Mistress of My Fate (26 page)

Ah yes, Lord Dennington, and here I hear your sniggers, for you think we have arrived at the scene where retribution is meted out. Here, at last, has come my Judgment Day. But, sir, you rejoice too soon. The play is not yet at its end. I would ask you to stay a bit longer, read a bit further. You will see.

I moved on, trembling, my mind in complete disarray. In a panic, I began to search faces, peering into windows as I passed, looking amid the moving carriages for those light-filled eyes, for Allenham’s rich dark hair. I spied his ghost everywhere, and yet nowhere. For an instant there was his figure in the reflection of a print shop; and then again over the
road, moving within a crowd of gentlemen down Charles Street. “He is not there!” I told myself, coming to a halt. I was mad. “This has turned me mad,” thought I, my eyes darting from place to place, my expression a picture of fear. What was I to do? My breath came in short, hard pants, my cheeks now streaked with tears. I swayed upon my feet, like a tree blown in a storm.

“Miss? Miss?” came a voice from beside me. Then a smartly gloved hand was laid upon my forearm. “Are you well, miss?”

I looked over to see that the arm attached to the glove was dressed in a fashionable forest green redingote, with a dark grey cape above it. Smiling down at me were the full, ruddy features of a genteel young lady, not much older than I. Her mousy hair was frizzed beneath her wide black hat.

“Are you in need of assistance, dear?” asked she with concern.

I nodded and, as I did, began to sob.

“Oh blessed soul!” she exclaimed. “You must come indoors, out of this chill. Come now, you shall sit by our fire. I live just there.” She gestured over the road to a dwelling on Mount Street, near to the workhouse. “You are in need of refreshment, dear miss. Oh dear, dear miss…” she continued as she escorted me, “I cannot imagine what trouble has befallen you.”

I could not have been more grateful for this lady’s comfort and I clung to her arm as a child does to its nurse’s hand.

She brought me to the door of her modest house, where a neatly attired maid greeted us and relieved me of my outer garments.

It seemed a long time since I had been a guest in someone’s home, though I had never before ventured into such a humble place as this. To be sure, it was respectable and clean, the house of a tradesman and his family, I concluded. I was directed up the dark wooden stair to the first-floor drawing room, which was furnished discreetly with a sofa and chairs and a few well-made cabinets in an older style. The walls
were hung with framed engravings, featuring frolicking cherubs and pictures of girls with baskets and embroidery, entitled such things as
Industry
and
Charity
. Beside the hearth stood a tall walnut clock, which ticked out a calm rhythm.

“I am Miss Bradley,” said the young lady, giving herself a proper introduction and inviting me to sit beside the fire. I rejoined and gave my name as “Miss Lightfoot.”

“I am very much grateful for your kindness, madam,” I said with a sniffle.

Just then, the drawing-room door opened and another woman, also youthful but soberly attired, entered.

“Ah, sister, I was correct in thinking I heard you come up the stairs,” she remarked, giving me a curtsey.

“This is Miss Lightfoot,” said my hostess.

“And I am Mrs. Anderson,” said the lady, nodding at me once more. “How do ye do?”

“I am afraid Miss Lightfoot is unwell,” Miss Bradley spoke for me, “for I found her just at the corner, looking as if she might have a fit, and took her inside directly.”

“As you should have!” exclaimed her sister.

At that very moment, the housemaid clattered her way into the room, bearing a blue and white tea service and a kettle of water, which she placed upon the grate above the fire.

“Are you in need of some hartshorn to revive you, Miss Lightfoot?” asked Mrs. Anderson.

“Oh no, thank you,” I claimed, “for your kindness has already performed that task.” I then attempted a polite smile at my hostesses, but found that it soon gave way to a renewal of weeping.

“Oh sweet creature,” sighed Mrs. Anderson, shaking her head and handing me a fresh linen handkerchief from her pocket, “whatever troubles you?”

I looked up at her, at her pretty brown eyes and button nose. She
could not have been more than one and twenty, though the dormeuse cap she wore made her look very much the married matron.

