“Fear not, Mrs. R.!” exclaimed my husband. Pecking me on the cheek, and pressing my hands into his, he assured me that his finances were in every respect competent to his expenses.
Thus situated and provided for, I now made my debut in the broad hemisphere of fashionable folly. As for my husband, after all his years of study, all thoughts of becoming a lawyer evanesced in favor of something far less prosaic: that of cutting a dash in society. And if Mr. Robinson was determined to become one of the grand young bucks, then I, too—as my theatrical career had been rudely aborted—might recast myself in a role of my own making: the society belle. If I was not to shine on the stage, I would use my talents to glitter off of it. It then became my intent to assiduously observe the influential female members of the bon ton as if I were to play them at Drury Lane. As a sixteen-year-old bored wife with few responsibilities, dress, parties, and adulation occupied all my hours. I contrived my appearance to gain the attention of Those Who Mattered.
A pretty new face was sure to attract attention at places of public entertainment, and it was here that Mr. Robinson and I began what we laughingly called our conquest of polite society—too green to realize that polite society more often than not shunned the venues in which we sought to triumph. Though I’d been married for several months, I had yet to “fall in love with” Mr. Robinson. Such sentiments remained foreign to me. I found him deficient in matters of the intellect, but his affability and generosity, and his desire for music and gaiety, made him an entertaining companion at parties, dances, and public spectacles. At least I had not been married off to a doddering codger who never wished to leave the fireside, except to attend his club.
The first time we paid our half crown apiece to enter Ranelagh Gardens, my habit was so singularly plain and Quaker-like that all eyes were fixed upon me. I had spent hours to create the artifice of a study in simplicity. The gown of light brown lustring was finished with round white cuffs, though ruffles were all the fashion; and I left my auburn hair unpowdered, adorned only with a plain round cap and a white chip hat. When I strolled through the Chinese temple and along the gravel walks or enjoyed the singers in the glorious candlelit rotunda, I turned every head, for I looked nothing like my compatriots. We were social fishermen casting our nets, my husband and I; and that very night we supped well.
Having scored a triumph on our maiden voyage, Mr. Robinson determined that our next public airing be a concert at the Pantheon. This was London’s most spectacular of pleasure palaces, then the most fashionable assemblage of the gay and the distinguished. I never shall forget my first impression when, goggle-eyed, I entered the Pantheon rotunda. A thrill went through my body; I felt as though the music and the illuminations were just for me, the colored lamps ensconced in the niches and dome shining not on the statuary but on my gown of pale pink satin trimmed in sable—enhanced by a present from my dear mother: a suit of rich and valuable point lace. At the Pantheon it was the fashion to wear court dress—enormous hoops and high feather headdresses. I’d spent nearly the entire day in preparation. My figure at that period required some arrangement, owing to the visible increase of my domestic solicitudes, for I was now expecting; and it took hours for the friseur to dress my hair in the high style required of these lavish soirees.
“Will you have the nightingale or the caravel, madame?” he asked, as he teased my tresses over the wire cage that would support my voluminous coiffure.
“Ouch! Must you pull so hard? I’m getting a headache.”
“I am fixing madame’s coiffure in the most fashionable style. What is a little pinch and tug to become absoluement à la mode?”
Suffering for vanity’s sake, I endured the pain of having my long hair yanked skyward, against Nature’s plan, and permitted the friseur to affix the caravel to the summit, where it bobbled over my pomaded and powdered locks a full three feet above my scalp, the way I imagined my father’s ship bounced upon the waves to America.
Having made a study of the numerous daily papers and broadsheets, a devotee of the on-dits and caricatures, I recognized at once, as we took a turn about the Pantheon rotunda, at least one marchioness, a countess, and other titled ladies peering at me from their quizzing glasses and turning to their neighbors to whisper behind their fans, “Who is she?”
Just a few weeks previous, I was lithe and not very bosomy, with the body of a coltish girl. Now four months pregnant, my figure resembled the beau ideal of the day, voluptuous and pulchritudinous.
With some glee, I realized that the buzz was about me, and was then delighted to notice, out of the corner of my eye, that I was being observed by two men of the most fashionable ilk. “I think I know her,” a third murmured. He went on to remark that he was certain I was his father’s godchild.
“Miss Darby, I believe. Lord Northington, at your disposal, madam,” he said, introducing himself with a bow of marked civility.
“Heavens!” I stifled a gasp as I dropped a curtsy to his lordship. “I am sorry for your loss, sir.” Turning to his companions, I added, “The late Lord Northington was indeed my godfather, though I was presented to him by my father on but a few occasions.” I smiled at the son. “He always made me a gift of a pretty ribband for my hair.” I added that my name was now changed to that of Robinson, and to prevent any
