Gentlemen And Rakes
Chapter Six: The Grand Tour (Jack's PoV)
"You're going to Europe?"
"You've asked me that question so many times before, it's starting to get a tad redundant." I'd spied Andrew as I was passing one of London's many fashionable coffeehouses, coughing faintly behind a newspaper. He'd looked healthier, even if a little pale, and his green eyes were unnaturally bright in his white face. I wondered if this illness of his still held sway; he'd seemed fine when I'd unexpectedly called at his home a few weeks before. I hadn't seen him since, what with calmly explaining to my mother why I needn't pursue my education further and pack myself off to Cambridge.
"Ah, yes: a Gentleman's Grand Tour of Europe—educational, isn't it?"
"I think the actual term is 'culturally cultivating'."
" It's completely pointless, and you know it," he told me. "It's just an excuse for noblemen's sons to drink and gamble and whore themselves without any staining of the family name."
"Of course!" I concurred, making to steal his coffee. He hit my hand with the newspaper, scowling at me.
"Buy your own!"
"Too expensive," I dismissed, swiftly sliding the cup away from him and towards me.
"But what if I infect you?"
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Really, this mediaeval idea that insanity—even a mild case, like Andrew's—was contagious was beginning to irritate me. "I'll take my chances," I told him, defiantly raising the warm drink to my lips. "And I thought you knew all about the Grand Tour, what with your mother being an earl's daughter."
"Ah, but my father's but a common —though wealthy—merchant, with no aspirations whatsoever to joining the ranks of the nobility."
"Good for him—do you want to come?" I threw at him as he snatched back his precious mug.
Andrew's immediate response was to choke on a hasty sip. "What?"
"On my 'grand tour'—don't say 'no' so rashly!" I warned as he opened his mouth to reject the spontaneous offer. "Think about it, Andrew: Europe. How many non-sailing Englishmen actually leave this country?"
"Convicted thieves and murderers," he listed. "Merchants, governors, white servants, young girls shipped off to marry foreign fiancés, the religiously fanatic, Puritans—"
"I get your point," I interrupted, forehead creased in a scowl, "but how many Englishmen willingly leave this country?"
"The merchants, the sailors, the Puritans—"
"Enough with the damned Puritans," I told him. "That isn't the point I'm trying to make."
"But I can't just go off to Europe," Andrew insisted obstinately, "the doctors will never allow it, and I'd rather not risk an earlier death just to accompany you as you make your happy way across the Continent."
I glanced through the window at the dark sky outside. It couldn't have been later than late afternoon, yet the grey winter fog filtered the sun's rays into a bleak, faded light. "Do you really want to die here? A change of scene—not to mention climate—would probably do you more good than any of the remedies your bloody doctors recommended."
He fell silent, examining my face closely with his dark green eyes. "Do you remember our early schooldays, when we discussed the various methods of commanding a ship—legitimate or otherwise?"
"You mean those sunlit days when we didn't bother attending our lessons or lectures or Sunday church services?" I asked. "When we compared the lives and careers of Edward Teach and Jack Rackham, and who was the better pirate?"
"And you chose Jack Rackham, just because he 'had a better name'," Andrew confirmed in an accusing tone.
"That and he had two mistresses on his ship at the same time, and neither minded the other."
He rolled his eyes. "You would… But don't you think—I mean, if you're still interested, that is—that this Grand Tour would be the perfect opportunity to…" And here he stopped, not wishing to say anymore on the subject for fear of making himself appear a fool.
I smiled. "Come on, Andrew, we both know that those were just two bored schoolboys' fantastical daydreams; we both knew, even then, that it was never going to happen. Never could happen. Look at us: an aristocratic bastard and a merchant's dying son—we'll never be able to pass as sailors, much less actual pirates. It'll never happen—physically impossible."
"So you're saying that you've never actually considered piracy?" he repeated, sounding faintly hurt. I glanced up at him in surprise.
"I'm the seventh son of the Marquess of Castlemaine," I explained. "I've bedded enough aristocratic girls and staggered out of enough of St James's nunneries with the first sons of peers of the realm not to escape notice if I disappear. I don't move in the customary social circles a man of my birth is expected to, and I know that I have several brothers before me that must die before I ever inherit the title of Lord Castlemaine, and even though I'm not a familiar face in society, it'll still be noticed if I just disappear and then reappear as a gentleman of fortune."
"But there's nothing for you here," he gestured almost helplessly. "The only reason you even have an allowance is because you're still, in the eyes of the law, a child, and therefore your father is forced to care for you. But the moment you turn twenty-one, you'll have no income whatsoever. You'll go from gentleman to rake quite literally overnight, and from rake you'll go to debtor, and from debtor to peasant, and from peasant to—"
"I'm starting to feel extremely depressed."
"Well, I'm just saying—there's really nothing for you here, is there? I mean, yes, your birth gives you the address of 'Lord', and you'll go through life known as Lord Raven, but you'll be completely penniless, and there's no point in being a lord if you can't afford to play the part, is there? What will you do for money, but procure it illegally? Which you will do at one point or another; there have been plenty of aristocrats and gentlemen before you that danced at the gallows because they've no actual title or skill, and therefore no income, of their own."
