It was at that moment that the crowd, which now stood five or six deep around the table, began to part.
“What the devil is this?” came a jovial voice. “Philly Quindell and Jack St. John at a hand of piquet! By God, gentlemen, there must be a great prize at stake here!” The Prince stepped rather unsteadily towards his card table, with the round-figured Mrs. Fitzherbert upon his arm like a counterweight. The entire gathering and the two players rose and bowed.
“We play to settle a debt, Your Royal Highness,” said St. John.
The Prince sent out a sputtering laugh.
“Dear Jack, I cannot imagine it is Philly who is indebted to you.”
The entire room roared with amusement, and St. John, not one who was bred to entertain a gallery, forced a smile.
“Fear not, Jack, Philly owns more of me than he does of you!” said His Royal Highness, before waving his hand in a dismissive manner, “Play on, gentlemen, I should not wish to distract you from your wager.”
It was then, in the midst of this commotion, that a calamity befell me. In positioning themselves at the side of the card table between both players, the broad-waisted Prince and his double-chinned wife displaced all the spectators who surrounded them. It was as if two fat stones had been dropped into a pool, sending out ripples of movement among the observers. I was momentarily carried upon a wave that took me from the back of St. John’s chair into the crowd. I gasped, and in swimming through the current back to my position, I let slip my fan from my shaking palm.
The final hand was being dealt as I dived beneath the card table, feeling for it in the gloom. Its dark handle rendered it virtually impossible to find. Oh dear, dear Fortuna, I nearly began to weep, do not abandon me now. Not now, I beg you!
St. John was shuffling his hand. The seconds passed, moving further and further onward, leaving me behind. I struggled, patting my hands all about me, knowing that soon the cards should be called and the partie decided. Oh dear God, I beseech you… Cathy, let me be! My fingers felt along the Turkish carpet, until, stretching them outward, I sensed the smooth handle within my reach.
I came above the table, ruffled and frightened. Quindell’s eyes were frozen with terror.
“Why, Miss Lightfoot, do you make a habit of polishing Mr. St. John’s shoes while he sits at the card table?”
The company laughed, but I looked at him quite startled. Foolhardily he had drawn all the eyes of the room upon me, upon us, and what I was to do next.
I glanced down at St. John’s hand and, comprehending that I now stood upon centre stage, caught my breath and opened my fan. I showed ten spokes and pressed them to my lips.
“Sir, I do beg your pardon…” I answered demurely, making no pretence at wit. “I had… dropped my fan.” I closed my pretty little accomplice one spoke further, then looked coyly to the side to denote the knave I had seen in St. John’s hand.
Quindell’s face hardened and he licked his lips.
“Good?” enquired St. John, his voice cracking with nerves.
The Boy Barbadian sucked in his breath. He raised his eyes to me with such desire that I thought he might leap across the table at me.
“Very Good Indeed!” he declared, slamming his hand upon the table.
The crowd hollered and huzzahed. “Quindell! Quindell!” a collection of blacklegs cried, championing his name.
Oh reader, I did everything in my power to contain my desire to do the same. When I saw the cards he flung upon the table, the winning hand that secured my release, I wished to squeal with joy, I wished to jig a merry dance. I wished to fly from that room as fast as I might. Had it been possible, I would have boarded a stage to Dover at that very moment! Inside my head I both triumphed and sighed with relief. Prison, indeed! I laughed at my own foolishness, while gleefully dismissing the spectre of my sister for what it was: a mere irrational imagining prompted by my own fears. Here the truth lay before me, upon a card table.
My head spun like a Catherine wheel but I forced my expression into blankness, and emitted no more than a politely surprised gasp. The deal was yet to be completed, and my heart thudded in anticipation.
All about me the cheering and high spirits continued. The Prince lingered at the edge of the table, inspecting the final play, greatly amused by the tournament that had transpired in his card room.
“Now, Philly, has the matter been settled?” he enquired.
