Chapter 30: Back in the World

Number 12, Mortimer Square

London

September 19, 1781

My dear Miss Gilpin,

Yes, it is I, Jane, who write to you from London! Our voyage was pleasant, and we arrived without significant incident last Saturday. It seems we are in a strange land: one I can hardly trust exists, and yet I find that pinching myself changes nothing. I am in England at last.

Much has happened since I last wrote to you. Colonel Tavington was sorely wounded in the Battle of the Cowpens last January.

Jane paused, and took a deep breath. This was going to be terribly difficult to write, but she would have little time tomorrow. It was only nine o'clock in the evening. She ought to be able to finish this letter before she took herself off to the bath she had ordered yesterday, and to another night spent in her husband's cozily narrow bed. She looked around the candlelit morning room, where Letty was tearing their hats apart, the better to trim them in the latest fashion. Penelope was advising her, as excited and interested as Letty herself. Caroline had excused herself to go to her room, where Penelope told her she spent a great deal of time.

Returning to her letter, she compressed the most eventful episode of her life into less than a page: the dangerous journey to Camden, Tavington's wounds, the little cabin and all its inconveniences, the battle that had raged around them, the even more disastrous return. There she was forced to stop for a little while, and walk about the room. Letty looked so happy. And why should she not? Lady Cecily had taken such particular notice of her. At that most exclusive and expensive modiste's shop, her ladyship had devised a magnificent evening dress for her sister, one that would catch every eye.

Jane had hoped to order something herself, but there was no time. It was Letty, Letty, Letty who was on her ladyship's mind, until the dress was ordered and Lady Cecily discovered that they must return home to dinner. Jane was not jealous, exactly. She did not think she would have liked Lady Cecily singling her out and talking to her as she had to Letty: as if she were a toy or doll for her amusement. And it was better to be ignored than insulted, in Jane's opinion. Still, she was vexed by her mother-in-law's haughty manner and lack of consideration even for her own daughters.

To make it smart even more, it appeared the modiste was somewhat reluctant to take the order. Apparently there was a question of a large bill to Lady Cecily's account that was still unpaid. Jane resolved the matter by quietly taking the woman aside and assuring her that she, Mrs. Tavington, would be paying for her sister's clothing, and would pay in full on delivery of said items. Madame Margot sullenly agreed to the arrangement, and a fitting was scheduled for Friday. She composed herself, and then sat down again at the elegant lady's desk to continue her letter.

Our road to Charlestown was paved with disaster. I was taken with labor pangs, and we were forced to stop the coach in order that I should deliver. My darling little son was born a month too early, but is well and thriving. However, just as I was delivered of him, we were beset by rebel bandits, led by Benjamin Martin, a man who had dined at my father's own table. In the course of the fighting, he and his cruel men killed my dear, dear Biddy---

She rose again, overcome with anguish, wondering if she would ever cease feeling pain and guilt for that loss.

Letty looked up. "Are you well, Mrs. Tavington?"

"Yes—quite well. I am just writing a letter to Miss Gilpin." She explained to Penelope. "My old governess, and an excellent woman. She now resides with her clergyman brother in Bedfordshire. She will be so happy to hear that we are here and safe!"

"In Bedfordshire?" replied Penelope. "That is not so distant. Does the lady ever come to London?"

"I have no idea. She has in the past invited me to visit. We were together a long time—since I was eight years old, and remained as my companion until last year."

In a few more minutes, she was calm enough to continue the letter. It was useless to describe the horror of that day. Jane stated the facts baldly, not feeling they needed rhetorical ornament to make them any more dreadful. She rested her head on a hand for a few minutes, looking about the room, studying the ornaments and some charming family miniatures, before she continued, telling her of their few weeks in Charlestown, and of her husband's promotion, which was the cause of their departure from South Carolina. And then she turned to the subject that worried her the most. She could write only haltingly, trying to deal with the great change in her life.

