Loosely based on "The Memoirs of Fanny Hill by John Cleland"
1. Autumn
Hertfordshire, North of London, 1833.
The stagecoach rattled noisily over rough bridleways and through shady country lanes, cutting through the early morning mist. Jenny could hear the horse's leather harnesses jingling and their hooves thudding noisily against dry, compacted earth baked hard by a long, hot summer that had stretched all the way to October. The sun caught her face and she briefly caught the reflection of her pale, youthful face in the window. She ran a hand through her lustrous dark curls, easing it away from the pale skin of her forehead, tucking a loose strand behind her ear as the seemingly endless fields and hedgerows rolled past them.
It was her first time away by herself and she felt both nervous and excited at the thought of being truly free for probably the first time in her life. She'd been sent away to school for a few years when she was younger, and yet even then someone there was always a responsible adult to look after her, a teacher or a house mistress. She could still picture the worried look on her brother Harold's face as he waved goodbye back in York. She knew he'd worry about her, but someone had to go and make sure her uncle had heard the sad news about her parents, and they'd decided it would be best if he stayed to look after the family business.
As they passed another signpost, the miles to London steadily counting down, she felt other emotions too: excitement at the thought of seeing the city for the first time, relief at not having come across any highwaymen, but also the uneasiness when she thought of the news she was delivering to her aunt and uncle.
"Do you mind if I open the window a little?" the man opposite asked her. He was short and rotund with a thin moustache and dressed in a neat dark grey suit, his gold-coloured waistcoat stretched tight around his rounded stomach.
"If it pleases you Sir," she answered with a nervous smile, briefly glancing his way as he slid the window a little lower.
"Nearly there now," he said conversationally, the cool morning air entering their carriage carrying the earthy scent of the hard-working horses mixed with a touch of freshly mown hay drifting in from the fields.
"Yes, I suppose we must be," she replied, her voice barely audible above the sound of the wheels rattling over the rough track. She briefly glanced at him before returning to stare out of the coach's window where the green of the countryside was slowly surrendering to the grey of the city, the roads becoming less lumpy and scattered with shops and houses as they slowed and passed through another small village.
"So, have you been to London before?" he asked, putting out his hands to steady himself as the coach lurched over a particularly large pothole.
"No, it's my first time, I'm going to see my aunt and uncle," she replied. "Although I confess, I'm not entirely sure where they reside now."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, the last we heard they were running a public house in Fulham."
"Ah, Fulham, I know it well."
"I believe they were running a hostelry called the Pear Tree. Have you heard of it?"
"As a matter of fact I have," he said. "They do a rather good meat and potato pie if memory serves. Is that your destination?"
"Yes Sir."
"Well, I'd be pleased to show you the way, if you wish."
"That's very kind, but I wouldn't like to impose."
"Not at all, not at all."
"Thank you Sir, you're very kind."
--
Tobias (as Jenny had learned he was called) was as good as his word, gallantly insisting on carrying her valise as he led her through a tangle of confusing, crowded streets to the pub's door, before going on his way. Unfortunately, the owner of the establishment informed her that her uncle had left some time ago, to run another local pub although he couldn't remember which. And so Jenny spent the next few hours navigating the bustling streets, being directed from one pub to the next, her disappointment growing a little more at each blank face she encountered.
As afternoon became evening, she found herself entering the Queens Arms, pushing way through a thick, heaving crowd of men laughing raucously at some anecdote. She dropped her compact travelling valise at her feet and leant heavily on the bar, waiting for the barman to finish serving. The little leather ankle boots she wore were very fashionable back in York, but not designed for the harshness of London's cobbled streets and her feet felt hot and sore. Of course, a woman of her background wouldn't normally dream of going into a public house without a chaperone, but these were extraordinary times and she felt increasingly desperate. She'd lost count of the number of public houses she'd visited since she arrived here in London around midday and as she left each one, she'd felt a little less confident of finding her long lost relatives.
Somewhere on the long journey from York, she'd lost the little scrap of paper that Harold has pressed into her hand as she'd left, on which he'd scribbled the address of a friend that she could stay with in case of emergency. It must have fallen out of her pocket, and must now be lost somewhere on the damp streets along with any hope of finding her relatives tonight. She was beginning to wonder if it would be best to find somewhere safe to stay for the night, and begin her search again in the morning.
It was getting dark outside now, and through the open door she could see the thin grey drizzle glistening as it passed in front of the recently lit gas lamps. If she couldn't find news of her aunt and uncle here, she just didn't know what she'd do. Even though it was her first time in the capital city, she knew that the streets of London were not the kind of place a young lady should be walking alone at night.
"Good evening, Sir," she said as the barman walked towards her, sliding a damp cloth along the smoothly varnished surface of the long mahogany bar, his sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, hairy arms.
"Evening, Miss. What would you like?"
"Actually, I'm looking for someone, a Mr Richard Wright. Or his wife, Louisa Wright. I'm lead to believe they own a public house in this area."
"Richard or Louisa Wright? Sorry, I don't know 'em, love."
"Oh," Jenny replied, her heart sinking. "Are you sure? They're my uncle and auntie you see, and the last I'd heard they were running a pub around here."
"I'm sorry Miss, I know all the pub owners here in Fulham, and I don't know of anyone by that name."
"Oh, I see," Jenny repeated, unsure of what to do now. This was the last pub on the street, and she found herself pondering what to do next.
"Wait a minute, Miss, let me ask my brother," he continued, turning and beckoning his fellow bartender. "Oi, Billy! Billy! Do you know of a Richard Wright? The young lady says he used to run a pub 'round 'ere," he bellowed in his thick cockney accent.
"Richard Wright? Nah, don't ring a bell," his brother said, as he strolled down the bar towards them.
"This is one, or possibly two years ago," she said hopefully.
