; the same arguments, expressed by the same people in practically the same way, day in day out. I couldn't stand it for more than a week else I would be throwing myself into the lake."
Zinnia spoke in a wistful tone of voice. "I miss the work I did for my father. The legal world has rules, and a logic which all practitioners follow. The literary world has neither. There are rules of grammar, which are forever being disputed as to which set of rules to follow. In Art there are rules of perspective and composition, which are ignored by some artists. Successful writers and painters who ignore the rules are feted as being innovative and radical. The less than successful are castigated for not following the rules. There is no logic, other than that measured by success."
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