‘What will they accuse me of next?’ I cried, to any friend who would listen. ‘They have even added a decade to my age, which is unforgivable.’
I imagined His Majesty the king steaming with anger, furiously writing to his son about the latest scandals to blacken my name. When no response came in answer to my very reasonable request, and anticipating my creditors foreclosing at any moment with no hope of paying them off, a certain recklessness came upon me. I refurbished my wardrobe and began to hold wild parties at my home. Cork Street came alive with fashionable carriages constantly rolling up to my door.
In the end, I took the only option left to me and threatened to publish the letters, gladly handing the entire business over to Malden.
Lord Malden met the prince at his apartments at Buckingham Palace and negotiations began, rumbling on over many months as letters were exchanged between lawyers, meeting after meeting taking place as no agreement was reached. I was finally visited by Colonel Hotham, the prince’s man of business, who offered me £5,000.
‘What of the £20,000 promised by the bond?’ I protested, believing I was entitled to better treatment. ‘I will only return the letters in exchange for settling all my debts, which this sum will not do.’
The sum would not even cover my debts. I vented my wrath in a furious letter to His Highness. ‘I shall quit England instantly but no earthly power shall make me ever receive the smallest support from you.’ I accused the prince of insulting me, and swore I would never solicit the smallest favour from him ever again. It was as well that I calmed down before sending the letter, accepting Malden’s advice to destroy it.
Lord Malden again met the prince where the dispute grew ever more bitter as he pressed for provision for my future. ‘I pointed out that he was accountable for your debts, Mary, as you had incurred them on the repeated assurances that he would honour your expenses.’
‘Indeed, and I forsook my career, my husband, and my independence on the strength of that promise.’
‘His Highness refuses absolutely to commit himself without the king’s consent, which appears to be quite impossible to achieve. The prince insists that you offer absolute security that the restitution of the letters will be complete, with no originals or copies retained.’
‘Does he not trust me?’
‘He fears you may publish copies if not satisfied with the settlement.’
‘Then His Highness must settle the matter fairly, as agreed by the bond.’
In disgust I wrote one last letter to my erstwhile lover:
I have ever acted with the strictest honour and candour … I do not know what answer may be thought sufficient, the only one I can, or ever will be induced to give, is that I am willing to return every letter I have ever received from his R.H. I have ever valued those letters as dearly as my existence, and nothing but my distressed situation ever should have tempted me to give them up at all.
Malden later informed me that the king had approached the prime minister, Lord North, on the matter, asking for his assistance.
‘Is that a good sign?’
‘We can but hope so.’
At length I felt bound to agree to the £5,000, with the proviso that more would come later when the prince came of age. At which point I readily handed over the letters in early September, 1781, to Colonel Hotham, the prince’s treasurer.
‘It feels little consolation for the difficulties I suffered, and when I so deeply feel the loss of the prince’s love, as well as my own degradation.’
In a last act of rebellion I ordered another carriage, a Bouë de Paris. ‘It bids fair to kick the yellow brimstone-coloured equipages quite out of doors,’ I boasted to my friend, trying not to notice Malden’s grimace of disapproval.
‘You are still young,’ he consoled me. ‘Your charm and beauty have already gained you the friendship of some of the most enlightened and engaging people of our time.’
I could only agree with him, since my friends included such as Sherwin, Sheridan and Garrick, and the Duchess of Devonshire, of course. All persons of talent or distinction. Yet I recognised no such talent in myself as I remained sunk in my own private sorrow.
‘I can no longer go on in this fashion,’ I announced to my mother. ‘I intend to make a tour to Paris.’ Flight was humiliating and dreadful to contemplate, but I felt quite unable to remain in England.
‘That is a splendid notion!’ she agreed. ‘Allow yourself a few months in the brilliant metropolis of France, dearest, and it will soon take your mind away from all your troubles.’
