Lady of Passion

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘At whose feet would you prefer to languish?’ I teased him one morning as we waited in a queue of carriages on the Mall. ‘Has no lady captured your heart?’

  ‘Ah, now I must confess there is one.’

  I was instantly intrigued. ‘Do I know her?’

  He gave me a wry smile. ‘I fear you do, and you are not the best of friends.’

  I gazed at him askance. ‘Not the Armistead? I have seen you send her languishing looks. Goodness, you are blushing. It is she, is it not?’

  ‘I fear I do feel a certain warmth for the lady.’

  I could not help but laugh. ‘A raging fever more like. What an incestuous lot we are. Well, the prince has done with her, so why not try your luck?’

  ‘I believe I may, dear Mrs R. I believe I may do just that.’

  The most offensive cartoon appeared in late August. Entitled The Thunderer by James Gillray, it depicted an unnaturally well-endowed Fox standing beside a figure with the Prince of Wales’ feathers in place of a head. Impaled on a pike above a tavern sign bearing the inscription ‘The Whirligig’ was a female figure with exposed bosom, legs spread wide revealing naked thighs above her stocking tops, presumably meant to represent me.

  ‘Since we are all aware that a whirligig is a large cage in which army prostitutes are hoisted for punishment, I find this cartoon both obscene and insulting.’

  ‘Personally, I find it jolly flattering that anyone could imagine you would choose me, an overweight, ugly old drunkard as a lover.’

  We both laughed at this description. ‘Do not underrate yourself, dear friend. You are the kindest man I know, and most talented.’

  Perhaps even the Morning Post thought that Gillray had overstepped the mark on this occasion, for the next day they issued a piece in my defence for once.

  ‘Listen to this,’ I said, as Fox and I took dinner with our usual group of friends. ‘“Formed by the hand of nature for almost every opposite pursuit to that in which the whirl of life has engaged her, Perdita but half enjoys her present situation; yet she gives to it every grace and embellishment of which it is susceptible … her soul turns unsatisfied away from whatever princes can bestow!” There is more, but what think you of that? Can they be on my side for once?’

  ‘Not before time,’ Sheridan grumbled.

  Then the Morning Chronicle published an anonymous letter on its front pages, castigating Tarleton for his lack of generosity towards the soldier who saved his life during an encounter with Indians in New York. A few days later a second more poisonous letter appeared, also anonymous, but this time accusing him of the slaughter of unarmed men at Waxhaws and gross misjudgement at Cowpens which resulted in the destruction of almost his entire force. I at once hurried to his side, all our differences forgotten.

  ‘I wish you to know that not for a moment do I believe you deliberately slaughtered a defeated enemy about to surrender.’

  I stood on his doorstep on a damp summer’s day and once again freely offered my heart. Ban appeared most moved by this declaration of faith and ushered me inside out of the rain, calling upon his servant to take my coat and bring refreshment. Once seated in the comfort of his drawing room, I upon the sofa, he in a chair opposite, he gave his explanation, hesitantly, and with much pain.

  ‘The Battle of Cowpens was undoubtedly a disaster, mainly due to fine American tactics by General Morgan. British forces were ill-prepared and overconfident. Nevertheless, my men fought to the bitter end, giving their all. In the forty-eight hours before the battle we ran out of food, and they had less than four hours sleep after marching over difficult terrain. By the time they reached the battlefield they were exhausted and malnourished, yet we dared not delay.’

  He paused here to speculate on this decision, knotting his fingers as if in an agony of reflection. ‘Were I to have my time again, I would deploy them differently, but everything is always clearer in retrospect. We suffered devastating losses that day, and yes, it marked the beginning of the end of the war. I offered my resignation, which Cornwallis refused to accept.’

  ‘But why this letter? What would anyone have to gain by destroying your military career? You are a hero.’

