“She was my sister, Lord Stavourley’s legitimate daughter.”
Mrs. Mahon continued to regard me, hoping I should throw her further scraps of this story.
“She died on her childbed?”
“No. She died before I fled my father’s home, of a fever.”
“Did you flee… on account of her death?” Gertrude Mahon could spy a truth in the heart of any tale, no matter how abridged or embellished.
I dropped my head in silence, and then gradually nodded.
“They… the servants blamed me, but I did… nothing,” I breathed. Even as I spoke of it, I felt the tugs of remorse within me, those terrible remembrances floating to the surface of my mind. I had not permitted myself to think of it for some time; those fears locked within me, the absurd notion that I had somehow willed her death. “She haunts me,” I admitted, before adding, “if only her memory.”
Gertrude Mahon touched my shoulder. “Then remember her with fondness, as you will remember me.”
Chapter 37
To have lost my child and my dearest friend upon the same day was a bitter medicine to swallow. But, like most medicines, its effects were ultimately beneficial. Ah, but now you think me heartless. How is it possible, you may ask, for a mother to suffer her infant to be taken from her and believe it for the best? I confess, at first I struggled with this reversal of fortune. I mourned my son, thinking it unlikely that I would see my Georgie again, and fearing that if we should ever meet, he would not recognize me. How I ached at this notion: my own son a stranger to me. But then I reflected upon my friend’s advice and, much like the first time Georgie was taken from me, soon came to see the advantages in this. I had no authority, no power of law or financial means of recovering my boy. Indeed, the only person who did was the child’s rightful father, and the sooner I made haste to him, the greater the possibility that we three might one day be reunited.
If my resolve to quit London had in any way grown soft, then it was the departure of my friend and my son that once again stiffened it. In those two months, I became single-minded in my determination to amass the wealth required to fund my journey.
Unlike my previous attempt, this time I thought very closely upon the matter of my escape. Rashness would not do. Each step I took was contemplated with the utmost care, for I did not wish to misjudge Quindell’s powers of observation. I knew not if he would notice the sudden absence of a patch box or an aigrette. Although he permitted me use of his credit at any shop in London, would his bankers not raise the alarm if they sighted irregularities? If I ran up too many jeweller’s bills and had no new bracelets or earrings to show for it, would he not think it odd? You see, my friends, I had learned some discretion from my past follies.
Shortly after my final interview with Mrs. Mahon, I began to keep a ledger of Quindell’s gifts. On its pages I made a record of every article of attire, piece of porcelain or jewel I might pawn in order to gain my liberty. I sifted through my assortment of gowns, hats and shoes and decided which among these items I could part with. By summer, I reasoned, I would have no need for heavy cloaks, or for a broadcloth riding habit that clinked with brass and braid. The beaver riding hat might be sold, in addition to an enormous veiled creation, shaped like an upturned basket, which I had disliked from the very moment my keeper had chosen it. A swansdown muff and a tippet of the same would fetch a pretty price, thought I, adding these items to my book. By these means, I would know what I possessed, and then, once I had gathered the courage, I would have each item appraised for its value. When the appropriate time arrived, I would exchange them for ready money. This was a slow and steady strategy, to be sure, but one less likely to trip me up.
Before I launched my campaign, I made some careful enquiries among my acquaintances and learned where a lady might sell a few items without raising too many questions. Only then did I begin my programme of visits to pawn shops around the capital. I established a routine whereby I would undertake my errands in the morning and in the early afternoon return to Clarges Street to mark the quotes into my ledger. Goodness, I thought myself vastly clever, and at least as shrewd as half the merchants in the Royal Exchange.
Now confident that my scheme would succeed, my daring increased, and I began to carry a selection of my trinkets to various jewellers. A snuff box, a pearl bracelet, a gold watch on its chain with a key and fobs, were each assessed in their turn. I brought in for a valuation as well the diamond necklace and eardrops I had been wearing on the night I parted with St. John. I had pinned a good deal of hope on achieving a sizeable price for these, but the jeweller, taking the sparkling collar from my fingers, held it to the light and tutted.
