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“Some of those prostitutes don’t look any older than twelve or thirteen,” she said with dismay.
“Don’t waste your pity on them, darling. Save it for the little children. In St. Giles’s, close by the London Wall, there are several flash houses that sleep four to five hundred children. The older boys are trained to be thieves and the girls prostitutes, but the little ones are sold. Boys as young as four are sold to chimney sweeps to become climbing boys. Half of them burn to death, the other half are crippled. Little girls are made to stand barefoot in the snow selling matches. Little blue feet momentarily wring the hearts of fashionable ladies and gentlemen. The taste for children in bed, however, has spawned a thriving business.”
Tony looked at him bleakly, misery tightening her chest. How could she think about these things? How could she not think about them?
In Smithfields, behind the Tower, Antonia had to hold her sleeve over her nose because of the insupportable stench. They walked through ankle-deep cowshit left by droves of cattle being driven to the great slaughterhouse. Nearby butchers’ shops piled guts and offal directly into the street. “They wonder why typhus is rampant,” Savage remarked ironically.
Antonia didn’t know if she could take much more, but she doggedly followed where Savage led. “London’s population is one million. The poor make up three quarters. They are faceless, anonymous, illiterate. Thousands of them end up in workhouses. Parliament allows workhouses to be built, then lets them to a manufacturer to supply him with cheap labor. All he has to do under the law is keep them alive. Poverty-striken parents contract their children to work in mills from the age of five. If they try to escape, they are manacled. They never see the light of day. They are undernourished and work fifteen hours a day and they die like flies. Fortunately the poor breed prolifically.”
Antonia’s hand moved protectively to her belly, thinking of the child she might be carrying. Savage glanced down at her and saw her tears like silver jewels. He was instantly contrite. “Sweetheart, you’ve had enough.”
With his strong arm at the small of her back he propelled her in the direction of St. Paul’s, where there was a hackney stand. When she sat down she realized how weak her legs felt. She leaned back against the scuffed leather seat and closed her eyes.
“Those who don’t go to the workhouse end up in there.”
She opened her eyes to see they were passing Fleet Prison.
“The wardenship is bought and sold for profit. Lord Clarendon just sold it for five thousand pounds. The governors and jailers grow rich extracting money from the inmates. Those who can’t pay are rewarded with brutality, manacles, thumbscrews, and starvation. They don’t suffer too long. The cells and dungeons are over a common sewer. They die of jail fever or smallpox.”
They didn’t speak again until the hackney stopped outside Curzon Street. Savage took her hand. “I’m speaking in the House tomorrow. I’d like you to be in the gallery, to give me moral support. Now you’ve got something to write about in your journal other than me.” He pulled off her cap, allowing the silken mass of her hair to fall down about her shoulders. He brushed his lips across her brow before he opened the carriage door.
Naturally she had nightmares. They were not nearly as horrific, however, as reality. In one of them Georgiana had a monkey on a golden chain. She continually fed the monkey sweetmeats. When it changed into a little boy, Georgiana didn’t seem to notice. She patted it on the head, popped a sugarplum into its mouth, and laughed. “What a droll little man you are. I must buy one for the Prince.”
In another nightmare she relived taking her bath to scrub off the grime of London’s slums. The dirt came off but not the stink. She scrubbed her skin raw, then in desperation submerged even her head beneath the water. When she came up for air, however, she was in the sea, desperately battling the high waves that prevented her from climbing back aboard theSeagull.This time she had her unborn child to think of as well. She awoke in a tangle of bedsheets, wet with perspiration. She offered up a prayer to St. Jude that it had only been a bad dream.
When Antonia opened her wardrobe it seemed to her that she had twice as many gowns as she’d thought. Her hand reached out to touch the rustling taffetas, the whispering silks, and the soft velvets. They were far prettier than she’d remembered, in shades that took her breath away, either exquisitely pale or brightly bold. She realized how lucky she was.
What a spoiled child she had been to cry out against having to wear female attire. It was a privilege to be a woman and a luxury to have an extensive wardrobe. She decided to wear the most vivid color she owned so that she would be easily seen from the Strangers’ Gallery of the House of Commons.
The burnt-orange gown, banded in dark brown velvet at hem and sleeve, was stunning. She took great pains with her hair so that small curls framed her face and one long ringlet fell over her shoulder. She would never wear a wig again, not after having seen the ridiculous white monstrosities Madame Barras and her daughters had worn. To compliment the outfit and frame her elegant coiffeur she wore a wide straw leghorn trimmed with orange ribbons.
Frances Jersey called for Roz in her carriage for what had become their ritualistic ride in the park.
“Antonia, darling, you are a positive stranger. Do tell me all the latest gossip from Bath. Is that insufferable Beau Nash still ruling the pump room as if he were the Queen? Wags call him Folly behind his back, you know!”
Since Antonia hadn’t a clue about Bath, she deftly changed the subject. “You know everything, Lady Jersey. What time do the speeches in the House begin?”
“Lud, is that where you are off to? They should be in their seats by nine, but certain members like James Fox and that disreputable Sheridan lie on the benches and sleep off their night’s debauch. Who’s speaking?”
Antonia glanced at her grandmother, hoping she wouldn’t refer to her “infatuation.” “Adam Savage. He asked me to give him moral support.”
“Oh, Roz, let’s join Antonia. Women absolutely fawn over him. The gallery will be packed. No one can figure out who his mistress is, but rumor says he has several.”
Roz said dryly, “I was only remarking the other day how foolish it would be to become infatuated with a man like Savage.”
“Oh, Roz, if you have an ounce of blue blood in your veins, how can you help it?”
Antonia ignored Lady Jersey’s remarks, but when they arrived at Westminster she realized with dismay that Frances had the right of it. As they climbed to the Strangers’ Gallery her heart sank to see so many ladies. She stiffened with outrage as her eyes swept over the fashionable gathering. Every female who had visited Half-Moon Street was present. London’s most wealthy, elegant, and beautiful society hostesses eyed each other’s outfits and chatted politely.
When Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, arrived, she caused her usual stir. Frances Jersey looked at Antonia with raised eyebrows and whispered behind her fan, “The odds-on favorite.”
Tony muttered between her teeth, “At least she didn’t bring her damned monkey.” Angry green fire shot from Antonia’s eyes as she leaned forward to study the men below. Someone was talking, probably the Speaker of the House, but he was constantly interrupted by rude remarks from both sides.
Tony’s eyes had no trouble locating Indian Savage. Everything about him was unique, his hair, his clothes, his powerful frame. She forced her gaze away from him. He was conceited enough. The arrogance of the man was astounding. To actually have invited all his conquests to give himmoralsupport. There was nothing moral about the lecherous swine!
“Gentlemen, I turn the floor over to the honorable member from Gravesend.”
As Savage stood, a hush fell over the House and a collective sigh whispered across the Gallery.