  ‘Perhaps for that very reason. I suspect it came from Lieutenant Roderick MacKenzie, who was badly wounded that day, and blames me with a burning hatred. As for Waxhaws, Abraham Buford, the American commander, at first refused an offer to surrender, but when my men attacked his forces were only too eager to throw down their arms. I suspect many of them were raw recruits with little battle experience. Buford did ultimately realise that all was lost, but I was unhorsed when the white flag was raised, and never saw it. Unfortunately, believing me to be dead, my men engaged in a vindictive revenge not easily restrained. Slaughter happens in war.’

  Again he paused, the agony of that day still etched upon his handsome face. ‘After the battle ended, we took our quota of prisoners, but the wounded of both sides were treated with equal humanity and every possible convenience. I did not target civilians, nor conduct personal vendettas. As always I did a job that had to be done and took no pleasure in it. I deeply regretted the outcome which earned me a reputation for giving no quarter, and the epithet “Butcher Tarleton”. One, presumably, I will never live down.’

  On impulse I went to kneel before him, gathered his dear face in my hands and kissed him. ‘Those who were there will know the truth, and anyone who has fought in battle will understand the way decisions are made under impossible conditions. Others will make their own judgement. So be it. Either way, you must remain strong in the knowledge that when called upon to do so, you were prepared to give your life for your men and your country. No one can ask more.’

  Sliding his arms about my waist he pulled me close, holding me lovingly between his knees. ‘Are we friends again, Mary? Am I forgiven for that other piece of misjudgement?’

  Chuckling, I kissed that perfect nose of his. ‘I dare say that can be arranged.’

  Eight

  A Colonel’s Lady

  Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,

  To hide the timid blush, and steal away;

  To shun the busy world, and waste the day

  In some rude mountain’s solitary maze?

  Mary Darby Robinson

  ‘Sonnet VI: Is It to Love’

  I took him to my old home at Egham, near Windsor where we spent some weeks together blissfully alone, celebrating my birthday with particular joy this year. Unfortunately, word leaked out of our reconciliation and a piece appeared in the Morning Post filled with obscene double entendre.

  Yesterday, a messenger arrived in town, with the very interesting and pleasing intelligence of the Tarleton armed ship having, after a chase of some months, captured the Perdita frigate, and brought her safe into Egham port. The Perdita is a prodigious fine clean bottomed vessel, and has taken many prizes during her cruise, particularly the Florizel, a most valuable ship belonging to the Crown, but which was immediately released after taking out the cargo.

  There was much more of this nature, but I had read enough. ‘Why do the papers constantly attack me? When will they let me be?’ I would complain as Ban and I rode in the forest, or took a walk as we were doing today. Christmas was approaching and there was a thick hoar frost crisping the dead leaves and cracking twigs beneath our booted feet.

  ‘Because the press love to gossip. They believe it sells papers.’

  ‘But they are so malicious.’

  He slipped his arm about me, tucking me close to his side beneath the warmth of his cloak. ‘You are a strong woman. Do not let this nonsense hurt you.’

  ‘That is easy for you to say.’

  ‘Not so. I know how it feels to be a pariah, and the subject of malice. Not everyone sees me as a hero. Following the Cowpens debacle I continued fighting for my country, losing two fingers at a costly British victory at Guilford Courthouse in March. By October, after yet more defeats, Cornwallis finally surrendered at Yorktown. But even then I was not forgive
n. The enemy still hated me for the slaughter at Waxhaws. Even my fellow officers refused to eat or talk with me, partly blaming me for losing the colony. Someone even tried to kill me. I feared for my life when the bed I slept in was stabbed repeatedly. By a stroke of good fortune I was not in it at the time.’

  ‘Goodness, that’s terrible! Why would they be so vindictive?’

  ‘Feelings run high in war.’ He kissed my brow. ‘Now that I have you it no longer matters, and nothing the Morning Post says could hurt me half as much.’

  ‘You are right. We must keep things in proportion.’

  The days passed in perfect accord, filled with our passion for each other, and the pleasure we found simply being together, riding, walking, talking, eating, and then making love all over again. It was a magical time, and such a joy to have him all to myself.

  One morning we were returning from our usual ride, passing through the old town of Windsor when I noticed a small party of hunters approaching. I pulled up at once, and Ban did likewise.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I believe it is the prince. Ah yes, and he has seen us.’

