I, for my part, have been prepared since childhood for a life of dependency. My expectations were always for a single state and my failure to marry should therefore prove no hardship to me. In light of this, my aunt has impressed upon me the importance of seeing Lady Catherine make a good marriage, so that my future comfort might be secured within her household, or in the households of either of her two brothers, as a lady’s companion.
In these circumstances I must do what is incumbent upon me and beg that you do what is honourable. For the sake of my cousin, who is most powerfully in love with you, make an offer of marriage. In spite of your reduced fortune, I am certain it will not be refused. Their lord-ladyships have always indulged their daughter and wish her to be married according to her desires, provided she has attached her affections to a suitable candidate of upstanding character and family name, of which you have both. Do not delay, sir. I beg you.
As for my own feelings, I hesitate to write of them. Suffice to say, your letter has granted me the greatest happiness my heart has ever known. I will say no more on the subject. A pledge of everlasting friendship, the truest devotion and sisterly affection is what I shall always offer you, as your most adoring,
Henrietta Ingerton
I read my missive several times over and, satisfied that I had acquitted myself in the appropriate manner, sealed the letter.
Allenham had left no address to which I might send a reply, but had given instructions that I write my response addressed simply to Lord A—and that I “leave the letter behind the stone urn to the left side of Melmouth’s north gate, whence it shall be collected.” I can only imagine the lengths he had gone to in hiring a messenger to ride between London and Suffolk.
The following morning, after a night of little rest, I stole away to the north gate and placed the letter in the agreed position.
You may wonder: did I not feel myself to be dishonest in entering into this correspondence? Yes, it is true, the matter played upon my mind a great deal, but I felt as if I had committed no crime in responding as I did, imploring him to marry Lady Catherine. There was no error in this. I did not lead him astray, reader. And what can be said to a man overcome with love? And, worse still, what can be said to a man overcome with love when a love for him lives and breathes in one’s own breast? No, when the entire predicament is considered, you will agree that my actions were noble ones.
In dispatching that answer, I believed there was an end to the matter, as sorrowful as it made me feel. And so you might imagine my surprise when, not two days later, there was another letter sitting in the same position upon my escritoire. I started when I saw it, a mix of dread and thrill rising from my feet into my chest. I carefully shut the door to my bedchamber and snapped the seal.
You have, my beloved angel, confirmed all that I wished to know by your response; that it is true, you do share the passions which I have attempted to suppress. You cannot make me believe otherwise, my darling creature. Your honour and modesty are only two of the becoming qualities which adorn your perfect character. As for me, I am lost. All that I am has crumbled under this terrible torment. I am not the man I felt I was, but some wretched beast who can neither sleep nor eat, but, dear, dear, madam, your letter has offered me hope, it has provided me with a possible solution to the predicament which I face.
You have stated in your letter that your future depends upon your cousin’s marrying, so that you might then be taken into the household of her husband or the households of her brothers. In this there is great hope for our shared happiness, as upon making Lady Catherine my wife, I shall offer you a place in my home as well. Your cousin would not feel the loneliness to which ladies are often prone directly after marriage, and I, madam, should always have the pleasure of your companionship and sisterly affection, as you suggest.
I am most grateful to you, my dear Henrietta, as your letter has convinced me of the correctness of my next step. You will therefore not blame me, but congratulate me for the action I have taken in order to secure this end. Just this night, I have supped with Lord Stavourley and officially applied to him for the hand of his daughter. After learning of my reduced means, he was, I admit, hesitant at first, but he has since been persuaded that with his daughter’s portion and the addition of an income secured through a position in government, we may live comfortably.
The matter is all but agreed and depends only upon your cousin’s concurrence. This, I believe, will be made final when I accompany the Earl to Melmouth in three days’ time. I have written to Lady Catherine to inform her of my visit.
Oh, my dear Henrietta, should it come to pass, I would be made the happiest man alive. I cannot fail to see how the situation would not be agreeable to all concerned. I am until then your most contented and loving,
Allenham
Burn this.
