In which our Fanny meets a Frog who thinks himself a Prince and loses her Virginity for the second Time (which Doubting Thomases may profess to be impossible, but Readers wise in the Wicked Ways of the World will credit).
MOTHER COXTART HAD PLANS for me that very Night—Plans which precluded my going to Lancelot—tho’ they certainly did not prevent me from dwelling upon my other principal Worry, namely: was I or was I not with Child?
In that Regard, I must report that, altho’ I certainly could not confide in any of the Wenches concerning my Fears (lest they betray me), I had some Proof of my Condition that Afternoon in the form of a Copy of the Daily Courant, casually left upon the Parlour Tea-Table by one of the Girls, and bearing the ominous Date of July the 28th, 1724.
Since the Date of Lord Bellars’ Betrayal was sear’d in my Memory, as if branded by red-hot Iron upon the Shoulder of a Slave—for how could I but remember his Letter to his London Mistress of June the 21st?—and since I had last had my Monthly Visitation a Week before that, sure I was near two Weeks o’erdue!
I tried to calm my unquiet Mind by telling myself that ’twas inevitable I should be late owing to my terrible Adventures, my Prodigious Fever, my Fears for the Future, and all the other Terrors I had known in the past sev’ral Weeks; but ’twas no Use to deceive myself, for ne’er before had my Monthly Flow’rs been anything but regular as a Swiss Clock, dependable as a trusty old Servant, and prompt as Afternoon Tea at Lymeworth!
Still, perhaps I was mistaken. If only I had stay’d long enough with my Friends, the poor slaughter’d Witches, to learn their Herbal Receipts! Surely they knew a Way to prevent an unwanted Babe from being born—an Herbal Remedy, swiftly swallow’d, which would loose the dread Homunculus from the Womb without Harm to the Mother!
O I was mad with Rage! In my Mind and Spirit alternated Disbelief at my Condition and sheer Fury at Lord Bellars, i’faith at all Men, for having the Joys of Love yet bearing no Burden of the Responsibility!
But I could not long dwell upon my Condition, for Mother Coxtart had directed me to dress and make ready for my first Encounter with a Swain that Night. She had order’d Kate, the blonde, pale-skinn’d Damsel (whose lovely form had so astonish’d me last Ev’ning), to prepare me for the Encounter. And ’twas Kate herself who presently join’d me in the Bedchamber, carrying all Manner of Bridal Garments and various other necessary Items of Equipment.
“Come, Mrs. Fanny,” says Kate, throwing an armful of white Clothes upon the Bed, “yer to play the proper Bride this Night—fer the Swain that hath purchas’d thy Mock-Virginity is daft fer Brides—the Fool—an’ loves no Colours better than bright red Blood ’gainst white Satten!”
Straightaway, she helps me wash and paint my Face, provides the Sponge and Pigeon Blood for my pretend Virginity, e’en shows me how to squat, as o’er a Privy, and stuff it in my Cunnicle. Then she dresses me all in Virgin White—white Corset, Stomacher of white Satten laced with gleaming silver Thread, Dress of Satten, white as Driven Snow, e’en satten Shoes, and white silk Stockings with silver Clocks. My Apron, too, was white, embroider’d with Gold and Silver; and on my Head I wore a Cap of old French Lace, which gave me quite a childish Air.
“Now,” says Kate, compleating my Toilette, “’twill ne’er do to wear this nasty red Garter, which, methinks, more befits a Witch than a Bride. Ye must wear Blue.”
“That I cannot,” I cried, now truly alarm’d, for with Lustre gone, and my dear Witches gone, and Lancelot in Prison, and e’en Black Horatio vanish’d from my Life, what Magick had I left but my red Garter?
“’Twill ne’er do,” says Kate, snatching it from me.
“O gentle Kate, I beg of thee,” I said, sinking to my white-stocking’d Knees. “Please give it here, I shall not wear it, but keep it in my Shoe, I swear.”
