Mistress of My Fate (22 page)

I was surprised to find the cottage much larger than I had imagined it to be. Once Allenham had assisted me off the horse and through the door, an inviting, comfortably furnished space spread before me.

The house, for it was more of a house than a cottage, contained three rooms below and three above. The first of these appeared to be the oldest, with dark panelled walls and carvings all around. The floors were of cold flagstone, but the hearth was so grand that it engulfed
the entire room with a glow of warmth. Beyond it was a parlour, more recently built, with wooden floors that squeaked beneath my feet, and through that lay a smaller dining room and passage to the kitchen. This floor was joined to the next by a modest stair, which led to the rooms above; the largest was to be my bedchamber, with the two others as a dressing room and a servant’s room.

I was, dear reader, overwhelmed by what I saw, and as Allenham escorted me through the rooms of my home by one hand, the other remained firmly pressed to my mouth in disbelief. It was not the grandest of places, but what astonished me was that it was mine. Never before had I a home to call my own, nor had I ever believed in all my years of girlish dreaming that I might possess one. More remarkable still was the care that had been taken in its preparation for me. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and a variety of furniture transported from Herberton: cabinets, chairs, tables, Turkey carpets and even framed landscapes and engravings; and all had been arranged thoughtfully throughout. The bed too was a grand affair, an old walnut structure, hung with newly purchased Indian chintz, as imposing as the one upon which I had passed my first night in Allenham’s care.

He was as thrilled as I at the creation of this cosy haven, designed entirely for our happiness. Once downstairs, he drew me to the spacious hearth, which was indeed so broad that there lay two seats on either side of the fire on which to sit. The flames swelled and turned, their heat reflected by the glazed tiles that lined the interior.

As he stood admiring the high wooden mantel, running his hand along a row of carved acorns, leaves and fat roses, his fingers came to rest upon something. He paused and rumpled his brow.

“How very extraordinary,” he exclaimed.

I moved towards him so as to better view what he regarded.

There at his fingertips was the shape of a heart graven deep into the wood. The letter “L” sat squarely within it, with a “G” and an “H” inscribed below.

“Lightfoot?” I asked.

“The family who inhabited the cottage, yes.”

I then thought he must be playing some trick upon me, that he himself had engraved our initials within the heart, but when he removed his hand I glimpsed the date which lay beneath, “1738.” The marks, which had been worn in with soot and time, had been placed there by some other loving G and H.

“So it was intended, Miss Lightfoot,” he pronounced.

“So it was,” I agreed with a smile.

Chapter 16

I cannot, dear reader, ever recall a time of greater happiness than my days at Orchard Cottage. Nor can I call to mind a place more sacred to my heart than that spot beside the hearth. It was there, with G and H to bear witness, that Allenham swore himself to me. He covered my face with kisses, laying them over my lips and cheeks and upon each of my closed lids.

“Hetty,” he said, taking my face into his hands, “I choose you for my wife. I pledge myself to you. Though my income is small, I vow to do my best by you and by my children. I shall love you like no other.” He then took one step back and, while holding both of my hands, asked, “Will you pledge yourself to me?”

I nodded. All the heat from my heart now rose into my face. My eyes began to smart with tears of joy. How I had dreamed of a moment such as this, and yet what came to pass, with my adored Allenham before me, in a home that was to be our own, was more than I had ever imagined possible. Never in my short life had I felt so possessed by bliss and contentment.

“My beloved husband,” I breathed, my chin a-quiver, “I pledge my devotion to you. I am yours alone…” I paused, as weeping overcame me. “My love for you is eternal…” I could say no more, for the strength of my feelings had choked me completely. Allenham studied me. His features, so lit by love, seemed fixed in a dazzled expression. He drew me to him and enfolded me in his arms.

“So it is done. I am sworn to you as you are to me. Our love holds us as no institution of man can. Believe that to be true and our union shall never be broken.”

“I believe it to be true.”

“And believe that I shall never leave you, dear Henrietta.”

