Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  The mantua-maker’s visit was followed by a week of excursions to haberdashers, linen drapers, shoe-makers, milliners, glove-makers and perfumers, many of whom, I blush to say, recognized me from my previous life of virtue. They caught my eye, but looked away, not wishing to cause me embarrassment.

  St. John’s carriage conveyed us through the streets of Mayfair and Piccadilly, from Bond Street to the rows of bow-windowed shops that lined the Oxford Road. He took a pinch of snuff upon his hand and commented to me with a sort of haughty indifference that it was his greatest delight to lavish fine gifts and apparel upon me. “For,” he said, leaning against me and reaching beneath the hem of my skirts, “I would not have you think me ungrateful for allowing me to take your virgin prize.”

  I did so dislike it when he said such things. Worse still was his frequent need to finger that spot between my thighs which he believed his drooping manhood responsible for opening. I bit my lip and forced a demure smile, wondering how many more weeks might pass before my belly began to grow, and when it would be prudent to tell him of his approaching fatherhood.

  It is true, my lot might have been far worse than this. When I chose my course of action I had reasoned that it was less abhorrent to tie myself to one man, and exist comfortably within his protection, than it would be to live as Miss Bradley and her sister, who were forced to entertain a range of gentlemen. And let us not forget that, when compared with the ranks of Cyprians who haunt the capital’s streets and taverns, even my friends on Mount Street might be considered among the more fortunate of their profession. I can assure the most priggish among you that no woman enters into this life for the love of what she does, nor because she is lewd by nature. Circumstance alone is responsible.

  As the evening of my “presentation” approached, I grew increasingly apprehensive. St. John, on the other hand, spoke of it incessantly. I soon learned that he had planned an entire occasion: there was to be a dinner and then a visit to his box at Drury Lane to see Mrs. Jordan perform in As You Like It. This was to be followed by supper and music.

  “You will be celebrated and admired by all, Hetty dear.”

  “But I do not wish to be celebrated…” I protested.

  “They will all adore you: Lord Barrymore, Sir John and Lady Lade…”

  At the mention of these names, people of title and breeding, I bucked like a startled horse.

  “Lady Lade? Lord Barrymore!” I cried in distress. “But… but… I am not fit to make their acquaintance! Dear St. John!” I pleaded. “Lady Lade will not approve of me one bit! She will know I have been ruined! Oh, what shame this will cause me! What offence I shall give her… and any other ladies you invite.”

  St. John laughed heartily at my protestations. “Little Hetty,” said he upon catching his breath, “your innocence on this matter is precisely why her ladyship will love you.” He then put a gentle kiss upon my forehead, but my protector’s assurances provided me with little comfort. I simply could not fathom what game St. John played, for even I, as simple and innocent as I was, understood that no person of quality would tarnish their own reputation by publicly associating with a girl of my compromised position.

  To be frank with you, my devoted readers, it would have been difficult to find a creature more confused than I. At this time, my mind was a turmoil of fears and longings. In the midst of it, St. John persisted in carving from my girlish appearance his image of a perfect haut ton demi-mondaine. I was his Galatea and he was my Pygmalion.

  Never in my life had I been the recipient of so many gifts, as daily arrived boxes and packages containing my new apparel. They were laid out in my dressing room like jewels before the Queen of Sheba. In spite of my depressed spirits, I was entirely dazzled by these glorious, shimmering gowns, trimmed with fringes and laces, reworked with modish furbelowed petticoats and shoes of matching silk and dyed leathers, bonnets and turbans, velvet ribbons, a large high-crowned hat, feathers, silk neckerchiefs and embroidered tuckers, sashes, satin girdles, brooches, shoe buckles, paper flowers and birds, a new pair of stays, silk stockings and linens, gloves in a variety of colours, in quantities to make the heart race! This, my friends, is what a young woman receives when she trades her virtue for experience. And you wonder why, every day, so many of our young girls in their simple dresses and thread stockings are tempted into vice?