“Not just yet, Your Royal Highness,” responded Quindell with a half-smile, gathering the cards spread upon the table.
St. John had yet to move or make a sound. He had been sitting, silent and stoic, a vanquished man, preparing to submit to his punishment.
“You may call upon me tomorrow, Mr. Quindell,” said my keeper, preparing to push himself up from his seat.
“That shall not be necessary, Jack,” he responded, raising his eyes to mine, “for I shall claim my prize now.”
“Your prize, sir?”
“Miss Lightfoot… if she will agree to become mine.”
St. John’s face fell as hard as the walls of Jericho, his entire arrangement of features seemed to bow and collapse under the shock.
“You cannot mean… How dare you?” he growled.
“You agreed to my terms, sir. Certainly you are prepared to honour your word?”
My keeper then turned his thunderous face to me.
“You… This was your doing! I might have guessed…”
“Ah! But does she accept you, Philly?” interrupted the Prince, rapt by the unfolding of this comedy of errors.
My mouth trembled. I looked away nervously, not daring to meet St. John’s fiery, accusing eyes.
“Yes,” I pronounced softly.
The Prince crowed with delight. “All for the love of Miss Lightfoot!” he cried, reaching for my hand.
It was a merciful thing that Mrs. Fitzherbert had long since abandoned the table for more intriguing spectacles, for His Royal Highness pulled me from behind St. John’s chair and drew me to his side. For a brief instant, I flashed my gaze at the Prince, and beheld such a vibrant pair of marble blue eyes that it brought a blush to my cheek.
“A kiss? Will you favour me with just one kiss, before Philly makes you his own?”
I did not dare note the expressions of either of my keepers, old or new, for I understood it not to be in their command to refuse such a request. Now I coloured even further, for it is one thing to be a guest at the Prince of Wales’s gathering and another thing entirely to be admired by him. I had hardly more than nodded a coy approval, before he had his hand upon my cheek and his lips pressed to mine. Once more, the sound of cheering went up around me.
It was over that quickly. Indeed it was no more than a fleeting gesture of approval but I was most overcome to have been the recipient of it. In fact, I believe you would think me dishonest if I did not here admit that, among the many kisses I have received in the course of my days, this one I recall with great fondness. I was so very young and beautiful then, in a palace that danced with splendours. On that night, the eve of my promised release, all possibilities spread before me.
The Prince and the revellers who encircled him drew us into their orbit as they laughed and jested. There was a good deal of drink; champagne and brandy were poured into our glasses. I could hardly see over the heads of the gentlemen and bejewelled ladies who surrounded us. When at last a clearing did appear between the embroidered coats and trains of silk, I glanced back at the table. Not surprisingly, St. John had disappeared.
The festivities carried on into the morning hours, as most celebrations at Carlton House were prone to do, while the company sank further and further into drink and debt. During the course of the evening, I found myself separated from Quindell and wandering from room to room among the boisterous guests. While passing through the echoing octagonal entry hall, I felt an unexpected hand upon my sleeve.
“Do not think I did not foresee the arrival of this day, chaton.”
I looked up to see St. Jo
hn, his posture stooped from drink, his eyes red with exhaustion.
“You are no different from your mother,” he sniffed. “Take your pleasure with the idiot Barbadian. Amuse yourself, but you will return. This I know.”
I turned from him, not wishing to demonstrate my ingratitude, or to disappoint his hopes.
“You have given me a son, dear little chaton, and for this, I shall always be indebted to you. But do not forget, madam, he is mine. He belongs to my house, as you no longer do,” he warned, before turning upon his heel.
I remained there, fixed in place, watching him withdraw down the stairs. As he reached the door, he stopped and glanced back at me, his features set in an unmoving, icy expression.
