by Jean Plaidy
It was a very extraordinary situation, but she would be able to handle it.
The message would come any day now for she knew that the Prince would most certainly be going to Windsor soon to celebrate his nineteenth birthday there.
She had no illusions. This would be no grande passion. She was not the sort of woman to inspire that; nor did she wish to be. Perdita was a sad warning to any woman who might have such dreams. No, she and the Prince would have a quiet discreet friendship which would go as far as he wished and be terminated at his desire – which was the best in the long run. Only a fool would expect fidelity from such a young man; she did not even expect it from Mr Fox and her feelings towards him were different from any she felt towards anyone else.
She was excited. She knew now that she was an extremely attractive woman. She guessed she would last as long as Dally the Tall; and she had no objections to running simultaneously with that notorious lady.
Perhaps she should warn Perdita. She imagined the effect that would have because the vain creature was beginning to learn how much she owed to her maid, and the more she considered the matter the more certain she was that once she had supped with the Prince she could not come back to Perdita. It would be undignified to do so; and her dignity had been her most characteristic trait; it had helped to bring her to the position in which she now found herself.
Meanwhile Perdita was growing more and more melancholy.
There were hints everywhere about the Prince’s friendship with Mrs Grace Elliott.
‘Friendship!’ cried Perdita. ‘That creature is so impertinent that she would presume on any friendship.’
‘She is certainly a very bold lady,’ agreed Mrs Armistead.
‘How do you know, Armistead?’
‘I have seen her, Madam. She is constantly showing herself in her carriage.’
‘And doubtless you have heard rumours?’
‘Yes, Madam, there are rumours.’
Perdita went into a mood of morbidity; and Mrs Armistead chose this moment to hint that she might be leaving.
‘Personal affairs are beginning to intrude a little, Madam. I may find it necessary in the near future to give up my post and attend to them.’
‘Personal affairs,’ murmured Perdita vaguely.
‘Yes … my own affairs, Madam.’
Perdita looked at Mrs Armistead. How strange! One had never expected her to have personal affairs. They sounded very vague. Perdita could not pay much attention to Mrs Armistead’s personal affairs; she had so many of her own. Then it suddenly struck her. Armistead wanted more money. This was her way of asking for it. Of course she should have it.
She offered it and it was gratefully accepted. Mrs Armistead had done her duty, she considered; she had warned Perdita.
*
Perdita was in her room; she was weeping undramatically. She was too unhappy for drama. It was true; he had a mistress. She was this woman who had been divorced by her husband for eloping with Lord Valentia. Mrs Grace Elliott – Dally the Tall – the golden haired beauty who had dared to give him rosebuds while she, Perdita, had looked on.
Of course she had opportunities of seeing him which were denied to Perdita. But they need not have been. He could have been constantly at Cork Street if he had wished. But he did not wish; he came less frequently and when he did come he stayed for such a short time. Why? So that he could hurry away and be with Grace Elliott at Cumberland House. For she had no doubt of this. Her enemies were the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland. The Duke hated her because he had wanted her for his mistress and the Duchess hated her for the same reason. They had been against her from the first. It was they who had brought this Grace Elliott to his notice. But he had been ready enough to be unfaithful to her.
And she had given up everything for him!
She had shut herself in her room; she could not bear to see anyone. She had not even sent for Armistead to dress her. She could only lie in bed and contemplate her misery.
What would this mean? Humiliation. The whole world would know. One could not hope that it would be a secret. The papers would be filled with cartoons and lampoons; when she rode out people would laugh at her. There would be no more of those rides along the Mall when people stopped to stare at her, and gallant gentlemen doffed their hats and almost swept the ground with them to do her the utmost homage.
And the Prince would flaunt another mistress. And … hideous thought and one which she tried to shut out altogether … the creditors would demand their money. They would not humbly request payment as they had in the past; they would make ugly demands. And what would she do? Where would she find the money to pay?
She thought of the cold stone walls of the debtors’ prison … the hopelessness, the despair of those within.
No I she thought. Never, never! Anything is better than that.
The Prince was going to Windsor for his birthday celebrations. There would be beautiful women there … women of the Court. But she was shut out. She was not received. At one time he would have deplored this. He would have said: ‘I will go to Windsor for the birthday ball because I needs must and then I will fly back to my Perdita.’
But now he was going to Windsor days before the ball; he was going to make the arrangements himself. He had no desire to be where Perdita was.
Oh it was so different; it was all that the moralists would have told her that she must expect.
So she lay in bed all day, too limp to get up, to care, and it was a measure of her misery that she did not care what she looked like.
There was a scratching at the door.
‘Is that you, Armistead?’
Mrs Armistead entered. ‘A letter, Madam.’
Eagerly she took it because she saw that it came from the Prince.
Her fingers were trembling as she opened it. She could not believe those words. They could not be true. He was telling her that their idyll was over and that they should not meet again.
She lay back on her pillows, her eyes closed. Mrs Armistead picking up the letter, took the opportunity to read it.
