Mother’s one solace at the time was the genuine friendship extended to her by Lady Erskine, the widow of Sir Charles Erskine, and now the wife of a prominent medical man. Lady Erskine and her husband were willing to take us in after we were compelled to quit our home, and it was in this kindly woman’s society that my mother gradually recovered her serenity of mind, or rather found it soften into a religious resignation. Her leather-bound prayer book, once kept in a drawer beside the conjugal bed, was now never far from her hand or the hidden pocket of her petticoat.
We remained under Lady Erskine’s roof for close to a year, Mother getting word from time to time that her beloved husband was still residing in America with his mistress. And then, one day a letter from Papa was delivered to our temporary doorstep, summoning Mother to meet him in London.
“It is my particular request that the children might be the companions of your journey,” he wrote coldly. It pained my heart that he had not even condoled with Mother over Will’s too-early departure from this earth, for I know she had sent him more than one message to his American addresses.
Mother must have changed clothes a half dozen times before our departure, anguishing over the right gown, the most fetching bonnet. Would my father be repentant or contrite? Would he embrace her as she longed for him to do? She agonized over these questions every hour that we spent jouncing along the post roads from Bristol.
How different London was from the city of my birth! Bristol boasted a thriving port, rich in mercantile commerce, but the populace of the capital, even at first glance, was far more diverse. I was agog at the sights. So much color! In the people’s skin, in their wardrobes and plumage, in the high-wigged dandies that minced through the streets and the painted ladies who would exchange their favors for a pint of cheap wine. I unloosed the drawstring of my purse and took out a little book of blank pages, in which I scrawled—for the coach was bouncing—my instant observations of the city: the sooty chimney boy with dingy face, the sleepy housemaid, knife grinders, coopers, squeaking cork cutters, the milk-pail rattles and the tinkling bell, the din of hackney coaches. It was a cornucopia for the senses.
Upon our arrival in the metropolis, we repaired to my father’s lodgings in Spring Gardens, as well appointed as ours had been at Bristol. It was immediately evident to me from the spanking new Axminster carpets and damask draperies, the mahogany and crystal, that his commands to economize and retrench did not extend to his present household. I beat back the lump rising in my throat. I was angry—only to turn disconsolate moments later when he entered the drawing room. He looked upon me with the most quizzical expression. “Who…?”
I opened my arms to him. “Papa, it is I!”
“Mary?” He scarcely recognized me and I felt my heart crack. “How…how long has it been, then?”
“Three years, Papa.” I was barely twelve years old now, though so tall and formed in my person that I might have passed for fifteen or sixteen. Although I’d inherited Papa’s olive complexion, my skin did not seem quite as swarthy as it had when I was younger and my hair had lightened a shade or two. Its auburn color now matched that of eight-year-old George.
“Hester.” My father’s voice was choked with emotion, his face bathed with tears. Was it the manner of a man consumed by love or racked with guilt? Mother stepped forward to greet him, and whilst he had welcomed George and me with sighs and tears, he held her with indifference. She did not know it at the time, but it was to be the last embrace she ever received from him. “I…I cannot,” he said to Mother, and that was the extent of his capacity to be articulate for the remainder of the interview.
“The fair Elenor,” as I termed his mistress with the tartest asperity my young mind could muster, was nowhere to be seen. After all, propriety must be observed at all costs; therefore the mistress and the wife were not to be introduced. I should not have been surprised to meet her there as she “accidentally” passed through, on the one hand curious to see what sort of creature had gained such a stranglehold upon Papa’s affections, and on the other glad of the missed opportunity, for I might not have been able to answer for my conduct. Though I still loved my father with all my heart, I could not forgive him for so rashly treating my mother, the mildest and most unoffending of existing mortals.
Imagine, however, the astounding duo to whom we were presented shortly after our arrival. My father had brought back an Inuit woman and her young son. “Are they servants?” I whispered to Mother.
Her gaze focused upon the boy’s smooth face, his complexion the color of white coffee, and his pale blue eyes. “I think not,” she murmured, casting her eyes toward the floor.
I returned my gaze to the boy and then looked at George, wise enough to fathom the crux of my mother’s reply. Had Papa betrayed his marriage vows with more than one woman, unfaithful even to Elenor? Or was this plump Esquimaux matron the mistress in question? I had always imagined Elenor as a dewy, yet intrepid, English rose. As Papa did not deign to introduce the Inuit by name, the mystery remained unsolved.
The following day, after passing an unhappy and sorrowful night, we were summoned to the salon.
“I have determined, Hester, that it is
