Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  That was very kind, I told them, and unnecessary.

  “No, no, it was no trouble,” said the elder of the two ladies, “for our friends have agreed to go without us, but will call afterwards for cards and refreshment.”

  “You are most welcome to join us, Miss Lightfoot,” chirped Miss Bradley.

  Not wishing to be discourteous, and yet with no desire for society while I laboured under such anxiety, I agreed with some hesitation.

  “It will do you no good to fret, Miss Lightfoot,” said Mrs. Anderson in a reassuring voice. “The letter will arrive soon enough, perhaps even tomorrow, or the day after. Until it does, you may reside with us as long as you require.”

  I thanked her once more with a deep, grateful bow of my head; but all I wished to do was give in to sorrowful wails.

  The drawing-room clock had struck half past eleven when Mrs. Anderson’s guests were shown up the stairs. They were not as I had expected. In fact, they seemed far too rowdy a set to feel at home in such a polite setting.

  There were among them two young gentlemen, and one, slightly older, who appeared more composed. All three were dressed very much in the style of shopkeepers or tradesmen, with polished shoes and tidy well-made waistcoats of English silk. The eldest of their party seemed less inclined to follow fashion, and sported a chestnut-coloured wig in the old bobbed style. They were honest, industrious folk, to be sure, but very much in drink and swaying about in a way I had not before encountered.

  “Mrs. Anderson,” one cried out, “what a delight it is to call upon you.” He took his hostess’s hand to his lips in a grand gesture. “And Miss Bradley there, as beautiful as a spring peony.”

  Then all eyes turned upon me.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Miss Lightfoot, who is a guest at our home this evening.”

  I curtseyed shyly, feeling rather cowed by their boldness.

  Soon the maid entered with a tray of liqueur glasses and a decanter of ratafia was served round. It was the first time I had tasted this sweet substance and I sipped it cautiously. Cards, too, were brought out and Mrs. Anderson, Miss Bradley and two of the gentleman sat down to a hand, which grew quite raucous. In jest, Mr. Timson accused Mr. Newland of cheating, grabbing his collar and spitting insults at his face. This was extraordinary behaviour, thought I, unable to take my eyes from the game. What made it even more so was that my hostesses seemed not at all disturbed by it. Mrs. Anderson merely placed her hand upon Mr. Timson’s sleeve. “That will be enough, sir, or you will do offence to our guest.”

  I sat upon the sofa, where the quieter gentleman of the group also sat, too awkward to make conversation. He looked at me with a long, deep gaze on several occasions. “You are a true beauty, miss,” was all he could bring himself to say. I kept myself entirely contained, my hands folded upon my lap, my eyes upon the activities of my hostesses and their card game.

  Until the arrival of Mrs. Anderson’s guests, there was nothing at all to give me any discomfort in being in that house. This had seemed to me a polite home, and my new friends most well mannered and charitable. But now something did not seem entirely correct. Why Mrs. Anderson and Miss Bradley should tolerate such beastly behaviour or have a collection of such uncouth associates made little sense to me.

  It was then that I noticed something which caused me to start: in the course of their game, Mr. Newland had placed his hand upon Miss Bradley’s lap. She permitted him to do so. I blushed in observing this, but then reasoned that perhaps he was her sweetheart; still, such an intimate gesture was quite a liberty. Next there came a kiss, and then another. My mouth was fairly laid open in shock at the brazenness of this display, but it grew worse still, as Mr. Newland drew Miss Bradley upon his lap—while in company!

  Mrs. Anderson laughed at her sister’s folly, while her partner at the table whooped a great huzzah, before himself leaning across to place a long, wanton kiss upon her lips! This shocked me more than anything I had heretofore witnessed, for Mrs. Anderson was a married woman!

  Swiftly, I rose to my feet. “I am afraid I am unwell…” I announced, “and will retire now.”

  Just then, the quiet gentleman beside me reached out and took my hand. “Do not go so soon, Miss Lightfoot, for you have not yet allowed me so much as a kiss.”

