Mistress of My Fate (4 page)
Not a word could be said to contradict either mother or daughter. My cousin was free to do as she pleased, and sought only to please herself and her mamma. Her lessons were almost entirely neglected. Lady Stavourley taught her to read and figure, and how to write letters in a
pretty hand. She had no mind for French, but for the odd phrase, and mostly where it related to dancing. She did not attend lessons with me and her two younger brothers in our schoolroom; instead my aunt had the music tutor come especially to her drawing room and instruct Lady Catherine there, upon a specially fashioned white and gold fortepiano. There was nothing my cousin loved more than to play and sing and to be adored.
As you might imagine, this sort of upbringing did not make for an agreeable young lady. This is not to say that my cousin was never gentle and sweet, but rather that she viewed herself as superior to the others in the nursery. She snapped and shouted and could be capable of great mischief. While my uncle had envisaged us joining hands and frolicking like fairies in the wooded glades of Melmouth Park, a truer scene would be of Lady Catherine with a horsewhip, her eyes glinting like two shards of glass as she hunted down her victims, who sobbed and cowered under their beds. Her moods were treacherous: at one moment she might rage with a red face, clawing and biting anyone who dared approach her, and then at the next ignore us altogether. No one could account for the irregularity of her temper. As a child, the nurses believed she had suffered terribly from colic, but as this did not subside when she matured, Lord and Lady Stavourley began to grow concerned. A physician was called to examine her. He came into the nursery, studied her plates of food and the contents of her chamber pot, and looked into her eyes.
“He says it is an imbalance of the humours,” repeated Sally Pickering, the most junior of the nurses, who had a great fondness for Lady Catherine.
“Imbalance of the humours?” snorted Miss Jones, who tended the boys. “Does he not know she’s as spoilt as an old pail of milk? That child should be thrashed, not petted like the Countess’s dogs.”
For all the trouble they cause, there is no one in a household who sees a situation more clearly than its servants. Those at Melmouth
knew precisely what, or rather who, had made the Earl’s daughter as she was. But Lady Stavourley would have none of it.
It must be said that my cousin’s difficult disposition and her mother’s favouritism made my existence at Melmouth notably awkward. Our household was very much a divided one. My uncle’s life revolved almost exclusively around politics and his dedication to the causes of the Whig party. My aunt’s life was devoted to social engagements and to petting her daughter. I was excluded from both worlds equally. In truth, I felt very much like a shoe without a mate. I rattled about Melmouth, no one knowing precisely what was to be done with me. When not under the guidance of a tutor, I was left to run free with the unruly, tousle-haired Lord Dennington and gentle, pretty-faced Master Edwin. We swung sticks and barrelled through the fields like Mohawks, until my governess began to correct my unbridled behaviour and the boys were dispatched to Eton.
I learned when very young how to make my own entertainment. I pulled books from the shelves of my uncle’s library, that long, light-filled gallery of brown volumes, and sat at the round table at its centre, languorously turning pages, admiring engravings of the Forum ruins or the temples at Paestum. When slightly older, I began to render my own scenes under the direction of a drawing master, Mr. Dance, whom my uncle had brought from London. This I enjoyed more than any other activity. Indeed, as my tutor observed, I seemed to take naturally to chalk and later to watercolour. I had what he called “an exceptional talent,” not usually seen in girls my age. There was much crowing about this; Mr. Dance praising me effusively before my uncle, displaying to him some sketches I had taken of Melmouth House and a few pastel drawings of the landscape. “Her trees, my lord, I think you will agree have the light touch of Mr. Gainsborough.” My uncle examined the pictures while I, a knot of nerves and modesty, stared at my feet.
“Henrietta, my dear, you show great promise,” he congratulated
me. His words were proud ones. I was not often the recipient of either approval or even attention, and to have deserved this acclaim felt to me like a remarkable achievement. If anything, that odd occasion of praise, that unusual incident when my uncle came upon me drawing in the library and took an interest in my work, encouraged me to take an interest in him.
