A jaunty rap on the door of Mrs. Jordan’s dressing room. Henry King poked his head around the corner.
“May I come in, Dolly dear?”
“Of course, Henry. Nancy dear, a chair for Mr. King.”
The slightly built dresser dragged a chair forward and placed it by Mrs. Jordan, who winced at the scraping sound.
“Quietly, dear, quietly.”
The young woman gave a bob of a curtsey. “Yes, m’m. Sorry, m’m.”
Henry King entered the room, brandishing a bottle of champagne and two flutes.
“Congratulations, my dear. A hit – a palpable hit! Dickie Sheridan is practically dancing a jig in the foyer. You swept all before you, as usual.”
“Thank you, Henry, and congratulations to you. You gave, I think, one of your best performances. And is it not comfortable that once again we are husband and wife, rather than father and daughter?”
Henry King chuckled and opened the champagne and poured two glasses as Mrs. Jordan put the last touches to her hair.
“A toast, my dear,” he said. “To The School for Scandal. There’s life in the old war-horse still. “
They both drank to the play. Nancy, the dresser, gave a discreet cough.
Mrs. Jordan smiled at her. “Yes, my dear?”
“There’s a party on the stage, ma’am. I’ve finished up here. Can I go now?”
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Jordan said cordially. “Run along. Enjoy yourself and good-night.”
Smiling with anticipation, the dresser said, “Thank you, ma’am. Good-night, ma’am. Good-night, sir.” And she practically rushed from the room.
Mrs. Jordan sighed and looked at her empty glass. Her companion discreetly filled it again. He gave her a sober look.
“How is your new dresser?” he asked.
She pulled a small face. “Barely adequate. A bit of a slattern. She lives to consort with the stagehands. Ah me! I fear me she will be enceinte before the end of the season.” She sighed again.
“Dolly, dear,” he said gently, “you cannot be mother to them all.”
She sighed again and nodded. “You are right, of course.” She took a small sip, and said, in a seemingly offhanded way, “And how is your new dresser?”
“Ah!” he said and set his glass down very carefully. “He is …. efficient, very efficient; he is quiet, unobtrusive. I never know he’s there until he comes forward to perform a service. But he does not smile nor laugh nor chatter.” He gave her a long look. “He is fading, Dolly.”
She looked at him with terrified eyes. “Fading? What do you mean, fading?”
He said, “I mean that each day I see him, he is a little more withdrawn, a little more pale, a little more diminished. Dolly, my dear, you must heal the breach, and quickly – for your own sake if not for his.”
She gave a cry of anguish and covered her face with her hands. “How can I Henry, if he will not see me? We meet in the corridor and he cuts me. I speak and he ignores me. I send him letters and messages and there is no reply or acknowledgement. I want him to love me as before, but he is lost to me.”
She sobbed into her hands.
Henry King patted her on the shoulder.
“Then, my dear, there is only one thing you can do. You must have his lusty sailor recalled to England.”
“Oh Henry, If only I could.”
“Is it so impossible, my dear?”
Mrs. Jordan took a deep breath and recovered her composure. She leant forward to the mirror and began to repair the ravages of her weeping.
“There is something, Henry, of which I think you are unaware,” she said. “When I importuned the duke to place Mr. Levison out of harm’s way, he gave me to understand that it was the last favor I was to demand of him. He intimated, though not in so many words, that the next time we met would be the last time. I understood then that our relationship was at an end.”
Henry King muttered, “Bastard!”
Mrs. Jordan seemed quite philosophic about it.
“I’ve had a good run, Henry. We were in love for many years. Twenty years. After Amelia was born, I realized it was ending. But in spite of everything, he acknowledges his children and will, I think, provide for them. But I fear the conditions he will place on me. For their sakes, I cannot be seen to be too demanding of him.”
“And Sim…?”
She shook her head sadly, admitting her helplessness in the matter.
He pulled his chair closer to her and said, deliberately, in a hushed voice, “Let me be plain, Dolly. If something is not done to effect a reconciliation, I fear for his sanity. It has been many weeks since your rift, and occasionally I still chance upon him weeping. You have always said he is one of your children, your most beloved child. You cannot turn from him now, when he needs you the most.”
She was in great distress. “Oh Henry, what can I do? What can I do?”
“You have no choice, my dear. In spite of your misgivings, you must approach the duke to see what can be done.”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Come, my dear,” her companion said bracingly, “you are a woman of manifest charm, and (dare I say it?) of shrewd wile. You can, with but little effort, I think, manage a recalcitrant lover.”
She was silent and then she laughed tremulously.
“You are an old rogue, Henry, but you have a good heart. I thank you for it.” And she kissed him gratefully.
A week later, Sim learned from the irrepressible Harry, the assistant stage manager, that Mrs. Jordan had had an assignation during the second interval of the play. She was seen boarding a carriage that was awaiting her at the end of the alley by the stage door – a carriage with drawn blinds and with the royal arms emblazoned on the door. There was much speculation backstage on the subject of the tryst.
