Mistress of My Fate (58 page)
I stumbled into its darkened fold; its air still hung with the richness of frankincense. This was the first time I had ever entered a preserve of Popery. “Havens of superstition,” I had heard my father once call them.
I recall how very quiet it was, and how this stillness seemed to seep into me. A handful of candles fluttered beside the altar, which lay bathed in a rainbow of colours flooding from the window above.
There was in this sacred place all the imagery one associates with the Roman Church: the paintings of weeping Magdalenes and bleeding saints, the suffering of martyrs, the unhappiness, the sorrow.
Oh, how the tears flowed from me; and there, before the altar, I fell to my knees in despair.
For a great spell of time, I bowed my head and wept. As I did so, I plundered my memory and drew forth questionable decisions I had made. No sooner had I permitted my mind to begin to stray, to pick over regrettable incidents, to admonish myself for my follies, than my sister’s image assembled itself once more from the darkness. Her face took shape suddenly and startled me. I gasped and opened my eyes, but still my head was filled with her. “No,” I commanded. “No!” I did not wish to believe in her. I knew her to be a figment of my mind. I had convinced myself absolutely of it. “You are not real,” I insisted. “You cannot haunt me.” At that moment, something I cannot rightly explain caused me to raise my head.
I had not noticed her when I entered the church, not even when I fell to my knees before the altar. She sat in an alcove to my right: a pretty statue of the Madonna; her hair was the colour of straw, her eyes two close-set blue gems. The resemblance to Lady Catherine was uncanny. A chill gripped me, but began to subside the longer I beheld her kind and placid features. There in her face lived no fury, no jealousynor anger, only benevolence and forgiveness. I shut my eyes and thought of Gertrude Mahon’s parting words: “I remember you with fondness,” I said, my voice resonating through the cold church. “I
remember you with love.” The echo reverberated from wall to wall, and then, like the ghost that had plagued me, faded away for ever.
I warned you that there would be much in this tale of mine that would not be to your liking. Here you must prepare yourself to read one more such thing.
Ah, I see you now, shaking your head and tutting, “So here she repents, so here she renounces her sins.” You think, “Ah, so it is true, she gave herself over to the Catholics.” I can confirm, dear reader, I did nothing of the sort. While I may have harboured some regrets, I had nothing of which to repent.
No, my friends, instead I shut my eyes and prayed, just as I had on that day at St. Mary’s Melmouth, when I was not quite nine years old. I prayed for that which I had prayed for as a girl: I prayed for love. I prayed that I might know it again.
I cannot say how long I remained there. The light that fell through the window had begun to dim. The toll of bells calling worshippers to evening Mass rang out. That was when I rose to my feet and departed.
The sky had filled with cloud and a summer storm had blown in from the sea. As I walked solemnly back to Dessein’s Hotel, my head hung down like that of a penitent monk. My face stung with grief.
My rooms lay in shadow when I entered them. Though Lucy was not to be found, there was evidence that she had returned. My disordered belongings had been straightened and a gown had been brushed down. It was then that I noticed something peculiar: a book left open upon a pier table at the far side of the room. It lay on its front with its spine to the air. I would not have been so careless, and so I approached it, piqued with curiosity. But once I saw its title I stopped quite abruptly. My skin prickled. In gold letters I read the name “Goethe” embossed upon it. Cautiously, I turned it over, my hands trembling.
“
The Sorrows of Young Werther
,” I breathed.
Then a warm, rich voice came from behind me and cited the very passage which lay open before me.
“ ‘Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world. But what else are you?’ ”
For a moment I stood entirely still, incapable of making any motion at all. My eyes remained locked upon the sentence before me. I could scarcely draw breath. That which I had heard, I dared not believe. For all my attempts to flee that had come to nothing, for my struggle to free myself from Quindell, for the hardships endured during my crossing, for the disappointments I had met with upon arriving in Calais—tell me, dear friends, what human breast could suffer such defeats and live to hope once more? I could not bring myself to turn, to confirm with my own eyes that he was indeed real, for I feared too much that he would not be.
I remained there, composed, my quaking hands steadied upon the open pages of Goethe’s work. I felt the smooth, dry leaves of paper—
these were real
. The stiffness of the binding below them, resting against the table…
this too was real
, affirmed my rational mind. This was no dream, no projection from my head. I was finished with fantastical imaginings, I had laid the last of those to rest. I pressed my palm firmly against the page.
No, it was real—so he must be
.
Gently, cautiously, I began to turn, still doubting, still fearing all the while that I should find myself mistaken, that he should prove nothing but another shadow.
“George…” I murmured.
I could not look at him, even when he stepped towards me. I could not lift my head. Even when he drew me into an embrace, even when I inhaled the warm familiarity of him, the faint scents of lavender and citron, the heat of his person, glowing through his silk waistcoat and his linen shirt. Even when I felt him against me, solid and strong. Even withstanding these indisputable proofs, I dared not gaze at him.
He moved his cheek upon mine, and when at last our lips met, my eyes had already been closed for some time.
Oh reader, I blush to recall those kisses, their honesty and urgency.
How we embraced and caressed—as if they were the first kisses, as if we were in the closet at Herberton, amid the gems and treasures. It was only after that, when I understood this to be no dream, that I opened my lids and beheld him.
His luminescent eyes, bright azure and rimmed with tears, gazed back at me.
