Life Mask

by Emma Donoghue

  She'd loved her friends as many women loved each other, as many men loved men, as Derby loved Fox; wasn't friendship generally agreed to be the highest virtue? I'm innocent, she said again to the demon Pigott in her head, but it rang false. This didn't feel like innocence. This was like a dream in which she'd committed some terrible crime, but she couldn't remember what, or how. She hadn't done the things Pigott said of her, but what good was a clear conscience? Shame weighed as heavy as guilt. Shame wasn't brought on only by what one said or did—but by what was said of you, done to you.

  And whether the accusations were true or not didn't make much difference, because people would believe them anyway. She'd first been called these names in print by William Combe sixteen years ago. The difference now was that people must be starting to believe it. She'd been abused, hissed and laughed at in a public theatre. The actress had accused her of being a filthy Tommy. And Mary, did Mary believe the latest dreadful accusations, or did she simply hate Anne for dragging her down? Perhaps it came to the same thing.

  It was the end of August now, and Anne knew she should be sensible and go back to her refuge at Park Place. But she seemed to be floating a great way off from her life and she couldn't find the rope to pull herself back in.

  She hadn't been to church all summer, but when she found a limp copy of the Psalms in a drawer at the next inn she opened it at random.

  They gaped upon me with their Mouths, as a ravening and a roaring Lion. I am poured out like Water, and all my Bones are out of joint; my heart is like Wax.

  Her heart contracting like a fist, she turned the page.

  For Dogs have compassed me, the assembly of the Wicked have enclosed me; they pierced my Hands and my Feet. I may tell all my Bones; they look and stare...

  SEPTEMBER 1794

  The Farrens arrived on the packet boat from Dublin after a very successful tour. 'Six nights in Cork,' Eliza told Derby, speaking fast, 'six in Limerick, fifteen in Dublin, clearing £1400 before two excellent benefits. I gave them Beatrice and Lady Teazle.'

  He was examining the gold paintwork on the arm of his chair. 'You left London with no warning.'

  'Yes.' Eliza's teeth set. For six weeks she'd only sent the most brief and bland notes from Ireland, and the Earl's replies had been the same. Perhaps he'd try to console her, now, or laugh it off. But she thought it more likely that they'd pretend this disastrous episode had never happened. Over the years the two of them had developed a knack of not speaking about delicate things—for instance, Lady Derby's health. Their harmonious relationship depended on a judicious measure of silence.

  Derby surprised her. 'Mrs Farren,' he said, turning his head, 'I wonder, if you'd be so good, might your daughter and I have a moment in private?'

  Eliza and her mother stared at each other. In all the long years he'd never asked for this.

  'Oh, but—' Mrs Farren began.

  'Please. You could sit in the long gallery at the end of the corridor.'

  Eliza jerked her head, and her mother gathered up her knotting and went out, her shoulders stiff with offence.

  'It seems to me,' said Derby into the silence, 'that there need to be changes.'

  'Changes, My Lord?'

  'Between us.'

  She bristled at the pronoun.

  'I wish you to break off all connection with Mrs Damer.'

  Eliza rose to her feet. She thought of telling him that she hadn't spoken or written to Anne since their terrible quarrel at the end of July.

  'I don't ask', he went on, raising one hand like a vicar, 'whether there's any truth in the noxious allegations.'

  'How dare you!'

  'I don't ask,' said Derby, 'because I've no desire to know.'

  She realised something. 'You mean you wouldn't believe my denial.'

  'I don't ask,' he repeated, almost snarling, 'and I will never ask. But I do demand that you break with Mrs Damer.'

  Eliza's head was full of thunder. She twisted the ring on her little finger, rubbed at its ivory eye. 'And what about Lady Milner, my Yorkshire connection, according to Pigott,' she said sardonically, 'am I to cut her off too?'

  'Don't be silly.'

  'Oh, so you accept that the reference to her was pure invention—but you believe the worst of our old friend?'

  'I can't tell what to believe, frankly,' said Derby, 'but smoke implies a fire, and Mrs Damer's reputation has been smoking on and off for half her life.'

