Lady of Passion

by Freda Lightfoot

  By the time the volume of poetry came out I was in Bath, suffering quite badly from another spasm of rheumatic gout. Ban was with me, having recently returned from a short trip to his home town. I strived to accept my fate of persistent ill health and concentrate on the joy of seeing my book published. If I could not move my legs very well, at least I could still use my brain, and my imagination.

  Unfortunately, I was blessed, or cursed, with a very stern physician who banned me not simply from committing my thoughts to paper, but, were it even possible, from thinking at all. Naturally I became frustrated beyond distraction, disobeyed his commands and resumed my work.

  Maria was concerned when she caught me with pen in hand. ‘Mama, what are you doing? You are not supposed to be writing, or even devising a poem in your head.’

  ‘No truant escaped from school could receive more pleasure in eluding a severe master than do I. I must write. It is what I do. It is who I am.’

  She smiled at me with perfect understanding and a merry twinkle in her blue eyes. ‘Then you recite the words and I will write them for you. I can always pretend that I did the thinking too.’

  And taking the quill pen from my ink-stained fingers our teamwork continued as before.

  We remained for some time in Bath while Ban returned to London. My mother was somewhat scathing about this decision. ‘I do question Tarleton’s priorities. Why must he constantly abandon you to dash back to his dissolute life in London?’

  I winced, hating to hear her adopt the same criticisms she had used against my husband, even if I might secretly agree with them. ‘Please don’t say such things. Ban Tarleton is not like foolish Tommy. He is now a Member of Parliament, and as such has duties to perform.’

  Without even lifting her head from the neat copying of the poem in which she was engaged, Maria said, ‘Whether or not that is the case, in this instant Grandmama is right. You deserve better.’

  ‘Goodness, are you both attacking me now?’

  ‘We wish only to protect you, Mama.’

  ‘No doubt he has returned to his gambling and his womanising?’ my mother commented in waspish tones.

  ‘I really couldn’t say. I did not enquire.’

  The scratching of her pen continued as my daughter again quietly chimed in. ‘Then perhaps it is time that you did.’

  Since she was now seventeen, having grown into a fine, articulate young lady with a sensible head upon her young shoulders, I did not feel able to quarrel with these comments. In truth, the pair of them could well be right in their assessment. Despite Ban’s claims of complete fidelity and knowing full well that he loved me, I was growing increasingly suspicious that there was some other attraction my lover hurried back to so regularly, besides the gaming tables.

  I blamed Ban’s family in part for this. They’d constantly put pressure upon him as a boy and as a young man, disapproving of every decision he’d made in life. They did finally seem to have accepted our relationship, but far too late. Had they supported him in his choices, and been more reasonable, he may well have turned his life around and dealt more effectively with the bitterness that had come to consume him in recent years.

  What they now had to contend with, as a consequence, was a man constantly seeking a new purpose to absorb him, a man who needed to find a more fulfilling role beyond the next turn of the card or throw of the dice. I could only hope that the world of politics would make up for what he had lost as a soldier.

  And that I would not lose him in this maelstrom of change.

  Setting these worries aside as best I could, I concentrated upon my writing, most ably assisted by my daughter, and published my first novel Vancenza or Dangers of Credulity on the second of February 1792. The tale was a Gothic romance set in fifteenth-century Spain, albeit with eighteenth-century morals, hidden secrets, seductions, suspected incest and villainous plotting. I naturally drew upon my own emotions and experiences, not least my intimate knowledge of marrying young and loving a prince, as did my heroine Elvira, all artfully fictionalised.

  The entire print run sold out in one day. It was a joyous moment.

  ‘I suspect the gossip-mongers and the curious wished to know what you had to say about the prince,’ my mother caustically remarked, once again setting us at loggerheads.

  ‘Rather than for the quality of the writing or excitement of the story, you mean?’

  ‘I am not putting you down, Mary, I simply state the truth. You are a person of notoriety, even more than I feared when you first begged to go on stage.’

