Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  It is worthy of mention that I heard, many months later, that the Boy Barbadian wasted scarcely a handful of days in mourning my departure. He immediately found a balm for his broken heart in Miss Mary Anne Greenhill, who, it was reported, made her unexpected theatrical début in the part of Maria on the night following my disappearance. Bon Ton magazine reported that “The Greenfinch has indeed flown Lord S—n’s nest and now soars about town with a diamond miniature of Mr. Q—l at her proud breast.”

  My final deed before quitting the house was to take from my pocket two keys I kept upon a ring. I had learned well the lessons from my past. I had come to understand that I must never trust anyone, no matter how intimate, with my most precious possessions. To this day, I maintain always on my person a small pouch in which is kept the little metal objects that unlock my prized items and my secrets. With the long key, I opened a small inner drawer within my linen press and removed from it a copper box in which was stored the purse containing funds enough for me to travel from London to Calais.

  You see, I had become very clever. This purse, which I would carry in my pocket in the conventional manner, contained only a fraction of my recently accumulated wealth. I was not the fool I had been in earlier days, when I had counted my coins upon a tavern table and offered my entire purse for pillaging by the stagecoach driver. I would not be so blockheaded as to wear jewels that could be stolen from me, or embark upon a journey without some understanding that strangers rarely ever offered kindness for no return. No, I knew better now, which was why I had instructed Lucy to devise a hidden network of pockets to be sewn into two of my travelling gowns. Around the hem were open pouches into which my jewels had already been secreted, while the linings of my bodices contained slits into which my banknotes were placed. Why, it might even be said that Lucy’s alterations had greatly increased the value of my travelling attire.

  It was nearly three o’clock when I boarded my coach. The sun would be appearing in a few hours, but I knew very well that Quindell would not be stirring until the late afternoon. By the time he made his way to Clarges Street I would be in Dover, and far beyond his reach.

  As my coachman flicked his whip, my heart leaped. I wore the broadest smile that I can heretofore remember. Through the window I bade farewell to my modest townhouse, to Piccadilly and the gates of Green Park. I allowed my eyes to linger on Arlington Street as we passed it and thought of the dear owner of number 5, with whom I would soon be reunited. It would be only a matter of days, I told myself, days which would become hours, which would reduce into minutes. Minutes before he would hold me. Only movements of a watch hand.

  The coach rocked us through the London roads I had come to know, along Haymarket and past the Little Theatre, sleeping in darkness after its evening of entertainment. Once more that night, I crossed Westminster Bridge, but this time we continued east, rather than west, beyond the stinking tanneries, the breweries and dyers, the manufactories and lumber yards. I pulled my shade against the miseries that night drew out in this place: the scenes of destitution, the shadowy figures, limping and roving like demons. I thought of my bodice of banknotes and wrapped my arms around myself.

  When I next lifted the shade we were in countryside and well upon our route to Dover. London was mere dust behind me and the sun’s brightness was already beginning to warm the horizon.

  Shortly after dawn, we stopped to breakfast and rest the horses before carrying on for several hours more down the Canterbury Road to Kent. As you might imagine, I was a good deal tired by then for I had enjoyed not a moment’s rest, but, I confess, on that morning my appetite for sleep had entirely disappeared. I wished to remain alert for every moment I could endure, observing the sky mature into its daytime hue, listening to the summer birds call out within the trees, thinking all the while of my beloved, breaking the seal upon my letter at Dessien’s Hotel, waiting every day for my appearance.

  As you may know, it is near eighty miles from London to Dover, and in 1791, that was a considerable distance. Now the roads are greatly improved and with the invention of steam locomotives, anything seems possible, but in my day it required a good twelve hours or so of journeying. Eventually I gave up my vigil and was softly bounced into a slumber. I dare say this was quite fortunate, for the winding roads of Kent were to prove by far the gentlest leg of my travels and sleep would not again come so easily.

