Our first meeting in London was so simpatico that not only did the “Jew King,” as he was called, agree to loan Mr. Robinson the sum he had requested, but to eventually accompany Mother and me as far as Oxford. The warm cordiality between us increased as our correspondence continued, flourishing into a flirtation that I confess I should not have been sorry to see become something greater, had my fidelity to Mr. Robinson been less resilient.
But when he dared to imagine my “panting snowy breasts” and “all the restless power of my nakedness,” he went too far. My naïve and vulnerable admission of love had unleashed this erotic confession; it both embarrassed and unnerved me terribly. And then he had the temerity to scold me, warning that what he viewed as my immoderate desire for material well-being might, if left unchecked, lead me to indiscretion and the life of a profligate.
It was the first—yet by no means the last—time in my young life that I found myself in water over my head, too green to comprehend the consequences of my actions and the effects my conduct had upon others, as well as redounding on my own character.
What a difference the allure of lucre has upon one’s reception! Fortune is to common minds a never-failing passport. Mother and I returned to Bristol practically as prodigals. News of my nuptials brought out many of my mother’s former acquaintances to congratulate us on having made an advantageous match with a young man of such good prospects. I was invited daily to feasts of hospitality. Fat Mrs. Mannering threw a dinner party in our honor. Mrs. Linton hosted a tea. Even frugal Mrs. Abercrombie invited us to a breakfast.
Though it seemed, socially, as if little had changed from the time we dwelled in the city as a happy family, the home wherein we spent those felicitous years was no more. The edifice was cracked and crumbling, and the glass in the nursery windows had been shattered, leaving jagged holes that birds now used for portals. In mourning for more innocent days, I wandered pensively about the churchyard, coming across the grave of William Powell, the first professional actor I had ever seen perform, and shed a tear upon his tombstone. What would this once-proud Lear have thought to learn that little Mary Darby, grown tall and slender, though not much older, had almost become a Cordelia?
While outwardly I rejoiced with Mother’s former friends at my good fortune, in truth I was plagued with fears. What if Mr. Harris should reject his illegitimate son, and the open recognition of our marriage never materialize? Where would that leave me? I had indeed agreed to marry Mr. Robinson; no one literally dragged me to the altar, and the union had been duly, if not dully, consummated. I was still not yet sixteen years old, and though there were times when I fancied myself quite the lady—particularly by virtue of being made a matron at so tender an age—I was in many ways still a schoolgirl with much to learn about the ways of the world.
Wishing to recapture the solace I had experienced when, as a child, I would slip inside the minster and crouch under the wings of the enormous brass eagle, I returned to my former hiding place. The minster seemed empty now, my footsteps echoing on the slate. No one saw me settle in, wearing an expression mixed with both mischief and melancholy. Language cannot describe the sensation that coursed through my veins when suddenly the organ rang out, its tones at once sonorous and mellifluous, soothing my troubled soul. Curled up in as small a ball as my adolescent body could manage inside voluminous skirts, knees pressed against my bosom, I clutched my legs and wept.
On his arrival at Tregunter Mr. Robinson dispatched a letter to Bristol, informing me that his uncle seemed disposed to act handsomely.
My mother was visibly relieved. “Well, that is good news indeed.”
“But it’s not quite all. It appears that Mr. Robinson only disclosed to Mr. Harris his intention to marry. He hasn’t told his father that it’s a fait accompli! Listen.” I continued to read my husband’s letter. “He writes that he was fearful of abruptly declaring the truth of the thing: that he has been for some months a husband. ‘ “I hope the object of your choice is not too young,” says my uncle. “A young wife cannot mend a man’s fortune.” “She is nearly seventeen,” I lied. “I hope she is not handsome,” was the second observation. “You say she is not rich; and beauty without money is but a dangerous sort of portion.” ’”
My stomach plummeted and I forced myself to read on. “No—no—wait! He has indeed done it after all.” I read aloud the news we had been so eager to hear. “‘It was then that I made a clean breast of it and confessed our nuptials, which occasioned his request that I send for you.’”
Mr. Robinson came to fetch me some days later.
“Perhaps it might be better if you remained in Bristol, whilst I journey on to Wales,” I suggested to Mother. “If I am to prove my maturity as Mrs. Robinson, I should not present such a wifely aspect with my mama in tow!”
She reluctantly assented; and wishing me luck, my mother bade me an anxious farewell. There were tears in her large gray eyes.
“I’ll see you as soon as I can,” I assured her, my trepidation mirroring hers. Pressing her to my breast, I whispered, “Pray for me.”
Nine
Tregunter
1773…and nearly sixteen
My husband and I crossed the Severn to Chep-stow in an open boat. The distance, though not extended, was extremely perilous,