Sim tried to shrug off his interest in this piece of theatre gossip, trying to convince himself that the doings of his former patroness meant nothing to him. It was not true. Although he still burned with resentment at her treatment of his lover, he was honest enough with himself to realize he missed her, and that he loved her. So he made his way to the wings and watched the final act of the play.
He was at once struck with the realization that something was wrong with Mrs. Jordan. All the stagehands and ancillary staff were watching the performance and there was hushed murmuring as timing was missed and humor was underplayed. All were fascinated with what was happening on the stage.
The play drew to a close.
Miss Sherry, in the role of Lady Sneerwell pronounced her final curse on Mrs. Jordan in the role of Lady Teazle:
You too, madam – provoking – insolent! May your husband live these fifty years.
Miss Sherry swept off the stage and in the wings snarled, “What’s wrong with the bloody woman?” She was forestalled as a great gasp went up from the audience and from the onlookers in the wings as Mrs. Jordan burst into tears.
Never before had London seen such manifest misery from the stage, and especially not from their favorite romp, Mrs. Jordan.
Sim, and all the others watching held their collective breath, when Henry King, in the role of Sir Peter Teazle, took Mrs. Jordan in his arms and improvised masterfully.
Do not weep, my love. ‘Twas no curse that Fury pronounced, but a promise of fifty more years of married happiness.
A storm of applause broke out, and Mrs. Jordan, smiling shakily was able to perform the act to the final curtain.
She had to be helped off stage after the thunderous applause. Practically fainting, she was assisted to her dressing room, up the spiral staircase with Henry King following. Sim was ignored and he stood stricken in the wings as the stage hands and the rest of the company buzzed with conjecture around him. He did not know what to do. For the first time in weeks, his mind was taken off his own misery. He could not help himself. Waiting until all the helpers had descended to the stage level once more, he slowly mounted the stairs and found himself standing outside her dressing room, once so familiar to him. The door was ajar. He slowly pushed it open and saw Mrs. Jordan on the day sofa, with Henry King and Nancy, her new dresser trying futilely to comfort her.
She gasped as she saw him. The others in the room turned to look at him but he only had eyes for her. He advanced into the room a couple of steps and said, chokingly, “M – mother!”
She gave a cry and flung herself into his arms. They clung to each other.
“I am so sorry, my love – so sorry!” She wept in his arms and he held her with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. They stood like that for a long time, cradling each other, until Sim guided her to the day sofa. She sat down but still clung to him as he stood by her, loath to let him go.
Henry King watched them, with a little smile on his lips. He looked at Nancy who was also watching them, grinning as though they were some act in a circus. He moved to her and drew her aside.
“It seems, my dear, you will be seeking a new position.”
She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “Wha…?”
And hero that he was, he said, “And I shall be needing a new dresser. Perhaps we can come to an equitable arrangement?”
Nancy simpered, “Lawks, sir. I dunno.”
He took her by the elbow. “Perhaps we could discuss this in private, in my dressing room?” And he led her out and gently closed the door behind them.
Nothing was said between Sim and Mrs. Jordan for a long time. She clung to one of his arms and she gradually regained her equanimity. She moved to the dressing table mirror and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She gave a shaky laugh and said, not looking at him, “That is the first time you have ever called me Mother.”
He said quietly, “You are my mother – and I have treated you shamefully.” And then he added very softly, “I missed you.” He turned from her and hung his head in shame and misery.
She sat down at her dressing table and said, “I wrote to the duke. I so bitterly regretted what I had done to your lover, I wanted to make amends.”
Sim lifted his head and looked at her.
“He arranged to meet me today…”
“The closed carriage at the end of the alley…” Sim supplied.
She nodded, still looking at his reflection in the mirror.
“I tried to have him recall Mr. Levison, but…. he would not. He was very adamant, Sim, and gave every impression of being bored and irritated with my importuning. He then informed me of the terms of our separation.” Her voice wavered and Sim stood behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
She took a breath. “He insists I give up the stage and devote myself to the upbringing of my youngest four children. He will make me an allowance of 1500 pounds a year with 600 pounds for my house and carriage. In addition he will settle 800 pounds on the girls.”
Sim said softly, “That is not ungenerous.”
“No, it is not.” She agreed. “There is a stipulation. If …. if after this play closes, I return to the stage, then all the money and all my children shall be forfeited to their father.” She sighed – a deeply unhappy sigh. “I am sorry, my love, I could not secure the recall of the Lieutenant – or Captain as he is now – and I dared not persist. He has become … unapproachable.”
Sim gently took her hand and kissed it. “No, ma’am. You could not persist. But I thank you for what must have been extremely difficult. But be persuaded that I shall become reconciled to my loss and would not have you make yourself more unhappy on my account. I would ask but one thing…”
She looked at him. “And what is that?”
He smiled, “That I may be your dresser once more, and that all may be again as it was.”
