London, 1848
Now cease, my lute: this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun;
Now is this song both sung and past:
My lute be still, for I have done.
Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503–1542
How will I survive this? I must end it. No girl lives through such a catastrophe without shame to herself and to her family. When I go home, I shall throw myself from the cliffs at Portreath. Even that is wicked, but I do not deserve any better. I will always be a burden on my family. And Richard. In his cards and letters he’s trying to make it seem
he cares. But I know him. He will never marry me. So I will not give myself the extra pain of hearing him sidestep his responsibility. Never will I tell him what has happened. How I could ever have compromised myself in this way I will never know. Mama will say, ‘You! How could ’ee!’ Da will be disgusted. I cannot bear to imagine Gladys’s recriminations.
Was it only a dream? He said I was a songbird. What hopes I had, what fire in my belly for all those things he said I could achieve. It is all gone now. Richard calls me by another name but it is not me he loves, it is her, the girl he has created. She is the one who wears what he decides, sings what he wants, and even eats his favourite dishes. I can never live up to what he expects. ’Tis only Gweniver Rundle I am, a simple Cornish girl. A fool I was to think I could be any different.
Recently I could tell Richard’s affections had changed. He was more attentive, in a way I did not understand. It was not like a proper courtship. Courtship and marriage I understand, not that predatory stalking of me. How long has it gone on? These three years? Was he waiting until I was old enough? Or was he gradually wearing me down? But I never was a party to it. He can have my deflowering on his conscience forever. Yet it must have been my fault. If I did not go to Penzance, if I did not go on tour. Perhaps that was the turning point, he must have thought I felt the same. Oh God, I sold my soul.
When it finally happened, I left. I will not live as his kept woman. This is hell enough. He will not meet with me again for I shall never answer his cards.