Mistress of My Fate (49 page)

Miss Ponsonby fell suddenly silent. A flush spread across her face, though I could not determine whether it arose from shame or indignation.

“Caroline was sent to the Fleet for her debts,” Miss Greenhill announced with a provocative arch of her brow.

“But only for a fortnight,” Miss Ponsonby protested.

“My dear,” began the Greenfinch with a haughty snort, “to attempt to flee one’s keeper in the broad light of day, when he has not yet settled your shopkeepers’ bills, is the behaviour of a dunce.”

“I was but fifteen and he was a booby,” declared Miss Ponsonby.

“But not so much of a booby as to forget to set the bailiffs on you.”

Caroline Ponsonby glared angrily at her friend.

“No, Miss Lightfoot,” Mary Anne Greenhill continued with a coy simper, “a woman of our sort must be clever with regard to all manner of things.” Her gaze wandered downward towards my middle. There, upon a blue silk ribbon, hung Quindell’s miniature portrait, surrounded by diamonds. I noted her rapt expression. How dearly she wished to fondle that expensive bauble! Her fingers twitched in anticipation. I held it out to her, and from the instant she took it in her hand, a broad smile appeared upon her face. “For example, should you find yourself in need, you might sell… this…” Her eyes twinkled as she admired the piece, then, in a sudden fit of girlish giggling, she looked away. “He is most handsome, Mr. Quindell.”

While I understood perfectly well that pawning the contents of Quindell’s house was more likely to lead me to the gallows than to Paris, I confess there was one instance when I made an exception.

Friends, that which I am about to disclose to you may on first reading do nothing to improve your opinion of my character, but I ask you to consider all the circumstances before passing judgement.

As you well know, my home on Clarges Street belonged in every way to my keeper. Any say I had in its decoration or use was at his discretion. To all intents, he saw my abode merely as an extension of his own. He came and went at his leisure, most of the time unannounced. Furthermore, he possessed a habit of decamping to my quarters with an entire cortège of friends and strangers. Besides his usual associates, on any given night I might discover anyone from the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York to a jig dancer and a blind fiddler in my drawing room. Why, one evening I returned after dining with Sir John and Lady Lade to find Quindell slumped drunk in a chair, and Lord Barrymore lying upon my sofa with a tawdry young whore in frayed ribbons beneath him.

Naturally, I was required to act the hostess on these occasions: to dance and roister with them, to play a hand of cards, or, on less barbaric
evenings, to host a supper. Sadly, all of my well-bred curtseying and simpering was lost on them, for they had no mind for politeness when making use of my home. To Philly Quindell, George Hanger, Ban Tarleton, the Barrymores and Lord Sefton, my lodgings were no better than a nursery stocked with diverting toys. They cared not for the fine china; their elbows regularly knocked plates and teacups from the polished tables. Wine glasses were thrown into the fire so they might watch the flames spit. An urn of flowers was set alight, and a hot poker pushed through the table linen. Not even the paintings were spared from ill-use. One night, Tarleton acted out some scene he had witnessed during the American War. He prowled about the dining room, a carving knife in his hand, and then, with the cry of a Mohawk warrior, plunged it through the breast of a portrait. The company roared with amusement, but I gasped in horror. In wielding his knife, he had not only cut out the heart of the matron within the frame, but scratched a small Dutch landscape beside it.

The following morning, overcome with sadness, I examined the scene of this atrocity. “Dear Philly,” I complained to him, “it shall not do to have a picture on my dining-room wall in such a bedraggled state. Might I have it mended?”

Quindell, who was suffering from the previous evening’s merriment, merely groaned. “Hideous things, those pictures. I do not mind what you have done with them.”

And so, at his command, I wrote directly to a Mr. William Birch, artist, picture restorer and dealer in art, who possessed a shop on New Bond Street, and requested that he call upon me on a matter of business. This he did the following morning, whereupon I directed him to the dining room, the scene of the misadventure.

“Pray, Mr. Birch,” I begged, “is it beyond repair?”

Mr. Birch folded his arms and studied the hole. He poked it and then stood back. “I dare say not,” he concluded, after a spell. “And what of the landscape?” he asked, approaching the canvas filled with
sky, cloud and flat Flemish scenery. “Should you like this repaired as well, madam?”

