Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  Conversation did not flow gently. I have not mentioned that Pease was beside me, and across from him, the parish rector Reverend Hammersley and his wife, who had been invited to swell the company and cut the dullness of Pease’s presence. The portly reverend chewed his food with loud relish and turned to address me at any opportunity.

  “I am pleased we are no longer upon the road,” said my uncle just as the windows received a lashing of hail.

  “I dare say so, my lord,” responded Pease. “The horses would be terribly frightened by such a cacophony. Do you not agree, Miss Ingerton?”

  I nodded.

  “Horses are such stupid creatures. I declare my own mare, Maisie, bolts at the slightest commotion, though I have no doubt she is in good hands while in Melmouth’s stables, Miss Ingerton.”

  Allenham allowed Pease to prattle on in this fashion, permitting him to interrupt his discussion on several occasions; “… The Recruiting Sergeant? Oh yes, a capital play, don’t you think, Miss Ingerton?” and “… Mr. Walton says the same about trout fishing in the Compleat Angler. Certainly you have read it, Miss Ingerton?” But by the end of the meal, I could see from the way in which Allenham smiled and inhaled that Pease, his constant interjections and attention to me had become unpleasant to witness.

  The Baron and I endeavoured not to let our eyes meet. With the exception of one instant, when I turned and from behind the glare of the candles beheld his soft, longing expression, we behaved with the utmost formality. I have since learned that this is the worst tactic to adopt. When wishing to disguise an unspoken passion, no two people will make a greater attempt to ignore one another than those who fear their love may be discovered. But we were not expert at these things and did only what we thought correct in the circumstances.

  The night was only to grow more tiresome. The pelting rain prevented a post-prandial stroll, which would have freed the party from its sense of confinement, and from the discomfort of knowing that we were there not to enjoy one another’s company, but merely to fill the hours until the following day, when Allenham might be alone with Lady Catherine and ask for her hand. There seemed to be an endless amount of waiting in all of this, which no one appreciated. We went first to the library and then back to the blue drawing room, where we had tea. Although the fires were unlit, the rooms felt close and hot, as if the grates were blazing. My cousin, who had passed so many hours in anticipation of this reunion, seemed on the verge of combusting. She was breathy and fidgety; I had never before seen her so agitated when in the company of a suitor. As I listened indifferently to Pease’s chatter, I studied her, sitting beside Allenham. She looked to me strangely vulnerable and tremulous. At that instant my heart ached. Something pulled inside it. It was pity, pity for all of us.

  I have mentioned that I did my best not to meet Allenham’s gaze, and indeed, he endeavoured to avoid mine by occupying himself entirely with my cousin. When we moved into the library, that minx Mrs. Hammersley suggested that Lord Allenham “read to us some of the love sonnets from Shakespeare.” He turned away and smiled to himself.

  “I do believe a tragedy may be better for the digestion, madam,” he stated, and reached for Julius Caesar instead. It was only when he looked up from reading that he would hazard a glance at me.

  I did not suspect that he was attempting to communicate something until slightly later, once we had moved back into the drawing room for cards and tea. By then, I could sense in him a growing tension. There was a Boulle clock in that room, a fine object of gilt work and polished wood that struck down each quarter of an hour. Its face seemed to peer over Allenham’s shoulder, and almost as regularly as the clock pinged, he would raise his eyes to me, each glance appearing more urgent than the last. This began to unnerve me, and then to frighten me. I could not make out what the matter might be, or how to respond.

  At eleven, supper was served, and the assembled guests rose from their conversations and games of whist. Allenham laid down his hand and with great determination shot me a look of such seriousness that it caused me to start. As the party departed through the doors to the adjoining dining room, I took the opportunity to search out the commode. I discreetly slipped through the jib door and into the corridor. There, in that private moment, I was able to gather my wits. I had been greatly shaken and confused by Allenham’s sudden alteration.