Chapter 34
There was, of course, one point of business left to be transacted before Quindell would grant me the keys to my liberty. This, as you might imagine, I dreaded. Let none of my fellow lady-memoirists convince you to the contrary: it is no joy to lie with a disagreeable man, a man for whom one feels not even an amicable warmth, not the merest modicum of admiration or affection. But this one task I would bear with good cheer in order to attain my freedom. Quindell was my gatekeeper, and this act was to be the bribe I paid so that I might secure my safe passage. That is the manner in which I viewed it, nothing more.
It was very late indeed by the time my new keeper was heaved into his coach. I was carefully placed on the seat opposite him, the prize he had won in a night of gaming. As the horses brought us to his house in St. James’s Square, Quindell lolled and sagged, muttering unintelligible drunken syllables as his chin bounced upon his chest. I watched him with folded arms, comforted by the knowledge that the unpleasant deed would not be committed upon that night.
Instead it was committed upon the following afternoon, as I waited patiently on a sofa. He came to me, clutching his sore head, his person still bearing the stink of port and brandy. For one who made so much of my “sweet lips,” and my “longed-for kisses,” hardly more than two or three were taken from me. He made no comment upon my beauty, offered no praise at his goddess’s altar, but whimpered like a hound as he roughly pushed up my skirts and got himself inside me. I withstood the few thrusts he required with the fortitude of one who sits in a dentist’s chair. Fortunately, after a moment or so, the entire ordeal was at an end and I rose up immediately to rid myself of his seed.
Earlier that morning, in the time that Quindell lay in a drunken doze, I had possessed the foresight to send out for a few necessities; several sponges, some strong vinegar, and lime water with which to wash my privy parts. Prior to that day, I had fretted a good deal about Quindell’s potency, that he, unlike St. John, was most likely to be in full command of his manhood. As you might imagine, now when I hovered at the very door to my escape, I wished more than ever to keep my womb free from any further burdens. Despite the burning of the lime water and vinegar, fear drove me to be fastidious in my rituals of douching. For those among you ladies who have never attempted it, the constant application of these solutions is grievously painful to the delicate area, especially when used with regularity, but I had little choice in the matter. In the short period that I was confined with him in his bedchamber, I was made to endure what seemed like an endless siege upon my womanhood. Men possess such unquenchable fires when first they come to conquer us. It is forever the same. He pawed and panted and assailed me, just as did St. John, but, dare I say, with greater success. I confess, after the first day, the soreness was so great as to force me to approach the maid for some lard to grease the passage. (This, you should know, is a useful measure and never fails to provide at least a small degree of relief to the injured parts.)
It is quite astonishing what a person is willing to withstand when she believes a reward for her suffering to be in sight. As I lay, as passive as a landed fish, in his bed, I congratulated myself that soon I would be away, and I would wash from my memory the trials of this mode of life, these abhorrent beds of other men; I would purge them utterly, never again to recall the sounds or scents of another. I fixed my eyes on the nearest window as Quindell huffed and puffed atop me.
“Philly,” I asked in a pretty voice upon the morning of the second day, “when shall I have my own lodgings?”
“Hmm?” came his response as he lay expired upon me.
“My apartments, dear heart,” said I, with a false smile. I fear I now sounded quite impatient, for indeed I was.
“Tomorrow,” said he, slithering away on to his side.
“You see, I must send for my wearing apparel and jewels. I must send for Lucy, my maid. I do not trust St. John; he will turn her out for sure. I must have my belongings, Philly,” said I, sitting up. “I fear it is most urgent.”
But Quindell did not seem to be in a state of mind inclined to matters most urgent. He sighed.
“I shall arrange it today.”
Of course, I had been correct in my belief that St. John would turn Lucy Johnson out. When I failed to return with him on the night of the Prince’s gathering, it became clear to her that my plan had succeeded.
“If you do not mind my saying, madam, this made me a good deal pleased for you, but ever so fretful for my own situation,” she told me when she arrived at St. James’s Square, carrying her bundle beneath her arm. “I did not know what would become of me. I feared you would depart for Paris directly!”