She turned in her chair and gave him a faltering smile and embraced him.
“The School for Scandal” enjoyed a prolonged season. To the delight of Mr. Sheridan, the play’s author and the theatre’s manager, they played to packed houses. News of Mrs. Jordan’s spectacular breakdown spread like wild fire through London’s artistic world and all flocked to see her performance. Her breakdown was never repeated but the audiences were, nonetheless, entranced. She was at her sparkling best and she was, by popular acclaim, voted the true successor to Peg Woffington, to Kitty Clive, and even, though the comparison was ridiculous, to the great Sarah Siddens herself.
Both Sim and Mrs. Jordan knew that these belated accolades were but the final flaring up of a dying fire. Mrs. Jordan viewed her enforced retirement at the end of the season with wistful regret. Much as she loved her children, the stage had been her life for nearly thirty years.
And when the final bows were bowed, and the final applause had died, when all the celebratory champagne had been drunk and the theatre was finally dark, Sim found himself once more in Mrs. Jordan’s drawing room, whither he had been summoned on a dreary rainy Saturday afternoon.
When he entered the room unannounced, she looked at him and said, “There is news.”
Sim’s heart leapt, for as dedicated as were his daily searches, he could find no report in the newspapers or in the bulletins posted at Admiralty house that mentioned “Captain Levison” or “HMS Venture” or even “the blockade of the port of Cadiz.”
“What news, ma’am?” his voice breaking as he asked the question.
She looked at him sadly. “Sit down, Sim,” she said.
He quickly sat watching her all the while.
She stood at the bay window looking out on to the weeping streets. She spoke colorlessly. “His Royal Highness, in light of our former connexion, has graciously apprised me of some information that he knew would interest me – news that had been withheld from general circulation because it had been deemed too …… too harrowing.”
She looked at Sim who sat petrified, his eyes enormous with dire anticipation.
“It seems the French blockade of the port of Cadiz has been broken. There was an encounter that involved one English ship and the ships that formed the French blockade. It is said that the engagement rivaled Trafalgar in its import, though I cannot imagine that to be the case.”
Sim whispered “Oh God!”
“All ships were destroyed. Every ship. The English ship and all the French ships. When reinforcements arrived and survivors had been picked up out of the sea, it was reported that HMS Venture was the first ship to be fired upon. It was burning when its captain, with great gallantry and bravery used his ship as a fire ship and he took the helm himself and steered it into the French fleet. The fire quickly spread from ship to ship as the captain deliberately rammed his stricken vessel into one ship after another. Those French ships that tried to escape collided with others that were aflame until all the fleet was burning. No ship escaped. But the blockade was broken and supplies now flow into Spain through Cadiz assisting the Duke of Wellington in his battle for Spain.”
From a decanter she poured a large glass of brandy, as Sim gave a strangled sob. She sat beside him on the chaise.
“All the officers of the Admiralty are awed by his bravery.” She added and offered him the glass. “Drink this, my dear.”
He sobbed, “I will be sick, madam.”
She said serenely. “Nevertheless, drink. You will not be sick. It will fortify you.”
She watched as Sim took the brandy in large gulps, gasping after each mouthful as he did so.
She said gently, “All this took place eight weeks ago.”
Sim was galvanized with horror and outrage. “Eight weeks! Oh God! I knew nothing of it.”
She silently pushed the glass in his hand towards his face and he took several more mouthfuls of brandy.
Mrs. Jordan stood up and became businesslike.
“Now,” she said, “You shall stay here tonight. I think it is not good for you to be on your own…”
Sim interrupted her. “Ma’am… did … did he survive?”
She looked into his tortured eyes and said gently, “His grace could not tell me. But I think it … unlikely.”
He bowed his head in defeat. He stood to leave the room, but found he was a little befuddled by the brandy, so he sat down again quickly.
She smiled at him and then remembered.
“Oh. There is a letter for you.”
He looked up. “For me, ma’am?” and it slowly dawned on him that perhaps here at last was the news he was waiting for. He stumbled frantically over to retrieve the letter and stared owlishly at it, not recognizing the hand of the direction. Mrs. Jordan said quietly, “Shall I open it for you?”
He nodded, thrust the letter at her, and sat down heavily. She broke the seal and read out:
“James, Viscount Saltash requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Simkin Tregear at his London residence at No 14 Cavendish Square. Lord Saltash will be at home at 4 o’clock pm on Monday 16th inst.
An answer will oblige.”
Sim was a little slow in comprehending. “Lord Saltash wants to see me?”
“It seems that way,” she said thoughtfully.
“Should I go?”
She shrugged. “It can do no harm. He may have more news, though I doubt it. I cannot see how he would know more than the Admiral of the Fleet. So … yes, I think you should go.” She looked down at him, and gave a little smile as she saw he was well on the way to being foxed from the quantity of brandy that he had drunk.
“Shall I reply for you? Thomas can take your reply round to Cavandish Square this afternoon.”
