Mistress of My Fate

by Hallie Rubenhold

  Shortly after Georgie’s birth, it emerged that St. John’s eyes had not been the only pair keeping watch upon me. Over the course of several months, a young man had been standing on Park Street, sheltering in some inconspicuous corner or shadow. He had been paid to do so; to wait, to observe and to report my movements. His master wished to know how frequently I emerged from the house and if I went abroad unaccompanied by St. John. Eventually, when the trap had been set and the time deemed appropriate, he was instructed to pounce. This event came to pass on a sleet-washed afternoon in early 1791.

  Lucy and I were setting off to pay a visit to Georgie. No sooner had we stepped into St. John’s coach than we found ourselves being pursued down the road.

  “Miss Lightfoot!” the runner called out after us. “Miss Lightfoot!” he cried again, this time waving a sealed letter.

  I ordered the coachman to stop and took down the window.

  The poor lad could hardly speak.

  “Madam, my master Mr. Quindell bids you read this,” he panted, pressing the note into my hand. He then tipped his hat and backed away into the eddying traffic of the street.

  Bemused, I examined the letter. Quindell, thought I, recalling the short, dark-haired gentleman who had knelt at my feet during Mrs. Windsor’s Roman feast. This came from St. John’s creditor, the man who had mortified him before his friends. Certainly, it could not be good news. Anxiously, I broke the seal, but was greatly surprised by what I found inside.

  Madam,

  I was rendered insensible with love from the moment I beheld your beauty. Delightful Juno, I am your priest entirely. Honour me with your attention. Lower yourself to accept my mortal professions of devotion. Since the day I heard you had been safely brought to bed, I sent a boy to watch at your window and to deliver to me any news of you. If you wish me to appear in his stead, close two of your dressing-room shutters on the morning you intend to set out in your coach. Until that moment and for ever after, I shall remain your devoted slave,

  P. Quindell

  “Gracious heaven,” I exclaimed with astonishment. I had not anticipated this. I pressed the letter to my bosom and paused for thought. I attempted to recall all that I had heard about Philip Quindell, the absurdly wealthy heir of a sugar fortune, the young gentleman who scattered his credit and coin about London as if it were seed corn, lending it to any who asked, throwing it about on waistcoats and coaches, cards, horses and the nymphs of King’s Place. It was then that something like a whip snapped in my mind and all at once a mechanism began to turn. The hammers were lifted and came pounding down upon thoughts, thoughts that eventually were fashioned into a plan, a plan that took its inspiration from the one Lucy had recounted to me. By the time I had returned from my visit to Georgie, my second strategy for an escape had begun to take form.

  Three days after I received Quindell’s letter, I rose from my bed and closed two of my dressing-room shutters.

  “I shall go to Mrs. Brown’s this afternoon, Lucy,” I instructed her. “Mr. St. John will be out.” My maid’s mouth carried a vaguely discernible smile. She already knew whom we were to find en route there.

  At precisely one o’clock, the coach was brought round. Upon being assisted inside, I looked over my shoulder to see the figure of a gentleman, sporting a fashionable black hat and a tailored blue greatcoat, idling down the road. I instructed St. John’s coachman to take me as far as the corner and to stop. There, Lucy stepped out and waited. The well-dressed figure made his approach slowly, carefully surveyingthe road and those who traversed it, before stepping around to the far door and silently entering my compartment. Then I tapped upon the roof for the coachman to make haste to Primrose Hill.

  But for my brief introduction at Mrs. Windsor’s, I knew very little about Quindell. I knew nothing of his character, only that he was a young, excitable wastrel. “The Prince of Wales calls him the Boy Barbadian. His adventures regularly feature in the Intelligencer of the Morning Herald,” the Greenfinch had informed me. “He is forever the subject of gossip… much like me and Lord Sefton.” She sighed contentedly.

  Beyond this, I had no clear notion of what was to be expected from Mr. Quindell, but, upon the moment I permitted him into my coach, I soon learned. He dispensed with all pleasantries and immediately attempted to steal a kiss. Offended by his forwardness, I batted him away.

  “What do you mean by this?” I scolded.

  “Oooh,” he moaned, as if in agony, and slid down upon the floor of the carriage. “Your forgiveness, goddess, for my brutish, mortal ways.” He then took my foot into his hands and kissed the tip of my shoe. “I shall rise upon your command.”

