The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad

by Jean Burnett

  ‘You have been cold towards me,’ Dom Pedro crooned in my ear. ‘Come here you saucy rabbit!’ He lunged forward as the carriage swung around a corner.

  ‘But, sire,’ I protested, to no avail.

  ‘You arouse dark passions in my breast,’ he continued before lapsing into a mixture of Portuguese and French, apparently exhausted by the effort of speaking a few English sentences. I was not greatly diverted.

  We drove fast into the hills towards the Botanical Gardens. My lace mantilla was thrown into a corner of the carriage and the elegant cut work border on my lemon coloured gown was badly crumpled. We stopped among the giant trees in the gardens and tumbled out into the dazzling afternoon.

  ‘We will have a peekneek,’ announced Dom Pedro as he commanded servants to lay out covers and cushions in the place where our bucolic revels would take place. I settled myself down with a wary eye out for the teeming, chirruping wildlife.

  My royal admirer waved away his retainers and they settled themselves on the other side of the carriage, making a barrier between us.

  ‘Now we are alone,’ the prince whispered unnecessarily. The scene was an extraordinary one. I experienced a sense of deja vu. How many times had I been in this situation? I tried to collect my wits, knowing that it was important to keep the prince engaged in conversation, but the language problem made this difficult. A vision of Queen Carlota’s twisted countenance swam before my eyes.

  ‘Your Highness,’ I said in my best Portuguese, ‘I fear your mother would not approve of this tryst.’ The prince laid his head on my shoulder in a winsome manner.

  ‘My mother is a beetch,’ he declared in English. I was at a loss.

  ‘Dona Leopoldina…’ I began, a note of desperation creeping into my voice.

  ‘She is not here,’ he replied with relentless logic. Dom Pedro sat up and began to pour liberal glasses of port. We sat in silence propping each other up for a while and after a few glasses of this fortified wine we were overcome by heat and fumes and fell asleep.

  When I awoke, the prince’s head was again resting on my shoulder and a slave was fanning us with a giant palm leaf. My head and shoulders ached and I felt very thirsty.

  After wriggling away from Dom Pedro, I signalled to the servants to convey their master to the carriage and return to the palace. He snored gently all the way home and I slipped back to my apartment unobserved. No doubt he would manage things better at our next meeting.

  A messenger was waiting to inform me that Adelaide and the Luccombes were still anxiously scouring the city for me and if I returned in the meantime I should send word to them. I instructed the messenger to escort Adelaide back and to apologise to my hosts saying that I had lost them in the crowd and returned home alone.

  Eufrasia brought me lemonade and I retired to rest. Anxious thoughts merged into disagreeable dreams as I wondered what would happen if Dona Leopoldina became aware of her husband’s interest in me – not to mention the Countess of K.

  The goblin that controls my destiny had been active, I discovered. Unknown to me, I was observed descending from Dom Pedro’s carriage by one of the palace servants who spied for Queen Carlota. Although the queen does not live at the palace, preferring her house in Botafogo, she maintains an army of informers to keep her abreast of the goings on at her husband’s court.

  Adelaide warned me that the servants were abuzz with the news and I was eventually summoned to the queens’ presence where she accused me of bringing her son into ‘disrepute.’ This was so obviously absurd that I do not know how I was able to keep from laughing aloud.

  ‘Nothing disreputable occurred, your majesty, I swear,’ I assured her. The queen waved me away with another muttered remark about the perfidious English. When I returned to my apartment Adelaide exclaimed about how ‘it doesn’t do to become entangled with married men. Remember what happened with the count, madam.’

  ‘I do not need any reminders, Adelaide,’ I replied. ‘I also recall your adventures with the baker and his wife when we were in Venice.’ She went off muttering prophecies of doom and later I heard her warbling a bawdy verse called “The Virgin’s Last Resolve.”

  I retired to bed that night in very low spirits, watching from my window a moon so bright it seemed positively indecent. The night air lay around me, heavy and thick like brown velvet.

  February 10th

  Preparations have been concluded for the long-delayed coronation of Dom João.

