Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  For all the visits I had made to London, never before had I seen this strange corner of the city. The great dome of St. Paul’s rose from behind the inn, which was indeed the only sight I recognized. From where I stood, I had not the slightest inkling of how I might make my way to St. James’s. I enquired of a groom, who laughed insolently at my request for directions and said he would procure a hackney cab for me, for a sum. In the course of my travels, I had come to learn that a young lady unaccompanied attracted nothing but slights and insults. Her protectors are few, and those who come to her assistance more often than not wish to extract some other sort of fee for their kindness. You see, most understood that which I did not: a young lady who travels without a servant or a chaperone is no lady at all.

  I presented the rogue with twopence for his trouble, which was half the contents of my small purse, and he set off in search of a hackney cab. When at last one arrived, I eagerly climbed inside its curtained carriage. We had travelled no more than a few streets before the driver brought us to a stop at the mouth of a mews. I could not imagine what was the matter, until the man dismounted and came round to the window.

  “St. James’s is a great distance from here,” spat the driver, his mouth nearly void of teeth. His gloves were black with filth, his red neckerchief as well. “I would have some of the fare now, if you please, miss.”

  Startled, I felt for my purse. I did not recall such a thing happening when I travelled in a hackney cab with Lord or Lady Stavourley. Indeed, I never once saw coin exchanged at all. That was usually left to servants, but as I had no one to attend upon me, I was forced to partake in this ugly bit of commerce.

  I swallowed. “What is the fare?”

  “I should think, miss, that necklace you have about you should pay well enough for the distance covered.”

  I reached up and felt the modest gold and pearl cross at my throat. It was but a small thing, the only jewels I ever received from my father.

  “The eardrops too, miss,” said my driver, “for Arlington Street is a long ride from here.”

  I was too cowed and inexperienced to do anything but hand them to the thieving swine. I was being robbed and did not even know it!

  He climbed back aboard his box with my girlhood tokens in his grime-lined pocket and proceeded down Ludgate Hill, west. Although I was saddened by the loss of these objects, at that moment I would have given up any of my personal effects to arrive safely at Allenham’s door. Nothing I owned was of any consequence beside the possession of his good favour and love.

  We continued through a knot of carriages and carts, down the Strand, where at last the scenery grew familiar, and then through the Haymarket into St. James’s Square. The streets offered the comfortable spectacle of home: the drapers, the booksellers, the vintners, the large bowed shop fronts I had known and, indeed, that I had not seen since this summer past. All the while my heart raced at our anticipated reunion.

  Although I had never before seen his lordship’s London residence, I knew the address from his correspondence. We had hardly rounded the corner from St. James’s Street when I rose to my feet within the carriage and directed that robbing devil to stop. Gathering my skirts and cloak into one hand and my bundle under the other, I sprang from the cabin, not wishing to waste so much as another moment.

  Allenham’s broad townhouse, at 5 Arlington Street, stood before me. The lantern outside had only just been extinguished, and the faint, telling glimmer of occupation could be seen through the fanlight above the door. I could hardly breathe as I came up the steps and drew the brass knocker down.

  I heard the calm approach of footsteps against the floor. My throat was tight, my hands clenched within Allenham’s muff.

  “I should like to pay a call on his lordship,” I stated with a quiver in my voice.

  The butler, dressed in a green and grey livery, stood before me. His face was as impassive as stone.

  “His lordship is not at home.”

  “But I know him to be,” I stated with determination. “I was informed by his housekeeper at Herberton that he is in London.”

  The servant looked beyond me into the road.

  “I am afraid his lordship is not at home.”

  “Please inform him that Miss Lightfoot wishes to call upon him.” I was now shaking a good deal. “It is a matter… of urgency.”

  “I am afraid I cannot inform him, miss, for he is not here.”

  “But when… when will he return?”

  “I am not at liberty to reveal that.”

  “I pray, sir,” I now began to beg, “it is of great importance that I should see him. I shall wait until he returns, if you permit me… I…”

  “I am under express orders to admit no one, miss.”

  “Whose orders?” I demanded. “Who ordered that?”

  The butler declined to answer. The dramatic tenor of my voice was now beginning to draw the curiosity of the house’s other servants. In the corridor behind him, I noticed that a freckle-faced maid had stopped to listen.

  I felt as if I might choke. My tone became even more desperate.

  “I beg of you, sir, I have travelled a great distance at tremendous expense. If he is not here… if you will be so kind as to inform me where he may be found…?”

  “This I cannot reveal, miss,” he reiterated. There was no sympathy in his expression. No care whatsoever.

  “Is there no note for me here? No instructions addressed to Miss Lightfoot from his lordship?” I trembled.

  “None, I am afraid.”

  “Dear God!” I exclaimed as my words gave way to sobs. I held my hand to my face in distress. “I beg of you, sir…” I wept. So stunned was I by this turn of events that those were the only words I could utter. I repeated them again and again, yet they and my agony failed to soften this wooden man’s resolve.

  “My apologies, miss,” said he at last, before he pressed the door shut against me.