Dear Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire helped me to procure letters of introduction to some notable French families, and to Sir John Lambert, resident English banker at Paris.
So it was that I quitted London and left for France via Margate and Ostend, if with a heavy heart. I had given up every single one of the prince’s letters, as instructed, but I still possessed his miniature. And the bond.
Seven
Queen of the Courtesans
TARLETON, thy mind, above the poet’s praise
Asks not the labour’d task of flatt’ring lays!
As the rare gem with innate lustre glows,
As round the oak the gadding Ivy grows,
So shall thy worth, in native radiance live!
Mary Darby Robinson
‘Ode to Valour’
The day after my darling Maria turned seven, on the 19 October 1781, the pair of us, with a handful of servants, crossed the English Channel. I recalled my mother’s fears about going to sea but actually found the journey both pleasant and relaxing, and neither of us suffered the slightest discomfort. On our eventual arrival, Sir John Lambert went out of his way to procure a commodious and fashionable apartment for us, where we settled most comfortably. He also hired me a carriage, and a box at the opera, not that I had any great wish to face society.
I fear that for some days I hid in my chamber, thinking on circumstances, of how I came to be here all alone in a foreign land, leaving my lost love across the sea at home. How I ached for my Florizel, to feel his arms about me, his adoring gaze on mine. And how I regretted the loss of his letters which had ever comforted me. But wallowing in self-pity was doing no good at all for my oversensitive soul.
At length my valiant, if rather ancient, chevalier persuaded me to step out and see the sights of Paris. As amiable and stylish as one would expect a Frenchman to be, Sir John seemed determined to devote himself entirely to my needs, and I did begin to enjoy myself. We saw the Louvre, explored the Tuileries Gardens, and he readily escorted me to many Parisian establishments to allow me to take advantage of the new fashions. I marvelled at the Palace of Versailles with its gilt and mirrors, although I was appalled by the filth, with dog turds everywhere.
‘Can no one think to clean them up?’ I complained, but Sir John merely shrugged, in that delightfully Gallic way.
He held many literary gatherings, parties and entertainments on my behalf, which inspired further invitations, most of which I declined. At the few events I did attend, I met the most brilliant and celebrated of guests who overwhelmed me with their generosity and admiration.
The French seemed quite taken with me, declaring my beauty shone with bright perfection. They admired my sultry eyes, which I have always considered rather dark and unappealing, and my mesmerising voice. But they also remarked upon my cultivated manner, intelligence and firm, independent spirit. Comments which I greatly appreciated as it was all most flattering. It seemed everyone wished to meet La Belle Anglaise, which is how I came to be known.
It was at one of these affairs that Sir John introduced me to the Duc de Chartes, among other notables.
‘Ah, Mrs Robinson, permit me to say that you are even more beautiful in person than legend has it. No wonder the prince took you to his bed.’
My reputation, it seemed, had preceded me.
The duke claimed to be descended from Louis XIII, no doubt from the wrong side of the blanket. He was undoubtedly a stylish
and witty man, but as I came to know him better I considered him to be a compound of ambition and degradation, vanity and folly, courage and audacity. A libertine if ever I saw one.
He made a great fuss of inviting me to the races on the plaines des Sablons, to fetes and parties, all meant to capture the attention of La Belle Anglaise. But despite his elegance and undeniable wealth, I found no difficulty in declining his invitations as he did not attract me in the slightest.
But then on my birthday, the twenty-seventh of November, the duke staged a magnificent fete in my honour at his home at Monceaux, so that I could not, in all civility, refuse. I took with me a German lady as companion, with whom I had recently become acquainted, and Sir John kindly agreed to act as chaperone.
The Duc de Chartres had clearly set out to impress, creating the most extraordinary and magnificent scene. Serpentine paths wound their way through the gardens of his estate, with streams, fountains, cascades and artefacts representing all ages and cultures. There was a Chinese pagoda, Egyptian pyramid, Venetian bridge and Dutch windmill, among other follies. My initials were hung in every tree, the whole illuminated with strings of lamps interwoven with wreaths of artificial flowers.
