Mistress of My Fate (53 page)

“When I considered my disgrace, madam… well, you can imagine what were my thoughts. I had no hope in my heart, and as much stomach for playing Maria as you now possess. At the time, there seemed no possible redemption for me, no hope. I believed all my dreams to be entirely crushed, but I soon learned otherwise.”

“How?” I enquired, humbled by her tale.

“Persistence, Mrs. Lightfoot, and a degree of patience. The tide often turns when we least expect it, and then opportunity arrives upon it,” said she with a nod. “But you must keep your eyes on the horizon, and not down, sullenly staring at your feet.”

Ashamed, I lifted my gaze from the floor.

“I could not have foreseen what lay in my future. My mother took me to a relation in York and there I found work upon the stage and bore my daughter. It was only then that I learned my most important lesson: not to concern myself with how others judge me. I admit, that is a difficult lesson for our sex, for we are taught to care for nothing but our reputations. You see, they hissed me in York, those fine ladies, when they heard I had not a husband.” A wicked smirk then emerged
upon her lips. “I shall confess to you, dear Mrs. Lightfoot, I still have no husband, and more children, but no one dares hiss me now. I get huzzahs instead, and the house is full every night.” Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she peered directly into my eyes.

“The world has kept a great secret from you, madam,” said she, leaning in and lowering her voice. “When a lady loses her respectability, she gains all the liberty she might wish for. She is free to do as she pleases, to follow whatever mode of life amuses her. She may go upon the stage, or travel abroad, or choose a lover to suit her heart.” Then she narrowed her eyes and held her lips together in a playful manner. “But think what mischief should come to our world if all governesses were to teach their young charges such things!” She giggled. I, too, smiled at this absurd notion. “To speak frankly,” she continued, “you are beholden to no one, much as a man might be. Perhaps this was the lesson your friend wished to impart to you when you eloped from your father’s home?” she suggested, paying me a sideways glance.

I had not considered this before. Allenham had warned me not to pay heed to the censure of others. Perhaps she was correct. I studied Mrs. Jordan, while contemplating her words.

“This whim of your keeper’s, that you go upon the stage, it should not hold you—
he
should not hold you. Why, this caprice of his, it does not spell the end of your existence. You are young and exceptionally handsome, Mrs. Lightfoot, and with some cleverness I am certain you will find a way to do and have what you wish. ” Her gentle gaze lingered on mine until it teased from me a bashful smile. “Now, shall we read through your lines together?”

I do not care to think what would have become of me had Mrs. Jordan not intervened on that day. That peerless lady, the most gifted of actresses, took it upon herself to draw me back from the precipice. It was with her coaching and encouragement that I was at last able to commit my lines to memory. Much to Quindell’s delight, we spent several days in her dressing room, where she guided me with her firm, instructive hand.

“When you address Sir Peter, turn your face thus…” she coaxed. “Ah yes, like so! You have it. Now speak your line from your belly, puff it out as if your stomach were a pair of bellows…”

I listened and followed. I must say, I was as much under Mrs. Jordan’s spell as any of her adoring admirers. Of course, this was in the months before our King William fell captive to her charms. He was then Duke of Clarence and could not have predicted what Fate intended for him. While some moralists disdain their union to this day, it was undeniably a long and fruitful one, which brought them both no small degree of happiness while it lasted. What, then, I ask, is so reprehensible in that?

Suffice to say, I learned much from Dorothy Jordan, and Maria’s scripted lines were not the only thing I committed to my memory. Truly, it is remarkable how the spirit can be revived by the kind words of admirable people. To win the regard of one so universally esteemed restored me. As if by magic, I felt myself shielded from the piercing darts of Mrs. Kemble’s looks, and the stinging contempt of her husband. To put it plainly, Mrs. Jordan restored in me that which had been sorely lacking for weeks: courage.

And, dear friends, I wish you had been present to glimpse Kemble’s expression when I first strode out upon the boards and rattled the chandelier with my voice! Why, his stormy features positively convulsed with disbelief. His eyes stared, his mouth gaped.

“Great God of Mercy!” he declared, putting his hand to his head with the flourish of a tragedian. “Is that you, Mrs. Lightfoot?”

