Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Foreword and Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Afterword: An Incident in 1823
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Hallie Rubenhold
Copyright
The Covent Garden Ladies
Harris’s List of the Covent Garden Ladies
Lady Worsley’s Whim (reissued as The Scandalous Lady W)
and also featuring Henrietta Lightfoot
Mistress of My Fate
For more information on Hallie Rubenhold and her books, see her website at www.hallierubenhold.com
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First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Hallie Rubenhold 2016
Cover illustration by Dave Hopkins
Design by Sarah Whittaker/TW
Hallie Rubenhold has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446463420
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9780385618908 (tpb)
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To my father, Sydney
Little more than a year has passed since I sat in the drawing room of Gore House as the guest of the lady to whom this work is dedicated. The hour was late and we found ourselves quite alone when she pressed my hand and spoke in a low voice.
‘I have often wished to enquire, my dear Mrs Lightfoot, how it was you came to make the acquaintance of Grace Dalrymple Elliot.’
At first her question startled me. I had not heard that name mentioned for some years and I wondered how it was she came to know of Mrs Elliot, or indeed my time in Paris during that period of revolution and bloodshed. Rarely did I mention either, and to no one but my most intimate of associates.
‘Is it true what they say of her?’ She raised an eyebrow into an inquisitive arch.
I folded my fan into my hands and smiled pleasantly in the manner I had learned to do when wishing to divulge nothing.
‘I am afraid I have very few stories to tell of Mrs Elliot,’ I said. ‘Our acquaintance was but a brief one.’
My hostess did not for a moment appear satisfied with my response.
‘Very well, my dear Mrs Lightfoot,’ said she in a teasing tone. ‘I know you well enough to understand your games. If you insist on refusing, I shall have to compel you to reveal your secrets.’
She then made me a very pretty little offer: in exchange for penning an account of my time in Paris during the French Revolution, she would settle upon me a tidy annuity of which, she claimed, she understood me to be in need. She then ventured to set forth her terms: I was to commit to paper a perfect record of all that befell me while I sojourned in that city. I was instructed to omit nothing, no matter how scandalous or indelicate. All my adventures, my opinions, all that I had witnessed or experienced, were to be laid plain so that at the conclusion of my memoir she would be in a fair position to judge for herself the truth of the rumours she had heard.
My conscience wrestled with her proposition for a good while before I saw fit to accept it.
And now, my dear Lady Blessington, I humbly submit to you in published form that story which you bid me to recount. I offer no apology for it, nor for the scenes in which I engaged, the philosophy I espoused, or the actions that my conscience urged me to take. As you and my devoted readers well know, I am blessed with numerous friends and champions, among which I have considered you for several years. Much to my detriment, I have also acquired an equal number of detractors, many of whom are my very own kinsmen. I bid you to peruse these pages carefully, for amongst the lines are the answers you seek. Only once you have discovered them will you be able to determine whether you wish to rank yourself amongst the former or the latter.
I am your eternally devoted servant,
H. Lightfoot
15th March 1837
I SHOULD BEGIN by stating this: until I found myself at Mrs Elliot’s gate, I had no desire whatsoever to make her acquaintance. Only that afternoon I had endeavoured to prevent our introduction, and my scheme might very well have succeeded had I not suffered a terrible and sudden reverse. All at once, the lady I had sought most to avoid in Paris had become the nearest approximation of a friend that I possessed.
I cannot rightly say how it was I navigated a path to her home. I recall nothing beyond placing one foot before the other. At first I tripped and scurried, and then, once I had crossed the swirling Seine, my gait slowed into a heavy trudge. I believe it was Fortuna who, quite without warning, compelled me to draw to a halt. There, she caused me to lift my eyes to a sliver of light escaping from a shuttered window. It fell across a sign which read ‘Rue de Miromesnil’.
Her hôtel particulier was simple enough to find amid the row of similar high gates. A lantern hung upon a hook above the entry, illuminating her entwined initials: G and E. I lingered for a while, my eyes set upon the dancing, silent candle flame.
I was in no fit state to pay a call upon anyone, least of all a woman who was no better than a stranger to me. I wore no cloak or shawl or gloves. My head was uncovered, and my coiffure was as slack and sodden with rain as a wet dog’s pelt. My hem and stockings had been turned black from the streets. That city was slickened by a sludge worse than any you have ever had cause to see, and in wading through that gelatinous pudding of excrement and rotten matter I managed to tear right through my finest red satin slippers. However, my ruined attire was but the half of it. There was also the matter of the throbbing welt upon my cheek.
I breathed and exhaled in long vaporous clouds until at last I roused enough courage to pull upon the bell. I waited as the gate rattled and a porter lifted a light to my face.
I straightened my head and without so much as an ounce of hesitation announced myself as Lady Allenham, which of course was not my name at all.