I couldn’t help but be reminded of those early visits to Vauxhall with Tommy, and sighed a little at the memory of those halcyon days of my youth.
But this was more gaudy, more outrageous, the most carefully staged seduction scene one could possibly imagine.
‘I know I shall triumph over your heart, Mrs Robinson,’ he arrogantly asserted.
Fortunately, the duke’s very hauteur repelled me, and I managed to hold him off. Still nursing the pain of losing my beloved Florizel, I was not interested in an affair. Nevertheless, good manners demanded that I at least converse with the fellow, and I confess I took advantage of his good will by mentioning a secret ambition of mine.
‘I believe the queen has recently provided France with an heir.’
‘The dauphin was born last month, a fine, healthy child.’
‘My compliments to Her Majesty. I had hoped, while staying in your beautiful metropolis, of witnessing the beauties of Marie Antoinette in person, if only that were possible.’
‘Ah, there is no reason why you should not, dear Mrs Robinson. I would be more than happy to arrange it for you.’
I rewarded him with my most winning smile. ‘Would you truly do that for me?’
Taking my hand, he kissed it, and I steeled myself not to snatch it away. ‘The king and queen hold public dinners in their apartments at Versailles, which we call the Grand Couvert. The word couvert meaning place setting in French. I should be delighted to personally escort you.’
‘You are most kind.’ To see the queen in person, was an offer I could not refuse.
The first requirement was that I be suitably attired. Having secured the necessary permission from Her Majesty, the duke also provided me with the name of her dressmaker. Mademoiselle Rose Bertin, the royal milliner and modiste, occupied a shop in the rue de Saint-Honoré where she held court as if she herself were a queen upon a throne. I wasted no time in visiting her.
‘I wish to be eye-catching. To be elegant and stylish in the latest French fashion, but suited to my own individual taste.’
‘I can provide all of that and more, madame, assuming you can afford me.’
I stiffened, closing my mind to the fact that I had not quite managed to pay off all my debts with the sum Malden had won for me. Determined not to be intimidated by the lady, I smiled sweetly. ‘But of course.’
She created for me the most beautiful pale green lustring gown with a tiffany petticoat, festooned with delicate lilacs. The headdress was equally magnificent, composed entirely of white feathers. And although I considered myself to be a typical rosy-cheeked English maid, still aglow with good health and youth, I stained them with patches of rouge, suitably in keeping with the fashion of the French court.
As I entered the dining room, the Grand Couvert was, to my eyes, astonishing. My gaze was captured instantly by the glorious ceiling with its paintings and gilded stucco, by the crimson damask upon the walls, the fashionable tapestries and stylish furniture. I felt completely overawed by the scene. The moment he saw me the Duc de Chartes at once left the king’s side and hurried over.
‘Is it not magnificent?’ he whispered, pride in his role very evident in his tone as he secured me a place from where I could easily view the queen.
The silver set upon the long table reminded me of the goblets brought by the prince for our romantic assignations. Perhaps the English royal family also had a passion for all things French. The table itself afforded a magnificent display of epicurean luxury. The king and queen sat on armchairs, facing the public who stood some distance away, together with a cluster of courtiers, separated from the royal diners by a crimson cord.
‘Only specially invited guests and members of the royal household are allowed to sit and dine with the king and queen at the table,’ my escort explained.
‘Who then are those ladies seated on that row of stools close by?’ I asked.
‘They are the duchesses and ladies in waiting. Only they are allowed the privilege of sitting so close to Their Majesties.’
The room was crowded, dogs wandering about searching for scraps as the king and queen ate. Or rather, King Louis ate, acquitting himself with more alacrity than grace. Marie Antoinette, I noticed, ate nothing.
‘Why does she not eat? She does not even take off her gloves.’
