“I did not come to England to die, I came here to live!” He went down to the kitchen and encountered the well-rounded cook. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am John Bull.”
“If you’re John Bull, I’m the Queen o’ Sheba,” she declared.
“Sheba? Then you are not the pig woman?” he asked, slightly confused.
Dora tittered as Mrs. Hogg turned purple. “Pig woman? Are you making fun of my name?” she demanded.
“No, no, madam. I assure you I am serious.”
“I’m Mrs. Hogg to you. I demand respect in my kitchen. I ’ate interference.”
“I have no intention of interfering with you, madam, or the female with the lice. I came for a piece of fruit for the master’s mynah, as it has not been fed today. Where is the bird?”
“I ’ate it!” Mrs. Hogg asserted.
John Bull went a little pale. “You ate it?” he asked in disbelief. “The master loved that bird.”
“Well, I ’ate it. Down it went and down it stays!”
“I am wordless,” he said solemnly.
“Brainless, ye mean.”
“I could say something nasty, but I recline!” John Bull said, quitting the kitchen with his dignity intact, and retreating upstairs for the remainder of the day.
Before Savage left the house he received a note from Mr. Watson advising him of a house that might suit, but before he went to his solicitors he decided to visit the Saville Row tailor they had recommended. He felt slightly uncomfortable as he stepped into the haute monde establishment. He had never been inside a gentlemen’s outfitters before. In his youth his clothes had been secondhand and in the Indies a tailor came to his ship or the plantation.
The men serving in the shop were out-and-out snobs who showed contempt for anything that was not the height of fashion, but when they discerned that money was no object, they fawned upon him. They let it be known that they dressed the Prince of Wales and would transform Adam Savage from a gauche colonial to a nonpareil. It was at this moment they learned Indian Savage had a mind and a will of his own.
He ordered two dozen white shirts and neckcloths of the finest material but plainest design. He was measured for coats in blue, claret, and black superfine and sober waistcoats in slightly contrasting colors. He ordered breeches that fit the leg well, trousers that buttoned at the ankle, and half a dozen pairs of buckskins. They sold him riding gloves and driving gloves, but could not talk him into the new dog-skin gloves that were all the rage. He purchased a beaver hat but were scandalized when he refused every tricorn they showed him as well as the wigs to wear beneath them. They told him he would never be acceptable to society if he insisted upon wearing his own, unpowdered locks. They finally persuaded him to be fitted for black satin for evening wear, but no amount of coercion on their part could talk him into white “inexpressibles.” He bought a top hat, a cape, and even silk stockings, but laughed in their faces when their bootmaker suggested high heels.
He was measured for dress boots, Hessians, and top boots to wear with his buckskins, but insisted they all be black. He left them shaking their heads. They had done their best to explain that to be dressed well nowadays was far from being well dressed, and that fashion had become a battle between taste and gaudiness.
When Savage called at his solicitors they told him of a town house that was for sale not far from the Lamb house.
“I prefer a house in the city. It’s much more convenient for business. I thought somewhere handy to the banks and the East India Company on Leadenhall Street.”
Both Watson and Goldman were aghast. Such an unfashionable address would be a handicap, they assured him. A man of his stature must buy in Mayfair. It was an unfortunate fact of life, but a man was judged by his address.
Savage agreed to view the town house in Half-Moon Street, then hurried off to buy himself a carriage. He selected a coach that would quickly get him from London to Gravesend on the new turnpike and a fine pair of matched bays to pull it. He couldn’t resist buying a light perch-phaeton reputed to go thirty miles an hour if you had the right cattle with enough stamina to keep up the pace, so before he left the area he picked out a pair of high-stepping blacks and didn’t bat an eye when his bill was tallied at over three thousand pounds.
With unflagging energy he made his way to Leadenhall Street, where the East India Company had its headquarters. As well as the lease he had with them for Leopard’s Leap, he owned a substantial number of shares. Inside, the largest chamber with a round skylight and balcony was called the “courtroom.” Savage learned there was to be a meeting of shareholders held the following week and he made a mental note to attend.
He turned as a friendly voice spoke behind him. “I can see you are not long back from the Indies. I need advice on my investments and in return perhaps I can give you some about London. It’s probably changed a great deal since you were last here.”
He offered his hand to a square-faced gentleman about his own age.
“Adam Savage, returned this week from Ceylon.”
“Now, where have I heard that name?” The man introduced himself as Cavendish, but when the men who passed by nodded and murmured, “Devonshire,” Savage realized he was conversing with the Duke of Devonshire. They struck up an immediate acquaintance, each recognizing that they shared similar qualities. Both were no-nonsense mens’ men with good heads for business and a knack for garnering more than their fair share of this world’s goods.
They touched on many things in the short time they spoke, including politics. “We need men like you in the house,” Devonshire declared.
“I have no seat,” replied Savage, stating the obvious.
“A bribe of a few paltry pounds can obtain you a seat in the Commons,” Devonshire enlightened him.
Savage tucked the information away.