  When I emerged back through the drawing room, I was surprised to see him standing before me in the semi-darkness of the quiet room. He had dropped his mask of pretence, and beneath it lay the expression which he now revealed to me: one of anxiety and pain.

  “My dear…” he whispered, advancing towards me. “Forgive me,” he said, reaching out for my hands. He shook his head and seemed unable to find his words. His distress, his candour were so unlike that of the composed gentleman he had been earlier that it made my heart surge with love.

  “Please,” he begged of me, “I cannot do what I have come to do…” He fell to his knees and held my tiny frame to him.

  Oh Eros! Oh sweet Venus! To be embraced by him! I had never known such a feeling, as if every particle of me might come apart in his arms. He pressed his face to my breast and I, not knowing where to place my shameful hands, rested them upon his shoulders. Although my head was spinning with a sickening mix of forbidden love, desire (which I could not properly put a name to just yet), guilt and unworthiness, I knew I must instruct him—I knew I must instruct myself.

  At first I could do little more than inhale but, in doing that, I only drew him closer to me, taking in the aroma of woodsmoke and lavender upon his clothes. I shut my eyes and steadied my thoughts.

  “You must,” I managed to whisper. “It is for the best… the best for all concerned.” I felt the strength of his grip, the tightness of his arms around me. “There is no other way. You yourself have written that to me,” I urged him.

  His heaving body continued to press into mine, as he held me for what seemed like an age. It is true what they say, that there is no time in a lover’s arms. There are no minutes or hours, no measures, only sensations, heartbeats and breaths.

  Very gradually, he released his embrace. He disengaged himself, backing away slightly as he rose to his full height, continuing all the while to hold my gaze.

  “It is… I believe, not wrong…” he stated, now in a more assured tone, “so long as we resolve to live as brother and sister… as friends.” He took another step back, though he looked at me with such intensity that I felt as if I might lose the strength of my legs.

  Until that moment, I had never known the true force of love. It is like nothing else on earth. It contains in it all the fierceness of a hurricane, a snowstorm, a volcano. It is the very essence of the sublime, that overwhelming of the emotions which Allenham had attempted to describe. We are helpless in its wake, like ants in a flood.

  He stood there, composed and honourable, studying me. “Because of you, I will do what is correct.” He then took my shaking hand in his. “You have granted me the conviction to do it.” In saying that, he slowly raised my palm to his cheek, that gentle, defined place above his jaw, and drew it down along the strong line of his chin. A wave of dizziness passed over me. Were he not holding fast to my hand, I would certainly have lost my footing. He closed his eyes. “Sister,” he breathed. “Friend. That you shall be.” Then he guided my fingers to that place beneath his shoulder, in the middle of his chest, where I could feel the steady beat of his heart. “And for ever mistress of this.”

  Chapter 7

  And so, on the following day, Lord Allenham put his proposal of marriage to my cousin.

  Had I been the scheming little hoyden that Lord Dennington suggests, I would not have hidden myself away that morning. Indeed, sir, if my heart is as black as you attest, why had I not eloped with his lordship on the night before, as he had kneeled before me, prepared to pledge his love? No, as I have described, it was on account of my persuasions that he executed his plans, and my actions were guided by only the most virtuous of i
ntentions. It was my pure heart that instructed me to hide myself away on that morning. I went to the top of the house, where I knew I was unlikely to be found. I brought with me my watercolours and brushes and carried them to our former nursery, now quiet and empty. I resolved to absent myself from their company, so that Allenham might be left alone with Lady Catherine and utter those words it was so necessary for him to deliver.

  I knew that my cousin would later recount to me every detail of the transaction.

  Apparently, Allenham had asked her to take the air with him after breakfast. “Hetty, I was so very anxious, for I felt certain he would do it then…”

  “And did he?” I asked, though I knew the answer perfectly well.

  “Oh,” she squeaked, shutting her eyes and clasping her hands to her breast. “He did!”

  “And you accepted?”

