One evening in January, the duke and I were at the Rotunda at Ranelagh Gardens. It was a building that made me think, as we approached in the darkness, of an ogre’s lantern, lights spilling from it as if it had been accidentally forgotten and one day it would be remembered and lifted up to light the way to the ogre’s castle.
In the very centre of this vast space was a fireplace, a stone altar, surrounded on six sides by balustrades, and columns that rose to become armless, bare-breasted women before fanning out to the ceiling. Round the walls of the rotunda were two tiers of booths, a stand for the musicians, and high above them all were arched windows.
We were seated in one of the alcoves with his grace’s friend, a young man, Mr Luckham, who was recounting how he had recently parted from his mistress.
‘I took her to Italy,’ he said. ‘And one day we visited a palace where there was a lion in the courtyard. I paid for a viewing and we were shown into a chamber and from an open window had a good sighting of this most furious of beasts. When my mistress dropped her glove from the window, she told me that as I had often said I would do anything for her, now was as good an opportunity as any to prove I was sincere by retrieving it.’
The duke was finding Mr Luckham’s story most amusing and it was while he was distracted that I noticed the French lady I had seen at the staging inn on the road from Bath. She was dressed in the most ridiculously tall wig that had in it a basket of blown glass flowers. With her was her daughter. A thin, startled deer of a creature, she was wearing a shepherdess’s costume that made her seem very young. Then I looked again, for if I wasn’t mistaken, they were accompanied by Lord Frederick Fitzjohn.
‘Well, dammit,’ said Mr Luckham. ‘I went down to the courtyard with sword in hand and unlocked the gate. I stared that lion in the eye, and he backed off. I retrieved my mistress’s glove from within a foot of the lion’s paw!’
The French lady, her daughter and Lord Frederick Fitzjohn took the booth behind us. The French lady possessed a penetrating voice so that it was near impossible not to overhear every word she had to say.
‘I have told you, Angelina, the engagement must be broken, tout de suite.’
‘Maman,’ said her daughter, ‘let us not discuss it in the presence of Lord Fitzjohn.’
‘Pouf!’ said her mother. ‘Who better knows the problems that we face than his lordship? Sir, do you not agree? This impediment to the marriage has been going on too long without resolution. It is ridiculous and makes us a laughing stock. I will not have it, he is nothing, he has no title, no fortune.’
‘But, Maman, you know he is studying to be a physician,’ said the girl.
‘Your grace is right, by gad,’ said Lord Fitzjohn. ‘I shouldn’t speak ill of my brother but…’
‘Miss Truegood,’ said Mr Luckham, seeing that he didn’t have my full attention, ‘would you demand the same of the duke?’
‘I would not, sir,’ I said.
‘You see – here is a good woman. Do you know what I said to my whore of a mistress? I said as I returned her glove, “Madam, I have done this to show you that I am true to my word and henceforth I want nothing more to do with you.” How could I have any feelings for a woman who put so little value on my life as to expose me to the fury of a lion for a paltry glove?’
‘Well said, sir,’ said the duke, who was laughing so much that he had tears in his eyes. ‘Doesn’t that amuse you?’ he said to me.
I smiled but said nothing, for I was still in part listening to Lord Fitzjohn’s annihilation of his brother’s character.
‘We will walk,’ announced his grace, and what his grace wanted to do, we all did. We went round the Rotunda, ostensibly to admire the paintings by Canaletto, but really so that everyone might admire his grace.
We had reached the musicians’ stand and a fair crowd had gathered round us when, to my horror, Lord Fitzjohn hurried up and for one terrible moment I thought he had recognised me.
But he gave a deep bow and said to the duke, ‘It is a pleasure to see you, your grace, by gad, it is. And who is this ravishing creature?’
Lord Fitzjohn looked straight at me, his eyes resting impolitely on my low-cut dress, his indecent thoughts flashing clearly in his eyes. Finally remembering the party he was with, he introduced the French lady as the Duchess de Vauquelin, and her daughter, Countess Angelina.
La duchesse, a small woman made taller by the wig, was trying and failing to look down her nose at me.
