Bad Miss Bennet

by Jean Burnett

  I lost no time in approaching Hownam again. The egg man courier was due at the villa in a few days and I would be expected to deliver a report. The quiet naval officer was as usual writing letters to England on behalf of his mistress. He twisted his hands and looked miserable when I asked him directly about Pergami.

  ‘You must decide for yourself. I cannot betray her … I owe everything to her generosity. I am the son of a footman, did you know that? The princess paid for my education and obtained a commission for me.’ I felt for the unfortunate man. We were both in a wretched position and the cause of it all was lack of money, the curse of humanity.

  ‘I have been tasked with sending information to England,’ I confessed.

  He shrugged. ‘Everyone in this place is spying for someone.’ He also confessed that he was dying of boredom and was unlikely to stay more than a few months at the villa. ‘I have no life here at all and I must return to England, but I will not give evidence against her, do with me what they will.’ I had to admire his loyalty, however misplaced. The musical dumpling was not a figure to inspire devotion or so it seemed to me, but I was not in her debt.

  It occurred to me that Hownam might know something about the mystery surrounding Von Mecks and the Cambridge emeralds. When I taxed him with this he admitted that he had been in the princess’s service when Von Mecks arrived.

  ‘He was a plausible fellow, handsome, aristocratic and continental – just the type guaranteed to appeal to the Princess of Wales. However, he acted in a low and underhand manner. I was powerless to prevent the loss of the emeralds. He went off with them like a thief in the night.’

  ‘Surely it was all above board?’ I remarked. ‘The Prince Regent had a right to ask for them. They were to be given to the Princess Charlotte, were they not?’ Hownam nodded in disgust. He appeared to be taking the whole matter personally.

  ‘The princess was perfectly agreeable to hand over the jewels, especially after Von Mecks had buttered her up and flattered her to death, but that was not good enough.’

  ‘Yes?’ I enquired. Hownam snorted.

  ‘What did he do? He stole the jewels from the princess’s chamber and made off in the night. Obviously, he had confederates and fast horses waiting across the Continent. The whole affair was arranged by the British Government in a disgraceful manner.’

  None of this, however, explained the murder.

  ‘You know how Von Mecks met his death? I asked. Hownam shuddered and turned away.

  ‘I know nothing of these sordid affairs. I simply serve the princess.’ I reflected that he could hardly be as innocent as he pretended.

  ‘Does the name of Getheridge mean anything to you?’ He shook his head, made an excuse and left the room.

  Visions of Captain Marshfield arriving at the villa to interrogate me filled me with dread. I tried to persuade the Count to take me to visit the cardinal but he was shocked, saying that I was not a Catholic and one could not introduce one’s mistress to a cardinal. I refrained from commenting on this. I knew that many cardinals in Italy kept mistresses of their own, although probably not Protestant ones.

  I retreated to the library and attempted to write my report. After some thought, I began my task, resolving to fill up the pages with news of the amateur dramatics. Let Marshfield make what he could of that.

  The egg man’s name was Enrico. I watched him wending his way up the drive with his donkey and panniers filled with new laid offerings. I slipped out to meet him and handed over the document. I soon realised, after a few minutes of conversation and polite chitchat (enquiries after my health and the health of the villa’s inhabitants, and so forth) that he already knew everything that went on in the royal household and could have written a much better report than I, had he been able to write. He handed me the box of eggs after outlining the situation as he saw it.

  ‘So you are telling me that Captain Olivieri is spying for the cardinal?’ I asked.

  ‘Si, signora, the cardinal pay him well, so he tell me. He pay mooch better than the Eenglish.’ A note of reproach entered his voice which I ignored.

  ‘But why would the cardinal want to spy on the Princess of Wales?’ I continued. Enrico gave an expansive Italian shrug.

  ‘I done know, maybe the cardinal do it for the Pope.’

