Mistress of My Fate (31 page)
“Darling girl…” he ventured, beginning to stroke my hand, “perhaps it was the torments of my own mind I heard. Oh dear, lovely creature,” he breathed, “you have captivated me entirely. I am now without hope for happiness! Pray, my love, you would not see one who adores you so ardently in such anguish?” said he, moving his hand to my face.
I jumped involuntarily.
“Sir,” I commanded him, “leave me be or you will indeed hear me cry out!” These words, my friends, are a true record of my sentiments, for nothing repulsed me more than his touch. Yet I knew St. John would not desist. I recognized that my protests would only fire him further and that he expected me to enact the terror of a reluctant virgin on her wedding night. I would not disappoint him, though it sickened my heart to play this charade.
I sat up in my bed and drew the coverlet around me, but St. John, as I had anticipated, saw this as a signal to begin his assault. Taking hold of my neck he pushed his lips against mine with great force. I struggled to repel him, turning my head and squirming.
“I beg of you, do not deny me, my love, my angel, for I should die if you do! I shall kill myself if I cannot claim your heart! What agony you cause me!”
“Sir!” I cried, as if reading from the very pages of Samuel Richardson’s novels. “I beseech you! Please! My honour! Oh God, preserve me!” I shrieked as he lowered himself on to me and forced apart my legs.
What cruel devils are men. Had I been truly in a state of innocence, St. John would have brutalized me. There was no tenderness in his actions, only the basest, most fiendish lust. He pushed one finger into my womanhood and I screamed, for not only did it cause me true pain and disgust, but I feared he would discover my carmine trick! Fortunately, the darkness kept my secret. In the morning he would find his nightgown, hands and member stained to his satisfaction.
How loathsome it was to have him inside of me. The act of love is repugnant when forced. I pity you brides who have no desire for your husbands, for it is this battery that you will forever know, with no understanding of what you might have enjoyed. There is no reason why any woman should be made to submit to a man for whom she does not feel affection. I confess, while he took his pleasure, I sobbed as if my heart would break, the name Allenham unpronounced upon my lips. With his kisses and hands, St. John drew from me the sorrowful remembrances of true love. Under his touch, they rose like a ghost from a lifeless corpse. I can assure you, readers, the tears I shed were entirely real.
I wept for myself, for my tragedy, for this wicked deed, until my wailing was matched by his groan of exaltation. Then I fell silent. I could not help it. The bargain had been sealed.
I must confess I had been so dreading my intimate encounter with St. John that I could scarcely think of anything beyond it. Foolishly, I had not considered what he might demand of me afterwards, or that he would require me to roll upon my back whenever he desired it.
The first fortnight was tiresome in the extreme, for he would not let me be. His appetite, once whetted, did not diminish. Though, to my relief, there were some difficulties that slowed his progress.
A certain friend of St. John’s, to whom I shall soon introduce you, explained to me that long before my protector fell in love with my mother he had been a great enthusiast of women. As a result, he came to know the pox and the clap as well as every Polly and Betsy in Covent Garden. Too many doses of the mercury cure had—how shall I put it?—dampened his ardour. Raising it sometimes proved to be a problem, and, once up, it did not remain so for long. To be frank, I could not have been more pleased to discover this weakness, for it made my existence with him more bearable. Although my youth and beauty revived his powers, the effect was very much like a shovel of coal upon a fire: it flared to life, but soon burned out.
In that period, he passed every night in my bed, and did not neglect an opportunity to draw me upon his lap, or fondle my thigh, or reach his hand into my bodice. I learned to withstand these pawings and maulings with detached coldness. The act itself I found disgusting on most occasions, until I taught myself some resolve. By this, I mean
that I learned to manage by lying perfectly still with my head turned away from him. I left him to grasp and fondle with his heavy hands and probing mouth, while I floated my thoughts elsewhere, towards Allenham. St. John seemed not in the least bit bothered that I flopped as if dead, for I suspect he had never known a bedfellow of his to do otherwise!