  Eliza pursed her lips at this hypocrisy. 'Three years ago you told me the story was ludicrous nonsense.'

  'Everything's changed. There's a print in Holland's window that shows you dithering between a coronet and a chisel,' he said, pronouncing the word with revulsion. 'So I don't want you to see her, speak to her or correspond with her again.'

  This was too much. 'For a man who has no rights—no claims on me—you go too far.'

  'Miss Farren,' said Derby furiously, 'I am hardly an uninvolved party. Must I remind you that, virtuous as you may be, you have dragged me into the muck? I've been satirised in a best-selling broadside as an impotent old fool whose beloved is betraying him with not one, but two, Sapphic lovers.'

  Eliza averted her face.

  'To defend my honour,' Derby went on, 'I've quarrelled to the verge of bloodshed with a man I thought my friend.'

  Whom could he mean?

  'The situation is unendurable at every level, public and private. All I ask is that you resolve it by breaking with the woman whose reputation, rightly or wrongly, has stained both of ours.'

  'Have you no mercy? You were Anne's friend long before I met either of you,' she reminded him. 'I tell you she never laid a hand on me.'

  Derby's face was very pale, like some worm that never saw the light. 'You sound almost as if you regret that.'

  Eliza boiled over. 'You disgusting little tyrant. Is there no end to your appetite for power?'

  His eyes bulged.

  'You speak of stained reputations, but Lady Derby told me you wouldn't give her a divorce, though she begged for it.' His small mouth opened, registering this hit. 'You've kept her and yourself in a ghastly limbo all these years from sheer begrudgery! And as for me, may I remind you I'm not one of your pedigree horses or dogs or cocks? You can't control me.'

  There was a terrible pause. She thought he might stalk out of his own gilt-and-white parlour. 'It's true, the only claim I have on you is a future one,' Derby said in a low voice. 'It's a bet I'm offering, I suppose. If you do what I ask, on this one occasion, you have my solemn word that the moment the present Countess of Derby dies I'll ask for your hand.'

  Eliza's heart was thudding. He'd never put it so formally before. This was a verbal promise which, when it came to marriage, was almost as good as a signed contract. This was the moment when a sensible woman should say Yes, yes, yes, My Lord, thank you, whatever you wish.

  'I don't care for ultimata,' she said, and walked towards the door.

  OCTOBER 1794

  'We'd no notion where to send them on,' said Mrs Moll, pointing accusingly to the pile of letters.

  'That's all right,' murmured Anne, sitting down at her secrétaire. She waited till the housekeeper had gone downstairs before she looked through the envelopes, sorting them by handwriting, playing for time. Nothing from Eliza, of course. And nothing in Mary's hand, nothing at all. Anne rested her cheek on her knuckles for a long moment.

  It had to be done. She began cracking the seals.

  Dearest Sister, I hope you're keeping well, Lady Mary had written in late August.

  Richmond and I haven't seen you in an age. Do grace us with your presence at Goodwood this month, won't you? Any day before the opening of Parliament is convenient, we're so confined here by our various Maladies.

  What a trivial note, thought Anne—but then, her sister never did like to discuss painful or embarrassing subjects. Still, she and Richmond had clearly decided to stand by Anne in this as in former trials, and Anne ought to be grateful. Her father wrote more forthrightly.
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br />   Not having heard from you in so long, your Mother's most alarmed. My dear Girl, you mustn't allow these snivelling hacks to disturb your peace of mind. All true Friends turn a deaf ear to these fantastical inventions.

  All true Friends, yes, she thought ironically. But how many were true? And what if she cared for the untrue ones more than the true?

  Your Mother's been rather thrown into the Blue Devils by the whole affair. You know how these Things affect her. Do come back to Park Place as soon as you can; no one else has your knack of livening her up.

  Anne's stomach was heavy with guilt. The bleak atmosphere of Park Place in winter wouldn't help Lady Ailesbury's depression. Clearly the family would like Anne to spend the rest of the year scuttling between Park Place and Goodwood, listening to their various Maladies and staying out of the merciless gaze of the World.