  ‘For the Pope?’ I spluttered. ‘That is ridiculous. What has the Princess of Wales to do with the Pope?’ He gave me a pitying look as he loaded up his donkey with the empty panniers. ‘She ees in Italy; anyway the Vatican done need no excuse. It like to spy on everyone.’

  I stood in a patch of brilliant sunlight carefully balancing the eggs in both hands conscious of the ridiculous figure I must present as I digested this information. Enrico, despairing of prising any more money from the British government through me, prepared to take his leave. He patted his leather-clad chest to ensure that my letter was safe and moved off with the donkey.

  ‘Wait!’ I called in a low voice. ‘Are you sure there is no-one else in the villa spying for anyone?’ Enrico stopped and stroked his bristly chin, ‘We-ell, I am reporting on the villa to the chief of police in Pesaro. He also pay me better than the Eenglish.’

  ‘You are a double agent!’ I cried. ‘That is despicable.’ He shrugged again. ‘It ees the same information. I am just, how you say, passing it around. The chief wants to know what goes on in his area and I have six children to feed.’

  After he had gone I sat on a low stone wall still clutching the eggs. I felt almost sorry for the princess, spied on by her husband’s minions, the Austrians, the police and the Catholic Church. If only she knew. But I conjectured that she would care little. The musical dumpling went her own way, regardless. I wondered what the Pope and the Austrian Emperor would make of the donkey at the dinner table and the vision of an ageing princess wearing short skirts and pink ostrich feathers. Perhaps Louise Demont, the princess’s Swiss maid, was spying for the Russians just to complete the circle.

  At that moment Pergami’s brother, Luigi, emerged from the kitchen and silently removed the eggs from my hands. In the distance the sound of pistol shots disturbed the peace and little puffs of white smoke rose into the azure sky. Pergami and his cronies were hunting again.

  I watched as the princess’s carriage rattled down the drive. She leaned from the window waving a bag of gold in each hand to be scattered among the undeserving poor of the district at the British taxpayers’ expense.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When the princess returned for lunch she was accompanied by a military man whose headdress sported improbable black cock-feathers. He bent over my hand with much flimflammery in the Italian manner. This man was Captain Olivieri, the Italian equerry described as handsome and dashing by his employer. In truth he was flashing-eyed and handsome enough in a Latin way but I preferred the Count’s blond, northern restraint.

  The musical dumpling was determined to make her lovers jealous. With a sideways smirk at the scowling Pergami she announced that Olivieri would play the part of Hippolytus, Phèdre’s stepson and the object of her incestuous passion. (‘Because he is so young and handsome,’ she explained.) Pergami was struck dumb by this which was fortunate as he generally gabbled while he gobbled.

  I dreaded to think what the Count would say about his starring role. In fact, he resolutely declined to play Theseus and lapsed into a fit of the sullens until the part was given to the local poet. The Count was in disgrace for a few hours until he mollified the dumpling with sweetmeats.

  We were coaxed, bullied and chivied into playing scenes from this horrid and violent tragedy. Indeed, the ancient Greeks appeared to be a thoroughly nasty and unnatural people, which is probably why they have not survived to the present day. Various people from the surrounding villas had been persuaded to watch, including the chief of police and the Cardinal.

  Unfortunately the princess, with her small, dumpy figure, was not convincing as a Greek tragedienne. It was difficult to keep a straight face as she emoted among the box hedges.
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  ‘Look at me. See a woman in frenzy! I am in love,’ she shrilled in heavily accented French. Her encounters with Captain Olivieri as Hippolytus caused him to start backwards in genuine shock as she moaned about the flame hidden in her veins. We all recited our parts in French overlaid with German, Italian and English accents. My father and Lizzie would have been appalled. I noticed Adelaide doubled up with mirth behind a bush, even though she could not understand a word.

  Princess Caroline threw herself about the stage so violently at the end of the scene that several servants rushed to pick her up, which created something of an anticlimax. Later, as we drank champagne in the salon, she exclaimed, ‘I have never enjoyed myself so much!’ The cardinal remarked that it had been one of the most original versions of Racine he had ever watched.

