Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  I began to seek out my uncle’s company, lingering near to where I heard him, much as I had when a child. Sally would never dare torment me in his presence, and so this provided me with respite. However, she took my absence from my rooms as licence to pillage my belongings. I would often return to find that items had gone missing. She took from me, on various occasions, a lacquered sewing box, a fox fur muff and collar, two pair of gloves and a pair of paste shoe buckles; enough to have had her hanged at the assizes. Fortunately, she failed to locate the little net purse I possessed. Embroidered round with flowers, it had been the first article I had sewn as a girl. More importantly, it contained what small monies I owned: a sixpence from a Twelfth Night cake, and enough coin to permit me to pay for a letter, or pass into the hand of a servant or beggar. This I had stowed in a compartment of my escritoire, to which I alone now held the key. I had learned my bitter lesson.

  As I lived in mortal terror of Sally, I never dared summon her. At first I relied on Dorothy’s kind assistance, but then she too failed to come when I rang. You see, Sally had a much greater scheme in mind for my harassment. It was at about this time that I believe she began her campaign to turn all of Melmouth against me, and her false words brought many recruits to her cause. I soon found that my linens were not laundered. My chemises, stockings and sheets were not removed. But this was not the worst of it. I was left entirely alone, made to struggle into my own clothing each morning. Each day, I roused myself from bed. There was no voice to beckon me, no fire lit to warm the air. I pulled back the bed curtains and discarded my night shift and cap, only to replace these articles with a soiled chemise. I learned to loosely twist on my stays and then fasten myself with an unsteady hand into my dark clothing. I was even left to empty my own chamber pot.

  So anxious was I to escape the emptiness of my apartments that I could not trouble myself with trifling matters of appearance. I cannot think what my uncle made of me in my unstarched cap and drooping gown. I must admit it was with great difficulty that I held my tongue and told him nothing of the trials I endured. I suffered so terribly; not only was I beset by sorrow for my loss, but burdened with a broken heart, pricked constantly by a remorseful conscience, and fearful for my life. I existed as a prisoner, as a character in my own “dark tale,” surrounded by scheming villains, by those who wished my ruin, protected only by the presence of my uncle, a noble lord. Never could I have imagined such a terrible fate for myself, never would I have believed it possible! It was as if the pages of The Recess or The Castle of Otranto had unfolded and drawn me down into their Gothic terrors.

  The worst of it, the climax of my nightmare, occurred one evening in mid-October, in that time of shortening days and widening shadows. By then, I had come to see a foe in every corner. Every footman who passed through the rooms, every housemaid I spied, even Lewis the butler, I saw as one who might pounce upon me. I searched their expressions for traces of malice; I jumped when I heard their footsteps. With the passing of each day came the growing sensation that I was being encircled by a pack of baying wolves. By then, I imagined that Sally had displayed my letters to the entire staff, and in unison, like a chorus, they sang their condemnation of me.

  I had been with my uncle that night. We had sat beside the fire in the blue drawing room, as I read to him from Virgil’s Eclogues. As I did so, I could not prevent myself recalling happier times. I reminisced about the evening I had passed in that same chair, listening to Allenham’s rich voice entertain us with Julius Caesar. I remembered Lady Catherine’s warm, lively cheeks and how they had turned pink in the Baron’s presence. The thought brought tears to my eyes and I rubbed them away quickly, hoping Lord Stavourley had not noticed. He had begun to doze in his chair and, at my pause, announced he would retire to bed.

  “I shall order you some supper, Hetty, for mourning has turned you thin indeed,” he stated as he rose from his seat and rang for the footman.

  It was with great trepidation that I approached the dim dining room alone. I walked unguarded through the empty, half-lit chambers. The windows were shuttered, closed fast like a tomb against the outside. I took my seat where a place had been laid. But for the lit torchères shining against the mirrors, the room was entirely still. I waited for a long while, but no one came to serve me. Now that I was accustomed to such treatment, I rose and was about to creep away when I heard a noise.

  From down the darkened corridor came a small figure: Joseph, the hall boy, who under normal circumstances would never have been seen above stairs. Indeed, the sight of him, his untrained gait and his heavy steps, disquieted me.

