Font Size
Line Height

Page 3 of The Songbird of Wychwood

MISS GEORGETTE

It was just after six in the evening on a stinking foggy March night, and here in Leicester Square it was business as usual with a motley collection of aristocrats, middle, and working-class coves all looking for a good time. I had a private show to attend, not as a guest, oh no. Tonight, I was booked to entertain a group of very select gentlemen as the songbird, Miss Georgette.

A Clarence carriage pulled up outside of the Alhambra building on the east side of the square. The door was opened from the inside by my partner-in-crime, Mr. Alfonse Hugo. I darted out from my place under the theater awning and stepped in to the carriage, pulling my cloak around me. I sat, and arranged my skirts as Mr. Hugo closed the door. Then he knocked on the roof to alert the coachman and we moved off into the line of carriages leaving the square.

Mr. Hugo was a short man with a round moon face. He was wearing a heavy moleskin coat and had bowler hat, which, when he removed it showed an over-pomaded head that made it appear as if his sparse black hair had been painted onto his scalp.

“My, my you are looking rather lovely tonight George. Is that a new bodice?” Mr. Hugo enquired his accent German.

“Why, thank you kind sir,” I fawned and fanned my hand theatrically. “It is indeed a new bodice, but it ain’t mine, it’s a loan from a friend. I’ve orders not to get any…substances on it!” We snickered knowingly. With the bodice I wore a gorgeous red silk and lace gown with a pannier cage underskirt for shaping. I’d sewn the gown myself with the much-prized new Singer sewing machine Mr. Grayson had recently invested a fair few bob on, after the old one was broken beyond repair. The gown matched beautifully with the French bodice. When my cloak was off, it would display my powdered pale flat upper chest…and if the gents were lucky, they’d get a peek of nipple too! My face was fine featured and considered pretty for a man. My makeup displayed my feminine side, but there was no need to pretend I had breasts. That wasn’t what these gents favoured at all. I wore lace gloves and a shawl for later in the night when it would get colder. Apart from Eloise’s bodice, my favourite part of my costume was the boots. I’d used my first two wages packets from this particular private arrangement to have a cobbler make feminine boots to fit my wide manly feet! The boots were a copy of an Italian pair I’d seen in a Regent Street shop window display. They were red leather and silk embroidered with flowers and they had a tapered high heel. The boots went up past my ankles and the laces tied at the back. I loved how my calves appeared so shapely in turquoise blue silk stockings and these boots.

We were on our way to a mansion in Primrose Hill, but first off, we had one more stop to make. A fellow by the name of Mr. Joshua was waiting on the corner outside a grand house at number 1 Portland Place in Westminster. Neither Mr. Hugo nor I knew if he worked, or even lived there. But this was the instruction on where to pick him up on the way to our destination.

The fog didn’t make locating him easy, but Mr. Joshua was a wise fellow and he stood beneath the nearest street lamp. The carriage pulled up and Mr. Joshua nodded solemnly in greeting as he stepped in and took his seat beside Mr. Hugo. He removed his bowler hat and placed it on his lap then tapped the roof to tell the coachman to move on. Mr. Joshua was a quiet man who had an air of authority about him. He looked to be in his fourth decade but along with round brass spectacles, he wore a dark brown beard that made him appear older than his years. I knew from our previous acquaintances that beneath the heavy wool coat there was the smart, tidy suit of a servant.

We continued on our journey toward Primrose Hill to a mysterious old mansion called Wychwood. Club Fifty-Five was a secretive, anonymous affair for gentlemen with particular, illegal tastes, and so there were strict rules of membership. The bordellos and molly houses in town were always raided by the Peelers, and so Wychwood was a perfect location, inconspicuous, on the outskirts of town, virtually in the countryside, yet it took less than an hour to get there by carriage from Covent Garden. My job was to sing while Mr. Hugo accompanied on the piano. Another fellow named Felix set up the house before we arrived, and before him a team of maids cleaned the house and made the beds. Mr. Joshua attended the door during the party and ensured the gents who arrived were of the select fifty-five members. He knew every face and checked each attendee’s gold token. No one was getting into the house without his say so. Men like us have so few places we can be ourselves and so when we find one, we’re protective of it and of those who join us there.

None of us who worked at Wychwood knew who our employer was. This was for our and their protection as sodomy’s a hanging offence, but don’t get me started on what an arse that particular law is, especially when those that made the laws were all at it!

My Wychwood letters were hand delivered to the stage door of the music hall, although I’d never seen who delivered them. And to ensure secrecy we were paid well for our work and our silence. I was paid five pounds for a turn at Wychwood, which was a month’s wage at the music hall. I enjoyed entertaining gentlemen who preferred gentlemen and the hopeless romantic in me loved seeing gents being openly affectionate in a place where they didn’t have to fear discovery.

Mr. Hugo and I were curious about our quiet compatriot, Mr. Joshua. We’d talked privately wondering about who he was and where he’d come from, but neither of us had been able to identify the particular livery of the household he belonged to, or what his day job was. Occasionally, Felix conversed with us after his work was done. He once told me that he had the suspicion that Mr. Joshua worked in the home of our employer and he attended the Club Fifty-Five not only to keep watch at the door, but to ensure that his master’s wishes were carried out to the letter! I don’t know if that’s true, but it would make a lot of sense.

Alfonse Hugo was a pianist at The Great Western Royal Hotel in Paddington. He arranged his nights off to coincide with this private booking. Hugo brought a portfolio book full of music manuscripts with him and during our journey he and I nattered about our set list. I didn’t sing any of the songs I performed at the music hall, but I was a quick study and we’d have time to run through a new song or two before the house opened.

