The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad

by Jean Burnett

  Chapter 7

  February 19th

  At last! I have a letter from Selena. My dear friend writes at length…

  Dearest Lydia,

  We were delighted to receive a letter from you and to hear that you are well and prospering in that far off country. I am a little worn down by our financial misfortunes but otherwise well. Miles is flourishing, as always, and is full of schemes to improve our lot, sadly without much success.

  We have returned from Paris and are now living in a small cot in Stoke Newington. It is beyond dreadful to be so far from town, but my husband has been engaged by a local squire to teach his son the rudiments of fencing, shooting and other martial arts. The small salary offered enables us to live tolerably well. How I miss the days when we held card soirées with you, dear Lydia! We had such fun and filled our coffers admirably.

  My news will be very old by the time it reaches you. Do you receive any copies of Ackermann’s Repository? The fashions for the coming season involve much frilling on skirts.

  Miles took me to London a few weeks ago to see Edmund Kean play Shylock at Drury Lane. What a fine performer, a veritable giant of an artiste!

  I hope you are not still in contact with that scoundrel of a highwayman, dear Lydia. No good will come of that. Surely you have an unrivalled opportunity to catch an aristocrat at court? Miles asks why you have not snared a duke, as he suggested?

  (If only they knew of my situation.)

  Do you remember Miles meeting that blue stocking woman in Bath? Mary Shelley is the wife (perhaps) of the notorious poet. It is rumoured that she has written a particularly frightful Gothic novel about a monster which will be published next year. I will certainly send you a copy, knowing your fondness for such things.

  The Queen Charlotte is in poor health and not expected to survive the year. The Prince Regent remains unchanged (but fatter). I have heard no news of your family at Pemberley.

  Write again and tell us more of your life in Brazil. I remain, dear Lydia, your fondest friend,

  Selena Caruthers

  February 21st

  Today I have received another gift from the prince, a fragrance pendant on a tasselled gold chain. The container is ivory with a cracked gold surface depicting two lovers. The fragrance escapes from holes in the side as it is worn throughout the day.

  ‘Not that you are not fragrant enough, chérie,’ Dom Pedro told me as we boarded the royal yacht to begin our cruise, no doubt, to the chagrin of the entire court. The prince remained unruffled and received me on board with great enthusiasm. As we left the shore, we promenaded on deck while a string quartet played lively airs.

  Adelaide had, of course, accompanied me and she lost no time in gathering the gossip below decks.

  ‘He has taken his mistresses on cruises before,’ she informed me.

  ‘What became of those women?’

  ‘Well, you know about the French ballet dancer?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  ‘She was sent away up country when they discovered she was with child.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She died!’ I was horrified, I dreaded such a predicament befalling me. I had managed to avoid pregnancy ever since my marriage to Mr Wickham, by various methods. Perhaps I was simply fortunate or possibly infertile. Such a condition would prove expedient for someone in my position.

  ‘There’s many a slip,’ said Adelaide, reading my thoughts, as always.

  The voyage proceeded well enough, thank heaven. It lasted for only two weeks and we remained close to the river bank which was greatly to be preferred to the terrors of the high seas. We retired to Dom Pedro’s luxuriously appointed quarters in the heat of the afternoon for an hour of dalliance and a long siesta.

  Occasionally, the ship halted at remote settlements where the local residents came to honour the prince. Imagine my astonishment, dear reader, when we docked at an isolated estate surrounded by forest and among those arriving to pay their respects, I spied Jerry Sartain. He was accompanied by a pretty mulatto girl who was introduced as his wife. A bevy of buxom slave girls followed behind. I was astonished, jealous and not a little angry.

  ‘He didn’t waste much time,’ Adelaide commented, voicing my own thoughts. When I beheld the group arrayed in all kinds of exotic finery, I guessed that my highwayman had quickly found his niche, and had acquired enough money to purchase this harem.

  I bit my lip in mortification as Jerry smirked at me and bowed low to Dom Pedro, who explained that these men were rubber barons.

  ‘Robber barons more like,’ I mumbled to myself.

