Fanny (8 page)

I’faith, she possesses all the Requisites: Beauty, Morality, Passion, and she possesses ’em in abundance.

Now, you will wish to know what Strategy I adopted, what Campaign, and what Manoeuvres; in short, by what Means I arriv’d at my Victory, and the total Subjugation of my Prey. I decided upon a Combination of two Strategies: first, the near-Ravishment (which heated her Blood and disorder’d her Senses), then our oft’-discuss’d Strategy of Terror and Astonishment, in which I threaten’d Self-Slaughter and let her be my Sweet Saviour, my Minist’ring Angel. It workt better than I might have hop’d! On other Occasions, many Days, e’en Weeks, have been requir’d for Compleat Victory. Here the entire Conquest took only Minutes!

I enter’d her Room, (wearing my Sword!), prais’d her Beauty in Terms borrow’d from the Playhouse, made bold to kiss her Feet (mark you, not her Breasts!), threaten’d to dye for Love unless she save me, actually drew my own Blood, and was rescu’d from the Brink of the Void by the Angel’s own Maidenhead. What Capital Sport! Madam, had you yourself been watching thro’ a Peep-Hole (as upon that previous Occasion, which I am sure you well remember), you would have commended me most highly. Yes, Friend, she is mine, entirely mine; after Tonight she hath nothing left to grant me.

I am still too full of my Triumph to be able to fairly appreciate it. But I promise you, it shall go down in our little Book of Amours as one of our most enchanting Ev’nings of Sport. Cupid himself prepares a Crown for me!

I hope you are well, Madam, and that your Silence doth not portend a Continuation of that Ague you reported in your last Letter. I’faith…

I could read no more. My Eyes brimm’d with salty Tears and my Heart ach’d with Humiliation so great that Death alone could ease it. I ran again into the wall’d Garden, where I wisht to dash my Brains out at the Feet of Venus, and would, no doubt, have done so, had not Cowardice, a base Fear of doing myself bodily Injury, interven’d. The cruellest Phrases from that wicked Letter rang thro’ my Brain, like Church Bells resounding in a Belfry.

“Capital Sport”!—I heard Lord Bellars’ own mocking Voice say those detested Words. “Subjugation of my Prey”! “A Combination of two Strategies”! “Terms borrow’d from the Playhouse”! Was it not enough that I was ruin’d, that my first, fine Belief in the Pow’r of Love had been betray’d? But must I also be held up to Ridicule in the Eyes of Lord Bellars’ London Mistress—no doubt a Woman of Fashion to whom my Ruin was a mere Toy to pass away an Afternoon, or a lewd Playlet, a sort of Afterpiece, to heat the Blood of Jaded Lovers?

O Belinda, ne’er was a Wench so wretched as myself! I thought to take my own Life (’twas worth nothing to me then) but could not, both for fear of bodily Torment and Torment of my Soul in the World to come! But how should I survive this Humiliation? I could not face Lord Bellars or my Step-Mother again. I could not sit at Table across from the Poet, Lady Bellars, Mary, Daniel, the villainous Lord Bellars himself, and all our other intended Guests, without showing my Distress. What could I do but flee?

Fortunately, I had the Guineas the Poet had press’d upon me, and I had, besides, some good Clothes and Jewels that might be pawn’d, a silver Snuff-Box, a gold Watch, and sev’ral gold Rings.

I ran back to my Chamber to gather all my Worldly Possessions (including my tentative first Verses) and to plan my Flight from Lymeworth.

I was consid’ring how I might escape to London, without falling Prey to Highwaymen and Robbers, when I recall’d the Custom of certain Famous Actresses in London of dressing up in Men’s Clothes to play “Breeches Parts,” and I form’d the Idea of stealing Daniel’s Riding Clothes and Riding Wig and making my Way to London
en Homme.
Fortunately, I was then, as now, an excellent Horsewoman, but whether I should be able to fetch my own Chestnut Arabian Stallion, Lustre, without incurring Suspicion from the Groom and Stable-Boys, I did not know, and whether I should be able to reach London unharm’d was also doubtful. But what other Choyce did I have? I dried my Tears and set about preparing for my Journey.

CHAPTER VIII

Containing the sundry Adventures of our Heroine in preparing her Escape, as well as many edifying Digressions upon Doweries, upon Love, upon the Beauties of the English Countryside, upon the Wisdom of Horses, upon the Necessity for Disguises, and, finally, upon the Preferability at all Times, of being a Man rather than a Woman.

