by Jean Burnett
The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Part One
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Two
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Three
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Copyright
The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad
Jean Burnett
Part One
Prologue
I have never had much luck with lovers or husbands. Most of my difficulties since the age of sixteen have been due to an unerring talent for choosing the wrong man, coupled with a lack of money. The two things are, of course, closely connected in a woman’s life. Ladies, beware of the allure of a uniform – especially if a comely man is inside.
After the less than heroic death of Wickham at Waterloo I returned to England and made my way to Pemberley, where I hoped for comfort and support from my sister Lizzie and her husband. Instead, I found Mr Darcy intent on marrying me off to the nearest curate – a fate not to be borne. After some unpleasantness I escaped to London to join my friends.
What a trio we were – Selena and Miles Caruthers and Lydia Bennet Wickham. Our escapades were the greatest fun and garnered us a satisfactory amount of money, although it lasted an immoderately short time. I did not lack for admirers in London but, as always, they were either unsuccessful, disreputable or downright criminal (a highwayman), and sometimes all three at the same time.
My involvement with one of these gentlemen led me to Brighton and the Prince Regent’s bedroom while at the same time embroiling me in affairs of state – for which I have no inclination or talent. Fortunately, a friend obtained an invitation to Almack’s ballroom for me. At the time I regarded this as the greatest good fortune I had enjoyed in my entire life. It would, I was sure, compensate for my unfortunate marriage to Mr Wickham – although I was only sixteen at the time, dear reader, and with little knowledge of men and their wicked ways.
Miles told me, ‘We expect you to catch a duke at the very least.’ Indeed, if one could not do so at Almack’s, where else could it be done? This place was where the ton met and found suitable partners – and occasionally unsuitable ones. I hoped to meet a man who would provide me with marriage, respectability, a small but comfortable estate (not entailed), a matching footman or two and a diamond or three. In short, I had the legitimate aspirations of any refined young woman. Surely I deserved such a fate? Not quite twenty years old I was already a widow – a penniless widow, as Mr Darcy often reminded me.
The Austrian Count who beguiled me at the ballroom might have been the answer to my prayers. He invited me to accompany him to Paris (Paris!), another ambition realised – but sadly it transpired that he already had a wife. My dreams were shattered but, as my maid Adelaide reminded me, women have few choices and must take the rough with the smooth.
Realising the truth of this I agreed to the arrangement, taking care not to give the details to my family when I returned for a stay at Pemberley. I made the mistake of confiding all in a letter to my silly sister Kitty, who betrayed me by sending the letter to Mr Darcy. The repercussions from this were most painful and, in short, I was dispatched by my brother-in-law to be a companion to an old lady in Bath.
How quickly one can descend from the heights to the depths! It seemed but a wink of an eye from dancing in my finery at Almack’s to dragging an obnoxious pug called Wellington across the Bath downland at the behest of Mrs Makepeace, my employer.
However, the gods of fortune had not turned away from me entirely. Mrs Makepeace proved to be a most amiable lady who often recounted to me her adventures in pre-revolutionary Paris before Napoleon ruined everything. An idea germinated in my mind. I would persuade my employer somehow to end her reclusive existence and venture to the continent again – and I succeeded. We embarked for France in due course.
When we reached Paris my life was further complicated by a certain Captain Marshfield, an aide to the Duke of Wellington. He knew about my adventures in Brighton where I had helped (accidentally) to recover the Prince Regent’s jewels known as the Cambridge emeralds. In short, I was enlisted in the service of His Majesty’s Government as an occasional spy, aided by my maid, Adelaide, who has far more ability in this area than I. The captain’s presence slightly overshadowed my enjoyment of the Palais Royal and such delicacies as grilled pigs’ trotters a la Francais, but life is never perfect.
Eventually, Mrs Makepeace wished to move on to Venice and we set off on our travels once more. I was not greatly taken with the Water City which was somewhat down at heel and green and mouldy around the edges at that time. Captain Marshfield once again dogged our footsteps but I took solace in the knowledge that my hero, Lord Byron, was living in a palace on the Grand Canal. I planned to meet him if I could distract the captain and my employer for a few hours.
I donned a cape and a mask, Venetian style, and wandered around the alleyways and squares and along the banks of the canals. My maid, Adelaide, had become involved with a baker called Vittorio. She dallied with him on occasions and brought back delicious pastries and breads. The baker’s wife, La Fornarina, was very beautiful and was, I discovered, the mistress of Lord Byron. When his lordship tired of her she returned home and became insanely jealous of Adelaide. She was a tempestuous woman.
‘The women of Brighton are pussy cats compared with her,’ Adelaide announced gloomily and took to creeping about, glancing over her shoulder constantly.
Our time in Venice came to an abrupt and melancholy conclusion. Lord Byron and I were destined to meet, but in unfortunate circumstances. One morning Mrs Makepeace, Adelaide, Wellington and I were rowed out into the lagoon in the gondola by Tito, our hired gondolier. As we returned to the Grand Canal we spied a swimmer.
