Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  I could not have imagined the speed with which St. John was prepared to take me into his household, but lust is a powerful engine. He sent immediate orders to his staff that “Mrs. Byram’s apartments be prepared.”

  “You will sleep in your mother’s very bed, my child,” he beamed. “You will have your hair arranged at her dressing table… Mrs. Hooper,” he called out to his housekeeper, who stood at the door, “do see if there are not some of Mrs. Byram’s effects which may be of use to her daughter.”

  Of course, St. John’s behaviour was most generous, and to be sure I was grateful for the shelter he offered, but as he escorted me through the rooms of his masculine home, replete with walls of books, paintings of unclothed nymphs and the scent of uncorked port, I fear my mind was elsewhere. I could think of nothing beyond the moment when I might request writing paper and ink and send word to Arlington Street of my change of address. As I sat at my host’s table, enjoying his dinner, he explained that he had cancelled all his day’s engagements to wait upon me. He addressed me in a tender, instructive voice, the sort that a father might use with a child of five This, I am afraid to say, did not put me at ease. If anything, I began to I nurture a sinking dread of what might come once I was put to bed. Indeed, as the day became night, so his look of benevolence melted away to reveal the more predatory stare of a snake whose yellow eyes have fixed on its prey.

  “We must attire you, Miss Lightfoot,” he simpered as he examined me from behind the hand of cards he insisted we play. “Some of your mother’s gowns may do nicely… the material, that is, for Mrs. Byram was a good deal fatter than you.” He nodded with approval. “They are fine fabrics, too expensive to waste but no longer à la mode. We shall have a mantua-maker refit them,” he said, walking his eyes across my décolleté. “I should like to see you hold them against the cream of your complexion, my dear. Shall we retire to your dressing room, and you may amuse me with the sight of them?”

  A sudden chill passed through me. St. John had hardly permitted me to stray from his sight. He was so incredulous, so surprised by the gift Heaven had dropped into his drawing room, that he feared I would slip from his hands just as unexpectedly as I had been placed into them. An entire day had passed and my host had never offered me a moment of respite, never an instant where I might close a door behind me and collect my thoughts. Oh, my fingers positively itched to hold paper and pen so I could send word to Allenham! My hopes that he might come to me had not entirely faded. I held my thoughts close to me, as near to my chest as I pressed my hand of cards. Should my host suspect I had come to London on account of a gentleman whom I was now seeking, he would show me the door to be sure! There, with St. John preparing to devour me, I felt very much like a mouse, backed to a wall by a cat, and I waited in terror for him to swing his claws at me.

  “Sir, I beg you will forgive me,” said I, rising to my feet, “but I am most tired from the day’s events, and would wish to retire to my rooms.”

  St. John inhaled and settled back into his chair.

  “Perhaps tomorrow then?” He raised his eyebrow, and then took my hand to his lips, much in the way of Mrs. Anderson’s lascivious guests.

  I looked away demurely and left him.

  Up two pairs of stairs lay my mother’s rooms and entering them was, to me, like lifting the lid of a box of wonders. Although Mrs. Byram had been dead since 1781, her devoted lover had maintained her apartments as if they were the temple of a goddess. I do not know the details of the story, but it seemed to me that hardly a vase or a jar, a mirror, warming pan, comb or pin had been removed. My mother had ceased to live, as did everything around her at the moment she expired.

  The lights had been lit in this dressing room, and they glowed within the wall sconces. There upon her dressing table, a candelabrum cast its arm of illumination against the mirror, and upon the mantel, a row of small white vases were stuffed with the red berries and evergreen of winter. I walked about this place on light toes, almost fearful of waking the dead. I stroked her silver brushes and peered into the gold and porcelain patch boxes, still holding the moleskin circles and crescents that she had worn upon her chin and breast. A hardened circle of carmine lay in a silver dish, beside a thin, frayed brush. I did not wish to open the various jars of crusted creams and powders.

