Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  I was not certain if I could recall all the details of Mr. Selwyn’s method, or if I approved of it, especially as wagers were to be laid on the outcome.

  “Stand behind Jack,” whispered Selwyn, as we approached the card table.

  I took my place at the rear of my keeper’s chair. In spite of being very much in drink, the prospect of the game positively animated St. John. He rubbed and clapped his hands together in excited anticipation.

  “Twenty guineas that Selwyn will have the game,” announced Barrymore, as he threw me a wanton look.

  “And twenty again that it will go to St. John,” responded Sir John Lade.

  “That is an immoderate amount, gentlemen,” cautioned my keeper, turning to me and kissing my hand for good luck.

  I wished he had not.

  I did as Selwyn instructed me, and upon seeing that St. John held a queen of spades and a king and knave of diamonds, I made the appropriate signals. The old man played his hand accordingly, and with each new card my protector drew, I informed my fellow cheat.

  When at last the sixth hand in the partie was drawn, St. John rubbed his brow.

  “By God, Selwyn, fortune smiles upon you!” he exclaimed.

  How wicked I was. I tried with all my might to mask the shameful smile inching over my mouth, and, in doing so, I made a fatal error. Not realizing what I did, I accidentally sent a signal to my conspirator, which caused him to lose the final round. Ultimately, this was a good thing, Selwyn informed me afterwards. “One must always conceal the mechanism of cheating by losing a game every now and again.”

  To tell the truth, I was not proud of what I had done. I could not imagine what my father would make of me, or my beloved Allenham.

  “Do not wear such a grave face, chaton,” Selwyn scolded me, as I resumed my seat in the drawing room. “It is doubtful that any of those present will pay their gaming debts, and your artfulness has not caused anyone’s ruin.”

  “But it is dishonest.”

  “Bah!” spat Selwyn. “Enough of your schoolroom morality. If you are to make anything of yourself, you must know how to survive among these rogues and whores.” He then leaned in very close to my face. His cheeks puffed and sagged like a pair of bellows as he spoke. “You do not think Lady Lade arrived at her position through shows of piety and innocence? She was far worse off than you when Sir John found her. He plucked her from a brothel. Think, girl,” said he in a low, raspy voice. “You have so much the look of an angel, you are the perfect golden-haired child. No one will ever suspect you of anything, ma petite. That is your greatest gift. Be clever with it.” He tapped his finger to his forehead.

  I considered his words as we rode to the theatre in St. John’s coach, which stank of wine and sweat. Barrymore, whose eyes had been fastened to me since our exchange over dinner, had pushed his way into my keeper’s carriage, while the others rode with Sir John Lade. It was not yet seven o’clock and the feather atop my head had begun to droop, along with my tolerance for the company. Lord Barrymore was slumped upon the seat opposite us, his face flushed red. With every bump of the road, his head joggled this way and that. He watched me keenly, like a cat before a bird’s cage.

  “St. John, you are a fortunate devil,” he sighed. “How a fresh little piece like Miss Lightfoot should find her way into your bed is a miracle indeed!”

  My keeper proudly took my hand and offered Barrymore a haughty smile. “You forget, my lord, how much experience separates a man of forty-three from a boy not yet twenty-one.”

  The young Earl, too drunk to offer a witty response, shifted in his seat and growled with jealousy. St. John, clearly enjoying his guest’s envious looks, sought to taunt him further. Placing his hand beneath my chin, he roughly pulled me to him and smothered me under a heavy kiss.

  My stars! Between Barrymore’s offensive manners and St. John’s arrogance, I knew not who was the more unbearable of the two. To say I had never before been subjected to anything like this, that I was scandalized to my very core, would be the mildest of understatements. Selwyn was correct. Were I to have any control over my life, I would have to take some matters into my own hands.

  We arrived quite late to the theatre, as was the custom for fashionable society. The large crowds who regularly gathered to see the great Mrs. Jordan perform had long since jostled their way into the pit, leaving the theatre entrance clear for the arrival of the haut ton.