  Unaccustomed to serving, the boy came around to my side and lumped a covered dish in front of me. This was most irregular. The lid was removed and I could see, in spite of the gloom, a plate of fricasséed mushrooms.

  Then, feeling around in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled from it a note. His face was most agitated, almost grey in colour.

  “Pray, miss,” said he in an uncertain voice, handing me the note. I held it for a moment, not knowing what I should do.

  Joseph gazed anxiously about the room.

  “Do not eat it…” he whispered.

  I regarded him with alarm, my shaking fingers picking open the note. There, scrawled upon the paper, was a clumsy phrase: “An aye for an aye. Murtheress.”

  I looked once more at the plate before me, heaped with buttery toadstools, and then, all at once, clapped my hands to my mouth. I leaped so quickly from the table that my chair fell, clattering to the ground. I did not stop to look behind me. I did not wish to see who peered through the darkened doorway, or how many of them sniggered at my fright. Instead I ran, I fled, howling, through the rooms until I reached the safety of my bedchamber and there locked myself away.

  Chapter 11

  I cannot describe to you the sort of night I passed. No Gothic tale, no ancient castle or dank dungeon held nightmares as real as mine. I sat awake, fully dressed upon my bed, listening for a shuffle of footsteps or the creak of floorboards. Although I had secured both doors from the inside, I anxiously moved my eyes from one to the other. I awaited the rattle of the handle; a sound I was certain would foretell the approach of my assassin. Eventually, as daylight began soften the dark sky, I drifted off into a shallow rest.

  I do not know what time I awoke; it was late in the morning. I did not change my dress. I could not even wash my face, for there had been no water brought to me for some time. As I had done every morning, I rushed from my forsaken rooms to the company of my uncle. He was not in his apartments and so I proceeded through the long library to his study. I was relieved to find him there, though unusually, on that morning, the door was shut fast. I stood for a moment beside it, listening for reassuring noises from within: the shuffle of paper or the clearing of a throat. Only once I had heard those sounds could I settle comfortably upon a chair by the fire. I must have drifted into a sleep, for I found myself awakened some time later by his valet. I must say, the menacing sight of a servant standing over me nearly caused me to leap from my skin! The valet jumped too.

  “Miss Ingerton,” he said after collecting himself, “his lordship requires you.”

  I smoothed my skirts and rubbed my sore eyes, still dry from the absence of sleep.

  It was with some shyness that I entered my uncle’s study. With its glass-covered bookcases and gilt-edged furnishings, it had always seemed to me a rather sombre and masculine place. My uncle did nothing to put me at ease, for he stood flanked by the busts of Homer and Virgil, wearing an expression as solemn as theirs.

  “Dear child.” He sighed, attempting a twitch of a smile. “There is a matter upon which I wish to speak to you,” he began, before advancing to his desk. I watched with a mounting sense of concern as his fingers fumbled with the lock on the drawer. “These were brought to me this morning by Lewis, who had had them from Sally Pickering,” he stated as he drew forth that which I most dreaded seeing in his possession.

  At that instant, I believe the blo
od drained entirely from my face. I stared at the bundle, too shamefaced to meet his gaze, my eyes pooling with tears.

  How brutal was Fate! thought I, for I had endured Sally’s torments so I might have been spared this end. Oh, how my heart heaved to stand under the glare of this disgrace. My cheeks began to burn as the tears started down them.

  As I had not the strength to raise my head, I knew not what expression Lord Stavourley wore, if it was one of bitter condemnation or pity.

  “Forgive me, child,” he uttered after a long spell of heavy silence, “for there is much you do not know.”

  Oddly, there was no censure in his voice as he spoke, but rather an unexpected note of anguish. I cautiously lifted my gaze and found that he had turned from me, having chosen instead to fix his eyes upon the view from his windows.

  “You see, my dear, the fault, the blame for this… terrible misfortune, lies with me,” he announced, “and I fear it will not please you to hear what I must say.”

  I waited for him to turn towards me, to proffer me a look of reassurance, but he did not.