At that, I drew back my head from his chest and examined him through a watery gaze.

“I have no wish to reside at Herberton while you are here,” said he.

A great sense of relief washed over me at that pronouncement.

“Of course there will be matters of business—I cannot abandon my duties—but I shall always endeavour to return to Orchard Cottage.” He held me tightly. “Upon my honour, I promise it.”

Allenham made good on his word and it is fair to say that we lived as might a married pair, though with more affection than I have often seen in most lawful unions.

He lay nearly every night in my bed, under the high-pitched roof, and woke as many mornings beside me. We breakfasted on dishes of chocolate and hot buttered bread, which we toasted on forks before my fire. Eventually we dressed, sometimes assisting one another with our clothing rather than spoiling the blissful scene by inviting in the servants. Admittedly we were especially slow to our feet in that first week, and we tarried amid the bedding as youthful paramours often do, but, as Allenham had cautioned me, he could not put off his duties entirely. There was forever some dispatch awaiting an answer, or a servant come galloping from Herberton to alert him of a visitor. Then, after several hours or half a day, he would return, never failing to fulfil his promise to me.

“This will not do,” he announced one morning, after receiving word that he was required at the house. He rose hastily from the warm delights of our bed. “Ladies require company and diversion, and in my absence you have neither.”

“I do not want for diversion,” I protested with a smile.

He passed me an incredulous look.

“You cannot be pleased when I am not here,” said he, while searching for his stockings and garters. His chemise hung open along his chest.

“But I amuse myself perfectly well. I take the air and admire Herberton’s beauties, and when you are returned, I have scarcely noticed you were gone.”

“I shall have to remedy this,” he announced, dismissing my comment.

Hardly had he been absent from Orchard Cottage for more than a few hours when the first of his proposed diversions arrived upon the back of a cart. Laid in the straw were two glass-fronted bookcases, which were carried into the drawing room and set carefully in place. They were shortly followed by the arrival of a second cart, this one bearing what seemed to be an entire library of books. The servants soon set to work placing each of the volumes upon the shelves, as I stood by and watched, my lips pursed together in an expression of quiet glee. I counted among the authors Henry Fielding and Laurence Sterne, Oliver Goldsmith, Swift, Dryden, Pope, Shakespeare, Milton and the like. My own volume of
The Sorrows of Young Werther
was placed here too. I would have all manner of words for company, those of Hesiod and Ovid, the poetry of Virgil, the wisdom of Montaigne, John Locke, Diderot and Voltaire, and of course Rousseau, whose entire works lined nearly a full shelf.

Allenham returned to me that afternoon to find me in one of the seats tucked within the hearth. I had taken Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s
Confessions
, the book about which he had so often spoken, with me into that comfortable corner. The work was in French, and though I read that language tolerably well, there were passages with which I struggled. When he discovered me there furrowing my brow, he came down upon his knees and, after covering both of my hands with kisses, removed the volume from my lap and laid his head there instead.

“You are perfection,” he sighed. “You are so free of artifice, so true to your nature. Your father has educated you better than Monsieur Rousseau himself. Your love of beauty, the manner in which you wear your sentiments so freely upon your face, these qualities made me love you. These are exceptional traits. I have found them in no other member of your sex.” He peered up at me from where his head rested amid my skirts. “And you possess a strong mind.” Then a teasing look came over him. “Permit me to corrupt it by reading to you from a Swiss man’s
Confessions
.” And with that, he assumed the seat opposite and read to me in Rousseau’s native tongue. The ease with which the words flowed from him bewitched me, almost as much as the tales themselves.

“What do you make of that?” he paused frequently to enquire. He seemed always ready to know my thoughts, much as he had been when we were at Bath and then again in London, when he wished to discuss the merits of Werther with me. To be sure, there were many shocking and intriguing notions to come from Monsieur Rousseau’s writings. When not rapt in the joys of love, as we were often, he read to me from most of them. We passed a good many hours debating a formula for living, which Allenham believed should be “simple, rustic and contemplative.”