  I regarded him with astonishment and then looked at Mrs. Anderson, who I had assumed would race to my defence. But my hostess only smiled prettily.

  It was then I understood.

  I knew such places existed, and such women as well, but I had not thought they would be so perfectly disguised as this! Why, in dress and manner, Mrs. Anderson and Miss Bradley seemed a picture of virtue, but they were not. These creatures were sirens, and they had swept me off my course and taken me upon their rock.

  “Mrs. Anderson,” I said, my voice quite sharp, “I wish to be shown to my room at once.” My hostess did not oppose me. On her face I saw what seemed to be some hint of disappointment.

  “Very well,” said she, ringing the bell.

  I was taken one floor above, to a small room with a French day bed. All the way up the stairs, I wept silently as I followed the maid through the dark corridor. I could hear the group below burst into laughter at various intervals, and then fall silent. I did not wish to know what they did in the space of those quiet pauses.

  Once within the sanctuary of the room, I did as I had become accustomed to, and dragged a chest of drawers across the door, to prevent a forced entry.

  “Oh God…” I fell to my knees and howled. “Allenham.”

  Chapter 20

  I slept fully dressed that night, ready for a flight, should I find myself under attack. Fortunately, there came none. I was aware only of the noises, the groans and cries that leaked through the walls from the adjoining bedroom. I pushed the bolster over my ears, not because it disturbed my rest, but because the sounds were like those I had once made, and it mortified me to hear the echoes of my own debauchery in the cries of a whore. I sobbed with shame.

  On that night I felt more disgusted with myself than I thought possible, for until I gave myself to Allenham, all that had befallen me was on account of Fate. Now where I had landed was on account of my own choices and errors of judgement. I had stepped off the path of moral rectitude and found myself among harlots! This was what I had become in the eyes of the world. No more the obedient and good Miss Ingerton, these dissolutes saw me as one of their own. It must have been as plain as day to them. I resolved to leave the next morning, as soon as I was able, though where I would go, I knew not.

  I cannot say when I drifted into sleep. I lay with my ears covered and my eyes staring into the darkness of the room. I could make out the shape of a dressing table and the shuttered window beyond it. A broad chair stood beside the dead embers in the hearth. I recall shutting my tired eyes and then opening them again. On this occasion, I could see more details of the room. On the wall nearest to the window hung a cluster of miniature portraits or silhouettes, while a gown lay draped over the chair. I did not recall seeing it there when I came to bed. Certainly, it must have been composed of heavy silk, or wool, perhaps even brocade, for it held its shape remarkably well. Oddly, the more accustomed to the darkness my eyes grew, the larger the gown became. Soon it seemed to be sitting upright in the chair, as if it were being worn. It struck me then that this was no heap of lifeless fabric but a woman. There was a woman in my room! How she had managed to gain entry, I could not fathom, for the chest of drawers stood firm against the door. My heart pounded in my ears. Gracious heaven, I was too terrified to move, fearful that if this marauder knew I was awake, I would find myself at her mercy.

  I shut my eyes tight, pretending to lie in the deepest grip of sleep. My heart pounded so loudly within my ears that I feared she would hear it. I lay perfectly still for several moments, my limbs rigid with dread. I expected her advance upon me, but it did not come. Instead she seemed content to linger a distance away, and began, rather curiously, to hum beneath her breath.
I listened carefully. The hum grew louder, until whispered words floated upon it.

  “There were two sisters who lived in a hall,

  Hey with the gay and the grandeur O

  And there came a lord to court them all

  At the bonnie bows o’ London town.

  “He courted the eldest with a penknife,

  And he vowed that he would take her life.

  “He courted the youngest with a glove,

  And he said that he’d be her true love.”

  The voice lifted again in volume; this time it sounded as if the singer had risen to her feet. By then, I knew who sang it, and the sweet, unmistakable tones of her voice. I knew, as well, the song she had chosen.

  “ ‘O sister, O sister, shall we go and walk,

  And see our father’s ships how they float?

