Tommy only scowled. ‘How can I work here, in this hellhole? It is too much to ask.’
‘You could manage perfectly well. You have a table and chair, and we could send out for quill pens and ink. What more do you need?’
‘My freedom.’ And turning on his heel he returned to the racquet court, leaving me staring bleakly at the documents laid out on the table, a bitter disappointment in my husband that brought despair to my heart.
And then the answer came to me.
I was perfectly capable of carrying out this task myself, and did so. I spent hours copying the documents, while a young girl took care of little Maria for me. The legal firm were none the wiser, and the money was something of my own to keep for my child’s needs.
Invitations and letters arrived for me by the score, mostly from Lords Northington and Lyttelton, Fitzgerald and others. Except for Lord Northington’s they were all awash with sentiment and gallant proclamations of love, eagerly offering their protection and to release me from my degrading situation. I treated these rakes with all due contempt, only too aware of the price demanded for such a favour.
‘When coxcombs tell me I’m divine, I plainly see the weak design, And mock a tale so common.’ I made a note of these words for a poem I might write one day.
‘As God can bear witness,’ I told Mama, on one of her frequent visits, ‘I have never entertained a thought of violating those vows which I made to my husband at the altar. I mean to keep my pride and virtue intact.’
‘I should hope so, indeed. But how will you set about finding the money to gain your release?’ she tactfully enquired, fear etched on her beloved face. ‘Your little volume of poems is selling somewhat indifferently.’ This news did nothing to raise my morale, but then we could offer each other little in the way of solace.
Sadly, not one of my women friends ever enquired after me. For all the cordial hospitality they had once enjoyed at my expense, they shunned me completely now that my fortunes had fallen. They refused to enter the dreary habitation I occupied, or even wrote a kind word to ease my lonely days. Their neglect, their envy, slander, and malevolence, hurt me badly, and from then on I felt no affection for my own sex.
The whole experience taught me never to depend upon a friendship.
Nine months passed by in this fashion, and not once in all that time did I cross the threshold to step out of that dreary place, save to walk in the racquet court of an evening with my husband for a breath of air, and to take a little exercise. My health was already impaired by the dire conditions, and I lived in constant dread of gaol fever, of a cough starting, or of my child falling sick.
It was during one of these walks that my little daughter spoke her very first words. What a delight that was! As her nursery maid jiggled my child in her arms, little Maria Elizabeth caught sight of the moon riding high in the night sky. She excitedly pointed with one small finger, then as a cloud passed over to obscure it, gave a soft sigh of regret, letting her little hand fall.
‘All gone!’
The nursery maid and I both laughed out loud, for this was the expression the nursemaid often used when she’d fed Maria her last spoonful of porridge, or if she deemed it prudent to hide something from her.
These little moments of joy in an otherwise dull existence quite lightened all our hearts.
Next to the damp and disease, boredom was the killer in the Fleet. I regularly attended the chapel on a lower floor, and sometimes I would treat myself to a coffee and read the news-sheets in the coffee-room next door. Tommy was more likely to visit the taproom, although I did my utmost to discourage him, if only because we could ill afford to waste a penny on a tankard of ale, or tot of gin. Drunkenness was rife in the Fleet.
With too much time on my hands, as I did not have legal documents to copy every day, my thoughts centred upon my poetry. I naturally chose the theme of captivity for my next work, as that is what they called imprisonment for debt. I began composing a quarto poem of some length, my quill pen flying across the paper, albeit in crabbed, tiny handwriting as paper was a scarce commodity in prison. I reused the old envelopes and letters sent to me, since that was all I had. As I wrote, I sensed the style had improved upon my earlier attempts, if still with faults and laboured lines. But then I am never entirely satisfied with my own work, always hoping to produce better next time.
