Nightingale escorted him from bed to bed; from filthy dockside to plush gambling parlor—Through every stratum of the underworld, in fact—guided by McGroaty, whose knowledge of such places seemed encyclopaedic—Cowperthwait journeyed, footsore and obsessed.
And everywhere he searched, it seemed, a nemesis would greet him.
Lord Chuting-Payne, the arrogant, evil-tempered enemy of the throne.
Either Chuting-Payne was there waiting for him; or had just departed; or arrived as Cowperthwait was leaving. No matter what hour it was, the cruel and sardonic nobleman, always accompanied by the silent and forbidding Gunputty, appeared fresh and dapper, as unruffled as a calm lake. At those times when he and Cowperthwait came face to face, they usually exchanged no more than a brittle bon mot or two. Sad to relate, Chuting-Payne could be counted on to triumph in such exchanges, his rapier wit honed by a lifetime among the cynical rich.
Cowperthwait came to loathe the sight of the arrogant Lord with his precious-metal nose that made him seem half machine. He soon regarded the man as his own evil doppelganger, and the only comfort he could find in Chuting-Payne’s continued appearances was that it meant the Lord was having no more luck in his search for Victoria than Cowperthwait was.
Victoria. The name itself began to sound unreal to Cowperthwait. Who was this phantasm, this woman he had never met in the flesh? She lay at the heart of Cowperthwait’s life, at the center of the Empire’s power. On the one hand, although only on the throne a year, it could be generally sensed that, after a succession of old, doddering Kings, she was already the very lifebreath of a fresh new era, the embodiment of the sprawling political organism that stretched its tentacles across the globe. On the other hand, she was only one woman among millions, no more important in the ultimate scheme of things than the fishwife or costermonger Cowperthwait had just interviewed, no more to be loved and admired than the stoic Vicky whom Cowperthwait continued to treat. (And with some measure of success. . . .)
And what of his own Victoria? Melbourne’s dispatches had trailed off, and Cowperthwait had heard nothing of the hypertrophied Hellbender in days. The last missive had not been reassuring.
June 10
I fear the “black dog” of Melancholia has me in its jaws. I and the kingdom are positively undone, unless V. makes her reappearance. Whilst hopelessly waiting, I contemplate the merits of your creature: if only all women could be so tractable . . .!
From Stygian depths,
W.L.
Something of the same despondency gripped Cowperthwait. He hoped that the Prime Minister in his funk was not neglecting Victoria’s needs, but he had no way of finding out. It would hardly do to approach Buckingham Palace and ask whether the Queen’s skin appeared suitably moist . . .
Three weeks passed. There were now less than seven days until the coronation, and no sign of Victoria.
This evening found Cowperthwait preparing to embark one more time on another fruitless round of searching. On the point of setting out, a wave of ennui swept over him. He felt as if all his bones had been instantly removed.
“Nails, I fear I cannot continue this Sisyphean task. At least not tonight.”
“Cain’t say I blame you, Coz. I’m plumb tuckered out myself. What say we swing ’round to de Mallet’s, and take it easy for one night?”
“A capital idea, Nails. Although I fear I’m too weary to endure the embraces of any doxy, the atmosphere should prove congenial.”
Leaving the house, they encountered Tiptoft asleep under the front portico. Stepping quietly over the lad, so as not to awake him and be forced to endure a whirlwind of sweeping, they set out for Regent’s Street.
At the carven oak door of de Mallet’s luxurious establishment they employed the gilt knocker in the shape of a copulating couple and were quickly admitted by the majordomo. Their hats were
And everywhere he searched, it seemed, a nemesis would greet him.
Lord Chuting-Payne, the arrogant, evil-tempered enemy of the throne.
Either Chuting-Payne was there waiting for him; or had just departed; or arrived as Cowperthwait was leaving. No matter what hour it was, the cruel and sardonic nobleman, always accompanied by the silent and forbidding Gunputty, appeared fresh and dapper, as unruffled as a calm lake. At those times when he and Cowperthwait came face to face, they usually exchanged no more than a brittle bon mot or two. Sad to relate, Chuting-Payne could be counted on to triumph in such exchanges, his rapier wit honed by a lifetime among the cynical rich.
Cowperthwait came to loathe the sight of the arrogant Lord with his precious-metal nose that made him seem half machine. He soon regarded the man as his own evil doppelganger, and the only comfort he could find in Chuting-Payne’s continued appearances was that it meant the Lord was having no more luck in his search for Victoria than Cowperthwait was.
Victoria. The name itself began to sound unreal to Cowperthwait. Who was this phantasm, this woman he had never met in the flesh? She lay at the heart of Cowperthwait’s life, at the center of the Empire’s power. On the one hand, although only on the throne a year, it could be generally sensed that, after a succession of old, doddering Kings, she was already the very lifebreath of a fresh new era, the embodiment of the sprawling political organism that stretched its tentacles across the globe. On the other hand, she was only one woman among millions, no more important in the ultimate scheme of things than the fishwife or costermonger Cowperthwait had just interviewed, no more to be loved and admired than the stoic Vicky whom Cowperthwait continued to treat. (And with some measure of success. . . .)
And what of his own Victoria? Melbourne’s dispatches had trailed off, and Cowperthwait had heard nothing of the hypertrophied Hellbender in days. The last missive had not been reassuring.
June 10
I fear the “black dog” of Melancholia has me in its jaws. I and the kingdom are positively undone, unless V. makes her reappearance. Whilst hopelessly waiting, I contemplate the merits of your creature: if only all women could be so tractable . . .!
From Stygian depths,
W.L.
Something of the same despondency gripped Cowperthwait. He hoped that the Prime Minister in his funk was not neglecting Victoria’s needs, but he had no way of finding out. It would hardly do to approach Buckingham Palace and ask whether the Queen’s skin appeared suitably moist . . .
Three weeks passed. There were now less than seven days until the coronation, and no sign of Victoria.
This evening found Cowperthwait preparing to embark one more time on another fruitless round of searching. On the point of setting out, a wave of ennui swept over him. He felt as if all his bones had been instantly removed.
“Nails, I fear I cannot continue this Sisyphean task. At least not tonight.”
“Cain’t say I blame you, Coz. I’m plumb tuckered out myself. What say we swing ’round to de Mallet’s, and take it easy for one night?”
“A capital idea, Nails. Although I fear I’m too weary to endure the embraces of any doxy, the atmosphere should prove congenial.”
Leaving the house, they encountered Tiptoft asleep under the front portico. Stepping quietly over the lad, so as not to awake him and be forced to endure a whirlwind of sweeping, they set out for Regent’s Street.
At the carven oak door of de Mallet’s luxurious establishment they employed the gilt knocker in the shape of a copulating couple and were quickly admitted by the majordomo. Their hats were
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