‘Yes, it is the English milord,’ Tito confirmed. Byron’s swimming was legendary. Overcome with excitement I leaned too far over the side of the vessel and tumbled into the water. When I surfaced, freezing and terrified, I hoped that Lord Byron would be on hand to rescue me, but Tito hauled me aboard with the pole while my hero showed little interest.
Once on board I found that Wellington had mysteriously disappeared – thrown overboard? Both Adelaide and Tito disliked the dog. Meanwhile, Mrs Makepeace lay very still on her cushions having expired from shock! Once again, dear reader, the fates had conspired against me. I was not greatly diverted.
When I returned once more to England I was delighted to be re-united with dear Selena and Miles, and even more delighted to discover that my former employer had left me a sizeable amount of money as well as her pearls. At last I was of independent means and could make my own way as I pleased. I had great pleasure in relaying news of my good fortune before I travelled to Pemberley.
‘You are remarkably acci
dent prone, madam,’ remarked my brother-in-law when we met again. Lizzie reproached him for his heartless remark – a most satisfactory state of affairs. I should have guessed that Mr Darcy would not desist from his attempts to marry me off. Once again a suitable curate was dangled before me, and this time I decided to have a little enjoyment at Mr Darcy’s expense. I had already planned to re-join the count in Paris but I gave the impression that I would accept Mr Arbuthnot, the curate. Guests arrived at Pemberley… and, in short, there were many misunderstandings and plots gone awry which I thoroughly enjoyed before Adelaide and I made our escape.
Once again installed in Paris I enjoyed a touching reunion with the count, who informed me that we had been invited to stay with the exiled Caroline, Princess of Wales. Off we went to the Villa Caprile in Italy with Captain Marshfield’s orders ringing in my ears. I was to report back on the princess’ activities as well as the count’s.
My sojourn at the villa would have been charming in many ways had I not been obliged to spy on everyone. The princess was most gracious to me and we enjoyed swimming and amateur dramatics in the warm sunshine. I reported back on the various schemes afoot in the villa, using the egg man as courier. The Prince Regent was anxious for a divorce and wanted to gather as much ammunition as possible against his estranged wife.
Count Esterhazy and I eventually tired of each other and he insisted on leaving for Vienna. We made our farewells to the princess and on the journey he became extremely evasive about our plans, saying only that he had a ‘grand future’ planned for me. Adelaide warned me that this did not bode well. She has a nose for these things but my optimistic nature caused me to hope for good news.
And so it transpired, dear reader, that once more I should be deceived by a man in whom I had placed my trust and affection. The future planned for me was as an extra lady-in-waiting to the Hapsburg princess, the Archduchess Leopoldina, who was betrothed to the heir to the Portuguese throne.
‘It will be a grand adventure,’ I told Adelaide. ‘We will be in a royal household – what an advancement for me! Also, I have never visited Portugal. No doubt it is a charming place.’
Adelaide looked doubtful, as well she might. I had forgotten that the entire Portuguese court had decamped to their vast colony on the other side of the world in order to escape the invasion of Portugal by Napoleon. They had stayed on there and appeared to have no plans to return to Europe. Leopoldina and I were destined for Brazil.
The shock and horror this news inspired in me cannot be adequately described. I was forced to have recourse to the laudanum bottle on several occasions and even the provision of a new wardrobe did little to pacify me or raise my spirits. The Archduchess was charming and gracious and assured me my duties would be light. Chiefly, I was to make conversation in English with her. The real ladies-in-waiting were all aristocrats and seldom deigned to talk to me.
The journey to Brazil would take almost six months – at sea! What a fearsome prospect. Would I ever see my native land again? I had been contracted for two years but that was meaningless. I might well fall prey to a ghastly tropical disease, or the ship would sink or as Adelaide said, ‘We will be captured by pirates and sold to the Sultan of Tartary or some such person. Where is Brazil?’ she added. ‘Is it near Australia?’ I nodded. We both collapsed on the sofa and sobbed. I was only slightly consoled to learn that large diamonds were easily found in Brazil. Adelaide asked whether they grew on trees.
Before we embarked on a huge ship heavily laden with people, animals, furniture and treasure (barely seaworthy), Captain Marshfield was again at my door urging me to send dispatches back from Rio de Janeiro. I turned a deaf ear, doubting that the need would ever arise.
Adelaide and I were obliged to make elaborate preparations for the journey. We assembled clothes suitable for the ferocious climate and as much medicine as possible. Mrs Makepeace’s gold coins were placed in a stout trunk. As the heavily laden ship slowly made its way out to sea I stood on deck watching Europe recede into the mist. Adelaide had already turned green and had retired below with a supply of ginger.
A member of the crew tapped me on the shoulder and suggested I might like to retire below. I turned and beheld Jerry Sartain, one of the disreputable and criminal people who had crossed my path, as mentioned earlier. He was also the one who had truly captured my heart. I have always loved unwisely but too well, dear reader. In fact, Jerry had been a highwayman when we first met – on that occasion he was robbing my coach in Epping Forest. Despite this inauspicious introduction I would have done anything for him.
