I planned a good many suppers and dances. We invited the very best and most important people in England. We spent few evenings in a quiet house. Always guests would arrive, whether invited or no, and we would sit around the fireplace reading and conversing. I was at my most animated on these occasions; words and laughter slipped from my person with the slightest provocation. It is true I spoke my mind more than most other ladies. Men would start in delighted surprise at my quick wit. They warmed to me, begged to be allowed to escort me to dinner. It is surely my tongue that has cost me my life.
It was my mother who first married well. As I grew, she conveyed to me the sense of my fortune, that I never knew hunger or cold. While I was still a child, she whispered to me tales in quiet lamplight, of babies taken in the night by the bitter ice, of my own grandmother starving to death to feed her nine children. My fortune was a burden I must always carry with me. I asked my husband to allow me to work for the poor. Whenever he returned from his own duties, he never failed to ask after my own work, writing petitions and collecting funds. I had a hospital built; people soon knew of it, and it became easier to raise funds for a second. I began planning a charity school. Shore encouraged me to ask our guests to give what they could spare. And our friends gave generously.
A good number of my husband’s friends were noble by birth, and thus I was not surprised to find myself at gatherings with the king.
“Mistress Shore,” King Edward said to me one evening. “I hear you are keeping our poor from the streets.”
“We are helping them with firewood and food in the wintertime, Your Highness.”
“They have been far less trouble to me this year. Pray, tell me of your work?” And so while I had spared His Majesty my petitions, I began to tell him of the army of ladies; some writing, others providing food and firewood from their own kitchens and estates. When I had finished, he said to me, “What sum would prevent any English child from starving this winter?”
“One moment, Your Highness.”
As I stood, all eyes were upon me. I left the room for my bureau where I sat calculating sums. My hand shook as I gripped my pen. That winter the king provided more than twice our previous sum.
His Majesty asked to see me after this meeting. And then again. Each time, I took my sums and my letters, ready to show him should he ask. He poured over my papers and admired my longhand. I can love any man who is kind to me. That is both my greatest strength and weakness. Men ask much of those who love them.
Edward said I must give myself to him or my husband’s life is forfeit. I dared not hesitate. I was allowed one final audience with my husband. Shore kissed the tears from my brow and swore I did not need forgiveness. He prayed the king would keep me safe and said his own love for me would remain unchanged.
The king came for me in his own chariot like a peasant with his master’s horse. I was handed up to him, and I blushed like a bride. He saw me hesitate, and he sought to calm me before the journey.
“You do your country a great service, madam,” he said, taking my hand. I stared down at my gown as he spoke, my spine rigid. Then I chanced to look up at some movement from the horse before me, and I saw my husband standing but a short distance away. I grew cold and then I burned, as though encased in ice. I was not myself when I screamed, wringing my hand like a widow, tears pouring from some secret place within. And I imagine Edward looked annoyed, grasped me possessively to him, and whipped the horse into motion, beginning the journey away from all I had known and loved.
And though I sensed some courtiers were in jest when they now referred to me as “Mistress” Shore, my life with King Edward was largely a happy one. I had moments of deep melancholy when I recalled my husband who had allowed me so much freedom. On the night I was told of my husband’s murder, I locked my room to Edward. I could not bear the thought that one man who had possessed me had caused the death of the other. There was talk of political secrets, Shore could no longer be trusted. The king whispered through the keyhole late at night. I had no reason to doubt the truth of his claims.
I never forgot my previous life with Shore, nor did I cease to mourn my dead husband. I sought solace in my quick wit, my new life, and the king’s warm hand sensing the quickening in my belly. When we were together, I tried not to think of Queen Elizabeth. There had been occasions when I had seen her glare across at me from the other side of a room. Always I smiled back. I had no reason for bitterness. In truth I pitied her.
I had tasted almost every royal privilege. Every night of the week a different feast was planned with minstrels and masquerades. I had gowns and masks to the dozen, each of my own choosing. The king lavished jewels and furnishings upon me. After the birth of my son, estates were put in my name. I still remember Edward’s rarely serious face, some days after my confinement, telling me where the papers were kept.
“The land is yours, my Jane,” he said. “Let no one take it from you.” Little did I know how easily the casual jottings of a scribe could pass these deeds to another.
On occasion, the king’s brother Richard was present at the palace during supper. He was a surly, serious man. He walked aided by a stick and rarely smiled. He never spoke directly to me, but I could not help noticing the anxious way he glared at me, then at the king and back again. It would take all my concentration to keep my eyes upon my soup, and I would retire as soon as it seemed polite to do so.
When my Edward grew ill, we all suspected fever. Richard was one of a small group who visited every day to discover the king’s state of health. When I saw Edward, shrunken by fever, sobbing like a child while sweat poured from his face, calling my name, I could do nothing but run to him. For a time his illness was not identified. When the doctor called it a fever, some kept away. But not Richard, nor I. I can only guess what passed between the two men when they were alone. Whenever I chanced to pass Richard about the palace, he stared through me as though I were not there. It was not long before the doctor became aware that no one else had caught the king’s fever. And then I heard whispers of poison. Richard was assembling his allies, and the queen was assembling her own. I was left alone nursing my suspicions.