  “ ‘O lean your foot upon the stone,

  And wash your hand in that sea-foam.’

  “She leaned her foot upon the stone,

  But her cruel sister had tumbled her down.”

  She took one slow step and then another in her progress towards my bed.

  “ ‘O sister, sister, give me your hand,

  And I’ll make you lady of all my land.’

  “ ‘O I’ll not lend to you my hand,

  But I’ll be lady of your land.’ ”

  Her shuffling movement ceased and then I felt her beside me, the folds of her gown brushing against the bedding. By God, she sounded so much alive that I would have sworn an oath to it.

  “ ‘O sister, sister, give me your glove,

  And I’ll make you lady of my true love.’ ”

  “Why do you torment me, Cathy?” my mind begged her. But she did not respond. “Do I not suffer enough?”

  “ ‘O I’ll not lend to you my glove,

  But I’ll be lady of your true love…’ ”

  She stopped.

  “You will taste suffering, sister—and you will remember well who bestows it upon you!”

  I awoke with a cry. No sooner had my eyes opened than the most unbearable dizziness came over me. Frantically, I reached for the chamber pot and retched violently. Believing I had recovered, I sat up to find myself sick for a second time. Only after I had caught my breath did I dare peer over the rim of the porcelain basin. I was alone in a daylightfilled room. Even the gown upon the chair was no longer there. I had dreamed it, just as I had at Orchard Cottage. Nevertheless, I remained greatly disturbed. Lady Catherine’s voice still rang in my ears, as if she had stood in the flesh beside me. I was unwell, I told myself, rubbing my cold, wet brow. There were no ghosts. No, I had not seen a ghost. Perhaps I had consumed something at Mrs. Anderson’s table, or perhaps some poison had been slipped to me in a drink. I lay back down upon the bed, attempting to compose myself.

  Hardly had I pushed the disturbing incident from my mind when there came a gentle rapping at the door. “Miss Lightfoot,” whispered a soft voice. It was Miss Bradley. “Are you taken ill?”

  I did not wish to see my false friend, or anyone among her household.

  “No,” said I, “I am perfectly well.” And I might have convinced her of that, had my words not been interrupted by a sudden return of vomiting.

  “Miss Lightfoot…” came the voice again. “I do believe you are unwell. May I enter?”

  I considered her request but did not answer.

  “Please, Miss Lightfoot. I will not harm you. I wish merely to see if you require a surgeon.”

  I wished to leave that house. I wished to quit it as soon as possible, and my intention was to unbar the door and tell Miss Bradley so. I would go as soon as the sickness passed.

  “There you are,” said she, standing on the threshold, her face alight with health, her pink complexion offset by her deep blue gown. “By Jove, you are as white as a sheet!”

  Miss Bradley was as sweet-tempered as she had been when I first encountered her. She behaved as if nothing untoward had come to pass the night before. She was a whore. How was it possible for her to behave as a gentlewoman? (Oh reader, I had so much to learn!)

  I was a good deal cautious of her as she sat beside me upon the bed. Had I felt stronger I might have gathered my belongings, sprung from her company and down the stairs, quick as a hare.

  She looked directly at my face, her lips formed into a thin simper. “How far gone are you?”

  I did not comprehend her meaning.

  “How many months are you along?”

  “Months?” I asked.

  Now she looked at me with disbelief.

  “You are breeding, are you not?”

  “Breeding?” said I, entirely confused. “But…” It had never occurred to me. In all my fluster, in the shock of his lordship’s disappearance, I had not even thought, and how could I? I had no prior experience of pregnancy. I did not know the signs. I did not have a mother to direct me. This was indeed the first moment at which the idea had so much as entered my head.

  “Dear girl!” exclaimed Miss Bradley, quite taken aback at my innocence, which she most certainly mistook for dullness. “Did you not know?”

  “Is it possible?” I asked incredulously, placing my hand against my belly, thinking I might feel something, some swelling or quickening.

  “It is possible if you lay with your fiancé.”