“Very well,” says Kate, relenting. “But wear this blue one and hide the red one well within yer Shoe, or there’ll be Hell to pay with Coxtart. And mark ye—play the Virgin Bride! Curb yer hot Blood an’ play the unwillin’ Damsel, slow to heat an’ slow to vanquish. ’Tis Rape these Swains are after, not Romance! ’Tis yer Unwillingness they pay the Abbess for. Nothing heats their Blood like a good Chase ’round the Bed and fine white Underlinen stain’d with Pigeon Blood!”
So admonishing me, Kate departed, locking the Chamber Door behind her.
I sat upon the Edge of the Bed and waited, wond’ring what Manner of Man found Sport in taking a Maiden’s Virginity (and what Manner of Fool would believe that sly old Fox, Coxtart, when she avow’d the Authenticity of my Virginity!).
I was to find out soon enough when the Door open’d and a short, slight, bandy-legg’d Fellow with a pockmarkt Face, dress’d quite the Fop, with great Buckles upon his Shoes and an Emerald Waistcoat, trimm’d with silver Frogs, walkt, nay, bounded, into the Chamber.
“I am Theophilus Cibber,” says he, “Son of Colley, our renowned Comedian; and of all the hapless Virgins upon this spinning Globe, ’tis thy Precious Maidenhead I will deign to take!”
O I had heard tell of Colley Cibber, the Comedian, and his Whoremaster Son, Theophilus (who was then beginning his notorious Career as a Player at the Drury Lane), but little did I expect that such a noted Buffoon would be my first Swain at Mother Coxtart’s Brothel! E’en in Wiltshire, ’twas known that the young Cibber suffer’d mightily from his Father’s Notoriety, his Whoring, Gaming, and Debauchery—and sought to outdo his ev’ry Excess. Tho’ Theo was best at playing Clowns and Rogues, he aspir’d to Hamlet, Lear, Othello. Theo had already made some Name for himself playing Ancient Pistol in Mr. Shakespeare’s Henry IV, and Abel Drugger in Mr. Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist, but he wisht to play the great Tragick Princes, not the Foolish Clowns. That this simp’ring Buffoon thought himself born to be another Betterton was the Common Knowledge (and the Common Jest) of the Town. Alas, ’tis oft’ the Case—in Life as well as Art—that Clowns wish to be Tragick Princes (whilst Tragick Princes wish for nothing more than to be Clowns)!
“‘Lady, shall I lye in your Lap?’” says Cibber to me, quoting Hamlet.
“‘No, my Lord,’” says I, (as fine an Ophelia as you please). Whereupon I make haste to hide behind the Bed-Post—the better to inflame his Passion.
“Oho,” says Cibber, “‘Do you think I meant Country Matters?’”
“‘I think nothing, my Lord,’” say I, demurely.
“Oho, this is Excellent Sport,” says Cibber, “a Whore that quotes Shakespeare! Come, my little Bride, let me lye betwixt your Maid’s Legs.”
“‘You are merry, my Lord,’” say I, jumping up from the Bed and running away to escape his premature Embrace.
“Excellent Sport!” cries Cibber again, throwing himself at my Feet, holding my Ankles firm with his Hands and applying his Lips to my white silk Stockings. “Now I’ve caught you, little Bride!” Whereupon he darts one quicksilver Hand up under my Petticoats; but I am swifter than he, and with a quick Knee to his Nose, I escape again—if only for the nonce.
“’o, I dye, Horatio!’” quotes Cibber, holding his redden’d Nose.
“‘Good Night, Sweet Prince,’” I cry, “‘and Flights of Angels sing thee to thy Rest!’” Whereupon Cibber scrambles to his Feet again and pursues me madly as I skip upon the Bed, o’er it, and lead him a Merry Chase up, down, and around—now hiding behind the Bed-Curtains, now running quickly past him on my nimble Feet.
The Chamber is commodious enough for a good Rouzing Chase, and the red damask Bed-Curtains make a piquant Hiding Place for a Mock-Bride in white. Likewise, the Fire-Screen, with its Naked Nymphs, can be us’d as if ’twere the Shield of Achilles! O I am enjoying the Sport as much as he, for I mean to wear him out so much he’ll ne’er attempt my Mock-Virginity! Each Time I seem within his clownish Grasp, I slip away, as nimble on my Feet as when I am dancing a Jig.