  The housekeeper had done her master’s bidding and laid over a chair what seemed to be three of my mamma’s open-fronted gowns with their matching petticoats and stomachers. One was large indeed, but there were two, which I gathered she had worn in the final months of her illness, that were half their size. I touched them—the pink ruffle along the sleeve and neck; the satin, whose colour I could not identify under the dim light—and then retracted my hand quite suddenly. This felt like too much of an intrusion. Here lay what remained of my mother. Her blood coursed through my veins, yet she was no better than a stranger to me. Her effects held no warm remembrances, but felt instead like the cold shroud of a dead woman.

  It was my good fortune that Mrs. Byram’s dressing room also contained an escritoire, still full of writing implements, sealing wax and paper. Although the ink had dried within its pot, it was easily revived by the application of some water. My heart beat steadily as I stirred it and then sat down to write another desperate plea to my love. Like my last attempt, it was a short note, informing him that I resided at the home of Mr. St. John, “a friend of my late mother,” on Park Street, Grosvenor Place. Once again, I begged for his forgiveness and for word of his whereabouts. After sealing it, I rang for a housemaid to prepare me for bed.

  As she untied me I mentioned to her that there was a note I wished her to deliver. I drew it from my pocket along with my purse, which now held nothing but two pennies.

  “Would you have me deliver it tonight?” she enquired.

  I paused. It was now growing late, and to send someone from St. John’s house at such an hour might raise suspicion. My heart drooped.

  “No,” said I, “tomorrow morning, as early as you are able.” I placed one of the pennies into her palm. “There will be another upon your return, when you tell me that it has been delivered and inform me of whom and what you saw when you delivered it.”

  I was most grave in my manner in order to convey the seriousness of this errand, and impressed upon her that it must be done in secret.

  I went to my mother’s bed that night and, crawling beneath the coverlet, I imagined I lay in the very spot where she had died. The feather mattress had been plumped and firmed into a flat dome, which raised me as if my back rested upon a tablet. With the bed curtains pulled around me, I felt as if I lay in her tomb. However, this did not disquiet me half as much as the sudden realization that St. John saw me as the resurrection of her. He believed his inamorata had returned to him, as if by some divine miracle. No sooner had this occurred to me, than I leaped from the bed.

  The bedchamber had two doors. The first of these, which connected it to the dressing room, had a key within it. I hastily twisted it in the lock, but when I approached the second door, I noticed that the key had been removed. Placing my eye to the keyhole, I saw the outline of St. John’s as yet unoccupied bed and gasped. All at once his design became clear. Remembering too well what had nearly become of me at the Bull, I found myself for the third occasion in my young life dragging a chest of drawers across the floor to bar the route of St. John’s plotted incursion. It was a good stroke of luck that I thought to do it. No sooner had I been swept into the mists of sleep, than I was roused by the sound of my intruder. Silently and carefully, he had twisted the door handle, only to hear it collide noisily against the wooden back of a tallboy.

  I cowered under the bedding, listening with fear to the smack of the knob against the chest, once, twice, thrice, before my embarrassed host realized he had been thwarted.

  As the house filled with stillness once more, I lay, wound within my dead mother’s sheets, my heart pounding in my ears. Staring at the hangings above me, I wondered how many more nights I was destin
ed to pass behind a barricade, and whether or not my beloved would arrive in time to save me from its certain fall.

  Chapter 22

  I awoke to the same noise to which I had fallen asleep: the unmistakable sound of a person trying the handle of a door.

  “Madam, madam…” whispered the voice from my dressing room, “there is a letter for you.”

  My eyes had scarcely opened before the meaning of these words entered my mind.

  “Letter,” I said aloud, scrambling to my feet. As the maid had not yet been inside to draw back the shutters, the room was still sealed in darkness. I turned the key and opened the door.

  “I was to leave it by the side of your bed, but I found the door locked,” she apologized, while passing it into my hand. Indeed, it bore the name “Miss Lightfoot,” written in Allenham’s script. I felt as if I might choke; my hands shook.

  “Who… who gave this to you?” I demanded.