Now, I address my readers of the fair sex when I remark that there are few tasks more difficult for the female spirit to endure than intimacy with a man for whom one feels no passion. In my life, I have been asked by many a married lady, who whispers privately into my ear as we sit upon a couch, how I have learned to contend with the carnal demands of men. By this I have taken them to mean, how do I permit them to have their pleasure without expressing outwardly the revulsion and horror I feel within? I often respond to such delicate enquiries that it requires great fortitude. “But how,
how
?” rejoined my desperate confidantes.
“It is not simple,” say I, “but once the strangeness of the man has worn off, it is replaced by a certain familiarity, which in itself gives comfort. Whether he is grossly fat or noisy or covered with wiry hair, one comes to see his humanity. One knows him, and in the breast there grows, if not love, then sympathy, or sometimes a kind of gentle pity.”
“I suppose,” my questioner will often sigh, resigned to the difficulty of her position.
The one exception I make to this rule is that of strong smell. I cannot abide it, but I have found that most gentlemen will oblige a woman when she requires them to wash or apply some
eau de cologne
. In the case of St. John, it was a small mercy that he believed in the use of perfumes and pomades and always kept himself clean.
Necessity had driven me to depend upon St. John, but I remained determined to reap what I had sown. I resolved to endure my situation only for the time it took to bring Allenham’s child safely into the world. Until that day, my most heartfelt wish was to hide away from public scrutiny, to cower in my mother’s set of apartments, but I knew that my
keeper (as I now might call him) would have none of that. Reader, do remember I was not devoid of modesty or sensibility and, at the time, I did not believe this sort of life to suit me. I was still a young girl and had not yet shaken off the yoke of duty and goodness that had been set so firmly upon my shoulders. Notwithstanding Allenham’s encouragement, I had no true independence of mind and no understanding of the world. I was greatly ashamed at what I had become and did not wish those who might recognize me to bear witness to it. More than anything, I feared that my father would see me or that Allenham would hear of my association with another gentleman.
On the day that followed the loss of my carmine maidenhead, St. John declared that he would like to introduce me to his acquaintances and eventually to make a great show of me in his box at the theatre or to parade me through the Pantheon. We would dance and drink punch and be in company. The very suggestion of this brought an undisguised grimace to my face.
“No,” I protested, “I would not like it. I should prefer to stay at home,” I added.
“Come now, my dear,” said he, approaching me and taking my hands in his. “Do not act the fair, injured Clarissa. What came to pass last night happens to most women in their turn, one way or another. No young lady has ever died of it.”
My chin began to tremble ever so slightly. “But I am ruined,” I muttered, which in part I knew to be true, but which I also understood St. John expected me to say.
“Nonsense,” said he. “I am here and I love you most ardently. I shall not desert you, little one.” He placed a kiss upon my cold lips.
“But what will they say of me?” I persisted, expressing a genuine concern.
“They will say you are a true beauty, one of the most alluring creatures in all of London. And they will say, ‘That St. John, he is a fortunate gentleman to find an angel as lovely as Miss Lightfoot.’ ”
I looked down at my feet.
“Tomorrow morning,” he announced, “a mantua-maker will come to call. I have asked her to outfit you in entirely new apparel. You have seen your mamma’s gowns; they now belong to you, and you shall have more beside. A silk draper will also pay a call so you may choose a few more fashionable fabrics to your taste. You shall have pretty little shoes and hats and bonnets and jewels, and all the fripperies that ladies delight in. Now then, does that cause you to smile? May I see your smile?”
He tipped my chin up and I squeezed a grin along my face.
I confess, dear reader, at the time, I was not prepared for how much I would enjoy these promised visits. My shame and awkwardness vanished almost as soon as I glimpsed the silk draper, who dazzled me with a rainbow of fabrics in every colour and pattern imaginable. So overwhelmed was I that I suggested he choose on my behalf, and so he selected a lavender lustring and tarnished brass tissue, which he assured me was
de goût
for this season. These materials were ordered to be sent to the mantua-maker, who arrived just as he was departing. Madame addressed me almost entirely in her native French tongue as she spent the better part of the morning pinning and tacking and measuring. Her two assistants helped her to straighten and pinch the florals, chintzes, silks, taffetas and Indiennes that had been my mother’s wardrobe. She brought with her engravings of the latest styles and suggested that we attach collars here, and make a compress bodice there, that a belt be added to this and a fringe to that. St. John lounged as a silent spectator in the corner of my dressing room, his face set in an expression of lustful approval, as skirts, petticoats, open gowns, stomachers and jackets were put on to and removed from my person.
