A Heart Too Proud

by Laura London

  He laughed harshly. “Come now, Christopher couldn’t be that bad a lover for all his tender years. Especially if that little ballet dancer he supported last year is any indication. She seemed happy with the arrangement.”

  And then, because I couldn’t think of anything mean enough to say back, out of sheer shaking temper I hit him. My novel-reading sisters would have been so pleased to see me imitate the behavior of their favorite heroines, and for a split-second I felt a vaguely surprised pride in myself—I didn’t know that I had it in me. My satisfaction lived less than a heartbeat though, dying with one look at Lord Peterby’s face. His arm slid down the wall and he grabbed me with iron fingers.

  “God damn you, you little slut,” he snarled. “I’ll break you in half if you try that again.”

  Tears of rage sprang into my eyes. “Go ahead. I’d rather endure a beating than put up with your hateful advances. If I were a man you wouldn’t dare to stand here telling despicable lies about Christopher.”

  “By God, if you were a man… You’d better spend your time learning to be a woman first if you intend to keep Christopher interested. Let me give you a lesson in womanhood.” His merciless hands dragged me behind him through the nearby bushes. My heart jumped to my throat, blocking a scream as I realized the peril of my situation. I gathered my breath for another attempt, only to feel Peterby’s hands close tightly over my lips.

  “Be silent,” he growled. We came to a rectangle of light that I recognized as a window in the yellow stone gatehouse that our carriage had passed on the way into Ingram Park.

  “Now look in the window and see how a real woman behaves.”

  Shocked, apprehensive, I did as he commanded. Inside stood Lady Catherine and Lord Dearborne, locked in a torrid embrace. A large ruby winked malevolently on the marquis’s hand as he caressed Lady Catherine’s bare shoulder. Their relationship was no secret to me, but there was something very powerful about observing it with my own eyes. I turned to look at Peterby, who was leaning against the building, his arms crossed casually in front of him.

  “If you aspire to the demimonde, then take a lesson from London’s leading strumpet. Lady Cat knows all the tricks.” He took my chin roughly between his fingers. “When you decide you’ve had enough of the adolescent set, look me up. I’ll be very generous.” He turned on his heel and left me alone and shivering.

  Luckily, Christopher and Anne interpreted my stony silence on the way home from the ball as exhaustion. They tactfully suggested that we all retire immediately upon arrival at Lorne House. I lay sleepless in bed listening to the sounds of the great house quieting down for the night. I tossed restlessly for some time before relighting my candle and looking about for something readable. Unfortunately, I had no promising volume at hand and began to think wistfully of Lord Dearborne’s well-stocked library downstairs. Crawling out of bed, I hunted through my Hepplewhite tallboy for a warm dressing gown, as my nightdress was one wispy layer of white chiffon.

  The house was in absolute slumber as I slipped down the stairs. On entering the library, I was delighted to find that someone had left a fire burning in the polished steel grate; it had been a chilly evening.

  I sat primly on the Queen Anne damask sofa and opened a leather-bound book of Shakespearean sonnets. The words blurred before my eyes and transformed themselves into visions of Sir Lesley boiling in a cauldron of bubbling oil. I relaxed and let my mind flow aimlessly upon that pleasant channel. Before the fire lay a beautiful pelt of an enormous white bear that Christopher had informed me was a gift to Lord Dearborne from a Russian diplomat. I tiptoed over and rubbed my bare toes in the soft fur. I was getting tired now, especially since having my imaginary revenge on Lord Peterby. But I had no particular desire to leave this cozy room and slide between my cold sheets. I slipped out of my heavy dressing gown to lay down on the shaggy bearskin, my loose hair spilling comfortably around me. After all, there was very little chance of anyone coming here at this time of the night, and anyway, if anyone did come, I could hear their footsteps in the corridor and easily hop up and pull on my dressing gown. That was my last thought before I fell asleep.