  Slowing his horse to a walk he came over, and to my great astonishment pulled off a glove, reached for my hand and shook it, grinning in a most friendly fashion. ‘Mrs Robinson, what a pleasure to see you again after all this time.’

  ‘Your Highness.’ Quite unable to think of a sensible word to say by way of response, all I could do was put one hand to my blushing cheeks and venture a shy smile. Fortunately my good manners saved me as I remembered my companion. ‘Allow me to introduce my good friend, Banistre Tarleton. I’m sure Your Highness will have heard of the colonel’s exploits in the War of Independence.’

  ‘Ah, indeed I have. Well done, sir, and let us not fret too much about the outcome. America was bound to shrug off the mother country at some point. Do you like hunting? The royal hunt passes this way every morning and generally meets with good sport. I shall look for you to join us tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, sire, I should be honoured.’

  ‘Perdita and I are old friends, are we not?’

  ‘I trust so, Your Highness,’ I said, my smile warmer this time. And as my erstwhile royal lover went on his way, I could not help but feel a wave of relief. It seemed that the feud between us had at last dissipated.

  This was proved to be the case when Fox came to an agreement with the prince that in addition to the £5,000 already paid, on his coming of age I would be granted an annuity of five hundred pounds, the moiety of which was to pass to my daughter at my death. This settlement was to be considered as an equivalent for the bond of twenty thousand pounds given by the prince, paid in consideration for the sacrifice I made of a lucrative profession at his request.

  It felt as if all my troubles were over at last, and happiness had been restored to me in the best possible way with Ban.

  Come the new year we were back in town, making no secret of our attachment, strolling arm in arm everywhere together. Continuing with our morning rides in Hyde Park I would wear my favourite riding habit, a pale pearl colour with jonquil facings, or one in brown with a scarlet waistcoat.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how divine you look in your riding habit?’ he complimented me one morning.

  ‘Then I shall wear it always, provided you will always be in a riding habit when you come to visit me,’ I teased.

  He laughed out loud. ‘Ever the sharp wit, dear lady.’

  ‘At least my wit, such as it is, does not bear malice.’

  One blustery day the skirts of my gown became caught as I dismounted in Hyde Park, and despite Ban’s best efforts to prevent it, I revealed rather more than was quite decent. A lampoon appeared in the paper the very next day in which two fat gentlemen were depicted looking up my skirts with a quizzing glass, declaring the perspective made their mouths water and how they would be happy to ‘cover’ me.

  I resolutely ignored such ribald remarks as this was a happy time for me. I was deeply and passionately in love, blissfully content and adored in return.

  We frequently attended the Pantheon, Vauxhall and Ranelagh, and also the theatre and opera. I took a box and decorated it most stylishly with pink satin chairs and wall-to-wall mirrors, which created quite a stir.

  By then we had become a celebrity couple. Tarleton, with his famously cropped hair, looked most handsome in his hussar uniform of blue jacket, waistcoat and leather boots that fitted as tight as silk stockings, and I was very much the fashion icon. Lady’s Magazine made much of my style by naming the Perdita Hood after me, made of Italian lawn and tied under the chin with a large bow. I also liked to wear a white chip hat, trimmed with roses or feathers, or one with a band of black velvet around the crown, fastened with a diamond buckle. This they named the Robinson Hat. Then there was the Robinson gown, simply styled in chocolate poplin with plain cuffs of scarlet silk, similar to the Quaker-like gown I wore at my wedding and my first visit to Ranelagh with Tommy, which had become a trademark style of mine ever since.

  And then there were my gold-clocked stockings for which I was dubbed ‘Lark-heeled Perdita’. It seemed that I still set the fashion that others followed with flattering avidity.

  ‘However much the ladies might attempt to emulate you, they cannot match your natural beauty,’ Ban would say, which made me love him all the more.

