Mistress of My Fate (48 page)

“Please forgive me,” I muttered between sobs. “Please… please.”

Gertrude Mahon rocked me gently. “Of course you are forgiven, dear girl. Of course.”

Once I had caught my breath, and my tears had slowed to a trickle, I recounted my tragic tale to her. She listened intently, continuing silently to smooth my hair.

“When you came to me, Hetty, I knew from the look upon your face what had come to pass.”

I shifted my head and glanced up at her. “How do you mean?”

There was a faint smile on her lips. “I knew it because this fate befalls us all at some time. Virtuous women too. We are destined to be parted from our children. It is the way of things.”

Her words brought back my silent flow of tears.

“You are most fortunate, my dear,” she continued in a soft voice. “Little George is lively and healthy. That which took him from you was not death, but the promise of a life of privilege. You could not provide that for him, could you? You could not take him in with you, to live at Philly Quindell’s expense. Few men are good enough to tolerate the burden of another man’s child under their roof. Women of our sort depend entirely upon the charity of men who do not find children as diverting as do we. No, dear girl. Think instead on how your little son will lead his life.” She touched my cheek and smiled at me. “He will be raised with his noble cousins in the country; he will enjoy the healthful benefits of Lord Bolingbroke’s estate and have the education of a gentleman. St. John will make him a settlement, and he will have all the connections he could ever want. When St. John sought my counsel on sending George out to nurse, it was these matters I considered. I knew you would disagree, because you are young, my dear, and you know only love, not its consequences.”

I wiped my eyes. She was correct. She had been correct all along, but my heart ached too much at that moment to accept all she said.

“Why, consider your own dear mamma, Hetty. Did she not make a sacrifice similar to yours? Did she not give you up so you might be raised in a noble household, with good connections and an education?”

In the midst of my dilemma I had not reflected upon this uneasy truth. I had not thought for an instant on how entwined my fate had become with that of my mother. What sadness this gave to me, when I did.

“And look what has come of that,” I stated glumly. “I am here, a gentleman’s whore, my life no better than hers.”

This silenced my counsellor, though only briefly.

“It is different for boys. His life will not follow your course.” She then drew breath as if to speak, but stopped. This sudden pause caused me to turn and study her expression, which all at once seemed contemplative and distant.

“Pray,” I breathed, “tell me your thoughts, Gertrude.”

She smiled. “I have not told you this before now, but I knew your mamma—though not well, and only briefly.”

“You knew her? But why have you not spoken of this before?” I asked, intrigued.

“Because you are not at all alike,” she laughed. “You have the wits she never did. She wished only to be amused, to be at the centre of all gaiety. She could be powerfully cruel to her companions, or any person who stood between her and what she desired. There were some among my acquaintance, Mrs. Robinson, and Dally Elliot, who said that it was of her own doing that Mr. Byram ended up a debtor in the Fleet. She ruined him, and all her friends had abandoned her by then—all but St. John.” She turned her warm dark eyes on mine. “So you see,
petit chaton
, your life is better than hers. You are loved. Your heart is a good one.”

I sighed and thought. “Perhaps,” I uttered, after a spell. More than anyone in my life, and certainly more than Lady Stavourley, Gertrude Mahon had been like a mother to me. Until then, I had been too stubborn, too impetuous, too childish to appreciate her guidance, but at that moment I began to see its merit clearly, like a constellation among a scattering of stars.

“I am grateful to you, dear Gertrude. I know I have been a fool, on many occasions. I am much in need of advice, on most matters.”

She glowed with pleasure at my words. “I should hope that, by now, you have acquired some wisdom from me, as well as from your other friends.”

“I have.”

“I should hate to think of you without confidantes when I am abroad.”

At that, I sat up suddenly.

“I have been meaning to tell you, dear, I am departing for Spa with Lord Beauchamp, who means to take the waters. Then, there is talk of Paris, if there is no more unrest.”

I did not know what I should say. I merely sat with my mouth agape.

“But when… when do you depart?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“Oh no, dear madam, no! Not so soon as that…”

“Hetty.” She placed her hand upon mine, her tone somewhat chastening. “I shall return within the year, perhaps within a few months. You need not fear, I am a most constant correspondent.”