I had not considered the second picture. The scratch was discernible, but did not mar the placid beauty of the image.

“I… I…”

“If I may be so bold, madam, it is an exceptionally well-rendered piece,” he encouraged me. “Jacob Van Ruisdael, I believe. A Dutch artist, very much in demand among connoisseurs.”

“It had not occurred to me…”

“Might you consider selling it, madam? Notwithstanding the scratch, I would pay you handsomely for it.”

I stared at him, not knowing what reply to make. Certainly, the painting was not mine to sell and I opened my mouth to tell him as much, when something prevented me.

“You say you would pay me handsomely?” I ventured, anxiously fingering the ribbon at my throat.

“Eighty-five pounds, shall we say?… No more than £90.”

Ninety pounds! I did all I could to prevent myself crying out. To think that I might acquire ready funds so instantaneously! Why, that amount was likely to account for all of my travelling expenses and still leave a surplus. It would enable me to make my escape as soon as my coach had been completed and delivered. I pressed my hand to my breast and turned from Mr. Birch.

“I shall venture as high as £92, madam, but that is all I am able to make good on for the moment.”

Had Philly not instructed me to do as I would with the pictures? He loathed them. He had no eye for art. They were of no more interest to him than the wall upon which they hung. Would it not be better for someone to enjoy the scene? A connoisseur, who could admire the artist’s skill, who would hang the painting proudly among similar treasures?

“Yes,” I responded, “very well then. You may have it at that price.”

Mr. Birch made me a humble bow. “Then I shall have my boy collect both tomorrow and order my banker to write out a draft.”

My brazen deed left me a good deal shaken. I fretted that Quindell would miss the picture and, after an enquiry or two among my staff, learn the truth of my actions. But he never did. In fact, he never even noticed that the work had gone.

Dear friends, I know what you make of my deed, how dishonest you think it, but I urge you to withhold your censure. Think only that some gentle soul, some person of refined taste, now enjoys the beauty of that Dutch landscape. Think only of how I preserved this distinguished object from its likely ruin at the hands of one who saw no value in it. Why, think—perhaps this fine example of a painting is now a subject of study for young artists, who learn by Mr. Van Ruisdael’s skill. So you see, my action was not so base as you might think, for not only did it serve to benefit me, but others as well.

Two days’ later, a banker’s draft for the princely sum of £92 was handed over to me. Oh, that you might have seen me at that moment. I beamed with gratitude, my fingers grew hot, my face flushed with excitement. I could think of little else but what this slip of paper was to buy me, and carried it immediately to my dressing room. There, I went to my clothes press, unlocked a cabinet and a drawer, and pulled from beneath a pile of linens my small coffer of funds.

First ensuring that my dressing-room door was safely locked, I laid out all my money before me, much as I had on that day at the Stag when I was still an ingénue. I counted out my coins into piles, and with a racing heart tabulated the total. There before me was £112 2
s.
4
d.
—a small fortune, to be sure, but this was only the half of it. In my ledger was an estimate for the value of my apparel, trinkets and jewels. By then, I had determined to sell only several select items of jewellery and preserve the rest, in case I should be in want of funds in Paris. These items would amount to a further £289 8
s.
3
d.
—a vast sum indeed. My
stomach turned over with excitement.
I would go to Paris!
I had only to await the arrival of my new coach.

On a mild morning during the first week of June, I was drawn to the window by loud shouts and brays from the street below. There, before the door to my house, was a perfectly shining, dark green and black coach, its wheels tipped with red paint. Harnessed to it was a team of two bay horses, their heads crowned with green feathers, and perched atop the matching hammer cloth was Quindell, driving them.

“Oh!” I cried in astonishment, and flew down the stairs. I could scarcely contain my high spirits. “Lucy! Lucy!” I called out. “My town coach! Mr. Quindell has brought my town coach!”

Philly came to me wearing a broad smile. “ My Venus, you have now a chariot.” He bowed with a theatrical flourish.

The remainder of that day was spent driving through the town and parks at dangerous speeds. Quindell whooped with childish glee as he shook the reins and urged the team into a gallop. On another occasion, I might have screamed with terror as I was tossed from the leather seat against the blue-damask-lined cabin, but that day I was numb to everything but dreams of my future. I sat in a glassy-eyed reverie, still and contemplative.

