Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  With a yelp, he pulled back from me, gripping the finger into which my teeth had torn. His hand now ran with blood.

  “Vicious bitch!” he cried, as I rolled to my feet. Gasping for breath, I backed away cautiously, not knowing what he was likely to try next. It was then I noticed what lay upon the table. A number of objects intended for use in our scenes were scattered in a jumble, and among them I spied the hilt of a sword.

  Instantly, I dashed for it. I had never before wielded such a weapon, and although this was a mere dummy, I boldly pointed its blunt tip at my assailant. Preston, who was more concerned with his bloodied hand, took several steps backward.

  “How dare you, sir?” I shouted, the sword shaking in my grip. “You are a depraved monster!”

  He locked his eyes on mine and sneered crookedly. “And you, madam, are a depraved actress.” Then, with an overblown bow and a dripping hand, he retreated from the room.

  For several moments, I stood catching my breath and resting upon my rapier. I dare say I was as stunned as Preston at my actions. Never before had I defended myself with such vigour, or displayed such courage. I doubted he would be likely to attempt such a trick again.

  As you might imagine, I was unusually pleased to see Quindell that afternoon, when he escorted me to dinner. Wishing to regale him with my tale of bravery, I held my tongue until we were sitting at his table. I could scarcely wait to boast of my conquest, to relate to him how I had wielded my sword like an Amazon against my attacker, but no sooner had I launched into my story than he leaped from his chair in a passion.

  “How dare that scoundrel?” he exclaimed. “I shall call him out!”

  “Oh no,” I protested, for I had no wish to see this act avenged, when I had defended my honour well enough. “Dear Philly, I should die if some harm came to you,” I pleaded, employing my acting skills.

  With some gentle persuasion, I finally succeeded in cooling his hot temper, and by that evening I believed the matter all but forgotten. In fact, I thought nothing of it when, the following morning, he insisted on accompanying me to my dressing table, which he had not done for several days. But when he then moved left down the corridor, rather than right to my corner, I began to grow suspicious.

  “Where is Preston?” he roared like a lion, once inside the labyrinth. “I demand to see the rogue!” I placed a restraining hand upon his arm, but he shrugged it off angrily. “Preston! Mr. Preston!” he called out into the darkness. Players and servants backed away from him as he stamped through the forest of curtains and ropes. I chased after him, but he seemed intent on losing me.

  “Who calls for me?” came the actor’s voice from behind a set piece.

  Quindell’s nostrils flared. “Preston, show thyself!”

  The performer, with his hair in curling papers, had no sooner stepped from behind the wooden wall of Sir Peter Teazle’s study than my protector flew at him. With one swift draw of his fist he pelted Preston across the face and I gasped in horror as his lanky, ribbon-like figure collapsed into a heap. Until I heard his groans, I feared for an instant that Quindell had murdered him.

  “That, sir, is for the insult you paid Mrs. Lightfoot.”

  Preston moved upon the floor, his bandaged hand over his right eye.

  “I shall consider honour served,” the Boy Barbadian concluded with a bow.

  The actor snorted. “I believe honour was served yesterday, sir. Your bitch nearly bit off my finger before attempting to run me through with a sword.” He then began to laugh wickedly. “I would be damned if I ever tried her again.”

  Quindell squared his shoulders. I am certain he did not hear Preston’s comments, nor would he deign to respond to what he would have believed to be a patent lie. I, for my part, felt quiet pride in my actions: that I had managed to defend my own name, without the able assistance of my protector. I confess, my violent action was not the sort of behaviour appropriate for a woman who professes concern for her character. But here I remind you of Mrs. Jordan’s sentiments: that a woman must throw off the yoke of reputation before she is able to enjoy the spoils of liberty.

  To be sure, that was an exceptional day, which ended with as much excitement as it had begun.

  Backstage, all talk was of the contretemps between Preston and Quindell. Indeed, by the afternoon, the tale had spread to the adjoining Rose Tavern, and from there to the rest of Covent Garden. Soon I was hearing the entire story recounted as some great feat of heroism, where Quindell had dragged the actor by the hair from his dressing table, smashed in his face, and very near slashed his throat. All this for the love of a whore, it was said, though I am certain that that last embellishment came from Mrs. Kemble.

