The Wildest Rake

She was not even aware of the others watching. A core of stark silence encapsulated her and this man, who had aroused in her emotions she had never experienced before, to which she could only respond with involuntary violence.

He jerked back his head. An angry scratch ran from his mouth to his jaw, but he still smiled, and she felt, with bewilderment, that he almost enjoyed having provoked her to such a gesture of hatred.

Then she felt the inrush of the world around them; her mother’s panted words of protest and fear, the murmur of the other men, half amused, half embarrassed. She felt her own pulses beating like fire along her throat, wrists, temple.

The silence which had held them shattered like glass. The wind blew. The clouds covered the moon. Rain began to spatter on the roofs and somewhere a door banged.

He lifted his hand and touched his cut. She saw the blood smear faintly. ‘You have marked me, Madame,’ he said in a tone so soft it made her shiver with fear.

She turned and ran.

Her mother, with a smothered cry, ran after her, with the old servant hobbling at their heels.

Cornelia was hardly aware of where she went. Instinct took her home and, panting, she soon reached the house and leaned against the front wall.

Her mother hammered upon the door, crying for the servants to hurry, looking over her shoulder as she did so, fearing pursuit.

But the narrow street was empty. The white moon came out from behind the clouds briefly and showed a rain-w

et expanse of cobbles.

A maid opened the door, eyes rolling. ‘God have mercy, what’s amiss?’

Mistress Brent half lifted, half pushed Cornelia across the threshold. The girl was still sobbing, with an aching dry sound, her eyes tearless.

Alderman Brent, full-bellied in his loose gown, came stumbling out to see what was afoot, and stared at them in alarmed surprise.

Thomas knuckled his forehead with anxious little bobs. He was terrified that he would be dismissed for failing to protect his mistress and her daughter. He was old and would find it hard to get other employment.

Mistress Brent burst out, stammering, describing what had happened, and her husband listened with growing rage.

‘In this very street? This very street? Louts and drunkards molest my wife and daughter?’ His face was the colour now of his puce gown. He was a man of middle years, full fleshed from years of good food. His jaw was heavy with rage as he paced to and fro, giving vent to his indignation. ‘I said how it would be if Charles Stuart was let back into England. All London, from St Giles to Shoreditch, is one great brothel, and we honest merchants pay for their merriment.’

The servants were listening, agog with excitement.

Aware of the eyes and ears around them, Mistress Brent caught at her husband’s arm and drew him into the parlour. Cornelia followed them, shuddering still with the panic which had swept through her after the man called Rendel kissed her.

‘Husband,’ whispered Mistress Brent. ‘Oh, husband, would you find yourself clapped in a cell? Be careful what you say.’

‘Oh, aye,’ he retorted, but in a lower tone. ‘The gentry may make merry with our women, but we must not so much as raise our voice in protest, or we’ll find ourselves weighted down by chains and thrown into prison for our impudence. This is what England has returned to—the tyranny against which Oliver Cromwell led us into battle. Would God he were still alive today.’

His wife was looking anxiously at their daughter.

Cornelia had sat down on a stool, her hands limply dangling at her side.

‘Has Cornelia been … harmed?’ The Alderman stared at her pale, averted face. His anxious eyes looked for some sign of violence but found none. ‘You said, one of those men kissed her? Was that all he did, wife?’

‘Aye, that was all,’ his wife agreed. ‘But, as you can see, he half frightened our girl out of her wits. And me too, I swear. I thought worse might befall us both. They were drunk, without a doubt, though not mad drunk. Merry and wild. All except the man who kissed her. He was a strange fellow. I did not fear any of them so much as him. His eyes glittered and he had a cold, hard smile.’

‘Damn his soul to perdition,’ breathed the Alderman.

‘Such wicked language!’ Mistress Brent said, clucking her tongue, but she was still watching her daughter rather than her husband.

‘Should we call for Doctor Andrew?’ the Alderman whispered.

‘No.’ Mistress Brent spoke sharply without thinking, and Cornelia, whose head had lifted at the familiar name, looked at her.

Mistress Brent flushed. ‘Andrew . . . was called out to someone else as we came past his house,’ she said in explanation. ‘Look, I’ll put the child to bed. There is no lasting harm done to her. She will do soon recover after a good night’s sleep.’