He muttered, “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Jordan sat down at her beautiful little writing desk and penned a reply to Lord Saltash in her elegant copperplate.
At precisely four o’clock on the day appointed, Sim rapped the knocker of No 14 Cavendish Square. He dressed very carefully for the occasion, and looked, as the saying goes, as fine as five pence. The door was open by a footman in old-fashioned livery with powdered wig and full-skirted coat. He was admitted, and was led to the reception rooms above at a stately pace. He had time to look around him. The interior was very shabby. There were shadows on the walls where paintings had been removed, mute testimony to the straitened circumstances of the viscount. One painting still hung on the walls, positioned on the landing of the staircase - a portrait by Hoppner (he thought) of the long dead Lady Saltash, relaxing in Arcadian splendor with her two young sons.
In the salon at the top of the stairs, he was announced by the footman in melancholy tones, “Mr. Tregear, my lord.”
Sim did not know what he anticipated, but the room exceeded any expectation he might have had. Although it was still light outside, all the drapes were drawn and candles were burning in all the sconces – a multiplicity of candles so that the room took on the appearance of a stage set. His Lordship was enthroned in a high backed wing chair with an open book on his knees. He was dressed very formally in the powdered wig and patches of his youth, some fifty years ago. He wore a ruby silk coat and exquisite lace at his throat and wrists. Jewels flashed discreetly in the candle light from his fingers and from the lace at his throat. There was a crystal decanter, half full on a small table by his side, with a crystal goblet beside it.
When Sim was announced, the viscount raised a parchment colored hand and beckoned him forward. Sim moved forward and placed himself before the man. He bowed slightly and awaited a response.
The viscount raised a languid hand with a long, ornate quizzing glass and examined Sim through the lens for what seemed like an eternity. The glass was lowered and the viscount asked, in a voice husky with age, “You were his lover?”
Sim saw no reason the deny it. “I was, my lord.”
“And have there been others since?”
“No, my lord.” Sim’s voice was implacable, and his face stony.
The viscount gave a nod of understanding, and he said slowly and with infinite regret, “I would congratulate him if I could. You are very beautiful. I did not expect that.” He sighed as though wearied by the effort.
“And Mrs. Jordan? She is in good health?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sim stood in silence while the old man poured himself a drink, shakily from the decanter. Before lifting the goblet, he said, “A chair for Mr. Tregear.”
Sim looked around in surprise. A footman, who had been standing discreetly to the side, brought forward a solid walnut ladder-back chair and placed it behind Sim. The viscount said, “Pray, be seated, Mr. Tregear.”
Sim sat, perched on the front of the chair as the viscount sipped from the goblet.
The viscount said, “I would have you perform a service for me, Mr. Tregear.”
Sim’s eyebrows shot up. He found it hard to believe that a man with servants would require an outsider to serve him.
“If it is within my power, my lord.” He answered.
“I wish you to take him a message.”
Sim was startled. Him? Surely he couldn’t mean…? Was the man mad?
“He will not reply to my letters. I will not allow James, my other grandson, to assist me in this. He foolishly tried to turn me against Gervase.” He laughed, a wheezing laugh. “That is how I learned of your existence. Bum-boy, he named you and abomination.” The viscount’s lip curled in a sneer. “He was ever a prig – and a stupid one at that! Trying to turn me against him. How little he knows me! As though I cared for that! You may not believe this, Mr. Tregear, but in my youth… ah me!”
He sighed deeply and took another sip, lifting the goblet to his lips with a shaking hand.
The viscount continued, “After he was discharged from the naval hospital at Greenwich, he broke off all contact with us, and buried himself in that god-forsaken part of the country ….”
“In Lincolnshire.” Sim finished the sentence in a trembling voice. He felt like his heart would burst.
The viscount’s voice strengthened as his interest was caught. “Ah,” he said, “you know it. Good. You shall have no trouble finding him.”
Feeling self-conscious and with his mind in turmoil, Sim said, “Gervase… “ and he choked on the name, “Gervase mentioned it to me once, but I have never seen it. I did not know he was alive until this moment.”
The viscount’s wits seemed suddenly to be sharpened.
“He has not contacted you?”
Sim could not answer and only shook his head. The viscount stared at him and Sim looked up to into the old man’s eyes and saw only a little cynical humor.
“You think he has repudiated you? You think he no longer cares?”
Sim looked away and could not answer.
Again the wheezing laugh. “Arrogant you may call him; unjust perhaps; even weak and resentful – but never inconstant. Constancy is his one great virtue and his great weakness. Did he love you before, then he will love you till he dies, Mr. Tregear. If that be so, I can assure you that at this very moment he is thinking of you, even as he walks the bounds of his stinking fen. You fill his thoughts every waking moment, and I would hazard that he dreams of you at night. Nay. Do not accuse him of inconstancy. He is as constant as the North Star.” The viscount gave a sigh, and suddenly was wan and diminished. “ What I would not have given to have inspired a love like that!”
