You see, by then, she was certain Lord and Lady Stavourley had determined to marry her off to Bedford, perhaps at some secret ceremony.
“Oh cousin,” she sighed, “you will save me from him, you will save me from Pug Face, oh, please say you will…”
I swore my allegiance to her; I swore that if my aunt and uncle attempted to bundle her into a sealed carriage bound for Gretna Green, we should both run off together, though to where precisely, we had not yet determined.
But as the days passed, there seemed to be little sign that her mother had any desire either to eavesdrop upon our ridiculous chatter, or to sacrifice her daughter to Pug Face Bedford. In fact, it was only upon the instruction of her physicians that Lady Stavourley was encouraged to do anything at all. Slowly she begin receiving social calls and bathing in the bubbling sulphur springs, and eventually, once her spirits appeared slightly more fortified, my uncle suggested a visit to the Assembly Rooms.
While Lady Stavourley was not averse to this in principle, it equally failed to hold much appeal. I have no doubt that she feared the possibility of further humiliation and a crushing public defeat at the hands of her daughter.
Truthfully, none of the ladies of Lord Stavourley’s household cared much for this idea. And here, dear reader, I include myself among them.
Having passed my sixteenth birthday in the previous year, it was deemed appropriate that I be invited to attend certain less formal gatherings and parties, and to make appearances at public assemblies. You see, my aunt and uncle never wished me to be excluded from society, yet in order to avoid disappointments, they made it well known that I had no marriage portion. There was no need for sumptuous clothing or jewels. That would only mislead. However, while I remained visible, there existed the slim hope that some gentleman of fortune might fall in love with me and take me off their hands—but I must not rely on this, my aunt had cautioned, for “it was more often the case in novels than in life.” In any eventuality, I knew that my destiny lay in a long spinsterhood, as a companion to my cousin, and I accepted this prospect with cheerful good grace.
There was no sense of urgency to our preparations that evening. In fact, my cousin nearly prevented us from going at all, moaning that she was vapourish and that her monthly courses were about to begin.
“Nonsense,” chided her mother, her face pinched with annoyance. “You claim always to be indisposed with that. I do not believe it for a moment.” She then had some spa water brought to Lady Catherine as her hair was being curled. My cousin sighed and frowned, never once sipping from the glass on her dressing table.
We were all in low spirits, our sojourn in Bath becoming duller and more tedious by the day. Without my aunt to order our activities, we had sunk into a sort of listlessness since our arrival. So, rather than deliberating over our dress and style of hair, we simply changed from our day gowns into our evening attire. I wore my gown of pale blue silk, my neck and ears adorned by the only jewels I owned: my modest pearl cross and eardrops. My cousin was attired in a simple pink taffeta. Feathers were placed in our carelessly arranged coiffures. Lady Catherine was so laissez-faire that she managed to lose her sash before we left the house. With hindsight, perhaps it was not such a terrible thing that we approached the ball with an air of sans souci; after all, there is nothing so becoming as a girl with a candid, effortless look about her.
Just now, I have paused my pen mid air, between the ink pot and the page.
I was about to describe my cousin’s physical appearance, but I hesitate. Lord Dennington is likely to accuse me of maligning his sister if I do not choose my words carefully. I believe it is fair to say that Lady Catherine was no great beauty, but neither was she plain. Her hair was that pleasing golden colour, so often praised in fairy tales, and her eyes, though close set, gleamed like two blue gems. Between this pair of sapphires rested a rather high-arched, prominent nose, which she shared with her mother.
Reader, if you are fortunate enough to one day make a tour of Melmouth House, enquire of the housekeeper to be shown the portrait by George Romney. There you will see a likeness of Lady Catherine created at the time she was first launched in society. You will also see a tree beside her where I once sat. That was before Lord Dennington, many years later, had me painted out of the scene. You see, he remembered all too well what occurred when we went to view the picture at the summer exhibition at Somerset House.