  There was a short note from Fox—bless him—simply asking after her health and assuring her of his good wishes, as always. Nothing from Derby and this confirmed what Anne had already suspected: that this old friendship had foundered at last. What an odd hole it would leave in her life. What had Eliza told him? Could he really be sitting darkly obdurate, across the Square at Derby House, picturing his once dear Mrs Damer as a snake in the grass? Her eyes swam, but she blinked away the tears.

  A letter from Georgiana came next, asking her to drop in to Dev. House for a dish of Tea; the messy scrawl warmed Anne. Then a letter in unfamiliar writing. Her heart lurched; she hadn't been sure if the famous—and now retired—Mr Edmund Burke would reply to a letter from a lady he barely knew. She'd written it on impulse, at three in the morning, somewhere in Hampshire.

  Dear Madam,

  Let me begin by assuring you that I am honoured to have been the recipient of your Confidences on this painful occasion, & that I understand your shock & distress. However, I trust that the sense & fortitude that have always distinguished you will enable you on reflection perfectly to despise this calumnious Abuse.

  It is true that a dozen years ago, when I objected in Parliament to the sentencing of two Sodomites (pardon my frankness) to the pillory, where they were stoned to death by the mob, my reputation was subjected to Innuendo in a newspaper, whereupon I brought a suit of libel & won an Apology. However, in the case of a Lady, my view is that Silence is the only safe and dignified rebuttal. Your consolation, Mrs Damer, must be that the malicious lies of the envious will leave no mark on History's pages.

  Your most obedient humble servant,

  Edm. Burke

  That afternoon she sat in the library at Strawberry Hill. Walpole normally never had a fire lit in here in summer; he must be pampering her. He apologised for the mess in the Hall, where workmen were patching up a wall. 'I don't think my dear niece, the Duchess of Gloucester, looks forward with any enthusiasm to inheriting my fragile plaything.'

  'She doesn't want Strawberry Hill, the most charming house in England?' asked Anne, shocked out of her blank state.

  'Oh, tush, you're too kind,' he said. 'She knows it'll take a deal of looking after, my little castle of straw spun into gold—a joke that's gone on forty years too long already! No, it'll fall to dust, in time, and only our letters will remain to tell the ages what delightful days we had.'

  Walpole reported that their mutual friend General O'Hara must be still languishing in a French gaol, or at least his name hadn't appeared on the execution lists yet. Lepauvre Tonton had recently grown stone deaf and blind, he mentioned as he stroked the dog's black curls, but he still seemed to enjoy his existence.

  A heavy silence seemed to fill the room and settle between the book-filled Gothic arches. 'My dear girl, come and sit a little nearer,' Walpole said, tapping the chair beside him.

  'Girl? I'm forty-five years old,' said Anne, stern.

  'Seventy-seven laughs at forty-five.'

  She'd been expecting Walpole to increase her gloom today by shrill fretfulness, but it was going quite the other way. Her cousin panicked at small things, she realised, but when it came to serious problems he could be a rock.

  'I fear you've been vastly unhappy this summer.'

  'It shows, then. Is my loveliness quite faded?' asked Anne ironically.

  He was shaking his shrunken head. 'It was a nasty thing that happened, but you mustn't take it so hard.'

  'It wasn't a splinter in my finger,' she pointed out.

  'Mm. The Berrys have been in Broadstairs, on the Kentish coast,' he remarked.

  Ah, so Mary had fled from Yorkshire. Had she feared that Anne would pursue her? That thought gave the pain a fresh twist.

  'But they're back in North Audley Street since Tuesday.'

  Anne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched the fire.

  'I saw the piece in the newspaper that wounded her so—'

  'Can you tell me what it said?' Immediately Anne regretted asking. How tasteless, to make an old man repeat obscenities! But whom else could she ask?

  'If you like,' Walpole said, wary. 'It claimed that there was not only one prospective countess whose prospects were being thwarted by an intimacy with a well-known sculptress, but two.'

  Anne winced. 'It didn't actually name her?'

  'Oh, as good as, I'm afraid. It added that while the Earl who was courting Miss F. was the ugliest in the country, Miss B.'s was surely the oldest!'