“’o Mistress mine, where are you roaming?’” Theo gasps, changing, in his Weariness, from Prince to Clown. I see, with considerable Satisfaction, that I am beginning to weary him. He lyes at length upon the Floor, murmuring Love Songs from Shakespeare, and looking for all the World as if he will expire upon the Moment.
“‘Then come kiss me, Sweet and Twenty,’” he mumbles; “‘Youth’s a Stuff will not endure….’” Whereupon he swoons and faints, and all his Limbs grow heavy as Death itself.
I stop in my Tracks, look at him quizzically, stand back to make sure he is well and truly expir’d, and then, feeling myself to be a vanquishing Queen of Vengeance, I climb upon the Bed, loose the silver Ropes and Tassels from the Bed-Curtains, and prepare to make him my Captive.
I creep towards him, with my Silver Bonds—but lo!—just as I am upon my Knees and making ready to bind his Ankles, the cunning Rogue wakes from his Mock-Sleep of Death and leaps upon me, pinning me to the Floor instead!
“Thou Villain!” I cry.
“Little Bride! I have thee now!” cries Theo, gath’ring me up in his skinny Arms, carrying me to the Bed, where he proceeds, with great Care and Solicitude to tye each of my four Limbs to each of the four Bed-Posts with the Silver Bonds I had intended for him!
Now I am truly trapp’d in my own Snares, my Arms and Legs spread wide upon the Bed so I can make no Resistance, my Ankles and Wrists chafing ’gainst the Silver Cords.
Triumph seems to make him play the Tragick Prince again—but now ’tis Othello, not Hamlet, he quotes, though he looks less that Part than e’en Prince Hamlet or Prince Hal.
“‘Put out the Light, and then put out the Light,’” declaims Theo, lifting my Petticoats and Apron and tossing ’em above my Head (until, indeed, I am in Darkness). Then he makes bold to attempt my Privy Place with no Preliminaries whatso’er. What can I do but submit, being so bound? Yet I am not gagg’d, and if he can play Othello (pale and pockmarkt as he is), sure I can play Desdemona.
“‘A guiltless Death I dye!’” I cry (from ’neath my Petticoats) as Theo’s Privy Member makes its Presence felt near my not quite unsullied Altar of Love.
“O Excellent,” he exclaims, “keep quoting Verses, my Sweet Desdemona—for nothing heats my Blood like Shakespeare!” Whereupon I grow silent to spite him, and as he sinks upon me with all his Weight, and wraps his bandy Legs ’round my own, he shouts.
“‘’Tis the very Error of the Moon! / She comes more near the Earth than she was wont, / And makes Men mad!’”
Now he is properly lodged inside me and moving up and down like a very Candle Wick, being dipp’d in Beeswax by a busy, zealous Housewife; and yet I swear he is so slight a Presence in my Privy Place that it more tickles me than stirs my Blood.
What matter tho’, for Blood we have aplenty in the bit of Sea-Sponge conceal’d within Love’s Temple; and presently his Hot Lust begins to discharge it (along with other Secretions of a paler Nature), and seeing the Bewitching Colours of bright red ’gainst white Linen, Theo is e’er more inflam’d and cries: “’o Blood, Blood, Blood,’” like some Bedlam Lunatick that, in his Madness, fancies himself Othello.
But what is this?—I seem to hear Applause, and sundry Chears and Lewd Jests! And now the Chandelier begins to sway (as if the whole House were shaken by a Hurricano) and now it swings precipitously—as if ’tis about to drop to the very Floor—and from my Bondage upon the Bed I see sev’ral Pairs of beady Eyes staring at me from a Crescent-shap’d Peep-Hole in the wainscotted Ceiling!
“A fine new Wench, is she not?” comes Coxtart’s muffl’d Voice thro’ the Ceiling Slit.
“Aye,” says a male Voice.
“Aye, Aye,” says another. How many Swains are paying for this one Performance? I wonder. But, in truth, Theo is more shockt than I. For now he rises from the Bed of Bliss (tho’ not my Bliss, I’ll warrant) and brandishes his Sword (where before he had brandish’d nought but his Cock) and swears Vengeance upon ’em all.
