Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

“But an honest character is a good one…”

  “As is a modest and virtuous character, but that is not the world we inhabit, my dear. You will be eaten alive. Your bones will be picked over by the carrion birds of the haut ton. We must rescue you.” She studied me with a sympathetic smile and then pulled the bell rope. “Come now, you must dress. There is someone I should like you to meet.”

  No sooner had I been attired than I found myself sitting in Mrs. Mahon’s coach en route to Grosvenor Square, where we were to call upon Miss Mary Anne Greenhill, “the Greenfinch,” as she was called by the fast set.

  “They think themselves very witty for inventing such names for us. I am ‘the Bird of Paradise’ and Sarah Adcock is ‘the Goldfinch.’ Mrs. Irvince is ‘the White Swan’ and Mrs. Corbyne ‘the White Crow.’ It is all quite silly,” Mrs. Mahon explained. “The Greenfinch is very much in favour at the moment, as you will see by the manner in which she lives. She has the run of her own house.”

  “Do you mean she is the housekeeper?”

  My tutoress laughed heartily. “No, I mean that Lord Sefton, who keeps her, has provided her with these lodgings. She has no boarders and comes and goes as she pleases. His credit pays for all that you will see.”

  We were greeted at the door by a footman in livery, who showed us through a glittering entry hall and up a set of gold-painted stairs to the drawing room. There we found Miss Greenhill, in an elegant gown of striped yellow satin, stroking a nervous white lap dog.

  “Mrs. Mahon,” she exclaimed, rising to her feet and holding out her cheek for a kiss. Her brown hair had been arranged in modish, free-flowing curls, encircled by a thick blue bandeau of silk, which sat across her forehead. Although she appeared extremely youthful, her air was greatly affected.

  “Miss Greenhill, may I present to you Miss Lightfoot, who is in keeping with the Honourable John St. John.”

  As we made our courtesies, I could feel my hostess’s hot eyes upon me. I watched her pupils shamelessly wander over my floral patterned gown and study the material of my gloves. Indeed, there was not one inch of me that escaped inspection. The paste buckle of my belt, my pink slippers, every detail and bow upon my hat was examined before she addressed me with a fixed smile.

  “Please, Miss Lightfoot, Mrs. Mahon, do sit.”

  A Wedgwood tea service and a collection of highly polished silver was brought and laid before us. Two servants fussed with an enormous kettle of hot water, while Spark, Miss Greenhill’s dog, hopped between their legs.

  “Dear Miss Lightfoot,” she began with breathy excitement, “do tell me all about Mr. St. John. Does he keep you well?”

  I did not quite know how to respond to such an indiscreet question.

  “Why, I suppose so,” I commented, taking a sip of my tea.

  “Is he generous? Has he showered you with gifts?” She giggled.

  I turned to Mrs. Mahon, hoping she might offer an appropriate response, but she merely returned my look.

  “Oh, he has been most generous…”

  “Has he bought you fine silks and laces?”

  My hostess’s questions were now causing me some uneasiness.

  “Have you had many gowns made up? Is that lovely gown a gift from him?”

  “Yes…”

  “And has he bought you many jewels?” She tittered excitedly, her bright green eyes sparkling like emeralds.

  “Not so many, yet… but he has been generous. When he learned that I had been robbed of what few jewels I had, he immediately gave to me some pearls that had belonged to my mother.”

  Mary Anne Greenhill stared at me, her tight smile unmoving. I could not begin to fathom what thoughts were circulating inside that head of curls.

  “The Earl of Sefton has been most generous too. I declare, he must be the most munificent lover in all of London, and handsome as well.”

  “Not so handsome…” Mrs. Mahon corrected her, thinking no doubt of the unfortunate Earl’s hunchback.

  “Perhaps not,” Miss Greenhill smirked, turning her eye to me, “but he is young… and terribly wealthy.”

  It was then that my wise tutoress interjected, “You see, my dear, Miss Greenhill has been exceptionally clever in catching Lord Sefton and she is no older than you—”

  “Seventeen,” boasted my hostess, “and nearly two years in keeping with his lordship.”

  “Two years?” I echoed in disbelief.

