Open Writing

Harry visited Jane in her rooms and told her of the arrival of the Honourable Arthur Petty.

“I know you don't approve, Jane, but he is an old friend and he’s down on his luck. I’ve told him you’re indisposed so you don't have to see him. In fact, it’s probably best you don’t. His manners haven’t improved.”

“Is he to stay?”

“Heavens, no. He’s a part of my life I have no wish to revisit. He’s already done for a bottle of brandy. I’ll wine him and dine him and give him some money and send him on his way.”

“As I recall, he was never eager to leave.”

“This is different. He’s staying at the Wheatsheaf in Bradfield. His luggage is there.”

His wife, he could tell, was indifferent as to whether the Honourable Arthur Petty stayed or left. She was still withdrawn and her responses, and polite conversation in general, masked the world of memories she inhabited most of the time.

But for how much longer, lady?

He and Arthur dined well and drank better. If his old friend had been living on hard times, he made up for it by gorging himself on food and wine. He had not stopped drinking since his arrival.

They sat at the dining table and smoked cigars and drank more brandy.

Harry sympathised with Arthur. They had met at school when they had both seen the advantage of an alliance. Harry had used Arthur for his connections in society while Arthur had used Harry for his financial stability.

Mind, to quote his father, remaining financially stable had, at times, been a close run thing. Three ventures had been attempted and three ventures had failed. The final one had been a success for two years until the ship, in which they had invested, sank in a storm in the Biscay. It had been carrying slaves, an illegal cargo since Britain had abolished slavery, and, in consequence, a highly profitable one, as long as your ship berthed successfully at its destination.

This final failure had not been well received by his father. He and Arthur had confessed the news to him around this same dinner table. His father had controlled his temper and stared into space as if for enlightenment. He had spoken in a tone that suggested he had expected nothing less.

"You have lost everything. Everything. And you owe more. You are, sir, one step ahead of the bum-bailiff. No wonder you fled to Yorkshire. Even you, I presume, find these uncivilised hills preferable to Newgate or The Fleet?"

Harry had bridled and replied, "I made a mistake, sir. Am I not allowed a mistake? Have you never made a mistake?"

They both knew that he referred to the Colonel’s bastard son.

"Careful, boy."

The Honourable Arthur had attempted to be placatory.

"Colonel, we have met an unfortunate reverse, that is all. These things happen, as they do in war. They are tribulations from which we learn and plan our next campaign, don’t you know."

The Colonel had cast a baleful eye in his direction.

"The next campaign? At this moment, sir, my inclination is to ensure there will be no more campaigns. My inclination is to arrange passage for my son to a place of sanctuary. Such as Elba. Do you get my drift, sir?"

That would have been another place in which to be a lodger, Harry had thought. But it had not come to banishment. Two days later his father had died and he had inherited and had been able to pay his debts and buy his way out of trouble. Some cynics had thought the death convenient.

Arthur belched, raised a buttock, and farted.

“Damn fine food, Harry. Damn fine brandy. Your father’s tipple. Remember it well.”

“Good old days?”

“Why not? I’ll argue down any who says not. Damn fine days.”

“We were younger then. Had stamina.”

“Still got stamina. Drink like a fish, shag like a stallion.”

“You always talked a good tale.”

“You know better than that. I’m no slouch when it comes to action.” He reached for the brandy and knocked a glass over, ignored it and poured more drink. “Shag like a stallion.”

“Betty Barnstaple?” Harry said, and they both burst out laughing.

Arthur laughed again at another memory as he tried to drink and brandy spilled down his front. “Bugger,” he said.

“Emasculated.”

“What?”

“You said I was emasculated.”

“Taking the piss, old boy.”

“Well it might interest you to know that I have my own Betty Barnstaple in Helston.”

“Betty in Helston?” Arthur was befuddled. “Couldn’t find her in Covent Garden.”

“Not the same Betty. But a lady who is similarly obliging.”

“A lady in Helston? Hah. You’re pulling my leg. Or something very similar.”

“A lady, Arthur. The wife of my lawyer. I send him on commissions and, while he is away, I visit his wife.”

“Well, thank God for that. I’ve been viewing the maid situation and there’s nothing worth tupping. Crafty dog. Knew you weren’t emasc ... emasc.” He waved a hand. “What I said.”

“I was thinking.”

“Yes?” Arthur sprawled on the table and stared across at him with a crafty eye.

“If your stamina is as good as you say it is, we could visit her tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Arthur was so surprised he sat upright in his chair.

“Why not? When was the last time you enjoyed a lady of quality? Of course, if the wine has been too much ...”

“Wine be damned. I’m game. Always was, always will be. But will she take the pair of us?”

“She is a most obliging lady with appetites her husband cannot satisfy. She may baulk at a pair but I’m sure she can be persuaded.”

Arthur laughed loudly and farted at the same time.

“Nothing I like more than a bit of persuasion, don't you know.”

“I’ll have Ezekiel saddle the horses. But make no idle comment until we’re on the road. I don’t want the servants to know and I certainly don't want my wife to find out.”

“I shall be the soul of,” said Arthur, attempting sobriety before bursting into laughter. “She’ll take the pair of us?”

“Indubitably. But it has to be our secret. Another secret for your memoirs.”

“Absolutely, old boy.”

**

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