  Not a comforting assessment of one’s life, but my mother did tend to live in the past. ‘A person can change, Mama, and mature, given the opportunity.’

  The book quickly ran through five editions, and I became a literary sensation. Whatever the reason for my success, I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

  My pleasure was marred only by the death of my old friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, later in the month, and I published a Monody to his memory. On the fourteenth of February I also sent a sweetly romantic poem to Ban, entitled: ‘My Dear Valentine’. He had been absent from my life too long. Could I win him back with my pen yet again?

  I received no valentine in exchange, and no reply.

  By July 1792 my debts were such they could no longer be ignored. ‘I fear we must again leave these shores and face exile, if we are to remain safe,’ I confessed to my disapproving parent.

  While my mother embarked upon yet another of her endless lectures, my ever-patient daughter began packing.

  What I didn’t tell them was that I didn’t even possess the funds for the journey. I wrote to Sheridan from Dover, opening my heart to ask for a loan.

  Mr dear Sheridan,

  You will perhaps be surprised to hear that after an irreproachable connection of more than ten years, I am suffered to depart, an exile from my country and all my hopes, for a few paltry debts. I sail this evening for Calais. Alone, broken-hearted, and without twenty pounds on the face of the earth …

  Of course I was not quite alone, but I begged him to make no mention of this request to Tarleton. ‘He will triumph in my sorrows and delight in hearing me humbled. I am finishing an opera in three acts, which I mean to offer you. I think it will succeed. At least I hope so. Pray send me a line.’

  My old friend took pity on me and sent me one hundred guineas by express messenger, saying he had previously won the sum from my lover in a bet, so it was only just and proper that it should be returned to me.

  I left for France the very next evening with my mother, Maria, and my loyal servants who carried me on board. I wondered if I would ever see Ban again.

  It was a most pleasant day for a sail, the sea calm, the breeze a warm caress on my pale cheeks as we settled on deck in the summer sunshine. But my thoughts turned inward and, seated in my chair, I reached for my pen. Pouring my emotion on to the page I began to write: ‘Bounding billow, cease thy motion, Bear me not so swiftly o’er …’ The poem ran to several stanzas but was heartrending to write.

  I have lov’d thee, – dearly lov’d thee,

  Through an age of worldly woe;

  How ungrateful I have prov’d thee

  Let my mournful exile show!

  And despite our differences how every day I’d loved him more.

  By the time it was done we had landed in Calais, and Maria had copied it out and arranged for the steward to post it to the Oracle on the ship’s return. I knew they would be certain to publish it.

  ‘My intention is for us to go to Brother George, Mama, in Leghorn, but we can stop off at Spa first, so that I might benefit from a short bout of treatment before we embark on such a long journey.’

  We soon discovered that our plans must be put on hold as France was in turmoil. Having declared war on Austria the roads were full of marching troops, the very air thick with tension. We had no option but to remain in Calais, along with several dozen other frustrated passengers, until we could safely return home. I became unwell so was not fit to
travel when the rest of our party left, but obliged to stay on. More terrifying still, in early August news reached us that the king’s Swiss Guard had been massacred in the Tuileries, and the royal family taken to the grim fortress known as the Temple. A republic had been declared.

  While we were struggling to get our heads around this calamitous news, my husband arrived. I stared at him in astonishment. ‘What is this? Did Sheridan tell you where I was? If so, that was very wrong of him, although your journey has been wasted, Tommy, as I have no money to give you. I have none even for myself.’

  He gently kissed me on each cheek. ‘I’m not here for money, but for my daughter.’

  ‘What?’ I stared at him in horror. ‘She is eighteen years old, a young woman grown. Why would you come for her now, when you have paid her no heed these long years past?’

  ‘I come on her behalf, not mine. I bring an offer from my brother, Commodore William Robinson, who is willing to sponsor her in society. Would you not like that, Mary, since you are unable to fund her coming-out yourself?’

  I longed to refute this, but had to bite back the sharp words tumbling in my head as it was all too true. I could do little for my daughter, nothing in fact.