Lady Stanhope, whom my aunt always despised, was standing with a friend before our portrait. She failed to notice that we, the Earl, the Countess, their three children and niece, were directly behind them. After a long inspection of the work, Lady Stanhope muttered to her companion, “That Miss Ingerton is by far the most beautiful of Lord Stavourley’s tribe. I do so pity his daughter. She is not half so fair.”
Now, I fear you will think me vain. Please, do indulge me, and allow an old woman the pleasure of remembering the fleeting gifts of her youth. Perhaps you will have some sympathy for me when I reveal to you that for much of my girlhood I was entirely ignorant of the effects of my beauty.
Imagine now the sketch I have just drawn of my cousin’s face, but with several distinct alterations. I possessed the same honey-coloured hair and dark blue eyes, which have long been an Ingerton inheritance. However, where my cousin’s nose was long and pronounced, mine was tiny and narrow, and where her eyes were small and placed near together, mine were wide and round as two delftware plates. Indeed, my face bore such a soft, childlike appearance that, when taken together with my diminutive stature, many found it difficult to believe that I had not escaped the nursery prematurely, even into the later years of my life. But in my girlhood, my guardians made no reference to the merits of my beauty, and for good reason: as the penniless relation, they feared I would become a distraction. They worried that their daughter would not shine half so brightly beside me. I had not appreciated that the Earl and Countess had been approached by gentlemen because of me, because young men believed, and hoped, that the girl with the delicate features and bowed mouth was Lord Stavourley’s daughter. Indeed, it was not entirely unknown for the two of us to be confused altogether, and by far the most awkward instance of this occurred during our very visit to Bath.
I doubt that most of you knew the Lower Assembly Rooms as I did, before they burned down. Bath was in her glory then, like a young lady in the flush of her youth. Now, sadly, she has become a tawdry old madam. Paste buckles and brooches have replaced the diamonds that used to be seen in earlier years, while the streets are jammed with anonymous post chaises, rather than the carriages of the great families.
In my day, this place offered the spectacle of a magician’s tent, especially to the wondering eyes of a young lady who was not an attendee at many lavish occasions. Chandeliers and wall sconces glimmered with hundreds of tiny flames, while music and the rhythmic clatter of dancing heels could be heard throughout. From all around came the dim murmur of conversation, and that scent which never fails to rise from a dense crowd: part Hungary water, eau de Cologne and pomade, part sour, oniony stink.
On that night, we had arrived at seven o’clock, precisely an hour after the dancing began. Already the rooms were heaving with guests. The tea room, the card room, all the antechambers and, needless to say, the ballroom were full. As Lord and Lady Stavourley bowed and smiled at their acquaintances, Lady Catherine and I marvelled at the crowd, surveying the sea of feather-topped heads, false hair, wigs and frilled caps.
There is nothing so amusing as observing the circus of humanity with all of its curious specimens of men and women: the bulbous noses, the crooked backs, the portly figures squeezed into waistcoats too small. Indeed, passing comment on the faces and fashions in such places was my cousin’s preferred sport.
“Good gracious,” began Lady Catherine, prudently raising her fan so she might whisper to me. “I did not think anyone so ignorant of fashion as to still wear a sacque-back mantua!” she declared, rolling her eyes in the direction of a plump woman in a gold-coloured
gown.
“Oh yes, it is très outré, to be sure,” I agreed, using one of my cousin’s favourite turns of phrase.
“And that hideous petticoat…” She began to giggle while inspecting another poorly attired creature. “One would think her maid blind, or that she dressed Madam by the light of a single candle.”
As I took in her cutting remarks, my eyes began to rove the room, running over trains of shimmering silk and ensembles of stripes and sprigs, until quite abruptly my attention stuck fast upon a gentleman in a green coat.
Until that day, I had never stared at anyone, least of all a member of the opposite sex. I could not have contemplated such a bold gesture. Unlike my self-assured cousin, I was a quivering mouse, demure and reserved to a fault. Therefore I surprised even myself when I found my gaze consumed by the man I have just mentioned.
