Dabbing that so kissable mouth with his napkin, he rewarded me with a sad look in his soft brown eyes. ‘It is not your money, dearest, as I understand it, but the prince’s.’
I thought steam must come from my ears, the fury in me was so hot. ‘Drat you, Ban Tarleton, you have an answer for everything. Yet you break every promise you make. You always say you will not be away long then stay in London for weeks, if not months, and continue to visit the gaming tables every night.’
‘My wins at the gaming table have kept us well enough in the past. I see no reason why they should not continue to do so in the future.’
‘Then you can do so without me!’ I screamed, and picking up my cup of chocolate I flung it at the wall opposite, where it smashed into pieces leaving a brown stain running down the silk wallpaper.
He regarded me with a quiet sadness in his gaze. ‘If that is your wish, Mary.’ And rising from my bed, he did what I had so longed to do, he walked away.
My anger continued to simmer all day and I remained in my room, carefully avoiding his company. I loathed gambling with a vengeance. Had it not destroyed my life once already? I certainly had no intention of allowing it to do so again, or any wish to reacquaint myself with the Fleet. Only at supper time when I joined Mama and Maria at table, did I learn that Ban had left for London. This time I was quite certain that I’d lost him for good.
Having decided that the state of my health was probably as good as it was ever going to get, the three of us returned to London in April 1788. We settled at number 45 Clarges Street, just opposite Green Park, not far from my old friend the duchess in Piccadilly. Ban was residing at number 30, but although we exchanged a few polite words on the rare occasions we met, we remained estranged.
It felt odd to be back in London after three years on the Continent, but resolving to get back into society I hired a carriage and had John drive me about Hyde Park. Few people paid any attention, not the slightest in fact. The Morning Post, however, did not disappoint and printed a piece which, as was their wont, saw only the worst in me.
‘Mrs Robinson, though better than when she left England, has returned in a very weakly situation, and appears deeply affected and oppressed in spirits.’
I privately refuted this and, my core of rebellion reawakened, began to entertain, something I had sorely missed while in France. The duchess, Fox, and even the prince and the Duke of York were soon regulars at social functions held at my new home, welcoming me back into the fold with open hearts.
In June the king fell ill with a bilious fever, and was reported to be suffering violent spasms and confined to the palace at Kew. The talk was all about the possibility of a regency, and of another Westminster election in progress that summer. I willingly joined in the campaign for the Foxite candidate, Lord John Townshend, as I had once done for Fox. But nothing was quite the same. It felt good to be back among friends but it was nothing like the old days. Despite my best efforts I no longer felt a part of the social scene.
‘Perhaps it is because I am unable to properly participate,’ I said to the duchess, who was as sympathetic as ever, and as ready with her advice.
‘I doubt that has anything to do with it, dear Mrs Robinson. You still maintain much of your beauty, and are as stylish and elegant as before, but the world has changed. The public seem to have quite lost their appetite for gossip, are less interested in the Cyprian Corps, and no longer attempt to copy their gowns and carriages. Nor are they as interested in the old-style scandal that regularly used to appear in the press.’
I laughed. ‘Well, that is a great relief for I have no wish to recapture past glories, even were it physically possible for me to do so. I blush with embarrassment when I dwell upon my earlier adventures, how foolish and headstrong I was, and how impulsive, vain and naïve.’
‘You were but a girl who married too young.’
‘My years of exile have changed me. I believe myself to be more mature now, more circumspect, and I have become quite passionate about my writing.’
‘You are fortunate that unlike most in the Cyprian Corps, Mary, you are blessed with intelligence.’
‘Which I hope I have learned to use to advantage, although I confess I still have my flaws, which we will not go into right now.’ My brow momentarily puckered as I thought how the love of luxury and a proclivity for overspending that Ban and I both shared, had caused the rift between us. I stiffened my spine and took a deep breath. ‘I mean this to be a new beginning for me, the fresh start I have long needed. I have made a decision to devote myself entirely to the literary life. In future I shall no longer be a woman of the people, but one of letters.’
Nine
The English Sappho
THOU art no more my bosom’s friend;
Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charm’d my senses many a year,
Thro’ smiling summers, winters drear;
O, friendship! am I doom’d to find
Thou art a phantom of the mind?
Mary Darby Robinson
‘Lines to Him Who Will Understand Them’
From that moment on I devoted myself to my writing, even though it was hard to stop thinking about Ban. My lover, I learned, was back to his old gambling habits but much as I missed him, I was determined not to become involved. Then my beloved daughter fell ill with suspected consumption, and trembling with fear I took her to Brighton, under doctor’s orders, where we spent the summer.
Ban apparently went north to Liverpool to do some political campaigning as he still hoped to be elected at some point in the near future. According to reports this involved mob rule, fisticuffs, smashed bottles and broken bones, which would in no way deter him, since there was nothing Ban liked better than a good fight.
