Much that is written about me in the gutter press is exaggerated for the enjoyment of others and is more to do with salacious rumours, gossip and scandal – all the petty ingredients that go to make up the soup of human existence – than the truth.
It all started with Mr Ainsley’s sermons. They did much to attract attention, for the idea that Lord Barbeau’s mistress was a witch fascinated the bored inhabitants of Bath so when we eventually took up residence in Queen Square in March, I already had a reputation that the Bath Chronicle delighted in disproving. I was announced as being a great beauty and a credit to Lord B whose taste in all things was superb.
‘What pomposity,’ said Lord B when he read the piece. ‘Money and a title, my dear sprite – not to mention a beautiful face – washes many a dirty sheet clean.’
It appeared that he was right for, far from being shunned, I was welcomed into the frivolous society of which Bath was composed and thus began one of the happiest times I can recall.
We had been settled in our new house about a week, and were late in bed one morning for his lordship was never an early riser, no matter how much I pleaded with him to be up to take the hot waters.
‘No, sprite,’ he said. ‘The cure I rely upon is your loving – better by far than the King’s Bath where the water is pissed in by incontinent old earls.’
I laughed. ‘Do you speak this way to your society acquaintances, sir?’
‘No, only to my beloved sprite,’ he said. ‘I saw a doctor yesterday who said that the best cure that he knew of for my malady is gambling. I presume he was working on the principle that as I cannot take my wealth with me when I die I may as well enjoy losing it at cards. Idiot!’ I kissed him and felt the fire in him return. ‘Today, I want to stay in bed with my sprite.’
Later that afternoon as we lay sleepily together, he asked, ‘What possessed you to refuse the three twenty pound notes that I offered you when I was unwell? Kitty would have taken them in a trice, demanded a post-chaise and have disappeared in a cloud of lust to another lover.’
‘Apart from the obvious, sir, that I am not Kitty, I felt I had done nothing to deserve such generosity.’
‘Do you feel you have done enough to accept it now?’
‘No, sir,’ I said.
‘My dear,’ said Lord B, more seriously than I thought the subject warranted, ‘I negotiated with Queenie to have you for my mistress. Never did I imagine that you would become my nurse.’
‘Only a nurse?’
‘My personal witch, then.’
‘It matters not. The important thing is that you recover your health. Please, sir, tomorrow will you…’
Before I could say another word he handed me a jewellery box. I opened it and closed it almost immediately.
‘Do you not like diamonds, my sprite?’
‘These, sir, are worth far more than three twenty pound notes.’
‘I hope so. I would be disappointed if they weren’t worth ten times as much. My wish, sprite, is to drape you in jewels until you positively glimmer.’
Lord B opened the box, took out the diamond necklace and kissed the back of my neck as he did up the clasp.
I climbed, naked, out of bed to look at myself in the mirror. For the sheer joy of it, I spun round and round, rising until I touched the ceiling.
‘Bravo,’ said Lord B. ‘My sweetest of witches!’
I landed and curtsied.
‘I will have you painted like that,’ he said. ‘Naked, draped only in gems.’
‘Would it be very wicked if I wore my necklace while you ravished me?’
‘I always think,’ he said, laughing, ‘that a woman is most alluring when she keeps something on in bed.’
I fell into the pillows, wrapped in his arms, and, nuzzling into him, my hand found his maypole eager for the dance.
There are, as Hope told me, many ways to make love and I became well versed in making his lordship very happy indeed.
I could describe the King’s Bath and the small alleys thereabouts, Wiltshire’s Assembly Rooms, and the Pump Room. I could describe the numerous social engagements to which we were invited, the balls, the gambling and the folly of the beau monde at play. But it would be a sad waste of my ink and paper.
Lord B enjoyed giving small soirées at Queen’s Square in the drawing room with its plastered ceiling of Greek gods and goddesses. It was on one such charming evening that he asked if I would show Boozey to his close friends. Doctor Gallicot’s encounter with my parrot was the stuff of rumours, some malicious and some too full of folly for words. Merritt brought the bird to me. In the middle of the room amid the flickering candlelight, I stood and brought Boozey to life and let him fly round the chamber. Everyone clapped and wanted to know the secret of my trick. Not satisfied, they demanded more. Encore, encore!