With all the terrible things that happened, Colonel Tavington was very concerned about my need for a female companion. He also felt a debt was owed to Biddy, who did so much to save his life. He is no friend of slavery, and so urged me—nay, persuaded me--that it was unjust for a young woman who was my sister, though unrecognized, not to be treated as a gentleman's daughter, which she is in fact. Therefore—Letty, our good and pretty Letty, whom my father acknowledged in an unguarded moment to the Colonel, has accompanied me to England, not as my maid, but as my sister.

Becoming Miss Laeticia Rutledge has not been easy for her, nor has the change been without discomfort for me, and yet I can say justly that we are both happier than we have ever been. After you were taken from me, I consoled myself by making a truer friend of her, reading with her and teaching her music. She has learned her lessons well, and while very shy and soft-spoken, never behaves in a vulgar or ill-bred way. No one meeting her, who has not known her as a slave, takes her for anything but a born lady. She is accepted as my half-sister, though a poor relation, due to her lack of fortune. I beg you to accept her as well. She is my greatest comfort—

Jane lined through the words. It was unfair to William, and made it sound as if he were unkind to her, which he was not.

She is a great comfort to me, and it is such a pleasure to see her beautifully dressed. You can only imagine how well she looks. Papa saw her at the docks, and said horrid things, which I shall not repeat.

She next wrote about Moll Royston, feeling better as she described her tall nurserymaid's brave defense of them, and Jane's trust in her strength and resourcefulness. She rambled on about the baby and his many virtues, and touched on the voyage and how friendly the officers had been to them all.

I am now at the home of the Colonel's mother, Lady Cecily Tavington. In confidence, I can confess myself a little disappointed. Lady Cecily clearly does not consider me worthy of the alliance, and has been rather cold to me. She has taken to Letty somewhat, however, since she is so pretty, and, I suspect, because she has not committed the offense of marrying her son.

The lady is giving a dinner to welcome the Colonel next Wednesday, and a great to-do was made about getting Letty a new gown suitable to the occasion (which expense, needless to say, will be my responsibility).Letty has a pretty voice, as you know, which also pleased her ladyship, and she will receive singing lessons from a Mr. Bellini, who is coming tomorrow for the purpose. She is also to have lessons on the harp. Her ladyship possesses a most elegant instrument, and I intend to learn a little of the art myself.

The Colonel's sisters, spinsters of around forty, are extremely amiable and take delight equal to mine in music. I hope to make good friends of Miss Tavington and Miss Penelope. I met the Colonel's brother, Sir John, at dinner tonight. He is in no way his brother's equal in looks, but was very civil to me, and spoke with great satisfaction about the addition of his new nephew to the family. He spoke little to his mother, and I suspect some coolness there. He left shortly after dinner to go to his club, where I understand he spends a great deal of his time.

Lady Cecily also went out, to a gaming establishment called Mrs. Crewe's. She is a great gamester, apparently, and makes night into day, so frequently does she spend all night at the tables. It explains why there seems to be a certain lack of ready money for maintaining her handsome house and paying her bills. Part of the house is shut up, and the room she gave me had not been aired in years.

The Colonel did not go out, not liking to be seen until he has something proper to wear, as all his civilian clothing was lost with the baggage train at the Cowpens. He is in the library as I write this, working on his notes for a memoir of the war. He is firm in his conviction that the southern campaign has been dreadfully mismanaged, and that Lord Cornwallis' strategy will lead to catastrophe. My own terrible experiences while traveling in a South Carolina stripped of the main part of the army would tend to support this.

Please do not discuss my views of my husband's mother with anyone else. I should not have written so much, but I know I can confide in you. Perhaps she will warm to me in time, and I shall someday be ashamed of my words. I can but hope. In the meantime, write to me, my dear friend. I long to hear about you and about those nieces whom you love so dearly.

Yours, etc.