  She put her face in her hands.

  'I'd hoped to act as a peacemaker, as you did so kindly some years ago when she was so shocked by being linked with me in a newspaper. But when I pump her gently on the subject she runs from the room.'

  'Perhaps Mary's shielding me,' said Anne with difficulty. 'Although she no longer wishes to be my friend, because her reputation has been irreparably wounded by association with mine, she may think it dishonourable to speak ill of me to others.'

  'Oh, my dear, she's just distressed, in a tizzy. Her wits have gone astray. As yours did, may I say,' Walpole rebuked her fondly. 'What possessed you to go wandering around the countryside, where you knew not a soul?'

  'That was the idea.'

  He made a grunt of exasperation. 'You and Mary both, you reason most womanishly, if you'll pardon my saying so.'

  Her eyebrows went up.

  'All this talk of irreparably wounded reputations. Haven't you learned from the Ancients that your conscience is your own and so is your honour? Don't mistake the bubble of fame—or infamy, in this case—for anything solid. Don't you know your own heart?'

  Anne managed a half-smile. 'I used to think so.'

  'Now that I've reached the twilight of my life,' Walpole told her, 'I realise that what the World knows of one is no true evaluation, just some random associations. After my death, for instance, what'll remain of me on this earth?' For once, he spoke without a trace of self-pity. 'People may read The Castle of Otranto, perhaps misquote a bon mot or aperçu of mine, handle and bid low on one of my bibelots at auction; that's all. But am I to think my life amounts to no more than that?'

  Anne shook her head. After a long silence she asked, 'Will you do me a service?'

  'Of course, my dear. Anything that lies in my feeble power.' Walpole spread his hands wide.

  'Could you find me someone to attend to the newspapers, and keep a sharp eye out and let me know if I'm mentioned or abused again? I mean the low papers.'

  Walpole squirmed in his seat. 'Isn't that a somewhat ... unhealthy preoccupation?'

  'I need to know,' she told him. 'I dread the thought of being ignorant of what's being said about me. I'd be happy to pay—'

  Walpole waved that away. 'But in return you must promise me something.'

  She knew what he was going to ask.

  'Write to Mary,' he said and his face was crumpled like a paper bag.

  Miss Farren [said Sheridan's scrawl],

  I'm mystified to hear that your strange fever continues & further postpones your first performance of the autumn season at Drury Lane. Surely never in the annals of History did a fever burn so long without extinguishing the
life of its fair victim! If you or your loyal physicians feel it's likely to flame on for anotherfort-night, do be so good as to let me know, so I can distribute your parts (a tempting collection) between Mrs Jordan & a very talented Girl, newly hired. But I can assure you your audience misses its Queen of Comedy keenly—though its memory is short in other respects—& stands ready to welcome you back with lavish (and respectful) Applause.

  Yr svt,

  R.B.S.

  He could banter and bully all he liked, but Eliza was still not ready. Irish audiences were one thing, but she felt sick at the thought of stepping out in front of a London crowd. What if someone shouted out Tommy again? A single catcall, a laugh in the wrong place, and she'd know that they hadn't forgotten the filthy story, no matter what Sheridan said about short memories.

  For the first time in her career she thought longingly of retirement. But since she'd thrown Derby's ultimatum in his face last month, what prospects had she—what option but to go back to Drury Lane and earn her crust? He'd kept his distance since that interview, though his carriage still turned up outside the door of the Bow Window House for the Farrens' use. He plays me on a loose line, like a fish.

  She looked at Sheridan's letter again and indulged in a moment of pure hatred of Dora Jordan, who was said to have signed a new contract for 30 guineas a week. The worst of it was that Sheridan had somehow found £200 in cash to pay Mrs Inchbald to write Dora a charming new comedy called The Wedding Day, as relief from Kemble's long string of unpopular tragedies.

  Mrs Farren came into the room without knocking, with a glass of whey.

  'I said I didn't want any,' said Eliza rudely.

  Her mother set it down on the secretaire. 'You hardly touched your dinner. You're looking shocking skinny.'

  The word set Eliza's teeth on edge.