Mistress of My Fate (13 page)
“… of what it is to burn?”
My steps stopped quite suddenly; Allenham saw my quaking. My face was now bright as a berry. Too much had been spoken for delicacy’s sake.
In his azure eyes there lived such desire. I caught my breath and pressed my hand to the gauze of my buffon.
“Lotte,” he muttered, his mouth moving almost in silence. “You are my Lotte. I am your Werther.”
“My lord,” called Lady Catherine at that moment, at that terrible instant, when I thought I might fall dead in a fit upon the ground. How grateful I was for her intrusion, how wrought with despair I felt upon hearing her voice—my beloved cousin, to whose happiness my heart was sworn.
She wished for her fiancé to catch her up as she and Lady Carlisle sauntered arm in arm. I turned away from Allenham, and nodded for him to leave me to Lady Stavourley and two of Lady Carlisle’s daughters who followed closely behind.
How I was to recover from that encounter, I knew not. The effect of it upon me was like the introduction of a venom into my veins. It took hold of my senses, causing me to grow light-headed and distracted. I stared like an idiot into the distance. I was deaf to any conversation but his. This poison, this corruption remained in my body for all that day and into the next. At night, I wept into my bed sheets, so disgusted by my desires, so knotted with confusion that I writhed in pain. Love, I feared, had conquered my rational mind. “I am lost!” I cried, doomed to live out my years pining for my cousin’s husband. Indeed, had Lady Stavourley not intervened when she did, I do believe my situation may have ended rather differently.
As I have explained, the purpose of our visit to London was, as expressed by my aunt, to gather the necessary items for Lady Catherine’s trousseau. Greater still was the need to have as many eyes as possible witness these activities. While Lady Stavourley might have arranged for the various tradesmen to call at Berkeley Square, instead she chose for us to pay visits to purveyors of millinery, stockings, gloves and linens in person. “It will make for a day’s amusement,” she suggested, while searching beyond the window of Lord Stavourley’s coach in the hope of spotting some acquaintance or other.
Lady Catherine certainly raised no objection to her mother’s plan, for how often is it in a woman’s life that she may anticipate a succession of gifts and purchases to be made on her behalf? Since her engagement, my aunt and cousin’s conversation had turned entirely to gowns and hats, fabrics and trimmings, yellow silks and tabbies, gauze shawls and petticoats. Indeed, these thoughts preoccupied Lady Catherine so greatly that we rarely spoke of anything else. Our shared pleasure of reading aloud “dark works” had come to an abrupt end. In fact, nothing I said or recommended seemed to capture her attention any longer. I wished more than anything to ignite her interest in
The Sorrows of Young Werther
, but failed on that account as well.
“It is the most possessing love story I have ever read,” I gushed, but my cousin merely turned the book over in her hand and laid it down again.
“I fear I have little time now for novels, Hetty.” She sighed. “There are far more worthy distractions when one is to be married.”
Instead, she preferred to list the jewels her mamma claimed Allenham would purchase for her. “All manner of necklaces and eardrops and bracelets… why, this in itself is reason enough to marry!”
With so much to be acquired, it did not surprise me in the least when the Baron proposed that we amuse ourselves with a visit to the shops along New Bond Street. Hardly two days had passed since our last encounter in Hyde Park, and I was not at all myself. I seemed to
pass each moment in a reverie, my mood swinging like a clock pendulum between joy and despair.
As it was a fine summer’s day, we went in Lord Allenham’s barouche, his horses proudly pulling us down Piccadilly under the warm sunshine. He sat opposite me, composed, his dark fringed eyes never daring to touch mine. So long as he kept his gaze from me, I could venture to look at him, to study the perfectly straight line of his nose and the light scattering of freckles along it I had not before noticed.
We paid a visit to Randall and Son, the glove-maker, and then called at Wilding and Kent, which in my day was a cavernous hall of billowing colours and oak shelves stuffed with bolts of bombazine and muslin, taffeta and broadcloth. Although I took in this scene, although I heard Lady Stavourley speaking with Mr. Wilding, although I watched buttery silks and cards of lace rolled out before me, I seemed to be hardly present at all. My eyes stared vacantly at the drolls in the window of Mrs. Humphrey’s engraving shop, which sent Lady Catherine into fits of giggles. In truth, I could see little else but Allenham. I could admire nothing beyond the mahogany of his hair, or the strength of his stance. This was until we visited Barnaby’s, the fan-maker on Old Bond Street.