  As we stepped from St. John’s coach, he carefully guided me away from Barrymore and beckoned Mrs. Mahon to my side. Here, dear reader, I would be most negligent if I did not pause to describe the tiny, doll-like woman who took hold of my opposite arm.

  Mrs. Gertrude Mahon was, to be sure, an extraordinary creature. I do not doubt there will be some among you who remember her fondly. While I stood at scarcely five feet high, Mrs. Mahon was smaller still, by at least an inch or two. Although no longer in the bloom of her youth, she moved with the sprightliness of a girl. From a distance, one would think her half her age, a young miss of seventeen, but under the light of the chandeliers the creases beside her eyes came plainly into view. Long before my birth, she had reigned as the Bird of Paradise, a giddy thing, fond of outrageous fashions and carriage-racing. Now, she seemed more a seasoned, worldly dame than a showy, excitable flibbertigibbet.

  “I shall preserve you from Lord Barrymore’s attentions,” she reassured me under her breath, “but only if you do not wish to invite them.”

  I offered her a puzzled look. She merely smiled and placed her gloved hand over mine.

  “Why, child, you are a knot of nerves,” she exclaimed. “What frightens you so?”

  I shook my head. “Oh Mrs. Mahon, I am terribly shy of public places,” I stammered.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Dear girl, you have nothing to fear. The theatre is a dark place and few among the audience will recognize you from the boxes. Your face is not yet known among the demi-monde.”

  These were false assurances indeed. What I did not know was that my keeper had artfully arranged my entrance to attract as much notice as possible from his friends and rivals. Gentle reader, I do not doubt you have observed what takes place in a theatre. By this I do not mean the performance upon the stage, but what occurs among the audience. There is a silent language of the boxes. Who sits beside whom speaks of reputations: sullied or rising, virtuous or questionable. Even I, a relative stranger to the fashionable world, understood the rules of this, which is why my pace began to slow as soon as we passed through the foyer. My fears of being recognized grew with every step we made towards St. John’s box. I knew not whom I would encounter when I came through the door and into the full view of the audience. “Dear Lord, protect me from scrutiny and recognition,” I prayed silently.

  Mrs. Mahon sensed my hesitation, for I felt her pulling me along as we proceeded through the corridor to the box.

  “St. John is a great lover of the theatre,” she chatted away merrily. “He has recently turned himself into a playwright. Has he not told you?”

  I could say nothing, but walked with my eyes straight before me.

  “Why, his play The Iron Mask has just been performed and last year his opera, The Island of Sainte-Marguerite, was staged here at Drury Lane.”

  The door to the box was opened for us.

  “Lord Barrymore has built his own theatre at Wargrave. No doubt we shall soon pay a visit there.”

  Barrymore, Sir John and Lady Lade and Mr. Selwyn moved through and took their seats.

  “They say it is the finest theatre ever built by a gentleman…” she continued, taking me directly to the front of the box. “There now, Miss Lightfoot, do have the best seat. Yes, there beside St. John. I shall sit here, to your left, so no harm comes to you from the charming rascal.” She nodded at my keeper, who now held his head like a king.

  If St. John had placed an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle, there could not have been a greater declaration of my new life than my appearance there, between the infamous Bird
of Paradise and the renowned rake John St. John. How I wished I might disappear into thin air! I immediately drew up my fan to hide myself as my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the playhouse. It was then, gnawed by terrible anxiety, that I began to search the audience for the faces I most dreaded to see.

  Immediately I spied two of Lady Stavourley’s associates, but saw no hint of the Countess herself beside them. My heart thudded violently as I continued to squint at the faint outlines of the figures before me. There were Lord and Lady Bessborough in one box with Mr. Fox, Lady Dundas and Lady Melbourne on either side, Lord Jersey with two well-dressed officers and ladies I did not know. I looked as hard as I might against the cast of the chandeliers, and after some time determined that my father was not present. I exhaled with relief, but continued to pass my eyes over the crowd, searching for the face of my beloved among the assembled throng. It was folly, and I knew it, for I understood I would not find him. He was no longer here, but until I learned where he was, my heart would never sit still. It was only when Mrs. Jordan made her entrance, raising a storm of huzzahs and applause, that I gave up my quest and turned my attention to the stage.