D
ANIEL SLEPT LIKE A
Pig, or still worse, like an old Country Squire, wheezing, sputt’ring, and farting. For all his Pretensions to the Manners of a Man of Pleasure whilst awake, asleep ’twas clear he was more to be pitied than fear’d. From Time to Time, he stirr’d in his Sleep to mutter unintelligible Syllables. ’Twas not much Trouble to take what I wanted without awak’ning him—tho’ I did not fail to recall that mere Girls had been hang’d for less than I was stealing now, and that, after my Usage of him Yesterday Ev’ning, Daniel’s Revenge might be a terrible one.

The enormous Full-bottom’d Periwigs of my younger Years were just then fading from Fashion (tho’, i’faith, some older Folk still wore ’em) and Young Gentlemen of Fashion now wore smaller Wigs, especially for Riding. I snatch’d one of these, a fine black Riding Wig that must have cost a Pocketful of Shillings, and took as well a Pair of Jack-Boots, brown leather Riding Breeches, Stockings, a fine Silver-hiked Sword, a green Redingote, clean Linen, a Cravat, a black Beaver Hat, and a heavy scarlet Cloak against the Rain.

I was too full of Fear about awak’ning Daniel to wonder about the Fit of these Clothes or what sort of Figure I should cut as a Beau. E’en as I left his Chamber, Daniel heav’d and mutter’d, “Fanny, Fannikins, Fan …” and for a Moment I fear’d I was lost. But ’twas only a Dream; the scurvy Fellow would pollute me in Sleep e’en as he would awake.

I hasten’d to my Chamber to compose a Farewell Letter to Lady Bellars and to attire myself properly in these stolen Clothes before setting out.

“My Lady,” (I wrote)

The very high Regard I have for your Ladyship, as well as your unfailing Kindness to me upon ev’ry Occasion, compels me to inform you of my impending Flight from Lymeworth. The Cause of that Flight I cannot divulge. Suffice it to say that I have impos’d upon your Good Humour longer than my Unworthiness merits. I should certainly want Feeling were I to fail to confess the Grief which stirs in my Bosom as I bid thee and Lymeworth Farewell. I have known happy Years here, have learnt the gentle Passion of Filial Love, the Gentle Arts of Reading and Writing, the harsher Lessons of History, and the robust Sports of Horsemanship, the Hunt, Angling, and Shooting. I hope with all my Heart you will not deem my Desertion perfidious. Someday, in the Fullness of Time, I shall explain the Causes of my Departure. Until then, farewell Sweet Mother (if I may so call you). I am,

Your most obedient and affectionate

Step-Daughter, till Death,

Fanny.

I seal’d this Letter not without a Tear, knowing as I did the Grief it could not but communicate to Lady Bellars. I wisht I could hide myself in the Skirts of her Gown, as I had when I was small. My Heart o’erflow’d with Melancholick Humours and my Memory brimm’d with the sweetest Recollections. Lady Bellars could have treated me no better had I been born of her own Blood. She had rais’d me as a true Daughter—a Daughter of her Heart, if not of her Womb—and, tho’ I had no Dowery and no Hopes of a fine Match, I was in some wise more fortunate than Mary because I was less oppress’d by Familial Duty. Mary should surely be married off to whate’er loathsome Fellow brought Lord Bellars’ Dynasty the largest Holdings of Land. And tho’ I could not but smile at her Fate, I knew the Injustice of it. E’en she did not deserve such Usage; no Woman did. ’Tis a Paradox that the Lack of a Dowery can be a Boon to some Ladies, for what had attracted Lord Bellars to Lady Bellars but her Dowery, and should she not have been far happier without him?

Certainly I could carry no Portmanteau upon horseback; thus ’twas essential that I hang all my Belongings about my Person, concealing my Valuables within my Breech, my Coat Pockets, e’en within the Crown of my Hat.

O I cut a fine Figure as a Boy! My long Hair bound up close to my Skull with Ribbands and Pins (so as to remain hidden under my Riding Wig), my Face bare of Paint or Patch, my Breasts hidden ’neath Coat and Cloak, my Hat tilted rakishly forward to shadow my Face, my Jack-Boots and Sword giving me the Assurance of a Beau.

I stood before the Glass and practis’d talking like a Man.

“Stand and deliver,” I fancied a Gentleman of the Road demanding.

“Damme if yer not a Rascal and a Knave,” I replied in my deepest Voice.

But ’twas no good; I still sounded like a Girl.

“Sir, yer a Rascal and a Knave,” I said in a deeper Voice. ’Twas better, if only by an Ounce.

Well then, again.

“Damme if yer not a Son of a Whore!” I said with still greater Assurance and (what I hop’d was) a fine manly Tenor. ’Twas fair enough, tho’ not perfect. I should ne’er sing Bass, but perhaps I might pass as a Castrato!

I fasten’d the Letter to my Pillow with a Pin, snatch’d my Poems and secreted them about my Person, bade Farewell to my beloved Chamber, and crept down to the Stables.