I wrote pastoral poems, odes, character sketches, and verse applauding life in town and country. How I ached to be back in the ‘rural shade’ of my sugarloaf mountain, marvelling at its mystical beauty. By contrast I would recall the hours I had once spent at my toilette when attending Vauxhall and Ranelagh, and how my beauty must rapidly be fading in this dark and dingy prison. I had no thought now of fashion and vanity, my dress as simple as my situation demanded. My pride lay in the pains I took to keep our clothes clean and neat.
Sometimes, of an evening, I would read what I had written to Tommy. ‘Adieu, gay throng, luxurious vain parade, Sweet peace invites me to the rural shade.’ But he showed little interest in my efforts, except to complain that my writing took up too much of my time.
‘What else should I do to keep sane?’ I retaliated. ‘Besides, I hope to publish these poems, since one of us needs to earn some money.’
Irritated by my implied criticism of his own feeble efforts in that regard, he left me in peace. My mother, bless her, offered what consolation she could on her next visit, and an interesting suggestion.
‘What you need, dearest, is a patron. I believe the Duchess of Devonshire is a great admirer and patroness of literature and poetry.’
‘Is she indeed? Then I have an idea. Send young George round to her London house with a copy of my book of poems. Wait, I shall write a note to enclose with it, begging her to excuse its defects as it was my first effort when I was still but a child.’
My fourteen-year-old brother must have charmed the famous Georgiana, for the result of this inspired idea was an invitation to meet her in person. ‘I can hardly believe it,’ I said, excitedly showing Tommy the note. ‘The Duchess of Devonshire apparently asked George for every particular about me, read my poems and expressed a wish to meet the author. I am to go to her residence in Piccadilly. What think you of that?’
He kissed me most tenderly on the cheek. ‘I have always known that your cleverness would one day bring you notice.’
I smiled, knowing how difficult it was for him to admit he possessed a bluestocking for a wife. ‘But would it be right for me to go? I have never set foot outside of the prison gate.’
‘But you are perfectly at liberty to do so,’ Tommy reminded me. ‘And since you are so obsessed with poetry, talking about it with another woman might do you good.’
‘That is not the object of my visit. I am hoping the duchess may be able to help get us out of this hellhole.’
I could see by his expression that he was sceptical. ‘I very much doubt she can. Rumour has it she is beset with debts of her own, from her passion for gambling.’
I refused to believe this, determined to at least try. ‘Oh, but what can I wear?’
Now he was laughing as he sauntered away, back to his friends and his games.
Fortunately, I had brought with me a plain brown satin gown, so when the day arrived, I washed myself thoroughly to take away any taint and stink of prison, and dressed with care. Then leaving my darling Maria in the care of her nursemaid, I set forth to visit the Duchess of Devonshire.
Stepping out into the open sunshine after so long a time living in semi-darkness, almost blinded me. The noise of the carriage wheels trundling by, the cries of the street vendors, were really quite nerve-racking. Yet it felt wonderful to hear the birds singing, to feel the cobbles beneath my feet, and breathe in fresh air that smelled of newly baked bread and fresh fish instead of rank decay.
The walk to Piccadilly was pure pleasure, the sense of freedom exhilarating, and the duchess’s mansion when I reached it, left me speechless. A flunky in crimson uniform showed me into her
presence, and as I nervously dipped a curtsy she smilingly indicated I should take a seat upon a blue and yellow striped sofa.
‘Your brother has already told me a great deal about you, his pride in your skill as a poetess quite apparent. But I did not expect you to be so young.’
The duchess appeared equally young as I doubt there was more than a few months between us, although I dared not say as much. The copy of my poems that George had presented her now emerged from the folds of her silk gown.
‘I particularly like this one,’ she said, and began to read a few lines of my own work to me, while I sat blushing with pleasure and embarrassment.
She called for tea, and, encouraged to do so, I told her more about my life: of how my father had abandoned us, my mother’s cry for independence by running a school, my own failed dream of becoming an actress, my unfaithful husband, and now being imprisoned for a debt we had not the means to repay. She listened enthralled, and I swear I saw a tear slide down her cheek.
‘To have experienced such vicissitude of fortune was, I am quite certain, entirely undeserved. I pray you will soon be free to begin life anew. Please accept every proof of my good wishes.’
