Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  I lifted my hand towards hers. She took it, warmly enfolding it within her own.

  “Bless you, dear madam,” I whispered. “Bless you.”

  Chapter 40

  I have often found that nothing straightens a wayward path more effectively than an illness or an accident. My day and night under the influence of Blatchford’s elixir did just this. By the end of it, I had not only purged myself of possible offspring, but also of my foolishness. As I was rendered an invalid for several days, I had sufficient time to contemplate the error of my conduct, and to resolve that I should never again set out upon such a path of ruin.

  Gradually, with the assistance of beef tea and small morsels of bread, the colour was restored to my face. So too did reason resume its natural place in my mind. My melancholia, unfortunately, would not be dispelled so easily, for its cause was ever-present. In spite of my nurses’ efforts to keep it from me, it returned with the steady persistence of the tide.

  “Thalia! Dear muse!” Quindell cried as he rushed into my bed-chamber on the following morning. “Oh dear girl, you cannot imagine what dread, what misery your illness inspired in me.” He urgently pressed my feeble hand to his lips. “I passed the entire night in the parlour below, fretting that you should require a physician. Oh how I feared for your début!” He then smiled with relief. “But now that I see the blush returning to your cheeks, I am assured of your survival.” He sighed and took a seat beside me, removing a copy of The School for Scandal from his pocket. “Shall I recite your lines?”

  My return to Drury Lane did even less to lighten my depressed spirits. For nearly a week, my illness had preserved me from Kemble’s tyranny, his wife’s sneers and Preston’s lewd remarks, but when faced again with these assaults, my heart instantly began to sink.

  Now, friends, you know me to have been a diligent and scholarly child. Never in the past had I failed to commit to memory verses of poetry or passages from the Bible. Why, then, I struggled to remember Maria’s lines remains a mystery to me. Neither my fear of Kemble nor of certain disgrace upon the stage encouraged me to learn my part. I possessed no valid excuse for my ignorance, especially as Philly had taken it upon himself to tutor me. But nevertheless, day after day, I gazed vacantly at the pages before me, sighing and sobbing in turns.

  With a mere fortnight until our opening, I continued to carry my book and to read from it during rehearsals. Alas, Kemble grew so weary of my habit that he snatched it from me and threw it into the wings. Thereafter, I was forced to rely upon the prompter, who sang out my words to me like Cyrano de Bergerac. Worse still, my talent for performance had not improved, nor had the power of my voice, which remained no louder than the chirp of a sparrow. I appeared more mop than actress: part stiff, part limp, propped up but with a drooping head.

  As you might imagine, my listlessness vexed Kemble no end. Even Quindell began to lose his patience, and eventually retreated backstage. There, with Sheridan’s blessing and a further bribe of £150, he passed the time ingratiating himself with the actresses, playing dice with the actors, and making use of the theatre owner’s rooms. It was only then, once my keeper was out of earshot, that the manager abandoned the last of his restraint and lunged at me with the fury of a guard dog

  “What am I do to with this heap of wood today, hey?” he bellowed at me. “Burn it, perhaps? Ha! I should get a more heated performance from you, madam, if I were to set you alight!”

  I simply looked away in shame. He then strode up to me and put his face to mine. “Do you not understand, you silly little bitch? Are you deaf as well as dumb? We shall open in a fortnight and you shall ruin us all!”

  “I shall attempt my best not to, sir,” I whimpered.

  “Attempt? Attempt? We are beyond attempting, girl. You must perform!”

  Were this not mortification enough, Mrs. Kemble also did her best to heighten my sense of shame. How I dreaded rehearsing our scenes together. When it came to disparaging me, she would take her cue from her husband, listening first to his insults and then adding her own. She would often begin with sighs and then advance to whispered curses before erupting into a stream of shouted torments.

  “Fie, sir, how do you expect me to appear beside such a feckless little hussy as this? This is what comes of putting any man’s whore upon the stage. You force me stand beside this harlot, to show myself in her company, as if I were no better than she. What humiliation you do me, husband, when I am a respectable wedded lady.”

