“Twenty guineas says you are incorrect, sir; that Lady Lade wins, and I thrash you with her whip,” fired back Quindell in my defence.
Then, quite suddenly, the shot went off.
Our team of horse bolted as if their very tails had caught alight. Gracious heavens, had Lady Lade not warned me to hold tight, I fear that impertinent man might have won his wager within the first few moments! I screamed in terror as we shot through the park like a bullet, my companion cackling beside me. I bounced and jumped with each jolt of the wheels. Trees and spectators soared past in a dizzy blur. For the better part of the race, we held the lead, Lady Lade whipping the horses into a positive frothing frenzy. Her face was set in an expression of intense fury, her brows arched, her mouth pinched. She appeared mannish in her determination, and suddenly I understood why no respectable lady would ever be seen to engage in such a competition.
“Heeeeee!” She whooped like a drunkard as we rounded the cluster of trees and began our way back. “Hey-hoooooo!” She waved her whip at the distant crowd.
By then, my heart was in my throat. My fingers and arms were nearly broken from their grip upon the carriage sides. The sight of the finish provided me with only the smallest relief, for while we had completed half of the race, we still had a further distance to ride before I knew for certain that I would be removed from the chariot alive. I spotted Quindell in his greatcoat and modishly tilted round hat from afar, and at that moment, I felt a true loathing for him; from his head to his top-boots. Indeed, my indignation was raised to such a pitch that for a fleeting instant I wished Lady Lade would charge our vehicle directly at him! Suffice to say, the mere thought of it brought an instant smile to my lips.
As we neared the finish line, Mrs. Hodges’ curricle suddenly broke from its position behind us. In a daredevil show of sportswomanship, she was nearly standing upright in her vehicle, whipping her horses with vixen-like ferocity. This prompted Lady Lade to charge her team even harder. My heart quite unexpectedly leaped with thrill, as my entire person reverberated to the frantic beat of hoofs. I shut my eyes and prayed that the wheels stayed firmly upon the ground, that the axle held in place, that the springs did not pop away from beneath the vehicle. When I opened them, I saw Gertrude Mahon.
Sophie Hodges’ carriage was nearly flush with ours, and my friend was but two arm lengths from me. She seemed entirely unruffled. Her expression was calm, composed and slightly sad as she gazed upon me. I looked away, ashamed, as we crossed the finish line, a nose in front of them.
I was unaware that we had won until Lady Lade paid me a kiss and Quindell jumped up upon her gig. He pulled me down into his arms. “You have won me more than £250 today, my little Venus!” He exclaimed, whirling me around. “And I am to thrash Ban Tarleton with Lady Lade’s whip for your victory!”
My keeper remained in high spirits for the entirety of that day, drinking and bounding about like the puppy he was. As for me, well, I required several hours to recover myself. Even by the time our party repaired to the Star Tavern for refreshment, my knees were still a-tremble.
As we sat in Quindell’s curricle bound for the edge of the park at Knightsbridge, he nodded at me, “You shall have a curricle of your own.”
“That is most kind of you, dear heart,” I began.
“When the Prince sees you attired in your hat and cape, His Royal Highness shall think you the most charming of all the equestriennes.”
I did not know quite how to put it to him, but I had no wish to drive a curricle. “Philly, I would rather… I am not so much a sportswoman as Mrs. Hodges or Lady Lade…”
I struggled with my words. He appeared so self-satisfied, so pleased at his plans. I recalled my fury upon seeing him, whooping at the finish line while I rode with Lady Lade, terrified out of my wits. He had observed me as if I were his prized stallion, his fighting dog, his silver-spurred cockerel. My aim had never been to be owned by him. Why, I was only here, under his protection, for a short stint, I reminded myself. It was at that moment that a sharp thought stuck in my head. It came upon me so rapidly that I stunned myself even by thinking it: I cared not for charging through Hyde Park in a bouncing two-wheeled carriage, but I did fancy dashing to Paris in a much sturdier vehicle. Might I be so bold as to ask for this? My pulse set off at a pace.