“Vauxhall glass and paste gems,” he said, “but of a good make. One shilling and sixpence.”
I could hardly believe it! Sitting in the coach on my return home, a wry smile crept upon me. Indeed, I began to wonder if St. John had not confiscated my jewels in an effort to spare his pride rather than to punish me.
Perhaps it was the disappointment of this discovery that encouraged me to increase my game, for by early May I had decided to sell a few of my trifles. These were merely small objects that would not be missed: a garnet-studded hairpin, a gold comb, a pearl buckle. If queried, I would simply claim I had lost them. I eagerly handed these over to the jeweller, but was dispirited by the small sums they produced. Travel was so dear, and I knew I required a great deal of money to make my way to Paris. I would have bills for my lodgings and meals, I knew not for how many weeks. There would be the hire of a coachman, perhaps a postillion as well, in addition to Lucy’s wages. Gracious, until thenI had never considered how costly were such matters. I was no housekeeper, I had no mind for economy. Nevertheless, as a result of my prudent little sales, I soon gained the satisfaction of feeling coins in my hand.
I confess, this secret occupation of mine eventually came to consume me. My quiet moments were given over to counting and cogitating. I felt myself turning magpie, forever admiring trinkets in shop windows and wondering at their prices. Without Georgie to possess my thoughts, this mercenary activity filled my days. Why, had I been a person of lesser morality, I might have been tempted to filch a number of the glittering objects which lay all about my home. Certainly this was the course of action recommended by Miss Ponsonby when she first called upon me at my new lodgings.
She and the Greenfinch had paid me a visit shortly after Quindell installed me at Clarges Street. As I led them through the rooms, Caroline Ponsonby gawped like a child at St. Bartholomew’s Fair. She sighed at the Duke of Chandos’s Sèvres china and the fine Irish linen, and gasped at my modishly appointed drawing room, adorned with Roman style furnishings.
“Oh, he has done well by you, to be sure, Hetty,” she marvelled, with wide eyes.
Miss Greenhill said nothing, but silently took in the surroundings, her face perfectly stony.
“Have you not considered what riches are at your disposal?” remarked Miss Ponsonby.
“Well…” I stammered. “No, I have not…”
“Oh, but look about you,” she enthused. “Why, you might sell the vases and the silver alone and find yourself as rich as Croesus.”
“But why should she want to do that, Caroline?” spoke the Greenfinch at last. “These are not her belongings, you goose. They belong to Mr. Quindell, and Hetty could be hanged for thieving,” she sang out, her eyes fixed on me, as if daring me to attempt it. “No, my dear, if Miss Lightfoot is in want of funds, then she must be sure to pawn only her keeper’s gifts, and not be so foolish as you…”
Miss Ponsonby fell suddenly silent. A flush spread across her face, though I could not determine whether it arose from shame or indignation.
“Caroline was sent to the Fleet for her debts,” Miss Greenhill announced with a provocative arch of her brow.
“But only for a fortnight,” Miss Ponsonby protested.
“My dear,” began the Greenfinch with a haughty snort, “to attempt to flee one’s keeper in the broad
light of day, when he has not yet settled your shopkeepers’ bills, is the behaviour of a dunce.”
“I was but fifteen and he was a booby,” declared Miss Ponsonby.
“But not so much of a booby as to forget to set the bailiffs on you.”
Caroline Ponsonby glared angrily at her friend.
“No, Miss Lightfoot,” Mary Anne Greenhill continued with a coy simper, “a woman of our sort must be clever with regard to all manner of things.” Her gaze wandered downward towards my middle. There, upon a blue silk ribbon, hung Quindell’s miniature portrait, surrounded by diamonds. I noted her rapt expression. How dearly she wished to fondle that expensive bauble! Her fingers twitched in anticipation. I held it out to her, and from the instant she took it in her hand, a broad smile appeared upon her face. “For example, should you find yourself in need, you might sell… this…” Her eyes twinkled as she admired the piece, then, in a sudden fit of girlish giggling, she looked away. “He is most handsome, Mr. Quindell.”