"Oh, I've already thought that one through. The engagement with the seven-year-old countess has fallen through, as I'd fully expected—I was sent a miniature of her, and she was actually quite pretty, so I now assume she'll become a beautiful woman, seeing how I've met her mother… Anyway; as I was saying, the French countess has given me a wonderfully ingenious idea, I've decided to use my newly connubial-free status to woo a wealthy—and pretty—young heiress—which shouldn't be too hard, being the devilishly handsome 'rake' that I am—"
"And they say I'm mad," Andrew murmured into his coffee. I deliberately ignored this rather rude interruption.
"As I was saying—I'll court an heiress and marry her, and seeing how I've the title 'Lord' prefixed to my name, there'll be many girls that wouldn't mind marrying me—"
"And if this dastardly cunning, well-formed plan of yours happens to fail?" Andrew asked of me rather unfairly. I looked into his emerald eyes in a hurt manner.
"What makes you think it'll fail?"
"Because you're right in the sense that socially-aspiring mothers would marry their daughters off to any old aristocrat if he had the words 'Lord' or 'the Honourable' before his name, but as I've said, besides a very weak link to London's high society, what else have you to offer them?"
I smiled knowingly at him. "Which brings me to my second solution. If, by some divine hatred from the Holy Father, I do not secure a prosperous match, then I shall discard of my Christian morals and values, and become, as one of St James's Mother Abbesses so delicately puts it, a 'tireless, strong, resilient stud'." I looked up at Andrew expectantly, seeing what he'll make of my choice of employment.
"…I'm assuming you're not implying that you'll put on a bridle and impersonate a horse at the races."
"Of course not: I plan on becoming a whore."
There was an extremely long pause.
"A… whore, John?"
"Yes, Andrew, a whore: a prostitute, courtesan, streetwalker, a man of independent means—"
"A whore?"
I frowned at him. "Why, do you think I'm too ugly for anyone to want me?"
"No, it's not that, John," Andrew reassured me. "I'm sure you'll make a very… pretty… whore… It's just that I assume there'll be some… difficulties…"
I blinked at him. "Oh? Such as?"
"How would you… do it? I mean, unless you're planning on joining one of the sodomites' clubs, fornication would be impossible, wouldn't it?"
"Of course not; I'll sell myself to women."
"…But women generally don't buy whores, John."
"You'll be surprised at the number of women I saw on St James's Street, very discreetly patronising the brothels."
"But… doesn't that mean that the women are inclined to other women?"
"No, the brothels of St James's provide men for the bored and aristocratic fairer sex, as you'll find if you'd get this ridiculous notion of true love out of your head and actually set foot in one."
His cheeks visibly reddened in his pallid skin, and he took a long sip of the fast-cooling coffee, intentionally not contributing any further to the conversation until I changed the subject matter, which I did.
"So—my Gentleman's Grand Tour of Europe. Will you or will you not be joining me, Andrew Wilson?"
He met my gaze, his face still flushed from embarrassment. I decided it'll be kinder not to mention the fact that it wasn't my fault that he was a virginal prude that wished to wait until he'd "fallen in love". Although I was absolutely certain that the first time Andrew will fall in love it'll actually be lust, and then he'll look like a right daft idiot, but I kept my observations to myself and instead sat waiting patiently for his answer.
"You're not seriously considering whoredom, though, are you, John?" he asked of me.
I narrowed my eyes in indignation. "What kind of naïve country milkmaid do you take me for?"
He laughed. "I didn't think so, although I'm certain you would make a very pretty whore. No, John, here's my real question: when your Grand Tour is over, are you really planning on returning to London to spend the rest of your days as a lazy, unskilled, aristocratic rake with no financial income or support whatsoever, and therefore completely dependent on the love of wealthy heiresses and widows and close friends?"
"Of course not; you know I despise dependence on the kindness of others. I see it as a weakness, the easy solution for lazy men who would rather the parish cared for them. You know that's why I've always been such an admirer of pirates and highwaymen and all the criminals in between: they were men that saw their lives as they were, and then saw what they could've been, and so decided to reach out and take it—that life, and anything else that caught their eye—for themselves."
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "But you just said that piracy was merely two schoolboys' dreams, and that it could never happen—"
"Why are you still so interested in going on the account, anyway? You're set for life, mate; you're the first of four sons and heir to a large and extremely successful business—"
"No, I'm not," Andrew said quietly, his voice quiet and sombre.
I did a double take. "Come again?" I asked.
"I'm not; ever since my illness was… discovered, my father had rewritten his will. Everything goes to Paul in the event of his death, and I, as a dying man, get nothing."
The gossip and exchanging of news within the coffeehouse masked the solemn silence that fell between us.
"But surely you'll be—"
"Provided for? Pensioned?" He gave a forced, mirthless chuckle. "You know I don't like to rely on people's kindness; a man's loyalties can change drastically, without warning—if you live off of someone else's charity, how long do you have until he finds a worthier cause to sponsor? Even if he is family, even if you are dying—especially if you're dying—why let a marked man live a comfortable life if he's not long for this world?"