He paused and examined me with a cautious squint. Once satisfied that my bearing spoke more of my breeding than did my wretched appearance, he showed me into the house and up the stairs. A pair of doors were opened on to a lime-green antechamber lined with gilt mirrors. Here he bid me wait and abandoned me with six reflections of myself. Briefly, I caught the eye of one of them before shame forced me to turn my gaze. I lowered my head and crept my hand along my injured cheek so as to hide it from the view of my hostess.
Within a moment there came the sound of frantic footfall from the adjoining room. The doors flew wide and with great alarm Mrs Elliot came towards me.
‘Oh, dear, dear Lady Allenham!’ she cried, aghast.
She stood before me, just as I had imagined her, just as she had been described to me by my friends in London, like some majestic rare bird of vast height. Her head of dark curls rose in a tower of blue and white ostrich feathers while a shimmering length of pale silk streamed from behind her. It spilled forth from her waist to the floor in a cascade of rippling fabric. She studied me down the bridge of her Roman nose, her rouged lips parted in horror.
‘Heavens, my lady, have you suffered some accident?’
I could not think of an appropriate response, for the awkwardness of my humble circumstances had silenced me. I nodded and then slowly removed my hand from my cheek.
‘Good Lord, madam!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Victoire!’ She called for one of her servants. ‘Victoire, you must make up a compress for this lady’s injury, and bring some hartshorn . . . and some brandy . . . at once!’ Her arms then flew about me, one around my waist and the other at my elbow. ‘There now, there now,’ she purred as she led me through to a sofa in her drawing room. Only two of the candles had been lit, which led me to conclude that she had been preparing to pass the evening elsewhere until I had intruded.
‘My dear, I do believe you have had a most frightful shock. Have you been robbed? Are you in need of a physician?’ She placed herself beside me and gathered my small hands into her elongated fingers. ‘Dear Lady Allenham, I implore you, you must inform me what has occurred . . .’
Had you seen her expression, you would have perceived beneath her paint and powder that she possessed the purest, most saintly countenance. Her gentle eyes beguiled me with their warmth. Such a look of kindness had not been directed at me for many weeks. I exhaled in a slow sigh and carefully met her gaze.
IT WAS IN April of 1792 when I found myself in Paris. Of course those were the days before the gas lights arrived, before the tyrant Napoleon rose and fell. It was after the Bastille was stormed, after the constitution was drawn up, after the court was forced from Versailles and locked into the Tuileries Palace.
I need not recount to you the events of the French Revolution. I would wager you have read enough of that in newspapers and chronicles to know something of its horrors. The devil himself could not have devised the scenes of bloodshed and murder enacted upon the streets. There was such suspicion, such fear; neighbours betraying neighbours, servants betraying masters, all in the name of the Republic. The worst of it was the dreaded pounding at the door. It might arrive by day or by night. The guards would not scruple to turn over an entire house, rummage through every drawer, poke at every mattress had they reason to suspect conspiracy. The denounced were routinely pulled from their beds, husbands torn from their weeping wives, and mothers from their babes. They were marched away through the streets, more often than not to a certain death at the guillotine.
But that was when the flames of revolution burned at their highest; when I first passed through the barriers of that city they had only just begun to lap at the foundations. Nevertheless, to an Englishwoman, the alterations to life were most striking. I learned that the distinction of aristocracy had been abolished. No Frenchman or -woman of rank was permitted to be addressed as anything other than Madame or Monsieur. Coats of arms were removed from coach doors and from the architecture of great homes. Any display of wealth or hint of privilege was viewed as highly suspect. A life of moderation became de rigueur for all. Ladies fastened tricolour rosettes in place of jewelled buckles. Gentlemen abandoned their silk brocade coats for those of wool. It was considered prudent to speak in hushed tones when expressing a political opinion, and it now seemed every Frenchman and -woman was in possession of one of those. Few epithets were deemed more offensive than those of ‘enemy of the constitution’ or ‘aristocrat’, one who favoured the old regime. However, to be regarded as a ‘counter-revolutionary’ was worst of all. No one was to be trusted. Not a soul.
When I first landed upon that nation’s shores nothing was further from my mind than its troubles. As I was neither a Frenchwoman nor one of our country folk foolish enough to cross the Channel and play at patriot, I concluded that I was unlikely to be inconvenienced by political matters. This was not the first occasion upon which my judgement had deserted me. Indeed one might even suggest that it was on account of a similar miscalculation committed two years earlier that I landed at Mrs Elliot’s gate.