She was the most charming lady, beautiful and cultivated. The best of women: sensitive, friendly, interested in my life, my poetry, and even my child. She wanted to hear all about Maria Elizabeth, and confided in me that having been married only eighteen months herself, she rather hoped she was already pregnant.
I was astonished and deeply touched when she took out a small purse and slipped a few coins into my hand. Despite my protest that I had not come begging for money, she insisted I take it.
‘Use it for your precious child.’
As I rose to take my leave, thanking her most earnestly for her generosity, she said, ‘And next time bring Maria Elizabeth with you. I do love children, and I’m quite certain she will be as charming as her mother.’
I could not find the words to express my feelings, and departed in something of a daze.
It was the first of many such visits. After that, I very often took Maria with me. My child would sit happily on the rug, or sometimes on the duchess’s knee, being cuddled and caressed by my liberal and affectionate friend while we talked of poetry, or of marriage and children. I was, at all times, received with the warmest friendship. Then one afternoon, she made a most generous offer.
‘When you publish your next anthology, you may use my name as patron.’
I was so thrilled I could hardly speak, but fortunately remembered my manners sufficiently to thank her. ‘Oh, your grace, you are most kind. Every poem in it will be dedicated to you.’
Arriving back at the Fleet, and seeing no sign of my husband on the racquet court, I ran in a flurry of excitement to our rooms to tell him of this most momentous event.
‘Tommy, where are you?’ I called.
Hearing sounds coming from our bedroom I swept aside the tattered curtain and there he was: in bed with a woman.
He did not even have the grace to show any guilt, merely smiled rather sheepishly as if I’d caught him with his hand in a sweetmeat jar. I was devastated, filled with a burning rage, not so much from jealousy but more a deep sense of injustice and betrayal. While I, like a foolish devoted slave, had cleaned and scrubbed, worked and scribbled, and done my utmost to provide and care for my family, this reprobate of a husband had concerned himself only with his own debauched pleasures. He’d taken advantage of my absence to cavort with a woman of easy virtue little better than a whore.
Her name was Angelina Albanesi, the wife of our Italian neighbour, whom she visited regularly. We had come to know her husband, Signor Albanesi, well as he would often spend the evening sitting in our apartment talking about the world of gallantry, telling stories of intrigue and romantic chivalry. Although neither young nor good looking, I had always found him to be both entertaining and amusing. He could sing and play various musical instruments. But I was less enamoured of his wife. Whenever Angelina came, she never failed to intrude upon our privacy, and my husband made no attempt to stop her. Now I understood why.
She was, without doubt, a beauty, extravagantly gowned in richly embroidered silks and satins, trimmed with valuable point lace. Rumour had it she had formerly been the mistress of Prince de Courland, and afterwards of the Count de Belgeioso, the Imperial Ambassador.
It seemed she was now reduced to bedding my husband.
‘Do not blame Tommy,’ she said, as she leisurely pulled on her gown and began to calmly dress herself. ‘A husband needs the care and attention of a loving wife, not one engaged elsewhere. Men do not value scrubbed floors or any of the other domestic chores you seem to imagine are so vital to your domestic bliss.’
I was seething with fury, hoping Tommy would intervene and dispute her claim. But, as ever when life grew difficult, he had quietly slipped away back to the racquet court. This was yet another battle I must fight alone. ‘Cleanliness is vital if we are to maintain our health in this stinking hole.’
‘Ah, but you waste your youth by incarcerating yourself here, and such sacrifice will not win his love. Fortunately, my own husband puts no such chains on me.’
‘That is quite apparent. But you forget, I am only eighteen years of age and have plenty of my youth still to come,’ I tartly reminded her, since the woman must have been well into her thirties, if not already turned forty.
She pulled back her long black tresses and I thought with some satisfaction how greasy they looked, with here and there a fleck of grey. ‘If you would but acknowledge your own power, child, and break the fetters of matrimonial restriction, you could do so much better for yourself.’