  I stared at the black door in disbelief. Surely, surely there had been some error? My beloved Allenham, my angel, my protector, the husband who had pledged himself to me, would never have turned me out. I could not grasp it. Or perhaps the situation was truly as the butler described it, and my lover was not at home and nowhere to be found.

  At that moment, I turned my back on the door, and fairly fell down the steps. So dismayed and confounded was I that I believed I might collapse. I steadied myself against the railing as my stomach heaved forward, and I spilled what little contents were in it upon the snowcovered street. The violent motion came again and again, as if my soul were purging the last of its hope.

  When I had finished, my cheeks felt as cold inside as they were without. My brow was beaded with sweat. I looked up and back at the house. I might have noticed before that the shutters were drawn against the windows, so that it appeared unoccupied. I did not know what to make of this, or of anything. I own that I could hardly form a thought. I had not figured on this setback, nor could I imagine beyond this calamity as to what I should do next, or whom I should call upon for assistance. “Perhaps I should linger here, near the house, to see if he returns,” I reasoned, but already my feet were moving and carrying me elsewhere. I was in a fog. I stumbled, moving this way and that. I stepped out on to the thoroughfare of Piccadilly and looked with blind eyes at the carriages, chaises, horses, the coloured clothing, the mix of hats. My ears were deaf to the roll of noise, the brays of animals, the calls of vendors. Indeed I was nearly had by a man in a phaeton. His team reared and he shouted at me, but I heard none of his curses.

  I walked as if in a dream, I do not know where, towards Berkeley Square at first, until I could see my father’s house in the far corner. It too was shut up—and even if it were not, it would be to me, for I could never again repair there. I had fled. I had left my father’s protection for that of a clandestine amour: my sister’s fiancé, my sister whom the whole of Melmouth believed me to have murdered for love.

  Ah yes, Lord Dennington, and here I hear your sni
ggers, for you think we have arrived at the scene where retribution is meted out. Here, at last, has come my Judgment Day. But, sir, you rejoice too soon. The play is not yet at its end. I would ask you to stay a bit longer, read a bit further. You will see.

  I moved on, trembling, my mind in complete disarray. In a panic, I began to search faces, peering into windows as I passed, looking amid the moving carriages for those light-filled eyes, for Allenham’s rich dark hair. I spied his ghost everywhere, and yet nowhere. For an instant there was his figure in the reflection of a print shop; and then again over the road, moving within a crowd of gentlemen down Charles Street. “He is not there!” I told myself, coming to a halt. I was mad. “This has turned me mad,” thought I, my eyes darting from place to place, my expression a picture of fear. What was I to do? My breath came in short, hard pants, my cheeks now streaked with tears. I swayed upon my feet, like a tree blown in a storm.

  “Miss? Miss?” came a voice from beside me. Then a smartly gloved hand was laid upon my forearm. “Are you well, miss?”

  I looked over to see that the arm attached to the glove was dressed in a fashionable forest green redingote, with a dark grey cape above it. Smiling down at me were the full, ruddy features of a genteel young lady, not much older than I. Her mousy hair was frizzed beneath her wide black hat.

  “Are you in need of assistance, dear?” asked she with concern.

  I nodded and, as I did, began to sob.

  “Oh blessed soul!” she exclaimed. “You must come indoors, out of this chill. Come now, you shall sit by our fire. I live just there.” She gestured over the road to a dwelling on Mount Street, near to the workhouse. “You are in need of refreshment, dear miss. Oh dear, dear miss…” she continued as she escorted me, “I cannot imagine what trouble has befallen you.”

  I could not have been more grateful for this lady’s comfort and I clung to her arm as a child does to its nurse’s hand.

  She brought me to the door of her modest house, where a neatly attired maid greeted us and relieved me of my outer garments.

  It seemed a long time since I had been a guest in someone’s home, though I had never before ventured into such a humble place as this. To be sure, it was respectable and clean, the house of a tradesman and his family, I concluded. I was directed up the dark wooden stair to the first-floor drawing room, which was furnished discreetly with a sofa and chairs and a few well-made cabinets in an older style. The walls were hung with framed engravings, featuring frolicking cherubs and pictures of girls with baskets and embroidery, entitled such things as Industry and Charity. Beside the hearth stood a tall walnut clock, which ticked out a calm rhythm.

  “I am Miss Bradley,” said the young lady, giving herself a proper introduction and inviting me to sit beside the fire. I rejoined and gave my name as “Miss Lightfoot.”

  “I am very much grateful for your kindness, madam,” I said with a sniffle.

  Just then, the drawing-room door opened and another woman, also youthful but soberly attired, entered.

  “Ah, sister, I was correct in thinking I heard you come up the stairs,” she remarked, giving me a curtsey.

  “This is Miss Lightfoot,” said my hostess.

  “And I am Mrs. Anderson,” said the lady, nodding at me once more. “How do ye do?”

  “I am afraid Miss Lightfoot is unwell,” Miss Bradley spoke for me, “for I found her just at the corner, looking as if she might have a fit, and took her inside directly.”

  “As you should have!” exclaimed her sister.

  At that very moment, the housemaid clattered her way into the room, bearing a blue and white tea service and a kettle of water, which she placed upon the grate above the fire.