There was no place for me in the battle for England. Now I realize that had I valued my life, I should have fled when I saw that Edward would not recover. England was to be ruled by a madman who had cut off all the men I loved, who ripped the crown from dear Edward’s skull while he still breathed. Soon followed my lands. I was taken into protection by Lord Hastings, that loyal friend of Edward’s, who appeared to lose the quickness of his step during those weeks when he had to tell me of my lover’s wilting and dying. And while he protected me, I knew he spent a good deal of time with Elizabeth who had been queen, consoling her in her grief.
Hastings worked tirelessly for England. I could see the glow from his candle until late into the night; he left the house in the early mornings before I arose. For my part, I spent my days at softly weeping, refusing to leave my chamber, failing to take anything other than a little bread and water. I sensed fortune leaving me and knew I had had my share. I waited for something to happen, yet I dreaded that it would.
Did I ask for beauty that kings would love me? In trying to do right I have done much wrong. Fool was I to trust all men and what they asked of me. Hastings was my fortune turned from good to bad. I had felt safe within his refuge, but then he asked my body in payment for his protection. What sin, what abomination, what pollution have I known. Ever since the death of the only one who was good, my Shore, I have been a vessel for all that was bad in man. Even kings can spew forth wickedness, I learned. Hastings was sent to teach me. It was under his protection that all became clear. My life without love was worthless, there was nothing to fear in chastening my body. Without my desire to live, Hastings had no power over me. I sought only to make my peace with God before my life was taken from me.
Gradually, I learned a great darkness came over the palace when my Edward died. There were disappearances and whisperings. Ha
stings did not tell me he was afraid, but I sensed it the night he tried to draw me to him, and I turned away. His palms were cold with sweat and his face the paleness of wax, maddened by fear.
His voice softened, his words melted, there was a frenzied look about him that I had never before observed. I begged him gently at first, for this was a man who had offered genuine friendship, one of the few to remain loyal to Edward after his death. I did not think to doubt his honor. I looked away and begged him not to speak to me thus. His words sharpened, his voice grew in anger, and I stepped away from him.
“How canst thou give this motion to my heart,” he shouted, fist clenched, sweating, shivering, “and bid my tongue be still?”
I breathed deeply, calming myself, wondering if he would strike me down and force himself upon me. I begged him look upon the highborn beauties of the court, for he was worthy of them, could take any he chose. I was lowborn and soiled, he a gentleman of the court.
I would know no other man. I fell to my knees, begging God to see what was in my soul, begging to be taken from this life immediately, to be prevented from knowing Hastings. Had I a sword I would have used it upon him. And then those words that haunt me still: “Ungrateful woman! Is it thus you pay my services?”
At this moment, God intervened in the shape of Dumont, who saved me from Hastings’s advances.
That lowborn Dumont blithely pinned down my noble attacker with his sword. I knew some moment’s peace then. For as Hastings was sent from his own abode, Dumont told me of a kind of paradise that could be mine. There was a cottage near the woods, he said, with flowering garden, simple neighbors, and an old priest. He promised to convey me there with haste. Alas, the haste was not great enough. I could only quiver and hide when Hastings returned with his men to take Dumont away.
The evil of that man Richard was confirmed when he took me to his court in pretense of politeness. He said Hastings would support those royal children who should be kings. And I was surprised for we had never spoken of the matter. But at this moment I forgave Hastings all. For even in spite of what he had done to me, he had remained loyal to my Edward. And so I told Richard that Hastings was right and he grew angry until the words spat from his lips like molten lead. “Harlot,” he called me, and words far worse, as he bade me have my way with Hastings to sway his loyalty toward Richard. For Richard wanted all the court to endorse his yearning for power. To be king was more important than to live. And then I spoke those words which sealed my fate:
Let me be branded for the publick scorn, turn’d forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond, be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread upon the barren, wild, and desolate waste, feed on my sighs, and drink my falling tears, e’er I consent to teach my lips injustice, or wrong the orphan who has none to save him.
The man who would be king and the heavens listened.
Methinks I see my husband, Shore. I believe not. I have not eaten these three days, and the visions are before me. He is there, in the crowd, strange. He is there. There, the face that has known my dawn. He is there, running to me, reaching his arms out to catch me as I fall.
1833
THAT NIGHT HE CAME. My mother was like an overexcited girl as she called me to dress myself. “He is come!” she said. And I saw that she hoped this would bring a recovery.
She lifted my arms one by one into my gown, and I felt that she had not tightened my undergarments. “You must have plenty of room to breathe, Harriet. The doctor said so.”
My mother led me out from my sickroom, and he ran to me in alarm when he saw my frailty.
