As I clutched Fitzgerald’s arm, we pressed our way toward the entry on the Vauxhall Road, but Mr. Robinson was nowhere to be seen. “I’ll look for our carriage,” I suggested, and eventually, much puzzled, spied it amid the line of waiting coaches some distance away. Suddenly, both distressed and bewildered, I realized that something was amiss.
“Don’t be uneasy,” soothed Fitzgerald, making to hurry me along, “we shall certainly find him, for I left him here not five minutes ago.” As he spoke, he stopped abruptly in front of one of the chaises. A servant promptly opened the door. There were four horses harnessed to the carriage, leading me to ascertain that a journey of some length was planned; and by the light of the lamps along the footpath I perceived a pistol peeking out from the pocket of the open door. As the servant maintained a discreet distance, Fitzgerald protectively placed one arm about my waist, the other beneath my elbow, and endeavored to lift me up the step and into the chaise.
“What are you doing?” I cried out, much alarmed. “What means all of this?”
His hand trembling as much as did his voice, Fitzgerald at last confessed himself my most ardent and devoted admirer. “Robinson can fight me for you,” he said in a low voice that struck terror into my heart.
“Are you mad?” I shouted. With much difficulty I wrested my arm free of his grasp and, my heart pounding a furious tattoo, ran hell-for-leather back toward the pleasure gardens’ entrance, the gravel flying as it crunched beneath my footsteps.
We both now perceived my husband coming toward us, his face the picture of confusion. “Why, here he is,” exclaimed Fitzgerald with such easy nonchalance, as though all along he had been my gallant protector instead of a would-be abductor. “Egad, we had found the wrong carriage, Mr. Robinson. All this while, we have been looking after you! You can see that Mrs. Robinson is alarmed beyond expression.”
“Oh, I am indeed alarmed!” I retorted, thinking I should like to spit upon him and ruin his green silk waistcoat.
We stepped into the proper coach, Fitzgerald following. In fleeing Lord Lyttelton for the sympathies of Mr. Fitzgerald, I had leapt out of the leaking boat into the lake, and silently cursed myself for having permitted my attraction to the latter to render my character so vulnerable. I’d have been ruined utterly if Fitzgerald’s scheme had succeeded.
“It was indeed providential that you happened along when you did,” I told my husband. “But five moments of hesitation, and we should both have been at the center of a crim-con trial.”
Mr. Robinson assured me with oath upon oath that he’d no inkling of Fitzgerald’s sinister motives, and I felt compelled to believe him—for though his own conduct was reproachable, I did not think him so low to wish me cast out of the society we strived so hard to join.
Along the road to Hatton Garden the night sky, though cloudless, flashed with lightning. I took it as a portent from the Almighty to shun the Irishman’s future society. Though I had myself to blame in part, it did not lessen the humiliation to which a husband’s influence had dangerously exposed me.
Twelve
Flight!
1774…age sixteen
At length I persuaded Mr. Robinson to remove his head from the sand and confront the truth of our situation. “With great success you talked me out of a means of independent income, Tom. Our fortunes rise or fall as one. If you will not think of me, or even of yourself, consider the life I carry within me and our responsibility to her—or his—welfare.”
This argument won me the retrenching I had suggested. My young husband at length concluded that Hatton Garden was too costly to maintain and moved us to the home of a friend of his on Finchley Common. This was a greater sacrifice for me than for Tom, for his business took him daily into London, whilst I languished alone, far from the city.
Though horribly lonely at first, I soon grew acclimated to the solitude. I endeavored to use my time wisely, reading and composing poetry; and as I was near my confinement, I devoted many hours to making my infant’s little wardrobe, the sweetly pleasing task of stitching dozens of tiny muslin dresses converted from the fabric of my own frocks and trimming them with the finest lace.
My mother had returned from Bristol and was again living with us, so I had the consolation of her society. Her soothing pragmatism solaced my mind against my misfortunes. If the sale of much of our property and the déménage to Finchley Common was the worst that had befallen me, I could count myself a lucky woman. Little did I know, or could have imagined, the dark perspective that destiny had in store for me.
As Mother was back within the domestic picture, my brother George, still shy of adolescence, now lived with us as well, often accompanying my husband on his errands into the city, riding on a pony. After one such visit, he came back to Finchley Common quite agitated, running into the parlor where I was sewing, and drawing me by both hands toward the dish cupboard, exclaiming, “I must tell you a secret!”
“However do you expect me to fit in here, with my belly and petticoats?”
“It is no laughing matter, Mary,” said George, his face so pale and grave. “It is about Mr. Robinson.”
I took my brother into my dressing room and locked the door behind us. “Whatever has he done that has you so excited?”
“Your watch—the enameled one with the musical instruments on it and the long silver chain—I saw it today!” George said breathlessly.
“Where?” I had given it up for lost among many other possessions during our removal from Hatton Garden.
“We went to the house