  When the fated day at last arrived, I was greeted shortly after twelve o’clock by an odd clownish sort of man and his rotund wife, whom St. John introduced to me as my dressers for the evening. They, he explained, had dressed all the ladies of the ton, from the Duchess of Devonshire to Mrs. Fitzherbert, and now were instructed to work upon me.

  Within moments, the two were riffling through my gowns and accoutrements, chattering and arguing like a pair of squirrels. At last they chose for me a green and gold spotted open-front mantua with tassels and a matching forest-coloured sash. With it I was to sport a white satin petticoat trimmed with embroidered silk crape. My shoes, which were to peer out from beneath my finery, were of emerald satin.

  After they had pushed and pulled me into my attire, I was seen to by a friseur who had come to perform some miracle of fashion upon my golden tresses, whereby he curled them loosely at the sides before bandaging my head in a mass of white silk, into which he inserted two vast green plumes.

  Throughout this process of transformation, St. John came frequently into my dressing room, examining and nodding, questioning the dresser or friseur in French, and, once convinced his money had been well spent, he would withdraw with a satisfied smirk.

  As for me, coy, uncertain Henrietta, I lurked somewhere beneath the feathers and silk and the wash of rouge upon my face. I looked, as one might have said in my day, a picture of le goût moderne, but I did not feel at ease, for none of this frippery seemed to enhance my natural qualities. In truth, I could not take in what I beheld in the mirror, for although I recognized something of the young lady who stared back at me, I no longer knew her. I more resembled the portrait of my mother than myself. What would Allenham have thought of me, I wondered, or my poor dear father? While I was certain my beloved would have forgiven me, Lord Stavourley would have despaired at this sight; the shock of what I had become would have been too much for him to bear.

  Since St. John had taken me under his roof, thoughts of my father were never far from my mind. He joined Allenham as a constant presence in my heart. I could not be certain that Lord and Lady Stavourley were still at Melmouth, sunk deep in grief and hiding from scandal. What if they had returned to town? On occasions when my keeper’s carriage passed the corner of Berkeley Square, I concealed my face. Whenever I stepped out into the street, I took care to see who passed. In those weeks, I came to fear the sight of my father almost as much as I dreaded dreaming of Lady Catherine.

  After the friseur had departed, St. John returned to my dressing room in order to prepare me for the arrival of his guests. It was then that the peculiarity of this entire situation struck me. This strange ritual was to be my début; a sort of backward coming out, a mockery of that which Lady Catherine had enjoyed.

  My keeper, being a man quite fond of all things theatrical, wished me to make an entrance. I was to appear at half past three, once the sound of laughter could be heard within the drawing room. I nodded and swallowed. St. John could sense my anxiety.

  “I… I am greatly uneasy, sir…” I began.

  “Hetty, you have nothing to fear, my dear, dear girl.”

  I twisted my fan in my hands.

  “… I fear… I should be seen!” I whispered emphatically.

  St. John let out a cough of laughter.

  “Who do you fear shall see you, my dear, whose attention you do not wish to court?”

  “Everyone…” I stammered, before at last proclaiming my true fear: “My father!”

  My keeper’s face was still for a moment. I suspect he had not considered this.

  “I do not believe Lord Stavourley to be in town,” said he coolly. He then studi
ed me from the corner of his eye. It was the first time St. John had thrown me such a look, one of quiet suspicion. “You have nothing to fear,” he repeated, and then, saying no more, took his leave of me and disappeared down the stairs.

  Chapter 24

  Oh, but I had all to fear! Reader, I did not know whom St. John counted among his friends, or if they were likely to recognize me or deliver news of my life to Lord Allenham or to my father. How I fretted! My stomach had tightened into knots and I shook so violently that I had to lean upon the balustrade of the stair in order to steady myself.

  The clock on the landing had struck half past the hour when I made my descent to the first floor. I could no longer bear to think what might await me on the opposite side of the door. It required a good deal of bravery to grasp the handle, and I did so with a cold, wet palm.