That evening, I summoned Lucy to me. “My dear,” I announced with a slight smile and a tremble, “the time is upon us.”

Remembering Caroline Ponsonby’s cautionary tale, I proposed that we take our leave on the night of the ninth of June, in precisely five days. Together we began to gather the gowns and winter apparel, shoes, hats and feathers I proposed to sell. All of these, along with various jewels, trinkets and an unwanted ivory snuff box given to me by Major Hanger in a secret bid for my affections, were to be exchanged within the next four days. I had also the task of acquiring the necessary documents for travel. I did not know if such a feat were possible, and, more to the point, if it might be accomplished within that short time.

“No one,” I breathed, “not a soul alive should know of my plans.”

Lucy nodded vigorously.

Then, recognizing the sternness of my words, and knowing how true she had proven herself to me, I laid my hand upon her shoulder. “But I trust in you completely,” I said, smiling.

Now imagine, dear reader, how difficult were the following days for me, with so much plotting and planning afoot. I slept no more than a few hours at a time and rose early every morning to begin my errands. My first task was to purchase the silence of my household. It pained me to distribute no less than £9 in bribes between the five servants. As Quindell had hired both a coachman and a postillion for me, I was not inclined to trust them. Not only was it necessary that I buy their confidence, but that I convince them to accompany me upon my journey to Paris. The coachman had a wife and family to feed, and so I found myself pressing a further £3 into his hand. And it did not end there. Any set of eyes that might observe the bustling to and fro from my address, any pair of ears that might overhear some detail of my plan, required payment: a shilling here, five pennies there. Let it not be said that maintaining a secret costs nothing, for my purse was lightened long before a single trunk was loaded upon my coach.

As I occupied myself with this matter, Lucy was sent out with my belongings, wrapped in parcels and hidden in boxes. Dutifully, she would return to me, like a labourer coming home from the harvest, the fruits of her endeavours jingling in a purse. My bounty grew larger; my head spun with numbers, my fingers became blackened from handling coins. Indeed, by the third day, I grew so distracted and desperate to depart that at times I found it difficult merely to sit still. The worst of it by far was the effort required to maintain my composure in the company of others.

I did not have the heart to turn my regular callers from the door. My dear companions, Lady Lade and Miss Ponsonby, and even the infuriating Miss Greenhill, arrived each in their turn and were shown into my parlour or dressing room. We sipped our tea as we had always done,
while Spark darted through my apartments, growling at the maids. At the sight of such an ordinary scene, one might never have believed that a great change was on the way: that Lucy was, at that moment, selling my apparel; that, rather than listening to the Greenfinch boast about her new fur-edged cloak, I was dwelling on the matter of my impending sea crossing. Indeed, in those final days, I scarcely felt myself present anywhere but in my head.

On the day before I was due to depart, Lady Lade came with Mrs. Cuyler and gossiped all morning about Mrs. Robinson’s quarrel with Ban Tarleton, while I sat with a blank face, fidgeting.

“Child,” Letitia Lade began as she rose to leave, “your colour has gone off, for sure. You have not seemed at all yourself these past few days.” Her eyes then wandered down to my belly, before she raised a brow enquiringly at me.

“No.” I smiled, shaking my head.

“You mind that,” she warned, wagging a friendly finger.

As I watched her depart, I sighed. I was sorry that I could not bid any of my acquaintances farewell, those friends whose companionship I had come to value greatly, whose spirited good humour had raised me from misery on so many occasions. I know not how I would have endured my life with St. John without their company, or tolerated Philly Quindell’s antics, but to confess my plans to them would have been folly.

To be sure, it was far more difficult to keep my secret from my friends than to hide it from Quindell—he failed to notice any change in my demeanour whatsoever. Philly carried on as he had always, filling my ears with drunken prattle and nonsense, exclaiming over a bet he had lost at Almack’s or recounting a tale he had heard of a lady who found a mouse in her nightcap. Then, when it came time to tumble me upon the bed, I turned my busy mind to thoughts of my beloved and his welcoming arms. Only once my keeper was snoring soundly beside me did I dare to offer my usual prayer of gratitude that yet another day had passed without my plot being discovered.