  To be sure, this entire incident caused me great uneasiness, for you know my dread of being made the object of gossip and speculation. So you might imagine my discomfiture when, shortly before we were to conclude this, our final rehearsal before our scheduled première in three days’ time, a servant came to me with a message. I was told that a gentleman had appeared at the stage door and requested a word with me.

  “I am afraid he would not give his name, madam, but he said it was a private matter of some urgency.”

  “Oh goodness!” I exclaimed, casting an anxious glance at Philly, who sat in a far corner playing Hazard with the scene shifters. “Is it the magistrate?” I whispered. My heart began to pound, for I feared that this incident of Quindell’s was about to rebound upon me.

  The servant claimed he did not know, so I asked that the mysterious visitor be shown into the green room.

  As I made my way through the corridor to greet him, I fretted terribly. Had Preston made some accusation against me? Was I to be arrested? My terror increased with each step I took towards the green room. Gracious heavens, was I to be sent to Newgate? By the time I had placed my hand on the door, I could hardly draw breath.

  But the gentleman whom I found standing before me appeared nothing like a Bow Street Runner. Attired entirely in buff silk and a waistcoat embroidered with a profusion of tiny pink and emerald flowers, he paid me a deep and courtly bow.

  “Forgive me if I am incorrect, but you are, I believe, Miss Henrietta Ingerton?”

  The name, which I had not used since I began my life with Allenham, caused the blood to stop within my veins. I took a step backward. I was, I must admit, too much in a state of shock to speak.

  “But I have alarmed you,” my visitor began to apologize, his French accent now clearly apparent. “That was not my intention, mademoiselle.” He bowed once more.

  “Who wishes to know my name?” I enquired, still a-tremble.

  “I am Charles Hercule Lancier de Laveret—comte de Laveret. I am a friend, mademoiselle.”

  I continued to stare in puzzlement at the comte. He was a complete stranger to me.

  “Miss Ingerton, I have not been long in your country and therefore I know little of what the English understand of the situation in France. Many of your politicians speak of liberty, but what transpires in my country…” He paused and turned his gaze to the window. Although de Laveret was a young man, his face was lined and troubled. “Do you read the newspapers, Miss Ingerton? Do they report the recent events in France? That the King and Queen attempted to flee the country, but were captured by revolutionaries at Varennes?”

  I nodded slowly, unsure why he should relate these details to me.

  “Then you will know that they are now kept as prisoners in the Palais de Tuileries,” said he, lowering his solemn gaze to mine. “There are some in my country who call for their death, the death of the King of France, mademoiselle.” He shook his head. “Miss Ingerton, I am a man of education and I know what becomes of imprisoned kings, which is why, as a loyal servant of the King of France, I fled Paris. There are many among us—some have gone to London, others to Switzerland, or Brussels. I was en route to that city when I broke my journey at Calais. I believe it was Fate that brought me to Dessein’s Hotel, for I met there an old acquaintance of mine, the Baron All
enham.”

  He had no sooner spoken my love’s name than a gasp escaped my lips. I pressed a hand to my mouth in surprise.

  “It was he who persuaded me that London would prove a safer haven than Brussels and assisted me in securing the necessary papers. I am very much in his debt, mademoiselle. That is why I am here.” He studied me for a moment, attempting to read the emotion on my face: fear or hope, or some of both.

  “It has taken me the better part of a week to find you. No one, it seemed, knew of a Miss Ingerton. But a Miss Henrietta Lightfoot, that was a different matter. He had not expected you to keep that name.” The comte smiled tenderly, in a manner that suggested he had been told a lengthy tale of love.

  “Before I parted from Lord Allenham, he begged me to locate you in London, to see you with my own eyes, so that I could make certain of your well-being. He also wished that I should relay to you directly his words—that you remain his one true love. Married in the heart, before the hearth. I am afraid my English is poor. I am not certain I have translated that correctly.”

  But the tears that pooled in my eyes confirmed that he had. I could do no more than nod my head.

  “He said you alone would understand the meaning of that.”