  By the time we arrived in Dover it was late at night and I had no hope of boarding a ship. With the assistance of Lucy, who was as washed of life as her mistress, I procured lodgings at the Mermaid, a clean but weather-worn inn. I sent her early the next morning to purchase for us a crossing upon the first packet ship due to leave port, but much to my dismay I learned that this would not be until that evening. Oh readers, imagine: I felt myself so near and yet unable to speed my progress across the sea. Why, I could look out from the hills of the town and see the very shores of France!

  Until we boarded the vessel, I spent the tedious day in a state of profound agitation, fretting constantly about our voyage. I had never been upon a ship, and this one did not appear so grand or sturdy as I had pictured. In addition to the sacks of post there were a great many passengers aboard it: fat Dutchmen speaking garrulously through their noses; Frenchmen with horse-like teeth; a collection of Jew bankers; and a large family of acrobats en route to Lille. Although I had seen many a dark face in London, and heard all manner of languages spoken, while in Dover I was dazzled by the spectacle of foreigners and shouting sailors, uniformed men and those in styles of dress I had never before seen. I looked all about me on this ship and saw not a single soul whom I might know as a friend. It was only then that the enormity of my undertaking came over me: I was departing England.

  Fear sank into me, but it was too late to abandon my plan. I had paid my £8 4s. for the passages of my household and the additional £1 6s. expense entailed in the dismantling and shipping of my coach. I sat in my narrow, oak-panelled berth, listening to the sailors’ footsteps on the deck above. I had no need to be frightened, I scolded myself, for Allenham was there; my beloved was in Calais. Without him, England held nothing for me.

  We did not put to sea for some time, for, as the captain instructed me, there were strong winds in the Channel and storms that looked likely to impede our progress. Noting my concerned expression, he jested that I should make myself comfortable.

  “Do you sleep well, madam?” he asked. When I responded that I was not known to, he drew in his breath: “Then take no supper, only brandy to ease your way to sleep. And, if you will forgive my indelicacy, do keep your chamber pot near.”

  Having never before embarked upon a journey such as this, I did not quite comprehend his advice, but after we had quit the smooth waters of the harbour, I immediately came to understand his meaning.

  Since my departure from Melmouth, I never was made to feel more like a helpless child than I did during that night upon the seas. We sailed inside an inkpot of blackness, the waves pitching our frail packet this way and that, as if we were tumbling freely through nothingness. The walls of my berth rose and fell; my small wooden chair was thrown from one end to the next by some angry, unseen hand. To dispel the darkness I had lit the two lamps upon the walls, but soon grew so terrified that the candles would fall free and set my room alight that I extinguished them. Without their glow, I was left entirely to the terrors of the night and cruelty of the sea. I sat upright in my hard bed, weeping, as Nature sent her brutal forces to battle us: the lashing waters, the howling winds and relentless rain. Oh, and if this did not provide distress enough, I was soon afflicted by the most incapacitating sickness. The captain’s words rang in my ears as I clung with one hand to my chamber pot and with the other to the wall beside my bed, fearing that the waves should break through at any moment and sweep me away. Soon all below deck were stricken equally, and the sounds and stench of their evacuations were unavoidable. I have never known a hell quite like the hull of a ship and, since that most wretched of experiences, h
ave come always to dread sea crossings.

  We were eight hours at the mercy of the Channel, which a fellow passenger informed me was not so bad as seventeen hours, which he had once had the misfortune to endure. By the break of morning, the worst of the storm had passed and the seas flattened, which permitted those on board to rest before the packet made its way towards the harbour of Calais. In spite of a weakness in my limbs, I wished to rise and dress as soon as I spied daylight for I knew us to be near. All at once I swore I could not tolerate my confinement a moment longer, or the suffocating dampness of the berth heavy with the stink of vomit.

  “I am in need of air,” I complained, and with an impatience most uncharacteristic, I insisted on being dressed that very instant. Lucy was still attempting to affix my hat to my head when I pushed through the door and up the stairs to daylight.

