Mistress of My Fate (35 page)
On the night of St. John’s gathering, Mr. Selwyn had recognized something within me, to which even the Bird of Paradise was blind. He knew I carried secrets. He had seen that I was not the ingénue I pretended to be. Selwyn did not teach me to deceive, for I had taught myself that art already.
Mrs. Mahon sighed. “Then you are foolish, and I am certain you will come to change your mind.”
I regarded her, my eyes now full of shame. “Perhaps,” I muttered, “though I should not like myself very much if I did.”
Never was there a man more thrilled by the prospect of fatherhood than St. John. Such a change came over him in the following months that his friends found him near unrecognizable. Gone were his cold reserve and his tendency to meanness. Lightness and benevolence glowed in their place.
“There is a rumour put about that you now feed your servants upon beefsteaks, Jack,” quipped Mr. Selwyn one evening as he sat at St. John’s dinner table, consuming potato pudding and tripe.
My keeper smiled in a soft, saintly manner, but did not reply.
“I shall have you know I disabused that person of their absurd notions. I said that anyone who knows Jack’s reputation for economy would understand that to be a gross falsehood.”
Selwyn waited for a witty retort from my keeper, but St. John was in too serene a state of mind to spar with his friend. “Perhaps the gossipmongers of Mayfair are correct, sir. What then?”
“Then heaven preserve us! For when this child is born, it will be the complete ruin of your miserly character!”
Indeed St. John seemed a man transformed, and I could not help feeling a certain ache of guilt when I looked at him, particularly upon those occasions when he wore such a contented expression.
As for me, the promise of motherhood held all manner of confusions, fears and joys. I found the changes that came over me mysterious and unsettling. No sooner was I free of morning sickness than great red
patches began to appear upon me. I was subject to all variety of swellings, itches and soreness. At first I believed this to be an infestation of bedbugs or fleas, until Mrs. Mahon instructed me that such discomforts were usual in my condition. She had my maid make up a comfrey unction and sent me some nettle tonic, which relieved me greatly.
Within a month or so of my outburst at the theatre, my belly began to spring forth. How curious it was to observe my expanding middle. Each morning, I stood before my mother’s looking glass, gazing at my silhouette. The bulge seemed to grow quite rapidly. At first it was a hard, small dome, the shape of a wide pudding. Then it began to inflate like a balloon. At about this time, I felt the quickening, the gentle flutters of the creature swimming within me. “That is when one knows for certain that the infant lives,” Lady Lade assured me, though how precisely she, a woman with an empty nursery, understood this, I had yet to learn.
Soon, my figure was so enlarged that I could scarcely bear to have my stays laced. My bubbies, which had always been well made and ample, suddenly appeared to double, and then to triple in size. Far from repelling St. John’s desire, as I had hoped, my strangely bulbous figure seemed to inflame my keeper further. His hands could not be kept from my tender bosom, though the child inside me was spared a regular battering owing to the inconstancy of his manhood, and for this I was grateful.
It was only in my private moments, as I reclined awkwardly in a chair, or rested in bed, that I allowed myself to think of Allenham. I laid my hands across my belly and imagined the infant, built of both our pieces, floating within my womb. My beloved lived within me. I spoke to him there, stroking my mound and bidding him to return to me, willing him to my side. But he did not hear me, and the months continued to pass.
By the arrival of spring, all the attire that had been made up for me required alteration. “Alas, this is always the case,” the mantua-maker
confessed to me. “A young bride outgrows her wardrobe within a year.” She gave me a wink, knowing all too well that I had never been a bride. She also advised me to give up my stays for a pair of jumps. What a shame it is that you ladies no longer wear these old-fashioned half-corsets, for they leave the waist entirely free. Such relief they provided me, I cannot begin to express!
In truth, had it not been for the wisdom of my mantua-maker, and the knowledge of Mrs. Mahon and Lady Lade, I would have been lost indeed. A young lady is never more in need of female counsel than when she finds herself breeding, and, to be sure, it is remarkable how many perfect strangers are willing to dispense advice. Why, in my state, I seemed to attract the notice of every
demi-mondaine
in London. While some were quick with smiles and gentle words, others threw me jealous looks. And this, dear reader, was precisely what St. John wished them to do.