“You see, dear Philly, I am so slight of build, so small… all throughout the race I feared I would be thrown from the chariot. Why, I thought I might sail away in the breeze like a leaf.” I lowered my eyes. “I… I am not made of the stuff of those heartier creatures. I require protection, my dear.”
He looked at me fondly, though not without a hint of irritation. He did not wish to have his notions challenged.
“Do you not think a vehicle of a stronger make might suit me… such as a town coach?”
He exhaled in exasperation. Then, taking one of my gloved hands in his, he examined my narrow wrist. “Perhaps you are right, my little Venus. You would do better in a chariot driven by doves.” A faint smile came upon him as he reconciled himself to this. “A town coach you shall have,” he announced proudly. “With a lining of deep blue silk to complement the cornflower of your eyes.”
Chapter 36
I had never before been to a coachmaker, so when Quindell suggested that we pay a visit to Messrs Roberts and Williams on Long Acre, I was most intrigued. We had hardly stepped through the door of their premises when it became apparent to me that Philly was a frequent visitor there. Mr. Roberts, a dashing young gentleman, not much older than my keeper, was a racing acquaintance of his and owed him a fair sum of money. It also became apparent that our unexpected appearance at his shop caused him no end of uneasiness. He laughed falsely as he attempted to amuse me by spinning wheels and demonstrating the brightness of his mirrored coach lanterns. Suffice to say, Mr. Roberts was eager to take a commission from Philip Quindell, at a generously discounted rate.
The thought of owning my own coach delighted me, for I knew it would provide me with more liberty than I had ever before enjoyed. It was my first genuine step upon the road to Paris. As the town coach’s manufacture would take at least two months, Philly permitted me the use of one of his vehicles for my visits to Georgie. I had, until then, been relying upon the hire of post chaises to ferry me, three times a week, to Mrs. Brown’s cottage in Primrose Hill. As you might imagine, I was enormously grateful that St. John had not deprived me of this pleasure. The thought of taking my little boy into my arms never failed to make my heart leap as I came over the hill, and glimpsed the copse of trees behind which the cottage stood. I would sit with him for several hours, feeling him upon my lap, admiring his gurgles and ever-changing expressions. Our time together seemed always to slip away, but after Quindell had promised me my own coach, I began to console myself with the promise of soon coming to claim him. I even permitted myself to imagine the day of my departure. I saw my shellacked carriage stacked with boxes. I savoured how it might feel to travel in complete comfort to Dover with Georgie cradled in my arms. I contemplated the day when I should roll through the narrow grove of trees, through the pasture where the cows grazed. I imagined that I should lift him from his cot where he blew bubbles, and gaze into the eyes he had borrowed from his father. I should hold him at my breast and bid farewell to Mrs. Brown, pressing a fat purse into her hand for her troubles. That was how this chapter would end, and how my happy life would commence, I decided.
So think, then, how I felt when, later that month, Quindell’s coach brought me to Mrs. Brown’s cottage and all appeared still. It was usual for the wet nurse or one of her ruddy-cheeked children to throw open the door as soon as they heard the approach of my wheels, but upon that day I was greeted only by the barks of a lone dog. I rapped upon the cottage door but there came no answer. Although it would have been most unusual, I began to wonder if the family had gone out. I knocked again, and this time was certain I heard the scamper of children’s feet.
“Mrs. Brown,” I called out, “are you at home?”
I tipped my head and listened, but heard only quiet from within. The dog in the courtyard continued its infernal barking.
“Mrs. Brown, it is Miss Lightfoot come to see Master St. John,” I tried again.
Several beats of silence were followed by the shout of a young child. Unable to hide herself any longer, Mrs. Brown unlatched the door, but ventured only to poke her nose through. Her face appeared drawn.
“Oh madam, how I have dreaded this day,” said she, her eyes wide with fear.
At those words, I do believe my heart stopped. Without so much as a thought, I threw my hands at the door and pushed against it with all my might.