Dear reader, I did not take her news well. Indeed, it produced in me such a surge of conflicting emotions that I very nearly did precisely that which my friend had forever warned me against: I all but blurted to her my plan to flee to Paris. I wanted to say that we might even be so fortunate as to meet in that city, should Fate permit it. But in keeping her counsel, in doing what she would have advised me to do, I held my tongue.

Were I to reveal to her my scheme, she would make further enquiries. I would be forced to disclose my history with Allenham, and then she, being most canny, would tie together the various ends of my tale and learn of Georgie’s true parentage. From there, it would be merely a slip of the tongue away from Lord Beauchamp’s ear, and a letter away from St. John. That is how the machinery of gossip turns, and how lives are caught among its gears and torn to shreds. Considering this, I do not doubt she would have commended me for keeping my silence.

I remained with Gertrude Mahon for the better part of the day, knowing that when I quit her house, it was unlikely that we would meet again for some time, if ever. When at last that hour came, the time of our parting, she embraced me, as a friend of the dearest, truest sort.

“I wished to ask,” she began, as we descended her staircase, arm in arm, “and I hope you do not think it impertinent of me…”

My eyes begged her to continue.

“Upon your childbed, you called out a name—Cathy.”

How strange it was to hear my friend speak of her. It caused a sudden
shiver to pass through me. I was not quite certain what I should say, and I shrugged uncomfortably.

“She was my sister, Lord Stavourley’s legitimate daughter.”

Mrs. Mahon continued to regard me, hoping I should throw her further scraps of this story.

“She died on her childbed?”

“No. She died before I fled my father’s home, of a fever.”

“Did you flee… on account of her death?” Gertrude Mahon could spy a truth in the heart of any tale, no matter how abridged or embellished.

I dropped my head in silence, and then gradually nodded.

“They… the servants blamed me, but I did… nothing,” I breathed. Even as I spoke of it, I felt the tugs of remorse within me, those terrible remembrances floating to the surface of my mind. I had not permitted myself to think of it for some time; those fears locked within me, the absurd notion that I had somehow willed her death. “She haunts me,” I admitted, before adding, “if only her memory.”

Gertrude Mahon touched my shoulder. “Then remember her with fondness, as you will remember me.”

Chapter 37

To have lost my child and my dearest friend upon the same day was a bitter medicine to swallow. But, like most medicines, its effects were ultimately beneficial. Ah, but now you think me heartless. How is it possible, you may ask, for a mother to suffer her infant to be taken from her and believe it for the best? I confess, at first I struggled with this reversal of fortune. I mourned my son, thinking it unlikely that I would see my Georgie again, and fearing that if we should ever meet, he would not recognize me. How I ached at this notion: my own son a stranger to me. But then I reflected upon my friend’s advice and, much like the first time Georgie was taken from me, soon came to see the advantages in this. I had no authority, no power of law or financial means of recovering my boy. Indeed, the only person who did was the child’s rightful father, and the sooner I made haste to him, the greater the possibility that we three might one day be reunited.

If my resolve to quit London had in any way grown soft, then it was the departure of my friend and my son that once again stiffened it. In those two months, I became single-minded in my determination to amass the wealth required to fund my journey.

Unlike my previous attempt, this time I thought very closely upon the matter of my escape. Rashness would not do. Each step I took was contemplated with the utmost care, for I did not wish to misjudge Quindell’s powers of observation. I knew not if he would notice the sudden absence of a patch box or an aigrette. Although he permitted
me use of his credit at any shop in London, would his bankers not raise the alarm if they sighted irregularities? If I ran up too many jeweller’s bills and had no new bracelets or earrings to show for it, would he not think it odd? You see, my friends, I had learned some discretion from my past follies.