Now, friends, you know me to be of a modest nature. You know that I would never willingly seek such attention, but St. John was of a different character altogether. He was both proud and vain, and desired all of London to know that I was with child, and that he was the cause of it. He would push me before every rival and friend alike, so that they could examine the evidence for themselves. It might have served him better to have simply pitched a marquee in Green Park, stood me upon a dais and invited all and sundry to have a peep. Instead I was subjected to a tour of every public place in London. We attended every rout, every play, opera, exhibition or musical party. As both my belly and the season came into full bloom, he took me through Hyde Park in his calash, directing his driver to stop whenever he spotted some distant acquaintance or other. In May and June, I moved like a slow, heavy galleon through the crowds at Vauxhall, Ranelagh and Sadler’s Wells, while a visit to Epsom, further afield, very nearly brought about the death of me. Having survived the pitted roads, I found myself wilting beneath the heat of the crowded assembly rooms.
“Dear Jack,” I often pleaded, as I stood fanning myself, “may we sit? I fear my back shall give way.”
“But there is the Earl of Egremont” or “But I spy Lord Pitt Rivers”—or some other rakish friend—“who I am certain would desire an introduction,” he would say, and so I remained upon my weary feet.
I was displayed like a pregnant mare at a horse market; led from this paddock to the next, my keeper patting my vast bulge every so often. I could do little else but tighten my lips and hold my tongue at this mortifying treatment. Is it any wonder that this absurd spectacle soon found its way into the intelligencer columns of the newspapers? All of London laughed at St. John, who was described in the
Morning Post
as “the virile Jupiter,” who “in striking Miss L---t with his bolt of lightning, has turned her from vestal virgin to high priestess.” Oh, the shame of it! I do not doubt that this was how my father came to hear of my disgrace. Indeed, it was not until much later that I learned he had not seen me at the theatre that evening, as I had feared. No, he learned of my circumstances in the months that followed, and I dare not think what injury this discovery did to him.
It is a testimony to St. John’s extraordinary vanity that he remained deaf to all forms of mockery. Men believe what they wish to. He even failed to hear the loudly whispered suggestion that he might not have been “the author of Miss Lightfoot’s round belly.” Instead he chose to triumph in his title of “the virile Jupiter.”
Contrary to what you may have heard from my enemies, the notorious Roman feast hosted by Mrs. Catherine Windsor of King’s Place was not of my design. The scheme was entirely St. John’s. The notion of celebrating the ancient festival of the fig, Nonae Caprotinae, seemed to him a fitting tribute to my maternal condition. I was told little of this plan, only that I was to figure as the honoured guest.
“You will be venerated as the fertile Juno, my dear,” he announced. “It will be a masquerade and supper in Roman dress, attended by all who know and cherish you.”
I regarded St. John with uneasiness as I stroked my moon-shaped belly. As you might imagine, by July, the awkwardness of my situation was beginning to prey upon my mind regularly. By my reckoning I was near eight months gone, though my duped keeper thought me no more than six. My time of confinement was fast approaching, and I wished for nothing more than to pass the ensuing weeks in the privacy of my rooms thinking on what I should say when St. John’s child arrived two months earlier than expected!
“Oh Jack,” said I, “I am much indebted to your kindness, but I find myself so inconvenienced by my size that I doubt if—”
“I shall not hear it, madam.” He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “You will have a couch upon which to lie and slaves to do your bidding.” Then he smirked. “Dearest girl, your comfort is always my greatest concern.”
As the feast of the fig approached, my keeper’s anticipation grew. This was to be an entertainment to rival the finest theatrical performances, he promised. “Not since the days of Mrs. Cornelys’ masquerades will London have seen anything quite so elegant.”
Such an event required a suitable costume, and my keeper went to great lengths to secure one for me. I, like everyone else, was to sport the robes of antiquity, but mine were made of a fine drape of orange silk and held in place with brooches in the shape of palmyras. I wore gold-laced sandals upon my feet, while my hair had been set in a flow of curls, on to which a laurel wreath was placed. In one hand I held my gold mask upon a stick, while in the other I carried an enormous cluster of Juno’s peacock feathers, which St. John had ordered a fan-maker to create especially for the occasion.