“Oh dear God, Mrs. Brown, is he dead? Is my boy dead?” I cried, but the nurse shook her head and reached through to grasp my arm and calm me.
“No, madam, no, he is quite well! He is in the best of health! Oh, I did not mean to alarm you so.”
At that, I fell back, my face still white as powder. “Then I must see him!” I demanded.
“I am afraid you cannot, madam, for Mr. St. John has taken him away. He came last week and had him from me. He has taken the child to Wiltshire, to be raised in Lord Bolingbroke’s nursery with his lordship’s boys.”
Her words came upon me like a hail of arrows. “He… took him away? I can no longer see him? My son, I can no longer see my son?”
She shut her eyes and gently wagged her head.
“I am so very sorry, madam,” said she, her own heart, the heart of a mother, ringing with my pain.
My eyes filled with tears.
“You must beg of Mr. St. John that privilege,” she said, but I fear she knew what little result that would yield.
It seemed always this way for me. Fortune handed me an advantage, from which Fate then drew a tax.
Lucy hurried to me as soon as she saw my faltering steps. Wailing and defeated, I collapsed into her arms. She bundled me into Quindell’s coach, where I continued to sob uncontrollably against her. Dear God, how I cursed St. John. When he threatened me on that night at Carlton House, I could not have fathomed what punishment he held in store for me. I had no right to Georgie, not when St. John had acknowledged him as his own. In truth, I had always nurtured a fear that he might do with him as he pleased, and now that my boy was gone from me, there was nothing left in the world for me to do.
I did not wish to go home. I briefly considered instructing the coachman to take us to Park Street, to confront the villain who had stolen my child, but then came to my senses. We drove round and round the squares of St. James’s and Mayfair, until I called out our destination: number 12 Dover Street.
When I approached her door, I prayed that she would see me. I pressed my handkerchief to my face as I knocked, attempting to collect myself, but I knew it would be of no use.
Her butler showed me inside, before disappearing up the stairs to see if she would admit me. “Please,” I beseeched Fortuna, “if she turns me away I shall wish myself dead.” But she did not turn me from her door. Instead, the butler escorted me up to her drawing room. The mere sight of her landing, the familiar surrounds of her home, started my tears once more, so that by the time she saw my face and rose to greet me, I was quite beside myself.
She took me to the sofa and laid my head against her shoulder, hushing me as she had on the night I brought Georgie into the world. She stroked the fallen curls of my hair as I sobbed and blubbed like a child.
“Please forgive me,” I muttered between sobs. “Please… please.”
Gertrude Mahon rocked me gently. “Of course you are forgiven, dear girl. Of course.”
Once I had caught my breath, and my tears had slowed to a trickle, I recounted my tragic tale to her. She listened intently, continuing silently to smooth my hair.
“When you came to me, Hetty, I knew from the look upon your face what had come to pass.”
I shifted my head and glanced up at her. “How do you mean?”
There was a faint smile on her lips. “I knew it because this fate befalls us all at some time. Virtuous women too. We are destined to be parted from our children. It is the way of things.”
Her words brought back my silent flow of tears.
“You are most fortunate, my dear,” she continued in a soft voice. “Little George is lively and healthy. That which took him from you was not death, but the promise of a life of privilege. You could not provide that for him, could you? You could not take him in with you, to live at Philly Quindell’s expense. Few men are good enough to tolerate the burden of another man’s child under their roof. Women of our sort depend entirely upon the charity of men who do not find children as diverting as do we. No, dear girl. Think instead on how your little son will lead his life.” She touched my cheek and smiled at me. “He will be raised with his noble cousins in the country; he will enjoy the healthful benefits of Lord Bolingbroke’s estate and have the education of a gentleman. St. John will make him a settlement, and he will have all the connections he could ever want. When St. John sought my counsel on sending George out to nurse, it was these matters I considered. I knew you would disagree, because you are young, my dear, and you know only love, not its consequences.”
I wiped my eyes. She was correct. She had been correct all along, but my heart ached too much at that moment to accept all she said.