  How they cried for her, the adored Jordan. Seeing her step out on to the boards as Rosalind, in her flowing pink gown, lifted my spirits mightily. I could not help but recall the other occasions when I had seen her, dressed as a boy, or marching about the stage as a wilful girl, drawing roars of approval from the audience. Polite young ladies were not encouraged to admire actresses, but I had always thrilled to her performances. I could not think how it would feel to be so esteemed, so universally loved.

  I had watched the first three acts of As You Like It, completely immersed in a reverie, before something caught my eye. Not two boxes to the right of where I sat, I spied a familiar silhouette. In fact, it was one I had sketched and cut myself not two years earlier as we had sat in the drawing room at Berkeley Square. Unable to contain my horror, I let out a loud gasp, which drew the looks of everyone around me.

  “Miss Lightfoot!” cried a startled St. John. “Whatever is the matter!”

  I immediately rose to my feet as Mrs. Mahon grabbed for my arm. By then the tears had begun to gather.

  “My father…” I murmured with my hand pressed to my mouth. “You said he was not in town!” I exclaimed. At that point, I imagine all within sight of our box were following our drama. I pushed my way between Sir John and Lady Lade in an attempt to escape. St. John came stumbling after me, amid bemused looks and questions from his friends. He pursued me out of the box door and into the corridor where we stood against the shallow illumination of the sconces. I had only glimpsed my father fleetingly, but that small dose of him had been enough to fell me entirely.

  “I must quit this place at once!” I cried, now in a true panic.

  “Why? Whatever for? Henrietta, whatever has come over you?” He grabbed hold of my arm as if to shake me.

  “Lord Stavourley!” I wailed in a fit of hysterics. “He is here!”

  St. John’s face dropped. “Are you certain of it?”

  “Indeed, sir,” I wept. “Oh, I am ruined to be sure! Oh, the shame of it!” I then lifted my skirts and began to flee down the corridor.

  “Miss Lightfoot!” called St. John, running like a footman behind me, until, nearly winded, he caught me and held me still. “Madam! Compose yourself…”

  But I could not. Something had occurred within me that I could not explain. For all that had befallen me, I had maintained myself well, but the sight of my father had unravelled me entirely, as if a thread had been pulled that unwound all my fortitude.

  St. John passed me his handkerchief as I sobbed loudly. He stared at me for a good while.

  “While I am greatly moved by your distress, my dear, I cannot imagine how the briefest sight of Lord Stavourley could have sent you into such a fit. Why, you do not even know if he saw you.”

  “No, I do not,” I confessed, blotting my eyes. My paint and powder were now flowing down my face in great rivers.

  “Why, you are so transformed, it is unlikely Lord Stavourley should have recognized you in your finery!” scoffed St. John, in a manner I found rather callous, for that was precisely the cause of my shame.

  It was only with hindsight that I appreciated the truth of his comment. Had I been able to gain control of my senses, I might have understood this, but I was too far gone to think rationally. In truth, there was another matter devouring my mind. Thoughts of the child growing in my belly plagued me. Every day and night I feared discovery. The attempts to hide my morning sickness, the counting of the weeks and the complete absence of female counsel: these things played upon me constantly.

  Nothing that St. John said to me could possibly have stanched my tears. I no longer had command over myself.

  “Oh dear, Jack…” I began, wringing my hands.

  St. John studied me.

  “Oh… dear… oh…”

  “What, madam? What?”

  “Oh for dear life, sir, I am with child!” I cried.

  My keeper’s face went entirely still. Hardly a twitch passed over it. Then his eyes widened, by degrees.

  “Can you be certain?” he whispered.

  “I am certain.”

  He turned his back on me and took several steps towards a servant.