  There, variously arranged upon the sofa and draped over the chairs, lounged two ladies, dressed as brilliantly as parrots, a gentleman in a suit of puce silk, another younger gentleman propped against the mantel swinging a horsewhip, and a third, older man with a wicked, drawn face. To be sure, they seemed the most reprobate crowd upon which I had ever laid eyes.

  “And this, my good friends,” pronounced St. John, whose lively conversation my arrival had interrupted, “is the young lady about whom I have told you, my ward, Miss Lightfoot.”

  I curtseyed gracefully to all the company, but soon realized that my formal gesture was lost upon a group already giddy from champagne and an afternoon of earlier amusements.

  “Ward indeed,” hissed the aged snake upon the chair, taking me in with his bulbous, sagging eyes. He wore a rust-coloured coat, into which a nosegay of rosemary and white berries had been thoughtfully arranged. “Such a manoeuvre, Jack!” he exclaimed. “And all to exact your revenge on Stavourley after so many years.”

  St. John appeared quite taken aback at his guest’s words.

  “Ah, Selwyn, but how the years have dulled your sharp wit. It was not Stavourley with whom I had a bone, but that dog Byram.”

  Mr. Selwyn, George Selwyn, of late memory, recalled so fondly for his love of politics and public hangings, ignored his host’s comment.

  “Pray, Miss Lightfoot”—he turned to me—“has Mr. St. John told you of the time your mamma vomited into his hat while we sat in his box at Drury Lane? She had taken a good deal of wine that evening.”

  The entire room erupted into laughter.

  “This is the stable from which you came, my little pony. The finest Irish hack in town, was your mother. Ridden by all in her day.”

  “All but you, Selwyn,” declared the gentleman in puce, who I took to be Sir John Lade.

  “Pshaw,” replied Selwyn, waving his hand. “I would not have her.”

  “You would have nothing, sir, above ten years old, which had not a snotty nose and lice,” St. John volleyed.

  “So fear not, Jack, I shall not be eloping with your Miss Lightfoot, for she appears older than that—though not by much.”

  I must say, my ears had never been so affronted in all my life and I stood positively rigid with scandal as I listened to this exchange.

  “Oh la, Miss Lightfoot!” exclaimed Lady Lade in the shrillest of London accents. “What insult you have done her! Just look at her! How she blushes! You gentlemen should mind your damned tongues or you will frighten the poor creature to death.”

  Gracious heaven, I knew not what to make of this scene. All at once I understood why St. John had laughed at my misguided sense of shame, for, upon first acquaintance, there was not one among this licentious troop who had a scrap of politeness about them. How could it be that those with rank and title, gentlemen and ladies, conducted themselves with no manners at all?.

  It continued much the same throughout the evening. Our dinner was served amid bawdy quips and banter, and I found myself assailed from every angle. To the left of me sat the old roué Selwyn, who sparred incessantly with his host. To my right, Lord Barrymore attempted to lift the hem of Mrs. Mahon’s skirts with his horsewhip. I watched her as she sat opposite me, wriggling and smiling with irritation. When he tired of this, he turned to me.

  “Do you have a strong appetite, Miss Lightfoot?”

  I had been taking dainty bites of a pigeon pastry at the time.

  “Why, I do not believe my appetite stronger than that of most ladies,” came my innocent reply. The company began to titter.

  “And do you find most ladies to have large appetites, madam?”

  I thought seriously upon Lord Barrymore’s question. The entire table seemed to hang upon my answer.

  “No, my lord, I do not believe we do. As we are smaller creatures than gentlemen, we are more readily filled.”

  At that, the company burst into hysterics, with Sir John Lade nearly falling upon the floor. I looked about me and smiled, though I did not comprehend what the others found so amusing.

  “But, madam,” continued Barrymore, once he had contained himself, “do you enjoy the sensation of being filled?” The laughter continued. “Do you find St. John… generous?” His lordship was attempting to maintain a sober face while all about him fairly wept at his jests.

  I swallowed uneasily, now thinking something not quite right.

  “Very much so. He is very good to me,” I said, glancing over at my contented keeper.