At the tender age of seventeen, I had fled the home of my father, the 4th Earl of Stavourley, and thrown myself under the protection of a gentleman. The fact that I had fallen in love with George William Allenham, the 4th Baron Allenham of Herberton, the man to whom my late half-sister had been betrothed, was not the error to which I refer. His affection for me was as true as mine was for him, and returned with as much devotion and ardour. In that regard we had sinned no more than had my father and my mother, Kitty Kennedy, a celebrated woman of the town. Our affaire de coeur was enacted with far more discretion than was theirs. For a time we lived privately in a cottage on Lord Allenham’s estate, and passed our days as simply as might plain country folk. No, my misstep was not that I ruined my character so that I might live as my heart dictated, but rather that I had abandoned Orchard Cottage and set out in search of Allenham when he vanished from it. I ought not to have taken my leave of it for London with scarcely a ha’penny to my name. While this sort of adventure generally ends well for young men, it rarely does for young ladies. I shall spare you the sorry tale of my descent into the demi-monde, but merely say that as the winds of dissipation and debauchery whirled about me, my heart remained fixed on Allenham alone. My constant thought was of locating him and, in time, fortune favoured me and directed me to sail for Calais.
Allenham was delighted at our reunion, but in the days that followed took pains to explain the circumstances of his absence to me. He informed me that he presently served as a secretary to Viscount Torrington, who was then His Majesty’s ambassador in Brussels. His duties necessitated that he undertake frequent travel and so he had found himself regularly in Paris, Coblenz, Spa, Geneva and Turin.
‘However,’ he explained, ‘my title is but a formality, for the role I am charged with is far more critical than this.’ He then hardened his blue-eyed gaze upon me. ‘You apprehend what has occurred in France? That a good many of the nobles, a good number of the court have abandoned their country since the fall of the Bastille?’
I nodded.
‘Among those who have fled their country are the King’s brothers: the Comte d’Artois and the Comte de Provence; and his cousin, the Prince de Condé. They have gone to Coblenz, in Prussia, where they live as émigrés. It is from Coblenz that they seek to further a counter-revolution by raising an army. It remains in the interests of our King that relations are maintained between Britain and the émigré court, and it is my duty to ensure this. I have been made the emissary between our King and the supporters of the French King.’
Allenham said that this was a mission which required the utmost discretion and when he had taken his leave of England he had not been at liberty to inform so much as a soul of his departure. The position had been granted to him through the influence of his friends in government, and rewarded him with an income of which they understood him to be in need.
‘I fear that my debts are vast,’ he whispered to me, his brow heavy with sadness. ‘Herberton and my lands have been mortgaged. The house in London has been let, and my resources are at present entirely spoken for.’ He slowly shook his head before continuing in a low, apologetic tone: ‘Henrietta, I have not the means to wed you, nor the means to support any children of our union. It is a predicament that has vexed me since the day we parted.’
I studied him, his dark hair and sharply formed features. His remorse was etched deeply into them. It was then I recognized from where his sorrow sprang and how I might soothe it.
‘My dear love,’ said I, ‘you believe I have pursued you to France in the hope of marriage? Why, you know well enough that I abandoned such notions upon the very day I surrendered myself to you. I have been long reconciled to a life as your mistress. I am not such a fool as to think that a gentleman of title with little income is any more at liberty to marry according to his tastes than is the friendless and illegitimate daughter of an earl.’
He raised his eyes and appeared somewhat surprised to find a gentle smile upon my lips.
‘I request no more of you than the constancy of your heart, which you have ever given to me freely,’ I affirmed. ‘It would be an honour if you would permit me to return to Brussels with you and there live quietly in some lodgings not far from your own.’
There was a moment of silence while he sat and contemplated my proposal. Then the corners of his mouth turned carefully upward, before he placed upon my lips the kiss that sealed his consent.
From that instant, I resolved to forsake all that I had become since venturing forth from Orchard Cottage. My finest watered silks, my tissues of gold thread and heavily plumed hats: those many articles of attire which served no purpose but to remind me of my bitter compromises were packed away. All of my banknotes, all of the riches I had received – the shoe buckles that glimmered with rubies and sapphires, the diamond eardrops and brooches, the collars of precious gems which formed the mainstay of my fortune – were consigned to a locked silver coffer within a sealed chest. So determined was I to rid myself of the souvenirs of my former existence that I even disposed of the silk-lined town coach in which I had made my escape from London. (That fetched me a handsome sum, to be sure.)
It was with the promise of a new life that Allenham and I proceeded to Brussels. There, he arranged for me a set of rooms upon the rue des Petits Carmes in the home of a widow by the name of Madame Vanderoi. Madame’s late husband had done well by the linen-draping profession and left his wife a genteelly appointed house in the upper town. I had at my disposal a comfortable bed hung with emerald damask, several finely made cabinets of mahogany and a snug dressing room, which was warmed in the winter months by a tall blue and white enamelled stove.
I had been introduced to my landlady as Mrs Lightfoot, a young English lady, not long married and recently widowed. Mr Allen, my only relation, had paid for my passage to the Austrian Netherlands where he resided and conducted his business as a lace merchant. A fine tale indeed, and one as embroidered and perforated with holes as any piece in which Mr Allen purported to trade. However, Madame Vanderoi appeared contented enough with this sham, and ventured to ask no questions of my concerned relation.
