The bastard. “Was the lady dark-haired?”
“No, fair. And not near as pretty as you.”
Not even Harriet Wilmot, then. Someone else. How many someone elses were there? And even a boy who was not yet twelve had drawn the inevitable unfavorable conclusions. I considered asking George what other items, once mine, he might have spied, but bit my tongue. My brother was an innocent, and not to be dragged into my matrimonial contretemps.
Later that day, when I confronted Mr. Robinson upon his return to Finchley Common with the news regarding the stunning reappearance of my treasured timepiece, he did not even attempt to deny his infidelity.
“I won’t be seeing her again. I can promise you that.”
I was startled by his response. Was it possible that my victory could have been won so easily? Then again, after I had visited Mrs. Wilmot in Prince’s Street he had promised to see no more of her—or the other way around—yet Lord Lyttelton had informed me at Vauxhall that the connexion had not in fact been severed.
I was, however, immediately disabused of the rosy notion that my husband had performed an astonishing volte-face, agreeing to cast off his latest conquest simply because I had caught him out once again.
“We must depart for Tregunter as soon as practicable,” he said. “I fear for our safety here, and our personal liberty is much endangered if we remain.”
In the one breath I deciphered that his—our—creditors would soon be on our heels with brickbats, and in the next I concluded that if we did not decamp immediately, our next home would be a debtors’ prison!
“What have you done?” I sobbed. “We are ruined!”
“Not if we can make our escape. Bid your mother and brother farewell and have Dulcy and Joseph pack your things.”
“What will happen to them?”
“It is none of my concern, now. We must look to ourselves and leave the servants to fend on their own. You can’t imagine that we could possibly afford to bring them with us?”
“I—I—I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“You don’t want our child to be born in a cell, do you?”
“No, nor a stable neither,” I muttered. Our babe was due in a little more than a month. “Must I leave my mother?” My agony at the thought of parting from her was extreme. We had resided in Finchley Common for less than a quarter of a year. Now we were to take to the road whilst Mother and George would be compelled to return once more to Bristol. I fancied that if we should part company now, I should never behold her more, and that the harshness and humiliating taunts of my husband’s kin would send me prematurely to the grave, perhaps taking the innocent life within me as well—and if not, that the infant should be left among strangers, and my poor grieving mother would scarcely have the fortitude sufficient to survive me. Placing my hands upon my belly for emphasis, I added, “Now, more than ever, is when I most stand in need of my mother’s attention.”
“But it is impossible for the moment,” said Mr. Robinson, his voice rising to a panic for the first time since the ugly subject of flight had been broached. “I suggest you begin packing, Mary.”
Mr. Robinson had borrowed liberally, mortgaging his hopes on the plan that Tregunter and all its wealth would one day be his, but his creditors had proved inexorable. With a thousand tears and tender regrets I said good-bye to my relations. Though she was disconsolate, Mother understood too well that where the husband journeyed, as long as he wish’d her by his side so went his wife, no matter the road he traveled.
Mr. Harris was away from home when we arrived at Tregunter in mid-September.
“Well, well, the prodigals have returned,” said Mrs. Molly.
“With their tails between their pretty legs,” sneered the snub-nosed Miss Betsy in rejoinder. She could hardly have been less pleased to see her brother.
The housekeeper regarded me insolently. “I suppose you’ll be wanting us to be at your beck and call. This ain’t the City, you know. And you’re not the first woman to be in the family way. You’ll have to rely on your own maidservant to do your fetching and carrying; we’ve got more pressing duties, ma’am.” She extended a muscled arm toward the interior rooms of the manor, from whence emanated a clattering of hammers.
“I was compelled to dismiss my maidservant, Mrs. Edwards,” I mumbled, already feeling browbeaten. I knew this interview was not to be a pleasant one, but the benign musings of my imagination were not equal to the cold reality. It was time to consign myself to the fact that my child would be delivered among hateful monsters. Ironically, the rude treatment we received upon our arrival from the distaff members of clan Harris had a way of shaking loose whatever tender sensibilities I bore my husband. He had used me ill, there was no doubt of it, but being illused himself by his own relations softened my compassion for the man.
On Mr. Harris’s arrival a few days later, his greeting could scarce have been considered a welcome. “Well!” he exclaimed, tossing his muddy spatterdashes into a corner of the parlor. “So you have escaped from a prison and now you are come here to do penance for your follies?”
Silence. We had indeed been one step ahead of my husband’s creditors. There was no excuse, nor explanation, for our predicament other than the truth: we had exceeded