  I heard Adelaide mutter something about ‘He should have hanged at Newgate.’

  I could not help thinking of what might have been. No man had conquered my heart – or indeed the rest of me, as Jerry had done. What if I had been braver, if we had slipped away together from the palace? Might we have been happy in this tropical forest miles from any society, or would he have tired of me? These thoughts ran swiftly through my head as Jerry kissed my hand.

  ‘How delightful to meet a fellow countrywoman!’ he exclaimed as Dom Pedro beamed at us. We were invited to drink coffee at the estate house where Jerry appeared to be in charge. Everything became clear when he explained that his bride, Consuela, was the daughter of a local rubber baron known as “The Colonel.” They are all called colonel, these leaders of parties of brigands. They are marauding freebooters who exploit the rich resources and oppress the natives. No doubt, Jerry had made himself indispensable.

  When we were unobserved I whispered to him, ‘How could you… you traitor!’

  He raised his eyebrows and replied, ‘All’s fair in love and war, my dear.’

  ‘You gave me nothing but a parrot,’ I whispered, ‘and you took all my money.’ He shrugged and smiled the charming, lopsided smile that disarms everyone.

  ‘You have managed to snare a prince, my dear. You can’t complain.’ I sniffed, feeling close to tears.

  ‘You know I care for you.’

  At this point, I noticed that Dom Pedro had walked back to the riverbank and was unbuttoning his britches, in the company of his attendants, before urinating into the sluggish water. I sighed and turned away.

  As we returned to the ship and the party on shore doffed their hats enthusiastically, I wondered again if our paths might cross in the future, Jerry’s and mine. I stood at the rail full of regret and nostalgia as the figures disappeared from view.

  Adelaide said, ‘That one always turns up sooner or later. Born to hang, if you ask me.’

  ‘I did not ask you,’ I snapped and went to have lunch with the prince. The sight of more shrimp in this heat made me feel distinctly queasy. I pecked at something called escondidinho – something hidden. This dish consists of dried shrimp covered with a purée of mashed manioc and grated cheese. One is obliged to cut a hole in the crust to fish out the shrimp. A great deal of effort for very little reward.

  Dom Pedro attacked the dish with enthusiasm, his eyebrows becoming even more active than usual.

  ‘I have told the chef to serve us a risotto of pitangas for dinner,’ he said.

  ‘Pitangas?’

  He nodded. ‘They are delicious, tiny rain forest berries served with–’

  ‘Let me guess,’ I cried. ‘Shrimp!’

  ‘Giant shrimps!’ He beamed.

  I eventually received the prince’s miniature just after we returned from the cruise. It was no more than two inches long and set in a gold bangle with a few pearls and sapphires. My own eye was set in an oval frame surrounded by seed pearls and worn on a fob watch.

  ‘No diamonds then, madam?’ Adelaide remarked unnecessarily.

  It was a charming gesture of the prince’s regard and affection for me. I had no illusions that true love entered into the mix. How I would have loved an elegant, full length portrait in oils fine enough to grace the wall of an ancestral pile. However, as I did not have the latter, it was as well that I did not have the former.

  Adelaide sp
eculated on how much the infamous fan would fetch in one of London’s ‘flash houses.’ ‘It’s a pity the words are in Portuguese. The locals in Shoreditch wouldn’t get the joke.’

  Chapter 8

  As the yacht made its way back to Rio, I ventured to ask Dom Pedro about my position at the court.

  ‘Surely I cannot stay at the palace now that I am no longer part of Dona Leopoldina’s entourage? I am shunned by everyone.’ Dom Pedro scratched his sideburns and thought for a moment.

  ‘I shall find a house for you – somewhere up in the hills above the city. You will find it most attractive.’ And lonely, I thought. ‘Perhaps not in Botofago,’ the prince added, ‘that would be too near my mother.’ I reminded him again that I would have little company. Nobody from the court would visit me. ‘Let them eat shit!’ was his characteristic reply, not a remark that offered much consolation.