Jane Tavington

-----

The next morning brought them Signor Orazio Bellini, who arrived in time to take some coffee with them as they finished breakfast. Jane had never met an Italian, and was wondering what he would be like. Italians, to her knowledge, were either faceless, brilliant composers of music, or monstrous villains in plays and novels. She only hoped he spoke English.

Which, he did, she was relieved to find, very good English indeed; since he had lived in England for the past fifteen years.

He was a big man, big in body, in nose, in wig, in gestures, in presence, with large black eyes that bulged a little. Jane's first impression of him was that he was rather ugly. A big voice, too, but extraordinarily resonant and pleasing: a rich voice, a bass as black as the coffee he drank, with luxuriantly rolled r's. He was introduced to them, and he seemed to expand even more, glowing with pleasure when he understood that the lovely, dark-eyed young woman was to be his new pupil. Setting down his coffee cup with a flourish, he gallantly escorted them to the music room upstairs.

"Ah, Madame, it is you who will accompany this lady?" he smiled affably at Jane. She felt a little overwhelmed at his regard, for Signor Bellini actually looked her as few men did, an intense, interested look, that gave him the appearance, at least, of caring what she thought or did. He settled back on a sofa then, and observed Letty with eyes half-shut and head cocked.

Jane thought Letty sang very nicely, though she knew little about it. In South Carolina, she had attended the concerts of the St. Cecilia Society, and had actually heard a few professional singers. Letty did not sing quite as they did, but Jane liked it all the same. When she had finished, Bellini came forward, clapping loudly with his enormous hands, and smiled at both of them.

"Thank you, Madame," he bowed to Jane. "You are an excellent accompanist." He turned to Letty, very seriously. "And you have never studied singing? This is true?"

"No, sir," Letty whispered, "I just sing. My sister taught me to play a little on the spinet—"

"Ah, so you have studied music. That is good, very good. You have a most enchanting voice—untrained—but no more! There is much we can achieve, if you will apply." He smiled down at Letty, and his heavy features lit with charm. "And you will try—yes?"

"Yes—of course."

"Va bene!" Without warning he shooed Jane from her seat at the harpsichord. "Now, Madame, it is I who must take your place."

Jane moved to the sofa he had vacated, while Caroline and Penelope sat down with her, all of them eager to see how the lesson progressed. Jane learned more about the art of singing in that one hour than she had learned in her entire twenty-four years. Letty was taught to stand properly, how to breathe properly, and then was taken through a series of exercises that made Jane's throat ache in sympathy. Bellini explored the extent of her range, her ability to sing loudly or softly, and then was vociferous in his praise when, with very little instruction, he found that she could trill, naturally and evenly.

"You will be a marvelous singer, Miss Rutledge! Bellissima! I shall teach you the art of the coloratura, and you will have no equal in society."

He bustled--if so dignified a man could be said to bustle—over to a leather portfolio he had brought. "I have here for you a new song to learn—very nice for a young lady—by Signor Handel, whom you English like so much. Also, a pamphlet written by me about the pronunciation of the Italian tongue. You know Italian? No? Well, you must learn a little to become a good singer! Do not sing anymore today. It will fatigue your voice. I shall come tomorrow and we shall work. Play through the song and study this pamphlet instead, and we shall accomplish much. Who is your favorite composer?"

Letty looked at him in confusion, and he smiled, and turned the question to Jane. "Do you have a favorite, Madame?"

"Oh! Scarlatti! I love his sonatas."

The big man seemed pleased. "A great man. And I know of some good songs to sing, not by Domenico, the writer of the sonatas that Madame admires, but by his father Alessandro. Very beautiful arias!" The hour had flown by, and there was a little ceremony as he bowed over all their hands and left. Caroline had told Jane how much and when he was to be paid, and she was able to accomplish that smoothly, without embarrassment.

