Mistress of My Fate (23 page)

“It is to you that I am grateful,” he responded, “for you have made the greatest sacrifice in coming to me.” He stroked my hair lovingly, lost in his thoughts. Then, after a pause, he announced that he was requiredin London.

“When do you depart?” I asked, my face still hidden in the folds of his waistcoat.

“Tomorrow, I am afraid.”

He felt me give way against him.

“As much as I would wish you to accompany me, it is impossible at present. You understand that?”

“Yes,” I responded glumly.

“It will only be for a very short time, and I shall return within the week,” he promised. “I wish for the separation no more than you, but there is business which cannot be put off… This is not my choice.” Then he sniffed. “Where matters of my future are concerned, I am very much in chains.”

I nodded, my head heavy with sadness, for I had always known there would come a time when he would have to travel elsewhere to fulfil his duties.

“I swear to you, I shall return as quickly as I am able. I shall think of nothing but our reunion,” he declared.

And so, the following morning, I stood at the threshold of the door, the December wind whipping around me, with all the misery of a cottager’s wife watching her husband set off with the recruiting sergeant.

I tried with all my might to distract myself in Allenham’s absence. In the hours after his departure, however, I moved aimlessly through the cottage. I could not settle with a book, or with my paints. I stared at
the windows and fretted, though for no good reason. I knew he would return to me, but it took some time for my heart to trust my head.

Of course, I had not been left entirely alone, for I was surrounded by servants, whose songs and scolds echoed from the kitchen, whose cat-like footsteps could be heard on the floorboards overhead. Bess, my maid of all work, the girl who had tended me on the day I arrived at Herberton, was never further than the next room. My home was well heated and meals were prepared for me with regularity, but my bed was empty and I could never sleep with ease until it was filled. As I extinguished the candle each night, I reached out beside me to feel the vacant space and shivered.

He had been away three nights when, in the haze of sleep, I repeated that ritual. I stretched out my hand and there felt something touch it. All at once, my pining heart began to rejoice, until I probed the mass further and found it cold. It was too hard to be the bolster, yet too chilled to be the form of my beloved. Curiosity caused me to reach further into the folds of bedding and draw it to me. As I rolled it into the gleam of moonlight, I caught sight of what I thought to be a lady’s nightcap. Several golden tendrils trailed from it. I moved my hand through the gloom to inspect this oddity and in doing so passed it over a nose and mouth. At this, my fingers froze. A sense of dread began to pour into me. I squinted into the darkness, now urgently wishing to know who had made their way into my bed. Then I saw her, her face as grey as I last remembered it, her lips darkened with death. Only her eyes retained that vital spark, and they locked on to mine with such hatred that it sucked the very air from my lungs.

I wished to cry out in terror, but found my mouth sealed shut, and my arms and legs as dead as hers.

“You thought yourself free of me,
sister
?” she hissed, as if she loathed the word. “You thought yourself free, but you are not. Nor will you ever be. You will see my shadow in all your pleasures. I shall sour your every joy—as you have mine,” she whispered, blowing her curses at my face.

I fought for my breath. Indeed, I was aware of my heart racing so quickly that I thought I might expire from fear. I moved to part my lips and awoke with a start. My horrified cries brought Bess running from the adjoining room. She found me stalking, pacing, staring at the empty bed.

“I had a nightmare, a dreadful, dreadful nightmare,” I rambled.

A candle was lit, and only then could I breathe once more.

“Please.” I looked at Bess, as frightened as a child. “Will you share my bed until morning?”

The maid obligingly climbed under the coverlet, and made no more of it.

I, on the other hand, lay with my eyes open, too troubled by what I had seen to rest.

Save for a few occasions, I had not permitted Lady Catherine to enter my head since my flight from Melmouth. I bore down heavily on any sensations of remorse, on any guilt at my love for Allenham. Whenever they crept upon me, I dispelled my foolish thoughts. My will was not to blame. Werther was not to blame. I had turned my back on all that had occurred and dared not think of it in the wake of my happy life. Yet she came to me. She came to me in the night, as she had when she had lived. I recalled all too well the prank she had played upon me; how she had menaced me at the foot of my bed, her face covered with pearlescent hair powder.