As we rode to Mrs. Windsor’s house on King’s Place, it occurred to me that until I had met St. John, I had never heard this street mentioned, yet among his set, it seemed to be the most fashionable address in town. They were always speaking of it with a smile or jest, or commenting upon some tempting beauty who lived there. As you might
imagine, this made me vastly curious. I believed I was to attend a ball at the home of a fashionable, though dissolute grand dame. By then, I was no longer so innocent of the manners of the world. I had come to accept that I would never again cross the threshold of a respectable home, but neither had I imagined that St. John would bring me to a brothel for a night of entertainment!
To be sure, King’s Place and its row of smart townhouses appeared like any other in St. James’s. But for the crush of sedan chairs and carriages, there was nothing extraordinary about it. Mrs. Windsor’s home, too, was laid out in a plan identical to most. We entered through the door into a broad, lavishly decorated hall. It was here that we were greeted by the hostess herself, her weathered cheeks bright with rouge and her generous figure swathed in red robes.
“Ah, the blooming Miss Lightfoot,” she exclaimed, greeting me with a kiss. The intimacy of that gesture startled me. “Mr. St. John has done well to have found you—such beauty and freshness in one form is rare indeed.”
The virile Jupiter offered her a gracious bow.
Had I been more familiar with women of Mrs. Windsor’s sort, I might have known who, or rather what, she was from the moment of our introduction. Why, she examined me as a butcher might a leg of lamb, her eyes weighing my flesh and imagining the price she could exact from the sale of it. No doubt, under normal circumstances my sense of alarm would have been raised, but I fear my powers of judgement were far too distracted by the dazzling surroundings to have been of much use to me.
The old bawd had gone to quite an expense to adorn her palace. The hall in which we stood had been decorated with garlands and billowing drapery. Everywhere were to be found hanging oil lamps, cushions and low sofas, so that the entire interior appeared like that of an emperor’s tent. Across the mirrors were draped swags of greenery, while vast urns of orange blossoms and horns of hot-house grapes and figs
were laid upon the pier tables. The thick summer air was enriched by the deep scents of wine and frankincense, wafting in clouds from the perfume-burners.
No sooner had I taken in these delights than into the hall ran two laughing nymphs, clad in nothing more than gold sandals and laurel wreaths! Imagine my surprise again when they were followed by a pair of masked gentlemen in senatorial robes, who threw them upon the sofas and began to ravish them like satyrs!
I declare, I believe my mouth fell wide open. I averted my gaze and began to colour, brightly. With a wry glance, Mrs. Windsor took my hand and began to lead me and my keeper to the staircase.
“There will be much more of that to come, what hey, Mr. St. John?” teased our hostess.
I shot him a horrified look. It was then that my whereabouts became plain to me. I wondered what he meant by such an offence, by organizing this occasion in a brothel. St. John read my thoughts immediately.
“My dear little Juno.” He wagged his head. “Your sensibilities are so delicate as to cause you to feel dishonoured…”
I began to speak, but he halted me.
“You must know that this is no ordinary establishment. Mrs. Windsor’s home is open only to men of title and wealth. Why, you might have seen your own father here before your birth.” He sniggered.
I bristled at this.
“Miss Lightfoot, I would have you know my house is considered the finest of its sort in London. Indeed, the royal princes are regular patrons,” Mrs. Windsor added in a whisper.
We continued up the stair, which was dressed in tendrils of ivy and papier mâché grapes, and passed into a large double drawing room. The dancing had already begun, but at the grand dame’s arrival, the musicians were ordered to change the tune and beat out a march. With my hand in hers, she brought me to a low couch, which lay beneath a canopy of yellow-fringed gauze.
“Juno assumes her throne!” she proclaimed. “All hail, mother Juno!”
The assembled guests let forth a great huzzah.
Reader, let it be said that I knew from the moment I took to my couch that I was not the honoured guest at this event. He took his place beside me, upon a couch of his own. Reaching for a glass of wine, St. John raised a toast to “Fertility, virility and pleasure.” I would that he had toasted my safe delivery and the birth of a healthy child, but such trifling matters were, at that proud moment, of no real concern to him.