at all.”
“Do you suppose I do? I’m at my wit’s end. Each day I’m urged to make a full confession of my guilt, to be take down in writing by a clerk and signed. I vow I’d do it, too, if I thought the matter would then end.”
* * * *
The highway from Charing Cross to St. Paul’s was thronged with elegant carriages, well-mounted horsemen, and handsomely dressed foot passengers. Through the arch of Temple Bar rattled the Lord Mayor’s coach on its way to the Guildhall. Lady Bligh, jostled by innumerable tradesmen and their customers, gawked at by all who saw her, paid as little heed to the wickedness and bustle of Covent Garden as she did to the elegant shops of the Strand. She moved gracefully through the throng, applying an elegant elbow or a fashionable shoe to those who barred her way, apparently unconcerned that this solitary rambling could have easily led to social ruin.
She paused to look upon the old courts and alleys that lined Fleet Street, and then walked toward the shop that housed the London Apocalypse.
The front room was deserted except for one slender young man who sat on the floor before a monstrous piece of machinery that he was eyeing with great gloom. His attire proclaimed him no follower of fashion. Uncombed brown hair sprang from his skull, and a monocle magnified one pale eye. “One must accept the goods that the gods provide,” remarked the Baroness, and sneezed.
Willie sprang to his feet. “Zounds! Lady Bligh!” Beaming, he advanced on her. “Never did I think to see a Baroness grace these humble premises.”
Dulcie glanced inquisitively around the room. She sank down onto a rickety chair.
“I would like to shake your hand,” said Willie, extending his own, which was gloved. “A custom which is loathsome to me, but I do admire you, Lady Bligh! Ah, I see you wonder why I wear gloves. It is for the better preservation of my fair white skin, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance.” He gazed upon the gloves, which were a great deal more pristine than the rest of him. “These are the hands of a genius, Baroness. They have penned a melodrama that I hope to see produced at Drury Lane. I call it A Sop To Cerberus, and I have found a brilliant though unknown provincial actor who would be perfect in the lead role. I shall become both famous and wealthy, and then you will be pleased to boast of how you made my acquaintance in a humble printer’s shop.” He paused, somewhat theatrically. “The name is William Fitzwilliam, alias the Bystander. You may call me Willie, Lady Bligh!”
“If I were to call you anything,” responded the Baroness, “it would be damned impudent.’“ Willie stared at her. “So you have written a play. Not a moment too soon, considering that you have been borrowing money on nonexistent future prospects and signing post-obits at ruinous rates. I suppose that you may hope to be confined to the King’s Bench Prison, which is principally for debtors, rather than to be lodged with Leda in Newgate. The Bench is not a bad place, I believe, with cook shops and circulating libraries, coffeehouses and artisans, for all they’re lodged behind thirty-foot walls.” With a flick of one wrist, Lady Bligh opened a dainty enameled snuffbox. “However, though one may live agreeably there, one is still behind bars.”
Willie, whose eyebrows had leaped wildly up and down during this speech, leaned against the edge of a rickety table. “I begin to think I’ve misjudged you, Lady Bligh.”
“Indeed you have.” The Baroness took snuff. “I suspect we might deal fairly well together, young man, if you will refrain from treating me to any more of your infernal prose.”
“Infernal prose! May I remind you, madam, that the sword is less mighty than the pen? Even now I plan an exposé of three very high officials at Bow Street who have conspired with a gang of swindlers. It will come as a thunderclap to the City and spread over Europe the greatest
“Do you suppose I do? I’m at my wit’s end. Each day I’m urged to make a full confession of my guilt, to be take down in writing by a clerk and signed. I vow I’d do it, too, if I thought the matter would then end.”
* * * *
The highway from Charing Cross to St. Paul’s was thronged with elegant carriages, well-mounted horsemen, and handsomely dressed foot passengers. Through the arch of Temple Bar rattled the Lord Mayor’s coach on its way to the Guildhall. Lady Bligh, jostled by innumerable tradesmen and their customers, gawked at by all who saw her, paid as little heed to the wickedness and bustle of Covent Garden as she did to the elegant shops of the Strand. She moved gracefully through the throng, applying an elegant elbow or a fashionable shoe to those who barred her way, apparently unconcerned that this solitary rambling could have easily led to social ruin.
She paused to look upon the old courts and alleys that lined Fleet Street, and then walked toward the shop that housed the London Apocalypse.
The front room was deserted except for one slender young man who sat on the floor before a monstrous piece of machinery that he was eyeing with great gloom. His attire proclaimed him no follower of fashion. Uncombed brown hair sprang from his skull, and a monocle magnified one pale eye. “One must accept the goods that the gods provide,” remarked the Baroness, and sneezed.
Willie sprang to his feet. “Zounds! Lady Bligh!” Beaming, he advanced on her. “Never did I think to see a Baroness grace these humble premises.”
Dulcie glanced inquisitively around the room. She sank down onto a rickety chair.
“I would like to shake your hand,” said Willie, extending his own, which was gloved. “A custom which is loathsome to me, but I do admire you, Lady Bligh! Ah, I see you wonder why I wear gloves. It is for the better preservation of my fair white skin, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance.” He gazed upon the gloves, which were a great deal more pristine than the rest of him. “These are the hands of a genius, Baroness. They have penned a melodrama that I hope to see produced at Drury Lane. I call it A Sop To Cerberus, and I have found a brilliant though unknown provincial actor who would be perfect in the lead role. I shall become both famous and wealthy, and then you will be pleased to boast of how you made my acquaintance in a humble printer’s shop.” He paused, somewhat theatrically. “The name is William Fitzwilliam, alias the Bystander. You may call me Willie, Lady Bligh!”
“If I were to call you anything,” responded the Baroness, “it would be damned impudent.’“ Willie stared at her. “So you have written a play. Not a moment too soon, considering that you have been borrowing money on nonexistent future prospects and signing post-obits at ruinous rates. I suppose that you may hope to be confined to the King’s Bench Prison, which is principally for debtors, rather than to be lodged with Leda in Newgate. The Bench is not a bad place, I believe, with cook shops and circulating libraries, coffeehouses and artisans, for all they’re lodged behind thirty-foot walls.” With a flick of one wrist, Lady Bligh opened a dainty enameled snuffbox. “However, though one may live agreeably there, one is still behind bars.”
Willie, whose eyebrows had leaped wildly up and down during this speech, leaned against the edge of a rickety table. “I begin to think I’ve misjudged you, Lady Bligh.”
“Indeed you have.” The Baroness took snuff. “I suspect we might deal fairly well together, young man, if you will refrain from treating me to any more of your infernal prose.”
“Infernal prose! May I remind you, madam, that the sword is less mighty than the pen? Even now I plan an exposé of three very high officials at Bow Street who have conspired with a gang of swindlers. It will come as a thunderclap to the City and spread over Europe the greatest
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