Sim bowed his head and gave a silent sob.
“So. Mr. Tregear, will you go to him?”
Sim lifted his head and said, “I will, my lord. What is your message?”
The old man sat frozen for a minute or so, and then said, “Tell him that I have made my will and have named him the next viscount.”
Sim gave a quirk of a smile. “You have Nominated him.”
The viscount looked at him. “You know about that? Strange, but I don’t think Gervase does. Good. You can explain it to him.”
Sim bowed his head in agreement.
“Tell him also, that I love him and that I would see him before I die. No matter how bad his wounds or how hideous his disfigurement, I would have him come to me so that I may look on him for one final time.”
Sim asked with trepidation, “Is … is he badly disfigured, my lord?”
“I have not seen him, Mr. Tregear. I cannot judge. My grandson James has seen him and reports that his disfigurement is so .. so appalling, it is for the best that he hides himself away in the fens of Lincolnshire, away from all polite society.”
Sim pressed his lips together.
The viscount looked at him. “Does that make a difference, Mr. Tregear?”
Sim answered resolutely. “No, my lord.”
The viscount smiled a crooked smile. “Bravo,” he said quietly, “my grandson has chosen well. You are worthy of him. The title, you know, is the only thing of value I can give him. In addition, he will inherit ….” And he waved a quavering hand around indicating the house and all his property, “but I fear it will be in the nature of a mill-stone round his neck.”
Sim stood and said, “I shall need to know how to get there, my lord.”
With a tired hand, the viscount indicated a side table. Sim picked up a folded sheet of paper on which was written the direction of Gervase’s estate. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to the viscount and bowed, saying, “If there is nothing else, my lord?”
“One last thing, Mr. Tregear. Place little reliance on my grandson’s description of his cousin’s wounds. James was ever a cesspit of hate and jealousy, and it would not be beyond him to exaggerate Gervase’s disfigurements in order to cause a breach in this blighted family. That is all.”
Sim smiled as he bowed again. “I will do my best, my lord.”
The old man sighed, “I know you will, Mr. Tregear, I know you will.”
And Sim left the room.
Sim had been on the road for five days. Because he had never been out of London before, he had dreaded the thought of the traveling, thinking that he would find it uncomfortable, tedious and stifling. The opposite was true. When he left the city, he was overwhelmed by the smell of the country – a clean, earthy, almost ancient smell. He wondered idly, not for the first time, who his father had been. Some country yeoman? It would account for the strange affinity he felt for the rural landscapes through which he journeyed.
He arrived at the Lincolnshire town of Boston in the middle of the day and careful enquiries elicited the information that a van would be traveling south to the village of Gedney the very next day. Gedney was his ultimate destination. Gervase’s little estate was just outside that village right on the fens.
The fens! Here they dominated the landscape and all life moved to the rhythm of the fens. The viscount had referred to them as “stinking”; Gervase himself had described the situation as “gloomy” and “lonely”. Yet, as climbed the Boston Stump, the tower of St. Botolph’s church, and looked out over the fens as the afternoon sun cut through the gathering mists, his heart swelled with exhilaration at the wildness and the beauty of the scene. The fens were not stinking, but bracing as the east wind carried with it the tang of the sea. Birds flocked and wheeled over the flat expanse, and Sim could hear their cries from his vantage point.
His farewell to Mrs. Jordan had been most affecting. He had been with her all his life, but when the play closed he realized the time had come for him to seek his own fortune away from her and he knew that this fortune was inextricably entwined with Captain Levison, the man who dominated his thoughts. There was no place for him in Mrs. Jordan’s new, circumscribed life, filled as it would be from now on with the care of her young children.
As he packed up his few belongings to make the journey into Lincolnshire, he realized he had no memento of her. When he took his final leave of her, he asked for some remembrance. She was much moved, and gave him a miniature of herself, which the duke of Clarence had given to her. It was painted by Angelica Kauffman and Sim at once recognized that it was extremely valuable. As she gave it to him, she gave him also a purse of money – “’Tis all I can give you, my love, though it should be much more.” He thanked her sincerely and reluctantly took his leave. It transpired that the purse contained one hundred guineas, which shocked him excessively, though he was very grateful knowing that this money would sustain him while he sought employment, should the Captain not wish to see him again.
He shied away from that thought. ‘Twould be better, he told himself bravely, to expect nothing from the Captain. Safer by far that they meet as indifferent acquaintances. Then, if the Captain did not wish to renew his connexion with Sim, they could part amicably without Sim shaming himself in the Captain’s eyes.
Worthy though this melancholy plan was, Sim was not comforted by it. He knew that, if rejected, he would experience desolation far greater than he felt when he believed the Captain had died in action. Still, it was the best that he could think of. It would allow him some modicum of dignity if he were cast off outright.