  The theatricals were the high point of our stay in Pesaro. Otherwise I had very little to report to my masters. Once it was established that Pergami shared the princess’s bed and the prevalence of spies at the villa, it was simply a round of swimming, dinner parties and walking in the grounds. Sometimes I was asked to read to our hostess in English so that she could improve her eccentric grasp of the language.

  The Count became increasingly sullen in his demeanour as the summer wore on. One afternoon when we had been taking our afternoon rest, matters came to a head. Usually, this interlude led to a great deal of amorous dalliance, but of late the Count preferred to rest on a chaise longue with his limbs splayed out in an attitude of irritated affectation.

  His English nightgown of cream flannel was marked to give an imitation of ermine. This, together with cream linen Cossack pantaloons, topped with his matching hair, gave him the appearance of a very large Persian cat – an irritated Persian cat.

  ‘Your ardour has cooled somewhat of late. I realise that I am merely a plaything to you but in that event a little more play would not come amiss.’ I adjusted my white lace tea gown in a manner I hoped was languorous and inviting.

  ‘Englishwomen talk too much,’ was the rejoinder. ‘In my country women know when to remain silent.’

  ‘Like the Princess Caroline, I suppose.’

  ‘Royalty does not have to follow the rules of etiquette,’ he snapped. Indeed not, especially if they were German, I thought. He swore a Germanic oath and laid flat once more with a discontented sigh.

  My own discontent bubbled to the surface and I returned to the attack.

  ‘Why do you chide me, sir? You are not my mother and of late you have not been my lover. I wish only to know where I am placed in your life – and in this household.’ The Count sighed again and looked at me for a moment.

  ‘You know your position in this household, Lydia. We are all here to entertain the princess. She seems to be greatly taken with you.’

  ‘And my position with you?’ There was another lengthy pause.

  ‘Perhaps we should not be under the same roof. Love and attraction have nothing to do with living together.’ I answered in a shriller tone this time, bitterness creeping in to my voice.

  ‘I had not thought that love had anything to do with our arrangement. You no longer covet what is easily obtained, I see. The thrill is in the chase, is it not?’

  He shrugged. ‘Men are made that way, my dear.’

  After he left me I attempted to restore my spirits by painting my toenails gold – a trick I had learned in Paris. I knew this was extremely fast behaviour but the effect was delightful. Later, I exhibited my gilded extremities to the princess as we sipped orange pekoe. She was entranced and insisted on having her own toes similarly adorned. Her maid, Louise, obliged, throwing me evil looks and muttering that only women of a certain kind did such things, and it was not fitting for a royal lady. This made the princess hoot with laughter.

  By early July the Count was spending more and more time away from me and I had somehow fallen into the role of companion/entertainer/lady in waiting to the princess. He made frequent trips on horseback to the cardinal and other officials in the area on what he said were ‘Austrian matters’ and nothing to do with me.

  His attitude to me remained indifferent although he was polite at all times. He was completely out of patience with the Italians at the villa, but the princess found no fault in him. She herself was in high spirits: her daughter Princess Charlotte was with child and Princess Caroline eagerly anticipated being a grandmother.

  My reports to Captain Marshfield and the embassy were merely gossip about our social activities but messages sent to me via the egg courier indicated that they were satisfactory.

  The Count had been hinting for some days that we would be leaving Pesaro shortly. He needed to return to Vienna and I wished to go back to Paris. I did not anticipate any objections from my lukewarm lover. However, the end of our sojourn at the Villa Caprile came about in rather unfortunate circumstances.

  ‘Pray entertain me!’ commanded our royal hostess after dinner one evening. She was bored with music and charades and wished for something new. With the impetuosity for which I am noted I immediately offered to teach everyone a game called bullet pudding which we often played at home.

