At this the prince stopped and earnestly clasped me to his breast. “My darling Perdita—I will never bring you to ruin! Rather, I will raise you up! As my only, dearest, most beloved, you shall want for nothing if you will only consent to be mine. I—I will offer you proofs of my devotion, you shall see!”
I knew not what he meant. My mind was so torn, for what now would be my greatest desire might also prove my damnation. “Even so—should we become engaged in a public attachment—people will talk, Your Highness. Are you prepared for the calumny that will be on their lips and published in the morning papers? The attempts by all quarters, including your family, to undermine our affections?”
I was older than the prince by a few years. We could not hope to behave like the unseeing ostrich; one of us had to voice the concerns of maturity and practicality. As tempting and alluring as a royal liaison was, I firmly believed that the dangers of such an affair needed to be aired and thoroughly discussed, if for no other reason than to avoid future misunderstandings.
“The abuse may be too great for you to bear, Your Highness. Please dare to imagine the misery I would suffer if, after showing you every proof of confidence, you should change your sentiments toward me.”
Yet to every obstacle I broached, the prince assured me of his inviolable affection. And gazing into his noble countenance, I found him to be so sincere, his expression so ardent and earnest, that I finally, and most firmly, believed that the prince meant what he professed. His soul was too ingenuous, his mind too liberal, and his heart too susceptible to deliberately or premeditatedly deceive me.
My own heart and mind teetered on the balance. How I wished to give myself entirely to the prince. I thought of nothing but him, even when I was onstage; at every moment I found myself craving his passionate words, desiring his fond company. Still, it would not be as simple a decision as all that.
It was spring-cleaning time. My rooms were brighter than usual, for the heavy draperies had been taken down, and the mullioned windows scrubbed until each pane shone like a diamond. My maids vented their tempers on the upholstery, beating the drapes and the carpets they dangled from the sills. Woe betide the pedestrian below us!
In my drawing room, amid the clouds of dust motes, homeless after having been drummed from their cozy winter hideaways, sat Mr. Robinson. Absent the merest trace of contrition or compunction, he had paid me a call for the express purpose of encouraging me to open my purse. As much as I wished to box his ears with one of the dustclouts or brooms, I could not refuse him. By law, a wife’s earnings were her husband’s to spend as he chose.
“Your cruel conduct toward me is pushing me into the arms of another,” I told him. “Till now I have not succumbed to any man’s advances, but I am falling in love and I fear it will not be long before I have crossed the river that separates the mere idolater from the adulterer.” Of course Mr. Robinson’s extramarital liaisons numbered in the dozens, but I never sought to gauge myself by his own low character.
Although some might believe that the sauce for the gander will flavor the goose just as well, in truth, nothing could be a falser apprehension; for the wife of even the most rakish of husbands was expected to keep her reputation unsullied. There was, however, an unwritten rule that assumed that if his wife were to give him tit for tat, the husband would passively endure his dishonor, and provide her with the sanction of his protection.
This warping of the social fabric would prove a recurrent theme in my novels; and I could simply look about me for examples of this double standard, as the circles of fashion afforded more than one instance of this obliging acquiescence in matrimonial turpitude. In fact, my dear friend Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, who—from her lofty perch atop the very pinnacle of style for years commanded the highest view of societal conduct—lived it herself. Her Grace enjoyed her own extramarital liaisons, whilst the duke availed himself of the charms of Lady Elizabeth Foster, Georgiana’s dearest friend.
“I will not stand in your way,” Mr. Robinson told me, “if you wish to bestow your affections elsewhere. I may be without scruples, Mary, but I am not without feeling. Should I endeavor to forbid you, or in other ways keep you from—well, shall I leave it at ‘enjoying yourself outside the bonds of holy matrimony’—it would be a bit like the pot insulting the kettle for its blackness. You’re in for a rough go of it, though, my dear.”
“I cannot imagine that I will be mocked any more than I already am for your infidelities,” I sighed.
“You’re really quite a sporting girl, Mary. I don’t know of any other woman who would come to her husband, especially one who has been a bit of a rover himself, and give him notice that she plans to do a thing.”
“It’s precisely because you’re a bit of a rover—a bit? Egad! You must be jesting. But it’s precisely for that reason that I thought you’d understand.”
Mr. Robinson planted a friendly kiss on my cheek. “Lord help us, we’re more a pair than we think we are.” He swatted my bum; that, too, with some degree of affection. “I’ll always respect you, wife of mine. And no matter what happens, I’ll