Waving her fan, she said, ‘Madame, was it not you I met on the Bath Road?’
I curtsied. ‘Indeed it was, your grace,’ I said.
‘Then I have to thank you for paying my bill. Are you the wife of his grace, le duc?’
‘Maman!’ said the young countess, sensing the question was inappropriate.
‘No, your grace,’ I replied, staring into her face.
She surmised the situation and moved to shield her innocent daughter from the influence of a fallen woman. Although I was better dressed than her and may have looked like a lady of quality, her nose had sniffed out that I was not. She called Lord Fitzjohn, who was deep in conversation with the duke, and he was reluctantly forced to return to his party.
I longed to leave, and just as I was thinking that the only comfort to be taken from this embarrassing scene was that Avery was not present, to my utter horror I saw him enter. Quickly, I turned away and went to stand with the crowd that was listening to the music, interesting myself in the programme, until the duke found me and reprimanded me for leaving his side without his permission.
‘I have a headache, sir, and would like to return home,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet awhile.’
And we walked round the Rotunda with the unavoidable outcome of meeting Avery Fitzjohn. He was speaking to the countess when we neared their party. She had her eyes fixed on him and it was clear that she adored him.
Lord Fitzjohn introduced Avery to the duke, and the duke introduced me to Avery.
I examined him discreetly. He had lost the sparkle from those beautiful blue eyes that I once would willingly have fallen into for ever. It was as if something hung too heavy on him. A maudlin sadness overcame me as I remembered myself when I had first lain with him, the pleasure he had given me, the joy we had found in our lovemaking.
We walked in a party, round and round. To start with he was far away from me and Mr Luckham was telling the story of the glove and the lion to Lord Fitzjohn. As is the way with parties that walk in circles, eventually I found myself alongside Avery. The closeness of him brought on a physical ache. I longed to touch him, to tell him I loved him and I always would. Even though the remembrance of his kisses sent a delicious tingle through me I was saddened to know I had lost him. His voice, his manner, told me that his feelings for me had died.
‘How are you, madam?’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘And you, sir?’
And so we took our places to commence the dance of false conversation, for everything I said there were a hundred other words I would have spoken, but such truths polite society avoids.
We left shortly after. I sat in the carriage with the duke, silent, which was the way he liked me best.
Suddenly, he said, ‘You know, I think that silly fluff of, thing will in the end be persuaded by her maman to marry Frederick. He’s far more suitable. The brother’s damn good-looking but you can’t base a marriage on looks. What was his name?’
‘No, la comtesse will marry Lord Fitzjohn if la duchesse has anything to do with it. His half-brother’s had long enough to sort out the problem.
‘What problem is that, sir?’
‘I’m not certain,’ he said and yawned. ‘Some impediment to the marriage. God knows why anyone would want to marry. I hope to avoid it if I can. No, a mistress is much to be preferred. You can always hand her in when she grows too old; a wife you have until death. The law sticks you together and together you remain.’
‘What impediment?’ I asked.
Why are you interested?’
‘I’m curious, that is all.’
‘Like all women,’ said the duke. ‘I heard that old Fitzjohn put a clause in his will which resulted in his legitimate younger son being disinherited in favour of his illegitimate older son. Why the old fool would do such a thing, God only knows. His mistress – Frederick’s mama – who became Fitzjohn’s second wife, was one of the most scheming women I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.’
‘Is she still alive?’ I asked, staring out of the window, overwhelmed by sadness for Avery, and for myself.
‘No. And I’ve had enough of this conversation. My mind is on other things.’ The duke put my hand on his erect weapon. There it was, that smell that I loathed. ‘Come here,’ he said, pulling up my petticoats. ‘Have you ever been ravished in a chariot?’
I thought of Avery, of the skill of his lovemaking, of the clumsiness of the duke’s.
‘Sir, I am not feeling well,’ I said.
‘Nonsense. I pay for you, remember? When I need you, I need you.’
His grace had already undone himself and he pulled me onto his lap so that his weapon found aim and quickly fired.