I did not know where to begin in revealing my trials. In all other occasions in my life until then, I had had no cause to tell anything but the truth, for I had never done anything of which I was ashamed. I had never brought disgrace upon myself, and yet, I knew, were I to speak of where I had been and why I had come to London, my kind hostesses, whose generosity I had accepted, in whose protection I resided at that moment, would be mortified. What could I say to explain myself? I struggled with the words, balling the embroidered handkerchief in my palm, until I was passed a dish of tea. I received it into my hand and in gazing into the brown liquid glimpsed my frightened reflection. “Fib,” it said to me.

Well, what other choice had I, gentle reader? There sat I, in a humble woman’s drawing room, and you wished me to assail my hostesses’ ears with my moral depravity? With the story of my fall from grace? I would be turned out for certain!

“My fiancé…” I began uneasily upon my course of falsehoods, “requested that I… elope… that I come to London”—I swallowed—“… so we might sail to France and there marry… against my father’s wishes.”

(Well, this was not so great a lie, I told myself.)

“But I came to where he directed me, to his house on Arlington Street”—my chin had now begun to tremble once more—“and he was not at home. His man said he did not know when he would return or… if he would return…” I trailed off, unable to speak further for the sobs.

“And you are alone,” Mrs. Anderson finished for me, her head cocked sympathetically.

“Yes, madam,” I squeaked, “quite alone.”

She and her sister exchanged sad glances.

“Have you thought to write him a letter?” enquired Miss Bradley.
“For perhaps there has been some mistake. Perhaps he has been detained somewhere and not informed his household of his movements.”

“Yes,” added Mrs. Anderson cheerfully. “Why, there may be any number of reasons for his not being at home.”

I sniffled and blotted my nose and eyes with the square of linen.

“I… had not thought to try a letter,” I said softly.

“Why, yes, you must, Miss Lightfoot,” said her younger sister, reaching for the bell to summon writing paper, “for your fiancé may be anxiously awaiting your arrival and in fear for your safety.”

Paper and writing implements were brought to me, and Mrs. Anderson and Miss Bradley very kindly offered to withdraw while I wrote my letter to Allenham. It took me some moments to think what I would say and my hand quivered over the page as I wrote it, blotting my otherwise neat script with ink. I scribbled that I had come to call but was mistakenly turned away at his door, that I was in London, and I begged him to forgive me for any wrong I might have committed. I told him that, at present, a message might reach me at the home of Mrs. Anderson on Mount Street, where I would await his response. I sealed it and gave it to Mrs. Anderson’s maid to have delivered. Then, alone in the room, I slumped against a broad wing-backed chair and sighed.

After a short while, I was asked if might like to join my hostesses at their table for dinner. I accepted their invitation graciously and retired downstairs, from where the smell of soup and suet rose up through the house.

This room was as unassuming as their drawing room, though the walls had been painted in a fashionable light green and were decorated with the entire printed series of Mr. Hogarth’s
A Harlot’s Progress
. Their table was modestly laid with plain linens and plate. My hostess bade me sit, and gestured to the chair beside her.

“You have dispatched your letter?” she asked with politeness.

I responded that I had.

“And now we await an answer from your fiancé,” smiled Miss Bradley.

“… which I am certain will soon arrive,” added her sister.

Of this I remained unconvinced, but simpered hopefully, nevertheless.

As the meal was served, Mrs. Anderson began to tell me something of her life, that she had “a certain sympathy” for my plight, for she herself had eloped with her husband, Captain Anderson; she hoped that my “situation” might result in a union as happy as hers.

“Though,” she remarked with a slightly pensive air, “the lot of a sea captain’s wife is often a lonely one. My husband commands the
Amphitrite
, which sails between Southampton and Bombay. Sadly, he is absent for most the year. But I have my Anne for company,” said she, smiling at her sister. The fondness they displayed for one another was the close affection I had often dreamed of sharing with Lady Catherine.

“And we have a good many friends beside,” added Miss Bradley.

I am afraid I was a very poor guest that evening, for I sat anxiously awaiting a response from his lordship.

By the end of our dinner, it was quite dark and my hostesses and I repaired upstairs for tea once more. The clock ticked loudly between us.

“If I may, Miss Lightfoot,” began Mrs. Anderson, “should it happen that you do not hear from your betrothed this evening, you are at liberty to reside with us.”