“I did not think it possible…” he whispered against my temple, my cheeks now streaming with tears of delight. “I did not at first believe it when I heard the news: my wife had arrived at Dessein’s?” he said, in mocking disbelief. Then, all at once, he collapsed into laughter. It came as a roar of pure joy, a cry of the fullest relief. Within an instant, I too was overcome with mirth. We laughed and wept and kissed, and tumbled upon the sofa, until his kisses were replaced by soft strokes of my face, and his laughter faded into solemnity.
We lay together in silence for some time. His face was a picture of adoration, and mine a mirror of his. Speech had left us, for neither of us understood what might be said, nor how to pose the questions we wished to ask, for fear of tainting our reunion. There were demons I could not bear to release into this happy scene.
“That you should come here…” he began uneasily. “The comte de Lavert, he revealed to you my whereabouts…”
“I could not have remained in London when I learned…”
“Yes, yes, my love,” said he with an anguished smile, “it is because you are brave… so very courageous, and because you know not what…” He sighed and looked away. “It is far too dangerous here and I have taken a great risk in coming to you—in so much as sending de Lavert to find you, I have imperilled myself…” he said in a low voice.
“I do not understand.”
“There is no need to understand. There are many things I cannot reveal to you at present,” Allenham whispered. “Understand only that I did not choose to quit England or to be apart from you. It was not my choice. It would never have been my choice.”
“But who… but why, then…”
He hushed me and then stopped my mouth with kisses. “I do what I am required to do—for the greater good. For England as well as for France.”
My eyes narrowed in question. At that moment I could not entirely comprehend his meaning; I was too overwhelmed by his presence to consider the subtleties of what he was disclosing to me, but with time it came to make perfect sense.
“But you’re here now… you’re
here
!” He beamed.
“Yes.” I nodded and smiled proudly. “I willed it to be. I made it so. You bade me to survive, to live for our reunion, you wrote as much in your letter… and so I did. I lived as you directed me, my beloved…” I paused, for even saying that much brought to mind the compromises I had made to ensure the arrival of this day. It drew from me the memory of those deceits, those actions in which I had engaged, deeds of which he would not have believed me capable. “But I care not for censure,” I whispered.
He took my face into his hands and fixed his eyes on mine. “No,” he said resolutely. “Nor do I. I care not for scorn, nor remorse, nor regret, nor pain…”
“Nor errors, transgressions, deceptions, shame…” I added.
“Nor those either.” He smiled as he smoothed my ruffled hair. “I care not for those things… and never shall. I care only for you, my dearest, truest love.”
“And I am eternally yours,” I pledged.
“And I yours, as no institution of man can ever bind us.”
“And we shall wander together…”
“And live by our hearts, and think not of what tomorrow brings,” said he.
“Nor of yesterday.”
“Nor of any other matter, my love,” he muttered as he kissed me. “Not until morning. Not until then.”
Historical Fact vs. Historical Fiction
What we don’t know about the past is sometimes as intriguing as what we do know, especially for the historian who is given free rein to write fiction. Being allowed to speculate and invent has been wonderfully liberating, but my exercise in creating historical “faction” is bound to raise a few questions among readers.
Henrietta and her entire family, including the Earl of Stavourley, are products of my imagination, as are Lord Allenham and Philip Quindell. Their characters are drawn from the real-life experiences of a composite of historical figures—fallen women, aristocratic Whigs, wealthy colonials, and young noblemen swept up in the fervour of the Romantic era. Their personalities and views of the world grew out of the many eighteenth-century diaries, memoirs, letters and autobiographies I have read over the years.
Then there is everyone else. The majority of the other characters featured in
Mistress of My Fate
, including John St. John, Kitty Kennedy, Lady Lade, Gertrude Mahon, and all the “Avians,” Lord Barrymore and his cohort, George Selwyn, Mrs. Jordan, John Philip Kemble and his wife, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, are real. Some of these people we know a great deal about, while others are more mysterious, but in this book they’ve all been subjected to a bit of artistic licence.
The places and most of the events referred to are also real, as are a number of the shops, inns, and eighteenth-century products mentioned. Hooper’s Female Pills were advertised widely in the newspapers
for their abilities to “remove obstructions from the womb, and bring on the menses.” Blatchford’s elixir is invented, but based on similar “purgative” tonics available to women for the purposes of inducing abortion.
And finally, a word about
The Sorrows of Young Werther
. Hetty and Allenham were not the only young people to succumb to “Werther fever.” Goethe’s novel quite literally rocked Europe. In the late eighteenth century, it became a cultural phenomenon and jettisoned its author to fame. Plays, operas, firework displays, porcelain ware, fans, clothing, even fragrances were created to commemorate his book, which was also rumoured to be responsible for a number of copy-cat suicides. Where literary sensations are concerned, some things never change.
I have a number of people to thank for their input, advice, support, and faith. My agent, Claire Conrad at Janklow and Nesbit in London, has been exceptionally helpful, as had her fantastic counterpart in New York, Tina Bennett. Similarly, I owe a great debt to my editor at Grand Central, Deb Futter, for her enthusiasm and her belief in this book, as well as to Jane Lawson, in London, and to Dianne Choie for helping us along the way.
Finally, none of this would have been possible without the love and encouragement of my husband, friends, and family. It is to you that I owe the biggest expression of gratitude.
H
ALLIE
R
UBENHOLD
is an historian and broadcaster and an authority on British eighteenth-century social history. She has written two works of nonfiction to critical acclaim:
The Covent Garden Ladies
and
Lady in Red. Mistress of My Fate
is the first in the series The Confessions of Henrietta Lightfoot. Hallie lives in London with her husband.
Visit her website:
www.HallieRubenhold.com
The Lady in Red
The Covent Garden Ladies
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