  Defeated, Barrymore raised his glass to St. John and proposed a toast. As he did, he gazed into my eyes and then down at my décolletage with a longing, wolf-like hunger.

  “To John St. John, who can fill a young lady… generously.”

  It was several moments yet before Barrymore’s double meaning dawned upon me. I was left speechless. Indeed, this entire circus had me lost for words. I stared and stared, until my eyes were as round as phaeton wheels.

  Decanters of wine were emptied, beef, ragoûts, pies, puddings and sweetmeats were consumed in profusion, but in no way had this been an ordinary dinner. Never was there a suggestion that the ladies should retire—and why should they? There was no need to preserve the delicacy of the fair sex. Instead the merriment continued. St. John called loudly for port, and then commanded that his “cabinet of curiosities” be brought forth.

  “Ah, generous St. John…” purred Lord Barrymore. “Now we shall see how you please Miss Lightfoot!”

  I could not make much sense of this comment, or the humour it elicited from Mrs. Mahon and Lady Lade, until St. John’s footmen appeared in the dining room carrying a box. Unlocking it, they laid its contents out upon a sideboard.

  As we had only the candles upon the table and the wall sconces to light the room, I had some difficulty at first in detecting the nature of these objects, but Sir John Lade soon dispelled my confusion when, amid shrieks of laughter, he grabbed a long curved item and held it to the front of his breeches.

  They were, as St. John explained, treasures from ancient Rome, “The venerable Priapus,” he declared, protector of the home. St. John possessed three of these within his collection, one of stone, and two of bronze, both of which were decorated with wings and bells. He jangled one above his glass of wine and proposed “a toast to Dionysus and all his lively nymphs and maenads.”

  At that moment, I believed I had seen enough. As St. John’s guests laughed and jeered, I began to wilt, turning my eyes to the hands I had folded neatly in my lap.

  “They are his pets,” Selwyn, who sat beside me, said. “Because his own fails to stand up, he collects those which will never disappoint him.”

  A shameful smile twitched across my mouth.

  He studied me closely. There lay a hint of sympathy in his gaze.

  “You must learn his weaknesses, petit chaton, daughter of Kitty,” he advised me under his breath. “Aside from your mother, there is one other thing which has been known to possess him and that is the gaming table. He is a slave to it.” Selwyn looked directly into my eyes; his teeth were as yellow as those of a rat. “Should you ever wish to gain something from him that he will not concede, you must do
so through the method of play.”

  I sighed. “I am afraid that I am not very adept at cards.”

  “No, no, my simple child, not cards. You would not leave important matters to be decided by chance. No, I speak of play. The black art of the card table,” he said, pronouncing each word clearly.

  I raised my brow in horror.

  “Do not look so shocked, chaton. Your prudish innocence is growing tiresome. I shall demonstrate to you how it is done, and you will thank me for it. Mark my words.” He then examined my features and gave a satisfied nod. “I doubt you are the ingénue you would have us believe.”

  And so, following our dinner, when we repaired once more to the drawing room, the rather frail and stooped Selwyn called me to his side.

  “Piquet, chaton. That is his game. Do not concern yourself with faro, for Jack is not so tempted by it, and it is too difficult to contrive a win if one is not the banker.” The old gentleman spoke to me from the side of his mouth, in the practised way of the conspirator.

  “As there are but two players, it is quite simple to convey signals to your fellow sharper and thereby communicate what cards the opponent holds.”

  Selwyn then spelled out for me a certain system of looks and expressions, each of which denoted a court card. “Look directly ahead for a king, to your feet for a queen, to the right for a knave, to the left for an ace. And then to convey the suit, part your lips for hearts and purse them for diamonds. Place your lower lip over your top for spades, and your top over your lower for clubs. Now, madam, let us see how great a cheat you are. Jack!” he announced, above the intoxicated laughter. “I should like a game of piquet.”

  St. John’s ears pricked up like those of a hunting dog. He drew himself off the sofa with some difficulty. “Piquet!” he echoed, directing a footman to bring the cards.