Although I had witnessed Lady Stavourley and Lady Catherine beneath the hands of a mantua-maker, until then I had never before been the subject of such a fuss. I do admit, a visit from a fashionable manufacturer of ladies’ attire never fails to tickle the vanity of most women, no matter how modest.
As I was later to learn, St. John had it in him to be as much of a miser as a spendthrift, but his generosity on this occasion could not be faulted. However, his great show of extravagance was not entirely for my sole benefit. For those among you who are not familiar with the rules of the
demi-monde
, it is well known that a gentleman is judged not by how well he equips his wife, but by how handsomely he adorns his mistress. My keeper, unencumbered with a spouse and beginning to betray his age, wished to resurrect his standing by parading me about town. Of course, I was completely innocent of this at the time, and was willing to believe that St. John’s gifts were, as he claimed, “a proof of his undying love.” What I had failed to recognize, in the grip of my naivety, was that St. John was preparing me for my grand début. It was as if he had tripped upon an enormous unfinished diamond at his doorstep, and he wished to have it polished and set in gold, to wear for the edification of all who knew him.
The mantua-maker’s visit was followed by a week of excursions to haberdashers, linen drapers, shoe-makers, milliners, glove-makers and perfumers, many of whom, I blush to say, recognized me from my previous life of virtue. They caught my eye, but looked away, not wishing to cause me embarrassment.
St. John’s carriage conveyed us through the streets of Mayfair and Piccadilly, from Bond Street to the rows of bow-windowed shops that lined the Oxford Road. He took a pinch of snuff upon his hand and commented to me with a sort of haughty indifference that it was his greatest delight to lavish fine gifts and apparel upon me. “For,” he said, leaning against me and reaching beneath the hem of my skirts, “I would not have you think me ungrateful for allowing me to take your virgin prize.”
I did so dislike it when he said such things. Worse still was his frequent need to finger that spot between my thighs which he believed his drooping manhood responsible for opening. I bit my lip and forced a demure smile, wondering how many more weeks might pass before my
belly began to grow, and when it would be prudent to tell him of his approaching fatherhood.
It is true, my lot might have been far worse than this. When I chose my course of action I had reasoned that it was less abhorrent to tie myself to one man, and exist comfortably within his protection, than it would be to live as Miss Bradley and her sister, who were forced to entertain a range of gentlemen. And let us not forget that, when compared with the ranks of Cyprians who haunt the capital’s streets and taverns, even my friends on Mount Street might be considered among the more fortunate of their profession. I can assure the most priggish among you that no woman enters into this life for the love of what she does, nor because she is lewd by nature. Circumstance alone is responsible.
As the evening of my “presentation” approached, I grew increasingly apprehensive. St. John, on the other hand, spoke of it incessantly. I soon learned that he had planned an entire occasion: there was to be a dinner and then a visit to his box at Drury Lane to see Mrs. Jordan perform in
As You Like It
. This was to be followed by supper and music.
“You will be celebrated and admired by all, Hetty dear.”
“But I do not wish to be celebrated…” I protested.
“They will all adore you: Lord Barrymore, Sir John and Lady Lade…”
At the mention of these names, people of title and breeding, I bucked like a startled horse.
“Lady Lade? Lord Barrymore!” I cried in distress. “But… but… I am not fit to make their acquaintance! Dear St. John!” I pleaded. “Lady Lade will not approve of me one bit! She will know I have been ruined! Oh, what shame this will cause me! What offence I shall give her… and any other ladies you invite.”
St. John laughed heartily at my protestations. “Little Hetty,” said he upon catching his breath, “your innocence on this matter is precisely why her ladyship will love you.” He then put a gentle kiss upon my
forehead, but my protector’s assurances provided me with little comfort. I simply could not fathom what game St. John played, for even I, as simple and innocent as I was, understood that no person of quality would tarnish their own reputation by publicly associating with a girl of my compromised position.