By the time my eyes had taken in his final paragraph, I had fallen upon my knees and clapped my hand to my mouth. The letter trembled in my grasp. The deed had been done! The wheels had been set in motion at my direction—yet something seemed terribly wrong! I had to read his words three or four times before I was certain of his meanings. He had declared his love for me—oh joy! How my heart radiated with heat, how my head spun, yet my soul was filled with such a discord, such dismay and misery! Was this an honourable course upon which to embark? Oh! I did not know! The mind of a girl not yet seventeen is a clouded thing in the best of times, but when in love there is no clarity of judgement, no sense of direction. And what should such a young lady do without the counsel of even one friend or guardian? Have some pity upon me, reader. I was naive and confused. I had no one to whom I could turn. I could not decide what to do. I panted. I held my chest and lay down to think. I read the letter again, this time attempting to calm myself. It seemed different when I did not panic, when I permitted reason to guide me.
When I caught my breath and considered it, there was nothing in his suggestion at all improper. Was it not the very design my uncle had intended for me all along? Did Allenham not propose we live as brother and sister? The more I reasoned, the more I could see that Allenham’s plan was in no way a dishonourable one. He would never have suggested such a deception. Indeed, all parties stood to benefit: Lady Catherine would have Allenham as her husband (which was what she desired); he might have the benefit of a marriage to a suitable wife; I might then be assured of the protection of a man who cared for my well-being, while he and my cousin might also prosper through my companionship. I reasoned and quieted my fears, but in truth I felt no better than a bird caught in a net, not knowing what to do to disentangle myself.
“Hetty!” I heard my cousin call from outside my door. I had hardly recovered myself and pushed Allenham’s letter into the pocket of my gown before she threw open the door. She too was in possession of a letter. I looked with a flush of shame at the pages she held.
“He is coming and he says he has a question of great importance he wishes to ask me!” she exclaimed in a shriek, her cheeks as pink as roses. “Oh Hetty!” she squealed, grabbing me by the hands and twirling me about my room. “I shall be Lady Catherine Allenham! I think I shall die of happiness!”
“Oh cousin!” I exclaimed as she pulled me into an embrace. “What a joyful day this is!” I tried to muster as much enthusiasm as I could. Looking at her features dancing with delight, her broad smile and high arched eyebrows, knowing that she enjoyed a genuine contentment at this, was, I suppose, all the confirmation I required that Allenham’s plan was a noble one, and that I had nothing to fear from the matter. It would all be for the best.
Yet still, knowing the Baron was on his way, comprehending what was about to transpire, I could not entirely suppress a feeling of dread. I was too young to recognize the sensations of anxiety, for this was what it was. I had not seen him since our time in Bath and I yearned, positively hungered to have him stand before me; but, at the same time, my desire repulsed me: it seemed sinful, deceptive, dishonest. I wondered how I might feel in his presence, now that
I knew his emotions and he had guessed at mine. What occurs when love is not spoken of or acknowledged? I had only the foolish plots of the novels my cousin and I had read to inform me, where knights and heroines donned disguises and met by moonlight in fragrant gardens. I could not imagine myself engaged in such shameful subterfuge.
I worried what might happen when Allenham and I met. Would my aunt and uncle be able to read my heart in my expression? Would Lady Catherine guess? Perhaps I should take to my bed and feign illness, I thought. But that would not do. It might force Allenham to seek me out. I could not imagine a way out of this conundrum. I must bear it with strength and courage, as I would have to for the rest of my life.
In the few days before Allenham’s arrival, my behaviour must have appeared strange to my cousin. While she crackled with high spirits, rushing between rooms in a fit of constant giggles, or breaking into song at every turn, I, by contrast, grew more quiet than usual.
One afternoon, as I lay upon the sofa with a volume of Mr. Pope’s poetry, Lady Catherine threw herself down beside me. She crunched her nose and made a silly face, “Oh serious, serious Hetty,” she teased, attempting to shut my book. “Why so downcast, cousin?”
“But I am not downcast,” I objected.