  My right hand had now joined my left in front of my mouth. I held them there, for I was certain that if I did not, I would wail with emotion.

  “Mademoiselle, this news has distressed you,” he said, leading me to sit.

  “Is he there, still?” The comte did not comprehend my question.

  “Is he at Calais? Is he there now? At Dessein’s Hotel?”

  “I am afraid I do not know.”

  “But that… that was not even a fortnight ago? I thought him in Paris…”

  “There has been much upheaval, Miss Ingerton. I know not where he may be now…”

  “He could be at Dessein’s. He could be there now, at Dessein’s in Calais.” I rose hastily from my chair, my face broad and beaming with this realization.

  “I do not know, mademoiselle,” reiterated de Laveret, now looking as if he feared a madness might descend upon me. “I would advise against your journeying to France at the present time. It is not safe. Calais is filled with your countrymen wishing to return home and my countrymen wishing to escape. I beg you, Miss Ingerton, do not hazard it. His lordship would not wish you to imperil yourself.”

  But it was no use warning me. His news had entered me like a drug; drawing it out again would prove impossible. It coursed through me freely, overtaking all other thoughts. No matter how much de Laveret attempted to dissuade me, from that moment I resolved to go to Allenham—immediately.

  I had hardly bid the comte adieu when, there in the green room, I summoned some writing paper and, with a shaking hand, scrawled as rapidly as I could the first thoughts that fell from my pen:

  My dearest, most beloved Allenham, I have just now received a visit from your friend the comte de Laveret, who has delivered to me the most propitious news of your presence at Calais. Oh my truest heart, my adored husband, knowledge of your whereabouts has instantly rendered my life here intolerable. I intend to make for Calais within these few days, at my first convenience. I shall come to you at Deissen’s Hotel, where I shall direct this letter. Oh my angel, my devoted Allenham, my hand trembles so violently that I sign myself with great difficulty, your eternally faithful and loving, H. Lightfoot.

  In sealing that letter, I likewise sealed my promise to him—and to myself. I determined at that moment that my pledge to travel was fixed. I would no longer wear the chains of a captive, or permit obstacles to bar my path. And to be sure, nothing, dear friends, required more of my courage than to swear to that.

  Chapter 42

  I was now faced with a great number of pressing dilemmas. I suppose you have already guessed their nature.

  Simply because I had received word of Allenham’s location and resolved to take my leave instantly did not mean I had formulated a method of doing it! I assure you, I applied a good deal of thought to the matter, but still I could not fathom how I might distract Quindell and avoid discovery.

  “Dear Lucy,” I despaired, after revealing to her my intentions, “I know not how it can be done, for I have scarcely an hour when Mr. Quindell or his valet are not at my side. You have seen how he is forever in my house or attending me at the theatre. He will uncover our plot, to be sure.”

  Lucy smiled cheerfully, undaunted by the challenge. “Not if I am secretive in my errands, madam. I promise to be as quiet and crafty as a mouse.”

  “But I fear there is so much preparation—the horses, the documents, the packing, the expense of once more buying the silence of my household…” I shook my head and sighed.

  “I am a swift worker,” said my maid with a gentle, encouraging tone. “Why, I believe these tasks would require no more than two days to complete.”

  “Two days,” I echoed in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

  Lucy nodded.

  A mere two days. It seemed incredible. In two days I could find myself en route to my beloved. My expression suddenly brightened—and then, just as rapidly, fell. In two days’ time, I was to be upon the stage, making my début as Maria.

  “Oh, I am forever dogged by hindrances!” I cried in exasperation. “How could I possibly take my leave on the very day when all eyes will be upon me? I shall not have a moment unguarded!”

  Lucy had been observing me calmly as I paced and chewed at my fingers. “Madam, if you will allow me, there is not a time better suited to making an escape than the night of your début.”

  I furrowed my brow at her suggestion.

  “I mean, directly after the play. That would seem a convenient moment. They shall not have their eyes upon you then.”

