Mistress of My Fate (46 page)
I wished to write to him at once, to hurl all manner of insult at him, to inform him directly that I should never, so long as I breathed air, return to him, that I loathed and abhorred him, that I should rather sleep upon the street than in his bed. He was a monster! He was
the devil himself! But I collected myself, I contained my passion and wrapped it in reason. I called upon my strength of mind, that quality which Allenham had so admired in me.
It would do me no good to spit venom at St. John, so long as he had Georgie in his command.
Greatly shaken, I sat down upon a chair and stared blankly at the wall. “What am I to do now?” I murmured after a time.
My faithful servant came quietly to my side and laid a gentle hand upon the back of my seat.
“Begin once more, madam,” she sighed.
When I first compromised myself and threw my person upon the mercy of St. John, I had made a firm resolution. I determined that I should not collapse into a fit of sobs at every perceived setback, for it never improved matters to do so. It is true that at times my perseverance wavered, but I believed I had finally conquered this weakness when I mustered the courage to quit Park Street. Unfortunately, I did not foresee such a blow to my fortitude as this.
All afternoon, fury boiled within me. I steamed with rage, as might a pudding in a pot. I clenched my fists; I chewed my lip till I drew blood. At last, exhausted and dizzy, I threw myself down upon the bed. “I shall not weep, I shall not shed a single tear for that scoundrel of a man!” I scolded myself, while pinching my eyes shut. It was in this agitated state, writhing and grimacing like a colicky infant, that Quindell found me.
The Boy Barbadian was not the sort to idle patiently on the opposite side of a door. By Jove, if he wished to make his presence known, he would push right through into a room, without so much as a gentle rap. So, when he returned that evening, his purse loaded from a win at the
rouge et noir
tables, he would hear none of Lucy’s excuses.
“Great Parnassus! Whatever is the matter, Henrietta?” he exclaimed, upon spying my contorted features.
I shook my head woefully. “Oh Philly,” I peeped, before shamefully covering my face.
Quindell sat down at the side of the bed and stared at me. “What has happened?”
It was then I felt my eyes begin to prickle and the anguish rise inside my breast. Unable to restrain my passion any longer, it burst forth from me like fire from a volcano.
“St. John!” I cried out, in an explosion of bile and tears. “That beast! That wretch has refused to send me my gowns and jewels!”
I was uncertain how my new keeper would take this information. Would he be angered that the man from whom he had acquired this prize mount had refused to send over its bridle and saddle? Would he champion me, as ought a true gallant defender?
“Have you nothing at all to wear?” he enquired, quite unmoved by my distress.
“Beside the gown I wore upon the night of the ball, I have but two modest gowns only… and some linens.”
He shrugged, as if this caused him no concern whatsoever, and slouched down upon his chair.
“I should not worry about it,” he muttered, studying the sheen of his fingernails.
I looked at him, aghast at his callousness.
“I had always intended to attire you to my taste. You do not think I would have you dressed in St. John’s rags?” He sighed. “Now it seems the matter has become more pressing and we must set to it immediately.”
Why, I could scarcely believe my ears. Could it be that simple?
“Dry your tears, my goddess.” He smiled at me. “Your wardrobe shall soon be the envy of all the muses and nymphs in London.”
And so, the following day, began in earnest Philip Quindell’s campaign to convert me from the slightly awkward mistress of a timeworn man of forty-four into a courtesan worthy of high keeping. Once again, I was given over to the mantua-maker. I was plunged into the same scene of fussing and tacking, of examining pattern books and rolls of
ribbon and lace, fur trims, heel shapes, felt and chiffon. However, on this occasion, it was not my inclinations or the cultivated judgement of the draper, mantua-maker, milliner or shoe-maker that dictated the cut of a bodice or the design of pattern, but rather Quindell’s taste. “No, no,” he would complain, “that stripe is too narrow,” or “the colour of that gauze is far too dull—no one shall see it, let alone admire it.”
I stood no better than a wax doll, upon which were pinned all his visions for the mistress of an
haute ton
gentleman. I had not the slightest say in how I was to be attired. No protest that I did not like this shade of green or that taffeta would be heard. My keeper simply brushed my thoughts aside. Upon the one occasion when I positively refused a trimming of gold fringe, he subjected me to a lecture.
