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THE WINGED VENUS TAKES FLIGHT
Spring 1817
It was midnight and the crowd at Astley’s Amphitheatre was feverish with expectation. Outside, the night was cold and blustery; inside, the steamy air smelt of ale and onions and hot human bodies. Prebbles Flying Circus reached the climax of their show when the horses thundered into the ring and were ridden round the amphitheatre at speed in a flurry of flying hooves and swirling dust. All eyes were on their star rider, Clorinda the Winged Venus, dressed in narrow silk pantaloons and a tight braided gold jacket with small padded wings on her shoulders. A mask half-obscured her face and a feathered cap emphasised the luxuriance of flaxen hair that cascaded to her waist. Astride her horse, Percy, she rode without a saddle and was fearless and supreme in her horsemanship.
As she galloped round the perimeter of the arena, Eliza Gray savoured the familiar sight of the audience’s faces whirling before her, smiling, grimacing, shouting, flushed and shiny with liquor. This was her last sight of something she had known nearly all her life and she was filled with sadness, combined with the thrill and trepidation of an adventure about to begin. Percy galloped alongside another rider and as their speed was matched, she stood to spring off her horse and onto the other animal in one graceful leap, their paces never slowing. After a circuit, Eliza leapt back again onto her own mount and immediately reined Percy in to a steady canter before balancing like a dancer on one leg, her arms outstretched. In a fluent movement that seemed to defy gravity, Eliza then executed a backflip and landed as light as a bird on his rump while Percy maintained his metronomic gait, as trusty as the sun.
The crowd went wild. Ale splattered down on the heads of those in the pit as the audience in the boxes threw up their hands and cheered in delight. Eliza then performed a controlled handstand on her horse’s back as he sped round the amphitheatre, and a roar went up that echoed through the surrounding streets. Even the boatmen on the mighty Thames heard and smiled, as they navigated their large-sailed barges downriver through the stone pillars of Westminster Bridge. Astley’s was a favourite place of entertainment where everyone from the poor to the haut ton gathered.
Eliza rode up alongside her fellow equestrian, Rose Bowman, who was dressed as a highwaywoman, slung about with pistols and wearing a tricorn hat. They brought the show to an end, the horses and their riders left in clouds of dust and the crowd, as they always did, roared for more.
Eliza rode Percy through to the stables where the usual young bloods congregated, waiting for her and the other circus girls, hoping for favours. But she barely glanced at them, determined to take her horse to his stall and rub him down before he had his supper of hay. The stable boys were busy with the other horses, but Eliza knew she would not see Percy again and this clutched at her heart. As he munched, she put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, meeting his lustrous eyes one last time. ‘Thank you, old friend,’ she muttered, breathing in the smell of him. ‘I will never forget you.’
Mrs Prebble had emerged into the yard to see off the hangers-on. She said in a loud voice that invited no demur, ‘Go home, gentlemen! The show is over.’ A fierce, no-nonsense woman, she was as wide as she was high and nobody chose to cross her. Prebbles Flying Circus was contracted by Astley’s for the Season and she ran the show with iron discipline.
Once the yard was clear, Eliza emerged from Percy’s stable. Gazing back at him, eating, unaware of the turmoil in her heart, tears sprang to her eyes as she ran up the outside steps to the quarters she shared with Rose. Her friend was already asleep when Eliza tiptoed into the dark room. Earlier in the day she had packed her small valise with all her worldly goods and stowed it under her bed. Tonight was the night Eliza had determined to run away. She longed to find her lost parents and live a more regular life, with love, a home and her own family, something she had never known beyond the bluff camaraderie of the circus people with whom she had spent her girlhood.
Glancing out of the window, she was grateful the wind had swept the night sky of clouds; the full moon would light her way across the river to St James’s Place. The circus girls had talked about Mistress Burridge who lived at No. 3 and would find work for runaway girls, asking no questions. But she knew she would have to disguise her youth and looks as much as possible to walk the streets alone at night.
Eliza’s training with Prebbles had not just been as an acrobatic dancer and rider but as an actress too. She had decided the best way to pass unmolested was to look as if she were an old washerwoman. Aware of Rose’s regular breathing and not wishing to wake her, she sat at the window and pulled the thin curtain back a fraction to let in the moonlight. Sitting on her bed, she etched wrinkles across her forehead with her stick of grey theatrical make-up. She added soot to the front of her fair hair then slipped on her cloak to cover her workaday dress, pulling the hood over her head.
