I felt as insignificant as a fruit fly. Had my swollen belly repulsed him? Or had Mr. Robinson been born with a pair of roving eyes? If his mention of a one-sided entanglement had been a falsehood, perhaps he had been keeping Mrs. Wilmot since we met, when with fervent oaths over my sickbed he promised to see me well provided as his wife. I’d had neither dowry nor position—nothing to tempt a young clerk to matrimony. What had he wanted of me other than to torment me?
I rapped on the roof. “Pull over!” When the driver reached the curb, I opened the door to vomit into the street. I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief scented with rosewater and tossed it into the gutter when I was done. Then I shut the door and told the driver to move on.
In Prince’s Street I gave him a guinea to knock at the door of number four whilst I remained inside the carriage. A dirty-looking servant girl answered his summons.
“Does Harriet Wilmot live ’ere?” the driver asked her.
“My mistress is not at ’ome, sir.”
I quitted the coach and paid the driver.
“You will show me in,” I insisted in a tone that brooked no denial. A raging fire consumed me, but if I had any shred of dignity or pride, I could not permit myself to reveal my weakness, certainly not to a serving wench. She would not see my tears.
“Follow me, miss.” The girl led me into the front parlor and motioned for me to sit in a slipper chair. I began to tremble and choked back a sob. The chair was covered in red toile de jouy, the identical fabric our upholsterer had used to fashion my bed curtains.
“Wait here, please. My mistress will be back shortly.” The servant closed the door behind her. I was left alone. Left to look about the flat and see where my husband of less than half a year was spending his money. I had begged for chinoiserie paper on my own drawing room walls and Mr. Robinson had denied me, citing its exorbitant cost, yet Mrs. Wilmot had a fashionable pattern of bisque-and-blue-hued bamboo. The mantel had been faced with marble. I rose and began to touch things. Although there was dust on the festoons, the mustard-colored drapes were a good grade of silk.
I opened the door that led from the drawing room into the next chamber. “Ah!” I could not stifle my shock when I spied a fine petticoat and a new sacque gown of fine white lustring lying upon the bed. A loud knocking at the street door caused me to nearly jump out of my skin. I tiptoed back into the parlor and waited with a palpitating bosom until the being whose triumph had awakened both my pride and my resentment appeared before me.
Her manner was timid and confused. “Do I know you, miss?”
She caught me off guard. I had prepared myself to meet a young flibbertigibbet, a painted creature as hard as she was silly. Instead, my eyes met a handsome woman with a pleasing countenance, some ten years older than I. A million things flashed across my mind within a single moment: Was her dress of printed Irish stuff more costly than my morning dishabille of India muslin? Her black gauze cloak finer than my white lawn one? At least mine was trimmed in lace. Did her chip hat trimmed with lavender ribbands better become her than my straw bonnet did me? Was this woman the entanglement Mr. Robinson avowed he would be rid of once he came of age, and a chief reason for our marriage to remain clandestine? That, too, had been a lie. I was up to my elbows in them.
I motioned for her to sit. She looked distressed, her lips pale as ashes, their color drained. “You are Harriet Wilmot?” She nodded. “I came to inquire whether you are acquainted with a Mr. Robinson.”
“I am,” she replied. “He visits me frequently.” Mrs. Wilmot drew off her glove as she spoke and passed her hand over her eyes as though she was suffering from a headache. I nearly started when I observed upon her finger the ring that I had given to my husband for his birthday. It took every ounce of bravery I had to retain my composure and my dignity.
“I have nothing more to say,” added I, “but to request that you favor me with Mr. Robinson’s address. I have something that I wish to convey to him.”
My rival had seen me notice the ring. Her gaze shifted to my dress, my undeniably swollen belly. “You are Mr. Robinson’s wife,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am sure you are, and probably this ring was yours; pray receive it—”
“No.” I looked away and made to take my leave of her. I had not expected kindness.
“Had I known that Mr. Robinson was the husband of such a woman—madam, I will never see him more—unworthy man. I give you my word on it—I will never again receive him!”
I know not which of us was more pitiable then, and somehow…I cannot say why, but I believed her. Something in her manner…she had been tenderhearted and had relinquished all claims to my husband so immediately and with such earnestness that I found I could not hurl insults or abuse at her. If I had said another word I should have burst into tears and most likely found myself sobbing on Mrs. Wilmot’s bosom, and so I gave her but a cursory nod and descended into the street.
On my return to Hatton Garden I found Mr. Robinson awaiting dinner. I masked my chagrin, biding my time. We even made a party to Drury Lane that evening, and from thence we planned to attend a concert at the home of Count de Belgioso in Portman Square. Lord Lyttelton was to join us in both places. Throughout the play he watched me with barely concealed curiosity. But my
