dreamed ofcorrecting. And yet … Those two had both been older than him by many years. Their experience had taught him well and he had
been a diligent, delighted student. But he had loved neither Fanny Harper nor the Widow Simkin. The only girl he had loved,
and in anything like an honourable fashion, had been Clothilde Guen, the goldsmith’s daughter of Thrift Street, Soho. Her
innocence and stirring sensuality were a vivid contrast to the voracious widow and the skilled courtesan. What was she doing
now? he wondered with a sigh. Absolute gold had expiated Craster’s crime, enabled her to marry a man she did not love for
the sake of respectability. She had probably borne him two children by now.
Mrs Hardcastle, with a deep bend to gather the bed clothes, offered further glimpses of what could be his. The maid returned,
set down the beer and began a tussle over a blanket. For a long moment they had it stretched out above him, obscuring his
view of the door, but he had no need to see to recognize the speaker.
‘The divil! Sure and that’s not a shroud you’re laying over my poor friend?’
‘About bloody time,’ said Jack.
‘Am I in the nick, dear heart?’ Red Hugh strode into the room. ‘Shoo, you vultures, and leave my comrade to recover his strength.’
‘I can assure you, sir,’ Mrs Hardcastle had drawn herself up, more like an enraged goose than a vulture, ‘that we—’
‘Be calm, pray,’ interrupted the Irishman, ‘for if my friend has been too sick or too particular to take advantage of what
you would tender him, I’d be delighted to hold up the honour of the Lords of McClune with each of you, one after the other,
or both at once, as you may choose.’
‘You … you damn’d potato face!’ Mrs Hardcastle, firmly putting away what had been on offer, swept furiously from the room.
Clary, however, lingered. ‘Shall I prepare a room for your honour?’ she said, with the smallest of curtsys.
‘It would have to be a very
large
room, to be sure,’ he guffawed while Jack groaned. ‘But alas, my jewel, I am come to collect and not to stay. So if you’d
just bring the twin to that,’ he pointed at the jug of beer, ‘– for what’s my poor comrade to drink? – then we’ll trouble
you no more.’
‘Oh, I’m sure
you’d
give me no trouble at all, sir.’ She stared quite brazenly at the Irishman’s groin, then swept out with that familiar gurgling
laugh.
Red Hugh gazed after her. ‘The trollop! Sure, I’m tempted to take that room. I am certain they rent by the hour here.’ He
turned to Jack. ‘As I am also certain, my lad, that you’ve been having a fine auld time.’
‘Actually, I have not.’
‘Too sick?’
‘No, I am quite recovered.’ Jack sighed. ‘Too …’ he waved a hand. ‘I have been musing on honour.’
‘Ah, honour!’ With a leap, Red Hugh was instantly lying beside Jack on the bed, snapping at least two struts in the process.
With his hands behind his head he continued, ‘Did I never tell you my favourite poem?’ He coughed:
‘She offered her honour
He honoured her offer
And for the rest of the night
It was honour and offer.’
He roared and, after a moment, Jack laughed too. ‘And is that how you honour
all
ladies?’
‘Indeed not. There was one …’ That darkness came into his eyes again. ‘But another hour for sorry tales, eh?’ He swung off
the bed. ‘Where’s that damn’d beer? We must toast my endeavours. Ah, there you are, you minx.’
Clary returned, placing a jug beside the other on the smalltable. She looked as though she would speak but a shriek from Mrs Hardcastle summoned her. With a distinct sway of her hips,
she left.
Red Hugh watched her go again. ‘I’m certain I would not have lasted a week of that temptation. Probably not much over the
hour.’ He made for the jugs, handed one to Jack, the pewter pots disdained. ‘I never took you for a puritan, Jack. Your own
tales of actresses and Quakers
been a diligent, delighted student. But he had loved neither Fanny Harper nor the Widow Simkin. The only girl he had loved,
and in anything like an honourable fashion, had been Clothilde Guen, the goldsmith’s daughter of Thrift Street, Soho. Her
innocence and stirring sensuality were a vivid contrast to the voracious widow and the skilled courtesan. What was she doing
now? he wondered with a sigh. Absolute gold had expiated Craster’s crime, enabled her to marry a man she did not love for
the sake of respectability. She had probably borne him two children by now.
Mrs Hardcastle, with a deep bend to gather the bed clothes, offered further glimpses of what could be his. The maid returned,
set down the beer and began a tussle over a blanket. For a long moment they had it stretched out above him, obscuring his
view of the door, but he had no need to see to recognize the speaker.
‘The divil! Sure and that’s not a shroud you’re laying over my poor friend?’
‘About bloody time,’ said Jack.
‘Am I in the nick, dear heart?’ Red Hugh strode into the room. ‘Shoo, you vultures, and leave my comrade to recover his strength.’
‘I can assure you, sir,’ Mrs Hardcastle had drawn herself up, more like an enraged goose than a vulture, ‘that we—’
‘Be calm, pray,’ interrupted the Irishman, ‘for if my friend has been too sick or too particular to take advantage of what
you would tender him, I’d be delighted to hold up the honour of the Lords of McClune with each of you, one after the other,
or both at once, as you may choose.’
‘You … you damn’d potato face!’ Mrs Hardcastle, firmly putting away what had been on offer, swept furiously from the room.
Clary, however, lingered. ‘Shall I prepare a room for your honour?’ she said, with the smallest of curtsys.
‘It would have to be a very
large
room, to be sure,’ he guffawed while Jack groaned. ‘But alas, my jewel, I am come to collect and not to stay. So if you’d
just bring the twin to that,’ he pointed at the jug of beer, ‘– for what’s my poor comrade to drink? – then we’ll trouble
you no more.’
‘Oh, I’m sure
you’d
give me no trouble at all, sir.’ She stared quite brazenly at the Irishman’s groin, then swept out with that familiar gurgling
laugh.
Red Hugh gazed after her. ‘The trollop! Sure, I’m tempted to take that room. I am certain they rent by the hour here.’ He
turned to Jack. ‘As I am also certain, my lad, that you’ve been having a fine auld time.’
‘Actually, I have not.’
‘Too sick?’
‘No, I am quite recovered.’ Jack sighed. ‘Too …’ he waved a hand. ‘I have been musing on honour.’
‘Ah, honour!’ With a leap, Red Hugh was instantly lying beside Jack on the bed, snapping at least two struts in the process.
With his hands behind his head he continued, ‘Did I never tell you my favourite poem?’ He coughed:
‘She offered her honour
He honoured her offer
And for the rest of the night
It was honour and offer.’
He roared and, after a moment, Jack laughed too. ‘And is that how you honour
all
ladies?’
‘Indeed not. There was one …’ That darkness came into his eyes again. ‘But another hour for sorry tales, eh?’ He swung off
the bed. ‘Where’s that damn’d beer? We must toast my endeavours. Ah, there you are, you minx.’
Clary returned, placing a jug beside the other on the smalltable. She looked as though she would speak but a shriek from Mrs Hardcastle summoned her. With a distinct sway of her hips,
she left.
Red Hugh watched her go again. ‘I’m certain I would not have lasted a week of that temptation. Probably not much over the
hour.’ He made for the jugs, handed one to Jack, the pewter pots disdained. ‘I never took you for a puritan, Jack. Your own
tales of actresses and Quakers
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