He recalled the viscount’s words. “He is as constant as the North Star.” It was this statement on which Sim pinned his hopes. That night, through the open casement of his room in the inn, he sought out the North Star in the velvet sky, and finding it, tried to draw what comfort and assurance he could from the sight.
The covered van left for the village of Gedney in the middle of the morning, with Sim as its only passenger. He shared the driver’s seat with the wagoner, a taciturn old man in a brown smock and straw hat. The van was filled (he was told) with provisions and small goods bound for the villages of Gedney and Holbeach, where farm produce would be loaded and taken on to Spalding and back to Boston.
Sim was curious about the farm produce.
“P’taters,” he was informed laconically. Sim grinned at the unromantic nature of the cargo. He tried to imagine Gervase planting and harvesting “p’taters” but failed in the attempt. All around him, as they trundled along, he could see the heavily cultivated arable farmland, quite unlike Gervase’s description of the property he had bought.
He asked the wagoner, “Are the fens uncultivated around Gedney?”
The man answered, “Aye. Further south.” And silence again reigned. Sim had to be content with that answer.
The bumpy road dipped down to a ford over a sluggishly flowing river. The wagoner pulled the horses to a halt just after they started across and let them drink.
“What river is this?” Sim asked.
“Welland,” was the short answer, then the old man volunteered, “You can see Gedney from t’other bank.” With much shouting and urging, the van began moving and the horses pulled it up the road on the other bank. Sim stood on his seat and saw the squat church tower of the village of Gedney. Beyond he could see the fens, lush and green, and, it seemed, mostly uncultivated. A strange feeling came over him – a knot in his stomach when he realized his search was almost at an end.
They rumbled into Gedney in the middle of the afternoon. The wagoner knew where he was going and drew up outside a large brick barn next to the inn. Sim sprang down and thanked the old man, pressing a guinea into his hand. For the first time the man smiled and tipped the brim of his hat in thanks.
Sim carried his studded trunk into the taproom of the inn. There was no one there so he called out. A very buxom middle-aged woman answered the summons.
“I am looking for a Mr. Levison,” he said, “I believe he has a property outside the village on the fens.”
The woman looked at him in puzzlement. “Don’t know no Mr. Levison, sir. Not round these parts.” Then she called out, “Simmy!”
Sim jumped in confusion as she called his name, but then realized that it referred to the large young man who shambled into the room.
“Wha’?”
“This ‘ere gentleman is looking for a Mr. Levison.”
“Don’t know no Mr. Levison, sir. Not round these parts.”
His mother nudged him. “Oi said that.”
Sim’s heart sank in disappointment. Then he said, “He’s a sea captain.”
The woman perked up. “Din a sea cap’n buy the Dutchman’s place?”
Her son answered, “Aye, he did.”
Sim said with mounting excitement, “It must be him.”
The woman said doubtfully, “If you say so, sir.”
“It must be.” Sim repeated his assertion in the face of her doubt. “I mean, how many sea captains can have bought property outside this village?”
His rhetorical question was met with blank looks.
Sim said, “Can I hire a gig around here?”
The woman understood that. “We got a gig, sir. Simmy ‘ere can drive you.” She lowered her voice in a calculating manner. “’Twill be dear, sir.”
Sim said instantly, “How much?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Five shillings, sir.” There was a strangled sound from her son, and she added hastily, “But Simmy will drive you back if the sea cap’n be not your Mr. Levison.”
“A deal, madam, and I thank you.”
She beamed and then yelled, “You harness up old Apple, Simmy. Smartly now.” The young man shambled out.
She held out her hand. “I’ll take the money now, sir.”
Sim handed her a guinea. “For all your kindness, madam.”
She gasped, and practically snatched the coin and slipped down the front of her corset, between her ample bosoms.
“Thank you, sir,” she gushed, “you’re a real gentleman.”
Sim hefted his trunk and made his way to the stables. The large young man was backing a stout cob into the shafts of a dilapidated gig.
“Will there be room for my trunk?” Sim asked as the young man began buckling the straps of the harness.
“Aye sir. I can put it under the seat.”
Sim watched as the other Sim finished adjusting the harness. His trunk was effortlessly lifted into the gig and lashed into position.
“We’re ready to go,” the young an said, and then asked, ”Are you hungry sir?”
Sim smiled and answered, “Yes, I am.”
The young man nodded and said, “Get you on the gig, sir, while I get us something to eat.” He darted away and came back a little later with two warm pasties. Sim gratefully took one as the other man climbed into the driver’s seat.
He slapped the reins and the gig moved off at a brisk pace down the main street of the village and out towards the fens.
As Sim handed the driver his food, he asked, “Is it far?”
“No, sir, not far,” was all the reply he got. They sat side-by-side munching their pasties, the driver using one hand to guide the gig. He’d obviously done this before, as the horse did not falter in its stride.
In no time at all, it seemed, they came on a gabled brick house set back from the road.
“This be the Dutchman’s house,” the driver said as he turned the gig into the property.