“Come now, you think a gentleman cannot have a view on how he should like his mistress to appear? Why, I spied the Duchess of Devonshire wearing just such an adornment the other day. If you wish to cut a figure among the fashionable set, Henrietta, you must pay heed to such things.” He snapped, “Appearance counts for everything.”
I could do little more than sigh and hold my tongue.
To be sure, my friends, I might have withstood the complete subversion of my choice of attire had Quindell’s taste proved more refined—but, oh, to see what sartorial horrors this man imposed upon me! I had collars that lay upon my shoulders like flounced shawls, I had buttons as large and shining as new shillings, I had paper nosegays pushed into my décolletage, and high-crowned hats so decorated with rosettes and trailing ribbons that they appeared more like maypoles than works of millinery.
I recall him swelling with pride as he examined me in a creation of his own choosing, a violet watered silk, worn with a skirt of cerise and yellow stripes and a vast cloud-like buffon tucked into my bodice. “
C’est magnifique!
” he crowed. “I had always thought you near enough to perfection and the handsomest piece in all of London. You merely required a few adjustments.”
“Adjustments?” I rejoined, not half offended by his opinion.
“Oh,” he attempted to mollify me, “only in your dress, my goddess, for it was not so
à la mode
as it might have been… but I have improved upon that,” said he, approaching me with squeezes and kisses. After he had taken his fill of these, he stood back to admire me once more. A thought passed through his head and he crunched his brow. “What fool attires his young mistress in the fabrics of nearly twenty years past?” he remarked and rolled his eyes. “His Royal Highness thought it a positive cruelty of St. John to have dressed you so. A man who permits his mistress to be the subject of ridicule should be pilloried alongside fraudsters and perjurers, I say.”
This revelation quite shamed me. I had no notion that my clothing had been the subject of such tattle.
“And that is all?” I asked, my voice quivering with poorly disguised annoyance. “You do not think me meriting of any further
adjustments
than that of my mode of dress?”
Quindell hesitated. “Perhaps there is one other.”
“And what might that be?” I enquired, now a good deal injured.
He stammered and struggled with his words. “If you were… it might become you… to go upon the stage.” He then moved towards me and took my face into his hands. “Dear little goddess, you have asked me what else, and this I must confess to you: it is my fondest wish to see you beneath the glare of the lights. Since I was old enough to feel the sensations of love melting in my breast, I hoped to capture the heart of an actress. I fear that Mrs. Siddons rebuffed my advances, and Nancy Storace threw me over for another. I said to myself then, ‘Quindell, what you require is a beautiful creature, unknown to the world, whose name you would have the honour of making by putting her upon the stage.’ One day, I should like that creature to be you, my cherished one.” He sealed his declaration with a hard kiss upon my lips.
I am not sure which part of his revelation left me more speechless: the insulting frankness of his admission, or the exposure of his absurd
vanity. I had no desire to go upon the stage. Brazen strutting was not in my nature. I harrumphed, I spluttered, I drew breath, but in the end I decided not to waste my spleen in protesting. None of this would matter one fig, as I planned to take my leave of Philip Quindell long before he could persuade me to memorize the lines of Shakespeare.
When he made his confession to me, I could not name with certainty the date of my departure, but I was determined that it would be soon. As Lucy had wisely counselled me, if I wished to flee to Paris, I had the dispiriting task of plotting my escape once more. I had to begin again, and amass a hoard of objects worthy of hawking for my freedom.
At first, this seemed to me a daunting undertaking. How might I possibly acquire so many things of value without turning thief? It might take months, if not years, I bemoaned. But, gentle reader, the answer lay before my very eyes, and initially, I had been too blind to see it.
Here, I fear my tale is about to take a turn that will not accord with many of your more delicate sensibilities. It would sadden me to think you believed me to be avaricious, or driven by base desires. Certainly, by now, you have read far enough in my narrative to know that I am not of that sort. I had not the grasping talons of Miss Greenhill or of others among my acquaintance. To be sure, I had lived so much of my life in a modest fashion that I had no experience of extravagance. My life at Melmouth was a humble one, and you have seen how innocent were my countrified pleasures at Orchard Cottage. Why, I believed St. John to be as generous as Croesus. In fact, the truth of the matter was, I had never known genuine wealth until I met Philip Quindell.