“Yes,” remarked her sister, “we had thought of going to the play tonight but have determined against it, as we would rather reside here with you, in case some word should arrive.”

That was very kind, I told them, and unnecessary.

“No, no, it was no trouble,” said the elder of the two ladies, “for our friends have agreed to go without us, but will call afterwards for cards and refreshment.”

“You are most welcome to join us, Miss Lightfoot,” chirped Miss Bradley.

Not wishing to be discourteous, and yet with no desire for society while I laboured under such anxiety, I agreed with some hesitation.

“It will do you no good to fret, Miss Lightfoot,” said Mrs. Anderson in a reassuring voice. “The letter will arrive soon enough, perhaps even tomorrow, or the day after. Until it does, you may reside with us as long as you require.”

I thanked her once more with a deep, grateful bow of my head; but all I wished to do was give in to sorrowful wails.

The drawing-room clock had struck half past eleven when Mrs. Anderson’s guests were shown up the stairs. They were not as I had expected. In fact, they seemed far too rowdy a set to feel at home in such a polite setting.

There were among them two young gentlemen, and one, slightly older, who appeared more composed. All three were dressed very much in the style of shopkeepers or tradesmen, with polished shoes and tidy well-made waistcoats of English silk. The eldest of their party seemed less inclined to follow fashion, and sported a chestnut-coloured wig in the old bobbed style. They were honest, industrious folk, to be sure, but very much in drink and swaying about in a way I had not before encountered.

“Mrs. Anderson,” one cried out, “what a delight it is to call upon you.” He took his hostess’s hand to his lips in a grand gesture. “And Miss Bradley there, as beautiful as a spring peony.”

Then all eyes turned upon me.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Miss Lightfoot, who is a guest at our home this evening.”

I curtseyed shyly, feeling rather cowed by their boldness.

Soon the maid entered with a tray of liqueur glasses and a decanter of ratafia was served round. It was the first time I had tasted this sweet substance and I sipped it cautiously. Cards, too, were brought out and Mrs. Anderson, Miss Bradley and two of the gentleman sat down to
a hand, which grew quite raucous. In jest, Mr. Timson accused Mr. Newland of cheating, grabbing his collar and spitting insults at his face. This was extraordinary behaviour, thought I, unable to take my eyes from the game. What made it even more so was that my hostesses seemed not at all disturbed by it. Mrs. Anderson merely placed her hand upon Mr. Timson’s sleeve. “That will be enough, sir, or you will do offence to our guest.”

I sat upon the sofa, where the quieter gentleman of the group also sat, too awkward to make conversation. He looked at me with a long, deep gaze on several occasions. “You are a true beauty, miss,” was all he could bring himself to say. I kept myself entirely contained, my hands folded upon my lap, my eyes upon the activities of my hostesses and their card game.

Until the arrival of Mrs. Anderson’s guests, there was nothing at all to give me any discomfort in being in that house. This had seemed to me a polite home, and my new friends most well mannered and charitable. But now something did not seem entirely correct. Why Mrs. Anderson and Miss Bradley should tolerate such beastly behaviour or have a collection of such uncouth associates made little sense to me.

It was then that I noticed something which caused me to start: in the course of their game, Mr. Newland had placed his hand upon Miss Bradley’s lap. She permitted him to do so. I blushed in observing this, but then reasoned that perhaps he was her sweetheart; still, such an intimate gesture was quite a liberty. Next there came a kiss, and then another. My mouth was fairly laid open in shock at the brazenness of this display, but it grew worse still, as Mr. Newland drew Miss Bradley upon his lap—while in company!

Mrs. Anderson laughed at her sister’s folly, while her partner at the table whooped a great huzzah, before himself leaning across to place a long, wanton kiss upon her lips! This shocked me more than anything I had heretofore witnessed, for Mrs. Anderson was a married woman!

Swiftly, I rose to my feet. “I am afraid I am unwell…” I announced, “and will retire now.”

Just then, the quiet gentleman beside me reached out and took my hand. “Do not go so soon, Miss Lightfoot, for you have not yet allowed me so much as a kiss.”

I regarded him with astonishment and then looked at Mrs. Anderson, who I had assumed would race to my defence. But my hostess only smiled prettily.

It was then I understood.