“Mankind should be at liberty to follow the instincts of his heart, and not to be so bound to convention and institutions. The Americans have attempted this experiment with great success, and now the French embark upon it…” He glowed when he spoke of such things, and my adoration swelled as I listened to his thoughts. “Darling Hetty, in the spring we shall go abroad. I should like to show you all the places I enjoyed as a boy. I should like to take you to Spa, and to the Alps—the very image of sublime beauty…”

“Geneva? We might visit the place of dear Monsieur Rousseau’s birth…”

“In the spring… yes… you shall sketch the Alps! And then to Weimar, perhaps to gain an introduction to Mr. Goethe.”

I gasped in delight. “To see the forests where Werther might have wandered…”

“And to France—oh, to Paris, my love!” Allenham’s expression broadened, his eyes took on a dreamy cast. “To live a full life, a soul must wander—he must experience and contemplate all that he sees.”

“ ‘Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world…’ ” I began.

“ ‘… But what else are you?’ ” said he, finishing Werther’s quote.

I imagined how it would be to sit within the cabin of his coach, all the world taking us for husband and wife.

“There is a different way of living abroad,” Allenham continued. “The French do not much mind if a man brings his mistress into society.”

The mention of that word instantly quashed my appetite for this adventure. My face fell. It was true: that was what I had become, a mistress. While we played out our days in the sanctuary of Orchard Cottage, I was his wife, but to the world, I would be his whore. I thought of my lover’s warning, that society would censure me for my deeds. I conjured a picture in my head, recalling how Lady Stavourley and her associates would scowl behind their fans at certain pretty, well-attired ladies. At the time I had not understood why she and the other ladies used such cruel words, but now it had become plain to me who those fallen creatures were.

“Perhaps we should not go abroad so soon…” I said after some consideration. “I like it here just as well.”

“Nonsense,” declared Allenham, who I suspect had guessed what troubled me. “I believe you will like it better there. Ladies enjoy far more liberty in France and Italy than in England. Not a word will be said against us—and hang the world for their condemnation of love!”

My beloved and his dreams. I cannot fault him for them. After all, he was not much older than I. We were both extremely young and could not foresee the dark cloud that would soon fall across all of
Europe and the events that would upend the lives of so many. However, I dare say there were many among Allenham’s acquaintance who could well have foretold the storm to come. By the onset of winter, the Baron was called more frequently up the hill to Herberton for longer periods. There came dispatches at night, too, including one that pulled him from the throes of sleep to reach for pen and paper.

“Is there some trouble?” I enquired.

“None,” he reassured me, “but I have been asked for an immediate reply.”

He then disappeared into the drawing room and scribbled furiously for more than an hour. Only after the letter had been sealed and sent did he return to me, his thoughts still agitated by the news he had read.

Whenever I attempted to press him as to the contents of his letters, he would sigh. “It is no matter, Hetty. Politics, forever politics. There is much to be done to secure a seat in Parliament.”

At about this time, another cart, like the one which carried the books, arrived at Orchard Cottage. The clatter of moving furniture drew me downstairs from my dressing room. There, I spied what I recognized immediately to be an artist’s table, portered by two servants. Allenham was observing its delivery and looked up to see the surprise upon my face.

“I have instructed it to be placed in the drawing room, where the light is best,” he announced.

I was overwhelmed at this sight, for in spite of recognizing my talent for painting, never had anyone, not even my father, thought of purchasing such a thing for me. I could hardly speak from astonishment. The table was an expensive piece and had had to be ordered from London, as had the items that accompanied it: brushes and watercolours, paper, glass jars of pigments, ink and oils.

“This will not entirely make up for my absences,” my beloved apologized, “but it will allow you to fill your days with an activity you enjoy.”

“Oh my dear George,” I babbled. I ran my hand against the smooth surface of its top and lifted up the hinge. If he had not made me love him by every other measure, then this kind act alone would have secured my affection entirely.

I put myself into his embrace. “I am so very grateful,” I whispered.