  Sometime later I felt strong arms encircle my shoulders, arms that had an endearingly comfortable familiarity about them. I snuggled closer into them and vaguely heard a low chuckle. I had a sensation of being lifted. Eventually I was aware that the cradling arms had left and I made a whimpered protest. “Time to sleep,” whispered a voice. When I awoke the next morning I was sure that it had been a dream, except I had gone to sleep on the library floor. Why did I wake up in my own bed?

  Chapter Twelve

  At breakfast the next morning I astonished Christopher with a long, impassioned diatribe against the blind prejudice and injustice of conventions that decreed women ineligible to fight in duels. And because men could fight in duels was precisely the reason that I didn’t tell Christopher the things Lesley Peterby had said to me in the Ingrams’ garden. You never know but what Kit might take it in his head to do if he thought my honor had been questioned. Questioned? That adder Peterby had gone further than questioning! My memory dwelt fondly on the slap I had dealt him and I smiled privately at my own audacity.

  I looked at Kit across the breakfast table, where he sat in his patterned dressing gown with a Belcher scarf knotted loosely around his neck. He was gazing gloomily at the front page of the newspaper and taking small sips from a steaming coffee cup. I wondered what he would say if I asked him if he’d had a ballet dancer as a mistress last year. Probably spill his coffee, drop his newspaper and stammer, “Well, really,” for half an hour. My favorite playmate had some pretty fancy toys. Still, it was none of my business to puff up like a Puritan about it.

  Briefly, too, I considered sending a note to Lord Peterby telling him that if he ever decided to jump off a cliff, I, for one, wouldn’t die of heartbreak. I abandoned the idea. I could imagine the reaction of the marquis’s starchy underfootman if I asked him to deliver a note to Lord Peterby for me.

  I knew, somewhere in my heart of hearts, that the most painful shock of last evening had been the sight of Lady Catherine in Lord Dearborne’s arms. You have to be an awfully rigid moralist to deprecate a man kissing his inamorata, so I was forced to admit it was not the moral aspect of the sight that had left me with such a queasy feeling in my stomach. There was one logical explanation, but it was just too unpalatable. I wasn’t jealous, I couldn’t be, it was impossible, absurd. I forced myself to stop thinking about it but I was shaken, nonetheless.

  After breakfast, Lady Anne took my sisters and me on a shopping expedition to New Bond Street. I was glad for the chance to go. I wanted to buy a pair of silk stockings for my friend Janey Coleman.

  I suppose someone could have slipped the note into my reticule anytime that morning, in any of the crowded shops or busy sidewalks. Anyway, it was there when I got home. On one side of the note was a sentimental ballad, the kind ragged children sell for ha’pennies. But on the other, in a light, backhand scrawl: “Do you want to learn more about Henri’s death? Tell no one about this note and come alone to the Cuckold’s Comfort gin shoppe at the hour of ten tonight! There is Danger, do not Fail.” There was an address at the bottom of the page, presumably that of the “gin shoppe,” and it was signed, simply, Bon Chance. Good luck?

  I thought for a moment of Pandora’s box, but admitted I was more influenced by the adventures of Jason and the Argonauts. Could I turn down a teaser like “there is danger”? Not while there is a thimble of spirit left in me. I spent the rest of the day planning my outing.

  To get out of the house unnoticed, I devised a master plan of great cunning and verve—wait until no one is looking and sneak out! Rope ladders are strictly for elopements.

  The success of the plan hinged upon being able to stay home from the theater that night. As Christopher and Anne were engaged to go with a large group of friends, they could scarcely cancel the entire party to stay home with me if I pleaded ill. I underestimated them. When I
announced that I wanted to stay home to nurse a sick headache, they showed such alarming solicitude that if I ever really do get a headache, I’m certainly never going to tell them! I fought off attempts to summon physicians, to burn feathers under my nose, and a dosing with a potion that Lady Anne assured me her mother had sworn by. I finally took the potion to satisfy her and let me tell you that I can see why her mother swore by it. It made me want to swear at it.

  Dear Mrs. Goodbody rescued me by chasing everyone out of my room, saying that I was overtired and would do very well if I could have some time to rest. She told Christopher and Anne that they would only distress me if they stayed home too. She didn’t know how right she was. If she knew that she was assisting me in a gambol around London at night she would have had a fit.

