The daily papers dubbed me “the Priestess of Taste,” for in every way I had become the leader of all things fashionable, slavishly copied by my societal betters as well as my peers, and complimented everywhere for my sense of style, a simple elegance lacking in the fuss and furbelows that had been the rage in genteel Georgian society.
It was I who introduced to England the sashed white muslin shift, dubbed the chemise de la reine, after the gowns made popular in Paris by Marie Antoinette. The queen herself had made a present to me of such a frock.
It felt quite grand to be so influential.
But when things went poorly, I drowned in bad news.
Ban still held out hopes for a foreign commission; the prospect of his going to India once again reared its unpleasant head. And I knew that his family back in Liverpool, politically connected Tories whose fortune was acquired through the slave trade in the Caribbean, disapproved of our romance in no uncertain terms. Even worse than their favorite son’s turning Whig—in the Tarletons’ unclouded view, Ban had chosen a woman who was far beneath him, no matter her celebrity. No doubt, my luster made matters worse for his prim, pragmatic kin. How could the ambitious hero possibly stand for Parliament or follow in his father’s footsteps as Liverpool’s mayor with such a notorious woman in his bed?
His relations’ displeasure, particularly his mother’s, was no secret to me. I’d seen her letters. Whilst my lover gambled away the hours with our highborn friends, the management of the household, and of our correspondence, fell to me.
It would have taken a mythological being of adamantine sensibilities to withstand the slings and arrows unleashed by the Tarletons up in Liverpool—and, even more painful, their son’s responses, which he desired me to post for him. What tenderhearted soul would not crumble with despair upon reading this note penned to Ban’s elder brother:
My dear John,
Only you, and perhaps Mama, can salvage the shreds of what I laughingly call my reputation. I own that three thousand pounds in duns is no sneezing matter, but if you will hear me out, you will agree that you will emerge the better off for the bargain I propose: send me the funds in full, and I will quit London. I will forswear gambling and retire to the country, where I will live quietly and modestly until my India commission comes through. Once that happy position is gained, I will be able to repay your loan—either from the money I earn abroad, or by marrying well. I assure you, your admonitions are never far from my thoughts. Absent such a loan, however, I shall be forced to sell my commission, and to play on, endeavoring at the tables to recoup my losses incurred there. My character and fortune are therefore in your hands; with your aid you may rescue me. Without it, I am, truly, ruined.
With fondest devotion, Ban
My soul was wounded to the quick, my heart in tatters. He was willing to abandon me in exchange for three thousand pounds! I had been bedding a Judas. It was enough to bring my health to the very brink; I took to my bed, physically unwell and too weak to face the world.
Imagine my surprise when I awoke from a fitful slumber one afternoon to see two familiar faces peering at me with the utmost solicitousness—the rosy, cherubic cheeks of the Prince of Wales, and Fox’s bristling brows. I remained fond of them; time had healed many of the wounds inflicted on my being by the prince, and we were now amicably reconciled in the bosom of friendship. After he had cast me off for the charms of Mrs. Armistead, I found solace in the news that she alone could not hold him—as had I. In the months just after our liaison was ended, His Highness had turned dissipate, seeking, but not finding, satisfaction in the arms of many other women whose names were often linked in the same breath with scandal. An incestuous lot we were, for it was Mrs. A. who had taken up with the slovenly Fox after my affair with the parliamentarian fizzled like fireworks set alight and sent aloft on a damp and dreary evening.
“We’d heard you’d fallen monstrous ill,” said the prince, peering at my pale complexion.
“We’re much concerned for your welfare, my dear,” Fox murmured.
“Then don’t let Ban linger with you at the tables,” I said. “If you love me, send him home to me, rather than carousing night after night until he sees no alternative but to forswear me forever. As a lieutenant colonel of the King’s Dragoons, he is on a half-pay of one hundred seventy-three pounds a year! Not counting tradesmen’s debts, he has monstrous obligations to two of London’s most prominent faro bankers: a three-hundred-twenty-pound promissory note coming due to Drummond on the ninth of June, and he owes a fortune to Weltje as well. Close to seven hundred, I think. Jane Tarleton thinks me the root of Ban’s troubles—that it is I who leads him into vice and degradation! If the Tarletons only knew I was fighting on the same side as they! I know Ban can make something of himself again—here, and not in far-flung regions abroad—and I will do everything within the scope of my talent to help him, if only he can be persuaded to abjure the gaming hells!”
I rang for my maid, who adjusted the bolster and propped me up against the pillows. “If I lose Ban, I lose my life,” I said, without any trace of
