Mistress of My Fate (51 page)
“We shall have scene two now,” he declared, whereupon a dresser arrived to escort me to my room backstage.
“Mrs. Lightfoot,” he called after me, “I dare say you should use your time wisely and impress upon your brain Maria’s lines.” He then squinted into the darkness of the house and pointed his look at Quindell.
“I know not how I am to carve an actress from this block of wood, Mr. Quindell, for she is by far the worst Sheridan has ever sent me. You tell him that, sir. Do enquire of him if he shall be pleased with his five hundred pounds when she causes the curtain to fall early on his celebrated masterpiece.”
Wishing to flee from the stage as quickly as I could, I hurriedly followed my dresser, clasping my book against my breast as if it might shield me from further blows. We had hardly moved behind the curtain when I was accosted by a sharp hiss. I jumped with fright and turned to find Mr. Preston reclining beneath the cast of a wall sconce, smiling wickedly at the reaction he had caused.
“Take no notice of Kemble, pretty Mrs. Lightfoot. He is in sore need of a fuck,” he purred. “As am I.”
I regarded him, too rattled by events to respond as I ought to such an affront, and scurried on through the blackness.
“I dare say we shall have some business together,” he called out after me, “pretty little whore.”
It is true, to some degree, what the moralists say about actors: many of them are of the lowest sort—lewd, depraved, foul of mouth and temper. On that first day, they seemed to me like overgrown children, who, having received no discipline in the nursery, retained their precocious, wild ways. They did as they pleased, said what they pleased and battled constantly among themselves over the most trifling of matters. The disagreement between Mrs. Kemble and Mrs. Jordan that my arrival at the manager’s dressing room had ended had, I was later informed, been
over the ownership of a silk handkerchief. Oh, dear reader, I was not formed for this sort of life. Remember how tender and genteel had been my upbringing? Although I had learned to contend with the whims of Lady Catherine, this, I feared, was an entire nest of vicious vipers and cats. I knew not how I would defend myself against their slurs, their jealousies and attacks. Their claws flew at me from all directions. “Dear God,” thought I, as I followed my guide through this backstage Hades, “I must flee this place—but
how
?”
We wove our way through an entire city wrapped in darkness, the like of which I could never have imagined existed, behind the mountainous set pieces upon the stage. Ropes and rigging hung like vines from above our heads, through which emerged an array of foreign faces and sounds: banging hammers, the blast of a French horn, a bellowing signora crying out some Italian curse. Two dancers—olive-faced girls with suspicious eyes—followed me as we passed between the curtains of their dressing room, their flounced costumes thrown over chests and looking glasses. Guttering candles offered only pinpricks of light along our course, through which I failed to spy so much as a single door or window that might lead me to the outside world. A baby cried somewhere out of sight and the scent of oil paint and beer permeated the air. Seamstresses and laundresses pushed by us with their baskets. I squinted hopelessly through the dim labyrinth, searching for whatever menace might come at me next, eager to find a possible passage to freedom. At last I arrived, like Orpheus led through the underworld, at a small corner surrounded by drapery. This was to be my place. A single light fluttered upon a dressing table, over which some thoughtful hand had written on a card, “Maria.” My heart sank as I read it. Once the card might have borne the name “Henrietta Ingerton,” another time, “Miss Lightfoot,” but now this was the role I was expected to play, the next step in a continuous succession. Quindell had paid for me to dance to his desires, he wished me to leap at the crack of Kemble’s whip. I was to perform like a puppet, like a slave girl in chains.
“I require nothing further.” I swallowed anxiously, knowing that as soon as the servant withdrew, I would be left alone and unguarded. As I watched her depart, my stomach suddenly lurched. “Now! Flee now!” urged my heart, thudding wildly beneath the volume of
The School for Scandal
still clasped at my breast. My eyes began to dart this way and that, but my feet refused to follow.
It was doubt that caused my legs to hold fast. Over the hours, the few seeds of uncertainty that lay within me had swollen and grown. I thought of Lucy, who by now would have completed the unpacking of my boxes. I thought of Quindell pursuing me, discovering me at Clarges Street. I thought of how he might detain me, or restrain me. These pictures consumed me, confusing my spinning head with further hesitation and fear, until that brief moment in which I might have attempted an escape was lost.