  Naturally, these outbursts would raise sniggers from the company, while I struggled to disguise my mortification and continue with my scene. Oh, what degradation I was made to suffer! Into what depths of despondency was my heart plunged!

  When the Kembles had inflicted upon me the last of their pillorying, I would be dismissed to my dressing corner. There, broken and miserable, I would pass a few quiet moments, sitting in the darkness, staring morosely into the looking glass, before Quindell returned to harass me.

  But on this occasion, as I made my way through the drapery, barrels and boxes backstage, something quite different awaited me.

  Mrs. Dorothy Jordan had, until now, paid me little more than passing nods and curtseys. In truth, her star shone so brightly that I feared to approach her. She was constantly surrounded by a mélange of servants, seamstresses, hairdressers, admiring actors or children, forever fawning or sobbing, bickering or pulling at her sleeve. She would appear upon the stage to deliver Lady Teazle’s lines, then retreat once more to the sanctuary of her rooms. Indeed, not to stare at her required some degree of forbearance, for her very movements, even the simple delivery of one short sentence or the utterance of a witticism, were captivating. I had watched her so many times upon the stage, and admired her in The Fair Penitent, in The Romp and Twelfth Night, to name only a handful. What shame this caused me, for I understood that I had no right to appear beside her in this production! In our uncomfortable scenes together, I could hardly bring myself to look at her, and never failed to weep my eyes red afterwards.

  For this reason, I was greatly surprised to behold the luminous form of Mrs. Jordan, in her white muslin gown and with her flop of curls, standing before my dressing table. I stopped suddenly and, like a humbled fool, dropped into a deep curtsey.

  “Mrs. Lightfoot,” she began, in a soft but firm tone, “please do excuse my intrusion, but I wished to speak with you.”

  I sensed immediately that I was to receive a scolding and, in anticipation of this, hung my head.

  “I have noticed you do not seem content with your role. You do not wish to play Maria. I suspect, Mrs. Lightfoot, that it was never your desire to go upon the stage in the first place.”

  At that, I lifted my chin and, while still avoiding her gaze, nodded. “It was Mr. Quindell. I would not wish it for myself, but he insisted.”

  She sighed. “That much is apparent.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Jordan, I never wanted to be an actress… I am no better than a Circassian slave girl.” I gazed up at her, hoping all the while that she would not berate me. Much to my surprise, her eyes did not hold contempt but, rather, sad empathy. Upon seeing this, my heart could hold back no longer and unleashed a torrent of emotion.

  “I… I once foolishly believed… that I could exercise my own will, and, by that means, lead a life of happiness. Someone had impressed that notion upon me… But now I see how ridiculous I have been. Gentlemen might live by those rules, but our sex… it is not within our power to do so. I have always known that to be true, so why I chose to believe…” I ventured to look at her before continuing, and seeing that the kindness still remained in her expression, persisted.

  “I fled my father’s house to avoid making a disagreeable match. I had been encouraged to do so… by someone. At the time, I believed it to be the correct course, but now… now I see it was not, and I am no more at liberty to determine my own fate than I would have been had I married the man my father intended for me. I am owned, madam… and traded, and… and made use of for every
one’s pleasure but my own. What hope of true happiness have I, when I am condemned to live no more freely than a prisoner? Oh madam, I despair, ” said I, the tears falling fast down my cheeks.

  Never had I related my story until now, and hearing my quivering voice deliver the words startled me. This was followed by sudden horror at what I had done: in a fit of passion, I had unburdened myself to none other than the redoubtable Mrs. Jordan! But, curiously, her sweet expression remained unchanged. The great actress beheld me with a calm, angelic countenance, as I slowly recoiled in shame.

  “You are incorrect, Mrs. Lightfoot,” said she, after a moment.

  I looked at her, puzzled by her comment.

  “You think yourself condemned, but you are not.” She smiled. “I was your age when I first played Maria. Every actress plays Maria at some point. Mrs. Kemble did too, which is why I suspect she so dislikes you. You remind her that she is no longer young, and Maria is a role for a girl in the prime of her beauty,” said Mrs. Jordan with a hint of wistfulness.