  I cast my gaze downward. How might a whore know my secrets, unless I myself were like her?

  I nodded.

  “And when did you last bleed?”

  I squirmed at this intrusive question, but began to cast my mind back to the last time when I had my monthly courses. Since I began them at fourteen, they had never come regularly, and after Lady Catherine’s death they did not come at all for a spell. “November,” I stated.

  “Late or early?”

  “Early.”

  “Then you are near to two months gone, my dear.”

  I did not know how to take this news. I was, quite frankly, a great deal shocked by it. But for the sickness, I felt no differently. I certainly did not look like a woman big with child.

  “Will you have it?” asked Miss Bradley.

  “Have it?”

  “Oh come now, you silly thing, you need not play the innocent with me. You are among friends here,” she said with a laugh and a shake of her head. “It is not too late to rid yourself of it. Blatchford’s elixir works quite a trick. There is a bit of sickness, but it is not as bad as taking a mercury cure, and then it is out of you, as easy as that.”

  I must admit, this was all entirely new to me and I could not fathom what to make of it. I had hardly taken in that I was with child and now Miss Bradley was advising me of a way to remove it from myself.

  “But why, why should I want to do that?”

  My confidante let out a great laugh, and then placed her hand upon my sleeve.

  “Miss Lightfoot, I take it you have not been upon the town and that your story is genuine.” She cleared her throat. “In which case you must forgive my affront to your sensibilities, but there are a few things you must understand.” She stopped, caught my eye and sighed. “You are an innocent… of a sort, poor lamb.” Her expression then became quite sober. “Your fiancé, the father of your child… I take it he has abandoned you?”

  I wished not to weep, and shut my eyes fast. “I do not know. I do not believe he could. He loves me.”

  “All men will say they love you, dear, but most do not mean it.”

  “No,” I corrected her. “No, he meant what he said. He pledged it to me. He called me his wife. We lived as husband and wife. I shall not give up hope. I shall not. I have nothing else, Miss Bradley, but him… and now”—I began to laugh and cry as I spoke—“and now there will be a child… and he swore an oath to me that he would love…” I could speak no more.

  “Then, Miss Lightfoot,” my counsellor began, “if you are determined to keep this child, should it live and should you not miscarry, you will be in need of a livelihood until you are reunited with your beloved.”


  I stopped at her words. They were practical and harsh.

  “How do you propose to keep yourself off the street, or the child alive for its father to see it? You will need an income, madam.”

  I had never before considered this, for I had lived always under the protection of someone.

  “And what thoughts have you on how you might procure one, should you quit our house? Where have you to go?” Her voice had risen in pitch. “Miss Lightfoot, I do not wish to cajole you but I have known many a girl like yourself end as a common harlot, deep in pox and pints of wine, plying her trade in the by-ways and taverns till she is as worn as an old broom. The babe, should it live to be born, will almost certainly die young or end as footpad or rogue. Why, I have only to look through this window on to the road to show you an example of such a hapless creature. They are all about us, or have you had no cause to notice them before?”

  I stared at Miss Bradley, quite shaken by her sermon.

  “If you wish it, you may have a home with us. Our life here is quite comfortable. My sister and I concur that you are exceptionally fair and would do well. We pay heed to no bawd, but trade off our own bottoms and my sister has the run of the house, owing to the good favours she had secured from the Captain, her protector… not her husband, as you may have gathered,” she explained with a wry smile. “We are free to choose our own beaux from among the gentlemen who call on us, and take no one but a select few.”

  I could not look at her as she posed her offer. I had withdrawn into my mind, which was twisted and tangled with thoughts and terrors. Indeed, my world had shifted shape so quickly that I had hardly come to accept one truth than another was thrust upon me, and another, in rapid succession. What on earth had my life come to? I was not six months earlier a modest young lady with no parentage; I then became the daughter of an earl and his mistress, before becoming a mistress myself. And now I sat upon a whore’s bed with a child in my womb. I was numb. I ceased to hear Miss Bradley’s words; there came nothing but a dull noise.