I could not utter a single complaint while I sojourned beneath Madame’s roof. There my life was a retired one, but I possessed all that I required. Allenham, who lived but a short stroll away at the Hôtel Duplessis, called upon me most days when he was not engaged with the business of his position. Although he found himself frequently abroad, I was relieved that his absences seldom lasted more than a fortnight. In that time I diverted myself well enough. I took my meals in the company of my amicable landlady and occasionally formed a fourth pair of hands at cards or accompanied her to the Théâtre de la Monnaie. I acquired a harp and took instruction upon it and, when not engaged in that pursuit, turned my attention to my box of watercolours. From the Egmont Palace gardens I would trace the broad vistas in shades of amber and rust. As autumn chilled into winter I copied the interiors of Madame’s rooms; sketching her maids as they tended the grates with one suspicious eye upon me.
All the while I would await Allenham’s certain return with a quiet contentment. The day never failed to arrive when I would be roused by the familiar deep tones of his voice upon the stair. When at last Madame’s servants showed him into my company his arms would be far too burdened with packets or boxes to embrace me. Instead, he would set before me the modest collection of treasures he had gathered whilst abroad.
‘Had I the means, I would not scruple to adorn you with jewels worthy of a sultan’s bride,’ he would apologize. ‘But perhaps you will indulge the hapless fool who adores you and pretend to take pleasure in his pretty trifles?’
On each occasion I was presented with the most thoughtful of gifts. From Paris he brought delicate silk stockings, perfumes and eaux de toilette. There were scented gloves, embroidered shawls, and, from Geneva, a pretty white-faced watch upon whose gold case the words ‘Constant, comme mon coeur’ were engraved.
‘A memento by which you might always recall the constancy of my love . . . particularly in my absence,’ said he as his gentle fingers pressed it into my hand.
Although in my previous existence I had been decorated with diamond baubles and even granted the run of my own townhouse, these extravagances were but vanities masquerading as love. Unlike many ladies of my sort, I had learned what it was to own a heart and to give one in return. I understood well enough that whatever gifts were made to me on behalf of that tender organ were of the greatest value by far. Of those cherished objects Allenham bestowed upon me, none were dearer than those he set before me upon his return from a journey to Turin. Such a grand assortment it was: a parcel which contained not only a silver pen and ink, but a set of gouache pigments, brushes of silky sable hair, and three bound books of Italian paper. The largest of these was filled with sturdy sheets for painting, while the other two, bound in smooth red calfskin, were designed for use as pocketbooks.
‘I fear I have been most inattentive as your patron,’ said he with a teasing wag of his head.
I turned to him questioningly.
‘Is it not my obligation to see that your talents are amply rewarded, if not nourished with regular encouragement?’
I sighed bashfully.
‘I merely pretend at . . . dabbling . . . and . . .’
‘You know very well that is false modesty.’
I attempted to defend my humble assertion but his lip had already curled into a smile. He took several swaggering steps towards me before placing a finger beneath my chin.
‘You think I merely seek to flatter you, madam? You think my judgement has been overruled by my heart? That your beauty blinds me to your true absence of skill and I am left entirely bereft of discernment in your company? Is that what you imagine, eh?’
I could not prevent myself from laughing at his taunts, even as he covered my mouth with kisses. Like my father before him, it was Allenham who recognized and praised my early talents. My beloved had once purchased for me a table designed for my artistic endeavours, at which I sat by a window in Orchard Cottage and filled my hours painting in a contemplative reverie. I was no Angelica Kauffmann or Madame Vigée-Lebrun, but in those youthful days my burgeoning abilities displayed no small amount of promise. While most gentlemen would have taken but fleeting notice of my accomplishments, Allenham admired them. He never once condescended to me, and spoke as plainly with me upon matters of philosophy and politics as he might a member of his own sex. Our conversation turned as much upon the words of Monsieur Rousseau and Herr Goethe as it did upon whispered exchanges of love.
‘My patron’s gifts come to you with a condition,’ announced he, once we had disentangled from our embrace. ‘I should like you to practise your skills upon me, in taking my likeness.’
‘A portrait?’ I smiled.
‘A miniature portrait. A keepsake . . . for you.’
‘I have never tried my hand at painting visages . . .’ I demurred.
‘Then you might apply yourself to it, my love, for I reckon you will excel at it. You have subjects enough about you here. I dare say Madame Vanderoi would make an agreeable sitter, and her household . . .’
I contemplated his suggestion and resolved to make an attempt of it. I also decided that I would put to use one of his tightly bound pocketbooks. In his absence I would scribble an account of my days, my thoughts and bons mots on to its pages and amuse him with them upon his return. What delight I took in this: pouring forth the contents of my heart and mind and occasionally committing to ink my rather petty witticisms. However, commonsense and prior experience soon reminded me what trouble often came of laying one’s thoughts bare for the discovery of servants. Although Madame Vanderoi possessed but a few words of English, it would require little more than that to learn the true nature of my relations with Mr Allen. Indeed, I believe her entire household had already guessed at it, and sniggered at the ignorance of their mistress. As my tenure there depended upon my pretence of discretion, I alighted upon the idea of recording my thoughts in a simple code and then took great pleasure in devising one. No person should ever again come to know my secrets, I determined. I had learned too much of the world to scatter my trust about so freely.