I cannot recall a time when I did not occupy myself by tiptoeing through the halls and chambers of Melmouth, chasing a mouse down a corridor, or frightening myself by staring into the blank eyes of marble statues. Like any child with a curious nature, I listened at doorways to the conversation of adults and then scurried away at the approach of footsteps. My uncle’s masculine world had always appeared to me quite strange and alien. The deep boom of gentlemen’s voices that echoed from the drawing rooms and study, which burst forth from the dining room in great huzzahs—“To His Highness, the Prince of Wales!,” “To the Buff and Blue!”—had once alarmed me. I found the volume and violence of their conversation rattling, but after Lord Stavourley’s acknowledgement of me, I grew less frightened. I lingered nearer to his study, I listened more intently to the discussions, and though I failed to understand a word of what they spoke, eventually found myself enchanted by their vigorous tone and the passion of their convictions.
Little did I know that the gentlemen to whom I curtseyed and who stopped to pat my head were some of the greatest orators of their day, Charles James Fox, Edmund Burke and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, whose life was later to intersect with mine under less pleasant circumstances.
But in spite of the fascination that my uncle’s life inspired in me, I was still a young girl and desired the company of my own sex more than anything. For years, I watched with a tug of sadness as Lady Catherine disappeared into her mother’s apartments. Before the door was shut fast, I would often glimpse a scene in which I longed to be included: a flurry of pastel silks and giggling lady visitors, the smell of tea and the clatter of silver upon china. On the rare occasion when I was permitted
entrance, it was seen as an act of benevolence. Too frightened to breathe, I would take my seat silently and fold my hands upon my lap.
“Who is the quiet little thing?” I once overheard one matron whisper to a younger, beribboned guest.
“Lady Stavourley’s niece,” she replied, before mouthing the word “orphan.”
Then Lady Stavourley’s accomplished young protégée would play a piece upon her fortepiano or chirp out a song to the delight of all present. The guests applauded and cooed, and exclaimed over her pretty golden curls and creamy complexion. She had the voice of a nightingale and, when aiming to please, possessed the charm of an angel.
In truth, reader, there was no one whom I adored more than my cousin. In spite of her cruelties and inconsistencies, I was utterly devoted to her. She seemed to me to radiate with feminine perfection, with all of the qualities I most admired. She stood half a head taller than me, her back as straight as the strings of a bow. Her chin was held upward, her toes turned out, and when she strode into a room, she did so with the grace and presence of a dancer. Even as she wavered upon the threshold of womanhood, she possessed a confidence well beyond her innocent years and conversed easily with her mother’s companions. I, on the other hand, barely knew how to open my mouth.
In short, I lived in awe of her, for she represented to me everything I wished I might be, but knew, owing to my circumstances, to be an impossibility.
One would think that two girls who were reared in the same nursery, who laid their heads upon the same pillows, would have shared a mutual affection. Here lies the great injustice: although I loved her with all my heart, she hardly saw fit to speak to me. My cousin was entirely indifferent.
I would have done anything to secure her notice, to have some acknowledgement of my fondness for her. I followed her about like a page boy. If she lost her cap or dropped a toy, I would retrieve it and
return it to her with eagerness. She would say nothing, before abandoning me for the comforts of her mamma’s rooms.
I would bring her posies of wildflowers, carefully tied in my own ribbons.
“See what your dutiful cousin has brought to you,” would comment our governess.
Lady Catherine would grimace and lay the bundle aside to rot.
I brought her an elegant violet-winged butterfly, which I had cradled in my hand, but she screamed and slapped me for frightening her with the creature.
I did all that was required of me. I was good, so very good. I performed every task with a smile; I applied myself to my studies; I rarely complained; I never shouted. I had no desires but to be obedient, to be modest, to be virtuous, clean and honest. I possessed no wishes of my own but to please Lady Catherine, and to be a dutiful niece to my uncle and aunt. For this reason, I could not comprehend why my cousin refused my friendship, when I had acted always with charity, love and grace.
It was shortly after the incident with the butterfly that I began to pray. Of course, I had always said my prayers, parroting the words I had been instructed to utter, but my heart had never formulated its own prayer. As I kneeled one Sunday, in St. Mary’s Melmouth, that cold Norman church on my uncle’s estate, I felt a strange passion rise from within me. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could and clasped my hands together firmly.