He had eventually boarded a ship to the New World in order to escape the gallows in England and now we were to be together all the way to Brazil. I was forced to grab the ship’s handrail in order to control my emotions. Interesting times lay ahead.
Chapter 1
September 10th, 1817
We have been swaying around on this dreadful vessel, vomiting and bewailing our lot for twenty-one days since our departure in August, in this year of grace 1817. As I write this in my journal my maid is muttering in the background; ‘This is a coffin ship.’
It is not quite that: Adelaide has a tendency to exaggerate. Our plight is best described as being imprisoned in a cell with its bare stone walls hidden with a velvet cover, but a cell, nevertheless, smelling badly and constantly moving. The captain of this prison keeps a brightly coloured parrot in similar circumstances.
Not that the cramped cabin I share with Adelaide boasts much in the way of velvet covers. My maid attempts to make it more comfortable with the linens and coverlets taken from our trunks, but after a few weeks at sea with little or no washing facilities the place has become somewhat foetid. During the frequent bouts of bad weather the entire ship leaks. It is scarcely to be borne.
I have become salt-encrusted in soul and body. The sanitary arrangements at sea are not to be thought of, as far as possible. I am not much troubled by sea sickness but the entire Portuguese contingent is prone to vomit with every roll of the waves – surprising behaviour from such a stout, seafaring people. My royal employer, Dona Leopoldina, is not affected. ‘We must maintain self-control at all times,’ she admonishes us.
Thank heavens for my duties with the princess, varied by the distractions provided by Jerry Sartain’s presence on the ship. I often recall with mixed emotions our previous encounters in England. My plight, otherwise, would be unendurable.
At dinner last night the captain announced, ‘I expect this voyage to last for another seventy-five days at least, due to the constant bad weather.’ He waved a bottle of cognac at the parrot while cries of dismay rose from the ladies, accompanied by a severe lurching of the ship. Several wine decanters upended their contents in sympathy.
Our meals on board ship invariably end in this way; sometimes they even start in the same mode. People rushed to assist the princess before her gown became soaked in red wine. She gave a brave smile and the captain’s parrot – always present – uttered several loud profanities in English which, fortunately, the Portuguese ladies did not understand. Jerry told me later that the parrot had done long service on a British man-of-war.
I am learning an entire new vocabulary from this bird. I release my pent-up feelings of rage and despair by repeating the words softly to myself when I am alone in my cabin. Adelaide told me that she does the same thing.
My highwayman, who must now be known as my sailor, or as Adelaide calls him, my jolly Jack Tar, meets me whenever he can. He pops out from behind a cable or a cannon, or emerges from a hatch below deck in an unnerving manner. I find his presence most discombobulating.
‘You must not accost me in this way,’ I reproved him. ‘We may be seen by the chief lady-in-waiting and I shall be ruined. She hates me, you know.’ Jerry was as unsympathetic as ever.
‘What can they do to you, my sweet? We are at sea. They can scarcely throw you overboard.’
Another intolerable thought occurred to me. ‘If they are displeased with me, my contract might
be terminated when we reach Brazil. I could be put on a ship back to England immediately.’ This prospect made me grow faint and did not prevent him from seizing me around the waist in a sticky, salty embrace.
‘Be brave, mon vieux!’ he whispered in execrable French, before disappearing behind a water tank. Weak at the knees, I made my way to Dona Leopoldina’s apartment.
You will notice that I did not refer to her living area as a cabin. Sixty cannon have been removed from the ship’s decks to make way for her splendid quarters. The lady was watching disconsolately as servants wedged packing cases around her grand piano to prevent it from rolling around due to the worsening weather. She gave me a listless smile.
‘Even the consolations of Bach and Mozart are denied me in this situation,’ she sighed. ‘A piano is of little use at present.’ Indeed, I would willingly have exchanged the piano for more salubrious sanitary arrangements, but I did not voice my opinion. ‘Shall we study my botanical drawings?’ the princess invited, opening a gilt-embossed leather volume before frowning again. ‘Later we will have to visit the heads.’ I repressed a groan. The ‘heads’ consist of a platform fastened to the bow and suspended over the ship’s wake. This is where all the passengers queue to relieve themselves into the ocean. It is a frightful experience, although the area is cleared when the princess appears.
I stared at a sketch of the Great Bustard. ‘It is extinct,’ the princess remarked. I was not greatly diverted.
‘Shall I call some of the musicians, Your Highness?’ I asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. The lady’s eyes brightened and two fiddlers were soon summoned to play some lively airs during a blissful hour of calm weather. As rays of sunshine penetrated the roof window of the salon our spirits rose a little. Through a half opened door I caught a glimpse of the royal bedchamber, full of gold plated pitchers and bowls and red and white silk decorations.
Despite this grandeur, life at sea was taking as great a toll on the princess’ appearance as it was on her attendants. She is not as soignée as of late. Real finesse is impossible in a constantly swaying environment. Similarly she could not avoid the occasional wafts of stinking air that emerged from the hold where dozens of animals are kept – enough to fill a zoo. At times we heard other noises as the poor creatures were executed to provide our dinner.