‘I am doing well enough, thank you.’ I thought of my new book of poems for which the Duchess of Devonshire was willing to act as patron, once it was completed. If nothing else, that gave me hope. ‘We will not remain here forever.’
Signora Albanesi laughed out loud as she tugged tight the laces on her gown, the fullness of her milk-white breasts spilling out above the neckline. ‘A fond hope that will not be realised. Hundreds languish in the Fleet for years, and many sadly expire long before they are due for release. I did mention to the Earl of Pembroke that there was a young married lady in the most humiliating captivity with her husband. I told him that you were a person of some beauty, and he readily volunteered to offer his protection.’
‘I thank his lordship for his generosity, but I assure you I have no shortage of similar offers. However, I respect myself too much to accept any of them.’
Collecting her wrap she strolled away, still laughing, as if I had said something highly amusing. I watched her go with a cold rage in my heart, resolving in future to avoid all conversation with the woman, although that would not be easy unless I could prevent her from visiting Tommy.
Later that evening I vented my wrath upon my straying husband.
‘How diligently you courted me, how you persuaded and cajoled, and gently bullied me into marrying you, young as I then was and fearful of marriage. Yet from almost the moment the ring was on my finger, you have been dallying elsewhere. How dare you treat me so ill?’
‘It was of no account. The woman means nothing to me.’
‘Neither, it seems, do I. And her husband is our friend and neighbour!’
Tommy snorted. ‘He cares not who beds his wife.’
‘Evidently not!’ A thought occurred to me of all those other times I had visited the duchess. ‘Has he procured women for you in the past?’
‘No one of any consequence, Mary. A man’s needs must be satisfied.’
I was horrified. ‘You mean only prostitutes, whores, any woman who’ll lift her skirts for a penny. How dare you! Do you not appreciate the effort I have put into accepting the propriety of wedded life, and at so young an age? I have strived to do my duty as a wife with exemplary patience, my own chastity inviolate. And neither poverty nor obscurity, neither the taunting of the world nor your own neglect, has tempted me to make the smalles
t error in that regard. Yet you have not treated me with the same respect.’
He tenderly stroked my cheek, a guilty smile on his face as he pleaded for my forgiveness. ‘It will not happen again, my sweet, I promise.’
‘How can I believe you? I have borne too many humiliations with a cheerful uncomplaining spirit, have toiled honourably for your comfort, all my attentions exclusively dedicated to you and our child. Yet despite all that I have endured on your behalf, you treat me with utter contempt.’
‘Sweetling, do not upset yourself. Let me stroke your head a little to calm you.’ And leading me to the very same bed wherein he’d enjoyed his Italian strumpet, he proceeded to make love to me. How could I hate him yet still feel a duty to suffer his advances? And why did I still feel this fondness for him? What a fool I was!
How Tommy managed to pay off some of his debts I shall never know. I dare say a lucky night on the faro table operated in some dingy room of the prison was partly the reason. He also persuaded several of his creditors to cancel his debt with them, and gave fresh bonds and securities to others, so that on the 3 August, 1776, after fifteen months incarceration, he was finally discharged from the Fleet.
I immediately conveyed this intelligence to my dear friend, the Duchess of Devonshire, and she wrote me a letter of kind congratulation.
What utter bliss. We were free!
Five
Doyenne of Drury Lane
Was it some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath’d
His various influences on thy natal hour?—
My Fancy bodies forth the Guardian Power
His temples with Hymettian flowrets wreath’d;
Samuel Taylor Coleridge to Sheridan,
published January 1795
Morning Chronicle.
The first moments of freedom were a heady joy to my senses, almost as if I had been reborn. I now set aside the melancholy gloom of prison life as a bright new beginning beckoned. Nevertheless, I remained cautious and insisted we take modest lodgings. Tommy found us a small apartment that was perfectly neat and clean over Lyne’s confectioner’s shop in Old Bond Street.
Lady of Passion Page 9