I hired a cottage against the sea wall, and the weeks slid by in a haze of worry and anxiety. Quite unable to concentrate on anything but nursing my darling child, I spent hours in dull misery gazing out to sea as the waves pounded relentlessly on the beach below my window. Sleep was equally impossible and one night I noticed a small boat come ashore. Two fishermen alighted carrying a body which they casually dropped on to the beach. Had the poor man suffered an accident, or was it the result of a murder that I witnessed? My imagination ran wild, but the corpse lay abandoned in the silvery light of the moon all that night, and was largely ignored by passers-by the next day. Distressed, I offered to donate a sum to provide this lost soul with a decent funeral. Instead, the body was merely shunted to one side and buried beneath a pile of stones, without ceremony.
‘Such treatment is symbolic of an uncaring society,’ I raged to my daughter, who was fortunately slowly recovering from what had turned out to be nothing more than a bad chest infection.
But the images of moonlit sea, deserted beach, a wrecked ship with a phantom crew remained with me, for I too felt like a lost soul, abandoned to a solitary life. The incident stayed in my mind and years later inspired me to write ‘The Haunted Beach’, at a time when I was again in a melancholic state, the one Coleridge so admired.
Only occasionally did I step out to take the air, with the aid of my crutches and loyal servants to support me. But as Maria made a full recovery I returned to my writing with new heart and strength, and began to contemplate a different future.
‘Should we perhaps go to Italy, after all?’ I suggested to my mother.
‘I think you should write your poetry,’ she urged, and for once I took her advice. But the years on the Continent with my darling Ban, whom I missed more than my once robust health, played on my mind. My temper had eased, my anger quite gone, replaced with an aching loss. Perhaps, even now, it was not too late to win him back. I wrote an ode to him, which I titled ‘Lines to Him Who Will Understand Them’.
The poem went on to say how I might leave the country and embrace my muse. ‘Britain, Farewell! I quit thy shore, My native country charms no more.’ I wanted him to worry that he might lose me. It was published in The World under the pen-name La
ura. Even so, I felt quite certain that Ban would recognise my style, and understand its meaning. I prayed the poem would inspire him to return to my side.
But I received no response.
I did, however, become a regular contributor to The World under this new name, writing in the style of the Della Cruscans, a group of British poets based in Tuscany who had adopted a flowery, romantic style. Their leader, Robert Merry, had returned to England and published his poetry using the pen-name Della Crusca in The World. These expressed his search for love and were often responded to by another poet under the name Anna Matilda.
When he wrote a response to my Laura verse the poetic flirtation provoked an unexpected jealousy in Anna Matilda, who dubbed him a ‘False Lover’.
As the flirting and jealousy of the poems continued, Mama idly remarked one day, ‘I believe Mr Bell, owner of The World, thinks that first poem referred to Robert Merry, not to Tarleton.’
I found this mildly amusing but largely ignored it as the paper continued to publish my poetry, which became increasingly popular with readers in the months following, gaining many admirers. But because of all the accolades the poems were receiving, I finally came to a decision.
‘Publishing anonymously gave me the courage to test my work without prejudice, but now I think it is perhaps time I revealed my true identity. Besides, the fame heaped upon dear Laura would be of greater benefit to my new career if the truth were known.’
The next poem I sent in under my own name, adding a note to the editor explaining that I had previously written under the pen-name of Laura.
‘Look at this.’ I said to my mother and daughter, eager to read them his reply. ‘He says the poem is “vastly pretty” and that he is a great admirer of the genius of Mrs Robinson, but that “he is well acquainted with the author of the productions alluded to”. What think you of that?’
My mother looked faintly disapproving but Maria burst out laughing. ‘I think he is a very clever man to know a woman who does not exist. What will you do, Mama?’
‘I shall ask him to call.’
I confess my request was more in the nature of an order, and he duly arrived at the appointed hour. ‘Dear Mr Bell, how good of you to spare the time in your busy schedule.’
‘How could I resist an invitation from the famous Perdita?’
My mother poured the tea and we exchanged a few polite words about the paper and poetry in general as we sipped the fragrant brew. Finally I could hold back no longer. ‘I was intrigued by your response to my letter, and am most anxious to hear how you came to be acquainted with Laura. When did you meet?’
‘Ah, well, it was a long time ago, I quite forget the details,’ he mumbled, coughing and spluttering a little over his tea. I half glanced at my daughter, and the pair of us burst into merry laughter.
‘Have I said something amusing, Mrs Robinson?’ I could see that the poor man was blushing.
‘Allow me to show you something, Mr Bell,’ and I passed him the early drafts of several of my Laura poems, including the one he’d believed to be addressed to himself. ‘You are not the only one who can hide behind a pseudonym.’
When he left my mother sternly remarked, ‘You made your point most effectively, dear, one you clearly found hugely entertaining, but may well have done yourself no favours so far as your career with The World is concerned.’
‘You are no doubt right, Mother,’ I ruefully agreed.
Fortunately, I was invited to become house poet for a new paper, the Oracle, where I could write in my own style, so all turned out well in the end. My fame burgeoned and I soon became known as the English Sappho.
My Laura poem ‘Lines To Him Who Will Understand Them’ did, to my great surprise and delight, succeed in its original purpose. Within days of my former lover returning from the north, he came calling. He looked more handsome than ever as he was shown into my drawing room, if decidedly uncomfortable.