I hushed her frantically, and she clapped her hand across her mouth in shame, before continuing her tale in a lowered tone.
“Mr. St. John fell into such a state of melancholy. The household feared for him, what with all that hollering and moaning, as if he were sick and dying. That’s what comes of the drink.” She nodded with a look of superiority.
She recounted to me that St. John returned from Carlton House and confined himself to his rooms, much as he had done following the Roman feast at Mrs. Windsor’s. He seemed determined to sink his woes in wine and porter; so much so that when he at last emerged, the housemaids found nearly forty bottles from his cellar scattered about the floors and surfaces.
“Two days passed before he summoned me. I was sorely frightened, madam, for he looked to me like a demon! His face was whiter than I ever did see and his mouth was blue from the wine. It was then he showed me the door and said, ‘Go to that bitch, if you dare. I do not want you here no more.’ I said, ‘As you wish, sir,’ and then asked if it might convenience him if I was to pack your belongings, but he roared at me that he would see fit to do it himself.” She offered me a hesitant smile. “It was a good thing I knew where you were to be found, madam.”
To be sure, her arrival on that, my final night under Quindell’s roof, could not have pleased me more. “I am ever so grateful that you came to me, Lucy,” I said in a whisper, pressing her hand. “We have only to await my belongings to be sent, and then…” I could not keep the smile from my lips, “… we shall make our escape.”
And so it came to pass that early the following morning, Quindell escorted me to a house on Clarges Street, one of several in his possession. Indeed I was later to learn that his father had, many years ago, spun his sugar wealth into property and bought up a good many houses in the newly laid streets around the edges of Hyde Park. He had been a much wiser man than his son, whose only investments hadbeen in whores and racehorses. I would even wager that Philip Quindell might have earned a name as the most reckless spendthrift of his generation had his life not come to an untimely end in 1793. He was only twenty-four. As I understand it, he and Major Hanger had been larking about with brandy and pistols at a race meeting.
The house in which he installed me could not have suited my purposes more perfectly. Philly took me by the hand, eager to show me all of its luxuries and to enumerate the expense of filling it.
“The silver, plate and books were acquired from the Duke of Chandos, when his lordship could not make good on his debts.” Quindell removed a yellow porcelain dish bearing a ducal crest from a sideboard, and waved it before me with a self-satisfied smirk
. “When he died, I had his collection of paintings from him too, but they are rather dull things.”
It was, to be sure, an exquisite townhouse. Its rooms were beautifully furnished à la mode, with elegant, thin-legged white chairs and pier tables. My bed, which was a grand feat of Mr. Linnell’s design, wore a stately crown of cobalt silk drapery. However, at the time, I had no mind for any of it. I wished only to rid myself of Quindell, to gain possession of my belongings and to make my departure. He pushed me down upon the coverlet, but I rolled away, complaining, as Miss Ponsonby often encouraged me to do, that I had “begun to bleed, and would not wish to disgust him with it.” The ploy served me well, as he rose to his feet, sighed and made his excuses.
I waited until I heard him depart before I summoned Lucy. Alone in my private lodgings, I was so thrilled that I could hardly contain my excitement. I had already begun to calculate how many days might pass before all my jewels and the most expensive part of my apparel could be transformed into money, and thence into a passage to Paris.
I pulled on the bell rope once more, and then, in a fit of impatience stepped out upon the stairs and called for her.
“Madam!” She came charging up the steps. “Your box has arrived.” Behind her strode one of my footmen with a trunk of my belongings. My face burst into a smile.
“Have them brought to my dressing room,” said I, fairly singing out my directions.
When Lucy reached the landing, I took her by the hands and squealed with joy. “Oh my kind-hearted Lucy,” I exclaimed, “our plan has been a success,” and with that, I flew to where the box had been placed upon my floor.
It struck me as odd that there was but one trunk: a coffer the size of a large tea chest. Lucy went to unlock it.
Mistress of My Fate Page 35