‘Come, sprite,’ said Lord B, ‘show my friends the true extent of your powers.’
It was then that she appeared. Visible only to me, the late Lady Barbeau, with such sadness, put her arms round his lordship’s neck. He smiled an internal smile and put his hand to his shoulder. An irrational jealousy took me. I wanted her to be gone. She had no right to be here, now. This was my time, not hers. Without giving the wisdom of it a second thought, I rose in all my finery to the ceiling and stayed there until Lord B beckoned me down. But the sight of her had ruined my night and filled me with dread.
There was a routine to our lives, which in itself marked the passing of time. After much cajoling on my part his lordship reluctantly agreed that we would rise early and he would set out in his sedan chair for the King’s Bath. An hour later, he would return home to dress before we both went to the Pump Room to meet with the sick and the sound, and drink three glasses of hot water that smelled of rotten eggs. Afterwards, the ladies went home for breakfast and the gentlemen to enjoy their newspapers at the coffee houses. Lord B had no mind to spend any time away from me so instead we would often have a private breakfast with his old friends and acquaintances.
It was the custom to then go to a service at the Abbey but, his lordship having radical views on religion, we went shopping instead. Lord B had decided to defy death with fashion, to blind the Grim Reaper with lace and bon ton and to that end we both dressed immensely elegantly and were much noticed as we took our afternoon promenade. I became bolder in my designs: if this was a matter of defeating death then surely we should be outrageous.
I must have been a success for, unlike Mr Ainsley, no one else bothered to enquire where my people were from. I developed a vagueness round the subject that proved to be worthwhile for, tennis for the tongue, the gossip went back and forth: I was a marquis’s daughter, I was an earl’s love child… and so on.
At that time there was an affectation in Bath for sprinkling French words into conversation, which led to the most marvellous misunderstandings. These were a constant source of mirth to his lordship who spoke French fluently and took much pleasure in teaching me the language. It became apparent to me that few people in society had any comprehension of what they were saying while we were able to converse without being understood by them.
His lordship’s favourite comment was, ‘Nous nageons dans un flot futile.’
It was the folly of fashion that took me out early one August morning. I had become addicted to the shops of Bath, fascinated by all that glittered and all that was sold. The windows were full of everything that wealth and luxury could desire, arranged so beautifully to seduce the purse.
I had learned that a silk I had seen in a Paris dressmaker’s book was now to be found in the fabric shop on Gravel Street. Usually when I went abroad, I was accompanied by Lord B, but that morning he seemed tired and I had insisted he stayed in bed to rest.
The weather being fine – or so I thought – I decided to forsake the sedan chair and walk, taking my maid with me. I was pleased to find that the mercer did indeed have the cloth I wanted. I had just made my purchase when my eye fell on some ribbons and I wondered if it would be too decadent to buy those as well. So consumed was I with the bibble-babble of my thoughts that I was at first unaware it had started to rain and that by degrees the shop had filled with people trying to avoid the downpour. Still contemplating the ribbons, I had sent my maid to find a sedan chair when someone whispered in my ear.
‘They would become you, madam.’
I turned and found myself face to face with my husband. He was more handsome than I remembered, his scar less prominent than when seen through Shadow’s eyes. Still, he had the same smug look on his face, certain that he had the advantage of me.
Before he could make his introduction, I said, ‘Why, it is Captain Spiggot.’
He seemed momentarily nonplussed at my greeting him by name but bowed and said, ‘Madam, it is a pleasure to see you. I was told you were in Bath.’
So this was my husband, the man my father had for some unfathomable reason seen fit for me to marry. A piece of pretty fluff with no more substance than a pasteboard actor on a cut-out pasteboard stage.
‘And what,’ I said, ‘brings you here, I wonder? The company, your health – or the gaming tables?’
A flash of anger reddened his scar and had the effect of forming his thin lips into a sneer.
Ignoring my question, he said, ‘I believe, madam, that we set off on the wrong footing and I would like to apologise for my previous behaviour.