In the weeks that followed, I observed Madame Vanderoi and her household as much with my brushes as I did with my pen. I painted each of her maids and then their double-chinned mistress in her starched lace and linen cap. Only once I believed I had acquired an understanding of what it was to sketch a countenance did I attempt to take Allenham’s likeness. Of course, my little portraits were not the elaborate works one might have commissioned from Mr Cosway or Mr Bone in Piccadilly. They were but simple drawings in pencil to which I applied a light wash of colour over the sitter’s features. It was a convention very much à la mode at the time.
I recall the day in early spring when Allenham sat for me. The blackthorn blossoms were swelling upon the trees and the daylight had begun to shed its grey winter pallor and once again assume a hopeful brightness. He reclined against the back of the chair and conversed with me in an easy manner as I sketched the square outline of his handsome features and the full form of his mouth. He uttered compliments and teases, jesting that I was not taking his likeness at all, but painting the view from the window behind him. After a spell, his light chatter faded and his animated countenance fell still. As I worked, a distant, pensive expression gradually crept over his face.
‘The Habsburg Emperor has died,’ said he. His voice was quite flat. ‘The advisors to his son talk of nothing but war with France. The French Queen is his aunt, you see . . .’
I raised my eyes to him.
‘And what of it? Is there to be war between France and Austria?’
‘It is likely,’ he stated, dropping his gaze to his lap, where it lingered for what seemed a lengthy while. ‘I am afraid I have been called to Paris, Hetty. I am to depart this week.’
My heart filled with heaviness. I sighed and rumpled my brow, but continued to sketch, pretending his words had not caused me disappointment. Instead, I pushed a smile on to my mouth.
‘But now I shall have this keepsake to remind me of you. I shall have it set in a frame and will look upon it every day, until the original who inspired it makes his return.’
Allenham’s expression lightened.
‘Upon that day you may depend, my dear angel.’
I believed his journey to Paris would be much the same as any of his others. When he called again to bid me farewell, I did as I had ever done and began to count the days from the instant he vanished from my view. I imagined that it would require three days to arrive at Paris, and then a further handful more to transact his business there. He would write to me as often as time permitted and inform me when he was likely to take his leave for Brussels. Then I would begin to number the days until his return, quietly, hopefully, patiently.
A week had passed and no letter arrived. Several more days followed. When at last a packet was placed into my hand, I tore at the seal with such eagerness that I feared I would shred the very words I had so longed to read. However, what my eyes discovered written there disconcerted me greatly. It was not a lengthy missive detailing his days upon the road or his diversions abroad, but rather an officious, if not anxious scrawl:
I write in haste, my dearest Henrietta, to inform you of an alteration to my circumstances. I have been instructed that I am to remain here at Paris for the foreseeable time. While the unrest of previous months has subsided, the uncertainty of this nation’s politics renders life precarious, if not perilous. Were it anything but, you might believe that I would not hesitate to summon you here, but as it appears that a war with Austria is imminent, the situation is certain to worsen. I have not the capacity to determine precisely when such an occurrence is likely to transpire, but suffice to say what upheaval may occur in Paris will be visited likewise upon Brussels. It is therefore that I write to urge you, my angel, to quit Brussels and remove yourself to London. I have ordered my effects currently at the Hôtel Duplessis to be transported from Zeebrugge to Dover upon the Marchmont Tuesday next. I very much wish you to make your passage back to England upon this vessel and have made arrangements for you to be received upon it by Captain Steele. I shall not rest soundly until I am certain of your safe arrival in England, and then shall not enjoy a moment’s contentment until the occasion of our next reunion. Until that time, I would beg you not to fear for me nor question the constancy of he who ever signs himself as your adoring,
G.W.A.
Allenham’s news was so unexpected I felt a curious chill begin to spread from the centre of my breast. A great many thoughts began to tumble through my clouded head, yet I could fix upon none of them. Was Allenham in some distress? Why, the letter seemed to suggest it. What intelligence did he withhold from me? The more I allowed my mind to contemplate these possibilities, the more vexed and agitated I grew. What lay between his lines, I could not fathom, no matter how many times I read through them. He affirmed that neither Paris nor Brussels offered me a place of safety, but London . . . London. My heart seemed to contract at the mere consideration of it. After liberating myself from the grip of a life I abhorred, an existence passed entirely in designing schemes for my escape, I wished never to return there again. For a moment, I imagined what it would be to appear once more in that city of my birth, to take up again the false mask of gaiety, to be made to wear like an old discarded gown a manner of life which I had forsworn. It sickened me.