  He could not be crowned officially until the priests were sure that the soul of his mother, Queen Maria, had left purgatory. I began to understand this attitude despite my Anglican upbringing. Brazil, in all its murderous, insect-ridden beauty was proving to be purgatorial for me and I had so far not received one diamond as consolation.

  I did not have long to wait for the goblin of doom to be active once more. A few days later I received a note from Dom Pedro inviting me to visit the markets with him, ‘To see the city in the raw.’ The unmarked carriage arrived to convey me to the meeting place. There was no way I could refuse this offer. The prince’s word is law and his every whim is indulged. The king is becoming more and more reclusive, spending his time at his country residence, and Dona Leopoldina is pregnant, largely immobile, and quite depressed. Dom Pedro holds centre stage and obviously I was to be his next conquest. Queen Carlota stood poised in the wings to make trouble for everyone, especially for me.

  ‘You should ask for some of them diamonds, madam,’ Adelaide advised. ‘At least you will have something to show for your trouble.’

  I pondered on my royal encounters as I drove to the meeting place. My brief time with the Prince Regent had been fraught with danger, thanks to Jerry Sartain. Dom Pedro would be an improvement in most respects. If I was destined to be a mistress rather than a wife at least I would be a royal mistress. I invoked the spirit of Nell Gwyn as I drove on.

  Dom Pedro greeted me, again dressed as an ordinary soldier.

  We walked in the markets where they sell everything from sugar to slaves to fruit and exotic birds and beasts of all kinds. My heart was almost broken when I heard a beautiful black and yellow bird, a type of oriole called a sofrê, singing a sad, tender song as it beat its wings against a cage. I paid to have it released. When we returned to the palace Dom Pedro said, ‘I will come to your apartment later, chérie.’ In the circumstances, I could only agree.

  As I waited for the prince I thought I heard the sofrê singing its plaintive tune, so different from Napoleon’s squawking and cursing. The prince found the bird amusing. He threatened to bring me an orange-gold tamarin monkey as an extra pet – ‘A companion for Napoleon.’ Everything is a great joke to him. ‘There is a bald-headed, red-faced monkey here. We have named it macaco Inglês – English monkey!’ I was not amused.

  Some rudiments of good sense and propriety came to my aid and I resolved to refuse Dom Pedro’s attentions once again. To my surprise he received my refusal in good part.

  ‘I have not sought your good opinion, sire, and I do not deserve it,’ I assured him.

  ‘But you have it, chérie,’ he replied. ‘Do not concern yourself.’ He leaned towards me and I reared back, forcing him to clutch a handful of my gown. I froze for fear of hearing a rending sound. How could I appear before Dona Leopoldina in a torn gown?

  Dom Pedro released me and waved a hand nonchalantly. ‘Shall we take coffee?’ He led me outside to his unofficial receiving room, the unmarked carriage. He handed me in and we drove off in sight of numerous attendants.

  The prince produced silver-topped containers and poured tiny cups of coffee. I noted that he did not spill a drop after so many years of practice. The tiny cup wobbled as I raised it to my lips. I took a sip and tried to appeal to the higher moral nature that I feared he did not possess. ‘I am now totally compromised, your highness,’ I said, with no attempt to disguise the reproach in my voice.

  ‘Do not fear anything, Meez Wickham. You are under my protection and I am the most powerful man in the king
dom – almost.’ He recollected his reclusive father for a moment.

  I was treated to another toothy smile as he produced a box from under a seat. ‘I have a gift for you, chérie. I hope it will amuse you.’ From its shape I could see that it could not possibly contain any exotic birds. Another parrot would have been beyond intolerable.

  The box contained an ivory and ostrich feather fan, painted on one side with a view of Guanabara Bay and the Sugar Loaf and on the other with a message from the prince – and signed by him. He said it was a quotation from a famous Portuguese poet. Naturally, I could not appear in public with this item.

  We drove around for a while and he confided in me. I was made privy to his feelings of frustration and resentment about his status. Exiled from Portugal, ‘That poor little country,’ as he called it, he dreams of ruling the vast lands of Brazil, ‘A country worthy of an Emperor.’ I suppose all heirs in waiting feel this way. Unlike his mother, who hates Brazil, Dom Pedro loves his tropical realm. His father, the king, also loves the place. I wonder if deep down they realise they will have to return home one day. I would have to relay all this information to Mr Luccombe later.