I thought his gesture of outfitting me kind enough in itself. In truth, I did not hope for more. So you can imagine my bemusement when he began to present me with regular tokens of his affection.
In a given week, Quindell would stay in my bed on three, or perhaps four nights. On one of those mornings, without fail, he would produce a gift. The first of these arrived unexpectedly, after he had taken his pleasure with me. Quite without warning, he rolled on to his
side, reached through my bed-hangings and pulled upon the bell rope. He waited a moment and then rang again, this time clambering to his feet and hollering for his valet in the most brutish fashion.
“Philly,” I scolded him, “I am not fit to be seen by your man just now.”
“Sam!” he cried from the door, standing in his chemise for all to see. “Bring up Miss Lightfoot’s bauble directly!”
There were sounds of shuffling in my dressing room and then Quindell returned to me, carrying a small round object in his hand.
“I feared you would miss me when your bed was cold,” said he, handing me the item. “So I have had Mr. Cosway paint my portrait in miniature.”
I examined the item in my palm: a skilfully rendered likeness of Quindell in a burgundy coat, holding his head aloft like a gun dog. Surrounding it was the most exquisite frame of brilliants I had ever seen.
“They are true diamonds,” he remarked, as he tugged the bell rope once more, summoning his valet to dress him. “I shall not insult you with paste, like that beggar St. John.”
It was an extraordinary gift. I felt the weight of it in my hand and marvelled at the tiny squares of light as they gleamed and flashed. It was then that I allowed hope to re-emerge in my heart. I saw the first suggestions of a path opening before me.
There was, of course, more to come after this: a pair of bracelets, a pair of gold shoe buckles, a brooch of seed pearls, with earrings of the same, a set of enamelled redingote buttons inlaid with rubies, and a gold filigree necklace, like that which Quindell had spotted around the neck of the Duchess of Devonshire at Almack’s. My stars, I could scarcely take it all in—all this treasure in little more than two months. At times it seemed I need only to hold out my hand and the Boy Barbadian would fill it with my passage to France. Indeed, on one occasion this was quite literally the case.
On an afternoon in early April, I returned to my house to find a
parcel and a box awaiting me. They were gifts from Mr. Quindell, I was told. Inside the round box lay an enormous black-plumed beaver hat with a small brim and a chin strap. In the parcel was to be found a scarlet riding cape, adorned with frogging, braiding and brass buttons. I could not for the life of me comprehend what this was about, so when Philly appeared that evening, I questioned him.
“Ah” said he with a smile. “You are to wear those tomorrow with the blue redingote. We are off to a race meet in Hyde Park.”
“What? A race?” I questioned.
“You shall see, my goddess,” he replied, and then added, “I am afraid you must humour my little whim.”
The following day, Quindell’s curricle, drawn by two sleek stallions, was brought round to Clarges Street. He and a groom assisted me into the high-sprung carriage, which then, after a jolt, set off quick as lightning down Piccadilly. Startled, I gripped the side of the carriage and placed one hand atop my beaver hat. Seeing this, Quindell threw back his head with a laugh, and reached into his waistcoat pocket for his flask of brandy.
He continued to drive us at breakneck speed into the park, where I soon spied in the distance a gathering of similar curricles, horses, men in tall boots and brightly coloured women. Quindell waved his hand and hallooed to them.
“Philly,” I asked with some concern, “you do not mean me to race with you?”
He grinned as he pulled up his chariot beside Sir John and Lady Lade, who was dressed in a powder-pink habit and matching riding hat.
“No, my goddess,” said he, “it is the ladies who are racing today.”
I sighed.
“You shall be riding with Lady Lade, in her curricle.”
“Philly!” I cried, now in quite a passion. “This is too much! I shall not bear it!”
“Come, Hetty dear,” said my friend, extending her grey-gloved
hand to me. “There is nothing to fear. I am reckoned to be the best chariot driver in all of England. Not once have I overturned.”