-----

Tavington had breakfasted before the ladies, and was pleased when his new valet Doggery appeared at the library door, to tell him his new suit had been delivered, and the boy was downstairs awaiting payment. Tavington sent the sum down with Doggery with instructions to get a receipt. Very shortly, he was being assisted into his new, handsome clothing, ignorant of the commotion downstairs. When he emerged from his room, the singing teacher was gone, and Tavington was perfectly groomed and impeccably tailored.

Jane hardly recognized him. When he came downstairs, smiling as he saw his wife and sisters huddled over a new piece of music, Jane stared at this new acquaintance, thinking for a moment that he was some relation of her husband. No. It was William, looking quite—well, handsome, certainly, but not at all like the Colonel Tavington she had married. She had never seem him during the day dressed in anything other than a uniform, except when he was too ill to be dressed in much of anything at all. This was an elegant, alien being: sophisticated and debonair. She was not sure she liked the change. But everyone else was admiring, so she smiled and admired the new clothes too.

And then they were to go out. William had ordered a carriage, and they must change into their habits and put on their newly trimmed hats. A word was whispered in Caroline's ear, and she shook her head sorrowfully, as did Penelope, when she was heard the suggestion. And the baby was sent for, to go out and see some of London, himself.

-----

As happy as she was in her excellent new billet, the nursery, Moll enjoyed having a bit of time to herself. The Colonel and his ladies had gone out, and taken the baby with them. Off to visit the Colonel's sister, Mrs. Protheroe, she understood, though Mrs. Tavington said she wasn't to speak of it, since her ladyship had disowned her. No matter. Moll took herself down to the servants' hall, the first time she had had the opportunity, and met a number of people she had not met before this.

They were respectful of her, as one who had once been a property owner, and might still receive compensation from His Blessed Majesty. Mr. Rivers, the butler, called her Mrs. Royston, and she was invited to a bit of second breakfast, while the lower servants went about their business. The cook and butler were friendly enough, though not as prone to gossip as she would have wished. She gave them a few good tales of adventure, which were mostly true, and found out eventually that Miss Lucy, who was now Mrs. Protheroe, had disgraced herself by marrying a lawyer. Moll knew nothing about lawyers, and did not quite understand why it was a disgrace to marry one. Perhaps Mrs. Tavington could explain.

-----

"Another glass, Tavington?"

"I thank you. This is really excellent."

The officers lazed after a sumptuous club dinner over their wine. Tavington was not a member of the Beefsteak Club, but he might well angle for membership, if their food was always this good. It combined the comfortable maleness of an officers' mess with luxury unheard of on campaign, and with good talk of politics and current events. Nor were the members primarily military men. One elderly member, a peer, was acknowledged an authority on classical poetry, and was frequently applied to resolve disputes. Tavington found it the perfect place to ease back into London society, free from his mother's anxieties about place and precedence.

I hope Jane is having an equally pleasant dinner. Both John and Mamma had their own separate dinner engagements. That left the four younger women on their own, probably to take their dinner in the intimacy of the breakfast room. They seemed to be getting on splendidly. And Lucy had enjoyed their visit, earlier in the afternoon. Little Ned was quite curious about the even tinier Little Will, and there had been amusement aplenty simply in watching the children. Seeing Protheroe and Lucy together made him feel better about his sister's situation. She and her husband were not simply husband and wife: they appeared to be the best of friends as well.

Tazewell helped himself to some more cheese, and was thoughtful about Tavington's disclosure that he was writing his memoirs of the war. "I'd be careful just now, Tavington, whose toes you step on. Cornwallis is in very well with the King and his friends, even though he's very Whiggish in his politics. And if he does lead the troops into a disaster, it's possible there might be a great wave of sympathy generated. Criticizing him might look like kicking a man when he's down."

Tavington sneered a little, swirling the wine in his glass. "In battle, General, kicking the enemy when he's down is a sound way to win."

Young St. Leger laughed. "I daresay, Colonel. Very sound when on campaign, but not done—at least openly—here at home. The war was never popular to begin with."

