Suffice to say, although I had been introduced to the Prince before, it had only been in passing, at the opera. Never had I imagined that I should be honoured with an invitation to Carlton House, and from the day of its arrival, lived in great anticipation of the event. I passed a good deal of time deciding on the gown I should wear and how my hair ought to be arranged; whether it should be set into flowing curls or wrapped into a turban, whether I should sport two feathers or simply a large one at the back of my head. Not once did I bother myself by thinking on other matters; such as who else might be present that evening. Why, had I not received a message from Philip Quindell on the day before, I dread to think what might have been the outcome.
“My dear Goddess,” he wrote:
I have reason to believe I shall have the honour of claiming you for my own tomorrow night. Sweet Juno, I count the hours, the very minutes until you are in my arms and freed from that tyrant, who has no right to your charms. Make haste to the card tables! Do not delay! I cover you with a thousand kisses,
Q
Gracious heaven! His words struck me with the force of lightning. It would be tomorrow; the event I both prayed for and dreaded. My head began to spin and I swayed upon my feet. Could it be? thought I, allowing my heart to swell with hope. Was it possible that I should be with my beloved in Paris in a week’s time? But I calmed myself; I steadied my nerve. There was much still that lay between St. John’s house on Park Street and Allenham’s arms in France.
I went to a small porcelain box of toothpowder that I kept upon my dresser, and carefully removed the hidden note containing the code. After I had taken a moment to rehearse the signals in my mind, I threw it upon the fire. I then went in search of an appropriate fan.
The selection of this object required a good deal of careful consideration, for she would be the tablet upon which my bid for liberty would be written. I riffled through my modest collection. It was essential that she not be too showy. Her design must not be too complex or appealing or I would be likely to draw too much attention. Her spokes must be clearly visible, not painted to fade into the pattern of the silk, or made of perforated ivory, which would be too difficult to make out. I chose from among my menagerie a simple, elegant piece; her handle was of dark japanned wood, set with a few paste jewels. I held her to the light. The outline of her black spokes showed through her pale pink silk, like a lady’s figure through a chemise. I chose her for my accomplice.
And so, dear friends, my treachery was prepared. I went to my bed that night, but had scarcely any rest. St. John lay beside me in a deep swoon, entirely innocent of my designs. Oh, how my head flitted this way and that. I rolled in my bed covers. I recited the code to myself again and again, but still my pulse raced. What if Quindell failed me? Where should I be then? I turned and studied St. John, breathing like a child on his pillow. His long, sharp features did not appear so menacing when held in sleep. Would you cast me out? thought I. Would you have me sent to prison with Quindell for defrauding you at cards? He had it in his heart to be foul, cruel and spiteful. “Oh, would that I should never again have to share your bed,” I sighed at him and then gently shut my eyes. I willed Fortuna to my side. I willed Allenham to me, just as he claimed I had done when I first flew to him at Herberton.
I willed him near to me. I willed myself down a road that ran through many miles of grass. I drew him nearer. I saw him come to me from the distant horizon, a tall figure approaching, hidden beneath a hat. And as the distance between us grew shorter, so did the person before me. With each step, I spied more. I noted that the hat was in fact a cape, and the man was in fact a woman, and before I could pronounce her name she was standing before me, her mouth drawn back in a dog’s snarl.
“I shall sour every joy! I shall blacken every triumph!” she barked. “You will never escape your prison—I shall see to that!”
My eyes sprang wide. Gasping for my breath, I drew myself upright. “Cathy.” I covered my face and moved my head, wishing to free it from her image, hoping to empty my ears of her dreadful curses. “Prison… prison…” I whispered in horror. Was this some prophecy? Now I did truly begin to shiver, for there, wrapped in the gloom of the bed hangings, I ventured to consider this possibility. Carefully, I picked over her words, recalling those hateful sentiments that she shot at me through my nightmares. “You will never keep him,” she had mouthed to me as I lay upon my childbed, Georgie not quite born. I had dismissed that vision as nonsense. At the time, I believed she spoke of Allenham, but now, with hindsight, I saw to whom she referred: my son, who would be taken from my arms.