  “Are you in need of some hartshorn to revive you, Miss Lightfoot?” asked Mrs. Anderson.

  “Oh no, thank you,” I claimed, “for your kindness has already performed that task.” I then attempted a polite smile at my hostesses, but found that it soon gave way to a renewal of weeping.

  “Oh sweet creature,” sighed Mrs. Anderson, shaking her head and handing me a fresh linen handkerchief from her pocket, “whatever troubles you?”

  I looked up at her, at her pretty brown eyes and button nose. She could not have been more than one and twenty, though the dormeuse cap she wore made her look very much the married matron.

  I did not know where to begin in revealing my trials. In all other occasions in my life until then, I had had no cause to tell anything but the truth, for I had never done anything of which I was ashamed. I had never brought disgrace upon myself, and yet, I knew, were I to speak of where I had been and why I had come to London, my kind hostesses, whose generosity I had accepted, in whose protection I resided at that moment, would be mortified. What could I say to explain myself? I struggled with the words, balling the embroidered handkerchief in my palm, until I was passed a dish of tea. I received it into my hand and in gazing into the brown liquid glimpsed my frightened reflection. “Fib,” it said to me.

  Well, what other choice had I, gentle reader? There sat I, in a humble woman’s drawing room, and you wished me to assail my hostesses’ ears with my moral depravity? With the story of my fall from grace? I would be turned out for certain!

  “My fiancé…” I began uneasily upon my course of falsehoods, “requested that I… elope… that I come to London”—I swallowed—“… so we might sail to France and there marry… against my father’s wishes.”

  (Well, this was not so great a lie, I told myself.)

  “But I came to where he directed me, to his house on Arlington Street”—my chin had now begun to tremble once more—“and he was not at home. His man said he did not know when he would return or… if he would return…” I trailed off, unable to speak further for the sobs.

  “And you are alone,” Mrs. Anderson finished for me, her head cocked sympathetically.

  “Yes, madam,” I squeaked, “quite alone.”

  She and her sister exchanged sad glances.

  “Have you thought to write him a letter?” enquired Miss Bradley. “For perhaps there has been some mistake. Perhaps he has been detained somewhere and not informed his household of his movements.”

  “Yes,” added Mrs. Anderson cheerfully. “Why, there may be any number of reasons for his not being at home.”

  I sniffled and blotted my nose and eyes with the square of linen.

  “I… had not thought to try a letter,” I said softly.

  “Why, yes, you must, Miss Lightfoot,” said her younger sister, reaching for the bell to summon writing paper, “for your fiancé may be anxiously awaiting your arrival and in fear for your safety.”

  Paper and writing implements were brought to me, and Mrs. Anderson and Miss Bradley very kindly offered to withdraw while I wrote my letter to Allenham. It took me some moments to think what I would say and my hand quivered over the page as I wrote it, blotting my otherwise neat script with ink. I scribbled that I had come to call but was mistakenly turned away at his door, that I was in London, and I begged him to forgive me for any wrong I might have committed. I told him that, at present, a message might reach me at the home of Mrs. Anderson on Mount Street, where I would await his response. I sealed it and gave it to Mrs. Anderson’s maid to have delivered. Then, alone in the room, I slumped against a broad wing-backed chair and sighed.

  After a short while, I was asked if might like to join my hostesses at their table for dinner. I accepted their invitation graciously and retired downstairs, from where the smell of soup and suet rose up through the house.

  This room was as unassuming as their drawing room, though the walls had been painted in a fashionable light green and were decorated with the entire printed series of Mr. Hogarth’s A Harlot’s Progress. Their table was modestly laid with plain linens and plate. My hostess bade me sit, and gestured to the chair beside her.

  “You have dispatched your letter?” she asked with politeness.

  I responded that I had.

  “And now we await an
answer from your fiancé,” smiled Miss Bradley.

  “… which I am certain will soon arrive,” added her sister.

  Of this I remained unconvinced, but simpered hopefully, nevertheless.

  As the meal was served, Mrs. Anderson began to tell me something of her life, that she had “a certain sympathy” for my plight, for she herself had eloped with her husband, Captain Anderson; she hoped that my “situation” might result in a union as happy as hers.

  “Though,” she remarked with a slightly pensive air, “the lot of a sea captain’s wife is often a lonely one. My husband commands the Amphitrite, which sails between Southampton and Bombay. Sadly, he is absent for most the year. But I have my Anne for company,” said she, smiling at her sister. The fondness they displayed for one another was the close affection I had often dreamed of sharing with Lady Catherine.

  “And we have a good many friends beside,” added Miss Bradley.

  I am afraid I was a very poor guest that evening, for I sat anxiously awaiting a response from his lordship.

  By the end of our dinner, it was quite dark and my hostesses and I repaired upstairs for tea once more. The clock ticked loudly between us.

  “If I may, Miss Lightfoot,” began Mrs. Anderson, “should it happen that you do not hear from your betrothed this evening, you are at liberty to reside with us.”

  “Yes,” remarked her sister, “we had thought of going to the play tonight but have determined against it, as we would rather reside here with you, in case some word should arrive.”