  ‘You must have a large dish filled with a floury pudding,’ I explained. ‘The pudding is made up into a peak and a bullet placed on top. Each person cuts a slice and whoever is cutting when the bullet falls must poke about with their nose and chin until they find it. Hands cannot be used. Of course, everyone becomes covered in flour, unable to speak for fear of choking. It is most uproarious.’

  The Count and the Italians appeared mystified by my account but the princess shrieked with laughter and entered the game with gusto. We were soon covered with flour and howling like banshees while the princess uttered a great many profanities. People started to choke which she found hilarious. I was also carried away with merriment and we both enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. It was only after we had spruced up and returned to the salon that I realised the atmosphere had become somewhat frigid. The Count took me aside and said my behaviour was eccentric and disgraceful. I almost wept with frustration. He had positively praised my high spirits when we first met.

  At dinner that evening the Count made an announcement. ‘We must return to Vienna forthwith, your highness. I hope you will give us leave to say goodbye.’

  ‘Could not Mrs Wickham remain with me for a while?’ she replied. ‘Her company is so jolly for me.’ I was stunned to hear the Count say quite sharply that this was impossible.

  ‘She is needed in Vienna.’ This was so obviously untrue that a long moment of silence followed, until Princess Caroline shrugged and said something in German that I did not understand. She often spoke with the Count in that language. It might have been more effective if a German speaker had been sent to spy on her.

  ‘I will return to Paris!’ I said furiously when we were alone in our chamber. ‘I wish to see my friends and you are completely indifferent to my presence.’ To my astonishment the Count became very contrite and begged me to accompany him, paying me more attention during the next twenty-four hours than I had received in weeks.

  White roses were laid on the steps of the coach as we left and Prince Caroline waved from her balcony. I would never see the musical dumpling again. Like so many others she came and went in my life in a short time, but I regretted being forced to spy on her. She had so much in common with her husband that I cannot understand why they were not suited.

  The princess was aware of her popularity in England claiming that the people loved her because she supplied them with gin and gingerbread on festive occasions. I was saddened to hear later in that year of the death of Princess Charlotte in childbirth. Now her mother would never have a grandchild and she would never be queen.

  As the coach trundled across Italy once more the Count gave me a number of reasons why I should stay with him.

  ‘You know we could not remain at the villa indefinitely. The summer is almost over and I have duties to attend to.’ I was not convinced.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ I replied, ‘b
ut I cannot see why you need my presence in view of your earlier remarks. It would be better if we parted as soon as possible.’ Impulsively, I leaned forward and placed my hand on his immaculate knee. ‘If we are no longer content with each other why prolong the agony, my dear? We will part and remember happier times – unless you plan to make an honest woman of me by proposing marriage?’ I threw in this remark in an arch manner, just for the pleasure of seeing his reaction. It was not quite what I expected.

  He removed my hand with an impatient gesture. ‘That would not be possible. I have a wife already.’

  I gasped and flushed with fury. Such deceit! Men are deceivers all.

  When I had controlled myself a little I remarked in a low voice, ‘It is strange that you have never mentioned this before, sir. I had taken you for a gentleman.’ It was the Count’s turn to appear flushed and furious.

  ‘If you were a man I would call you out for that remark, my dear.’

  ‘If I were a man I would accept the challenge gladly. Now, kindly set me down in the next town. Our association is at an end.’ The Count ignored my request.

  ‘It is essential that you return with me, at least for a while. I will explain my reasons in due course.’ I regarded him through narrowed eyes as a thought struck me.

  ‘Are your reasons anything to do with a certain Captain Marshfield?’ His expression did not change but he adopted a guarded tone.

  ‘Marshfield … what do you know of Marshfield?’

  More than you think, I told myself. ‘We have met socially on occasion,’ I said.

  ‘I do not know this Marshfield,’ the Count said staring fixedly out of the window. As it was obvious that we were both lying, I gave up and attempted to read. I do not know why men bother with deceit when women are wise to the smallest signs.

  Miles had once told me that all the countries of Europe spied on each other and sometimes exchanged information. It seemed very schoolboyish behaviour to me.