  “But of course! Of course I accepted!”

  “Oh cousin!” I exclaimed. “You are to be wed!” And at that we embraced as ardently as we had ever done.

  As we held each other tightly, Lady Catherine leaned her mouth to my ear: “And I let him kiss me.”

  I paid no mind to that part of her confession.

  As you may imagine, that day was one of high spirits at Melmouth. The housemaids gathered in the corners and whispered the news between them. Cook made up Lady Catherine’s favourite orange pudding as a dinner-table surprise. My cousin’s feet hardly trod upon the ground, while my aunt’s face seemed to take on the lightness of springtime itself.

  I was by no means immune to the happiness of this event. If nothing else, it provided me with an overwhelming sense of the correctness of my actions, that I had conducted myself with dignity and duty throughout. I pushed to the back of my mind the other thoughts: Allenham’s words; the professions of love in his letters; how my physical person had throbbed under his touch. Now I would be as a lump of cold stone. After all, what right had I to entertain, even for a moment, a sensation of love? None, I reproached myself. None whatsoever! I would not permit myself to feel so much as a thimbleful of despair at my cousin’s triumph. This was a cause for celebration, for Lady Catherine’s nuptials promised all three of us a life of contentment. As I sat in her company that evening, watching her glow as brightly as the candles, I permitted myself to feel nothing but her elation. I swore that I would hollow out my heart till it was empty of everything but her desires. I would bind myself to her more fervently than I had ever before. I would mould myself into her handmaiden and my life would be dedicated to serving her. Her joys would become mine; I would live through her completely.

  Oh reader, you know as well as I the impossibility of this. I fear that dear Allenham understood it too, and loathed himself for it.

  At dinner, he looked at me not even once. It was as if I were nothing but the leather of the chair upon which I sat. Instead, his gaze rested all night upon the lovesick features of his fiancée. He could hardly tolerate my presence, and immediately withdrew with from any room in which he found me. I was not foolish enough to mistake this for rudeness, but rather some commendable effort on his part to conquer his weakness.

  It was accident that brought us together at the end of the night. Upon climbing the stairs on my route to bed, I found him at the top of the landing. We were not entirely alone, as two housemaids were occupied in laying Melmouth to rest, snuffing out candles along the corridor where we met. I stopped awkwardly, and lowered my eyes.

  “I have not yet offered you my congratulations, my lord,” said I, with a curtsey.

  “I am most grateful for them, madam,” Allenham responded, before a heavy silence began to expand between us.

  Slowly, I removed my gaze from the floorboards, and for the first time that day, took in the spectacle of his striking features. The shadows were resting softly along his cheek and chin.

  “What would you have me say?” he asked in barely a whisper. He brought his eyes down upon mine, heavily.

  I looked away, not on account of shame, but because his stare had been so deeply loaded with longing that I believed it almost indecent.

  “I feel as if I have become Werther,” he declared, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. “And you, you are to me as Lotte was to that poor soul.” He exhaled and regarded me once more. “But it is done, my angel. This is our fate. And now I shall fulfil my obligations to your family and to mine. My fortune will be repaired. We shall have much to celebrate in future, Miss Ingerton.”

  Allenham fixed a smile over his mouth and dipped his head to me graciously before proceeding down the dim corridor to his bed.

  I struggled to sleep that night, my mind rolling with thoughts. Among them was the name Werther. I had heard much talk of the book, The Sorrows of Young Werther, but had not read it. Lady Stavourley certainly claimed to know enough of it to condemn it outright.

  “Was there not a young lady who drowned herself on cause of it? In Brandenburg or Baden, or some such place?”

  “A dreadful matter, to be sure,” replied her companion. “And there have been others too. I have heard the book is prone to make its readers run mad.” She sighed. “Those with weak natures should not read such violently sentimental novels.”

  “Well, I should not like to read it,” declaimed my aunt, before turning the conversation on to paper flowers or some such subject.