  I chose my attire for the evening with more care than I had expended on the most fashionable gatherings. Deciding that it was best to look as inconspicuous as possible, I donned a battered gray poplin gown of pre–Lord Dearborne days, completing the ensemble with a plain straw bonnet. Whispering a quick prayer, I sneaked down the smooth marble staircase, rather guiltily, with a petition to Vesta, protector of virgins.

  Once out in the street it was fairly simple to find a hackney coach to convey me to the address on the note. The jarvey shook his head when he saw the address. He followed the head-shake with a long lecture on the evils of gin, going on at such length that I feared I would never reach my destination. Of all the hacks in London, I would have to get one driven by a Methodist.

  I am glad this Methodist knew the way because I would never have found it on my own. I stepped down in front of the Cuckold’s Comfort a little early, and cast about for a while, killing time. It was the first time I had really been immersed in the streets of London, and I found it fascinating. I was not frightened, but instead felt comforted by the bustle and clamor of the crowd, which appeared to be going at full bore even though it was nearly ten o’clock. I stopped for a few minutes to watch a Punch-and-Judy show, but gave up as it was impossible to follow the action over the full-throated yelling of the throng. Ballad singers were crooning loudly and melodiously; political pamphleteers were hawking their wares from street corners and arguing venomously among themselves and with passersby. All sorts of vendors were selling all sorts of things—cat’s-meat, cheese, tissue-paper flowers—to what seemed to me a largely indifferent crowd intent on brushing past each other in the greatest hurry to be somewhere else. I was somewhat shocked at the number of children on the scene, scampering through the hustle and bustle playing tag, jump-the-knacker, and threepenny hop. This at an hour when my sisters were safe and sound in their beds. I saw one group of naughty boys harassing the poor lamplighter, who was doing his best to keep the scene illuminated. Every time he would nearly have the flame lit on the corner, one of the boys would run up behind and yank his coattails hard enough to throw him off balance; he would lose the flame and have to start over again.

  I left this not unfriendly scene with some regrets, to make my way into the Cuckold’s Comfort. The powerful, acrid smell and smoke of the interior set me at odds for a moment as I peered about. The place was very crowded, shoulder to threadbare shoulder, and everyone was shouting at once, just like on the street outside. The furnishings consisted of long, roughhewn wooden tables. I peered into the rough, grimy faces of the men and women near to me and received nothing back but a few uncomfortably appraising stares.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea whom I was looking for. The note had been unspecific on this point. I mentally floundered, forcing down a wave of nausea. I suppose I had envisioned a secluded, unfrequented little club, not this raw pandemonium. There was nothing to do but wait for a time and perhaps my correspondent would seek me out. I stood by the door in what I hoped was a conspicuous place. It proved to be too conspicuous. A group of three ragged-looking, odoriferous men soon materialized out of the crowd to stand near to me, leering and talking in low, dirty voices. I made a sign with my fingers at them, something Christopher had taught me, and they took their attentions elsewhere. I made a mental note to learn from Christopher the exact meaning of that handy sign.

  The harassment was undeniably making me nervous, so I decided to sit down. Earlier, I had noticed a gabby old woman sitting in a corner who grabbed the ear of anyone who went by and talked to them unintelligibly and interminably. As a consequence, she was eventually left quite alone. I decided it would go easier for me if it looked like I was with someone; this woman was the likeliest candidate. Before joining her, I laid a coin down on the rough bar like I had seen others doing, and the bartender, after some long, jostled moments, responded by desultorily sliding a flagon of gin down to me.

  “Little young for the old Blue Ruin, eh miss?” he said. It was obvious that he would have sold the gin to a babe in arms.

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said tartly. I couldn’t tell if he heard me or not. I picked up the flagon and made my way to the old woman. Sitting down next to her, I copied the slouch of the people around me and unobtrusively let fall some strands of hair from my too-neat coiffure. To pass the time, I began listening with half an ear to my companion, scanning the crowd for my contact all the while.