Sim looked all round him as they bowled up the drive. The grounds were much overgrown, wild even, and when the house hove into view, Sim saw that it had three gables facing the drive – crow-stepped in the Dutch style. There was ivy growing over the walls of the house and Sim saw the first sign of human life. A man with a billhook was clearing the ivy from the walls. Sim’s heart stopped for a moment, until he realized that the man was not Gervase.
The gig drew up at the front of the house. The man who was working stopped what he was doing and looked at them.
Sim fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a guinea coin.
“This is for you,” he said to the young man beside him. “I would desire that you wait for me.” He winked at the man. “Don’t tell your mother.”
The young man’s face broke into a wide grin. “No sir,” he said enthusiastically, “and thank you, sir.”
Sim jumped from the gig. Although he was burning to find the Captain, he felt some trepidation at the possible failure of his journey. He approached the man who had come forward to meet him and who had pause, leaning on his billhook. He was not young, late middle age, and looked extremely fit. Sim saw that his grey-streaked hair was pulled back and was plaited into a queue that hung down his back, navy style.
Sim nodded his head in greeting to the man and asked, “Does Captain Levison live here?”
The man looked at him and, after a slight pause, answered, “Aye. Who’s askin’?”
Sim could not help grinning with relief. “I… I have a message for him. From his grandfather, the viscount.”
Again the man gave him that shrewd, penetrating look as though assessing him. “Round the back. I’ll take you to him.”
Sim murmured “Thank you,” as the man laid aside the billhook, and, with a jerk of his head, indicated that Sim was to follow him.
By now, Sim was practically weak with excited expectation. He could barely trust his legs to carry him. At the rear of the house was a stone flagged terrace that ran the length of the house. As they rounded the corner of the house, the man called, “Cap’n! Visitor to see you!”
The reply came at once. “Bring him here.” And Sim almost sobbed with relief and excitement. Following the man, he mounted the few shallow stone steps to the terrace and stopped. Ahead of him Gervase stood, leaning on a stick. Sim nearly gasped in thankful relief. He was not disfigured or crippled. He looked just the same; a little gaunt, perhaps but just the same. They faced each other across the expanse of the flagging.
“Where is he, John Joseph? Is he with you?” The captain asked though he faced Sim and could not possibly miss him. Sim looked at John Joseph in bewilderment.
“Right here beside me, Cap’n.” He turned to Sim. “You give your message to the Cap’n.”
Sim moved hesitatingly forward towards his lover. His feet seemed like lead as it came to him in a thunderclap that Gervase was blind. He looked into his face. The beautiful dark blue eyes stared unseeing at him.
His lover said impatiently, “Well man? What’s your message?”
Sim felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. Emotion welled up in him and wiped all words of the viscount’s message from his mind. The only thing he could think of were the words to an old song – a song from a dimly remembered, statelier, more courtly age.
And so he began….
Say Love, if ever thou didst find
A young man with a constant mind?
At the sound of his voice, the captain gave a gasping shudder and the stick fell from him.
None but one. None but one?
And what should that rare wonder be,
Some godling or some king is he?
He, he and only he.
He is the king of constancy.
The Captain fell to his knees and cried out, “John Joseph!” The old man tried to come to his aid but Sim stopped him with a gesture and a ferocious look. Then he moved forward himself, and held out his hand until the Captain found it by feeling around at random.
He continued, speaking softly.
But did thy fiery poison dart
At no time touch his constant heart?
The Captain held Sim’s hand desperately, and bent his head forward to touch it to his cheek.
Nor come near? Nor come near.
He is not subject to Love’s bow,
His eyes command: his heart says no.
No, no and always no.
One no and others still doth follow.
The Captain raised his head, straining to see him. He whispered brokenly, “Sim.”
Ah, might I that rare wonder know,
Who mocks desire with endless no.
See the moon, see the moon,
That ever in one change doth grow
Yet still the same – and he is so.
So, so and ever so.
From heav’n his virtues he doth borrow.
With infinite tenderness, Sim helped his lover to his feet and cradled him, rocking back and forth as he spoke.
Then yield to him thy shafts and bow
That can command affection so.
Love is free, love is free.
So are the thoughts that vanquish me.
There is no king of love but he.
He, he and only he.
My king of love and constancy.
They stood there for a long time in the late afternoon light, holding each other tightly. Finally they broke apart. The Captain said, in a husky voice, “Why did you come? I did not want you to see me like this.”
Sim smiled and replied with mock archness, “For shame sir. Have you forgotten? You owe me a meal. I am come to collect.”
The Captain started laughing and held him tight. “Sim. My Sim.” He murmured and then slowly kissed him, a long long kiss that sealed their destiny and washed away all misgivings from the past.
When at last they broke, Sim looked at the old sailor, John Joseph who said, with a twinkle in his eye, “Reckon you’ll be stayin’ then.”
Sim laughed happily. “Aye, John Joseph. Reckon I will.”