  “I was a man much like Lord Allenham,” he began, twisting his hands behind his back. “Young men are… by nature passionate, and as a result flawed. It may sadden you to know it, but none of us are the gallant heroes that your novels would have us be. Most men are of a type, generally unbridled in our desires and terribly foolish, and I, dear girl, I was no different.”

  He paused and studied the landscape for a beat. Turning to the side, I saw in his blue-grey eyes a muted sparkle, not mirrored elsewhere in his expression.

  “There is much you are too young, too innocent to know about the world, Henrietta. Indeed, I should not expect you to know of what I am about to speak.” He shut his eyes quite suddenly, as if struggling to find his words. “You must understand, not every woman is an honest one… which is to say, there are some who go out into the world to make their living, not by a respectable trade, but rather by pursuing a life of debauchery.” He sighed. “Love, you see, love is not always to be found in the matrimonial bond. Ladies may find it there, but gentlemen often seek it elsewhere. I did just this.” His words were now coming in a rapid, uneasy stream. “There was one… woman whom I loved, much in the way that Lord Allenham loved you, with as much ardour… but it was not in my power to marry her, nor would it have been appropriate, given her position, and it is she, Henrietta, she who gave birth to you.” There he stopped, and turned his pallid face to me. “I, dear girl, am your rightful father.”

  We stood, our gazes held together for a moment or so; his tired eyes a picture of remorse, and mine wide and unflinching in disbelief.

  “Do forgive me,” he murmured, shutting them once again. “I should have informed you many years ago… indeed I am surprised you did not hear of my indiscretion through some other source.” He wagged his head. “Your father is no better than a coward.”

  “No,” said I. It was the only word I could think to say, perhaps the only sound I could pronounce, for now I wept great, bitter tears. Seeing my distress, my father, for that is what he was, came to me and placed a gentle hand beneath my elbow.

  “Sit…” he ordered, guiding me into a chair, but the feel of his kind touch only heightened my sense of grief.

  “Dear little sparrow.” He spoke softly, taking a seat beside me. Awkwardly, he reached for my hand; the firmness of his enveloped my small one. I marvelled at the touch of it, that my father—my papa!—comforted me.

  “Your mother… your mother was called Kitty Kennedy. So now you know it.” He nodded. “She had you in her care for near two years, dear Hetty, and it was not her design to give you up. You see, there was a gentleman who wished to marry her, and to do right by her, but he would not have the child of another man under his roof. So she wrote to me and begged that I should take you in. Your aunt… Lady Stavourley was not pleased by this, not at all. She objected to your coming here—greatly. In the end, I believe my insistence upon it destroyed her health.” My father lowered his gaze and his tone. “She consented, but with reluctance—and there were to be conditions. She would not have you here on the footing of a fine lady, by which she meant you should have none of the fortune entailed upon her lawful daughter… your… sister, or any of my heirs. As she had been an heiress in her own right, her trustees, when hearing of this matter, took recourse to law and insisted that I swear an oath to this effect,” said he, drawing a long, sorrowful breath, and pressing my hand in his. “You must know I wished only the best for you, dear Henrietta. I insisted that you were raised with Catherine, to be her companion, so you might benefit by proxy from whatever fortune passed to her upon marriage. But I see now how misguided was this plan.” Gradually, my father moved his sorrowful eyes from where they rested upon our joined hands, and slowly, silently, studied my face. It struck me then how many of his fine features I possessed: the round visage, the small chin, the arch of his brows. My eyes were a lighter shade than his, though they bore a similar shape. For a moment, I observed his, moving, dancing along my countenance. He shifted in his seat and then, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, removed a white silk handkerchief, which I believe he intended to use. Instead, he gently passed it to me and gestured that I should rub my nose with it, before continuing with a sigh, “These are not your sins, my dear. The failure is entirely mine.”

  As I sat beside my father, quietly sobbing, I could not decide which element of this story struck me most, or how my head should absorb it. I knew not if I should feel pity or horror or sadness or joy upon learning this. My heart was gripped with all four sensations at once: the thrill of learning that here was my papa, my own true flesh and blood, which was then countered by a jolt of sickening remorse for the young lady who had been my sister. My bosom friend, my dearest companion, my beloved sister. For so many years I had dreamed her to be just this. Oh, the regret was intolerable. I wept harder still and pressed the handkerchief against my aching eyes.