Shortly after my final interview with Mrs. Mahon, I began to keep a ledger of Quindell’s gifts. On its pages I made a record of every article of attire, piece of porcelain or jewel I might pawn in order to gain my liberty. I sifted through my assortment of gowns, hats and shoes and decided which among these items I could part with. By summer, I reasoned, I would have no need for heavy cloaks, or for a broadcloth riding habit that clinked with brass and braid. The beaver riding hat might be sold, in addition to an enormous veiled creation, shaped like an upturned basket, which I had disliked from the very moment my keeper had chosen it. A swansdown muff and a tippet of the same would fetch a pretty price, thought I, adding these items to my book. By these means, I would know what I possessed, and then, once I had gathered the courage, I would have each item appraised for its value. When the appropriate time arrived, I would exchange them for ready money. This was a slow and steady strategy, to be sure, but one less likely to trip me up.

Before I launched my campaign, I made some careful enquiries among my acquaintances and learned where a lady might sell a few items without raising too many questions. Only then did I begin my programme of visits to pawn shops around the capital. I established a routine whereby I would undertake my errands in the morning and in the early afternoon return to Clarges Street to mark the quotes into my ledger. Goodness, I thought myself vastly clever, and at least as shrewd as half the merchants in the Royal Exchange.

Now confident that my scheme would succeed, my daring increased, and I began to carry a selection of my trinkets to various jewellers. A snuff box, a pearl bracelet, a gold watch on its chain with a key and fobs, were each assessed in their turn. I brought in for a
valuation as well the diamond necklace and eardrops I had been wearing on the night I parted with St. John. I had pinned a good deal of hope on achieving a sizeable price for these, but the jeweller, taking the sparkling collar from my fingers, held it to the light and tutted.

“Vauxhall glass and paste gems,” he said, “but of a good make. One shilling and sixpence.”

I could hardly believe it! Sitting in the coach on my return home, a wry smile crept upon me. Indeed, I began to wonder if St. John had not confiscated my jewels in an effort to spare his pride rather than to punish me.

Perhaps it was the disappointment of this discovery that encouraged me to increase my game, for by early May I had decided to sell a few of my trifles. These were merely small objects that would not be missed: a garnet-studded hairpin, a gold comb, a pearl buckle. If queried, I would simply claim I had lost them. I eagerly handed these over to the jeweller, but was dispirited by the small sums they produced. Travel was so dear, and I knew I required a great deal of money to make my way to Paris. I would have bills for my lodgings and meals, I knew not for how many weeks. There would be the hire of a coachman, perhaps a postillion as well, in addition to Lucy’s wages. Gracious, until thenI had never considered how costly were such matters. I was no housekeeper, I had no mind for economy. Nevertheless, as a result of my prudent little sales, I soon gained the satisfaction of feeling coins in my hand.

I confess, this secret occupation of mine eventually came to consume me. My quiet moments were given over to counting and cogitating. I felt myself turning magpie, forever admiring trinkets in shop windows and wondering at their prices. Without Georgie to possess my thoughts, this mercenary activity filled my days. Why, had I been a person of lesser morality, I might have been tempted to filch a number of the glittering objects which lay all about my home. Certainly this was the course of action recommended by Miss Ponsonby when she first called upon me at my new lodgings.

She and the Greenfinch had paid me a visit shortly after Quindell installed me at Clarges Street. As I led them through the rooms, Caroline Ponsonby gawped like a child at St. Bartholomew’s Fair. She sighed at the Duke of Chandos’s Sèvres china and the fine Irish linen, and gasped at my modishly appointed drawing room, adorned with Roman style furnishings.

“Oh, he has done well by you, to be sure, Hetty,” she marvelled, with wide eyes.

Miss Greenhill said nothing, but silently took in the surroundings, her face perfectly stony.

“Have you not considered what riches are at your disposal?” remarked Miss Ponsonby.

“Well…” I stammered. “No, I have not…”

“Oh, but look about you,” she enthused. “Why, you might sell the vases and the silver alone and find yourself as rich as Croesus.”

“But why should she want to do that, Caroline?” spoke the Greenfinch at last. “These are not
her
belongings, you goose. They belong to Mr. Quindell, and Hetty could be hanged for thieving,” she sang out, her eyes fixed on me, as if daring me to attempt it. “No, my dear, if Miss Lightfoot is in want of funds, then she must be sure to pawn only her keeper’s gifts, and not be so foolish as you…”