Allenham claimed that he would not ‘rest soundly’ until he was certain of my safe arrival in England, but indeed how might I rest soundly when I knew nothing of his circumstances, nor who or what detained him? I would fret without end; I would fear for him, just as he had bid me not to do. My thoughts turned to Paris, and once they had alighted upon that notion, they stuck fast. Certainly, I might only assuage my concerns by making a journey there and observing his situation, and had he not written that ‘the unrest of previous months has subsided’? Why, it could not be so perilous at present, no more so than Brussels. If I lived undisturbed in this city, might I not live equally unmolested in the French capital? While his concerns were noble ones, I concluded them to be unduly cautious. And should the Austrian army appear at the gates of Paris, I could not think they would seek to trouble an Englishwoman with their complaints.
And so upon that day it was decided. I resolved to take my leave of the safety and comfort of Madame Vanderoi’s warm, wooden-panelled rooms and begin preparations for what I would later come to regard as an exceedingly ill-advised journey to Paris.
AT THE SAGACIOUS age of nineteen years, I fancied myself an expert in all matters of foreign travel. My flight from London had taught me that I required the necessary passports, while my maid, Lucy Johnson, without whose assistance and advice I would have found myself quite lost, was fair enough at managing the affairs of packing and removing my effects. With Madame Vanderoi’s assistance, I was able to hire a suitable remise, horses, a manservant and a coachman familiar with the roads that ran to Paris. This, and four volumes of Mr Nugent’s Grand Tour, that indispensable friend to all English travellers, was what in total I supposed I required for my journey. Indeed, I might well have succeeded at it had Nature not possessed designs of her own.
Those of you who have never before ventured upon the roads from Brussels to Paris will not have much comprehension of their conditions. The land lies quite flat and regular; indeed, it is not so unlike the great fenlands and marshes of East Anglia. It is possible to see for many miles in all directions, so that the distant church spires with their bulbs and points appear to poke like pins into the horizon. Rivers and bridges cross here and there, and in the spring months the storms knead the ground between them into mud. The spring rains do not fall lightly in these parts, but blow in sodden sheets which smack and slap against carriages and windows, beasts and men.
In spite of these deplorable conditions, by the conclusion of our first day, we had progressed as far as Cambrai. There, a night was passed in a draughty but private room at the Dauphin, an inn described in Mr Nugent’s book. All night the rain drummed upon the roof and poured through the chimney at such a rate as to extinguish the fire twice. By the following morning, much to my horror, it appeared as if the Paris road had swollen into a flowing brown river. However, my fearless coachman refused to be put off by the mere ‘puddles’ along our route. So, the team of horses plodded on steadily through the morass, throwing out a murky soup upon the carriage. I continued to glance uneasily through the filth-strewn windows as the coach lurched and shook and jumped. My concern increasingly turned to my boxes upon the roof, for there were a good number of them bearing down upon us as we sank and rose through the muck.
We had slowly rocked from side to side, like a ship upon the seas, until it came: a sudden, mighty jolt. I am only grateful that Lucy was sitting beside me, and not upon the bench opposite, for in one swift motion we were both pitched forward, and then amid our howls of terror dropped like two heavy stones upon the floor. I gasped for breath and, as I did so, noted that the entire cabin had tilted backward. It seemed to have fallen between its hind wheels and come to rest upon the ground.
‘Are you well, madam? Have you an injury?’ My maid’s freckled face peered at me. I nodded at her, for I felt no pain, only shock.
‘And you?’ I enquired as we attempted to disentangle our skirts, books and scattered sewing boxes.
‘I have had a fright, madam. That is all.’
At that moment the coachman threw wide the door, his expression a picture of anguish and fear at what he might discover. He seemed to take some relief at spying us, shaken but unharmed.
‘It was the axletree,’ he explained. ‘The roads have broken it. We require another, but must wait here to be rescued. It is four miles to Saint-Quentin, to the first inn.’ He then turned and shouted through the rain to the footman, ordering him to set forth immediately. ‘It will be some hours before his return.’ Water poured from the brim of his tricorn hat; his nose throbbed red. ‘It is best if you remain within the cabin, mademoiselle. I shall stand upon the road, and perhaps, if God is considerate, he may deliver us assistance.’
We sat in silence upon the sunken bench, gazing upward at the curiously angled opposite wall and waited for deliverance to arrive. For some time there came nothing but the ceaseless patter of rain. The wind blew against our thin wooden walls and rattled the glass. I could hear the coachman cursing to himself in gruff bruxellois as he unhitched the horses and paced the road.
Perhaps a half an hour or so had passed before the noise of a beast and a vehicle was heard. Lucy and I hastily drew down the window. A man and his son were driving what appeared to be a two-wheeled cart of stacked logs in our direction. As soon as their eyes met sight of the spectacle they stopped. For some moments, our coachman stood in animated conversation with them. Shrugs were exchanged and arms flew about, before all three turned and approached us. They stared at us in our collapsed contraption, as one might gawp at two curious creatures in a cage. Gradually they removed their sodden felt hats and ventured to address us.