I cannot rightly say what it was about him that held my notice. I felt for some time utterly fascinated, like a child beholding a colourful spinning top. He was quite unlike anything, unlike any one person I had known.
He was, it must be said, exceptionally… no, profoundly handsome. I saw him first in profile and he seemed so statuesque, his stance so square and firm, his back tall and straight, yet he stood with such comfortable elegance, like a swordsman or a dancer. His face, even at a distance, was remarkable for its perfection. His cheeks and chin were flawlessly hewn, as if from marble; his nose was long yet well proportioned, and finished in a perfect, slightly upward point. At first, I could not see either the startling hue of his eyes or the true richness of his dark hair. The light was not good, and he dipped his face in and out of shadow as he conversed, nodding every so often and smiling generously. He was most certainly a gentleman of breeding, which was plain not only in the finely tailored fit of his coat, but in his self-assured comportment. By this, I do not mean he wore that disagreeable air of self-importance, but rather that he appeared polished, while still having about him all the ease and honesty of a country man.
It was not until he turned his head that I realized I had lost myself and all sense of propriety. Oh reader, our stares collided in one mortifying instant! I cannot relay to you the horror I experienced; it was as if my heart had dropped into the pit of my stomach. He would think me forward and impertinent. He would take offence. Shame swept over me like a fever, washing my face in colour.
“Hetty!” My cousin spoke sharply. “Your face is quite red. ”
All at once, my aunt, who had been conversing with her relation, Mrs. Villiers, broke off her chat and examined me with a furrowed brow.
“Are you well, child?” she asked with some concern.
“I… it is the heat,” I stammered, hardly knowing myself what had come over me. I touched my fan lightly and then, as they studied me, slowly unfurled it.
I fear the humiliation was so great that I could not take my eyes off my shoes for some time. While the company continued with their gossip, I fanned myself dreamily, catching my breath and calming my racing pulse. When curiosity drove me to hazard a fleeting glance in the direction where he had stood, I was relieved to see he had gone.
“My Lord Allenham,” exclaimed my uncle, quite suddenly.
I drew in my breath. I knew what I was to find. Reader, you know it too! There, standing to my right, was the gentleman in the green coat.
Oh Jupiter! I wished the roof might fall in and bury me! I could hardly think.
To this day, I could not tell you which sensation had more command of my senses: the horror of embarrassment or the ecstasy of being so near to him. My face was as hot as a smelting furnace. You would think I had never before stood beside a man.
I could scarcely look at him. What little I had learned of his divine features from a distance was magnified at closer range. His eyes were truly like nothing I had seen: they were so full of blue! Like buckets of clear well water—no, like the well itself, rimmed with deep green moss and shade. I shall always recall their effect on me, how I shivered when his gaze encompassed me. Lady Jersey once described him as an Adonis. Although it is a word much overused, I do believe it fitted Lord Allenham perfectly in his youth.
“I had a letter from Mr. Fox today, claiming you to be with him at St. Ann’s Hill,” commented Lord Stavourley.
“Alas, I was, but am no longer,” he responded with a wry smile and a courtly bow. “My visit to our friend was regrettably short, though long enough to settle some matters concerning the candidacy.”
“My lord,” interrupted my aunt, wishing to avoid a political conversation and eager to make use of the situation, “I believe you have not yet been introduced to my daughter, Lady Catherine, or to her cousin, Miss Ingerton.”
We both bowed our heads. “… Or indeed to my cousin, Mrs. Villiers.”
“And what a misfortune that has been, to have been so long an acquaintance of Lord Stavourley and not to have had an opportunity for an introduction.” He regarded both of us with a warm look. “If I may beg leave of your lord and ladyship, as the next dance is beginning, I shall have to make amends immediately.” Then, entirely unexpectedly, he turned to me. “Madam, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the ballroom?”
I am not certain who among us was the most aghast. He hardly waited for an answer before offering me his arm. Before any of my party could utter a protestation, Lord Allenham, the most handsome man I had ever beheld, the subject of my transfixed stares just moments before, led me away. As he did, I noticed Lady Catherine’s lips part in disbelief.