While I understood perfectly well that pawning the contents of Quindell’s house was more likely to lead me to the gallows than to Paris, I confess there was one instance when I made an exception.
Friends, that which I am about to disclose to you may on first reading do nothing to improve your opinion of my character, but I ask you to consider all the circumstances before passing judgement.
As you well know, my home on Clarges Street belonged in every way to my keeper. Any say I had in its decoration or use was at his discretion. To all intents, he saw my abode merely as an extension of his own. He came and went at his leisure, most of the time unannounced. Furthermore, he possessed a habit of decamping to my quarters with an entire cortège of friends and strangers. Besides his usual associates, on any given night I might discover anyone from the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York to a jig dancer and a blind fiddler in my drawing room. Why, one evening I returned after dining with Sir John and Lady Lade to find Quindell slumped drunk in a chair, and Lord Barrymore lying upon my sofa with a tawdry young whore in frayed ribbons beneath him.
Naturally, I was required to act the hostess on these occasions: to dance and roister with them, to play a hand of cards, or, on less barbaric evenings, to host a supper. Sadly, all of my well-bred curtseying and simpering was lost on them, for they had no mind for politeness when making use of my home. To Philly Quindell, George Hanger, Ban Tarleton, the Barrymores and Lord Sefton, my lodgings were no better than a nursery stocked with diverting toys. They cared not for the fine china; their elbows regularly knocked plates and teacups from the polished tables. Wine glasses were thrown into the fire so they might watch the flames spit. An urn of flowers was set alight, and a hot poker pushed through the table linen. Not even the paintings were spared from ill-use. One night, Tarleton acted out some scene he had witnessed during the American War. He prowled about the dining room, a carving knife in his hand, and then, with the cry of a Mohawk warrior, plunged it through the breast of a portrait. The company roared with amusement, but I gasped in horror. In wielding his knife, he had not only cut out the heart of the matron within the frame, but scratched a small Dutch landscape beside it.
The following morning, overcome with sadness, I examined the scene of this atrocity. “Dear Philly,” I complained to him, “it shall not do to have a picture on my dining-room wall in such a bedraggled state. Might I have it mended?”
Quindell, who was suffering from the previous evening’s merriment, merely groaned. “Hideous things, those pictures. I do not mind what you have done with them.”
And so, at his command, I wrote directly to a Mr. William Birch, artist, picture restorer and dealer in art, who possessed a shop on New Bond Street, and requested that he call upon me on a matter of business. This he did the following morning, whereupon I directed him to the dining room, the scene of the misadventure.
“Pray, Mr. Birch,” I begged, “is it beyond repair?”
Mr. Birch folded his arms and studied the hole. He poked it and then stood back. “I dare say not,” he concluded, after a spell. “And what of the landscape?” he asked, approaching the canvas filled with sky, cloud and flat Flemish scenery. “Should you like this repaired as well, madam?”
I had not considered the second picture. The scratch was discernible, but did not mar the placid beauty of the image.
“I… I…”
“If I may be so bold, madam, it is an exceptionally well-rendered piece,” he encouraged me. “Jacob Van Ruisdael, I believe. A Dutch artist, very much in demand among connoisseurs.”
“It had not occurred to me…”
“Might you consider selling it, madam? Notwithstanding the scratch, I would pay you handsomely for it.”
I stared at him, not knowing what reply to make. Certainly, the painting was not mine to sell and I opened my mouth to tell him as much, when something prevented me.
“You say you would pay me handsomely?” I ventured, anxiously fingering the ribbon at my throat.
“Eighty-five pounds, shall we say?… No more than £90.”
Ninety pounds! I did all I could to prevent myself crying out. To think that I might acquire ready funds so instantaneously! Why, that amount was likely to account for all of my travelling expenses and still leave a surplus. It would enable me to make my escape as soon as my coach had been completed and delivered. I pressed my hand to my breast and turned from Mr. Birch.