At that distressing thought I began to weep and, not wishing to wake St. John, I removed myself from the bed. My heart went into a frenzy. My mind bolted from all restraints. I was a child of reason, but to my troubled soul, this presentiment seemed to contain some irrefutable truth.
“Prison.” My hands and feet grew suddenly numb. I could not bear to contemplate it further. I wished to move, to run from these thoughts. I threw open the doors to my dressing room and then to the corridor beyond it.
I cannot say why I longed to look upon my mother’s face, or why it should then offer me some comfort, when in times before it never had. She had been no better than a stranger to me, a sumptuously painted portrait of a favourite mistress, a heavy collar of pearls, a set of sheets upon a bed, a dried block of carmine. And yet I longed for her. I wished that she might calm me.
So I crept into the night-filled parlour, just as I had done weeks before. There, I settled myself upon the sofa, directly beneath her gaze, and allowed the light touch of her smile to fall upon me.
Chapter 33
Had I not dreamed of Lady Catherine, had I not entertained her words as a prophecy of my ruin, the night ahead of me would have filled me with sufficient dread, but now I was nearly beside myself with anxiety.
I was not at home to any callers that morning, and locked myself away, having first sent Lucy out for some syrup of motherwort, which I then sipped throughout the day. I ingested a good deal of this cordial, perhaps more than I ought, but the result was a good one for, by the time I was dressed that afternoon, I found myself in possession of a clear head. I would require it, and a vast amount of fortitude, for the evening was to prove a lengthy one.
Would that we could have repaired directly to Carlton House, but that was not to be the order of events. The ball would not begin until after the theatres closed, and we, like the Prince and his beloved Mrs. Fitzherbert, were to attend a performance of The Haunted Tower that night. I feared that my nerve would not withstand the hours of anticipation, and that I would betray myself to St. John. Indeed, I scarcely spoke to or looked upon him that entire afternoon, but he had grown so accustomed to my reproachful silences that he thought nothing of this.
As I had feared, once we arrived at the theatre the effects of my medicine had begun to wear thin. Slowly, my sense of agitation returned. I shifted in my seat, adjusted the ribbons on my sleeve, and fingered the jewels at my throat, until St. John paid me an exasperated look. At that, I corrected my conduct and surveyed the faces among the audience. It was then that I noticed the outline of Philip Quindell in a box opposite, peering at me through the darkness. His eyes glowed like those of a wolf in the woods. I squeezed my fan in the palm of my hands. My mouth ran dry.
Barely a bite of dinner had passed my lips that afternoon. My stomach was too full of worry to desire food. The light-headedness I experienced while St. John’s coach conveyed us along Pall Mall to the illuminated windows of Carlton House had as much to do with my lack of nourishment as my nerves. Everyone in my company, including St. John and Sir John Lade, was so soused in drink that they failed to spot my unease. Only Lady Lade poked me with her fan.
“What ails you, chicken?” said she, leaning into my ear. I shook my head and then cast my eyes at St. John who was laughing riotously at Sir John’s impersonation of Lord Derby.
“Him.” She sniffed and nodded, before laying a sympathetic hand upon
my shoulder.
The windows of Carlton House blazed like stars through the profiles of the stark winter trees. Indeed, there were few houses in London grand enough to burn so many lights at once. To be sure, it was a remarkable place, and more like an opulent fairy palace than a habitable abode. Its interior was lined with marble, every column touched with gilding, every curl and swirl of plasterwork washed with colour. The elaborate gold stair seemed to twist upward into the heavens. Everywhere, lanterns, candelabra, torchères and chandeliers flamed and danced like sprites, while clocks ticked and looking glasses glittered from each corner. I had been quaking like a jelly until distracted by these splendours. For a brief few moments, I found myself at ease, marvelling at the walls of paintings by Rubens and Van Dyck, and the bronzes, marble busts and precious Chinese jars that towered above my head.