‘Mesdames,’ the eldest of the two began, ‘it . . . it would be my pleasure to carry you to the Pot d’Étain in Saint-Quentin. If you will . . .’
I examined the cart behind them: a rickety tumbrel half filled with soaked wood and as spattered with mud as my own conveyance. I did not require more than common sense to determine that the solution he proposed would have caused me more discomfort than remaining upturned in my own carriage. I would have arrived at the inn, entirely drenched and certain to have caught my death. Lucy paid me a cautious look.
It was at that precise moment that our little cabin began to reverberate. The road beneath us moved to what seemed to be the beat of hooves and the roll of wheels. Lucy and I turned expectantly towards a bend where a copse shielded the view. From behind it emerged that for which I had been quietly praying: six chestnut horses pulling a wide Berlin carriage. For an instant it appeared so coated in mud that I believed it to be the diligence, but as it neared I could see this was no stagecoach, but rather the proudly owned possession of some person of quality, and if not a person of quality then certainly a person of means. Beneath the veil of filth could be spied red and gold painted wheels and a highly lacquered cabin. Though he wore his hat over his eyes, the driver was attired in a livery of blue wool and gold lacing and sat upon a handsome crimson-fringed hammercloth. He hastily drew back on the reins and slowed the charging team to a cantering halt. All three men approached this vehicle, and once the well-attired coachman was convinced it was not some ruse for a robbery, a liveried footman opened the carriage door.
Out on to the thick filth of the road stepped a pair of high black boots. Attached to them was a pair of neatly tailored doeskin breeches and a voluminous heather-coloured greatcoat. The traveller wore his high-crowned black hat set at a slight angle, so that one of his fair eyebrows could be seen, while the remainder of his long, pale face was hidden beneath a modishly alluring shadow. He held his nose aloft like a French courtier, and approached our wreck almost upon his toes. His coachman, footman and all of our party tripped anxiously behind him. It was only once he caught sight of my round blue eyes and pretty blond curls that his haughty look melted into one of pleasant surprise. He smiled boldly and then gave a gracious and slightly overblown bow.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he exclaimed. ‘What inconvenience you have suffered here! I have been informed that you and your maid are unharmed but that your axletree has given way. I pledge to aid you in any manner required. Please, may I assist you and your woman from the carriage and into the comfort of my own?’ He opened the door and extended a buff leather glove to me. Gingerly, I placed my half-boot upon the sludge, while lifting the hem of my brown riding habit. He then performed the same courtesy to my maid, simpering throughout, as if he had the pleasure of escorting a duchess through the muck.
‘I am Monsieur Andrew Savill of Thornton Hall in the County of Hampshire in England,’ said he, taking my arm and guiding me to his coach. ‘And pray tell me, mademoiselle, into whose service have I the honour of placing myself?’
I did not hesitate.
‘I am Lady Allenham, sir.’
At that, a ripple of amusement moved across his mouth. ‘An Englishwoman! Travelling unaccompanied upon the roads of France!’ he declared in our native tongue. His words were laced with an Irishman’s brogue.
‘Why yes, Mr Savill . . . and I must say, you sound like no Hampshire man I have ever chanced to meet.’
My rescuer’s expression deepened into a cordial smile.
‘You, my Lady Allenham, are most observant,’ he teased as he assisted me and my maid into his Berlin. ‘I herald from County Mayo, but have made my fortune in England. Breeding stock. Some of the finest champions to be found in Europe were bred in my stables. Why, I am presently en route to Paris from the court of the Duke of Württemberg, who has made a purchase of some stud. I fear I am ever upon the road . . . or else in the halls of the great courts.’ He sighed theatrically, as if to convince me that such a life was a terrible imposition. ‘My lady, will you permit me to remove you from the depredations of the road and this wretched climate to an inn at Saint-Quentin until your carriage is repaired? The Soleil d’Or keeps a table far superior to that of the other hostelries.’
To this offer I heartily agreed, though not without some reservation. I thought this man a curious specimen: part macaroni, part sportsman, part Irishman, part gentleman, part coxcomb, part toad-eater. Although I was most grateful to him, I could not deny that I studied him with a wary eye.
‘Allenham?’ questioned he, as the wheels of his coach were set into motion. ‘I am unfamiliar with that family . . .’
‘The Barons Allenham, of Herberton in Gloucestershire,’ I announced.
‘And his lordship . . .?’
‘His lordship is presently in Paris.’
Savill responded with an inquisitive arch of a brow.
‘And he has summoned you there?’
‘Yes,’ I affirmed, straightening my head.
My inquisitor paused for a long beat, his smile not wavering for an instant. I recognized that my tale required further weight in order to fix it as truth in Andrew Savill’s mind.
‘We have been resident in Brussels for some time, where his lordship holds a position under Viscount Torrington, His Majesty’s ambassador to the Austrian Netherlands.’
Mr Savill continued to gaze upon me and smile, as if not a single word of mine had penetrated his brain.