Mr. Joshua always sat quietly with his thoughts as Hugo and I jabbered on. As we passed Regents Park, and same as always, Mr. Joshua checked his pocket watch and then slipped a hand into his jacket and retrieved two envelopes.

“Your wages,” he said as passed one to Mr. Hugo and one to me.

I placed the envelope into an inner pocket of my cloak. “Thank you, sir, much obliged.” I said, truly grateful, cos this was the only private party I worked at that ever paid the performers in advance. It made me feel like I was a trusted confidant. Our employer put his faith in us to ensure a night at Wychwood was as pleasurable as the clients desired and we’d keep schtum.

I took a glance out of the window but apart from the occasional gas street lamp haloed in mist or a ghostly figure walking in the fog, I couldn’t see much of any detail, but I felt it when the horses began their assent, pulling the carriage up the inclined roadway on the outskirt of the wild heath. I’d come up to Primrose Hill during the summer to picnic with Eloise, and we found it was a pretty wilderness with swathes of wild flowers. On a rare clear day, the view across London was spectacular. Lou and I had laughed a lot, watching grown men running around with butterfly nets trying to catch butterflies for their collections and ending up on their arses. But that lovely day was now a memory and the greedy developers who were expanding the city had their eyes on Primrose Hill.

Watching through the window I finally saw the muted light of lanterns that signaled the turn into the driveway for Wychwood. When the carriage stopped moving Mr. Hugo closed his portfolio of music, and then he opened the door. A fierce chill rushed in. Hugo alighted first and offered me his hand for support as I stepped down. I gathered my cloak around me and my teeth chattered. Mr. Joshua placed his bowler hat on his head and followed us out of the carriage. He turned to the coachman and said.

“Be back by 2 a.m.” The coachman doffed his flat cap, “Right you are, sir,” then he drove the horses down the driveway and around to the rear of the property where there was a stable block. My guess was he’d settle in for a nap, or even have a game of cards with the other coachmen delivering their elite gentlemen to the house.

Mr. Hugo checked his pocket watch and nodded. He then he stepped up to the door and lifted the heavy lion-faced knocker, banging it twice. We heard a responding double knock from the other side of the door. Hugo then knocked three times, then once. Seemingly satisfied, Felix unlocked the huge door and welcomed us inside. We all hurried in to the warm house and Felix closed the door.

“It is a stinker out zhere tonight, Felix,” Mr. Hugo exclaimed rubbing his leather-gloved hands together. Hugo put his portfolio book down between his feet to remove his heavy moleskin coat, revealing a green velvet jacket, white shirt, and cravat with smart black trousers. I was relieved to get inside too cos it was a freezing night and apart from silk stockings and French knickers I was naked beneath the dress.

“My bleedin’ balls have retreated in fear of the cold,” I snickered. “I’ll have to sing some bawdy songs to get the blood pumping down there again!”

“You always sing bawdy songs! That’s why you keep getting invited back!” Felix reminded which made us all laugh. I strode across the hall to the mirror to check that I was as pristine as when Eloise had pinned my wig and painted my face. I was made up with white greasepaint stage make up, and then powdered. Eloise had rouged my cheeks, and painted my lips with deep carmine red so I looked like a doll. To complete the look, over my natural mousy brown hair I wore a blonde wig of girlish ringlets with a feather adornment. The finishing touch was a squirt of heady Violet de Parme perfume. On removing my cloak, I finally revealed my full costume and did a twirl for my fellow collaborators in this illegal party.

“Ooh, very fetching, Miss Georgette. You’ll certainly get ‘em going tonight!” Felix smiled. I curtsied in response. “A girl does what she can!”

I handed my cloak to Mr. Joshua, who also collected Mr. Hugo’s coat and strode towards the cloak room. On returning to the hall he instructed “Places please, boys and girls!” and then took his spot by the front door in anticipation of our first guest.

Alfonse Hugo and I headed for the dining room, and my goodness, I salivated at the buffet display Felix had set up for the gents. On the long mahogany dining table there were platters of freshly baked bread, cheeses, meats, and exotic fruits from warmer climes like grapes, melon, and pineapple that I’d never seen before coming to Wychwood. And then there were the plates piled high with French pastries, and confectionary. Against the far wall there was a cabinet that held enough bottles of booze to sink a ship, and a credenza where there were glasses. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to pick from the display as Felix was quite the artiste. I’d eat my fill later in the night when the gents were up to other business! But, my one weakness was pineapple. Pineapples were worth a bloomin’ fortune and I’d heard stories from years back of them being so prized that a solitary pineapple would be paraded around the town, taken from soirée to soirée to be displayed and admired, but never eaten. There was even a good trade in renting out a pineapple to pretend that you were richer than you were. And so, even though they were a little more common these days, it was always a decadent delight to see the fruit cut up to be eaten. I felt self-indulgent as I pinched a thin slice from a display and shoved it into my mouth, sighing as the sweet juice flowed down my throat.

“Oi, that ain’t for you missy!” Felix scolded.

“It’s not as if the nobs‘ll miss it, there’s plenty of other things for them to eat,” I snickered crudely, pulling up my skirt and flashing the frilly pink French knickers. Felix slapped my arse and laughed with us. Then he said his goodbyes cos now that his job was done, it was time for him to go and let us get on with the entertaining.

Alfonse opened double doors from the dining room that led to the lavish music room. This room had magnificent acoustics. There were beautiful murals on the walls of instruments entwined with flowers and fat baby cherubs. Chairs were arranged around the outskirts of the room leaving an open floor where the fellows could dance together. Mr. Hugo took his seat at a wonderful grand piano, and I joined him, warming up my voice by singing scales, finally banishing the silence from Wychwood.

****