  I next appeared at the opera in a completely new style of gown dubbed ‘déshabillé’ that I had copied from Marie-Antoinette. It was quickly named the Perdita chemise or the Chemise de la Reine. Being free of hoops, tight-lacing and panniers, it was as beguilingly simple as a nightgown, and very much suited my style. It soon became all the rage and even aristocratic ladies adopted it, at least in private, including the dear duchess, not simply the Cyprian Corps. Unfortunately this resulted in some comments and criticism in the press, as it made it much harder to judge a lady’s status by her appearance.

  All this fuss over the excesses of fashion set my muse working on a poem which, years later, when I was attempting to earn my living by my pen, I published under the pen-name of Tabitha Bramble.

  Long petticoats to hide the feet,

  Silk hose, with clocks of scarlet;

  A load of perfumes, sick’ning sweet,

  Made by Parisian Varlet.

  I was also sporting yet another new carriage, as much a part of my extravagant style as my gowns and hats.

  Tommy, my never-to-be-forgotten husband, was in Italy, working with my brother John. Fox had won his lady and at last taken up with his much-adored Elizabeth Armistead. Then Ban came to me one day with what he termed ‘exciting news’.

  ‘What is it, my love? You look alight with enthusiasm.’

  ‘I am indeed. Lord Shelburne, Secretary of Colonial Affairs, has offered Cornwallis the post of governor and commander in chief in India. And Cornwallis has asked me to command his cavalry.’

  I was horrified. ‘India! Are you saying that you are to go to India?’

  He drew me into his arms. ‘I know you will be sad to see me go, Mary, and I accept that a voyage to that part of the world carries danger, but I am a military man and it is my duty. I had hoped to be involved in the defence of Gibraltar, but that didn’t happen. This is exactly the opportunity I have longed for.’

  Tears filled my eyes even as I kissed him and wished him well. ‘I cannot say that I am happy about losing you, or that I do not fear for your safety, but I do understand.’

  I watched in silent dismay as he made his preparations, sold off his horses and closed down his house. Then to my blessed relief, everything changed. Lord Shelburne resigned from the cabinet in February, which instantly put an end to the plan.

  Ban was mortified at losing this chance. ‘I shall not give up hope. Fox is already heavily engaged in electioneering, and if there is to be a new government, Cornwallis may still be offered the post.’

  ‘We must wait and hope for the best,’ I consoled him, secretly praying for the exact opposite.

&nbs
p; But his disappointment cut deep, adding to the bitterness Ban already felt over his damaged career, and he threw himself into a mad social whirl by way of distraction. We partied, danced and dined, and he visited the gaming houses, Brooks’s, Weltje’s and other clubs with increasing regularity. He also became heavily involved with the prince, Fox, Sir John Lade and Sir Harry Featherstone who held race meetings at his home, Uppark in Sussex. But while Sir Harry, one of the wealthiest young men in England and sought after by all mothers with eligible young daughters, enjoyed an income of £10,000 a year, my darling Ban was on half pay with only a modest £350.

  In addition he spent money on extravagant clothes, bought new horses and a carriage. Meanwhile his creditors, fearful that at any moment he might depart for India, not only demanded cash in hand, but settlement of all his debts. He was obliged to borrow money from Drummond’s Bank and even from the owner of Weltje’s Club. I grew fearful of where this mad recklessness might lead.

  ‘I beg you to stop. Please give up the gaming table, Ban, and this mad way of living, or it will destroy you as it did my husband Tommy.’

  ‘This is merely a temporary difficulty,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve suffered one or two unfortunate losses recently, but one good win would soon put matters right. It is but £1,000, and can easily be recovered.’

  I could not prevent a small gasp of dismay. ‘A thousand pounds! That is a huge sum of money, my love. And if you go on losing, could easily double.’

  ‘Then I would sell my commissions. I’ve already written to my mother and brothers for a loan or settlement, so far with no response. I may have to pay a visit as they probably feel somewhat neglected. Do not worry, my love. All will be well.’

  Ban travelled to Liverpool at the end of May, but on his return in June he looked no happier. His plea for help had failed.

  ‘She blames me, doesn’t she?’ I guessed, and even as he demurred, I could see by the way he avoided meeting my gaze that I was correct.