  “To think that I, the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette, would be reduced to selling fish in the market. And damn good fish they are too,” she was saying. “Fish is good for a pretty young lady like yourself, ain’t that right? Ain’t that right, I say?” I nodded vigorously. “Ye’re a young woman of sense to treat me so politely. Even though I sell fish in the market I am the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette. I will remember you and when I am restored to the throne of France I will reward you. You can be a lady-in-waiting.”

  The appointment struck me as being a mixed blessing. Lady-in-waiting to a gin-swilling old fishmonger sitting on the throne of France. I observed the crowd. In some ways it was not very different from those at some of the posh parties I had been to of late. They shouted the toast “bung-ho” with the same amount of rough, brawling energy that the men of my acquaintance would shout “to our gracious monarch,” or some such patriotic phrase. They, too, were arguing about politics, though with a slight difference in viewpoint. But their opinions seemed to me just as valid. Everyone argues the same under the influence of hard liquor, regardless of social class. I reflected on how well-rounded this experience was going to make me; I had now observed all facets of English society firsthand, low-life taverns to high society balls.

  As time went on, though, my reflections grew more dismal. No mysterious informant appeared and I was beginning to wonder if anyone would show up at all. I knew I had been here at least an hour, for it seemed far longer. Perhaps the writer of the note was unable to keep the rendezvous. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to get me a message telling me not to come. Perhaps… but my head was aching so from the smoke and the noise that I didn’t feel able to sort it out now. I had better just get home before anyone noticed that I was missing.

  Having made the decision to leave, I discovered I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I stood up abruptly, and the old woman spilled her flagon of gin down the front of my dress, muttering a drunken apology as she did so. I hastily began to make my way through the crowd.

  “Oh, I’m s’ sorry, miss, please come back,” wailed the old woman. “I am the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette.”

  Two more steps and I would be out the door. The night air felt good in my lungs. I inhaled it deeply and looked about for a hackney. There were none in sight. Furthermore, the vendors had disappeared and the crowd had thinned out alarmingly. I suppressed an uneasy feeling and decided that my best course would be to walk in the direction the hackney had come and I would eventually run into a main thoroughfare. So I embarked, using as firm a footstep as I could muster. It was best not to look irresolute to anyone who might be observing me. There were a few groups of men wandering about, some of them listing sharply, and before I walked very far, I
nearly tripped over what appeared to be a pile of old clothes in the dimly lit street. The pile of old clothes grunted like a sow in the barnyard, and turned out to have human form.

  “Oh, excuse me,” I said, but the old wreck only looked at me with stark terror in its eyes and shambled down the street, caroming occasionally off a lamppost.

  I walked on, hoping my thoroughfare was around the next bend. The bend turned out to be a twist, then a jog, and I began to realize it was impossible to walk directly to anything in this section of London. I paused for a moment to ascertain my bearings, but walked on when I noticed a man in a doorway to my left flipping a dagger over and over in his hand, the blade glinting in the light from the lamp on the corner. There seemed to be another tavern up ahead; I could ask for directions there; but when I reached it, the people sitting on the steps in front formed a wall with their eyes and I passed quickly without looking at them. It was getting very dark now. A rat skittered in front of me and I heard dripping water. It was a maze. I tried to think clearly. I couldn’t bear to go back to the Cuckold’s Comfort and would probably never find my way anyway; perhaps I should change direction.

  Off to my left was an alley, running downhill; I peered into it for signs of habitation. Perhaps that would do. I took off down it, faltering now in spite of myself as it made another sharp turn. It was so dark now I could see almost nothing. A feminine voice spoke in my ear:

  “It’s a little lost lamb strayed from the flock. Shall we help it find the way, girls?”

  Maybe there were decent people in this horrible place after all, I thought to myself.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “Where are we? Where are you?” echoed another voice.

  “We are over here,” said a third female voice. A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me so violently into what was probably a doorway that my teeth snapped.

  “Let me go,” I begged, unable to scream.