  As we drove, he produced roasted grasshopper from his pocket which he relishes as a snack. He tried to tempt me with this delicacy but I declined. ‘They taste like hazelnuts and have the consistency of shrimp,’ he explained. Shrimp, shrimp paste, manioc meal, black beans and rice, how happy I will be never to eat these things again. When we returned to the palace, Dom Pedro bade me a fond farewell assuring me of his devotion and his speedy return. I made a deep curtsy as he departed.

  I had not thought the prince capable of playing a waiting game, but he continues to seek my company and woo me with little gifts. I am now the talk of the court, but if Dona Leopoldina has heard anything she ignores it. Her attitude towards me remains unchanged.

  Chapter 6

  February 16th

  A few days later, Adelaide handed me a letter from Dom Pedro in which he informed me that he had commissioned an artist to undertake a secret assignment and that I should be ready to pose for this artist in a day or two. Immediately, I fell into a state of great excitement at the prospect of having my likeness painted. I would be immortalised.

  ‘Adelaide,’ I commanded, ‘you must make a cull of my gowns, reserving only the best. I will select some jewellery.’ I would need to have my hair washed, curled and enhanced. The following day passed in a happy contemplation of my appearance and how I would appear to posterity. I wondered, in passing, why I was not to sit for the artist in his studio, but no doubt he would explain matters.

  In the event my anticipation was a little premature. At lunchtime I found Adelaide unwell after agreeing to partake of a meal consisting of beef, rice and pumpkin with toasted manioc, accompanied by a terrifyingly hot chili sauce. She lay gasping on her bed, occasionally burying her face and lolling tongue completely in a bowl of water. She was hors de combat for a good three quarters of an hour and I was obliged to have tea served by Eufrasia, who never manages to brew it to my taste. I closed my eyes and imagined myself drinking orange pekoe at Longbourn, with a light English drizzle falling gently outside.

  When my maid recovered the power of speech she accused Eufrasia of tricking her into eating the food, calling her ‘a black devil’. The slave girl quickly disappeared from view after throwing murderous glances at Adelaide. Now I am bedevilled with servant problems in my hour of need. In truth, I was alarmed at Adelaide’s suffering but she has recovered quite well, although still not able to assist me with my toilette.

  I summoned Eufrasia and berated her sharply. ‘You cannot behave to my maid in that manner,’ I told her. ‘Remember your place, my girl. I have treated you well and I do not expect to be served so ill.’ Adelaide tottered in at that moment urging me in a hoarse voice to ‘sell the wench in the slave market.’ I could not do such a cruel thing but Eufrasia bared her teeth in a sinister manner and scuttled away like a rat with a chicken bone. I was quite discombobulated for a moment but I returned quickly to the problem of preparing myself for the portrait as a monumental effort was required. I instructed my maid to give directions as I attempted to arrange myself. Unfortunately, her voice disappeared after a few minutes and she resorted to miming directions.

  Dom Pedro arrived with the artist to find me curled and adorned to perfection (or close to it) in sea green silk and white lace. The prince appeared not to notice my finery saying that he had commissioned lovers’ eyes, the miniature portraits popularised by the Prince Regent. As always, he was aware of English fashion.

  ‘You will wear a tiny portrait of my brown eye, chérie, and I will wear your beautiful blue eye.’ So much for my gowns and hairstyle.

  The matter was concluded quickly. The artist made a sketch of my eye which would be painted on to a tiny piece of ivory. He took Dom Pedro’s likeness in the same way and as he was preparing to depart, the door of my chamber was flung open and a royal servant announced Dona Leopoldina.

  We all froze, as far as anyone can do such a thing in this climate. The artist shielded his face with his sketchbook as if this action would render him invisible. I found that I had been holding my breath for several seconds and it expired with a gasp. Dom Pedro remained nonchalant, as always. He advanced on his wife and attempted to embrace her but could not encompass her bulk. She spat a sentence in German which sounded most uncomplimentary, so it is as well that he does not understand the language.