  Seeing that I was in want of an argument, he turned to her with a smile. ‘Your Uncle William is well-placed and can do much for you, Maria. He has insisted, however, that you agree to relinquish both your parents. Hard as it may be for you to leave your mother, I’m sure she will be happy to cope alone for your sake. Is that not true, Mary?’

  ‘Of course, if that is what she wants.’ I managed a smile, wishing as ever not to be a burden to my child.

  But Maria was a young lady with a mind of her own and stepped forward to stand before her neglectful father. ‘Mama and I have never been separated and I do not intend us ever to be so.’

  ‘I would suggest you think on this matter a little more before you decide,’ my husband gently chided. ‘The offer is, after all, in your best interest.’

  ‘Why is it?’ Maria challenged him. ‘I am quite happy with my life as it is.’

  ‘But you surely wish to be brought out?’ Tommy protested. ‘How else will you find a suitable husband?’

  ‘When – if – I should ever desire to marry, I will choose my own husband.’

  I put my crooked hands together and applauded this sentiment. ‘Well said, darling girl.’ Even my mother, I noticed, made no protest.

  ‘In any case, Mama is not well enough to sail at present, and I will not leave her in dire straits.’

  The subject, it appeared, was closed. Over the next week or two Tommy did his utmost to persuade Maria to change her mind, but she remained adamant. And then who should arrive next but Tarleton. For once, I did not fall into his arms, much as I might long to, but regarded him with a somewhat jaundiced eye. He soon drew me to one side and opened his heart to me.

  ‘I read your poem, Mary, and confess the sweet words of your undying love resonated in my heart. It would in any case have drawn me to your side, were I not already about to take ship for these shores.’

  I looked at him, not sure what he was trying to say. ‘I don’t quite understand. Are you saying you came because of my poem, or not?’

  ‘These are dangerous times in France, and once I realised where you were, and how you still felt about me, I was anxious to put things right between us. However, since I am fluent in French and have influential friends, I have been asked to carry out a mission and report on certain matters.’

  ‘What matters? To whom?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say but am bound for Paris.’

  ‘You are gathering information on the war, on the revolution? So you did not come for me at all.’

  ‘I would tell you if I could, but you were, and always will be, my major concern, Mary. You must know in your heart that I have no wish to lose you.’

  I melted into his arms and he kissed me, as only Ban knows how. ‘Nor I you, my darling.’

  ‘Before I depart, I mean to see you safely aboard a ship bound for Dover, and I swear I will be gone no more than ten days at most.’

  Once more reassured of his love, it was astonishing how quickly my health recovered, and we parted friends and as lovers once more. He saw us safely settled on board ship, and not a moment too soon as only days after we sailed there was news of a further uprising in Paris with all British banned from leaving France.

  We arrived safely in early September and settled in at 13 St James’s Place, where I anxiously waited for Ban to come to me. But as the days slipped by with still no sign, my anxiety increased daily. Paris was not a safe place to be at this time. By the end of the month I was close to despair when the door suddenly burst open and in he strode, as if he could not get to me fast enough. Laughing and kissing me, he carried me to my room where we completed our reunion with a passion more fervent even than usual. He smelled of sea air and foreign parts, of male sweat and ship’s dust. Oh, but how I loved him, how I delighted in having his arms about me again, to savour his burning trail of kisses over my naked flesh and revel in the joy of his loving. He was the most infuriating, impossible man, and completely irresistible.

  ‘But why did your mission take so long? You promised me you would be away no more than ten days,’ I pouted.

  ‘I was delayed over a problem in obtaining a passport, but the moment my ship docked I rushed to your side, my love. Did you miss me very badly?’ he teased, winding an auburn curl about one finger.

  ‘Not at all,’ I airily remarked. ‘I am quite indifferent to your presence.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that by your response.’ We both laughed, then as he licked my nipple with his tongue, we were instantly making love all over again. Eventually, when we paused long enough for me to catch my breath, I asked him about his trip.