"I know all that," Tavington said impatiently. "What I dislike is going into the war as we did, timidly and without the will to win. Half measures are worse than simply giving up the colonies, because we made, in my opinion, a kind of contract with the loyal subjects there—probably well over half the population—that we would defend them and stand by them. My own men—most of my officers, too—were landholders and merchants who have lost everything because they trusted in the Crown. It sickens me that so many have been left dispossessed and destitute. It is unworthy of a Great Power to desert its subjects, wherever they may be."

"I think," remarked Tazewell, "that that is your best line. Rather than attacking Cornwallis, you should bring to public attention the plight of the provincial troops."

"And their dependents," Tavington agreed, warming to the subject. "My soldiers – and Ban Tarleton's British Legion--were followed by hordes of wives, widows and children. They've suffered too. One woman, from the New York colony, barely escaped with her life from the rebels after they imprisoned her husband. You may not believe this, but the village elders had her stripped naked, along with her little children, and put her on display on the town square, with a sign around her neck saying 'Here you may see a Tory Woman.' After a day, a few of the townspeople were ashamed and helped the family escape. The man's uncle was not so lucky, and died of his burns from tarring and feathering."

"Good God," managed St. Leger. "That's incredible."

"It is a fact." Tavington shrugged. "Only one instance of many. We brought back a sergeant's widow as our nurserymaid. A brave, good woman who lost her husband, her farm, her child—everything, in fact but her father's old musket, and all because she was a faithful subject of King George. The rebel papers are full of exaggerations and half-truths about British atrocities, and they are often reporting deeds actually committed by the rebels themselves, with British names substituted for their own."

"But," Tazewell pointed out, "there is no doubt of the Hayne situation. The rebels are still frothing over the man's execution. Rawdon is going to face questions in the Commons when he arrives."

"Rawdon is not here in town?" Tavington asked, surprised. "I was meaning to call on him."

"No—not that I'm aware of."

"He left Charlestown before I did. I hope he has not met with a mischance. He was very ill from the climate."

"Might have been taken by the French," St. Leger suggested.

"God, I hope not! We were damned lucky ourselves. We sighted a French man o'war in the Channel, but it halted the chase when two of ours appeared on the horizon."

"We? Ah, yes, you're married. You mentioned a nurserymaid. A Colonial lady, then?"

"Yes, the daughter of one of those Rice Kings. Her father's a bit of trimmer, but was never caught in dealings with the rebels. Huge amounts of land—all to go to his sons, unfortunately. My wife and her sister are quite enjoying seeing England for the first time."

"You did not consider remaining in the colony as a planter yourself?" Tazewell asked.

"I did consider it, actually, for the country is bountiful and—if one survives the heat and fever—there are all sorts of ways of making one's fortune. With the current military situation, however, it's quite impossible. I do not wish to be a Cassandra, but I predict that Cornwallis' strategy is going to cost us the South, if not the entire war."

"Well, well," Tazewell smiled indulgently. "You may well be right, but don't put yourself in the wrong by attacking Cornwallis. Stand up for your soldiers. No one can fault you for wanting to see them treated fairly."

He had plainly had enough of the war, and Tavington changed the subject to horses. This put a light in St. Leger's eye. He had a horse he was hoping to enter at New Market, and knew all sorts of good fellows who could oblige Tavington with a mount.

Then the talk changed to carriages and fashions in carriages, and the best makers, and then the carriages that showed off the loveliest women of the ton—and the Town. Tazewell and St. Leger had their own tastes in feminine beauty, and were very much at odds over whether the laurels should go to Perdita or Dally the Tall. Neither name meant much to Tavington, and he was given an earful of gossip, as both men tried to enlist him as an admirer of the two women, neither of whom he had ever seen.

Dally the Tall was Mrs. Grace Dalrymple Elliott, a lady of very good family who had been seduced by Lord Valentia, and then divorced by her husband, Dr. Elliott, in a tremendous scandal a few years before. The word now was that she was the mistress of the Prince of Wales, or of Lord Cholmondeley—or both. Tazewell went on about the grace of her slender, tall person, and her magnificent eyes.