  And so we were on the move once more. Adelaide packed our belongings assisted by Eufrasia. There is now an uneasy truce between them, but the slave girl would accompany us to the new house. ‘She can carry the bird,’ Adelaide told me.

  It was a melancholy departure: no one at court came to bid me farewell. I had made no friends there and if anyone had nursed cordial feelings towards me, Dona Leopoldina’s disapproval would have inhibited them. After our few belongings were transported away we left in the inevitable unmarked carriage. I had already received my final bag of gold coins from a court official. As we travelled through the streets of Rio, admiring the vista of the great bay, I cooled myself with the fan that I could not help regarding as the cause of all my troubles.

  We settled ourselves into the house well enough. It has fine views over the bay, but as I predicted we are very much alone. The Luccombes loyally came to call. I believe they are genuinely fond of me but, of course, Mr Luccombe needed a report from me. Dom Pedro will visit but otherwise I will have ample leisure to enjoy the view of the Sugar Loaf Mountain and its environs.

  March 10th

  A feeling of lassitude and a general weariness with daily life has overwhelmed me of late, quite unlike my usual high spirited self. The sight and smell of shrimp and certain other foods has become distasteful to me. Adelaide has been eyeing me in a speculative fashion and the reason for my symptoms is now apparent. I can no longer keep down my food.

  ‘I believe I am being poisoned!’ I cried. ‘Is it by order of Queen Carlota or has Eufrasia been putting charms in the food?’

  ‘My eye in a bandbox,’ Adelaide declared. ‘You are in the family way, madam, if I am not much mistaken.’

  ‘No!’ I moaned, after resuming an upright position. ‘It cannot be. It has never happened before.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ my maid replied. ‘You have just been lucky before, madam.’

  Luck, buon fortuna… when had such a thing ever dogged my footsteps? All my plans have come to naught. I have been betrayed by every man I became involved with – and now this – the greatest misfortune that can befall a woman. The news must be broken to Dom Pedro and I do not know how he will react. I remembered the unfortunate French ballerina and shuddered.

  I had fully expected to die of some unspeakable disease while in the tropics but the thought of giving birth in this dangerous hothouse was unendurable. Dismal thoughts chased around in my head until I became nauseous once more. Eufrasia stood by, expressionless as always.

  ‘I can make a herbal remedy to help you, madam.’ She went off to the kitchen followed by Adelaide, ‘to see that she doesn’t get up to any witchcraft.’ Whatever the ingredients were, they had a soothing effect and I was able to rest while I awaited the arrival of the prince.

  Dom Pedro was all concern when I broke the news to him. He was, after all, quite accustomed to such crises. He assured me that all my needs would be met and the best possible care lavished upon me. There was a pause, then he added. ‘You will not, however, be able to remain in Rio, my love. We must avoid an open scandal and you will need to await the birth somewhere outside the city.’ I almost laughed aloud. Scandal? Avoidance! When had the prince ever concerned himself with such things? He must be afraid of the Church. Perhaps the Archbishop will report him to the Vatican. ‘Let me think about it and I will arrange something.’ He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and departed while I called for more herbal tea.

  March 15th

  Within a few days arrangements were made. My belongings were packed once again and Dom Pedro waxed lyrical about my destination as we ate a farewell dinner. At least, the prince ate heartily while I nibbled on a crust. I have scarcely eaten a thing for weeks and I am slowly fading away.

  My destination is to be a small town by the sea some hours west of Rio. It is called Paraty. As the prince described it to me, I knew that Adelaide and Eufrasia were listening out on the veranda.

  ‘You will love it there,’ Dom Pedro assured me. ‘Drinking passion fruit liqueur by an indigo sea in Paraty, you will think you are in Paradise. I have arranged guards and a chaperone for you. The Count of Paraty will know of your arrival.’ There was nothing more to discuss. It was necessary to remove me as soon as possible. I had been arranged, tidied and disposed of – for a while, at least. No mention was made of my return to Rio and what would happen to our relationship but I had a conviction that it would be over. The prince would look for new amours, although he has promised that the child will be given a suitable title and status.