She understood. The moment had come.
‘Madam has had bad news?’ she asked soothingly.
Perdita nodded vaguely.
‘I will make you some chocolate.’
‘Chocolate!’ cried Perdita bitterly.
‘Then, Madam, a dish of tea.’
‘Leave me, Armistead. Leave me alone.’
Mrs Armistead quietly shut the door, leaving Perdita to her misery.
The Prince she guessed was on his way to Windsor. Soon now, if it were coming at all, the summons would come.
She went to her room – bare of all her private possessions. The beautiful gowns which Perdita had given her were all safely stored in Chertsey.
All day long Perdita stayed in her room, wanting nothing but to be left alone with her misery.
What a fool she is, thought Mrs Armistead. She will ruin her looks with weeping – and there is Lord Maiden, and a host of others who will cherish her. She could discover that it is not such a bad thing to have been the mistress of the Prince of Wales.
Mrs Armistead looked at her own reflection in the mirror and smiled secretly.
*
There was an air of waiting about the house in Cork Street. The servants knew. Perhaps, like Mrs Armistead, they had seen it coming; they knew how infrequent were the Prince’s visits, they had heard his voice and that of their mistress raised in anger against each other. Doubtless, thought Mrs Armistead, they imitated those in higher circles and wagered how long it would last. They would know that their mistress had shut herself in her room and that she refused to eat or see anyone.
Mrs Armistead stayed close to the window. Every time she heard carriage wheels she was intent.
And at length a carriage stopped at the door of the house and glancing out of the window she saw Mr Meynel step from it.
She was at the door and herself let him in.
‘The time has come, Madam,’ said
Mr Meynel.
‘Now … this minute?’ she asked and her serenity amazed Mr Meynel.
‘The carriage is waiting, Madam. We should leave in ten minutes. It’s a long journey to Windsor.’
‘Pray go to the carriage, Mr Meynel, and wait for me there. I will be with you in ten minutes.’
Mr Meynel bowed his head. He could see that she was a woman of her word.
*
Mrs Armistead scratched lightly on the door. Perdita did not answer, so she opened it and looked in. Perdita lay in her bed, her lovely hair in wild disorder, her face devoid of rouge, powder and patches looking strangely childlike. She did not glance at Mrs Armistead, but stared before her as though she were in a dream.
‘Mrs Robinson, Madam.’
Perdita shook her head. Her lips framed the words Go away, but no sound came from them.
‘It distresses me to disturb you with my affairs at such a time, Madam, but I have to leave.’
Perdita did not speak.
Very well, thought Mrs Armistead, if she did not wish to hear there was no need to force an explanation upon her. She had done her duty. She had told her that she was leaving. This was an easy way out.
Mrs Armistead shut the door and, putting on her cloak, quietly left the house.
*
The following day Perdita roused herself and saw ruin staring her in the face. The Prince had deserted her; he no longer wished to see her. She picked up the note he had written and read it again and again.
The fashionable world would know by now: Perdita’s day is over. Now he would be flaunting that woman – riding with her, dancing with her in Cumberland House and even perhaps at his own birthday ball.
He was at Windsor now. And he would not be thinking of her; but would he not? He had cared for her so deeply and that was not so long ago.
She had done everything to please him. Where had she failed? When she thought of what she had spent in this house to entertain him in the manner to which he was accustomed …!
Oh God, she thought, bills! Those outstanding accounts which she had thrust away so impatiently because there had been no time to consider the cost. All her energies had had to go into keeping her Prince happy. There had been no time for anything else. But when the dressmakers, the wine merchants, the butchers, the pastrycooks … when they all knew that the Prince had deserted her, they would lose their patience.
She was a frightened woman.
She got up from her bed. She could not allow him to treat her like this. Where was her confidence? She thought of how, not so long ago, she had been able to change his mood from one of peevish dissatisfaction to one of adoring contentment.
She was being foolish. All she had to do was see him, to tell him she adored him, that she could not live without him. That was all he needed. After all he was such a boy, a spoilt boy. Of course he was a spoilt boy. There were so many people around him showing him how important he was. Would he not one day be King?
Then she must see him. But he was at Windsor. Well, what was to prevent her going to Windsor?
She felt better now that she had decided on some action.
She leaped off her bed, looked at herself in the mirror and gasping with horror covered her face with her hands. What a fool she was! What if he had repented and called and seen her like this? The damage must be repaired without delay; and she would go to Windsor. She would take Armistead with her and it would be rather like the old days on Eel Pie Island.
She pulled the bell rope for Armistead and went to her wardrobe. Now what should she wear? A becoming gown and a cloak in a contrasting colour. Her hair dressed simply as he had liked it best, perhaps with a curl over the shoulder.
Why did Armistead not answer her summons? It was unlike Armistead.
She frowned and brought a blue silk dress from her wardrobe. She was feeling better already. Once Armistead had done her work she would have transformed this pale and sad creature into the most beautiful woman in London.