“Villainous Whore! Thou Rogues!” he screams. “Make light of Theo’s Wooing, will ye? I’ll see ye roast in Hell!” And he storms out of the Bedchamber, Sword in Hand, to wreak his bandy-legg’d Vengeance upon Coxtart and her paying Swains.
For my own part, I am as amus’d by this new Turn of Events as I was unamus’d by Theo’s Am’rous Play, and I lye upon the Bed in all my Helplessness, laughing merrily to myself as Thumps and Bangs echo upon the Ceiling, and Screams reverberate above my Head.
All the while, my Mind is going like a Swiss Clock. How shall I abort this Babe, the loathed Offspring of Lord Bellars’ Loins? How shall I get out of my Brothel Bondage and to Lancelot in Newgate Prison? How shall I form some Scheme to turn my wretched Fate as a bloodied barter’d Bride to Advantage? Perhaps by persuading Theo (or some other Player) to try me on the Stage?
I am scheming thus in my Bonds upon the Bed, when Kate returns to rescue me. The Hullabaloo above my Head begins to quiet down by now, and I can only conjecture what Coxtart hath done to make Peace and end the Fray.
“Ahoy, Madam Fanny,” cries Kate, “the Abbess is well-pleas’d with yer Performance. She says yer a fine Virgin an’ she means to keep ye as the House Virgin as long as there are Gulls to pay fer yer Deflow’rin’s. ’Ere, let me untye ye.”
“But won’t Word get ’round soon enough that I have lost my Maidenhead Time and Time again?”
“By an’ by, ’twill be bruited about that there’s a new Wench in the House, ’tis true. But Men are Fools. The Abbess knows that as well as we. She’ll dye yer Hair if need be, or she’ll have ye use yer Charms upon Foreign Rogues—Italians, Spaniards, an’ the like, that are more easily gull’d than True-born Englishmen.”
“Pray, Sweet Kate, what does she charge ’em when they watch thro’ the Peep-Hole?”
“Two Guineas fer watchin’, five fer an old Girl, ten fer a new Girl that she passes off as Virgin. I’faith, they gets ’em a special cheap Rate when they enjoy in Armor, but none o’ the Swains likes an armor’d Cock as well as a bare ’un.”
“In Armor? Pray what is that?”
“Fanny, me Girl, yer sure to be clapp’d soon enough or else with Child unless ye learn these Things. What—did no one tell ye about Armor?”
“Evelina said I must use Sea-Sponge and Vinegar.”
“Well, that’s no good against the Clap—tho’ some say it preserves the Womb from Fruitfulness. I have me Doubts.”
“What shall I do?” I cried. “And what if I should get the Clap or get with Child?”
“’Tis nothin’ that cannot be undone—fer a Price, that is. The Child, I mean. Clap is quite another Story. ’Ave ye ne’er seen the Handbills o’ Mrs. Skynner o’ Peter Street?”
“No, Pray what are they?”
“Methinks I’ve got one, ’ere.” And having finish’d untying me, she goes to the Escritoire whence she produces a tatter’d Handbill advertising the Wares, “commonly call’d Implements of Safety,” produced by a certain Mrs. Skynner, whose excellent Merchandise is attested to by these Lines:
To guard yourself from Shame or Fear,
Votaries to Venus, hasten here;
None in my Wares e’er found a Flaw,
Self-Preservation’s Nature’s Law.
“Kate,” says I, “I must pay a Call on this Mrs. Skynner.”
“Well, whate’er ye do, Sweetheart, don’t tell the old Bitch I sent you. She has her own Skins an’ Bladders she likes to sell an’ she’ll charge ye double fer ’em, tho’ they be e’er such poor-quality Stuff, an’ are fair to burst the Minute yer Swain puts one on.”
“Will you take me to Skynner,” I ask. “Upon the Morrow?”
Kate looks at me appraisingly. In my Eyes there is true Pleading, a piteous Sense of Desperation.
“Very well,” she says, “if we can get away from the old Bitch. But I’ll be expectin’ ye to return the Favour someday, don’t ye forget it.”