  “I played her in Dublin, at the Crow Street Theatre, under the direction of Mr. Daly, who was as much a tyrant as Mr. Kemble, but worse; Kemble does not demand of the young actresses what Mr. Daly asked.” She paused and allowed her eyes to wander over my dressing table, the mirror, the curtain. “There are some people, men in particular, whom I believe can scent weakness, much in the way a hound can unearth a fox. Daly was one such villain and he used me ill when I was far too young to know better. Like you, I was also rehearsing the part of Maria.” She sighed. “What occurred was a terrible misfortune. One day, he professed his love for me and claimed that he meant to have me for his mistress, but when I protested that I would not give myself to him, he laughed and explained that I had no choice in the matter. As he paid my wages, I was his to do what he liked with. Indeed, he was so persuasive, and I so cowed and foolish, that I knew not how to refuse him. He locked me in a room… and…” she paused and raised her brow “… so it was. Imagine then, dear Mrs. Lightfoot, what I was to think when I found myself with child by him. When he learned of it, he would have nothing to do with me. I was sent packing. We had no means, my family. My mother had been an actress, my father an actor—they never married and he abandoned us. I was the bastard of a whore, who became a whore who bore a bastard. It is often the way.

  “When I considered my disgrace, madam… well, you can imagine what were my thoughts. I had no hope in my heart, and as much stomach for playing Maria as you now possess. At the time, there seemed no possible redemption for me, no hope. I believed all my dreams to be entirely crushed, but I soon learned otherwise.”

  “How?” I enquired, humbled by her tale.

  “Persistence, Mrs. Lightfoot, and a degree of patience. The tide often turns when we least expect it, and then opportunity arrives upon it,” said she with a nod. “But you must keep your eyes on the horizon, and not down, sullenly staring at your feet.”

  Ashamed, I lifted my gaze from the floor.

  “I could not have foreseen what lay in my future. My mother took me to a relation in York and there I found work upon the stage and bore my daughter. It was only then that I learned my most important lesson: not to concern myself with how others judge me. I admit, that is a difficult lesson for our sex, for we are taught to care for nothing but our reputations. You see, they hissed me in York, those fine ladies, when they heard I had not a husband.” A wicked smirk then emerged upon her lips. “I shall confess to you, dear Mrs. Lightfoot, I still have no husband, and more children, but no one dares hiss me now. I get huzzahs instead, and the house is full every night.” Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she peered directly into my eyes.

  “The world has kept a great secret from you, madam,” said she, leaning in and lowering her voice. “When a lady loses her respectability, she gains all the liberty she might wish for. She is free to do as she pleases, to follow whatever mode of life amuses her. She may go upon the stage, or travel abroad, or choose a lover to suit her heart.” Then she narrowed her eyes and held her lips together in a playful manner. “But think what mischief should come to our world if all governesses were to teach their young charges such things!” She giggled. I, too, smiled at this absurd notion. “To speak frankly,” she continued, “you are beholden to no one, much as a man might be. Perhaps this was the lesson your friend wished to impart to you when you eloped from your father’s home?” she suggested, paying me a sideways glance.

  I had not considered this before. Allenham had warned me not to pay heed to the censure of others. Perhaps she was correct. I studied Mrs. Jordan, while contemplating her words.

  “This whim of your keeper’s, that you go upon the stage, it should not hold you—he should not hold you. Why, this caprice of his, it does not spell the end of your existence. You are young and exceptionally handsome, Mrs. Lightfoot, and with some cleverness I am certain you will find a way to do and have what you wish. ” Her gentle gaze lingered on mine until it teased from me a bashful smile. “Now, shall we read through your lines together?”

  I do not care to think what would have become of me had Mrs. Jordan not intervened on that day. That peerless lady, the most gifted of actresses, took it upon herself to draw me back from the precipice. It was with her coaching and encouragement that I was at last able to commit my lines to memory. Much to Quindell’s delight, we spent several days in her dressing room, where she guided me with her firm, instructive hand.