  Regardless of Lady Stavourley’s objections to the work, by the following morning I had thought enough upon the matter to decide that I would like to—no, that I must read this book, for in it I believed lay some key to Allenham’s thoughts.

  As soon as I was able, I went to my uncle’s library and there found a translation of Mr. Goethe’s novel among the shelves. I drew it down and opened the covers of this unassuming text, entirely uncertain of what I should find within it.

  I was greatly engaged by the character of Werther, a young German gentleman of some means who desired to discover something of life through his travels. In the course of his wanderings he was introduced to Lotte, with whom he formed a friendship. Werther did not intend to fall in love with Lotte, who was betrothed to another, Albert, but found himself so enthralled by her that he could not do otherwise, and as Werther tumbled further into a vortex of passion, he brought me plummeting with him.

  “I can no longer pray except to her; my imagination beholds no figure but hers; and I see the things of the world about me only in relation to her. And as a result I do enjoy many a happy hour—until I have to tear myself away from her again!” Werther cries. And then once more:

  When I have been with her for two or three hours, entranced by her ways and the divine expressiveness of her words, and my senses gradually become excited, my sight grows dim, I can hardly hear a thing, I have difficulty breathing, as if a murderer had me by the throat, and then my heart beats wildly, trying to relieve my tormented senses and only making their confusion worse!

  Oh reader, I hung upon Mr. Goethe’s every word. I positively ate each metaphor and verb from the page, for what struck me was that these were not merely Werther’s thoughts, but Allenham’s! Here lay a picture of his lordship’s sufferings for me! Did he not call me his Lotte? Had he not confessed his similar torments?

  I read more and more, my entire person quaking, my eyes barely able to take in this feast of revelations.

  Werther leaves Lotte to marry Albert, a cold, selfish man incapable of feeling the warmth of love expressed by his rival. “How cruel is life!” I found myself exclaiming. Werther then returns, determined to conquer his passions, but fails. Even after befriending Albert, he is powerless to staunch the outflow of love he feels for Lotte and begins his descent into madness. “I am resolved to die!” poor Werther declares to the object of his passion. “It is not despair: I am convinced I have endured my fill of sorrows, and I am sacrificing myself for you. Yes, Lotte! Why should I not say it? One of us three must die, so let it be me!”

  How I wept at this. Why, I nearly soaked my uncle’s book with my tears. My heart begged Werther not
to take his own life, but as I read line upon line, I saw how his own destruction neared, until that very instant when he pulled the trigger and extinguished himself. “What grief! What senseless tragedy!” I mourned. “And Lotte, stricken by her loss, and Albert made miserable too.” In truth, until I ventured to read The Sorrows of Young Werther, I did not think it possible for a human heart to ache and rejoice with such fervour. Dear friends, I was dizzy with this thought, stunned, like one who has been hit upon the head.

  The novel was a very short one, and without so much as leaving my chair, I had consumed it whole. Indeed, by the time I shut the book, I was surprised to learn that dinner was to be called. My stomach turned over at the thought of sitting opposite Allenham. After reading so far into his soul, I wondered how I might ever look upon him again. Fortunately, fate intervened and spared me this discomfort.

  “My fiancé has taken his leave,” moaned Lady Catherine as Sally assisted her out of her day dress. “Business has called him to London.” I was at first surprised at this news, but then understood why Allenham had not made his farewell to me: did Werther not ache whenever he quit Lotte’s company? No, Allenham could not have remained among us for long while his thoughts spun with such confusion. He required some distance to restore his composure. Indeed, we all required some time to catch our breath.

  As you well understand, a wedding creates a fair deal of work for both sexes. My uncle and his solicitors were soon consumed with the business of negotiating the marriage contract. There were stocks to be disposed of and property to be purchased. Documents were to be inspected and disputed before the men could press their hard seals into the soft red wax beside Lady Catherine’s name. As for the ladies, there was the matter of the wedding trousseau.