  “He has been very content with me.”

  “Miss Greenhill is the daughter of a tailor in Holborn. One of six girls.”

  “My eldest sister is also in keeping, but only in Bloomsbury. Her lover is a wine merchant. She has not done so well as me.” The pretty braggart blew on her tea and then took a delicate sip. “His lordship is so pleased with me that he pays all my debts without a single question asked. He has permitted me to decorate the entire house to my taste.”

  Her drawing room was indeed quite ornate, as well furnished with expensive carpets and cabinets as my father’s. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in cerise silk, dotted with a white fleur-de-lis pattern, while the walls and ceiling were a riot of fashionable plasterwork in curls and swags.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as if suddenly recalling a matter that had slipped her mind. “You must see what little treasure he presented to me not three days ago!” She went to pull the bell rope, and then, catching my eye, stopped. “No, I shall not ring for it. I shall take you to my dressing room directly.” And with that, we rose abruptly from the tea table and followed Miss Greenhill as she and Spark bustled down the corridor.

  Only a pasha’s tent could have rivalled the splendour of the Greenfinch’s dressing room, with its flounces of aquamarine silk and chartreuse damask. Everywhere gold leaf and mirrors poured light into the room, while in the far corner sat a vast birdcage in the shape of a Chinese pagoda. Its occupant twitched and fluttered at our approach.

  “Is it not the most fetching piece?” she declared, holding out a small circle of diamonds. “It is a buckle for me to wear upon the band of my new hat.” She beamed, gesturing to her maid to bring the piece of millinery.

  A green, high-crowned creation was offered to me for inspection. Once the Greenfinch was satisfied that she had raised my jealousy, she turned to Mrs. Mahon with a lowered voice. “But you should see what arrived from Captain Hervey-Aston yesterday.” She nodded to her maid, who unlocked a drawer and brought out a pair of ruby earrings.

  My tutoress and Miss Greenhill gasped and squealed. I must confess, I was somewhat confused by this. The Bird of Paradise looked over her shoulder and noted my puzzled expression.

  “I do believe Miss Lightfoot is scandalized!” She laughed, placing a gentle hand upon my arm. “Dear girl, it is no crime to accept gifts from other admirers. Why, a lover is not a husband, and any lady in our position would be a fool to discourage the advances of other beaux.”

  “But would Lord Sefton not be angry if he learned of it?”

  “Of course he would,” answered the Greenfinch haughtily, “but he will not learn of it, will he?”

  “And who is to say Lord Sefton might not lose his fortune tomorrow, or die from an accident, or tire of Miss Greenhill? Why, such a thing has occurred to me on several occasions. Nearly every day a mistress is jilted for some reason or other. If she had not other admirers, whom might she call upon in her distress?” my kind adviser explained.

  “But… certainly… Lord Sefton loves you…”

  “Love?” they both echoed.

  “Well, in a fashion, I suppose he does,” mused the younger of the two.

  “You believe a man’s love will outlast his purse?” Mrs. Mahon sniffed. “I shall tell you this, Miss Lightfoot, when a man finds he cannot pay his debts or your mantua-maker, he will throw you over, quick as lightning. That is the truth of it. Do not think St. John any different.”

  I was terribly chastened by her words, but not entirely inclined to hear them. After all, my keeper believed I carried his child. Why should he wan
t to be rid of me?

  Mrs. Mahon tilted her head sympathetically and then reached for my hand. “Henrietta, if you permit me… I do not mean to frighten you, only to offer you guidance. You are so very inexperienced. I should hate some harm to come to you on account of your simple, countrified notions.”

  “We only mean to instruct you, Miss Lightfoot,” added Miss Greenhill with a condescending smile.

  “Your naivety is charming, but dangerous, dear. One must always keep an eye to one’s future. Guard one’s interests in the face of adversity.”

  “And you could have any gentleman you desired, Miss Lightfoot,” exclaimed my hostess, her features hardening with jealousy. “You are a true beauty.”

  “She is correct. You might have any man you choose,” encouraged my tutoress.

  I shrugged and looked away. “But I do not choose it.”