Looking down at Rose, her breath caught. They had grown almost as close as sisters in their years of harsh training, sharing the pains and small triumphs along the way. But Eliza knew her friend did not wish to accompany her on this risky adventure; she too wanted a broader life but had never had the restless desire to discover who she was. Instead, Eliza had to go on alone. Afraid of losing her courage, she hurriedly pulled the ring with the blue stone from her finger. Rose had little jewellery of her own and had always loved this ring. Eliza gently lifted the sleeping girl’s hand and slipped it onto the middle finger where she knew it would fit. She placed her farewell letter beside the pillow, and another letter for Mrs Prebble, thanking her for rescuing her from the streets of Bath all those years ago.
She grasped a small cloth toy fox from under her own pillow and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak. Her valise was tied in a sheet for disguise and she slung it over her shoulder to tiptoe down the stairs. The clock on the great church of St Margaret’s struck twice, its muffled sound floating across the water.
Pulling her cloak close, Eliza slipped into the chilly night and turned towards the river. The crowds had long departed, weaving home along Westminster Bridge Road, full of good humour and ale. There were still a few carts, some gentlemen’s curricles and the occasional chaise bowling home after a party or ball. She had pulled her hood so low she could barely see, but knew that crossing the bridge would bring her to Westminster Palace. She’d marked it with a red cross on the quick sketch she’d made, copied from a map the Prebbles kept in the locked office.
Halfway across the bridge, the northerly wind off the Thames was so persistent and bitter that Eliza found it hard to walk. People passed like wraiths bundled in cloaks and sacks against the chill. It took all her energy to make it to the northern bank where she eventually reached Parliament Street. Eliza had been warned to avoid the Park and Birdcage Walk, areas frequented at night by predatory men and half-feral dogs and children, but even The Mall with its numerous trees seemed dark and threatening when you were cold and alone.
With growing anxiety about what lay ahead, Eliza’s adventure suddenly seemed less exciting and bold, and more likely foolhardy and fraught with danger. Her tired mind began to question whether Mistress Burridge would be the helpmeet she had hoped; perhaps the work she would help her find would not be as an assistant in a draper’s shop or a maid in a grand house, but as a worker in a bawdy house. She realised how bleak was her world, without family, and now without work or a home. How wild and hare-brained this escapade suddenly seemed. She shivered with more than the cold.
Eliza had taught herself to read from the novels Mrs Prebble had borrowed from the lending library. She had learned of the variety of lives lived outside the narrow confines of the circus, but had become aware too of how lacking in education and experience she was. She plodded on, growing increasingly exhausted, afraid she had made a terrible mistake. The moon lent its light to show her the way but her scribbled map was hard to decipher and putting down her burden, she came to a stop, peering at the dark buildings, glimpsing a few fleeting shadows travelling in the opposite direction.
Eliza had absolutely no idea where she was. Her spirit quailed. Before her she glimpsed a long strip of dark wasteland, desolate and wintry in the moonlight. In her fevered imagination, it was as if no one had passed through since the beginning of the world. She shuddered as the distant clank of metal on stone brought her back to the present. Hope flared again and she turned towards the sounds of life. The night was suddenly full of noises: a distant cry, the hoot of an owl, dogs barking, the occasional clop of horses’ hooves and a carter’s oath. Ahead of her was the hum and faint rattle of metal wheels on cobbles on what must be a main thoroughfare. Eliza shouldered her baggage once more and set off to meet her future.
Turning the corner into a wider street lined with grand houses, she was buffeted by a sudden gust of wind and stumbled into the road just as a speeding curricle appeared from nowhere. A great cry of warning rent the air. She fell to her knees as the horses, panicked at the sight of her and being reined in hard by the driver, trampled over her. The curricle wheels clanked to a halt just before crushing her leg. Eliza’s head hit the cobbled road with a sickening thump and everything went black.