St. Leger waxed quite sentimental over Perdita, who, it seemed was actually a Mrs. Mary Robinson. Tavington remembered reading something about her being an actress, and St. Leger then became even more exercised about her fall from virtue.

"I saw her onstage in Perdita and Florizel. My dear Tavington, you can have no idea—such exquisite beauty and sweetness—her great career thrown away because of the persistence and selfishness of a Prince—"

"Now, now, St. Leger," Tazewell reproved him, "one can't miscall His Highness. Nobody forced the girl to give in to him. Probably thought she'd make her fortune off him, but it seems not. She's in France now, one hears. As for having a "great career," that's as may be. She might have had one had she stuck to the boards, but that's all over now. As for her looks, I agree that she's a remarkably pretty girl—wonderful skin. But Dally's the one for my money--"

"I hear she's the one for anyone's money," St. Leger added snidely.

They all laughed, and Tavington asked about the more respectable ladies he had read about. "My cousin Sattersby is married," he remarked. "Do either of you know his wife? She was a Mitford."

Both men had had the honor, it seemed. Tazewell, who was very happily married himself, simply said that she seemed a pretty, pleasant-spoken girl. St. Leger sighed ruefully over his lack of success with her.

"She was certainly very sought after. Sattersby had evaded the yoke for years, but I gather that your uncle put his foot down rather heavily, and made some arrangement with the lady's father. A princely dowry—and a lovely, spirited girl herself. She hunts, you know. Wonderful seat, for a woman."

"My mother told me she was musical."

"Oh, Lord! She does everything well! At least that's what her family said when she came out. Such a crying-out! I don't deny I would have liked to have caught her, but she was definitely the sort with an eye to an eldest son."

"None of those at this table, I take it," said Tazewell, with a twinkle. "Younger sons all, making our way in the service of His Majesty." He lifted his glass. "God Save the King!"

"The King!" his dinner companions echoed.

-----

Tazewell was eager to get home to his wife, but St. Leger and Tavington lingered long over the wine, sharing army and family gossip. Then there was a game in the card room, which filled another two hours. By the time Tavington left the club, it was long after midnight.

Cool swirling fog softened the flames in the lamps lit by each door on the street. Only a few vehicles clattered past, their wheels splashing through the soggy filth covering the pavement. Tavington took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as he waited outside the door of the Beefsteak Club. It might take sometime for the porter to find a carriage for him. The club had become hot and stuffy and loud with the crowds of gamesters shouting out wagers and drunken sallies that passed for wit. It had been a long time since he had spent such an evening. He stubbed out the remains of his cigar.

"Come home with me, sir?" called a woman in the shadows.

Tavington glanced at the young whore without much interest. The area near the Strand was a favorite promenade for London's harlots. Actually, nearly every street was a favorite promenade, for London's women of the town numbered in the thousands. Tavington had once owned a copy of New Atlantis, a guide to London's prostitutes, giving their names, addresses and specialties. It must be out of date, now, of course, but what matter? It was easier to find a whore than a pint of ale in London.

The girl called out again, "Don't be shy, sir. 'Tis only nine shillings for a bit of heaven. What do you say?"

Painted boldly, with a cheap wig and tawdry bright finery, she might have been enticing a few hours earlier, for she was very young, and had a pretty face under the paint. Her silk gown was cut so low that the tips of rouged nipples peeked over the bodice. She saw him looking, and advanced on him, swaying her hips.

"Oh, you are a real gentleman," she purred, reaching out to stroke the fine cloth of his coat. "And a handsome one to be sure! Come on then! I'll give you a quick in and out behind the corner there."

"Not tonight," Tavington said shortly, pushing her away. It was too late, and he was not in the mood to put up with such a low creature.

