George II was an unimpressive-looking man, florid of face, an untidy white wig standing up around his bullet-shaped head. He had a most disagreeable expression, glaring around at his companions, bellowing critical comments to his aides throughout the performance in his heavily accented broken English that rose easily above the general hubbub.
After the first interval Juliana judged it time to wilt a little. She began to ply her fan with increasing fervor, every now and again sighing a little, passing her hand over her brow.
"Is something the matter, Juliana?" The eldest Bowen daughter, Lady Sarah Fordham, leaned forward anxiously. "Are you unwell?"
"The headache," Juliana said with a wan smile. "I get them on occasion. They come on very suddenly."
"Poor dear." Sarah was instantly sympathetic. She turned to her mother beside her. "Lady Edgecombe is unwell, Mama. She has a severe headache."
"Try this, my dear." Lady Bowen handed over her smelling salts. Juliana received them with another wan smile. She sniffed delicately; her eyes promptly streamed, and she gasped at the powerful burning in her nostrils. Leaning back, she closed her eyes with a sigh of misery and plied her fan with no more strength than an invalid. She'd had to revise her original plan to leave the opera and go to Covent Garden in a hired hackney. Tarquin had insisted she take his own coachman for the evening so she wouldn't be dependent upon Lady Bowen for transport. He'd meant it considerately, but it was a damnable nuisance. Now she would have to get rid of John Coachman.
"I do fear I shall swoon, ma'am," she murmured. "If I could but take the air for a few minutes…"
"Cedric shall escort you." Lady Bowen snapped her fingers at Lord Cedric, a willowy, effete young gentleman who happened to enjoy the opera-not that he had much opportunity to do so in the noisy clamor of his mother's box. "Take Lady Edgecombe for some air, Cedric."
Reluctantly, the young man abandoned the soprano-and-tenor duet that he'd been straining to hear. Bowing, he offered his arm to Juliana, who staggered to her feet with another little moan, pressing her hand to her forehead.
Outside, on the steps of the opera house, she breathed the sultry air and sighed pathetically. "I really think I must go home, sir," she said in a weak voice. "If you could make my excuses to your mama and summon my coachman, I need not keep you from the music another minute."
"No trouble, ma'am… no trouble at all," he stammered, but without the true ring of conviction. Leaving Juliana on the top step, he ran down to the street and sent an urchin to summon the Duke of Redmayne's carriage. It appeared within five minutes. Juliana was installed within, the coachman instructed to return with all speed to Albermarle Street, and Cedric Bowen hastened back to his music.
Juliana banged on the roof of the carriage as it was about to turn right onto Pall Mall. The coachman drew rein and leaned down from his box.
''Take me instead to Covent Garden," Lady Edgecombe instructed in her most imperious tones. "I left my fan in a coffeehouse there this morning. I would see if it's still there."
The coachman had no reason to disobey Her Ladyship's orders. He withdrew to the box, turned his horses, and drove to Covent Garden. Juliana tried to control her apprehension, which was mixed with a curious excitement, as if she were embarking on a great adventure. She was hoping that some of the street women would come to the meeting as well as the more highly placed courtesans. It would be convenient for them to take an hour off work and slip into Cocksedge's tavern, where Juliana hoped to convince them that a simple investment of trust and solidarity could make an enormous difference to their working conditions. A few of the High Impures would be unable to leave their establishments to attend, but there were plenty who could find an excuse for visiting clients outside the house, and Lilly had decided to plead sickness early in the evening in order to make her escape from Russell Street.
But Juliana knew that with or without her friends' support, the success of this embryonic plan depended upon her powers of persuasion and her own energy and commitment. She had to make them see her own vision, and see how to make it reality.
She banged on the roof again when they reached St. Paul's Church. "Wait here for me," she instructed, swinging open the carriage door and stepping to the cobbles, managing to avoid a pile of rotting, slimy cabbage leaves just waiting to catch the foot of the unwary. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she picked her way through the market refuse toward Mother Cocksedge's establishment. The church clock struck midnight.
Noise spilled through the open door of the chocolate house run by Mother Cocksedge. Drunken voices, raucous laughter, the shrill skirl of a pipe.
Juliana stepped through the door and blinked, her eyes slowly adapting to the gloom. The sights were becoming familiar. The whores swayed drunkenly in various stages of undress, either touting for custom or satisfying the demands of a customer. Two dogs fought over a scrap of offal in the center of the room amid a loudly wagering circle of young gentlemen, dressed in the finery of courtiers; their cravats were loose, their wigs in disarray, their stockings twisted. Women crowded around them, touching, stroking, petting, receiving kisses and occasional rowdy slaps in exchange, as the young bloods drank from tankards of blue ruin and shouted obscenities to the rafters.
Juliana felt immediately exposed. This was not like slipping upstairs to Mistress Mitchell's back room. But she knew that the women they were hoping to gather tonight would be more comfortable in this place than in a more exclusive and expensive establishment. She pushed her way through to the back of the taproom, her tall figure and flaming hair attracting immediate attention.
"Hey, where're you off to, my beauty?" A young man grabbed her arm and grinned vapidly at her. "Haven't seen you in these parts before."
"Let me go," Juliana said coldly, shaking her arm free.
"Oho! Hoity-toity madam," another young man bellowed, his eyes small and red in a round, almost childlike, face. "Give us a kiss, m'dear, and we'll let you pass." He lurched toward her, leering.
Juliana gave him a push, and he tumbled backward against the table amid shrieks of laughter. Before he could recoup, Juliana had pushed through to the rear of the room.
"Juliana!" Lilly's fierce whisper reached her as she paused, wondering where to go and whom to ask. The young woman beckoned from a doorway. "Quickly. They don't know we're in here, but if they find out, they'll start such a ruckus." She pulled Juliana into the room, slamming the door behind her. " 'Tis the very devil, but there's no key to the door. And the young bloods are always the worst. They'll start a melee at the drop of a hat, and before we know it, we'll be in the middle of a riot."
"I can believe it," Juliana said grimly, shaking out the folds of her gown, which had become crushed as she'd fought her way through the room. "Nasty little beasts."
"Our bread and butter," a woman said from the table, raising a tankard of ale to her lips. "But not for the likes of you, my lady." She smiled sardonically. "It's all very well to be lull of grand plans when it's not yer livelihood at stake."
"Now, Tina, don't be so sharp. Let the girl say what she 'as in mind." An older woman in a tawdry yellow dress gave Juliana a much nicer smile. "Come on in, dearie. Take no notice of Tina, she's sour because 'er gentleman jest passed out on 'er an' she couldn't get a penny outta him."
Juliana looked around the room, recognizing amid the substantial group some faces from the earlier meeting. Women sat at the table, lounged on the broad windowsill, perched on the settles on either side of the hearth. They were all drinking, even the Russell Street women, and for the most part those unknown to Juliana looked skeptically at her when she introduced herself.