“It is indeed, sir,” I responded with the strength of a commander of a man-of-war.

“Well…” he stuttered. “Well… this is a transformation.”

And not a word more was said on the matter.

Chapter 41

To be sure, a great alteration had come about in my character. My courage had cleared the murkiness about me. No longer did obstacles appear as daunting as they had in the past, and hope unfurled its petals once more. Within a short time, I found myself contemplating my future. I even dared to entertain the possibility of mounting another escape, though how precisely I might plot and execute such a plan continued to vex me.

I dare say my mood had shifted to such a degree that even Quindell’s constant presence irked me less. In truth, when he saw that I now stood ably upon my own feet, he did not hover as closely as he had once done, choosing instead to linger over his dice games and read through the prospective plays which were daily heaped upon Sheridan’s desk.

But while I considered myself transformed, there were others who saw differently. To these hound-like creatures, I remained a cowering fox. They had caught the scent of my weakness a while earlier and had been sniffing and scratching at my den ever since.

On a morning shortly before our début, while Quindell sipped tea with Sheridan, I took myself to the green room. There, I determined I would rest upon a couch and read until summoned to rehearse a scene. The quiet and the warm daylight rendered the room so peaceful that I soon drifted into a shallow sleep. Never again shall I be so foolish as to slumber unguarded where my enemies circle.

I do not doubt that Mrs. Kemble had a hand in what transpired.
Unbeknown to me, I believe she spied me lying there on my back. It was she who plotted this vile trap for me. It was she who noted that Quindell was engaged with Sheridan and alerted Mr. Preston to my defenceless position.

As I had not given myself over entirely to sleep, I was aware of sounds and movements from beneath my closed lids. I heard a light footfall and breathing and soon realized there was a presence beside me. No sooner had I opened my eyes than Preston struck, as swiftly as a cobra. He clapped his hand across my mouth and threw himself atop me.

“Hush! Hush!” he commanded, while glancing over his shoulder to make certain we were alone. “Mrs. Kemble said you had called for me, that you lay ready for love,” he panted, as he began to fumble with my skirts. I attempted to rise and scream all at once, but his weight and his hand prevented both. He scrabbled at my hem and then at my thighs as I twisted and groaned, my heart pounding with fear and fury. I could think of nothing but releasing myself. His attack raised in me such indignation that I began to rage with the violence of an animal. I gnashed my sharp teeth and curled my hands into claws. I bucked and kicked and howled, until my mouth came down with such vengeance upon his finger that for an instant I thought I might have succeeded in removing it.

With a yelp, he pulled back from me, gripping the finger into which my teeth had torn. His hand now ran with blood.

“Vicious bitch!” he cried, as I rolled to my feet. Gasping for breath, I backed away cautiously, not knowing what he was likely to try next. It was then I noticed what lay upon the table. A number of objects intended for use in our scenes were scattered in a jumble, and among them I spied the hilt of a sword.

Instantly, I dashed for it. I had never before wielded such a weapon, and although this was a mere dummy, I boldly pointed its blunt tip at my assailant. Preston, who was more concerned with his bloodied hand, took several steps backward.

“How dare you, sir?” I shouted, the sword shaking in my grip. “You are a depraved monster!”

He locked his eyes on mine and sneered crookedly. “And you, madam, are a depraved actress.” Then, with an overblown bow and a dripping hand, he retreated from the room.

For several moments, I stood catching my breath and resting upon my rapier. I dare say I was as stunned as Preston at my actions. Never before had I defended myself with such vigour, or displayed such courage. I doubted he would be likely to attempt such a trick again.

As you might imagine, I was unusually pleased to see Quindell that afternoon, when he escorted me to dinner. Wishing to regale him with my tale of bravery, I held my tongue until we were sitting at his table. I could scarcely wait to boast of my conquest, to relate to him how I had wielded my sword like an Amazon against my attacker, but no sooner had I launched into my story than he leaped from his chair in a passion.

“How dare that scoundrel?” he exclaimed. “I shall call him out!”