  I knew not what to do with this ridiculous wretch. I merely stared at him with a look of disdain. Eventually, he gave up his game, rose from his knees and assumed a position on the seat opposite.

  “What is it you wish from me, Mr. Quindell?” I enquired, stony-faced.

  “I wish to be your priest, my lady. I wish to worship you, to be your slave, your acolyte. I wish for nothing more than this, to dedicate my life to your happiness, which I believe is the only channel through which I may find peace. I am in love with you, Miss Lightfoot. From the moment I gazed upon you, the most perfect vision of womanhood I have ever beheld, I was enchanted.”

  “But I belong to Mr. St. John, sir,” I responded coolly to his plea, “and he has been a most generous and kind protector.”

  “Generous?” He snorted with indignation. “That rogue has not a generous bone in his body.” Quindell was now quite fired. “Tell me, Miss Lightfoot, what means does that dog have of providing you with happiness? He has no estate of his own and has lost his seat in Parliament. He has a mere five hundred pounds per annum to live upon, which is just as well for a country squire, but is not a respectable amount for a man of fashion who lives in town. By Jove, he has not even the means of paying his debts to me. He has failed to take a wife, as no lady of quality will have him for so reduced a sum. So why then, my beautiful creature, might he be entitled to own you?” Quindell then grabbed my hands in a manner so brusque that it startled me. “Dear Miss Lightfoot,” he begged, “dear, dear, goddess, what must I do to win you? I shall die if I do not taste the sweetness of your lips, those lips which St. John may make a meal of whenever he chooses. May Venus have mercy upon me!”

  Quindell was such a child. His unskilled and impulsive manner of making love did not endear him to me. His pleadings were met with silence, but not because I wished to rebuff him, rather because I wished to consider them with care and thought.

  It was at that moment that I came to recognize an important truth. Mr. Selwyn had attempted to impart it to me many months ago, and dear Mrs. Mahon, whose advice and urgings I had so often dismissed, had wished me to learn it too. Why, even Lucy Johnson had recently illustrated this principle to me. Quite plainly, life was but a game of bartering, of requesting one thing for another. The more I contemplated this, the clearer it seemed to me that the entire world turned upon this principle. Lucy desired a position from me, and this I gave to her in an exchange for something I desired: information. I required a place in which to bear my child safely, and St. John wished to have a replica of his old mistress. Now Quindell desired my love and I was in a position to request something in return. I desired my freedom and, if I moved wisely, I might very well be able to secure it.

  “You would like to know what you might do to win me, Mr. Quindell?” I began, preparing to make my offer. “Then I shall tell you.”

  He moved nearer to me, a smile of intrigue creeping across his face.

  “You say that St. John is a good deal in debt to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would wish to have those debts honoured, would you not?”

  “Very much.”

  “Well, sir, I believe there is a way in which all of your aims may be met.”

  “How so?”

  “Challenge Mr. St. John to a game of piquet.”

  “Piquet?” puzzled Quin
dell, “But certainly, faro…”

  “He does not care for faro, but is positively enslaved to piquet. I can assure you, sir, he will be unable to resist such an invitation. Once he commences a game he is loath to quit it until he has won, so you must play for high stakes.”

  “I do not see how…”

  “Please, Mr. Quindell, I shall explain myself. You will set the wager before the game commences. If he wins, you will agree to discharge all of his debts. I tell you, sir, he will not be able to resist that opportunity.”

  “And if I win…?”

  I did not mean to appear coy. In truth, what I was about to propose so disgusted me that I could not meet his gaze. By uttering it, I would bind myself to him, he whom I neither trusted nor knew. I drew a long breath.

  “If you win, sir, I shall be your prize.”

  Quindell could not believe his ears. He stared at me for a moment.

  “Do you suggest that I…”

  I forced a smile. “… Play for me.”

  The Boy Barbadian’s face lit up like the morning sky, and I watched the sun move across his countenance as he contemplated the idea.

  “But I mean to win you, Miss Lightfoot. I shall not accept less. So how do you propose I engineer chance?” said Quindell, thinking he had found a hole in my plot.

  “You do not expect that matters of importance should be left to chance?” I replied, quoting my friend Selwyn.