Hurry Armistead! What has happened to you.
It was five minutes since she had rung.
She opened her door and called: ‘Armistead.’
She went along to Armistead’s room. The footman was on the stairs. He looked flushed and it occurred to her later that he must have been at the wine.
‘Where is Armistead?’ she asked.
‘She left, Madam. Yesterday.’
‘Left!’
‘Yes, Madam. She went away. She said she was leaving and had told you.’
‘Leaving … But …’
The footman shrugged his shoulders … insolently, she thought. What had happened? Armistead … gone!
Then she remembered that the woman had come to her yesterday and said something. What had she said? She, Perdita, had been too unhappy with her own affairs to listen to Armistead’s account of hers.
The footman was watching her covertly. Of course he was seeing her as he never had before … unkempt, carelessly dressed, her face unpainted.
He knows, she thought. He will tell the servants that the Prince has deserted me.
So she must see her lover. She must go to Windsor without delay.
She went back to her room. It was mid-afternoon. Why had she not realized before what she must do. If it had been morning she could have reached Windsor in daylight.
But first she must make herself beautiful. Oh, how she missed Armistead! And where had Armistead gone? Some family matter … was that what she had said? Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t she insisted on retaining Armistead’s services at all costs?
Because she was taking some action she felt better. After all, she was capable of choosing the most becoming and suitable of her dresses, capable of applying the patch close to her eyes to call attention to their brilliance.
Dressing took a long time and she could not arrange her hair as effectively as Armistead could, but at length she was ready. Perhaps she should start tomorrow morning. No, she could not endure another night of suspense. She must see the Prince – and the sooner the better.
She sent for her young postilion – he was only nine years old – and told him that she wished to drive her small pony phaeton to Windsor, so he was to saddle the ponies and bring it to the door.
The boy looked astonished, but when she told him to be quick he went away to do her bidding.
How long it seemed while she waited there! The time seemed to have flown by since she had made her decision; again and again she looked at her reflection and thought of how much better a job Armistead would have made of her toilette.
At length the phaeton was waiting and she climbed into it while her youthful postilion took his place and they set off. Preparations had taken so long that it was getting dark when they reached Hyde Park Corner.
As the coach rattled on she was rehearsing what she would say to the Prince when she saw him; but first she must make sure that he would see her. This thought made her shiver with sudden anxiety. What if he refused? He had sounded so insistent in his letter. ‘We must not meet again.’ But he could not really have meant that. He had written it in a sudden passion. Perhaps inspired by Grace Elliott or her enemies at Cumberland House.
They had reached Hounslow and pulled up at an inn.
The innkeeper came out to welcome her and usher such an obvious lady of quality into the inn parlour.
She declared that she could take nothing. She was only eager to continue her journey as soon as possible.
‘Whither are you bound, Madam?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘To Windsor.’
‘Madam, you cannot cross the Heath at this hour. Stay here until morning.’
‘I must press on.’
‘I must tell you, Madam, that every carriage which has crossed the Heath these last ten nights has been attacked and rifled.’
‘I must take that chance.’
‘But you … a lady and no one to protect you but that young boy!’
She smiled. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said.
‘There are some dangerous men about.’
She was immediately dramatic. She threw back her head and smiled. Let me be murdered, she thought; and then he will be filled with remorse. For the rest of his life he will remember that my death was due to his treatment of me.
‘I do not fear dangerous men,’ she said.
‘You will be risking your life.’
‘Perhaps I have no great desire to save it.’
The innkeeper looked at her oddly. Her face was vaguely familiar to him. It could not be. Not the Mrs Robinson! But of course, and she was going to Windsor because His Highness had lately arrived there.
All the same, if she were to encounter a highwayman he wouldn’t care if she was the Prince’s mistress; and now he knew who she was, the innkeeper believed that that was a diamond she was wearing at her throat. She was asking for trouble, she was, but he could do no more than warn her.
As she rode off into the darkness he stood at the door of the inn scratching his head and watching until the phaeton was out of sight.
Perdita rode on. Hounslow Heath! Notorious as the haunt of the most desperate highwayman. Her little postilion was frightened; she could sense his fear. The Heath stretched out before them – ghostly in starlight. At any moment from behind one of those bushes a dark figure might rise up, flourish a pistol and call ‘Stand and deliver.’
She herself caught the boy’s fear. All very well to act a part before the innkeeper, to pretend that she did not care whether she was murdered or not. That was a part she played. But this was reality. Deep emotions, such as fear and misery penetrated the mask. She suddenly knew as they crossed the Heath that she did not want to die at the hands of some rough murderer.
She heard something like a sob from the little postilion; and then she saw the masked figure on the road.
Providence was with her, she was sure, for just as he was about to grasp the reins, the phaeton bounded over a hump in the road which threw the man backwards and gave her the chance she needed. She whipped up the horses and before the highwayman had a chance to recover his balance she had a start. He was running behind them, calling them to stand and deliver, shouting that he wanted their money or their lives.