I might have lost myself among these treasures had St. John not roughly taken my arm.
“Sir, your grip is too tight,” I complained.
“You would rather I set you free, to run amid these dogs?” He muttered beneath his breath. In every corner the man spied a rival, a betrayer, a schemer ready to divest him of me—and his judgement was not incorrect upon this occasion. It was not merely the presence of Barrymore and his brothers which had raised the alarm: that matter was seen to by Lady Lade, who had been charged with keeping his lordship at least one room from us at all times. No, the threat was far worse than this alone. The palace swarmed with pleasuremongers, rakes and nymphs of every rank and description; ancient bawds who still painted their faces with white lead, pox-ridden debauchers, perilously young whores, and the black-leg racing set, who never saw fit to remove their tall boots. In St. John’s eyes, the rooms writhed with predators and he was loath to leave me unattended for more than a heartbeat.
Nearly an hour had passed before we came upon Quindell. On seeing him hovering about the card tables, my stomach fell to my knees. Indeed, I felt as if I might be sick. Within an instant, my conspirator caught my eye and charged upon us. He bowed to me, quickly, aggressively, and then turned his fire on St. John.
“Ah, Mr. St. John, sir, I have often wondered where you hide yourself,” he exclaimed with good humour, “so few have been the occasions on which our paths meet.”
St. John hesitated, realizing too late that he had been sprung upon by a creditor.
“You have been at work, I hear, composing a play. Another play, Mr. St. John? Why, what a marvel you are. I suppose when one is occupied with the art of play-writing one has time to think of little else.” Quindell raised an eyebrow. My keeper knew precisely to what he referred.
St. John opened and closed his mouth several times and cleared his throat uneasily.
“Mr. Quindell,” he began, lowering his voice, “with all due respect, I do not believe this to be the time or place to raise such an issue. If you will see fit to call upon me tomorrow…”
“And find you not at home, sir? You think me both rich and stupid? No, I am afraid this will not do, Mr. St. John. I have permitted you a certain clemency for long enough and I should like this matter settled at once. This evening, in fact.”
I looked at my protector, his face now flushed scarlet.
“Sir…” he lowered his voice yet further, almost below a whisper, “I am afraid… you put me in some difficulty by this. I have not the funds immediately at my disposal…”
“Come now, Jack,” said Quindell, placing a firm hand upon St. John’s sleeve, “that is not how I intended it. No, no, that is not in the spirit of a sporting gentleman. No, we shall play for it, sir. At the tables. Piquet, that is your game, is it not?”
Though obviously bewildered, St. John gave him a nod.
“I shall make you a wager; if you win the game I shall absolve you of all your debts to me. In fact, I shall offer you that satisfaction, regardless of the outcome.”
St. John furrowed his brow, perplexed by this offer.
“I do not follow…”
“You, sir, will be free to walk from the table and owe me not a penny. But if I win, then I shall name my prize, on the condition that you must give it over to me directly.”
“Pah!” blew St. John, now believing he had the measure of his young challenger. “You ask me to enter into a wager where I know not what you propose to take from me! Why, that is madness.” St. John’s eyes glowed with contempt. “You may have my property off me, you may demand I pay you an annuity for the rest of my days, or any such outrage.” My keeper folded his arms and scowled at this mean little mushroom of a man. He was not so foolish as that.
Quindell paid him a generous bow.
“Consider then, sir, that I shall call upon you tomorrow with the bailiff. Two thousand three hundred pounds is not a trifling sum. I shall have your fine coach from you, those horses you keep and any possessions I see fit to claim.”
St. John’s eyes broadened, and he flared his nostrils in a show of fury. By God, he wore such hatred on his face!
