Yet, my obsessive love and my physical need for him trumped all else, including my political philosophies. So I could not compel myself to remain on the sidelines when in 1790 he once again stood for office. This time I accompanied him to Liverpool, wrote his campaign speeches, and coached him on their delivery. Standing on the hustings like the war hero he was, Ban played that card to win, holding aloft his mangled hand and delivering our version of Henry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech, rallying his supporters to action.
Although Ban’s character was brought into question by his two opponents, who raised the issues of his appetite for gambling and his open cohabitation with a notorious—and married—woman, this time the voters would not be swayed by free food and beer. The most vocal Tarletonites claimed that the other candidates were endeavoring to prevent a free election, stealing votes from Ban by force, if necessary. A riot erupted; there was mayhem in the streets. The atmosphere, so highly charged, was as frightening as it was exhilarating.
“The incumbents wish to drum me out of town!” Ban declared. “Will you let these cowards banish a man who risked life and relinquished limb in the service of his king and country?”
The answer they returned was a resounding no, and when all the votes were counted, Ban finally made his family proud and attained his dream: a seat in the House of Commons as the MP from Liverpool.
We returned home high as summer clouds, and enjoyed days and nights of celebration and roistering. Ban’s grand success spurred me to apply myself even more assiduously to my writing.
A few years earlier, when we were still living in France, I’d become enamored of a florid and prodigiously popular style of poetry promulgated by Robert Merry, who wrote under the pen name Della Crusca. His acolytes—fellow poets, among whom I soon became one of the most worshipful—called themselves Della Cruscans. In 1790 Merry and I began a sort of cat and mouse game in The World, carrying on a poetical correspondence; one day his poem would be printed, and the next day readers would find my response, and so on. Speed of composition was therefore necessary, and in this realm I excelled. The deft fluidity had its artistic merits as well as its pragmatic ones, for spontaneity—deemed the natural enemy of artifice, in the form of belabored study—had become the rage.
I usually wrote under the names of Laura or Laura Maria. Sometimes I adopted a male identity. Mr. Bell, the editor, delighted in the game, for it compelled his readers to buy the papers every day in order to catch the next sally or riposte. And the poems were reprinted in regional magazines, further increasing my income. Once again, I had fine clothing and carriages.
Plump with self-esteem from my pseudonymous successes, I felt impelled to drop the veil of anonymity and submit a poem under my own name. Imagine my astonishment when I received a letter of rejection from Mr. Bell!
Dear Mrs. Robinson,
Perhaps you intended it as a jest to send me a poem in the Della Cruscan style, identifying yourself as the author of the stanzas I have published above the names of Laura and Laura Maria, but I must inform you that I happen to be well acquainted with the author of those poems, and know the writer’s true name. I did find the poem you wrote to be vastly pretty, and applaud your efforts, but I fear they fall too far from the standard established by the author previously mentioned for me to ink the presses. I do, however, wish you poetical success in future.
What gall! And what a fiction, on his part, to claim to know the real “Laura”!
Through my footman I summoned Mr. Bell to Clarges Street. “I demand to know the identities of Laura Maria and Laura,” I said, ushering him to a chair covered in green striped silk. My parlor was littered with fragments of unfinished manuscripts.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Robinson, but it is an editor’s prerogative to maintain all confidentiality when one trusts him with their pseudonym.”
I offered Mr. Bell a cup of tea and politely asked him if prevarication was also under the purview of editorial prerogative.
“I’m afraid I do not take your meaning,” said Mr. Bell, looking as if he were solving a riddle for which he knew the answer but could not for all the world recall it. “But I will have the tea, ta. Milk and sugar too, please.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” I said, excusing myself. He watched me limp out of the room.
My maid returned with me, bearing the tea tray. Beside the creamer rested a sheaf of papers. Mr. Bell looked as though he feared to touch them.
“Mrs. Robinson, if you intend to convince me to publish any more of your poems by serving me an excellent Darjeeling, I will have to decline both. People might not think it, but we editors do have our scruples, you know.”
I smiled, knowing I’d not only caught him out, but that I’d ensnared him. “But, Mr. Bell, you have already published these poems. I invite you to peruse the papers by your elbow.”
The editor nervously took the pages from the tray and placed them in his lap.
“As you can see from thumbing through them, you are looking at fair copies of the last several efforts printed by The Morning Post as attributed to either Laura or Laura Maria.”
Mr. Bell gazed up at me, his mouth flapping open and shut like a fish out of water. “M-Mrs. Robinson. I had n-no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I said quietly. “But you didn’t have to lie about it so brazenly. And I expect you to make amends for insulting me and wasting my valuable time.”
I took a stack of papers from a mahogany sideboard. “This