  There before me, against a marbled sky of grey, white and blue, could be seen the spires and scenery of the town, and just beyond it, a large fortress and a harbour tangled with sails and masts. The sight caught my heart unaware, but the wind whipped away my rapturous exclamations, carrying them, I imagined, into the port ahead of us. Oh, would that I could travel with the force of the breeze, thought I, and fly like a silk handkerchief to the shore.

  I remained upon deck for the remainder of the journey, watching as the land grew before us, until I could see the figures, carts and horses, the streets and houses.

  After weighing anchor, a small fleet of rowing boats approached the ship and the passengers were assisted down a rope ladder to a waiting skiff. This situation somewhat distressed me and the other members of the fair sex, for my shoes, though sturdy enough, were by no means suited to such an activity. How frightened I was to be taken under the arm of a sailor smelling of mouldy linen, who, with a clay pipe clenched between his teeth and my small form beneath one arm, portered me down to the rowing boat, laughing all the way at his good fortune.

  Once the boat had been filled with its cargo of pale and dismayed passengers, we were rowed to the shore. I cannot convey to you, friends, my sensations upon reaching land, for my legs shook like those of a newborn colt and my head rattled as though full of water. My cloak and riding habit were soaked with sea spray, so much so that one might have guessed we had swum the final leagues to the shore. But our trials did not end once upon dry earth. Oh no, I was not free to speed away to Dessein’s just yet, for there was all manner of business to tend to; the passavant to be issued, my presence to be registered in a large ledger—gracious heavens, it all proved too much to bear! These French officials took more liberties than any servant of His Majesty I had heretofore met with; they bowed and offered a good deal of politesse, before asking of me in rough Picardy accents the nature of my business, then sneering and leering at whatever answers I produced. The Customs men were no better; in fact, I was made to withstand even more shameful indignities. All of my trunks were opened and my belongings thrown about; my linens, stockings, gowns. No bandbox was safe from their grime-stained fingers. This disgraceful scene continued until they saw the look of distress upon my face and held out their paws for an appropriate “tax.”

  When at last they pronounced my examination to be at an end, I stood for a moment hardly able to grasp their words.

  “Merci, mademoiselle,” said the unshaven deputy in his cockaded hat. “To where do you repair now?”

  So exhausted and manhandled had I been, so tossed about and sickened, that I could barely make sense of my surrounds. I looked at him and at last uttered the name I had been wishing to pronounce for a week: “L’Hôtel de Dessein.”

  With my belongings, my servants and my assembled coach to follow, I asked to be taken post-haste to the hotel on the rue Royale. My breath was now coming so quickly that I feared I might expire as I stepped into the sedan chair. My stomach, though empty, churned with great force as the chairmen hurried me along the route. My beloved was now but minutes, but paces from me! I looked through the glass, searching for a chance glimpse of him as they turned towards the hotel, surrounded by its high yellow stone walls. Through the arches we came and into the courtyard of what looked to be a bustling country château. The chairmen deposited me at the foot of a double stair leading to the doors, whereupon I was greeted by a servant.

  “Monsieur Dessein,” I breathed, all in a fluster, “I must see him.”

  Without delay, the servant showed me into the hall and went to fetch the proprietor.

  No more than a minute passed before I was met by a short, round gentleman who strode towards me with the purposeful air of a butler. After introducing himself as Dessein, I inhaled and presented him with a nervous smile.

  “I would like to see the Baron Allenham,” I stated, my voice trembling.

  Dessein, ever accustomed to pleasing, turned his expression into a mirror of my own.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I know the name.”

  His words of recognition threw an instant clap of sunshine across my face. I beamed with hopeful anticipation.

  “And who, if I may enquire, are you to him, mademoiselle?”

  It was desperation that drove me directly into a lie. My lips were moving before my mind had completely formulated a response.

  “I am Lady Allenham, the Baron’s wife.”

  Dessein’s eyebrows raised into two happy arches, “Ah,” he said again with an obsequious bow, “do forgive me, my lady. I believe I have something here for you.” As my pulse galloped, the proprietor excused himself to retrieve this item, this sign which my beloved had left for me.

  He returned with a polite smile and a letter in his hand.