I fell silent, looking at him intently. I always knew there was more to Andrew than one would at first expect—it was what first drew me to him. But I'd never expected to see this pessimistic yet stubbornly determined side to him.
"So you're telling me you'll join me on my Tour if I run away to sea with you?"
"In a sense, yes."
"Just because we talked of turning pirate when we were lads doesn't necessarily mean we'll end up as sea rovers, simply because we thought and talked of it as earnest bored schoolboys," I warned him.
"I'm not asking to turn pirate; I'm asking to escape. Not necessarily with you; you can come back to London at the end of your Tour, for all I care, but I'll be looking for… something… something else, something other than this comfortable cushioned life I've led so far…" He shook his head, smiling at me. I tilted my head, studying him in the dim light of the establishment.
There was no way he looked, and no chance that he'll ever look, like a traditional pirate. He was far too great a fan of neatness and cleanliness, and he had a rather expensive taste, a compulsive fixation to possess only the best of everything. He'll probably end up as an actual "gentleman of fortune", rather than the shabbily-dressed seadogs that gave themselves such a title. As for me; well, I wasn't certain that I'll ever become a pirate. The closest I'd ever been to the sea was the River Thames and the fashionable spas of Bath, where, as luck would have it, I had taught myself to swim. What did I know of ships and sailing, of stars and navigation? I knew how to read a map and compass fine, all thanks to a few geography lessons and my mother's desperate whim that I'll receive an education fit for any naval officer—great fortunes could be made at sea, and she wished to provide for me in any way possible, seeing how my inheritance had been squandered instead on charities and "worthier courses". If worthier courses were to provide for my father's favourite mistresses, then yes, it was indeed a charitable one.
I looked at Andrew's grim, determined face, thinking how much of a landed gentleman he appeared; the fair skin that was just as fashionable amongst men as it was amongst women, although perhaps not to such great extents, as dark skin, like my own, implied a common background consisting of farming and work in the fields. His golden hair remained unadorned by a wig, as was mine; usually a sign of middling and lower classes, although his was clean and pulled smartly back with a silken ribbon. He wore tasteful cloths of dark colours; blacks and blues and deep reds and greens, with simple white shirts, and if he ever wore brocade, it most certainly was not of the bright, pastel, floral variety so common amongst the aristocratic and fashionable and those tactless fops that were the dandyish embodiment of the two. I suddenly realised that if Andrew was to ever try his hand at seducing a wealthy heiress, he would certainly be more successful in his pursuit than I.
It was a cruel and unfair thought, and my mind screamed that Andrew was a bastard because of it, but, as I left the establishment to wonder the city's streets in search of less courteous and less cultured companions, I was able to console myself with the fact that, in spite of his civil words and polite conduct and more classical beauty, he would never, ever, be a better whore than me, for if we were both to enrol in a brothel, I would certainly obtain more clients than he. I might not be handsome in the fashionable way, but I was more appealing to the women that would patronise those establishments.
And besides, I wasn't so uptight. That always counted for something, didn't it?
-x!x-
AN: The references to "nunneries" and "Mother Abbesses" were actually slang for brothels and brothel-keepers, particularly the ones operating on St James's Street. And yes, some did have male, um, "nuns" to entertain particularly depraved aristocratic women. And Jack lamenting that he was too dark to be attractive was simply a rare moment of insecurity, although tans were thought of being "lowly", but not necessarily ugly. Jack thinking he would make a better whore than Andrew was… just plain Jack, actually… I do too much research; it can't be healthy. This is a very pointless author's note…
TigerTiger02: Yep, but now I've had my fun and am going back to working with the plot. Things should be picking up in the next chapter, I think… I thought Will and donkeys had potential too, actually; that's why I mentioned it. And the disclaimer thing's a good idea, but Will doesn't come back for another eighteen chapters or something; I don't class him as a very important character, his righteousness was just annoying to me. As for the kennels; that's just cruel. I mean, it's rape; it's not like they could've asked the dog for consent or something…
blushingbeauty86: Yup, marriage to a seven-year-old; you just don't get that anymore, do you? Although a girl couldn't legally be married until the the age of twelve, but she could be betrothed at seven. Now as for the tattoo; where would I put it? It has to be somewhere covered, so how the hell did Will see Jack's tat anyway would probably be the better question…
Anne la Jordanie: Please don't underestimate my originality, although I am planning on making the reason why Jack ran away as one of those things that you don't find out until somewhere near the end, just to add to the mystery and to annoy more people… I think the reasons wealthy Europeans were married and/or engaged at such a young age was because their families wanted to make certain that their children went to a suitable match and ensure the continuation of the family line or whatever; aristocrats were, and still are, control freaks. I'll be returning to hell—I mean, school—tomorrow. We all have uniforms, so I don't have much of a chance to comment on people's tastes. Oh well; I'm sure it's all sickeningly pastel-pink and baby-blue and blinding white… And don't even get me started on what the girls wear here…