In late September I fled London in utter mortification. A few weeks of vapor baths in Brighton, according to the instructions of my own doctor, the eminent Sir John Elliott, availed little. I was horribly lonely and the autumn air at the burgeoning seaside resort was damp and chilly, so I returned to the delights of London, endeavoring to make the most of them even in my compromised state.
When I returned to the opera, I knew all eyes would be upon me.
There was no way to make an unobtrusive entrance. My infirmities rendered nothing unobtrusive from now on. So, rather than seek to hide the obvious from the public’s prying eyes, in true Perdita fashion, I chose to make the most of my calamity and transform it into a performance. I would hold my head high. No one would see me wince in pain or shed a pitiable tear when two of my manservants made a great show of donning long white purpose-built sleeves that they withdrew from their pockets, and lifted me onto their crossed arms. Resting atop this human sedan chair, I was conveyed to my seat in the box. The process would be repeated when the performance was over and it was time to take me to my carriage.
Yet the general titters were audible. Even the mirrored walls of my box seemed to mock me. I heard the whispers behind fans and gloves, and caught the inquiring glances with raised eyebrows that lowered as soon as the gaze met mine.
Lord Pembroke thought himself discreet when he murmured to a companion, “Her face is still pretty, but I say—don’t you think her illness has given her mouth something of a scowl? Rather disadvantageous to go about like that all the time, eh wot? She is quite defaite. Utterly unmade, don’t you think—barely dragging herself about?” As the companion stole a glance at me and nodded in the affirmative, Pembroke added, “Well, she may possibly come about again, but she must not go anymore to an opera on the day of miscarriage.”
Everyone knew that I had all but dashed from my opera box onto the open road on that fateful night in July! I dared not question how. Surely there was a spy amid my domestics, or else the country doctor flapped his tongue about, thinking perhaps to make a name for himself.
All throughout the evening, people gasped and ogled at me, but I had expected as much. Tongues wagged and clucked in amazement or disapproval—and the following day the press reported every detail.
With my extremities crabbed and crippled, Maria had become my trusted aide and amanuensis, bringing me the morning papers and journals, and transcribing my poetry when my fingers failed to guide a quill. My young daughter did not comprehend society’s fascination with scandal. She saw the caricatures and knew they were meant to wound, though she couldn’t have understood the sexual innuendo in them—such as the one that showed me as a whirligig signpost over an inn, the spike impaling me between my spread legs, whilst Tarleton, saber in hand, had decapitated the white plumes of the Prince of Wales. Despite my debilitation, and the fact that His Highness and I had not been lovers for years, the vicious caricatures of us as a couple, and of me as a scheming wanton, continued to fill the newspapers and print shops.
“Why do people mock others, Mummy?”
“Newspapers do it to make money,” I sighed. “As for the rest, I think they believe it makes them feel superior to abase others.”
“Well, I think it’s cruel. Oh—may I iron the newspapers for you?”
I stroked her soft brown hair, remembering how blond and fine it had been when she was born. “Only if Dorcas supervises. You’re too young to handle an iron on your own.”
Maria climbed onto the chaise and nestled beside me. “Do you blame Colonel Tarleton for your sickness?”
“No, I do not.” I rested my lips on the crown of her head. “When I think about him, I can only remember the rosy times. His kindnesses…his gentle solicitousness…his laughter…his bravery.”
“Hmph,” said Maria, and I do not know whether the child was surprised by my answer or thought her mother a deluded fool.
In early December, Dame Fortune smiled upon me, when one morning I heard a familiar “Halloo!” outside my windows. My heart leapt with joy. I heaved off the eiderdown, and if I could have bounded out of bed and descended the risers two at a time, I would have done so. As it was, I made it as far as the window, though it took several halloos before I could get to the sash.
There on the cobbles below stood Tarleton in full uniform, his green dragoon’s coat a refreshing splash of color against the gray morn.
“Ban!” My hair was in disarray beneath my nightcap; my face bare of powder and paint. Could he tell that I was grinning from ear to ear, deliriously happy to behold him once again? My features, at least, had recovered considerably. Still, I wished to be more beautiful for him.
“Don’t move! I’ll come up to you!” he shouted.
If he’d only known how difficult it would have been for me to dash down to greet him.
In a trice, he appeared at the door, striding into my boudoir and lifting me off my feet. In the time he took to drink me in, he had not noticed anything different. I feared what might happen when he discovered the truth. My clenched fingers gripped his strong back as he laid me tenderly on the bed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you,” I moaned. A tear escaped my eye and Ban kissed it away.
“I couldn’t do it; I had to come home,” he said, his voice husky as he unbuttoned his breeches and entered me, all preliminaries dispensed with. If he noticed how changed I had