  Quindell paused, uncertain of my meaning. He knitted his dark brows together and rolled his grey eyes. He was not especially quick-witted.

  “You do not mean to…”

  I gave a very subtle nod.

  Then, all at once, a delighted look of shock passed over him, and he roared with laughter.

  “Great Jupiter, madam!” he cried. “You are a genius!”

  Chapter 32

  My actions did not give me ease. No, dear friends, that evening, I returned to Park Street in a tremble. I felt ill, sickened by my devious proposals. I sat before my fire, wishing to warm myself through, but the coldness of my scheme had settled so deep within me that I could not cease my shaking.

  To cheat a person at cards was no harmless lark. This ploy I had suggested would not be a mere trick to entertain an old friend. No, what I proposed was the lowest of deeds, a punishable offence. Should I fail, should St. John uncover this deception, my comfort and happiness would be at an end for certain. I might even find myself a prisoner, languishing in Newgate. Allenham had urged me to survive, to do what I must to preserve myself, so long as I remained safe and alive, he had written. This risk I took for him, so I might free myself to be at his side.

  “To what depths have I descended?” I moaned as I sat at my mother’s dressing table. Lucy stood above me, removing the combs from my hair. I had confessed my entire strategy to her, though it caused me a good deal of shame to do so. I proposed to make my escape from St. John, much in the manner of her former mistress, but as I could not tolerate the thought of a duel, I would contrive to bring them together over a carefully manipulated game of cards.

  “My stars, madam!” my maid positively whooped. “You are sharp-witted, to be sure.”

  I checked her with a solemn look and she soon contained herself.

  “I do not relish committing a crime, nor using two gentlemen ill, Lucy. It is a devilish plot.” I sighed

  Lucy continued to unpick my hair with a quiet, thoughtful expression.

  “We do what we must, madam,” she muttered.

  I turned to her with sad and questioning eyes.

  “My ma, those were her words. We do what we must, not always what we ought.”

  “Certainly,” said I, “we should do what we ought.”

  “If I may say, madam, it is for men to do what they ought and women to do what they must. We have not the choices they have. If we desire something, we do what we must to have it, or else…”

  “Or else?”

  “We have nothing, madam. Nothing that is ours, at least. Nothing we desire in life. We are drudges, no better than a horse or an ox.” She reached for my nightcap and began to fit it atop my head. “No,” she sighed, “we do what we must.”

  I watched her in the looking glass. There was truth in her simple philosophy, though it was one which seemed to rub against all that I had ever learned. It was love that first compelled me to do what I must, rather than what I ought, and, having begun upon that course, it seemed I was fated to continue along it. Certainly, I reasoned, Allenham would not oppose this system of beliefs, when his prophet Monsieur Rousseau seemed to live by this code. Think of Monsieur Rousseau, he had urged me in his last letter. I recalled those evenings at Orchard Cottage when we had read his Confessions. How shocked I was to learn of the philosopher’s misdeeds, his base, human desires, his petty acts of thievery, his deceptions, his abuses; and yet how all the more surprised I was to see that my beloved overlooked these ills, and venerated the author for being true to himself. Might Allenham forgive me as easily? I feared he would not.

  Never had I imagined myself capable of being a shrewd, conniving creature, but upon that day, that was what I had come to be. There she sat, gazing back at me from the candle-lit looking glass. I was saddened to think how I had grown into the very scheming harlot St. John had accused me of being, but what other choice had I? Indeed, I quite shocked myself at how artfully I had manipulated Quindell. Admittedly, my schooling in this subject had been extensive, as my friends spoke of little else but how to get a keeper to do one’s bidding. It was their words that guided my actions, and I believe I acquitted myself well, whether I wished to or not.

  Before Quindell had quit my carriage I had known that I must make very clear the specifics of my demands. I was not accustomed to such bartering, and could not imagine how he might respond.

  “Mr. Quindell,” said I, gathering my courage, “in exchange for… my love… I wish to have my own lodgings. I… wish to be kept in a fashionable manner, and no longer to live en famille… as if I were… a wife.”

  He turned to me with an incredulous look and then burst into a laugh.