“Oh no,” I protested, for I had no wish to see this act avenged, when I had defended my honour well enough. “Dear Philly, I should die if some harm came to you,” I pleaded, employing my acting skills.

With some gentle persuasion, I finally succeeded in cooling his hot temper, and by that evening I believed the matter all but forgotten. In fact, I thought nothing of it when, the following morning, he insisted on accompanying me to my dressing table, which he had not done for several days. But when he then moved left down the corridor, rather than right to my corner, I began to grow suspicious.

“Where is Preston?” he roared like a lion, once inside the labyrinth. “I demand to see the rogue!” I placed a restraining hand upon his arm, but he shrugged it off angrily. “Preston! Mr. Preston!” he called out into the darkness. Players and servants backed away from him as he stamped through the forest of curtains and ropes. I chased after him, but he seemed intent on losing me.

“Who calls for me?” came the actor’s voice from behind a set piece.

Quindell’s nostrils flared. “Preston, show thyself!”

The performer, with his hair in curling papers, had no sooner stepped from behind the wooden wall of Sir Peter Teazle’s study than my protector flew at him. With one swift draw of his fist he pelted Preston across the face and I gasped in horror as his lanky, ribbon-like figure collapsed into a heap. Until I heard his groans, I feared for an instant that Quindell had murdered him.

“That, sir, is for the insult you paid Mrs. Lightfoot.”

Preston moved upon the floor, his bandaged hand over his right eye.

“I shall consider honour served,” the Boy Barbadian concluded with a bow.

The actor snorted. “I believe honour was served yesterday, sir. Your bitch nearly bit off my finger before attempting to run me through with a sword.” He then began to laugh wickedly. “I would be damned if I ever tried her again.”

Quindell squared his shoulders. I am certain he did not hear Preston’s comments, nor would he deign to respond to what he would have believed to be a patent lie. I, for my part, felt quiet pride in my actions: that I had managed to defend my own name, without the able assistance of my protector. I confess, my violent action was not the sort of behaviour appropriate for a woman who professes concern for her character. But here I remind you of Mrs. Jordan’s sentiments: that a woman must throw off the yoke of reputation before she is able to enjoy the spoils of liberty.

To be sure, that was an exceptional day, which ended with as much excitement as it had begun.

Backstage, all talk was of the contretemps between Preston and Quindell. Indeed, by the afternoon, the tale had spread to the adjoining Rose Tavern, and from there to the rest of Covent Garden. Soon I was hearing the entire story recounted as some great feat of heroism, where Quindell had dragged the actor by the hair from his dressing table, smashed in his face, and very near slashed his throat. All this
for the love of a whore, it was said, though I am certain that that last embellishment came from Mrs. Kemble.

To be sure, this entire incident caused me great uneasiness, for you know my dread of being made the object of gossip and speculation. So you might imagine my discomfiture when, shortly before we were to conclude this, our final rehearsal before our scheduled première in three days’ time, a servant came to me with a message. I was told that a gentleman had appeared at the stage door and requested a word with me.

“I am afraid he would not give his name, madam, but he said it was a private matter of some urgency.”

“Oh goodness!” I exclaimed, casting an anxious glance at Philly, who sat in a far corner playing Hazard with the scene shifters. “Is it the magistrate?” I whispered. My heart began to pound, for I feared that this incident of Quindell’s was about to rebound upon me.

The servant claimed he did not know, so I asked that the mysterious visitor be shown into the green room.

As I made my way through the corridor to greet him, I fretted terribly. Had Preston made some accusation against me? Was I to be arrested? My terror increased with each step I took towards the green room. Gracious heavens, was I to be sent to Newgate? By the time I had placed my hand on the door, I could hardly draw breath.

But the gentleman whom I found standing before me appeared nothing like a Bow Street Runner. Attired entirely in buff silk and a waistcoat embroidered with a profusion of tiny pink and emerald flowers, he paid me a deep and courtly bow.

“Forgive me if I am incorrect, but you are, I believe, Miss Henrietta Ingerton?”

The name, which I had not used since I began my life with Allenham, caused the blood to stop within my veins. I took a step backward. I was, I must admit, too much in a state of shock to speak.