  “I went to the house on Arlington Street, just after seven o’clock, as you directed,” said she, “and gave the letter to a footman, who examined it and, if you do not mind me saying, was so bold as to open it and read its contents…”

  I looked at her with astonishment, for such a presumptuous act was most irregular, unless, of course, he had received specific orders to do so.

  “Once his curiosity had been satisfied, he bid me to wait and then went away and returned with this note, addressed to you.”

  “And that was all?” I asked frantically. “You met with no other person, you saw no one but that footman?”

  “No one but a housemaid, who appeared, if I may say, quite idle, with no tasks to perform. It appeared to me that the family above stairs had gone away, for all was most quiet.”

  “You have done well,” I commended her, placing my last remaining coin into her hand and fairly pushing her out of the door.

  In a frenzy, I threw open the shutters and tore into the letter.

  Gentle reader, had you been there to see me… My eyes wished to consume every word upon that sheet all at once! Oh, I remember it well. How could I ever, in all the days of my life, forget its contents?

  “My dearest love,” it began, and at the sight of that salutation, I pressed my hand to my throbbing breast, as if to contain my heart.

  I do not know where or indeed if this letter will find you, but I pray to God it makes its way safely into your hands.

  As you may have surmised, circumstances beyond my control have called me away from you—and away from my home. I fear I am not at liberty to reveal the details of what has come to pass or of my whereabouts, but suffice to say, the situation was entirely unforeseen and unwished for by me. In short, I now find myself in a position from which I cannot be extricated. I cannot say for how long I shall be absent from you, nor am I able to present you with a reason for this cruel parting other than to say my life is no longer mine to do with it what I will.

  Please believe me, my most Beloved Angel, the suddenness of what transpired caught me entirely unprepared or else I should have left you with some instruction. The circumstances of our separation are the cause of infinite pain to me, worsened still by the terrible confession I must put to you, that I have no means by which to support you in my absence. All I possess has been spoken for, and Herberton is to be let out with immediate effect. May God forgive me, dear sweet Henrietta! May you find it in your heart to forgive me for this most intolerable situation, for I can hardly forgive myself!

  I fear I no longer bear the right to make any requests of you, but I beg of you to permit me at least one. Please, my dearest creature, do as I shall, and forever look forward to the moment of our happy reunion. You must live for this and do whatever you ought in order to ensure the safe arrival of that day. My brave, courageous love, remember always my words to you: that you have a strong mind. Let your reason be your guide, as well as the wisdom of your heart. Think of Monsieur Rousseau. Forgive yourself for any measure you may take that permits you to live and thrive. I shall never reproach you for any deed committed which has kept you safe and alive. In your dark moments, remember G & H upon the hearth. Remember your passionate Werther. Remember always the true pledges of love I spoke to you. Believe me, my dearest, most cherished Henrietta, you are the owner of my heart and, as such, it shall always be with you.

  Until that blessed day when I take you in my arms, I am and will for ever be your adoring,

  Allenham

  My tears had begun to flow long before I had read the final sentence. Gracious heavens! I thought I might fall dead at that very instant, for my beloved’s letter had delivered to me what I believed to be my mortal blow. Never could I have imagined that such injury might be inflicted by a mere sheet of folded writing paper. It entered my soul with the sharp force of a stiletto and I dropped upon the floor as if I had breathed my last.

  No, I did not collapse into a faint like the heroine of some romantic tale. Those who have known true anguish understand that shock and pain course through the human body like currents of electricity. There is nothing genteel to behold about suffering. It is not done upon a couch. The victim does not lie angelically in a swoon. Instead, the limbs convulse and curl in pulses of agony. The body writhes and sobs uncontrollably. The nose streams, the eyes swell, air can hardly be drawn into the lungs. The moans and wails are incapable of being stifled.

  Shall we leave this scene of distress? It does me no good to dwell here.

  Over the years, I have put many remembrances out of my head. Beyond the sentiments relayed to me in his letter and its immediate and painful effect, I can recall very little. All is a blank. I kept to that bedchamber for most of the day and dismissed the gentle knocking of the maids who enquired after me. I was ill and wished to be left alone.