  “Find my man! Have my coach brought round at once!” he ordered. “Miss Lightfoot is ill and must return to the house immediately! Now! Go!”

  It all happened so rapidly. St. John seemed to disappear in a flurry. I was bundled into his coach and sent charging off to Park Street, my tears never drying for an instant.

  Once in my rooms, I was undressed and put to bed, thinking all the while that this was to be my final night in my mother’s home. In my heart I was certain he knew the truth, that the child inside me could not have been his. I could sense it in his look, the manner in which he glared at me. This was the end! He would turn me out for sure! The fate of those weary creatures I had observed from my window would soon be mine too. I was destined to tread the streets, to sleep in corners, to freeze and starve. How I suddenly came to appreciate the coal in the fire, the warming pan on the mattress, the soft night clothes upon my back!

  I knew I would have no sleep that night. Instead, I lay awake, awaiting the sounds of St. John’s return, the creak of floorboards, the closing of doors, knowing that his homecoming would seal my fate. But this never came. Only the clock upon the landing filled the silence, striking out the hours: twelve, one, two, three, four…

  Chapter 25

  “Never have I known a woman to commit a more thoughtless deed than yours, madam,” scolded Mrs. Mahon from the side of my bed. I had hardly awakened that morning before she appeared at St. John’s door begging to call upon me. She was shown into my bedchamber as I sipped my dish of chocolate, my eyes swollen from grief and lack of rest.

  “No sooner have you been taken under the wing of a devoted keeper and plied with gowns and gifts than you seek to overturn it all!” she exclaimed.

  Her reproaches filled me with self-pity. I could not meet her gaze.

  “I did not know what else to do,” I said in little more than a whisper. “I know not what will become of me now…”

  “I should think not!” huffed Mrs. Mahon. “Dear child, you have not the slightest understanding of how to manage things.”

  I regarded her and she me. It was then that I recognized I had not the faintest notion of what she spoke.

  “Manage… what things?” I asked coyly.

  She sighed. “Only the most fool-headed girl would announce to her keeper that she is with child without first learning his thoughts upon the matter. You have not been under his roof a full month and you are out with it, quick as that.” She snapped her fingers. “I do not suppose you ever enquired if he would welcome a child? Goodness, girl, how can you even be certain you have a child in your womb? Have you felt the quickening? Have you felt it move?”

  I stared at her blankly, as stupidly
as I had at Miss Bradley and her sister.

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you so certain?”

  “I have not bled and I have been ill these several days.”

  The Bird of Paradise sighed again and folded her arms. “I suppose it is possible.”

  “He has lain with me almost every day and night since I arrived,” I added, in an effort to shore up my tale. I observed her expression closely, recognizing that Mrs. Mahon was likely to know a good deal more about matters of conception than I.

  “I do hope, for your sake, Miss Lightfoot, that you are correct in this instance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because St. John has passed the entire night toasting the health of his unborn child. He has told half of London that he is to be a father,” she exclaimed. “But if you prove to be wrong, or if you miscarry, he will be made a laughing stock. Then you will find yourself on the street—unless Barrymore will have you.”

  None of this made any sense to me. There seemed no reason in it.

  “But you made it sound as if he would be displeased to find me breeding.”

  “A good many gentlemen would be. For most men, a mistress with a baby is as desirable as a dose of the clap. Few, like St. John, who have no offspring, welcome such news. You are fortunate, my dear. I have known too many ladies of our sort made destitute for allowing their bellies to swell.”

  To be frank, I was quite appalled by this. I thought of Allenham, who I was certain would be overjoyed at the news of his impending fatherhood. He had promised me that he would love any child of our union. He had promised.

  “St. John will not abandon me,” I breathed with relief.

  “I dare say he will not.” She smiled. “But you have a good deal to learn, madam. You must think before you speak, always. The slightest slip may endanger your comfort.” Then she paused thoughtfully. “If I may say so, dear Miss Lightfoot, you are far too honest. You wear your thoughts upon your very face; you make no effort to disguise them. You are artless to a fault.”