Suddenly he was kneeling beside me, gently smoothing a strand of hair off my forehead. “I don’t blame you for my showing,” he murmured, kissing my eyelids. “Your words roused the rabble. I just couldn’t afford enough pints of ale!” Though my eyes remained closed, I could almost see his devilish grin. Ban reached into the warm water. His fingers painted a wet trail down my throat and between my breasts.
“You’re quite a persuasive client,” I teased, as his hand glided over my abdomen, heading for points netherward. My body ached for his. If he had asked me to write his memoirs in Greek, adoring him as I did, I would have willingly complied.
Twenty-five
A Woman Made of Words
1786…age twenty-eight
I had not felt so alive in months! There did not seem to be world enough and time in which to transcribe the outpourings of my soul as the brisk winds of 1785 ushered in the frosts of 1786. Even as I was hard at work on Ban’s memoirs, verse after verse sprang forth from my pen, each drop of ink a seedling of creation. And the London Chronicle rewarded me by publishing them. From the ashes of Perdita rose a phoenix poetess.
As my lover’s ghostly amanuensis, I had my marching orders. Ban was keen on exculpating himself—yet remained unwilling to offend his mentor by implicating Cornwallis in any cockups in the Carolinas, particularly since Cornwallis was a Tory, whilst Ban of course was a Fox-supporting Whig, and nearly persona non grata for it.
My lover retained every expectation that Cornwallis would still be posted to India, and hoped a commission would still be on offer from him, regardless of their divergent political alliances. Ban also relied upon Cornwallis’s approval to reprint their letters to each other in his memoirs.
My mother returned to Bristol in late autumn for an extended holiday. It had devolved upon Maria to look after our daily correspondence, and she seemed to take delight in being such an active and responsible participant in our daily affairs. She welcomed each packet of letters with glee as though it were a holiday gift, knowing how eager we were for news of our affairs and of the world beyond the medieval walls of Aix-la-Chapelle.
“News from Grandmama!” she announced one December afternoon. Maria had seen to it that the courier enjoyed a trencher of food and a glass of beer and that the man’s horse was fed and watered. “And Mr. Sheridan has sent a letter as well. Oh, may I read them to you?” she asked gaily. Inheriting my theatrical talent she had taken to dramatizing our letters from abroad, imbuing each with the voice and mannerisms of the sender, and providing no end of entertainment, even when the news was less than we’d hoped for. She was quite the wicked mimic.
“Where shall I begin?” Maria queried, and when I opted to hear Sheridan’s note first, she broke open the seal with her thumbnail and unfolded the paper. Even from a few feet away, I could see that it was rather brief.
“Well?”
Maria adjusted herself in the chair and tilted her head back, gazing down her nose at the letter, with a sidelong glance in my direction. “‘My dearest Mary,’” she read, adopting a subtle Irish brogue. “‘I have taken the occasion to peruse the comic opera you sent to me. Many of the elements are quite charming, of course; your wit is ever evident, and the story holds a sufficient amount of interest. However, I regret to say that I must decline to offer you a production at this time.’ What a devil!” exclaimed my child. “He has the temerity to address you as ‘my dear,’ and then he turns down your opera!” In silence she perused the entirety of the letter once more. “No, I have not missed a word. He praises your efforts and then with no explanation refuses to produce it. I do not understand such disloyalty, Mummy.”
Neither did I apprehend it, and turned my head to hide a falling tear. I was quite proud of the comic opera and was certain it would fare well at Drury Lane, having banked in more ways than one that my colleague of so many years, and friend for many more, would add it to the repertoire. I sat abed, stewing. Was it verily the opus that had been rejected, or was it Mrs. Robinson? Had the opera been penned by any other, or submitted under a pseudonym, would Mr. Sheridan—after seeing fit to enumerate its merits—have accepted it for production?
I felt the injury keenly, that a professional acquaintance of such long standing could be ruptured so cavalierly—and personally, I felt betrayed. It would pain me to look Sheridan in the eye when next we met, and given the circle in which we moved, such a rencontre was inevitable.
“Well, then,” I sighed, “the news from my mother will be a welcome tonic, now.”
Maria opened the letter and began to read. “‘Dearest Mary, it is with heavy heart that I write these words…’” My daughter raised her eyes from the page. “Perhaps it is better if I do not read this aloud.”
“No—pray continue; whether I hear the words from your lips or read them silently, ’twill not alter the message.”
“As you wish, Mama.” Maria squirmed uncomfortably on the settee. “‘Though it took your father some time to find his bearings, he always had the call for adventure. And as you know, he finally found his sea legs in the Russian navy, where he rose to the rank of captain. Although I