“Dearest Thalia!” came an all-too-familiar voice. Quindell’s sudden appearance caused me to leap with alarm and sent my book flying from my startled hands. In horror, I watched as the volume flung itself at my dressing table and fell upon the lit candle. Together, the pair tumbled to the floor in a fiery embrace.
Dear friends, you know well enough that I am not one to make kindling of books. On any other occasion I might have sprung to the aid of this imperilled tome, this unwanted gift from my keeper. In fact, I moved to snatch it from its certain death, but stopped. The volume lay at my feet, open at its frontispiece, whereupon a portrait of Richard Brinsley Sheridan glowered at me. I beheld his face, the face I had seen as a girl at Melmouth, the face of the man who now owned me. We stared at one another for but an instant before I saw the flames advance upon him, burning away his name, his cheeks, his mercenary eyes. I permitted the pages to blacken and smoulder, to dissolve into fire, for on this occasion, on this one instance, I could not find it in my heart to do otherwise.
It was Quindell who burst forward and stamped upon the flames, crushing the smoking book beneath his diamond-buckled shoes. A replacement was ordered immediately. Scarcely had he caught his breath than he sent his manservant flying to the nearest bookseller.
“Jehu,” he sighed, “what good fortune that I arrived to protect you from the conflagration.”
From that moment, I recognized how my life was to be ordered. Indeed, it was just as my doubting mind had feared: Philly would not let me be.
As you know, my keeper would not have his desires denied to him, and with his heartfelt wish so near fulfilment, he grew all the more eager to see it come to pass. In his eyes, I ceased to be a mere mistress, a charming and distracting possession. Instead, I became his chariot to glory.
He was loath to leave my side, and when he could not attend me personally, he sent his valet, Sam, to do so. It was, he explained, his sole intention to wait upon my every need.
“I shall be as a slave to you, my Thalia, the cup-bearer to a goddess,” he pledged as he escorted me back to Clarges Street. “I shall be forever at your service. I vow to pass every night in your bed, to purchase for you the finest costume any Maria ever wore upon the stage. We shall recite your part together every day, until Sheridan’s celebrated words are graven upon your heart. Be assured, dear muse, I shall see to it that you triumph,” said he, planting a kiss upon my forehead.
But to me, his promises sounded like a sentence of death.
All that evening, I could think of nothing but his decree. I knew that, under such conditions, the likelihood of an escape would continue to grow dimmer, until it expired altogether. I could not fathom how I would orchestrate such a move without my keeper’s knowledge, how my belongings might be packed in secret, how I would prepare for departure away from his watchful gaze. And for those among you who wonder why I did not simply take hold of my heavy purse and bid Quindell adieu, I knew too well that brazenness would achieve nothing. Philly would have engaged every bailiff in London to impede my route to Dover and drag me back to Drury Lane by way of the debtors’ sponging house. I dare say I knew better than to repeat the fateful errors made by Caroline Ponsonby, whose cautionary tale remained lodged in my mind. No, dear friends, by that night, I came to recognize my defeat. Doubt had conquered hope and trounced my resolve.
It was only as I lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, that I understood what had come to pass that day. This unfortunate turn of events was no accident—it was my sister’s doing.
I had chosen to dismiss Lady Catherine’s appearances in my dreams. My rational mind had convinced me that her visitations and hateful words were my imaginings. But they were not. She had cursed me.
Upon my childbed she had warned me that I should never keep my son—and indeed, my Georgie was taken from my arms, twice. Still, I did not care to heed her threats. She had promised me soured joys and blackened triumphs, she had vowed that I would never escape my prison. I was foolish enough to think she spoke of an earthly gaol, a dungeon with doors and locks, but now I saw what she intended for me. I had no means of escape from the life into which I had been thrown. This, I came to believe, was my rightful punishment for straying from duty and honour, for living by my heart, for wandering. I would not go to Paris. I would rot here instead.
