Mistress of My Fate (6 page)
Until this moment, dear reader, nothing has been said of George William Allenham, 2nd Baron Allenham of Herberton Park. My good friends, had you been alive during the early months of 1789, you would know what an omission this name has been from my story.
At that time, there were only two Georges of whom society spoke. The first of these was the King, who had recently reacquired the use of his senses. All the country was rapt in celebration at the return of his health. There were fireworks and balls and dinners where His Majesty King George was toasted loudly, even by my uncle and his Whig brothers, who had made no secret of their wish to see the Prince of Wales on his father’s throne.
The second George was the gentleman whom I have just introduced. To say he caused a stir among
haute
society would be too mild a phrase to use. I would say he caused a flutter or a flush, for these two things generally accompanied the hushed mention of his name. Ladies looked at one another earnestly when they spoke. “He is all they say… truly, I have never seen a gentleman’s face so… beautiful.”
It was at a celebratory gathering, a supper party at my uncle’s townhouse, where candles had been placed in all the windows and a great banner crying “God Save the King” was strung over the door, that I had first heard some of my aunt’s associates conversing about George, Lord Allenham. Respectable dowagers made themselves giddy as they described him. “He has the appearance of a Grecian athlete—such fine
features and so tall!” They seemed almost conspiratorial when they mentioned his name, looking over their shoulders to ensure that the unmarried girls could not hear them.
“He has altered greatly since his return from Grand Tour. He was a mere child when I saw him last. And now… well, I doubt there is a heart he will be incapable of conquering!” exclaimed another.
“I hear that Lady Powis has him in mind for her daughter.”
“No, I’m certain that is untrue, as Mrs. Howe has written to me to say her niece Miss Featherstonehaugh is about to be engaged to him…”
It was then that my aunt had noticed me lingering at the drawing-room door and shooed me away with her eyes.
It was not as if I had been genuinely listening to their prattle; such gossip is the constant background noise to any gathering, and I had no reason to turn my ear to such nonsense. However, it is fair to say that I had heard enough to recall the name when it was next mentioned at Bath.
In the entire two-year period in which my cousin had been “out,” never had a visit been undertaken anywhere which was not with the sole intention of displaying her charms in public. On several previous occasions, my aunt had taken Lady Catherine around the various assembly rooms and drawing rooms of Bath, hosted card parties and excursions, but to no avail. It was therefore not surprising that, in this instance, she seemed incapable of demonstrating any interest in these sociable pursuits. Lady Stavourley wished only to be quiet, to have glasses of spa water brought to her daily, and physicians at her call to take her pulse and examine her tongue on command.
My uncle had taken a comfortable but modest house for us in the Circus expressly for this purpose. Had he intended us to give lavish entertainments and receive many guests, I have no doubt he would have sought out more commodious lodgings. As it was, we were pushed into close quarters, which greatly unnerved my cousin. Our shared bedchamber was joined by a thin wall to Lady Stavourley’s dressing
room, which, after placing her ear to the wood panels, Lady Catherine declared to be “Intolerable! I swear it, she will hear every word we speak!”
You see, by then, she was certain Lord and Lady Stavourley had determined to marry her off to Bedford, perhaps at some secret ceremony.
“Oh cousin,” she sighed, “you will save me from him, you will save me from Pug Face, oh, please say you will…”
I swore my allegiance to her; I swore that if my aunt and uncle attempted to bundle her into a sealed carriage bound for Gretna Green, we should both run off together, though to where precisely, we had not yet determined.
But as the days passed, there seemed to be little sign that her mother had any desire either to eavesdrop upon our ridiculous chatter, or to sacrifice her daughter to Pug Face Bedford. In fact, it was only upon the instruction of her physicians that Lady Stavourley was encouraged to do anything at all. Slowly she begin receiving social calls and bathing in the bubbling sulphur springs, and eventually, once her spirits appeared slightly more fortified, my uncle suggested a visit to the Assembly Rooms.
While Lady Stavourley was not averse to this in principle, it equally failed to hold much appeal. I have no doubt that she feared the possibility of further humiliation and a crushing public defeat at the hands of her daughter.
