in.
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens did not normally open up until May, but they had been opened early for this one night to celebrate the retiral of that famous ballad singer, Mrs Carlise.
The Gardens were a quadrangular grove of approximately twelve acres of closely planted trees. Four principal alleys, bisected formally by lesser roads at right angles, ran through the trees. In the clearances, there were Grecian columns, alcoves, theatres, temples, an orchestra, and an area for dancing. The Gardens were unusual in that they cut across class lines, being frequented by the ordinary people as well as the aristocracy.
Lizzie felt through the slit in the side of her gown to the pocket in her petticoat and extracted a shilling Rainbird had given her. Once inside, she discovered all the disadvantages of being an unescorted female. Every time she strayed from the path to search in the trees for Beauty, she was pursued by some boozy buck and had to fight and claw her way to safety. She tried calling ‘Beauty’, but a chorus of bloods sent up such a mocking chorus that she decided to search in silence. She was beginning to feel dizzy and faint. Fear for Harriet’s pet combined with the light comfort of her new shoes had, up till that moment, leant her feet wings, but now her legs trembled and she blundered about in the darkness, thinking every moving shape was the lost dog.
Beauty had gone exploring. Some Cit had stolen his leash and he was now enjoying the comfort of being able to run about without it becoming caught on the bushes. His stomach gave a rumble. He sniffed the air. Floating towards him came the delicious aroma of Westphalia ham. He followed his nose until he came out in a clearing.
In front of him was a semi-circle of boxes filled with ladies and gentleman seated at table, enjoying an al fresco supper.
Then Beauty’s beady eyes focused on a couple in one of the lower boxes. He recognized the gentleman. Sure of his welcome as only a thoroughly spoilt animal can be, Beauty bounded forward with a glad little yip of delight.
The Marquess of Huntingdon was feeling jaded and weary. He began to think he might be destined to lead the life of a monk. Beside him, at a table in a box at Vauxhall, sat Belinda Romney. Her hair was pomaded to a high shine, and her eyes gleamed as green as the emeralds about her neck. Her shoulders were magnificent. The marquess looked at her with revulsion. He could never lie with her again. How many such full-blown roses had he gathered? He suddenly remembered, when he was still in petticoats, having stolen and eaten too many chocolates. His mother, unaware of his sin, had presented him with a chocolate, and he had turned green and rushed from the drawing room. He felt rather like that small boy now when he looked at Belinda.
Ever since the faithlessness of his late wife had proved to him that seeming purity and innocence could cover the heart of a harlot, he had preferred to take his pleasures with the Fashionable Impure. Among them, one was safe from disillusion.
He realized he would need to terminate his affair with Belinda. It would be costly – but only financially, not emotionally.
‘Belinda, we have enjoyed a good liaison—’ he began.
‘And would it enjoy it better,’ said Belinda, ‘if perhaps we could eat. Are you going to carve that ham, or is it solely for ornament?’
‘My apologies.’ The marquess rose and went to the tiny carving table and picked up the long sharp knife and carving fork. He had just sliced several wafers of ham and was arranging them on a plate, when all at once he felt Harriet Metcalf’s arms about his neck and Harriet’s lips against his own. The fantasy was so real that he felt a surge of sweetness coursing through his veins.
He was unaware of what was going on, oblivious to the fact that Belinda was cringing back with a scream as Beauty leapt into the marquess’s recently vacated chair and leered amiably at the laughing crowd below.
The
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens did not normally open up until May, but they had been opened early for this one night to celebrate the retiral of that famous ballad singer, Mrs Carlise.
The Gardens were a quadrangular grove of approximately twelve acres of closely planted trees. Four principal alleys, bisected formally by lesser roads at right angles, ran through the trees. In the clearances, there were Grecian columns, alcoves, theatres, temples, an orchestra, and an area for dancing. The Gardens were unusual in that they cut across class lines, being frequented by the ordinary people as well as the aristocracy.
Lizzie felt through the slit in the side of her gown to the pocket in her petticoat and extracted a shilling Rainbird had given her. Once inside, she discovered all the disadvantages of being an unescorted female. Every time she strayed from the path to search in the trees for Beauty, she was pursued by some boozy buck and had to fight and claw her way to safety. She tried calling ‘Beauty’, but a chorus of bloods sent up such a mocking chorus that she decided to search in silence. She was beginning to feel dizzy and faint. Fear for Harriet’s pet combined with the light comfort of her new shoes had, up till that moment, leant her feet wings, but now her legs trembled and she blundered about in the darkness, thinking every moving shape was the lost dog.
Beauty had gone exploring. Some Cit had stolen his leash and he was now enjoying the comfort of being able to run about without it becoming caught on the bushes. His stomach gave a rumble. He sniffed the air. Floating towards him came the delicious aroma of Westphalia ham. He followed his nose until he came out in a clearing.
In front of him was a semi-circle of boxes filled with ladies and gentleman seated at table, enjoying an al fresco supper.
Then Beauty’s beady eyes focused on a couple in one of the lower boxes. He recognized the gentleman. Sure of his welcome as only a thoroughly spoilt animal can be, Beauty bounded forward with a glad little yip of delight.
The Marquess of Huntingdon was feeling jaded and weary. He began to think he might be destined to lead the life of a monk. Beside him, at a table in a box at Vauxhall, sat Belinda Romney. Her hair was pomaded to a high shine, and her eyes gleamed as green as the emeralds about her neck. Her shoulders were magnificent. The marquess looked at her with revulsion. He could never lie with her again. How many such full-blown roses had he gathered? He suddenly remembered, when he was still in petticoats, having stolen and eaten too many chocolates. His mother, unaware of his sin, had presented him with a chocolate, and he had turned green and rushed from the drawing room. He felt rather like that small boy now when he looked at Belinda.
Ever since the faithlessness of his late wife had proved to him that seeming purity and innocence could cover the heart of a harlot, he had preferred to take his pleasures with the Fashionable Impure. Among them, one was safe from disillusion.
He realized he would need to terminate his affair with Belinda. It would be costly – but only financially, not emotionally.
‘Belinda, we have enjoyed a good liaison—’ he began.
‘And would it enjoy it better,’ said Belinda, ‘if perhaps we could eat. Are you going to carve that ham, or is it solely for ornament?’
‘My apologies.’ The marquess rose and went to the tiny carving table and picked up the long sharp knife and carving fork. He had just sliced several wafers of ham and was arranging them on a plate, when all at once he felt Harriet Metcalf’s arms about his neck and Harriet’s lips against his own. The fantasy was so real that he felt a surge of sweetness coursing through his veins.
He was unaware of what was going on, oblivious to the fact that Belinda was cringing back with a scream as Beauty leapt into the marquess’s recently vacated chair and leered amiably at the laughing crowd below.
The
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