Dear reader, I was a trembling wreck! My head whirled with the most terrible confusion. I had done nothing to invite this. Surely Lord Allenham meant to dance with my cousin, not with me. I could not decide if there had been some mistake or indeed whether this had been calculated. My heart thumped inside my chest. What fired it more, my terror that I should upset Lady Catherine or the sensation of Allenham’s sturdy arm beneath my fingertips, I could not say.
As we passed through the entrance to the ballroom, I felt as if I had been turned upside down. Everything spun; the light from the chandeliers intensified; the crowd swelled wider; the odour of the rooms grew more cloying and nauseating. It seemed that the gaze of the entire assembly followed me. I could hardly breathe and my fingers tightened around his forearm like the claws of a hawk.
We stood amid the other couples poised to begin a cotillion. I knew I would have to concentrate with all my might on the steps, counting them out just as our dancing master had warned us not to. I held my focus, avoiding his gaze where possible, though this was of little use. It was his nearness that distracted me. As we circled round one another, first left and then right, I sensed a great blush begin to spread from my throat on to my cheeks. His lordship could not help but notice the throbbing pinkness of my face, and attempted to put me at ease by making polite conversation.
“Have you been long at Bath?”
“No, my lord, less than a fortnight,” I stuttered.
“And how have you been diverting yourself in that time?” he asked.
“I fear that Lady Stavourley’s health has kept us confined, my lord, but she has improved greatly since our arrival here.”
“I do not doubt that to be the case, for she has you to amuse her.” He spoke with a teasing glimmer in his eye. I was far too inexperienced to recognize flirtation when I encountered it, and began to panic.
“Oh no,” I spluttered, “I think you mean my cousin… she is the one who plays and sings…”
“And you? What of your accomplishments?” He raised an intrigued eyebrow, choosing to ignore my awkward response. “I cannot imagine that a gentleman of Lord Stavourley’s learning would countenance a child reared in his nursery to be turned out unfinished.”
“Painting.” I swallowed. “But I cannot pretend to talent…”
“You hide behind your modesty, madam.”
His rapid parry flustered me.
“I… I… have received compliments on my watercolours… landscapes… my tutor thinks t
hem accomplished, but really, my lord, I merely apply myself to my studies and then practise with my brushes what I have learned…” I replied as we crossed one another.
This comment appeared to pique Lord Allenham, who threw me an amused look. “Your tutor has prescribed you texts?”
“Only Sir Joshua Reynolds’ Discourses,” I answered, which drew a crooked smile from him.
“I dare say you will not learn much about painting nature from that!” He laughed lightly. “Have you not read Mr. Burke’s Philosophical Enquiry on the subjects of beauty and the sublime? Mr. Burke is, I believe, an acquaintance of Lord Stavourley.”
Goodness, thought I, his lordship must think me a philosopher! I grew bashful and lowered my eyes, regretting that I did not have my cousin’s talent for conversation.
“When I was a child, Mr. Burke came to Melmouth and petted me upon the head…” I smiled awkwardly, realizing what a dunce I sounded. “But I cannot say that I have read his treatise.”
At that instant his arm rubbed against my silk sleeve, the side of his coat against my gown. His touch caused me to draw in breath, and then exhale with shame. I felt so gauche, so mortified by my quivering and utterly convinced that the entire room of dancers and spectators knew that my being there was some dreadful mistake.
“Ah, but you must!” he exclaimed as he moved towards me, his face glowing with the fire of his ideas. He pursed his lips, patiently waiting as the dance drew us apart and then back together again before he could relay his thoughts. My gaze was fixed upon his expression, for I found myself captivated by its intensity, eager to know what sentiments so animated his features. At last, he reached for my hand, taking it into his firm, warm one, and then turned his bright eyes on to mine.
“Beauty,” he began, “is born out of the passion of love. An artist cannot make sense of a landscape without an understanding of this.” He smiled and then gave a deferential nod. “So says Mr. Burke.”
Mistress of My Fate Page 5