  “When you address Sir Peter, turn your face thus…” she coaxed. “Ah yes, like so! You have it. Now speak your line from your belly, puff it out as if your stomach were a pair of bellows…”

  I listened and followed. I must say, I was as much under Mrs. Jordan’s spell as any of her adoring admirers. Of course, this was in the months before our King William fell captive to her charms. He was then Duke of Clarence and could not have predicted what Fate intended for him. While some moralists disdain their union to this day, it was undeniably a long and fruitful one, which brought them both no small degree of happiness while it lasted. What, then, I ask, is so reprehensible in that?

  Suffice to say, I learned much from Dorothy Jordan, and Maria’s scripted lines were not the only thing I committed to my memory. Truly, it is remarkable how the spirit can be revived by the kind words of admirable people. To win the regard of one so universally esteemed restored me. As if by magic, I felt myself shielded from the piercing darts of Mrs. Kemble’s looks, and the stinging contempt of her husband. To put it plainly, Mrs. Jordan restored in me that which had been sorely lacking for weeks: courage.

  And, dear friends, I wish you had been present to glimpse Kemble’s expression when I first strode out upon the boards and rattled the chandelier with my voice! Why, his stormy features positively convulsed with disbelief. His eyes stared, his mouth gaped.

  “Great God of Mercy!” he declared, putting his hand to his head with the flourish of a tragedian. “Is that you, Mrs. Lightfoot?”

  “It is indeed, sir,” I responded with the strength of a commander of a man-of-war.

  “Well…” he stuttered. “Well… this is a transformation.”

  And not a word more was said on the matter.

  Chapter 41

  To be sure, a great alteration had come about in my character. My courage had cleared the murkiness about me. No longer did obstacles appear as daunting as they had in the past, and hope unfurled its petals once more. Within a short time, I found myself contemplating my future. I even dared to entertain the possibility of mounting another escape, though how precisely I might plot and execute such a plan continued to vex me.

  I dare say my mood had shifted to such a degree that even Quindell’s constant presence irked me less. In truth, when he saw that I now stood ably upon my own feet, he did not hover as closely as he had once done, choosing instead to linger over his dice games and read through the prospective plays which were daily heaped upon Sheridan’s desk.

  But while I considered myself transformed, there were o
thers who saw differently. To these hound-like creatures, I remained a cowering fox. They had caught the scent of my weakness a while earlier and had been sniffing and scratching at my den ever since.

  On a morning shortly before our début, while Quindell sipped tea with Sheridan, I took myself to the green room. There, I determined I would rest upon a couch and read until summoned to rehearse a scene. The quiet and the warm daylight rendered the room so peaceful that I soon drifted into a shallow sleep. Never again shall I be so foolish as to slumber unguarded where my enemies circle.

  I do not doubt that Mrs. Kemble had a hand in what transpired. Unbeknown to me, I believe she spied me lying there on my back. It was she who plotted this vile trap for me. It was she who noted that Quindell was engaged with Sheridan and alerted Mr. Preston to my defenceless position.

  As I had not given myself over entirely to sleep, I was aware of sounds and movements from beneath my closed lids. I heard a light footfall and breathing and soon realized there was a presence beside me. No sooner had I opened my eyes than Preston struck, as swiftly as a cobra. He clapped his hand across my mouth and threw himself atop me.

  “Hush! Hush!” he commanded, while glancing over his shoulder to make certain we were alone. “Mrs. Kemble said you had called for me, that you lay ready for love,” he panted, as he began to fumble with my skirts. I attempted to rise and scream all at once, but his weight and his hand prevented both. He scrabbled at my hem and then at my thighs as I twisted and groaned, my heart pounding with fear and fury. I could think of nothing but releasing myself. His attack raised in me such indignation that I began to rage with the violence of an animal. I gnashed my sharp teeth and curled my hands into claws. I bucked and kicked and howled, until my mouth came down with such vengeance upon his finger that for an instant I thought I might have succeeded in removing it.