Truthfully, none of the ladies of Lord Stavourley’s household cared much for this idea. And here, dear reader, I include myself among them.
Having passed my sixteenth birthday in the previous year, it was deemed appropriate that I be invited to attend certain less formal gatherings and parties, and to make appearances at public assemblies. You see, my aunt and uncle never wished me to be excluded from society, yet in order to avoid disappointments, they made it well known that I
had no marriage portion. There was no need for sumptuous clothing or jewels. That would only mislead. However, while I remained visible, there existed the slim hope that some gentleman of fortune might fall in love with me and take me off their hands—but I must not rely on this, my aunt had cautioned, for “it was more often the case in novels than in life.” In any eventuality, I knew that my destiny lay in a long spinsterhood, as a companion to my cousin, and I accepted this prospect with cheerful good grace.
There was no sense of urgency to our preparations that evening. In fact, my cousin nearly prevented us from going at all, moaning that she was vapourish and that her monthly courses were about to begin.
“Nonsense,” chided her mother, her face pinched with annoyance. “You claim always to be indisposed with that. I do not believe it for a moment.” She then had some spa water brought to Lady Catherine as her hair was being curled. My cousin sighed and frowned, never once sipping from the glass on her dressing table.
We were all in low spirits, our sojourn in Bath becoming duller and more tedious by the day. Without my aunt to order our activities, we had sunk into a sort of listlessness since our arrival. So, rather than deliberating over our dress and style of hair, we simply changed from our day gowns into our evening attire. I wore my gown of pale blue silk, my neck and ears adorned by the only jewels I owned: my modest pearl cross and eardrops. My cousin was attired in a simple pink taffeta. Feathers were placed in our carelessly arranged coiffures. Lady Catherine was so laissez-faire that she managed to lose her sash before we left the house. With hindsight, perhaps it was not such a terrible thing that we approached the ball with an air of
sans souci
; after all, there is nothing so becoming as a girl with a candid, effortless look about her.
Just now, I have paused my pen mid air, between the ink pot and the page.
I was about to describe my cousin’s physical appearance, but I
hesitate. Lord Dennington is likely to accuse me of maligning his sister if I do not choose my words carefully. I believe it is fair to say that Lady Catherine was no great beauty, but neither was she plain. Her hair was that pleasing golden colour, so often praised in fairy tales, and her eyes, though close set, gleamed like two blue gems. Between this pair of sapphires rested a rather high-arched, prominent nose, which she shared with her mother.
Reader, if you are fortunate enough to one day make a tour of Melmouth House, enquire of the housekeeper to be shown the portrait by George Romney. There you will see a likeness of Lady Catherine created at the time she was first launched in society. You will also see a tree beside her where I once sat. That was before Lord Dennington, many years later, had me painted out of the scene. You see, he remembered all too well what occurred when we went to view the picture at the summer exhibition at Somerset House.
Lady Stanhope, whom my aunt always despised, was standing with a friend before our portrait. She failed to notice that we, the Earl, the Countess, their three children and niece, were directly behind them. After a long inspection of the work, Lady Stanhope muttered to her companion, “That Miss Ingerton is by far the most beautiful of Lord Stavourley’s tribe. I do so pity his daughter. She is not half so fair.”
Now, I fear you will think me vain. Please, do indulge me, and allow an old woman the pleasure of remembering the fleeting gifts of her youth. Perhaps you will have some sympathy for me when I reveal to you that for much of my girlhood I was entirely ignorant of the effects of my beauty.
Imagine now the sketch I have just drawn of my cousin’s face, but with several distinct alterations. I possessed the same honey-coloured hair and dark blue eyes, which have long been an Ingerton inheritance. However, where my cousin’s nose was long and pronounced, mine was tiny and narrow, and where her eyes were small and placed near together, mine were wide and round as two delftware plates.