The Clock struck Eight as I let myself quietly down the Back-Stair, and thence thro’ a secret Passage which led to the Library. I thankt my Guardian Angel that Mrs. Locke and the other Servants were below in the Kitchen preparing Breakfast, and I took one last Look at the detested Letter as I cross’d the Library to reach the double Doors that open’d upon the Park. I confess I contemplated whether or not to burn it, but decided instead upon Cunning and Stealth for my Revenge upon Lord Bellars; then I made my Escape.

I ran across the Velvet Lawns to the Stables, my small Feet slipping within the large Boots, my Heels sinking into the wet Earth. E’en upon this melancholy Occasion, I could not fail to remark upon the Beauty of the Wiltshire Countryside, the sweet Smell of the Grass in the light Rain.

O Belinda, I have travell’d extensively abroad, have cross’d both North and South Atlantick and the Caribee, but no Place is as beautiful as this England. Nowhere but here are the Tree Trunks themselves kiss’d with Moss; nowhere but here are the Trees so verdant and heavy of Leaf, the Lawns so green, the Roses so pink, the Hedges so aromatick. Why, e’en the English Cows who graze ’neath the Rain-drench’d Trees are more beauteous than Cows of any other Nationality! Whene’er the Mutability of Sublunary Things makes me melancholick, I rest my Mind upon an English Landscape, and once again am peaceful and content. Others may sigh for long Sea-Voyages or the Sublimity of the Alps. O I have been besotted with the Charms of Seas and Sailing Ships in my Time, and I have climb’d many Mountains and admir’d the Clouds from above as well as below; but when all is said and done, an English Landscape is the very Perfection of Nature. ’Tis neither Rude Excrescence nor Gothick Error; ’tis neither too flat nor too high, but a Harmony entire of Serpentine Curves. Whene’er I am the least sadden’d by the Follies of Mankind, I feast upon its wet deep Green, and find myself most blest.

Yet running across the Lawn to the Stables, I experienced a Stab of Indecision. (Pray, why is Home ne’er more beauteous than when we leave it?) On the previous Night, which now seem’d an Eternity away, the Poet had offer’d all—House, Lands, Riches, his undying Devotion. Perhaps I ought then to swallow my Pride, forget my impetuous Decision to flee, and instead go away with him? I doubted not but he would make good his Promises. A Gentleman of his Figure had not perfect Freedom in his Choyce of Ladies, and I suppos’d I might easily manipulate his Good Humour, honey him into parting with his Fortune, and play the splendid Madam to his twisted Goat.

But O my Stomach rose at it! I knew enough now of the gentle Passion of Love to be obliged to reject the loathed Embraces of a Monster. Lord Bellars had treated me rascally and prov’d to be as arrant a Whoremaster as Lady Bellars had warn’d; still, I had felt ardent Affection for
him
—e’en if ’twas only to be dasht to Bits when I learnt of his Perfidy. In short, I had known Love, tho’ he had not, and Love, as the Poets say, is like a Flame. Anything which passes thro’ it must be changed. ’Tis entirely possible for Love to be true when one Lover feels it and the other doth not. We may know Humiliation and Pain later, but we cannot undo the Love that we felt at first, and sure we cannot undo the Changes wrought in us by the Pow’r of Love. Thus I could not now venture to Twickenham with Mr. Pope. Only a narrow, vulgar Soul could so dissemble. And my Soul, not narrow before, had been further stretch’d by Love.

Belinda, ’tis true that the World is not form’d for the Benefit of Women, and oft’ they must sacrifice their nice Principles in order to put Bread into their own Mouths and those of their Children; but I was ne’er so made as to be able to pretend Love of a loathsome Man for Hope of Gain, and it hath been my Experience that I have prosper’d nonetheless.

At Times, I readily confess, I have flasht false Lightning from my Eyes, fetch’d Sighs from my Bosom (which none could have heard unmov’d) altho’ I did not wholly mean ’em, and carelessly dropp’d the Handkerchief from my Bosom, in order to win some Point in Discourse, either philosophical or pecuniary. But I swear I have ne’er feign’d Love for one who did not merit it, and I have ne’er us’d the noble Pow’r of Love to obtain rich laced Clothes or Jewels. Had I done so, I might indeed be richer than I am Today. But truly I am rich enough for all my Wants. And what Use is Wealth if the Means of getting it causes us to detest ourselves? Wealth is nothing but the Oil which allows the Wheels of the World to turn.

So I reason’d then and so I reason now; and the Fates surely must have approv’d my Journey, for they arranged it that the Groom and the Stable-Boys were off in the Meadows exercising two prize Arabian Stallions which Lord Bellars wisht to race at Newmarket the following Year, and I was able to saddle my own dear Horse, Lustre, and make my Escape without anyone being the wiser.