  “Now that you have arrived, I can commit this in your care, safe in the knowledge that your husband will receive it.”

  Even before I took the small packet from him I recognized the writing, and upon spying it, all my joy, my certainty and anticipation melted away.

  I had no doubt that my letter had arrived at Dessein’s, for there, in my hand, was the proof, and proof also of that which I had refused to consider from the outset of this long, hazardous and tiring journey: proof that Allenham was not here.

  Chapter 44

  One cannot fault Monsieur Dessein. In his lifetime as a hotel proprietor, I do not doubt he had seen every charade, every trick, every expression of weakness to which the human soul is prone, but still he possessed enough understanding to recognize a case of true distress when it was laid before him. With my senses so shaken from my crossing and my body so weakened, I am afraid I was reduced to tears as I explained my story.

  “My husband,” I sniffed, “had directed me to come to him in Calais. I received word from the comte de Laveret that he met with him in this hotel not a fortnight ago.”

  “Ah,” said the proprietor, his face now moulded into an expression of deep sympathy, “a fortnight you say? A fortnight? I fear there is no telling where he may be, my lady, and the fact that the good comte met with him at my hotel does not mean that your husband was resident here. Why, he may have been a patron of any hotel, though if he is an Englishman, I cannot think of any other house in Calais beyond mine where he might have resided, for all your countrymen stay at my establishment,” he concluded with a slightly insensitive, self-satisfied nod. “But I shall consult my records and see if his lordship was ever among my guests.”

  Dessein then offered me a modest set of rooms in his hotel, apologizing profusely that, due to the disturbance in Paris, he found himself “near entirely full of your countrymen, and many of mine, wishing to make their passage to London or Brussels. Alas, I am besieged daily by these refugees, supporters of the King and those fearful of the mob. It is an uncertain time, my lady, but a good one in which to be an hotelier.” He gave a little laugh. “Now, you must rest and take some nourishment.”

  To this I agreed and soon after found myself alone in my small drawing room. Only then did I give in entirely to my despair.

  It was not until the following morning that I emerged, dressed, composed and utt
erly firm in my determination to locate my beloved. I had reasoned with myself that the comte would not have taken such pains to discover me merely to relay a falsehood, and if Allenham had been at Calais, then certainly there should be some in this place who knew him and his whereabouts. Monsieur Dessein, however, came to me early with discouraging news.

  “I am sorry to report, my lady, that I have been unable to find your husband’s name among my books. He has neither resided here, nor hired a vehicle from me, nor exchanged money.”

  The proprietor noted my look of disappointment.

  “But this is not to say that he was not here, that he did not dine here, which may have been the circumstances in which he met with the comte de Laveret, whom I know to have been among my guests.”

  “It is possible, then, that he resided elsewhere?”

  Dessein’s face appeared doubtful, but he smiled obligingly.

  “Anything is possible, my lady.”

  My thoughts now began to dance in many directions.

  “Then I should like to know the names of the other establishments in Calais where his lordship may have lodged. I shall send enquiries to the proprietors of these places,” I resolved.

  Dessein held his smile gracefully as he composed a list of his competitors in the town. After making his bows, I set about writing, in my best French, six letters of enquiry, which were later dispatched by a hotel waiter. After completing this task, I then took up my pen once more and, with the assistance of my agreeable host, composed further missives to the five of Dessein’s guests who had been in residence at the time of Allenham’s appearance. I was pleased to find that this produced an immediate response from a gentleman by the name of Townsend, who claimed to have knowledge of his lordship.

  Fired by a sense of renewed hope, Dessein brought me to the salon of his hotel where I was introduced to Mr. Townsend, a man who, the proprietor explained, lived permanently at his establishment, so as to evade his creditors in London. But my heart dropped when I laid eyes upon the aged fellow in an unfashionable bag wig and faded velvet coat, and it fell further still when he began to reminisce about his days in Turin, when he dined “near every evening at the palazzo of the Minister Resident,” which was, he admitted, “in the year 1770, before your birth.”