  “Why, of course,” he exclaimed. “Any other arrangement would be preposterous.” He then stepped out of my coach, a picture of swagger and confidence, before leaning in to address me through the window. “All the ton thinks St. John ridiculous. He keeps you as a miserly shopkeeper might keep his spouse.”

  I smirked at this admission, for I was amused to learn what society made of my gaoler, but also because I could scarcely believe what had occurred. The simplicity of the transaction, the ease with which I had arranged an escape to my freedom, seemed remarkable.

  Before you judge me too harshly, reader, I ought to explain. There are many among my sex who wish a gentleman to run through every penny at his disposal in purchasing trifles and gifts for them. But this was not my intention in allying myself to Philip Quindell. What I desired from him was not his limitless credit, ten hundred new gowns or a neck hung with jewels, but rather that he should simply unlock my cage.

  In truth, by the time I had made my proposition, I had contemplated the matter quite closely. If I were to execute a plan similar to that of Lucy’s former mistress, I recognized that I required a private abode of my own. It was necessary that I had a place, unobserved by my new keeper, where I might prepare for my journey to Paris. It would be to this address that St. John might send my clothing and effects, and from which I might pawn every expensive bottle and petticoat, each unnecessary hat and brooch, till I had accumulated the price of my passage to France. In fact, I figured, the matter might be concluded so quickly that I would hardly be resident at my new lodgings for more than a handful of days before I made my escape.

  Apart from the dangers of complete ruin, which were considerable, that which also gave me disquiet was the character of Philip Quindell. Indeed, the man was no better than a capricious puppy and had little by way of intelligence. I recognized immediately that he would require guidance in this scheme. This, I dreaded,
for to suggest a plan is one thing, but to see to its successful execution demands courage and skill, and I believed myself sorely lacking in both of these qualities. Nevertheless, I prepared myself.

  On the morning following our meeting, I set about composing a series of signs and signals to be used at the card table. I scribbled each down, attempting to make them as simple as possible, for my liberty was to be won or lost upon the ease with which Quindell could commit them to his memory. Each suit was given a gesture: hearts—I placed my hand to my neck or bosom; spades—to either ear; clubs—to my chin; and diamonds—to my lips. The royal cards were each to be signalled with a look: king—up; queen—down; knave—to either side; while the numbers were to be displayed upon my fan. Quindell was to countthe spokes I revealed; one was an ace and so on.

  Devising this act of brazen dishonesty distressed me so much that by the time I had committed the strategy to paper and then copied it out for my conspirator, I felt so faint and unwell I was forced to lie upon my sofa in order to recover. Once I had regained my nerve, I wrote under a separate cover that I wished him to commit the contents to heart and to destroy the incriminating note once he had done so. I then sent Lucy off with the two sealed packets. “Blessed Fortuna,” I prayed as I watched her steal down the road, “do not abandon me just yet.”

  Faithful reader, I had no knowledge of when my day of judgement was to arrive. When I dispatched my message to Quindell, this had been left entirely to the Fates. I thought it likely that St. John and I should, within a few weeks, or even a month, happen upon Quindell at an intimate gathering, when a game of cards would then be amicably proposed. In my heart, I knew that chance would fix the date of our meeting. Indeed, this is precisely what came to pass, though not at all in the fashion I might have wished.

  In the very week that I set the wheels of my devious design into motion, St. John and I were to attend a ball and supper at Carlton House, which was then the home of our late King George IV, when he was still Prince of Wales. My friends, do remember that this was an age quite different from the present one. Women of my sort were very much in favour with the Prince and his circle; indeed, never will you have seen a greater gathering of libertines and reprobates than was to be found in his gilded rooms. Lord Barrymore and his brothers, Mrs. Mahon’s lascivious Duke of Queensberry, and the stinking Duke of Norfolk, who would sooner bathe in rum punch than water, were all numbered among his closest associates. To be sure, no person who wished to preserve their reputation in respectable circles was to be seen at occasions such as this one. Should you wonder at the tone of the evening, I need only explain that the guest of honour was not to be a foreign head of state or one of the Prince’s royal sisters. No, it was to be the Prince’s jockey, Samuel Chifney, who attended the ball upon Escape, one of His Majesty’s champions. The horse bucked and bridled, soiled a carpet, kicked over a chair and nearly tore Mrs. Farren’s train before being led back to the stables. But here I get ahead of myself.