She was not so easily dismissed, however, and slipped under his arm, nuzzling close, groping shamelessly at his groin. "Ah, that's what I like in a man—a good, big cock," she giggled, squeezing with an experienced hand.

Tavington was taken aback at such aggressiveness, and would have shoved her aside had she not distracted him by tugging down her bodice even farther. Plump, firm breasts were flaunted, and Tavington's felt a surge of interest. The girl had managed to undo the top button of his breeches, and Tavington was becoming inclined to let her have her way with the rest, but—

There was the softest scrape of a boot nearby. The merest nothing, but Tavington had not survived five years of war by ignoring his surroundings. The whore had maneuvered him around, with his back to the corner, and something was coming—

He seized the girl, whirling her up and around, putting her between him and whatever was heading his way. She screamed and kicked out. Tavington tossed her aside like a clawing cat, and saw the two men who must be her partners. Pimps, paramours, predators: all of them at one time or another, probably.

The girl slammed against the wall, knocking her head hard against the bricks. The two men, shapeless and cagey, tried to come at him, knives raised; but Tavington had already whipped out his sword with a cold hiss of steel, and was lunging past the moaning girl. Really, such oafs…Hardly worth my time.

The first man's knife was dropped from a hand that suddenly useless, cut with surgical precision through the tendons. The man fell to his knees wailing in pain and shock. His friend swore a foul oath, and charged foolishly. Tavington slashed him across the face, and the man staggered blindly, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. Tavington stood waiting for any renewed attacks, his teeth bared in a demonic grin, panting with excitement. The half-blinded man grabbed at his friend and the two stumbled away, cursing. It had all happened in less than thirty seconds.

"Run away, now, lads," Tavington called cheerfully. "Find some little nancy-boy to threaten! You're not worth the trouble of killing, you pathetic footpads!"

No time to gloat, now. Tavington's gaze swept the dark street. The screams had attracted no notice from the club—not with the noise level inside what it was. No person in their right mind would heed a few screams in the street anyway, and there was no sign of the Watch. There was no sign of the porter, gone to find him his carriage. With a spring in his step, Tavington walked back to see if that treacherous little harlot had made off.

She had not, and his carriage had still not arrived. The porter's potential tip was rapidly diminishing. The girl peered up him, dazed; and then scrambled to her knees, looking about wildly for her two companions.

"They ran away and left you, my dear. You chose your friends unwisely, and now you must pay the price."

"Oh, sir! Don't have me taken to prison! I'll do anything—"

"Yes, yes, stop whining at once, you silly whore. Thievery is a risky business. Stick to fucking in the future: you won't hang for that."

Briefly, fiercely, he considered bending her over and pumping away some of his rising excitement. It was exactly what the little bitch deserved. But perhaps, something else was called for--

Grabbing her by her arm, he hauled her over to the nearest area railing, and threw her petticoats up over her head. With one hand, he gripped the back of her thick, tangled hair, and with the other he whacked her across her bottom with the flat of his sword. The girl sobbed and pleaded, but Tavington was in no mood to be merciful.

"If I were not the man I am, I could have been killed tonight, and a damned silly way to die it would have been. Consider yourself, lucky, my girl, that I'm in a good humor!"

He brought the blade down with another sharp crack against her soft buttocks, and was rewarded with a very satisfying squeal. He might have spent a little longer at the sport, and given her a good hard rogering as well; but a halloo sounded down the street, and a carriage took shape in the fog. And the girl was a foul little thing: no doubt poxed and clapped-out. No, he had a wife at home, anyway.

Tavington tossed a girl a few shillings to pay for his entertainment, and climbed into the carriage with a smile on his lips and a throb in his breeches, planning a late night surprise for Jane.

Yes, it was good to be back.

-----

Note: The attack was based on something that happened to a friend of Dr. Johnson's. In real life, it was three against one, and Thrale was forced to kill one of his attackers. There was the untidiness of an inquest, at which he was of course found to have acted in self-defense.

Next—Chapter 31: The Pleasures of London