“Why, consider your own dear mamma, Hetty. Did she not make a sacrifice similar to yours? Did she not give you up so you might be raised in a noble household, with good connections and an education?”
In the midst of my dilemma I had not reflected upon this uneasy truth. I had not thought for an instant on how entwined my fate had become with that of my mother. What sadness this gave to me, when I did.
“And look what has come of that,” I stated glumly. “I am here, a gentleman’s whore, my life no better than hers.”
This silenced my counsellor, though only briefly.
“It is different for boys. His life will not follow your course.” She then drew breath as if to speak, but stopped. This sudden pause caused me to turn and study her expression, which all at once seemed contemplative and distant.
“Pray,” I breathed, “tell me your thoughts, Gertrude.”
She smiled. “I have not told you this before now, but I knew your mamma—though not well, and only briefly.”
“You knew her? But why have you not spoken of this before?” I asked, intrigued.
“Because you are not at all alike,” she laughed. “You have the wits she never did. She wished only to be amused, to be at the centre of all gaiety. She could be powerfully cruel to her companions, or any person who stood between her and what she desired. There were some among my acquaintance, Mrs. Robinson, and Dally Elliot, who said that it was of her own doing that Mr. Byram ended up a debtor in the Fleet. She ruined him, and all her friends had abandoned her by then—all but St. John.” She turned her warm dark eyes on mine. “So you see, petit chaton, your life is better than hers. You are loved. Your heart is a good one.”
I sighed and thought. “Perhaps,” I uttered, after a spell. More than anyone in my life, and certainly more than Lady Stavourley, Gertrude Mahon had been like a mother to me. Until then, I had been too stubborn, too impetuous, too childish to appreciate her guidance, but at that moment I began to see its merit clearly, like a constellation among a scattering of stars.
“I am grateful to you, dear Gertrude. I know I have been a fool, on many occasions. I am much in need of advice, on most matters.”
She glowed with pleasure at my words. “I should hope that, by now, you have acquired some wisdom from me, as well as from your other friends.”
“I have.”
“I should hate to think of you without confidantes when I am abroad.”
At that, I sat up suddenly.
“I have been meaning to tell you, dear, I am departing for Spa with Lord Beauchamp, who means to take the waters. Then, there is talk of Paris, if there is no more unrest.”
I did not know what I should
say. I merely sat with my mouth agape.
“But when… when do you depart?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Oh no, dear madam, no! Not so soon as that…”
“Hetty.” She placed her hand upon mine, her tone somewhat chastening. “I shall return within the year, perhaps within a few months. You need not fear, I am a most constant correspondent.”
Dear reader, I did not take her news well. Indeed, it produced in me such a surge of conflicting emotions that I very nearly did precisely that which my friend had forever warned me against: I all but blurted to her my plan to flee to Paris. I wanted to say that we might even be so fortunate as to meet in that city, should Fate permit it. But in keeping her counsel, in doing what she would have advised me to do, I held my tongue.
Were I to reveal to her my scheme, she would make further enquiries. I would be forced to disclose my history with Allenham, and then she, being most canny, would tie together the various ends of my tale and learn of Georgie’s true parentage. From there, it would be merely a slip of the tongue away from Lord Beauchamp’s ear, and a letter away from St. John. That is how the machinery of gossip turns, and how lives are caught among its gears and torn to shreds. Considering this, I do not doubt she would have commended me for keeping my silence.
I remained with Gertrude Mahon for the better part of the day, knowing that when I quit her house, it was unlikely that we would meet again for some time, if ever. When at last that hour came, the time of our parting, she embraced me, as a friend of the dearest, truest sort.
“I wished to ask,” she began, as we descended her staircase, arm in arm, “and I hope you do not think it impertinent of me…”
My eyes begged her to continue.
“Upon your childbed, you called out a name—Cathy.”
How strange it was to hear my friend speak of her. It caused a sudden shiver to pass through me. I was not quite certain what I should say, and I shrugged uncomfortably.
Mistress of My Fate Page 37