  It was at that point my father rose from my side. I believe my anguish was more than he could bear. Instead he moved to his desk and recovered the bundle of letters from where he had laid them. I watched as he turned them over in his hands, examining their worn corners and tear-stained script. Then, quite suddenly, he reached over and dropped them into the flaming grate before him. Taking the poker, he made certain that each of the little packets caught light and curled and twisted into blackness. So came to an end the only proof of Allenham’s love I had ever possessed.

  “I shall not tolerate the rumours that have been put about below stairs that you brought about your sister’s demise,” he commented as he stoked the coals. “But Lady Stavourley is of a different mind. You know her disposition, that she is not given to reason.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “My fear is that she will persist with this notion and divide my household. I cannot have that. Nor could I bear it if she were to inflict further damage to her health.” My father then laid down the poker and wiped his hands together, before turning from me and directing his gaze once more out of the window.

  “As you know, or perhaps suspected, the Reverend John Pease has made an offer for your hand. In the past I have put him off, thereby allowing you the opportunity, however slim, of making a match more agreeable to you. He knows that you have no fortune, but your beauty and charms have captivated him, and he is willing to accept you notwithstanding. For my part, I have offered him the promise of a larger living at a parish within my gift in the north of Ireland. The marriage”—my father inhaled and then sighed—“is to be settled very soon and the banns to be published immediately. It pains me a great deal to force your hand in this affair, Henrietta, but I have taken the liberty of writing to Mr. Pease that you will agree to these terms.”

  This, when added to my woes, my miseries and confusions, was more than I could bear.

  My father waited for my response to this news, but I could bring myself to say nothing, for my sobs had silenced me entirely.

  “Dearest little one,” he w
hispered, “I grieve for your distress… I wished it differently, but it will be for the best.”

  “But I do not love him…” I managed to gasp. I thought instantly of Lady Catherine, who had once bleated this same lament. “I do not believe I could ever love him…”

  It was then that my father, my cherished and adored father, approached me. I shall remember for as long as I live how he took my girlish hands into his and offered me comfort.

  “Dear Hetty.” He spoke softly. “Love is but a luxury. We may taste it briefly in our lives but cannot expect to sustain ourselves on it.” He then placed one finger under my chin and raised it. “Remember its delights, but do not pine for it.”

  His words I did not wish to embrace, but his gesture of affection was one of the sweetest gifts I have ever received.

  “Go now,” he directed me. “Do not trouble yourself by thinking on the matter further. It is done, dear daughter.”

  In times of extreme distress, I believe it is possible to commune with the soul. The soul knows all the answers, even when the heart and the head cannot find a path through the darkness. Before I had so much as quit my father’s study, my soul understood what lay ahead for me. It knew it as I ran through the library and into the corridor. I recognized it as I fell to my knees upon the floor of my apartments and convulsed in wailing agonies.

  My heart and head were full of fear and injury. My father had sold me. I was no better than a slave. My happiness was no more considered than that of a sultan’s dancing girl, thrown weeping into a Constantinople market. Lady Stavourley would have me banished from my home, the only place of refuge I had ever known, have me torn from my only parent. She had despised me from the day I had arrived: the wretched bastard of her husband. Melmouth hated me. The servants wished me dead. They had tried to murder me and might yet succeed, long before the odious Pease carried me off.

  Pease. The thought of his girth, his slack jaw, his idiot’s stare, the dullness of his company, made me recoil with disgust. Oh reader, it struck me then that I was not the devoted child I had believed myself to be! Were I truly dutiful, such thoughts would have never entered my head. I would have never questioned my destiny, but gone to it with the open heart of a martyr, wishing to sacrifice myself for the good of my father’s name, for the contentment of Lady Stavourley, she who had no fondness for me. For this, this would be a true surrender, and a noble act. But my soul, that lively, kicking thing inside me, would not accept this as my fate.