  I recalled that the bastard offspring of Charles II and Nell Gwyn had been made dukes and earls and that half the English aristocracy was descended from that union. I day-dreamed of something similar for our child. I would be the mother of a noble even if not one myself. When I told Adelaide of this, she made one of her sharp comments about the best laid plans, etc.

  March 20th

  Today the Countess of K informed me by letter, with great relish, that Dona Leopoldina did not wish me to wait upon her to make my farewells. She has been told of the situation and I admit that I would not wish to meet her face to face at this time. Instead I am to be introduced to my chaperone, my duenna, my dragon lady companion.

  Dona Serafina is a tightly wound column of black clad righteousness, bone thin, with an equally thin, aristocratic face. She is long in nose, hair and reproaches. I think she finds her allotted task as unpleasant as I find her company. The only blessing is that her English is minimal, so Adelaide and I can speak freely. A midwife will follow us to Paraty in a few months. I made a farewell visit to the Luccombes, who commiserated with me and refrained from judgement. I doubt I will be sending any interesting reports from my hideaway.

  Dom Pedro is eloquent on the subject of Paraty and its attractions.

  ‘The explorer, Amerigo Vespucci, declared that if there is a paradise on earth it must be in that place.’ He assured me that a charming and appropriate house had been prepared for me and all would be well. I was not to concern myself. A quick kiss and then he was gone. I sat nonplussed amid our packed trunks as Dona Serafina descended from a carriage with her baggage. Eufrasia offered tea to the dragon lady, who settled herself in a chair and began ostentatiously telling her rosary beads. She conveys without words her distaste at having to provide a façade of respectability to someone who does not deserve it.

  Tomorrow we leave for Paraty by ship – the little town is not accessible by road, except from over the mountains, the route by which the treasure was brought there to be shipped to Portugal in the last century. Now the seemingly endless stream of gold and precious stones has all but dried up and the ships no longer leave from the port.

  ‘Do you think the town will be a kind of tropical Brighton, madam?’ Adelaide always looks on the bright side of life. ‘I do not think it will resemble Brighton in any way,’ I assured her. ‘But we can count on the sunshine.’

  My bodyguard of ten men is headed by a Captain da Silva, a Portuguese soldier of fortune and a man you would not wish to have as your enemy. The men he commands are similarly hardened veterans of long years fi
ghting in the Americas. The captain left his native Coimbra for the New World at the age of sixteen, and he has been in the service of the Braganças for more than a decade.

  His skin is weather beaten and mahogany coloured, his legs bowed from much horse riding, and his sword is ever ready. Da Silva has one thing in common with Dona Serafina and the rest of the entourage – he hates this assignment, guarding a lone female in a backwater where very little happens.

  March 27th

  Dom Pedro kept his word: the house chosen for me is delightful. It stands on a street named after Dona Geralda – a lady I am not acquainted with. Although it is not as large as the manor houses built by the merchants, which are decorated with strange Masonic symbols, it is in the colonial style, filled with dark mahogany and Brazil wood furniture and pretty Portuguese tiles. White lace curtains drift in the warm breeze and even the blue and white paint gleaming in the sun has a self-satisfied look. Pineapple symbols hang from wrought iron fittings on the façade of the house. They are found everywhere here and I am told they are an African symbol of good fortune. The town is very small; Brighton would seem a great metropolis in comparison.

  Visitors are rare because I am considered a pariah. The Count of Paraty made an official visit at Dom Pedro’s request but his wife refuses to receive me and the matrons of the town have followed suit. As Dom Pedro’s discarded mistress, I have no status but I must be protected for the sake of his unborn child. The next six months will be the longest of my life.

  Adelaide suggested that I might try to pen one of the Gothic novels I enjoy so much, but I fear my literary skills are inferior for such a task. The prince does not communicate with me. I do not expect a visit and I know how poor his writing skills are. His education has been sporadic at best and he finds letter writing a great chore.

  Perhaps another letter from Selena will find its way to me – even a missive from my family, although I fear they have cast me off. If they knew of my situation they would certainly disown me. I have not told Selena of my plight. I cannot risk discovery by anyone in England.