  I must own that, for a short time, I prayed for death, much as I had before when I first learned we were to be separated. I called up to Fate, and begged he would take me as swiftly as he had Lady Catherine.

  One of us three must die! “It should have been me!” I cried.

  What poxy, foolish thoughts these were, but nevertheless, I savoured them a good while before they floated away.

  It was the incessant discomfort of my churning stomach that eventually roused me from my black musings. It reminded me that I would not be ending one life, but two. I placed my hand over my belly and wept some more at the thought of what lay inside it.

  Within me swam a most miraculous creation: Allenham and my form blended as one, swirling together, eternally joined as a single being. Oh, the sweet calm this knowledge bestowed upon me, though how sad indeed that he should not know of it! I would keep this child, this product of its parents’ purest love, as close to me as I could. A rush of determination passed through me, that I should bring Allenham’s child into the world and try with all my might to ensure that it grew and thrived. I stroked the spot where I believed the homunculus might lie. I was, dear readers, a good deal frightened; I was frightened and delighted all at once, and so dreadfully lonely.

  Through my stinging eyes, I took in his missive several times more, and bawled like an infant at each reading. I wept because I knew not what to do. Allenham instructed me to live for the day of our reunion and to take whatever measures necessary to ensure it, but I did not know how!

  I walked about the room, the letter enfolded in my damp palm, and gazed for a time through the window. My mother’s comfortable and well-furnished bedchamber lay at the side of the house and, as such, provided a north view down the length of Park Street. I looked out at the row of attic windows where linen-capped maids moved about, and down upon the straw-strewn road where a beggar sat with a bowl in the melting snow, where two filthy children chased a dog, where a girl selling thread walked beside a man on a stick leg peddling needles. As I observed the trafficking to and fro, I saw how many possessed bandaged hands and torn skirts, ragged coats and thin capes. I thought of Miss Bradley’s words, her warnings to me. How indeed would I earn a crust? I had no means of making my way in
the world. Privilege had rendered my hands too soft for work, my sensibilities too weak. With an infant in my belly and without friends to recommend me, I could never expect to serve as a governess or a companion. Should St. John choose to throw me out, it would be I who trod the street in rags and torn stockings. It would be I who slept, like those despairing souls I had spied upon my entrance to this city, beneath the bulks of shop fronts, or curled like cats in doorways. It would be I who picked through the wilted radish greens beneath the market stalls, the rotten offal in the shambles gutter. Into what squalid corner would my child be born?

  Oh you, you of birth and breeding, you happy bourgeoisie, you bankers and money-lenders, you ship-owners and sugar-traders, you who have never before opened the door to find the wolf’s hot eyes upon you, you gentlefolk who have known no other life than one of ease, you may not comprehend the decision I made next, nor could you ever. Some of you, my fine readers, may think of hardship as too little coal for your fire, or being forced to remake your own gown for yet another season. You could never understand what I did at that perilous moment, when two lives dangled precariously between comfort and want, between life and a beckoning death. From the position in which I stood, the choice, dear friends, though repugnant to my tender heart, seemed most obvious. Survive, my beloved had written to me, survive!

  Dinner had been called when I emerged from my rooms. I had rung for the maid to dress me. My linens had been laundered and both my gowns, the striped silk robe anglaise as well as my pewter-coloured riding habit, had been brushed down and pressed. I chose to wear the former, made from the blue, buff and grey striped silk my beloved had presented to me. I stood at my mother’s dressing table and had the maid put fresh curls into my hair and smooth it with pomade. My neck and ears were bare without jewels. I feared I appeared plain; my face was so haggard and swollen from my distress that I resorted to applying paint, something I had never before ventured. I had not the first idea as to how to prepare it, but took some of the little hardened brick of carmine and rubbed it into my cheeks and on to my lips. I suspect it succeeded only in making me appear more sallow—and ill. Thus prepared and smelling sweetly of orange flower water, I proceeded below.