  I halted my progress along the floorboards and considered her suggestion. She was, of course, correct. I could steal away after I had given my final curtsey. The afterpiece which followed The School for Scandal would form a perfect distraction. While Quindell sat in his box enjoying it, I would fly to Clarges Street to meet my waiting coach. Why, by the time he discovered my absence, I would be well on the road to Dover!

  I could scarcely believe it, for this scheme seemed the very solution I had sought all along. Indeed, it appeared almost too simple.

  I glanced at my maid. Lucy and her clever designs, thought I, as a mischievous smile began to slide across my lips. Upon catching my eye, she too began to simper, but turned quickly away.

  Uplifted as I was at the prospect of finally making my departure, I also understood how treacherous would be the days leading to that event. Although I trusted Lucy and her discretion, I could not be certain that her preparations would go undiscovered. Was this matter not unsettling enough, I had yet another upheaval with which to contend.

  Some of you, cherished readers, may recall that in the summer of 1791, His Majesty’s Theatre at Drury Lane closed to undergo improvements. An arrangement had been struck whereby Mr. Kemble’s company was then to assume a short period of residency in the recently reconstructed Little Theatre at the Haymarket. I shall not bore you with how it came to pass, but suffice to say our production of The School for Scandal was to be the first among the season of summer entertainments there. You may imagine the confusion that resulted when all the set pieces and properties, the servants, musicians, dancers, singers, painters and carpenters, indeed the entire crew that sailed the Drury Lane ship, came to dock in this foreign port. What cries of woe were heard to echo from our captain Kemble when he found how dwarfed were our sets upon this spacious stage! What battles were renewed behind the curtain, when La Kemble and La Jordan examined each other’s dressing rooms! And all this, upon the very day of our première!

  To be sure, I was vastly anxious on that occasion, but not for the reasons cited above, and not even because I was due to make my first appearance upon a public stage, in one of England’s best loved plays. It was not because I was to perform The School for Scandal in the presence of its author, Mr.
Sheridan; nor was it because I should be seen by all of society, including those who may have known me, however briefly, as Henrietta Ingerton. Indeed, I was so distracted by the prospect of my journey that the painful possibility of my father’s presence, or that of Lady Stavourley or of the two young men whom I now understood to be my brothers, had only fleetingly entered my mind. When I claim I had room in my head only to contemplate my flight, you will understand how entirely consumed I was by the road that lay before me and he who awaited me at its end. On that day, I could not have cared less what Kemble or Quindell asked me to do upon the stage; if they wished me to walk a tightrope or sing a ballad or dance a jig, I would do it willingly, so long as I could flee when the curtain fell, so long as Lucy had prepared my boxes and my coach awaited.

  As I arrived at the Haymarket theatre and crept through the curious dark unknown landscape backstage I was terribly uneasy, though not one nerve within me twitched in fear of my performance. As the singers prepared their voices and the musicians their instruments, as the cursing began and tempers rose, my heart beat in a constant, furious rhythm. As I was laced into the lavish rose and gold costume that Quindell had purchased for me, I shook. The dresser placed her hands upon my shoulders. “It shall pass as soon as you step out upon the stage,” she attempted to reassure me. But I knew the quivering was unlikely to subside at all that night.

  The friseur came and arranged the ribbons in my hair. A great jar of powder was blown upon me until my features disappeared beneath a storm of white. With the assistance of carmine, my lips and cheeks then re-emerged from my blank visage. Only Preston’s face was more obscured. In an attempt to disguise the eye that bulged like a purple pincushion, he had painted on a good many layers of lead. Much to his dismay, he could not obscure the deformity from view, which greatly delighted the editor of the Morning Herald, who printed the entire story of the actor’s defeat at the hands of “the Brave Boy Barbadian.”

  Mrs. Kemble, too, came in for some scorn from that newspaper. In the confusion of the decampment to the Haymarket, it seemed thatthe trunk which contained Lady Sneerwell’s costume had been mislaid. I must confess, to this day I fear I may have been to blame for this misfortune. You see, the box had been placed beside my dressing table and, upon recognizing that it was Mrs. Kemble’s, I ordered it to be removed at once. Of course, had I known what an inconvenience this was likely to cause, I would have delivered it myself to our manager’s wife directly, and seen that she had received it, with good grace.