‘I do not deny that I let you down, Mary, and you were no doubt glad to be rid of me. But I wish you to know that my present life is but a poor shadow of its former glory without you.’
How could any woman resist such as an apology? I held out my arms to him and as he fell into them, cradled him lovingly to my breast, where he belonged.
We spent part of that summer of 1789 in Brighton, enjoying the sunshine and sea breezes, and society life to a small degree. I felt alive again, relaxed and happy and in surprisingly good health. In August we learned of the storming of the Bastille that had taken place in Paris the previous month, which brought a chill to our hearts when we thought of our friends still in France.
‘Dear Lauzun, I do hope he will be safe.’
While we had no sign of such a rebellion in England, the Regency Bill had been passed in February, which considerably raised the status of my erstwhile lover, if only providing the limited power Pitt was prepared to allow him.
‘Had you not taken up with me, you might well have been in line for a title, as the Prince Regent’s mistress,’ Ban teased me.
I laughed. ‘Power does not interest me in the slightest. I have no desire now to be Duchess of Cleveland as my relationship with Florizel is long past. I am happy to regard the prince as a friend, but having you back in my life is far more important.’
His kisses proved how right I was.
As it turned out the king recovered and the Regency Bill fell into abeyance.
The following summer Ban again stood for Parliament and this time was successful, being duly elected as Member of Parliament for Liverpool in June. Sadly, John, my elder brother, died in Italy later in the year. George was still living out there, and again wrote offering me a home. I loved my younger brother dearly, remembering how we had shared some difficult childhood years together, and how he had been with me through the early days of my marriage. I replied to say that while I would welcome a visit from him at any time, I had no plans at present to again seek exile. Ban and I had rediscovered our earlier contentment, and although his gambling habit continued, so did his good luck. All was well between us.
But then in December we clashed again over our very different stand on slavery. I was naturally opposed to it, while Ban’s family had made their fortune from it, his brothers still involved in the trade. William Wilberforce was holding a debate in Parliament that very month in an effort to have it abolished, and my lover was to oppose him! Worse, he asked me to write his speech.
‘I certainly will not!’
‘But you always write my speeches, Mary.’
‘Not this one. You cannot seriously mean to launch a campaign against the Abolishionists? You know full well I believe keeping slaves to be an absolute outrage, an abuse of the rights of man. How can you even consider opposing their salvation?’
‘As an MP, I must do what is in the best interests of my constituents. Liverpool prospers by transporting goods across the oceans of the world, even if some of these are human flesh.’
‘How dare you promote slavery, which is a vile sin, an abhorrence against mankind? That is not what the Whigs stand for.’
‘It is not for me to meekly follow a political line, or to make judgements, but to stand up for the rights of my town. I would have thought, since you were raised in Bristol, another slave-dealing port, that you would sympathise with such an argument.’
‘Never! Slavery is a gross malpractice that must be stopped.’ I gazed at him with tears of anger and bitter disappointment in my eyes. ‘How can you be so blind? Do you not realise how these slaves suffer, how they are cruelly treated, beaten, raped and debased as human beings?’
‘They are not all badly treated.’
‘Too many are, I have read articles to that effect.’
He snorted with derision. ‘When have you believed everything the newspapers tell you?’
‘Do not twist the argument around to me. This is about what is right! These poor beleaguered souls should be set free and paid a decent wage like everyone else. I find it deeply disturbing to discov
er that you actually approve of slavery.’
He let out a heavy sigh. ‘I neither approve nor disapprove. This is economics, commerce.’
‘This is about human lives!’ I took a breath, struggling to calm myself as stress of any kind only resulted in exacerbating my pain. ‘Fortunately, I believe William Wilberforce will win. Right will prevail.’
We spoke on the subject no more, since we could never agree. But in the months following, Ban fought Wilberforce every step of the way, much to my dismay and disgust. Why did this man I adore so often disappoint? It seemed we were quite unable to live apart, or together.
In May 1791, I published my new book of poetry. It was such a proud moment to hold this beautifully bound volume with marbled end papers in my hands, knowing that I had created it. It was printed by my old colleague John Bell of The World, since many of the poems had first appeared in his paper under the name of Laura.
This precious publication had been made possible by an impressive list of subscribers who each contributed one guinea for a copy, including the dear duchess, Fox, the Prince of Wales, and several of his royal brothers. Altogether no less than sixteen dukes and duchesses, thirty-three earls and countesses, and scores of other notables, not to mention many old friends such as Sheridan, Dorothy Jordan, George Colman, and even Sir Joshua Reynolds all contributed towards its publication. I considered myself fortunate indeed to have such loyal supporters. Even Ban’s family subscribed, including his mother. I was deeply touched.
‘What will people think of it, I wonder?’ I asked of my daughter, who was turning into my best critic.
‘That it is a fine book of poetry, which it is, Mama.’
‘Will they not feel bemused that a frivolous woman better known for fashion and scandal is attempting to present herself as a serious poet?’
‘If they do, it would be because of their ignorance, Mama, and not yours. No one could consider “Ode to the Muse” or “Ode to Melancholy” frivolous.’
Lady of Passion Page 25