“It was merely a dream. A foolish dream,” I scolded myself, although I was not entirely convinced that my powers of reason were correct. Her curses carried a heaviness of truth in them that I did not wish to acknowledge. In the light of day, I recovered my senses, but failed to dispel my unease, which continued to linger, floating apparition-like about me for some time.

Chapter 17

Five nights and six days had passed before his homecoming. Each of these was punctuated by the arrival of a letter, bearing news of his movements. He complained of long discussions and tiresome dinners, “when I wish only to be with you at Orchard Cottage, sitting in our hearth.”

“I have supped with Mr. Burke,” he wrote to me, “whose thoughts upon the revolution in France have altered greatly. I own, I was most surprised to hear him speak so violently against it. His words unsettled me a good deal and have given me much to consider.” Whether it was Edmund Burke’s sentiments that dampened Allenham’s fire, or some other matter, he returned to me in a quieter, more reflective mood.

Let there be no doubt, our reunion filled me with the greatest joy. He had no sooner strode through the door, his nose bright with winter’s chill, than I flew to him. I said nothing of my nightmare, but breathed with relief that I should no longer fear the dimming of day into darkness. I held on to his arm and wept.

“Hetty,” he sighed, moved by my sentiments, “whatever distresses you? I am here and safe.”

“I know,” I sniffled and smiled, “and I am most glad of it.”

As we greeted one another, his valet laid out several parcels in the drawing room. My beloved bade me to open each of them as he looked on.

In one there was a burgundy cape for winter, lined with fur; and
in another a muff to match. Wrapped in a coarse cloth bundle there was some heavy blue and grey striped silk for a gown and buff silk for its petticoat, both to be made up immediately by a local mantua-maker. In another bundle there was a shawl of black taffeta and, folded into brown paper, a vast gauze neckerchief edged with delicate French lace. Were this not enough, he bought me two pairs of cream-coloured gloves and two pairs of the finest stockings.

“I have never had so many gifts at once!” I laughed, after expressing my gratitude with countless kisses.

“Nonsense, these are merely necessities for winter,” he protested, “and if we are to travel in the spring, you must be suitably attired. You must have several new gowns and fur to warm you in the Alps.” He then stepped away from my embrace and examined me, shamelessly crawling his eyes along the full swell of my bosom. “But I do fear you lack embellishment.” With that, he drew a small case from his coat pocket. “I have no doubt that you will remember this and the pleasure to which it led,” he smirked.

He held out the box to me and I, greatly intrigued by his comment, carefully took it. Beneath the lid lay something that, with all the distraction of the past weeks, I had entirely forgotten. There, upon a bed of white satin, was the shell-pink cameo he had once pressed into my hand. He had taken it to London, to have the image of Venus and Mars set into a circlet of brilliant diamonds. He lifted the brooch and, slipping his fingers through the gauze at my décolleté, gently pinned it to the top of my bodice.

My face flushed with colour. His intimate touch, when combined with the sight of the brooch, called to mind many passionate remembrances.

“I see you have not forgotten…” said he, with a note of intrigue in his tone.

I attempted to hide my shy smile. “I could never,” I murmured, now red-faced as Eve’s apple.

“You see, my angel, it was not I who seduced you, but Venus, and Eros’s arrow.”

At the mention of those words, I clapped my hand over my hot face, which caused my lover to laugh mightily. He did so love to tease me. That was the very phrase he had used when, lying beneath him, I first succumbed to what he called
la petite mort
.

Although in the course of my instruction he had cautioned me of the sensations I was likely to encounter, I found myself entirely unprepared for the rapture, the urgency of desire and the ecstasy of release that gripped me so completely. I was left dumbstruck and slightly scandalized, for it seemed to me such an immodest thing, to cry out in passion. Allenham, by contrast, appeared perfectly contented by my performance, enough so to congratulate me and offer reassurance that Eros’s arrow had hit its proper mark.

Dare I say that in the wake of his short absence, the sight of that memento
d’amour
was all that was required to ignite our desires once more? We immediately retired to bed and took no supper that night.