“Damn you,” he muttered through his clenched teeth. “If that’s your price, then I shall play—and I shall permit you to choose your prize from among my possessions, without the presence of a bailiff.”
Poor, dear St. John. He moved as if in chains to the green baize-lined card table. Once in his seat, he raised his head imperiously. Beside his tall, thin figure, the square-built Quindell seemed like the court dwarf. Dutifully, I took my place behind my keeper’s chair, my breast heaving with fear. In my hands I clasped my fan so tightly that I fretted it might break.
There had been no opportunity for Quindell and me to rehearse our strategy, and this disquieted me. My head began to spin with images of unspeakable horrors: destitution, disgrace, prison. Prison. I quivered. No, I would not permit my mind to launch upon that. I dared not give credence to her curses now. Now I required all my wits about me and I banished her absolutely from my thoughts.
As the first hand was dealt, word had begun to spread through the rooms that this was to be no ordinary game. A matter of honour was at stake, it was whispered, though no one knew precisely what that was. The mystery drew spectator upon spectator to the table, whereupon further wagers were laid in favour of the elder or the younger of the two players. I noted Queensberry among the faces, and then Sir John and Lady Lade, and eventually Barrymore and his limp-footed brother as the crowd expanded. They muttered and jostled. I was nearly pushed from my spot by the rude elbows of two giggling whores.
Quindell raised his wide-set eyes to me as I hovered above St. John. That was his cue and he wished me to give him a signal. This was it; my bid for freedom had arrived. My thudding heart inched upward into my throat. Anxiously, I glanced down at my keeper’s hand. He shed his lowest cards, which left him with two useful ones: the queen of spades and ace of diamonds. I unfurled one spoke of my fan and, upon my sign, Quindell shuffled his hand. I attempted to form my face into an expression of indifference while he played his cards.
“Good?” he enquired of St. John, as one does in piquet.
St. John grimaced. “Not good.” And with that, Quindell had taken the first partie. Thirty points had gone to him and there were seventy left for which to play.
The spectators crushed closer to the table.
“A hundred says Quindell takes the game,” announced Major George Hanger, one of the Boy Barbadian’s raucous associates.
“I shall see you on that!” exclaimed a voice from behind him.
I held my breath while Quindell drew a new hand, and St. John received his cards. Tightly, I pressed my eyes together and then opened them upon my keeper’s cards. A knave of clubs, a king of diamonds and a queen of spades made part of what appeared to be a strong hand. I fretted that Quindell could sense my concern. I signed to him; perhaps my motions looked more like agitation than code. He put down three of his cards and St. John one.
“Good?” posed the younger man, his face an anxious mix of concern and resolve.
“Very good,” parlayed my protector. He showed his hand
and stole a total of forty-five points.
A huzzah went up from the mass of faces. Quindell avoided my gaze.
I felt myself begin to quake quite noticeably. What had gone so wrong, thought I? Perhaps he had won the first hand through good fortune alone. Perhaps he had not committed to memory any of my signals, or was too much in drink to recall them. By the next hand, I would know the truth of the matter.
The cards were dealt, and St. John found himself with a hand of middling worth: queen of clubs, a nine and an eleven. I carefully picked out the spokes of my fan. I fluttered it with eleven spokes clearly visible, before retracting it by two. Certainly, if Quindell did not play this partie accordingly, he was a blockhead, a simpleton, an idiot. I gritted my teeth.
“Good?” questioned the chestnut-headed young man.
“Damnable!” responded St. John, throwing down his hand, his fist shaking, his face now so red that I feared he might split his skin. Quindell nearly jumped from his seat in a cheer. He had secured a further forty-five points and stolen the partie. If he was to win the next hand… well, dear readers, I would have gained my freedom. I looked away, attempting to mask the faint hint of a smile that crept over my face. My nightmare had been but a meaningless dream, conjured by my frightened mind, I reassured myself.
Mistress of My Fate Page 34