Mr. Barnaby had his wares arrayed along his dark shelves; they sat spread open, each like beautifully painted butterflies, displaying their scenes. Some bore tableaux of dancing muses, others of floral swags and cameos in pastel hues. There was one, made of white kid leather and set in the window, to which Allenham’s attention was drawn. He directed the shopkeeper to fetch it and as he did, the design caught my eye.
Painted on to a background of white and green were three round portraits: one of Werther in his blue coat and buff breeches; another of Lotte, a blue ribbon tied into her hair; and a further image of Albert.
“This is from Frankfurt, my lord. A fine piece of foreign manufacture. You are familiar with the novel by Mr. Goethe?”
“I shall have it,” Allenham stated, “and the pink silk with the punched ivory handle as well.”
He glanced at me and smiled, and then at my cousin.
“I do hope the pink fan is to your liking, my lady?”
I do not believe Allenham saw any harm in buying me a trinket. He was too well versed in the nuances of genteel behaviour to have carelessly committed a
faux pas
. My cousin, who had been lavished with gifts, certainly did not object, but my aunt, that was another matter entirely.
I have no doubt that from the time we arrived in London, Lady Stavourley had fixed her eye upon me. In truth, the symptoms of my condition were most likely evident to her before we had quit Melmouth. My lovesickness was apparent in my demeanour; it was worn upon my face as obviously as a pot of rouge. In such a state, I was a menace to all her well-intentioned designs. Allenham’s gift confirmed her concerns and prompted her to take immediate action. I suspect she dashed off a letter to Mrs. Villiers as soon as we returned to Berkeley Square—and sent it by express to Bath, for not three days later, I was in Lord Stavourley’s town coach, making the lengthy journey along the Great West Road.
As for the fan, I never saw it again.
I was such an inexperienced child. For the life of me, I could not begin to fathom what I had done to merit this banishment. I was dispatched to spend the summer with Mrs. Villiers, in whose care I was to remain until September, when my cousin was due to wed. How I despaired at being torn from Lady Catherine at such a time! I wished so much to share in her excitement, to join in entertainments and outings with Lord Allenham.
Instead, I had been sent to Bath, where I was to act as company to an ageing widow. While Mrs. Villiers was not quite infirm enough to be thought dull, neither was she young enough to be considered amusing. To be sure, she had a broad circle of acquaintances, composed of every manner of person from grand dowagers to sea-weathered admirals, but very few among them were agreeable companions for an unmarried girl.
Our days ticked by to a rhythm of visits to the Pump Room, promenades, modest dinners and games of cards. In the evening we attended the theatre and occasionally the Assembly Rooms. My hostess was most generous and kind, but failed to distract me from that which preoccupied my mind. Many hours were spent sitting in the window of her dark, quiet drawing room gazing out on to Gay Street, watching the sedan chairs and horses move to and fro while I revisited the memories of my last visit to Bath. When I first arrived at Mrs. Villiers’ home, I wrote nearly every day to Lady Catherine, but, during the entire course of my stay, received only a handful of letters from her in return. These
were filled with trivial news: talk of two new gowns she had had made up, and of a visit to Mr. Boydell’s gallery of Shakespeare paintings. She hardly made mention of Allenham at all, except to announce in July that they were to go to Gloucestershire, where she would inspect Herberton, the house of which she was to become mistress. There they would be joined by a number of the Baron’s relations and neighbours, and together, she anticipated, “they would make a merry party.” I confess, upon reading this, my heart sank very low indeed.
Oh Allenham. There was scarcely an hour when my thoughts were free of him. I failed to purge him from my heart; the flame I bore for him did not, as my aunt must have hoped, burn out at a distance. I kept
The Sorrows of Young Werther
at my side. If it was not lying upon the table nearest to my bed, then I had it in my pocket, or in my hand. By now certain pages had begun to display wear, for I had read my favourite passages so regularly that I had almost committed them to heart.
My lonely sojourn with Mrs. Villiers provided me with much time for reflection, and as an unfortunate result of this, I descended far deeper into Werther’s world than I had before. As I lay in my bed, I contemplated any number of alternative endings for the hero and heroine. I was even compelled to write my own, where Albert, seeing that his fiancée was so smitten with Werther, and Werther so in love with her, stood aside, and permitted the couple to marry instead. However, what haunted me most was Werther’s love-addled decision to take his own life. Why?