“I shall venture as high as £92, madam, but that is all I am able to make good on for the moment.”
Had Philly not instructed me to do as I would with the pictures? He loathed them. He had no eye for art. They were of no more interest to him than the wall upon which they hung. Would it not be better for someone to enjoy the scene? A connoisseur, who could admire the artist’s skill, who would hang the painting proudly among similar treasures?
“Yes,” I responded, “very well then. You may have it at that price.”
Mr. Birch made me a humble bow. “Then I shall have my boy collect both tomorrow and order my banker to write out a draft.”
My brazen deed left me a good deal shaken. I fretted that Quindell would miss the picture and, after an enquiry or two among my staff, learn the truth of my actions. But he never did. In fact, he never even noticed that the work had gone.
Dear friends, I know what you make of my deed, how dishonest you think it, but I urge you to withhold your censure. Think only that some gentle soul, some person of refined taste, now enjoys the beauty of that Dutch landscape. Think only of how I preserved this distinguished object from its likely ruin at the hands of one who saw no value in it. Why, think—perhaps this fine example of a painting is now a subject of study for young artists, who learn by Mr. Van Ruisdael’s skill. So you see, my action was not so base as you might think, for not only did it serve to benefit me, but others as well.
Two days’ later, a banker’s draft for the princely sum of £92 was handed over to me. Oh, that you might have seen me at that moment. I beamed with gratitude, my fingers grew hot, my face flushed with excitement. I could think of little else but what this slip of paper was to buy me, and carried it immediately to my dressing room. There, I went to my clothes press, unlocked a cabinet and a drawer, and pulled from beneath a pile of linens my small coffer of funds.
First ensuring that my dressing-room door was safely locked, I laid out all my money before me, much as I had on that day at the Stag when I was still an ingénue. I counted out my coins into piles, and with a racing heart tabulated the total. There before me was £112 2s. 4d.—a small fortune, to be sure, but this was only the half of it. In my ledger was an estimate for the value of my apparel, trinkets and jewels. By then, I had determined to sell only several select items of jewellery and preserve the rest, in case I should be in want of funds in Paris. These items would amount to a further £289 8s. 3d.—a vast sum indeed. My stomach turned over with excitement. I would go to Paris! I had only to await the arrival of my new coach.
On a mild morning during the f
irst week of June, I was drawn to the window by loud shouts and brays from the street below. There, before the door to my house, was a perfectly shining, dark green and black coach, its wheels tipped with red paint. Harnessed to it was a team of two bay horses, their heads crowned with green feathers, and perched atop the matching hammer cloth was Quindell, driving them.
“Oh!” I cried in astonishment, and flew down the stairs. I could scarcely contain my high spirits. “Lucy! Lucy!” I called out. “My town coach! Mr. Quindell has brought my town coach!”
Philly came to me wearing a broad smile. “ My Venus, you have now a chariot.” He bowed with a theatrical flourish.
The remainder of that day was spent driving through the town and parks at dangerous speeds. Quindell whooped with childish glee as he shook the reins and urged the team into a gallop. On another occasion, I might have screamed with terror as I was tossed from the leather seat against the blue-damask-lined cabin, but that day I was numb to everything but dreams of my future. I sat in a glassy-eyed reverie, still and contemplative.
That evening, I summoned Lucy to me. “My dear,” I announced with a slight smile and a tremble, “the time is upon us.”
Remembering Caroline Ponsonby’s cautionary tale, I proposed that we take our leave on the night of the ninth of June, in precisely five days. Together we began to gather the gowns and winter apparel, shoes, hats and feathers I proposed to sell. All of these, along with various jewels, trinkets and an unwanted ivory snuff box given to me by Major Hanger in a secret bid for my affections, were to be exchanged within the next four days. I had also the task of acquiring the necessary documents for travel. I did not know if such a feat were possible, and, more to the point, if it might be accomplished within that short time.
“No one,” I breathed, “not a soul alive should know of my plans.”
Mistress of My Fate Page 38