“Dear Lord,” my heart cried, “make Lady Catherine my bosom friend, please cause her to love me and share with me all her secrets and delights. Please, Lord, for I have been so good, and done all you asked of me.”
I was not quite nine years old.
From that day, I never ceased to imagine a time when we would sit together and gossip, laughing as freely as two sisters, as two dear companions. I repeated that prayer, that fervent wish, for years, until one day, quite to my surprise, it came true.
This miracle occurred at a time when, it has been claimed by Lord Dennington, all our troubles commenced. I beg to differ, for these “troubles” were only such for Lord and Lady Stavourley. Lady Catherine was not disturbed in the least bit. On the contrary, she was enjoying herself immensely.
It was in 1787 that my cousin made her first appearance in society. I recall that night most vividly and how my aunt fluttered and fretted, while her daughter, attired in a gooseberry-green gown, remained composed and proud. I was but fourteen at the time and observed the scene through dreamy eyes, wondering all the while with whom she might dance. I understood well enough that I would never embark upon such an adventure as this: I was not destined for the marriage market in such a grand fashion, if at all. But in truth, the knowledge of this did not concern me, for I was pleased to remain a spectator and to pursue the quiet, humble existence for which I was intended. I did not think for a moment that Lady Catherine’s entrance into the world would disrupt the pattern of life by which we all had lived for so long. I do not expect any of us did, least of all Lady Stavourley.
It should not have come as a surprise to the Countess that her daughter would thrive when set loose in the social arena, but this it did. Indeed, it somewhat startled my aunt to see her fledgling take flight with such confidence. That is what comes of rearing a young lady like a dancing bear, of placing her always before an adoring audience. My
cousin wore not a stitch of modesty on her person, but, like an actress, courted the gaze of every pair of eyes in a room. She took to dancing with the surety of the famous Giovanna Baccelli, and received compliments on her singing with a complete absence of grace. “Mamma reckons I have the finest voice in England,” she would reply with a haughty smile.
It was true, Lady Catherine did possess an exceptional voice, but accomplishments without humility detract greatly from a young lady’s character; a girl can be thought to be too showy, too precocious and affected. This became the case with my cousin.
The situation was only to worsen with time, as one uncorrected habit gave rise to another. In fact, the gentlemen to whom she was introduced were most bemused by her forward manner. She did not behave in the usual quivering way of most young ingénues, and was not in the least bit timid. Instead, she was prone to casting long, lingering stares across a supper table. How she acquired the art of manipulating her fan is anyone’s guess, but soon she had mastered the flirtatious skills of a bored wife, languorously opening and folding the object in her hand. This teasing sport amused her vastly, as did turning her dancing partners into rivals for her attention. At first, her mother observed these developments with no more than a vague uneasiness, until one evening when the word “coquette” was breathed from a crowd of ladies.
“Pert! Insolent! Immodest! A coquette, Catherine!” Lady Stavourley sobbed as they returned home in his lordship’s coach. “Your behaviour is most unbecoming.” My aunt was utterly beside herself.
Lady Catherine regarded her mamma as if it were a jest. She tossed her head and laughed.
“This is no lark, miss,” Lady Stavourley cried. “If you carry on in such a way you will have no reputation.”
“Goodness, I have never seen her in such a rage,” my cousin shrieked as she stood in our dressing room, relating the details of the incident. Indeed, I was equally dismayed, for until that moment Lady Catherine
had never before confided in me. I sat, fairly frozen, not knowing how to respond to this sudden outpouring.
“It is intolerable,” she huffed. “She is forever observing me, forever pulling a cross face when I speak. She taps upon my arm if she believes me too gay with a gentleman.
You have been too free with him, Catherine, whatever will he make of you?
” She mimicked her mother’s high-pitched tones.
My cousin paced and kneaded her hands, ranting at the inequity of the situation, how her mother saw fit to curtail all her pleasures. I listened with wide eyes, nodding at each of her impassioned statements, hardly able to take in that which I was witnessing: Lady Catherine conversing with me!