When I think back on it, I do often marvel on the depth of our love. Youth carries with it a great capacity for emotion and for dreaming. I have known many paramours who profess themselves in the clutches of a passionate romance, only to find that the flame they once thought eternal has blown out in the first gust of wind. But ours was not like that, and I never once doubted the sincerity of Allenham’s affections. The security I knew while in his care meant that I asked few questions and was always satisfied with the answers he provided. I did not concern myself with the details of his affairs, or who were the gentlemen he entertained at Herberton, or what they discussed. I knew nothing of politics, or of government; few ladies do. With hindsight, I have often wondered what might have occurred had I been more curious.

By December he was almost always at the house. He retired very late into the night, and rose quite early in the morning, though he took both supper and breakfast with me. He appeared haggard and troubled
after many of these absences. As he picked over his boiled ham or roast chicken, he often rubbed his head and spoke of France. “Hetty,” he confessed to me late one night, “I know not with whom to agree. There are many who wish to persuade me that this experiment in liberty will be the ruin of the French nation. The mob is an angry force, not a rational one. They have threatened the King; they have rolled a cannon to Versailles and ransacked the Queen’s apartments. They wish to demolish the Church. I know not what to think. Mr. Fox favours the revolutionaries, but Mr. Burke and others within His Majesty’s Government fear what may occur if such forces are successful.” He stared at his plate. “It will soon come to war. Of this I am certain.”

Following his visit to London, he had grown increasingly anxious and distracted. There was nothing irregular in his conduct, he was as affectionate and devoted as he had ever been, but he seemed more cautious about matters. I recall one incident in particular, shortly before Christmas.

In all my time at Orchard Cottage, never did I feel confined. I was free to wander the estate, to gather herbs and mushrooms with Bess, so I did not think much of venturing out on a cold, clear day shortly before Christmas for some sprigs of mistletoe. I had wrapped myself in my fur-lined cape and tucked my hands inside my fox muff, while Bess set about collecting the clusters of white berry in her apron. It was there that Allenham spotted us as he returned from Herberton on his mount. When he called out, there seemed nothing unusual in his cheerful greeting, but when he drew up his horse, I noted his look of concern. He glanced several times over his shoulder towards the road that led from the house. He then assisted me on to his horse and bid Bess to catch us up. I sat before him, between his arms and the reins, as he rode slowly towards the cottage.

“Have you seen anyone ride past since you have been out?” he asked calmly.

“No, I have not,” I responded, slightly alarmed.

“I do not mind you taking the air, my darling,” said he, “but sometimes I do fear…” He trailed off. “You have not been gone from Melmouth long and we are not entirely free from prying eyes.”

I understood his meaning and said as much to him.

“One favour I must request is that you not come to Herberton if I am there. Do not call at the house. Never call at the house.”

It was a stern caution, in a tone I had never before heard him use.

“I had not intended to do so,” said I, rather meekly.

“It is not that I do not wish you there, Hetty, for I wish you everywhere I am,” he smiled, “but it is dangerous. Visitors come and go, sometimes quite unexpectedly. I should not want you to be seen by some person who might know you. The silence of my household has been bought, but I do not wish to tempt Fate. Promise me this, my darling. Promise me you will do as I say and not grow curious.”

I promised him, and he appeared satisfied.

I suspect it was this incident that led to the purchase of my next gift. He wished me to have more indoor diversions and less cause to stray beyond Orchard Cottage. However, it is possible that I am incorrect. He may have simply desired some music during the long winter nights. Whatever the case, there came in time for the New Year a fortepiano.

It was a strange thing, the welcoming of this item into our home. At first I was delighted. I passed the day of its arrival stroking its ivory keys and applying myself to making it sing. I did not know that his lordship also played, “though not so well,” he grumbled each time he struck a hard note. “I learned music upon a violin.”

With the instrument came a pile of music, most of which had been brought down from Herberton. I laboured my way through the compositions of Mr. Handel, Mr. Linley and Mr. Arne, but my fingers felt slow and leaden. They plodded rather than tripped over the chords. I was not an accomplished musician, and yet when I took my place upon the bench, I was reminded of one who was.