  Oh reader, what was I to say? In truth, I had no wish to live my life in this manner. My desire was not to collect suitors and jewels, forever moving from one man’s bed to the next, pretending to love. My only wish was for the safe delivery of Allenham’s child, my only aim to secure my current place of refuge until my beloved and I could be reunited. I wanted no other lover but him: my true husband, the keeper of my heart. But I could not confess this to them! No, my friends, I could not betray a single word of my hopes; not the slightest longing or moan of pain for my absent love could escape my lips. I would have to remain entirely silent, for my survival and that of my child depended upon it.

  On the night of St. John’s gathering, Mr. Selwyn had recognized something within me, to which even the Bird of Paradise was blind. He knew I carried secrets. He had seen that I was not the ingénue I pretended to be. Selwyn did not teach me to deceive, for I had taught myself that art already.

  Mrs. Mahon sighed. “Then you are foolish, and I am certain you will come to change your mind.”

  I regarded her, my eyes now full of shame. “Perhaps,” I muttered, “though I should not like myself very much if I did.”

  Chapter 26

  Never was there a man more thrilled by the prospect of fatherhood than St. John. Such a change came over him in the following months that his friends found him near unrecognizable. Gone were his cold reserve and his tendency to meanness. Lightness and benevolence glowed in their place.

  “There is a rumour put about that you now feed your servants upon beefsteaks, Jack,” quipped Mr. Selwyn one evening as he sat at St. John’s dinner table, consuming potato pudding and tripe.

  My keeper smiled in a soft, saintly manner, but did not reply.

  “I shall have you know I disabused that person of their absurd notions. I said that anyone who knows Jack’s reputation for economy would understand that to be a gross falsehood.”

  Selwyn waited for a witty retort from my keeper, but St. John was in too serene a state of mind to spar with his friend. “Perhaps the gossipmongers of Mayfair are correct, sir. What then?”

  “Then heaven preserve us! For when this child is born, it will be the complete ruin of your miserly character!”

  Indeed St. John seemed a man transformed, and I could not help feeling a certain ache of guilt when I looked at him, particularly upon those occasions when he wore such a contented expression.

  As for me, the promise of motherhood held all manner of confusions, fears and joys. I found the changes that came over me mysterious and unsettling. No sooner was I free of morning sickness than great red patches began to appear upon me. I was subject to all variety of swellings, itches and soreness. At first I believed this to be an infestation of bedbugs or fleas, until Mrs. Mahon instructed me that such discomforts were usual in my condition. She had my maid make up a comfrey unction and sent me some nettle tonic, which relieved me greatly.

  Within a month or so of my outburst at the theatre, my belly began to spring forth. How curious it was to observe my expanding middle. Each morning, I stood before my mother’s looking glass, gazing at my silhouette. The bulge seemed to grow quite rapidly. At first it was a hard, small dome, the shape of a wide pudding. Then it began to inflate like a balloon. At about this time, I felt the quickening, the gentle flutters of the creature swimming within me. “That is when one knows for certain that the infant lives,” Lady Lade assured me, though how precisely she, a woman with an empty nursery, understood this, I had yet to learn.

  Soon, my figure was so enlarged that I could scarcely bear to have my stays laced. My bubbies, which had always been well made and ample, suddenly appeared to double, and then to triple in size. Far from repelling St. John’s desire, as I had hoped, my strangely bulbous figure seemed to inflame my keeper further. His hands could not be kept from my tender bosom, though the child inside me was spared a regular battering owing to the inconstancy of his manhood, and for this I was grateful.

  It was only in my private moments, as I reclined awkwardly in a chair, or rested in bed, that I allowed myself to think of Allenham. I laid my hands across my belly and imagined the infant, built of both our pieces, floating within my womb. My beloved lived within me. I spoke to him there, stroking my mound and bidding him to return to me, willing him to my side. But he did not hear me, and the months continued to pass.

  By the arrival of spring, all the attire that had been made up for me required alteration. “Alas, this is always the case,” the mantua-maker confessed to me. “A young bride outgrows her wardrobe within a year.” She gave me a wink, knowing all too well that I had never been a bride. She also advised me to give up my stays for a pair of jumps. What a shame it is that you ladies no longer wear these old-fashioned half-corsets, for they leave the waist entirely free. Such relief they provided me, I cannot begin to express!