Over the following weeks, I slipped into a sort of numbing
melancholy. A lethargy attacked my limbs, and when Kemble did not require me to attend rehearsals, I lay in bed as if ill. My malaise was worsened by Quindell’s tireless vigil. He devotedly upheld his promises to me, forever hovering, forever reciting from that wretched play—in his coach, at his table, in my bed—until, driven to despair, I would shut my eyes and feign sleep. At times it seemed that wherever I directed my gaze, he came into my line of sight, whether I stood upon the stage or in my apartments, whether I sat in the green room or at my dressing table. He became more than a shadow at my back: he became my puppet master, and I his marionette.
As you might imagine, my heart sank very low indeed. I ceased to receive callers at my home, for I no longer desired company or conversation. When Quindell demanded these of me, I could scarcely muster more than a pathetic smile to charm him. In public, I was but a hollow shell of myself. In truth, I wished for nothing more than to hide from society, but I found that impossible. If Quindell wished me to accompany him to Sadler’s Wells, or to watch the races on the Sussex Downs, I obliged him, for it mattered not to me. My will had ebbed away. And it is here, dear friends, where I truly began to come undone.
To wear a sullen face amid a scene of gaiety is a difficult task indeed. Any party of revellers will look askance at one who abstains from merriment and dampens the tone. So, not wishing to draw attention to myself, I soon learned to feign enjoyment, an art I had never before practised. I would bend my expression into a lively one, moulding this mask of pleasure over my mouth and eyes, while continuing to gaze emptily from behind it. Thus disguised, I could then contend with the world, for in addition to covering my true expression, I also covered my heart. After a spell, I then found myself quite able to dance, to jest—even, dare I say, to flirt, for it was not me who reeled upon an assembly-room floor with Tarleton or Hanger, or who allowed Lord Craven to run his foot along my leg as we played a hand of whist. I no longer cared for the consequences of my actions. I took brandy, wine and port
with as much abandon as my keeper. At taverns, I sipped sickly usquebaugh cordial along with common whores. I would giggle and sing and sway until I fell in an intoxicated swoon into the arms of my keeper or one of his lascivious friends.
It was when I was in this perilous state that Lady Lade saw fit to bend my ear. A party of us had been returning from a visit to Sackleigh Park, the Surrey estate which Quindell had recently purchased, when we stopped for refreshment at the Pack Horse tavern in Chiswick. It was a fine day in early summer. The gentlemen were well filled with drink and had plied me with it too, when Major Hanger lifted me from the table and insisted that he should push me on the swing. With a great whoop, Quindell and his companions followed us into the tavern’s renowned pleasure garden and to the sturdy oak where hung the apparatus. To be sure, I was in no fit state for such an exercise and could scarcely hold my head straight. From behind me, I saw Lady Lade, never one to frown upon revelry, wearing an unusual expression of concern.
“Henrietta,” said she sternly, taking hold of me as the Major began to draw the swing back, “this is no good, girl. This is no good.” But before she could finish, he let the swing fly. I had not even the wherewithal to hold on to the ropes and fell face first into the dirt, my skirts lifted for all the world to glimpse my thighs and rear.
As the company raged with laughter, Letitia Lade came to my rescue, sparing my modesty and raising me from the ground. I placed my arm about her neck, expecting a gentle reproach. Instead I received a hail of abuse.
“What the devil has come over you, Hetty? You know where a love of that damnable bottle ends? On the street, girl! You make yourself ridiculous! Rollicking like a poxed old bunter, like a tuppenny whore, for shame, girl! If you do not mend your ways, they will take you for one and treat you as such.” She narrowed her eyes. “I know well enough of what I speak.”
Indeed, I am most grateful to her. From that day, she observed me closely, hovering beside me, forever snatching glasses from my determined grip and whispering sharp remonstrances. To some degree, I do believe her vigilance saved me, but, unlike Quindell, it was not in her power to follow me everywhere. With drink comes carelessness, which is why most women but the basest creatures make certain to shun its excesses. I soon learned my lesson. In my dizziness, I permitted all manner of liberties to be taken with my person. While Philly was sodden with port, Hanger stole kisses and caresses, and that scoundrel Barrymore at last had what he had wanted from me all along, in the cabin of a coach.
Lady Lade knew too well what came from such recklessness. Indeed, she was correct in guessing what had befallen me, for in my wretched state I had left off my diligent efforts with the sponge and vinegar.