‘There, sir, you have the better of me for I have no recall as to how you behaved.’ I curtsied and said. ‘It has been charming, but if you would excuse me…’
The other customers, having nothing more entertaining with which to occupy themselves, watched us, spooling in the threads of gossip to stitch into rumours.
I was amused to observe that I had rattled him for he quickly glanced behind him for reassurance. I followed his gaze. Outside the shop was Victor Wrattan, staring in through the bow window, the glass distorting his face so that he appeared to possess more noses and eyes than any one devil should.
I wanted no more to do with Captain Spiggot or our stilted conversation and was relieved when my maid called to me, saying that a chair was waiting. I moved to follow her but my husband barred my way. As surprise had failed to upset me, he tried to take the high ground, this time with flattery.
‘You are looking exceedingly beautiful,’ he said. Quickly, he leaned forward and took my arm, pinching it tightly, then just as quickly he let go.
A cruel smile creased his lips. ‘Good day. Until we meet again, Mrs Spiggot.’
Lord B was where I had left him, engrossed in the newspapers.
‘Did you find the fabric?’ he asked as I went to kiss him.
I could hardly remember the reason for my shopping excursion. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said and sat at the dressing table, trying to compose myself.
I had taken off my hat when my maid arrived with a new muslin gown that his lordship had ordered from Paris. The most delicate costume, beautifully embroidered, all it was lacking was Mr Crease’s fairy wings. For a moment the sight of it almost made me forget what had happened that morning.
‘Thank you, my lord. This is finer by far than anything I saw in the shops. Bath has nothing on Paris fashions.’
‘Put it on for me, my sprite,’ he said and kicked his left leg out from under the covers, letting it dangle there.
That was when I saw that death’s winding sheet had begun to wrap itself round his ankle.
‘My lord, we must find you a doctor,’ I said. ‘One that you trust.’
Ignoring my suggestion, he said, ‘Let me read you this, it is the perfect illustration of the folly of Bath. “There was a fracas last night at Wiltshire’s Assembly Rooms involving Lord Frederick Fitzjohn who accused one Captain Spiggot of insulting his waistcoat.”’ He looked at me over the top of the newspaper. ‘Very pretty, my sprite. Do a turn…perfect!’
I cared not a fig about Lord Fitzjohn or my wretched husband. Let them blast each other’s brains out. What mattered was my sweet Lord B. I felt that I was standing on the edge of a very high precipice and if he wasn’t there, nothing would stop me from falling into the abyss. I went to him.
‘A doctor – please, my lord…’
‘I’ve seen fifteen doctors,’ he said, ‘and none of them do I trust. Ironic, isn’t it, in a city full of apothecaries, nurses, physicians, surgeons and quacks?’
‘Will you not try again?’ He put his hand to my face and I kissed him. ‘It is pure selfishness, sir,’ I said, ‘for what would I do without you?’
‘Tully,’ he said, which made me sit upright as he never used my name. He sighed. ‘My beautiful sprite. Call me an old fool if you will. I want you to marry me.’
Tears welled in my eyes.
‘Is the idea so very unpleasant?’ he asked.
‘No sir, I would marry you…’
‘Enough,’ he said, ‘it is as good as done!’
‘…but I cannot.’
And I blurted out the unpalatable facts of my clandestine marriage.
‘Your father,’ said Lord B, ‘in his wisdom, gave you away when you were but twelve years – to this Captain Spiggot?’
‘So it seems. I only knew that I was married to a boy a few years older than me, and both sides gave their consent. My father was said to have the papers with him in the Fleet but when he was found murdered, there were none.’
‘What an utter fool your father was,’ said Lord B, and took me in his arms. ‘We’d better have you divorced and be quick about it, for I am determined that you shall be my wife before I die.’
I kissed him and kissed him again. ‘With any luck, Lord Fitzjohn will kill him.’
‘Let us hope so. What about your new dress, my sprite?’
‘Undo it, sir,’ I said, for I knew of only one way to make him well. But that morning I had become aware that it wasn’t enough.