  In truth, had it not been for the wisdom of my mantua-maker, and the knowledge of Mrs. Mahon and Lady Lade, I would have been lost indeed. A young lady is never more in need of female counsel than when she finds herself breeding, and, to be sure, it is remarkable how many perfect strangers are willing to dispense advice. Why, in my state, I seemed to attract the notice of every demi-mondaine in London. While some were quick with smiles and gentle words, others threw me jealous looks. And this, dear reader, was precisely what St. John wished them to do.

  Now, friends, you know me to be of a modest nature. You know that I would never willingly seek such attention, but St. John was of a different character altogether. He was both proud and vain, and desired all of London to know that I was with child, and that he was the cause of it. He would push me before every rival and friend alike, so that they could examine the evidence for themselves. It might have served him better to have simply pitched a marquee in Green Park, stood me upon a dais and invited all and sundry to have a peep. Instead I was subjected to a tour of every public place in London. We attended every rout, every play, opera, exhibition or musical party. As both my belly and the season came into full bloom, he took me through Hyde Park in his calash, directing his driver to stop whenever he spotted some distant acquaintance or other. In May and June, I moved like a slow, heavy galleon through the crowds at Vauxhall, Ranelagh and Sadler’s Wells, while a visit to Epsom, further afield, very nearly brought about the death of me. Having survived the pitted roads, I found myself wilting beneath the heat of the crowded assembly rooms.

  “Dear Jack,” I often pleaded, as I stood fanning myself, “may we sit? I fear my back shall give way.”

  “But there is the Earl of Egremont” or “But I spy Lord Pitt Rivers”—or some other rakish friend—“who I am certain would desire an introduction,” he would say, and so I remained upon my weary feet.

  I was displayed like a pregnant mare at a horse market; led from this paddock to the next, my keeper patting my vast bulge every so often. I could do little else but tighten my lips and hold my tongue at this mortifying treatment. Is it any wonder that this absurd spectacle soon found its way into the intelligencer columns of the newspapers? All of London laughed at St. John, who was described in the Morning Post as “the virile Jupiter,” who
“in striking Miss L---t with his bolt of lightning, has turned her from vestal virgin to high priestess.” Oh, the shame of it! I do not doubt that this was how my father came to hear of my disgrace. Indeed, it was not until much later that I learned he had not seen me at the theatre that evening, as I had feared. No, he learned of my circumstances in the months that followed, and I dare not think what injury this discovery did to him.

  It is a testimony to St. John’s extraordinary vanity that he remained deaf to all forms of mockery. Men believe what they wish to. He even failed to hear the loudly whispered suggestion that he might not have been “the author of Miss Lightfoot’s round belly.” Instead he chose to triumph in his title of “the virile Jupiter.”

  Contrary to what you may have heard from my enemies, the notorious Roman feast hosted by Mrs. Catherine Windsor of King’s Place was not of my design. The scheme was entirely St. John’s. The notion of celebrating the ancient festival of the fig, Nonae Caprotinae, seemed to him a fitting tribute to my maternal condition. I was told little of this plan, only that I was to figure as the honoured guest.

  “You will be venerated as the fertile Juno, my dear,” he announced. “It will be a masquerade and supper in Roman dress, attended by all who know and cherish you.”

  I regarded St. John with uneasiness as I stroked my moon-shaped belly. As you might imagine, by July, the awkwardness of my situation was beginning to prey upon my mind regularly. By my reckoning I was near eight months gone, though my duped keeper thought me no more than six. My time of confinement was fast approaching, and I wished for nothing more than to pass the ensuing weeks in the privacy of my rooms thinking on what I should say when St. John’s child arrived two months earlier than expected!

  “Oh Jack,” said I, “I am much indebted to your kindness, but I find myself so inconvenienced by my size that I doubt if—”

  “I shall not hear it, madam.” He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “You will have a couch upon which to lie and slaves to do your bidding.” Then he smirked. “Dearest girl, your comfort is always my greatest concern.”