“You are! And I am so happy, and you are so glum…” said she, nuzzling against me like a playful puppy. Her expression was one of mock sympathy. She was accomplished at that look. “Are you sad that I am to be wed and you are not?”
“No, quite the contrary, I am most happy for you,” I said. She inspected my face, not convinced.
“This is the reason, I think. You are sad that I am to be wed and you shall be a spinster.”
I sighed and shut my book.
“You cannot deny it. I see the look of melancholy in your eyes, Hetty. I do. But you must not despair. Not when the Reverend Pease has been paying you such notice.”
This, reader, was a most cutting remark, one that was intended to provoke rather than to soothe. Now, I must tell you something of the Reverend John Pease, to whom she referred.
I dare say that there are some men put upon this earth who will never appear in the least bit attractive to young, unmarried ladies, no matter how rich or well connected they are. The Reverend John Pease was one such man, but to worsen matters he was neither rich nor from a tolerable family. He was the rector at St. Margaret’s in the neighbouring parish, which was unfortunately a very poor living, but one which came under the Earl of Stavourley’s patronage. Pease had been appointed the previous year, and since then had been a guest at Melmouth Park, though not a frequent one, I am pleased to say.
While there was nothing unpleasant in Reverend Pease’s character, he was not the sort whom ladies found entertaining. I doubt gentlemen would find his conversation engrossing either, as he talked of little beyond sermons and fishing and often nodded off to sleep in his chair just when the company became lively. I expect from my description you would imagine him to be an old man, perhaps one who took snuff which he dropped all over his cravat, a miserly septuagenarian whose nose was misshapen and red. But no, in 1789 Reverend Pease was all of twenty-eight! One might never have guessed it. His hair was thin, of a white-blond colour, almost grey. It would have been suitably in vogue had powdering still been à la mode, but now that young gentlemen had begun to wear their hair au naturel, it made him appear not only unfashionable but ancient as well. He was not a man of complicated manners or dress. His suits were of a plain puritanical wool and shaped to hold his enormous girth, while his jaw had a habit of hanging slack when his attention was fixed on something.
Pease had made his first appearance among us at the annual New Year ball at Melmouth and no doubt his presence would have gone completely unnoticed had he not made such a spectacle of himself. It was not that he made any outrageous faux pas, or fell upon his face in a reel, or drank himself into a slumber, as many are inclined to do. No, Pease was more amusing than that. He caught Lady Catherine’s notice by attaching himself firmly to my side. In fact, I found it near impossible to shake free of him the entire night. Wherever I walked, he followed, wherever I sat, he joined me. He spoke of nothing, but stared at me, like an infant child beside its mother. He drove off nearly every dancing partner with cross looks and guarded me with the fierceness of a sultana’s eunuch. I had not the courage to jilt him and sent pleading looks to my cousin, who spent most of the occasion laughing cruelly behind her fan. Thereafter he became our favourite object of ridicule. For several weeks Lady Catherine’s sharp-witted comments would throw me into fits of laughter and bring a hesitant smile to my aunt’s face, but all of this came to an end after Lord Stavourley received a letter from Pease, in which he expressed his “great affection” for me. From then onward, Lady Stavourley forbade her daughter from speaking so unkindly.
My aunt told me little of what was in his letter, only that the Earl had put him off because he possessed an income of no more than two hundred pounds a year. This news might have provided me with some comfort, had my aunt not delivered it to me with a pinch of spite. “He was disappointed to learn you had nothing entailed upon you,” said she, her face blank of expression. “I believe he thought you were worth more.”
After this, I could never quite fathom what plans she had for me and Pease. Although my uncle had discouraged him, I suppose she had not quite dismissed the possibility that he might take me off their hands. This, I am certain, is the reason why she invited him to dine with us on the evening when Lord Allenham and my uncle were due from London. She wished him to think the door had not completely shut on his ambitions, regardless of what my uncle had led him to conclude. At the time, I was surprised by her actions. It would be a few months still before I would come to understand her motives and to view her in an altogether different light.
