An Almond for a Parrot: the gripping and decadent historical page turner. Wray Delaney
other gamblers became quiet when Mr Truegood lost his bet and with it his daughter. He rose, unsteady on his feet, and stood near the fire staring at the coals.
‘Take her,’ he said. ‘But thirty guineas doesn’t include her clothes. I will need twenty-six pounds for them. Are you willing to pay extra?’
‘No,’ said the rake. ‘The bet was Miss Truegood’s virginity, not her clothes.’
‘Leave them upstairs,’ said my father to me.
‘But what am I to wear?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘You won’t be needing them.’
I turned to the rake to see if he had any opinion on my garments. He said nothing.
My father’s friends sat round the gaming table studying their wine glasses as my father rejoined them.
‘Go and change,’ he said. ‘Make haste. I’m sure the young gentleman doesn’t have all night.’
I stayed where I was, aware of the anger that was growing in me, and stared at Mr Truegood. If he wanted his clothes he could have them here and now. I started to undress.
‘What are you doing, girl?’ he said, looking at me in horror as I unlaced my stomacher, took off my dress, my petticoat and my chemise, letting each item fall to the floor. ‘Have you no modesty?’
‘Have you no morals?’ I replied. ‘If you are willing to gamble away my maidenhead, what use, sir, is modesty to me?’
I stood naked apart from my stockings and my shoes. Even in my rage I knew that the small heel gave me height and my anger made me taller than I had ever been before. The young rake was now standing, and I saw a smile cross his face.
One of Mr Truegood’s sea-shanty friends said to the rake, ‘You’re a lucky man – she’s a beauty. I will pay you double – treble – if you will sell her to me.’
‘She is not for sale, sir,’ he replied.
I was furious with my father. I’d had enough of this unbearable man, of his mean, stingy ways, of his neglect.
‘You have treated me, your daughter, as nothing more than a servant,’ I said, picking up the clothes. ‘Here, take the stinking rags.’
I threw them onto the card table, scattering aces and queens.
‘You are no daughter of mine,’ shouted Mr Truegood. ‘You are a bastard. Your mother duped me. When I married her you were already aboard.’
The revelation was a flash of the most brilliant blue ever to have appeared in such an ill-lit room. It liberated me instantly from any obligation to this obnoxious man. I picked up the wine I had brought from the kitchen and went up to Mr Truegood. His face was blotchy, his lips pursed, his glazed eyes near bursting out of his head to see me so brazenly standing there.
I poured the whole bottle over his wig.
He was too drunk to do anything except stare at me, wine dripping off his lips, his chin and down on to his grubby stock. He didn’t resist as I took the house keys from his pocket.
‘You are mad, you will end your days in Bedlam,’ he said.
‘I am mad,’ I said. ‘Mad with rage at you.’
‘What a bottom she has,’ said one of the rum gamblers.
‘And what duddies,’ said his companion. ‘Milksoft sweet they are.’
Ignoring them, I went up to the rake.
‘You can’t go out like that, girl,’ Mr Truegood managed to mutter. ‘You’re not decent.’
I turned back to him and spat in his face.
‘I would call you a dog but that is an insult to a noble creature. You, sir, are nothing but a turd in the gutter of humanity.’
And with that I left the room. At the front door the stranger gave me his coat and I put it on. And so I finally left the house in Milk Street as near naked as when I had first entered it.
My fury was such that I hadn’t taken in the young man. It was only when we were in the carriage that he burst out laughing. It was a laugh that could belong to no one other than Mercy.
‘Did you really not recognise me?’ she said.
I was still so red-raw with rage that I couldn’t quite believe it was she. I looked her in the eyes. There was no mistaking my Mercy.
‘You were spectacular,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you take me with you when you left? Why did you leave me in that house to rot? Not one letter, not one word – nothing!’ For the first time tears welled in my eyes. ‘Let me out of this carriage,’ I demanded and tried to push her away. ‘Tell the coachman to stop.’
As I put my hand on the carriage door she pulled me towards her. Stronger than me by far, she held me tight. There was no doubting she made a very fine gentleman, but I was too furious to be still and did my best to free myself, to little effect.
‘If you had any care of me,’ I said, fighting back molten tears that burned my cheeks, ‘you wouldn’t have deserted me.’
‘Come,’ Mercy said softly, stroking my face. ‘Let us not argue. At least I rescued you. Or rather you rescued yourself – I merely opened the door and lent you my coat.’
Her very touch awoke all desire. Anger, passion, all is one and all have much the same effect. Mercy kissed me. Her kisses turned my anger into an ache.
‘I won you, remember,’ she said, laughing.
Her hand slipped inside the coat and down to the place she knew well. At that moment I cared little if the whole world saw us. Mercy lay me down on the velvet seat of the coach and I gave in to desire.
She kissed my neck and my breasts and said, as she parted my legs, ‘I am very pleased that I’ve won such a beauty.’
‘So so am I,’ I said as her tongue found its way into my purse.
With the rock of the carriage and Mercy’s lips upon me I all too soon reached that most wonderful of sensations.
A sprinkle of silver fluttered across my eyes and, unable to help myself, I arched my back and cried out, ‘Thank God that shit is not my father.’
If I possessed any skill with a pencil I would draw you a picture of the mansion in Lincoln’s Inn Square but instead you will have to content yourself with my words and, there being more words than colours to be found in a paintbox, I have riches indeed to play with.
It was a grand house with tall windows on the ground and first floors. Two columns framed the portico and another two embraced the front door, over which was set a half-moon fanlight. If you believe as I do that houses have their own personalities then this one by design stood alone, independent of its neighbours which looked on decidedly envious. If that didn’t mark it out as different, its gated drive did, as did the lights that shone from every window.
‘My lady,’ said Mercy, taking my hand and leading me into a marbled hall.
It was layered with plaster dust. A small forest of ladders leaned against the walls and the rolling staircase was swathed in dust sheets. Even the chandelier had a huge fabric bag covering it and the whole place smelled of paint. I wasn’t sure if the interior was being put together or pulled down for everything was in such a pickle.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked, pulling back, not knowing where Mercy had brought me.
‘I do,’ said Mercy.
I