‘Her Majesty dislikes such formal occasions as these, forced upon her by etiquette, and has but a small appetite. She takes her coffee and croissants of a morning, but shows little interest in food thereafter.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Unfortunately, the fact she does not eat a morsel of this meal, makes her appear somewhat aloof in the eyes of the public.’
‘Oh, but she is so elegant, and beautiful with her milk-pale skin, grey-blue eyes, rosebud lips and delicately slender frame. Her expression is sweetness itself.’ I could hardly take my eyes from her.
‘She is also quite vivacious and outgoing, a social butterfly who loves to party, play cards and wear extravagant fashions.’ He laughed. ‘As do we all.’
A verse began to form in my mind, which later developed into a full poem.
Oh! I have seen her, like a sun, sublime,
Diffusing glory on the wings of Time.
And, as revolving seasons own his flight,
Marking each brilliant minute with delight.
As I watched, I became aware of how she regarded me with equal curiosity, even overhearing one or two comments she made which were most flattering. Very slowly she drew off one of her gloves to lean for a few moments on her hand, allowing me to gaze in open admiration at her white, polished arms, before slowly pulling it on again.
The queen’s gaze then seemed to focus upon the miniature of the Prince of Wales I still wore pinned to my bosom, the diamonds glittering in the light from the thousands of candles that lit the room.
The next day the Duc de Chartres came to my apartment with a surprising request.
‘The queen was quite taken with the miniature you wear, and asks if she may borrow it.’
I was stunned, and far from happy by this demand, but who could refuse a queen? ‘It is most precious to me,’ I hastened to point out.
‘Her Majesty wishes me to assure you it will be safely returned.’
And so it was, a day or two later, brought by the Duc de Lauzun, a close friend of the Duc de Chartes, together with an exquisite netted purse by the queen’s own hand, as a gift of thanks.
Lauzun called regularly after that. I thought him manly and quite prepossessing, a fine looking fellow in his flamboyant wig and brocade silk jacket. He seemed to me a man of exquisite sensitivity, an admirer of literature and fine arts, lively, well-informed, and irresistibly fascinating. He was the idol of women and the example for all men at the most polished court in Europe. Unfortunately, he was also every inch a libertine. This
unfortunate prince, with all the volatility of the national character, disgraced human nature by his vices, while the elegance of his manners rendered him a model to his contemporaries. My feelings towards him were equally contradictory. And I could see at once that he was attracted to me, declaring that he liked my lively, open nature.
Perhaps I was growing bored with Paris, or allowed him to appeal to my vanity. Whatever the reason, I am ashamed to say that I did succumb to the gentleman’s charms. We engaged in a brief affair, which had no meaning to me beyond the pleasures it brought. How could I love anyone but my darling Florizel. But Lauzun at least offered some balm to my wounded pride.
Like all men he loved to talk about himself. He had recently returned from America where he’d been engaged in the War of Independence, so had many tales to relate.
‘I feel a great pride to have raised, equipped and trained a body of dragoons who became known as Lauzun’s Legion, comprising soldiers not only from France but countries as diverse as Germany, Russia, Italy, Sweden, Poland and England.’
‘How come you accept soldiers from England in your legion, when you fight on the side of the rebels?’
He winked. ‘I am at heart an Anglophile, owning a residence in Pall Mall, and like your politician, Fox, I follow my conscience. He too has been against the war from the start, and would willingly grant the Americans independence, if only to break their ties with my own country. We are all complex creatures with our own views on what is right and wrong.’
He spoke at length of battles fought and lost, including the recent one at Yorktown which fell to the Americans. But sated by our love making, I barely listened to half what he had to say on the subject. My attention was, however, caught by the tale of a confrontation between himself and Lieutenant-Colonel Banistre Tarleton. ‘He is known to the Americans as Butcher Tarleton, while you British regard him as a hero.’
Lady of Passion Page 18