The thought that Allenham was on his way to Melmouth was enough to unnerve me, without the promise of Pease’s company as well. I tried all I could not to appear perturbed. I had not slept much the night prior to his arrival and I rose very early that morning. I dressed and went for a lengthy walk through the park. When I returned it was past midday and my absence had worried my aunt. I had been out for so long that I had lost any sense of time.
“Hetty, my dear,” she addressed me with a stern look, “you cannot avoid seeing Mr. Pease or paying him the basic politeness to which he is entitled. You must remain at all times civil while he is our guest.” I bowed my head, dutifully acknowledging my aunt’s concerns. She knew nothing of what genuinely troubled me.
Pease, it turned out, had arrived and was in the library, writing his sermon for Sunday with the assistance of the Earl’s large collection of texts. I managed to avoid this room for the better part of the afternoon. After all, he was not my immediate concern.
It was Lady Catherine and her nervous state that consumed me. She fluttered and flapped much as she had during our stay in Bath. Such was always the way with my cousin; she lived forever in extremes, fits of tears, passions of hatred or the dizziness of ecstasy. Her dressing room was a scene of chaos: a broken porcelain box lay on the floor along with a spilt jar of pomade. While she paced and babbled like a madwoman, Sally crawled around her, attempting to tidy the mess. I recoiled from this, shutting myself into the modest sanctity of the only space I felt to be truly mine: my bedchamber. There I waited.
An announcement came in the late afternoon, shortly before dinner, that the Earl and Lord Allenham had arrived. Lady Catherine was beside herself, like a gun dog whipped into a lather of excitement. She threw herself at me as I emerged from my room.
“Hetty,” she pleaded breathlessly, “you must assist me down the stairs. You must escort me. Take my arm, cousin, or I shall have a fit. I fear I cannot support myself.”
“Hush,” I said, stroking her. “If Lord Allenham inspires this in you now, how might you be when you are his wife? When you have to pass every day in his company? He will think you terribly silly and frivolous.”
At this, she exhaled deep
ly and attempted a serene, if not haughty smile. I took hold of her arm as she desired. In fact, I was shaking nearly as much as she. The words I had used to soothe her were the very ones I had repeated to myself not a moment earlier.
They awaited us in the blue drawing room. As we neared it, I could hear my uncle’s voice, his discourse on the state of the turnpikes carrying through the enfilade of rooms, as if he were addressing the House of Lords. My cousin and I progressed in fraught silence. Lady Catherine was so consumed by her own nerves that she failed to notice mine. I remained quiet and composed as the door was opened for us.
As a rule, dear reader, I have found it good policy never to look directly at the object of one’s affections upon the moment of reunion. The meeting of two lovers is always a slightly awkward affair, particularly following a first declaration of attachment. And if the attachment is an illicit one, the strain of concealing the electricity of one’s feelings can be too intense to bear, even for the most practised flirt or hardened roué. No, it is always best to look away. Of course, at the time of this incident, I had not the experience or wherewithal to have invented such a plan. It happened quite by accident. I simply could not bring myself to look at Allenham. His mere presence in the room made me gasp for breath. Instead I fixed my attention on Lady Catherine, who quivered and blushed, before dropping a curtsey that was far too deep for the occasion.
Unlike the two of us, the Baron seemed perfectly self-possessed. Gentlemen are so accomplished at this, at tucking their true emotions behind their expressions. They stand tall, their hands folded behind them, their backs so straight that the tails of their coats lie evenly against their breeches. Allenham held his head high; his posture and manners were flawless. He greeted us both graciously.
That evening was an odd one. A spring thunderstorm had risen up from nowhere and let loose like a cannonade over Melmouth. The candles were lit at early evening, as they might have been in winter. As we sat around the table there seemed to be a heaviness present. I cannot say what it was precisely. It did not seem ominous, more expectant, like the sensation that fills a theatre before the commencement of a performance. All who had sat down to dinner knew the reason for their being there. We were the audience and our attention was set on the hero and heroine, who were positioned directly opposite one another.
Mistress of My Fate Page 8