  My mistress spied the fan lying on a table and seized it, examining the writing and growing scarlet in the face with fury. She turned to me, exclaiming in English, ‘So this is how you betray me!’ I was overcome with mortification, dear reader. My knowledge of Portuguese was not good enough to translate the verse on the fan. I had accepted the prince’s explanation of it – unwisely, as it turned out.

  Several members of the court crowded around Dona Leopoldina, reading the fan and exclaiming. Contemptuous looks were cast in my direction. It appeared that the verse was a salacious one taken from what Dona Leopoldina described as a ‘filthy modinho’ – one of the popular songs current in Rio. In short, I was summarily dismissed from her service and told not to darken her presence again. As she swept out her husband murmured, ‘Do not upset yourself, my love.’ For a moment I thought he was addressing me.

  When I was alone again – the artist having left with the crowd, followed by the prince, I sank down on a couch in despair, throwing the fan on the floor in disgust. ‘What am I to do?’ I wailed. It was so unjust: after all, I had not even graced the prince’s bed.

  I was at a loss to know where all this would lead. I recalled my unfortunate liaison with the Austrian Count and the episode with the Prince Regent. Close encounters with royalty had not benefited me greatly. Either a title or a number of diamonds might compensate me for an enforced stay in the tropics and a dalliance with Brazil’s swarthy Prince Charming. How could I present this argument to Dom Pedro in a tactful manner? In the event, I did not have the opportunity as I was kept in enforced idleness in my apartment, forbidden to venture near my mistress. Knowing I now had nothing to lose, I made no resistance when the prince returned to my apartment intent on seduction.

  While Eufrasia spread my bed with pristine embroidered French linen, he told me that he planned to take a river journey into the interior on the royal yacht and that I was to accompany him. ‘We will have fun, chérie.’ I smiled sweetly, at a loss to know how to reply to this.

  As we lay together, I looked up at the blue silk hangings I had purchased to make my bed appear more regal. Although Dom Pedro was too swarthy to be described as handsome he was certainly an improvement on the Prince Regent in looks. As a lover, he was energetic and considerate and if I replaced his face with Lord Byron’s in my mind, who was to know? After our lovemaking Eufrasia served our guest with a banana compôte which he ate with great enjoyment. Bananas in every form are adored here.

  Before we left on the voyage I paid a visit to my friends, the L
uccombes, to tell them the news. I can be perfectly frank with them without fear of reproach. Mrs Luccombe clucked and sympathised for a moment, then began complaining that her servants were ‘encroaching’, as she put it. ‘The slaves must be watched like hawks,’ she assured me.

  ‘And then there are the tradespeople here and the Portuguese officials who are either out to rob you or are too unconscionably idle to execute any task,’ she added.

  ‘It is the heat,’ her husband murmured before settling back in his chair and nodding off. Mrs Luccombe and I continued to sit in companionable silence on the veranda, rocking gently and fanning ourselves. It was a peaceful if not very merryfiying afternoon, but I had escaped from the palace for a few hours.

  Mr Luccombe woke with a start at one point and asked me how often I had to kiss the king’s hand. He chuckled over this before nodding off again and I realised that I would never need to kiss the king’s hand again now that I was a pariah. As I sat quietly, I could see a flock of exquisite humming birds in the trees. These tiny creatures are called beija-flor, flower kissers, by the locals. Dreamily, I watched through half closed eyes as the tiny creatures darted back and forth. Some were emerald green with copper rumps, others ruby throated or white-capped. As they sipped from the flowers their wings beat at a frantic speed making a distinctive humming sound.

  They were graceful, beautifully-coloured and useful. If only I could say the same about myself. For a moment I felt as if I was in Paradise. Gone were the mosquito bites, the smells and bodily discomforts, gone were the annoying Portuguese and Austrian aristocrats, the heat that sapped one’s will, the endless shrimp and manioc. I was a dryad flitting between brilliant foliage…

  I woke with a start as Mrs Luccombe prodded my arm. ‘Your mouth was open, Lydia dear. You were beginning to drool.’