His lordship, Raven Purfoy – more formally Earl Purfoy of Hartfield Castle in the county of Herefordshire – was in a good mood. White’s was his favourite club for a reason: it was filled with aristocrats like himself, mainly of a Tory political persuasion, with more wealth than 90 per cent of the general population put together. Landowners all, they were convivial gamesters, and gossip of fortunes lost or gained entertained the ebbing hours. He had had a good night, winning at his favourite occupation, playing hazard with well-lubricated friends, but it was past two o’clock in the morning and he was tired and over-toped on brandy. He pocketed his winnings, rose from the table, saluted his friends and set off in search of Taz, his groom.
Lord Purfoy carried his drink better than most, but those who knew him well would recognise that his customary drawl was more marked, his dark eyes more glittering, his pallor heightened by points of colour on his cheekbones. As he strolled into the chill night he glanced around. He knew his tiger, Taz, cared more for his horses than for anything, as in fact did he. Taz would not allow them to idle in the cold as other grooms did, waiting on the whim of their masters. Lord Purfoy put two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle and, within a minute, his smart navy blue curricle, pulled by a pair of the finest greys, trotted into St James’s. Taz jumped down and his sharp black eyes glanced disapprovingly at his master. ‘M’lord, ye’re too foxed to ’andle them prancers. I’ll keep the reins.’
‘Impudent fellow! My friends are right. I allow you far too much licence,’ Purfoy muttered as he walked round to climb into the driver’s seat.
‘Sir, neither you nor I wish these prime ’uns injured.’ Taz had ultimate authority when it came to the welfare of the horses. He had been picked off the streets by Lord Purfoy who had noticed that this wizened jockey-like figure had a miraculous way with animals. However, Raven Purfoy’s admiration for him was not returned. Taz only had eyes for the horses, although as humans went, he thought his master was as good as they could get. But he offered no forelock-tugging respect; in fact his lordship’s friend, Mr Shilton, a stickler for propriety, complained bitterly at the liberties allowed to a mere servant, given by his master the respect due to a friend.
Lord Purfoy was irascible. ‘I’m driving my own beasts, damn you! I still have my wits, you know.’ He hauled himself into the driving seat and Taz reluctantly conceded and leapt up to his perch behind. In Raven Purfoy’s uncharacteristically slack hands, the horses set off at a pace too fast for the road and heading south down St James’s Street, in the opposite direction from home. Taz was about to climb over the back of the seat to take the reins himself when an old woman, bundled up in a cloak, was suddenly before them, blown by the wind it seemed, and staggering under the weight of her baggage. Too late, Lord Purfoy pulled the horses up hard and the woman, with a cry and in a flurry of cloth, tumbled under their hooves. The shock of the accident sobered him up.
‘Damnation! Where did she come from? Taz, check the horses!’
Eliza emerged from the blackness to find herself lying on the street, her head thrumming with pain and with a stranger’s fingers trying to open the top fastening on her cloak. In a panic, she struggled. ‘Git yer ’ands off me!’ she said as loudly as she could, but just this effort drained her of energy and she closed her eyes, dizziness overcoming her.
When she opened her eyes again, she gazed straight into the handsomest face she had ever seen. The stranger was leaning over her, his breath smelling of brandy, his eyes dark and intense. His hat and gloves were tossed on the cobbles where he kneeled and his black hair was dishevelled, a wavy lock flopping forward onto his forehead. His fingers had been moving along her jaw and down her neck, in search of a pulse. ‘Thank God!’ he said with emotion in his voice.
Eliza could not remember being shown any tenderness in her life and the intimate touch of his hand, the concern in his eyes, was electrifying. Even though it was the touch of a stranger, in this instant the exultant recognition of something intensified her senses. She felt her spirit flow out to meet his. As he turned to address the small man behind him, Eliza noticed his high cheekbones and fine aristocratic nose, his noble authority and calm, and was reminded poignantly of her beautiful black stallion left behind at the circus. Percy was the only living being she loved with all her heart and trusted with her life, and she felt the sharp pang of his loss constrict her chest.
Eliza heard the stranger’s voice continue in an unruffled way. ‘She lives, which is a mercy, but I have to check for injuries.’ His fingers gingerly probed the back of her skull through her coils of hair and when he withdrew them, she noticed they were dark with blood. In the shadows she saw him start and look at her more intently. ‘Does anything hurt?’