Why?
I asked myself again and again, when happiness was so near to his grasp?
One of us three must die, so let it be me! Oh my dearest one! This broken heart of mine has often harboured furious thoughts of—killing your husband!
What if Werther had done that instead? It was an unconscionable thought, but the heart is not a reasonable organ.
With time, it is possible that my passion for Mr. Goethe’s novel may have boiled away of its own accord. Like any young miss of just seventeen, some other book or object would have taken hold of my attention and enthralled me. But this was not the case. The fires that permitted my fascination to simmer were stoked continually by Allenham’s equal enthusiasm for the story. I had not expected to receive proof of this during my stay in Bath, and was therefore taken entirely by surprise when I received a letter from him. He had been brave indeed to write. His message found me as it had at Melmouth, by way of hand delivery. There was no postmark. One of Mrs. Villiers’ maids handed the small packet to me while her mistress dozed in her dressing room.
“My dearest heart,” I recall he began it:
I have struggled a good deal to learn of your whereabouts, and as you must appreciate, it is most dangerous for me to write. By now, I have no doubt you will have heard of the momentous events in Paris, that the Bastille prison has been taken, and with it, an entire nation has embarked upon the infant steps of revolution! It is a time of great excitement—would that Monsieur Rousseau had lived to see it, for they cry the words of his Social Contract in the streets! Indeed, the French are making a fine show of throwing off their chains—your uncle, Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke speak of nothing else. At Herberton, the gentlemen raise toasts every night to the end of tyranny. Oh my darling, sweet Henrietta, I dream every day of seeing you here, of having you here to rejoice with me. Knowing that you are less than a half-day’s ride from where I reside is a constant distraction to my thoughts. There is much I long to show you: our avenue of ancient oaks, the paintings and treasures brought here by my father and grandfather—my dearest, you will vastly admire the beauty of Herberton, of that I am certain. Not two days ago, I enquired of Lady Catherine if she favoured the notion of your coming to live here after we are wed,
and she did not oppose it. I fear the furnishings, which she claims are both
outré et passé
, are of more concern to her at present. So it is to be, my angel! You are to come and live among us, and we may delight in one another’s company every day of our lives.
Until that time, my Cherished One, I fear that hazarding a response to this letter would prove unwise. While Herberton is occupied with guests, there are more pairs of eyes about than usual. But I beg you, do carry in your heart my undying flame, dear Lotte, as I am for ever your devoted Werther.
And here, reader, I found myself lost once more, pitched back into a stultifying reverie of love. I pressed my copy of
The Sorrows of Young Werther
to my breast and shed tears of bliss and heartache.
There was no cure to be found for my afflicted heart at Bath. I regret to say that my aunt’s plan to rid me of my attachment to Lord Allenham had come to nothing. In truth, by the time I returned to Melmouth in late August, my thoughts were as possessed by him as they had ever been—perhaps more so, for now I counted the days until my cousin’s nuptials, when I was certain the happiness of we three would be sealed.
Hardly a fortnight stood between Lady Catherine and her wedding day and I was most eager to be reunited with her: my bosom friend, my dearest companion. I had missed her company, her constant chatter and witty remarks, almost as much as I had longed for Allenham’s. I was never so pleased to travel up the long, straight drive to Melmouth as I was upon the occasion of that homecoming. How delighted I was to survey the familiar fields and paddocks, the hedges and chestnut trees tipped with yellows and browns. What contentment it gave me to mount the steps of my uncle’s house, to pass through the portico and into the echoing, marble-lined great hall. But my joy was short lived.
My relations seemed almost indifferent to my reappearance. It was if I had never been away. My aunt was far more grateful to see
Mrs. Villiers, who had been my companion upon our journey, than to receive me. My uncle I did not have chance to greet until supper, and even then his attention was distracted with some urgent matter of correspondence or other. Lord Dennington and his brother, whom I had not seen for nearly a year owing to their being at school, were as cool and formal with me as they might have been with their tutors. Worse still, my dear Lady Catherine, my
chère amie
, to whose life I was devoted, seemed entirely unmoved at our reunion. When I appeared in our apartments, she behaved as if we had only been parted since breakfast.