  ‘How was Paris?’

  His smile instantly faded. ‘The day you sailed, Mary, I was listening to the mobs shouting “A la Lanterne!” in the streets of Paris. They’d broken into one of the jails, dragged out the prisoners and battered and hacked them to death on the assumption they were royalists. I seized my only chance to escape by pretending to be a part of the crowd and ran along with them, shouting “A la Lanterne!” as loudly as any.’

  ‘Oh, Ban, that must have been utterly terrifying.’

  ‘I tried not to dwell on what would have happened had they discovered my nationality. To witness such a horror would bring tears of pity from the most iron heart that ever inhabited the breast of man. The next day while I was dining with your would-be lover the Duc de Chartes, now promoted to the Duke of Orleans, we heard further disturbance in the street. The guests all hurried to look out of the window, but wished we hadn’t when we saw the mutilated head of the Princess Lamballe held on a pike.’

  I put my crabbed hands to my face in dismay. ‘Was she not companion to Marie Antoinette?’

  ‘She was indeed,’ he gravely agreed. ‘But let us dwell no more on such horrors. Put on your finest gown, my love, as we are going out on the town, starting with the theatre.’

  Giggling with delight I rang for my maid. ‘But first I have a gift for you, Ban.’ I slid a gold ring on to his finger. ‘It is to celebrate our reunion.’

  ‘My darling, how very generous you are to me.’

  ‘Wait, there is more. I have written a poem especially for the occasion.’

  He laughed. ‘Of course you have.’

  I spoke the words softly to him, filled with my love.

  Oh! Take these little easy chains,

  And may they hold you while you live;

  For know each magic link contains

  The richest treasure I can give!

  He said nothing, but I swear there were tears in his eyes.

  Later, when I was gowned and bejewelled, my hair dressed and powdered to perfection, he lifted me in his arms, placed me in a carriage, and we drove to the Haymarket Theatre. I was glowing with happiness.

  Our domestic life was all tranquillity and ha
ppiness once more, but Ban found himself caught up in the midst of a controversy that pitted Tory against Whig. The newspapers were speculating on why he had gone to Paris, since the Whigs were against war with France. The Tories, on the other hand, were readying their weapons, so where, the press asked, did Tarleton stand?

  ‘For peace,’ he declared, making his opinions clear in Parliament. ‘A war would destroy Liverpool’s commercial livelihood, and I am a faithful Whig. Britain must avoid involving herself in another war.’

  ‘I agree with you absolutely,’ I told him, determined to offer my full support.

  Whatever our opinion on the matter, the clouds of war continued to gather and on the twenty-first of January 1793 Louis XVI, or Citizen Capet as he was now called, was guillotined. It is difficult to describe how we felt, beyond being utterly horrified by such an outcome and fearful for the rest of the royal family and our friends.

  ‘I hope to join the Duke of York’s campaign in Flanders,’ Ban declared. ‘I have already offered to raise a regiment.’

  Sadly, he fell ill and was compelled to sit back and watch his comrades depart without him.

  ‘Fate seems to be saying that my fighting days are over,’ he mourned.

  In August 1793 my mother died, and although we had often been at odds, her loss was a great blow to me. She had been at my side for my entire life and I could not contemplate the reality of a future without her. I then suffered a fall while staying at Cobham in Surrey, when the steps down which my servant was carrying me gave way. I was badly cut about the head and it was a month before I felt well enough to return to London.

  But Madame Fate was not done with us yet.

  Having recovered sufficiently to be back in the saddle, Ban sprained his knee so violently that he was again confined to quarters, as he called it, this time until late October. By then we were contentedly living at Englefield Cottage in Windsor, but my poor darling had been reduced to life as an invalid for almost the entire year, I acting as his most devoted nurse. Who better to understand the meaning of his pain?

  ‘What a pair of crotchety old cripples we are,’ I would laughingly tease him. But the year of 1793 was turning out to be far more devastating for our friends in France. I was particularly concerned for the queen, as it seemed her head too could soon be on the block.