‘Ah, Brussels,’ sighed he at last. ‘The casinos, the Théâtre de la Monnaie. It is all the same faces and dull beyond description. I dare say you will find Paris most diverting by comparison, the current troubles notwithstanding. And pray tell, my lady, where does his lordship reside in that fair city?’
‘Where?’ I echoed. Indeed, for an instant he had taken me entirely unawares. It was here, scarcely a handful of minutes into our acquaintance, when I feared my entire story would be torn upon this one sharp question. I had made no arrangements for my lodgings in Paris. Why, any hotel that featured among Mr Nugent’s recommendations would have sufficed until I sent word of my arrival to Allenham at the embassy. ‘His lordship resides with His Majesty’s ambassador there.’
‘At the home of Lord Gower and Lady Sutherland?’
‘Indeed, sir. At the home of Lord Gower.’ I swallowed.
My rescuer cocked his head as if he did not quite take my meaning. His expression had begun to arouse my anxiety. I drew in my breath, for I understood what was now required of me; in order to preserve my initial falsehood, I must lay another upon it. And then, undoubtedly, another upon that, so that in no time at all a veritable façade of brick would stand between the truth of my situation and this busybody.
I paused and then lowered my head. I shut my eyes tightly, as if forcing away some painful remembrance.
‘Mr Savill,’ I began in little better than a whisper, ‘I confess, I . . . I am quite undone and find myself in the most dire of circumstances . . .’
The Irishman moved nearer to me upon the bench. His countenance had altered into an expression of genuine concern.
‘You see, sir, his lordship has been away for some time – near to a month. When we parted he directed me to await his instructions, but I fear they have never arrived. I have not had a single letter from him, Mr Savill, and I know not what to think. Every day I have petitioned Lord Torrington and his secretary for intelligence of him, but they too are unable to account for his silence. They know only that he arrived in Paris but have heard no more . . .’
Mr Savill drew in closer still, rapt by the details of my story.
‘My lady, such disappearances . . . they are not without precedent in these times.’ He spoke in a grave tone. ‘Imprisonment for . . . trifling offences . . . it is not uncommon . . .’
I met his gaze. There was unfeigned disquiet in it.
‘. . . but it is also entirely possible that Viscount Torrington is not presently at liberty to reveal the nature of your husband’s mission to Paris. I realize this possibility will do nothing to assuage your immediate concerns, either.’ He then lifted my hand into his. ‘My dear, dear Lady Allenham, what suffering you must have endured these past weeks, and I cannot but think this latest misfortune with your equipage will have taken a great toll upon your nerves.’
I bit my lip and nodded.
‘Why, it is quite intolerable to contemplate, and I shall not permit you to pass another moment unassisted. By your leave, my lady, I shall endeavour to manage the entirety of this upon your behalf. It will be an honour to serve you in his lordship’s absence. I insist that you complete your journey to Paris under my protection.’
This was not the response I had anticipated nor would I ever have solicited it. I wished no person to learn of my business, to question me, to examine my character (or my fibs) too closely.
‘Mr Savill,’ I began, ‘while your feelings do you credit, sir, I would not wish to inconvenience you with such a matter as this . . . which I dare say will be easily remedied as soon as I arrive at Paris. Why, I anticipate that upon my arrival, Lord Gower will direct me to his lordship and I shall discover it all to be some . . . some . . . unfortunate misunderstanding.’
But my noble Irishman would not hear of it. The greater my protests the more he insisted. No, it would be ‘the most considerable honour to facilitate a reunion between you and your beloved husband’, Mr Savill declared, ‘and furthermore, as I am possessed of many connections in the highest circles, it would please me vastly to make your introduction to them. Why, I shall begin by delivering you directly to Lord Gower,’ he determined. And so the matter was fixed, as if set into the mortar of my lies.
I made a pretence at a smile, before slowly bowing my head in a show of gratitude. Unbeknownst to my rescuer, it was only then that my anxieties truly began to mount.
I HAD NO cause for concern, or rather, I ought not to have. When I had quit the comforts of life beneath Madame Vanderoi’s roof and set out upon the road for Paris, it was in the belief that I was certain to meet with Allenham at the embassy in that city. As his business lay in matters of diplomacy, to where else might he have repaired?
I turned these thoughts over in my mind, repeating the words to myself like a silent rosary. When I took my leave of Brussels I possessed not a single apprehension as to the correctness of my course but, curiously, in encountering Mr Savill, a seed of doubt had been sown between my reason and my conviction. I had not even been acquainted with the ambassador’s name until the Irishman offered it to me: Lord Gower, His Majesty’s ambassador to France. All would be revealed upon my arrival there, when Allenham gazed upon me with the same bemused delight that he had displayed at our first reunion.
The hooves of Savill’s six horses seemed to beat out his name as his coach shuddered along the road from Saint-Quentin to Noyon, from Noyon to Compiègne to Senlis to Paris. Lord Gower. Lord Gower. Lord Gower.
I held Mr Sterne’s Sentimental Journey