“Malade? Oh, ma pauvre. . . .”
My mother sat, not so far away this time.
I sat in my armchair for some time, exhausted, just watching him. I could no longer remember whether I felt anger or remorse. I no longer knew what I wanted from him. Hector did not seem to realize that he had been the cause of my distress, and the reason for his absence soon became apparent. He had been thinking and writing.
Once he had completed his greeting, touched my hands and kissed my brow, he pulled some papers from his pocket. Gradually I realized that he had written a letter to his parents. The letter was forceful and gave scant information about me. He did not expect them to give it, but he demanded their consent to our marriage. I smiled weakly and gave him my hand in a symbolic gesture I did not intend as such. For Hector had not yet proposed, and I saw no reason to make a decision. But I was pleased his intentions were honorable, and after he was gone I would tell my mother. For she could not have instructed me better on the way to woo a man.
1827
I COLLECT GRIEF LIKE A SPONGE soaking up bitter juices. It is there in the faces of the defiant poor walking the streets, collecting scraps of coal for their fires. I drink it like poison in my thick early morning tea, my mother watching as though waiting to see if I drop from its force. I absorb it from Anne’s angry words and my mother’s complaints. We are left man-less in a forbidding city.
And then I lift the blanket of calm to search within myself. I hear echoes of a lonely child with a still unknown future. Led always for the convenience of others. Surrounded by a strange family of stagefolk with inconsistent loyalties. Dragging the ill and elderly behind her from country to province. Confused about what it means to love.
At rehearsals I am quiet, conserving my energy. I deliver my lines accurately, but I do not hint at what I feel. I use only slight gestures. During a break Kemble tells me I must not be afraid of exaggeration. “Remember that many audience members will not understand the words, Miss Smithson.”
Alone in my dressing room I sing Ophelia’s songs.
How should I your true love know
From another one?
The dirge-like minor key is enough to start the tears, before I have even begun work on the gestures. I know my voice is soft and not the voice of a singer. It is the voice of Ophelia.
The king and queen are to my right, the dead king and Polonius to my left. In front of me at an angle is Hamlet, and behind him the audience. This will allow me to have greatest power because I will seem to be addressing the audience. Slight gestures for the songs; my quiet voice in the minor key will create most of the effect. I will lay my black tear-stained veil on King Hamlet’s grave. It is the sweet flowers that I must work on. As though in a trance, I stand. I half speak, half sing the words:
Larded with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
I whisper the words and begin to walk around in a small circle, staring down, imagining the purple flowers. And suddenly my life has followed a different path. I have remained in the Ennis countryside where I have found and lost love. Grass smells sweet, and the sun warms my hair.
In years to come my mother will remember coming to find me that night, making her way through Paris in the darkness past suppertime. She will remember wondering whom she could alert as to her daughter’s disappearance and how she could find the lodgings of Charles Kemble without knowing his address. She will remember her despair at what would become of her and Anne, of who would support them in their grief. She will recall arriving at the Odéon on a night of no représentation, breathless and tearful, and then apprehensive that the stage door moved with her weight. She will relive that journey through the dark bowels of the theater, arms tight around her chest to protect herself should she need it. She will forget that she did not knock, that she was so sure something was wrong, all she could do was force the key in the lock.
My mother told me afterward that a chill went through her when she first saw me prepare for l’apparition of Ophelia. I was transformed, she said, the grief of a long lifetime heavy in my bones. My face glistened with tears as though someone had died. My mother said it was as though I had received new knowledge that evening.
1833
HECTOR COURTED ME with songs and flowers. And when I promised him my strength and my energy for his fight, it was as though it was all a play. For I wishe
d his parents’ approval and their consent because I felt it my right. But I had not yet decided that Hector should be my husband.
I had known Hector but two months when our courtship turned from a thing private between us to a crude public battle. The battle so consumed him that we ceased progress in our knowledge of each other.
Hector had always sought his father’s approval, but his music, his very lifeblood, was a decision taken against his father’s wishes for which he would never be forgiven. And so he became accustomed to such continuous battles. Every day he would come to me more and more exhausted, thick lines under his eyes but a greater fury within him. He would bring the latest communications from his father, or a copy of the letter he himself had written. And so it became like a war, and I was always told who had charged and who retreated; whose weapons were newer and in better repair. Hector now spoke of nothing else but our terrible situation, of how much we were to be pitied. He wanted nothing more than to marry me, and yet this was the one thing denied him by his family. In his darkest moments, he spoke of taking his own life.
And so my mother was spared voicing her own disapproval and could appear all goodness and kindness when she offered Hector tea and told him that he really must obey his parents’ wishes but that he would surely find a nice girl to marry, one carefully selected by his family. She cared not that she slandered me and my profession with such words, but only that she was keeping me to herself and saving me for a wealthier man at the same time.
My role was changed from storyteller to comforter, from lover to mother before we were wed.
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