EPILOGUE
“Keep still. Keep still.” Sim was carefully arranging Gervase’s neck cloth. It was daringly black, over a black stock.
His lover was stretching and twisting his neck. “It’s too tight,” he complained and raised his hand to adjust it. Sim slapped away that hand.
“Leave it alone,” he said, and giving a final adjustment, stepped back and said, “There. Perfect.” He heard a sniff behind him. “No need to sniff like that, John Joseph. ‘Tis the latest fashion, from the great Brummel himself. It’s called the mathematical.”
John Joseph grunted in the background. “Mebbe so,” he muttered, “but them’s not fashionable.” He indicated Gervase’s knee breeches.
“Not strictly at the height of fashion,” Sim agreed, “but never forget that the Duke of Wellington was refused admittance to Almack’s for not wearing knee breeches. If the patronesses of Almack’s can snub England’s greatest hero in such a manner, we dare not risk they do the same to England’s newest peer.”
The new Viscount Saltash drew his lover close to him and whispered, “Do we have to go? We can cry off, even at this late stage. I would rather stay home with you and …..” and he laid his open palm unerringly on Sim’s private parts and gently massaged.
Sim squirmed and giggled. “Gervase,” he protested gently, “we’re not alone.”
“Ha!” his lover said loudly, “I don’t think we can shock John Joseph. I seem to remember a certain compliant cabin boy on the Laconia ….do you recall him, John Joseph?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled, “Aye. He were a good fuck.” And then he added as an after thought, “A bloody good fuck.”
“See?” whispered Gervase in his ear. “I could plant my cock in your arse right here on the floor in front of John Joseph and he would not blink an eye.”
Sim giggled and said, “It might rouse unwelcome passions in him.”
Gervase laughed and said, “In that case, he could go to the stables and wake Thomas from his bed.”
Sim was shocked. “Thomas? Mrs. Jordan’s Thomas?”
Gervase said smugly, “The very same. Didn’t you know? John Joseph has been mounting him ever since he came to work for us.”
Sim said with delight. “Is that true, John Joseph? Have you and Thomas …?”
The old sailor looked a little shame-faced. “Aye. The winters are cold in the fens and Thomas has a fine warm arse.” He looked embarrassed and said, “I’ll go and tell him to bring the carriage round to the front.”
Sim watched him go. “We shouldn’t tease him. He has a good heart.”
“So have you, my love. So have you. Now, if you get me my coat, we can go to this frightful place.”
As Sim helped his lover into his coat, he said, “Frightful, it may be, but an invitation to Almack’s is tantamount to a Royal command. One does not refuse. And tomorrow we attend the levee at Carlton House where you will be presented to the Regent.”
He stood back and admired his lover. “They will love you there.” He sighed.
He took him by the arm and led him down the grand staircase to the vestibule to await the carriage.
“You are lucky,” Sim said, “at least you have the excuse of being blind.”
His lover said laughingly, “What?”
“You need not dance. Blind. The perfect excuse. You can stand by the wall and brood magnificently at the company. I, on the other hand, shall be besieged by all the matchmaking mamas in the place, all dying for an introduction to you.”
Gervase snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“But yes,” argued Sim. “Consider how romantic you will appear. You are a war hero. You have newly taken your seat in the House of Lords. You are devastatingly good-looking and you are blind.”
Gervase laughed. “Is being blind a virtue?”
“Of course,” said Sim. “Think what an advantage it will be to a mother whose eligible daughter is - shall we say - less than attractive. There will be no consideration of her lack of looks. No. All she need do is attract your attention by her voice and her audible accomplishments.”
Viscount Saltash stopped dead. “I don’t want to go,” he muttered.
“Come, my lord,” said Sim bracingly, “You faced the French and won the day. Are predatory mothers any fiercer?”
His lover said, “You shall have to dance in my place.”
“Ah no, for I have the perfect excuse. Remember, I am in mourning.”
They stood in silence for a few moments.
Gervase said suddenly, “What do you think I should do with this house? I cannot see that we shall ever need it again.”
“Cavendish Square is a very desirable address. Perhaps you could hire it out every season. I’m sure there will be many who would jump at the opportunity of residing in a lord’s mansion.”
They stood in silence for a few moments. Gervase said quietly, “Do not brood on it, my love. There was nothing you could do. You did not know until it was too late.”
Sim said sadly, “She could have come and live with us. There was no need to go to France. If only…..”
Gervase put his arm around Sim.
Suddenly Sim said viciously, “I hope that bitch Fanny is at Almack’s tonight. I shall disgrace us all by holding her head in the punch bowl. She deserves nothing less for the way she treated her mother. Taking all her money, forcing her to take to the stage again so that she loses her income and her children and then letting her be hounded to France and to her death! Unspeakable bitch!”
Gervase said, “Gently, love gently.” And they stood in the foyer of Lord Saltash’s great town house, with Gervase arm around Sim’s shoulders, awaiting the carriage to take them to their first ball.