Indeed, my face bore such a soft, childlike appearance that, when taken together with my diminutive stature, many found it difficult to believe that I had not escaped the nursery prematurely, even into the later years of my life. But in my girlhood, my guardians made no reference to the merits of my beauty, and for good reason: as the penniless relation, they feared I would become a distraction. They worried that their daughter would not shine half so brightly beside me. I had not appreciated that the Earl and Countess had been approached by gentlemen because of me, because young men believed, and hoped, that the girl with the delicate features and bowed mouth was Lord Stavourley’s daughter. Indeed, it was not entirely unknown for the two of us to be confused altogether, and by far the most awkward instance of this occurred during our very visit to Bath.
I doubt that most of you knew the Lower Assembly Rooms as I did, before they burned down. Bath was in her glory then, like a young lady in the flush of her youth. Now, sadly, she has become a tawdry old madam. Paste buckles and brooches have replaced the diamonds that used to be seen in earlier years, while the streets are jammed with anonymous post chaises, rather than the carriages of the great families.
In my day, this place offered the spectacle of a magician’s tent, especially to the wondering eyes of a young lady who was not an attendee at many lavish occasions. Chandeliers and wall sconces glimmered with hundreds of tiny flames, while music and the rhythmic clatter of dancing heels could be heard throughout. From all around came the dim murmur of conversation, and that scent which never fails to rise from a dense crowd: part Hungary water, eau de Cologne and pomade, part sour, oniony stink.
On that night, we had arrived at seven o’clock, precisely an hour after the dancing began. Already the rooms were heaving with guests. The tea room, the card room, all the antechambers and, needless to say, the ballroom were full. As Lord and Lady Stavourley bowed and smiled at their acquaintances, Lady Catherine and I marvelled at the crowd,
surveying the sea of feather-topped heads, false hair, wigs and frilled caps.
There is nothing so amusing as observing the circus of humanity with all of its curious specimens of men and women: the bulbous noses, the crooked backs, the portly figures squeezed into waistcoats too small. Indeed, passing comment on the faces and fashions in such places was my cousin’s preferred sport.
“Good gracious,” began Lady Catherine, prudently raising her fan so she might whisper to me. “I did not think anyone so ignorant of fashion as to still wear a sacque-back mantua!” she declared, rolling her eyes in the direction of a plump woman in a gold-coloured gown.
“Oh yes, it is
très outré
, to be sure,” I agreed, using one of my cousin’s favourite turns of phrase.
“And that hideous petticoat…” She began to giggle while inspecting another poorly attired creature. “One would think her maid blind, or that she dressed Madam by the light of a single candle.”
As I took in her cutting remarks, my eyes began to rove the room, running over trains of shimmering silk and ensembles of stripes and sprigs, until quite abruptly my attention stuck fast upon a gentleman in a green coat.
Until that day, I had never stared at anyone, least of all a member of the opposite sex. I could not have contemplated such a bold gesture. Unlike my self-assured cousin, I was a quivering mouse, demure and reserved to a fault. Therefore I surprised even myself when I found my gaze consumed by the man I have just mentioned.
I cannot rightly say what it was about him that held my notice. I felt for some time utterly fascinated, like a child beholding a colourful spinning top. He was quite unlike anything, unlike any one person I had known.
He was, it must be said, exceptionally… no, profoundly handsome. I saw him first in profile and he seemed so statuesque, his stance so square and firm, his back tall and straight, yet he stood with such comfortable
elegance, like a swordsman or a dancer. His face, even at a distance, was remarkable for its perfection. His cheeks and chin were flawlessly hewn, as if from marble; his nose was long yet well proportioned, and finished in a perfect, slightly upward point. At first, I could not see either the startling hue of his eyes or the true richness of his dark hair. The light was not good, and he dipped his face in and out of shadow as he conversed, nodding every so often and smiling generously. He was most certainly a gentleman of breeding, which was plain not only in the finely tailored fit of his coat, but in his self-assured comportment. By this, I do not mean he wore that disagreeable air of self-importance, but rather that he appeared polished, while still having about him all the ease and honesty of a country man.
It was not until he turned his head that I realized I had lost myself and all sense of propriety. Oh reader, our stares collided in one mortifying instant! I cannot relay to you the horror I experienced; it was as if my heart had dropped into the pit of my stomach. He would think me forward and impertinent. He would take offence. Shame swept over me like a fever, washing my face in colour.
