And, not unexpectedly, the more guineas I earned, the faster did Ban head for the faro tables.
“I’m glad you enjoy writing so much, Mum,” Maria commented tersely.
I did—in several disciplines—scribbling poetry, prose, and plays with prolific abandon, though on occasion, unscrupulous publishers and producers would endeavor to unjustly enrich themselves from my efforts.
In 1795 I had penned a blank verse tragedy, The Sicilian Lover. A theatre producer held on to the manuscript for several months, doing nothing with it, much to my consternation. I would have been more than happy to take it elsewhere if he was going to let it lie about collecting dust. It was mere chance that, after such foot-dragging on the part of the producer, I had the opportunity to peruse a script written by a minor dramatist of the day, which, lo and behold, contained a pivotal scene that included one of The Sicilian Lover’s most striking plot points! Not only that, this work of drivel was scheduled for imminent production.
I called for my carriage and headed for Henrietta Street to confront Mr. Ballantine, the man who had promised to produce The Sicilian Lover.
His office was immaculate, even pristine. Not a thing was out of place. His case of leather-bound books looked spanking new, as though their spines had never once been bent. One could have supped off his gleaming desk, which was devoid of all but blotter, ink, and quill stand.
In my experience of producers and publishers, this distinctly Spartan and scrupulously clean workplace was emblematic of a distinct lack of industry.
Mr. Ballantine, alone at his desk, was cleaning his spectacles with his breath when I arrived. I was relieved that he had not seen me drag myself up the stairs.
“I am Mrs. Robinson,” I reminded him, as he rose from his chair. “And I should like to speak about The Sicilian Lover. To put it succinctly, I wish to see the tragedy in rehearsal by month’s end.”
“These things take time, madam,” said Mr. Ballantine, nervously adjusting his eyeglasses, which were now as spotless as the rest of the room.
The producer tried to forestall me, claiming that he planned indeed to put my play before the public.
“But when?” I inquired, my tone firm, though in fact I felt both neglected and betrayed by this laggard. “You have not done a bloody thing with it for well over a year and I harbor no regrets about reclaiming my manuscript.”
I took back my tragedy that very day and brought it to Hookham & Carpenter, demanding immediate publication, in an effort to preclude the piracy of my idea. Hookham consented with alacrity, knowing they could bolster sales of The Sicilian Lover by capitalizing on the tremendous popularity of Angelina.
Ban, too, had a sobering experience that year. His elder brother, John, a staunch Tory, chose to run against him for Liverpool MP. The contest caused a dreadful rift in the Tarleton family. Ban decided to crop his hair and was decried as the scapegoat of the Whig party, and worse—a Jacobin—for how else could he have walked the bloody streets of Paris unmolested during the city’s darkest and most dangerous days? Ban’s younger brother, Clayton, and their father refused to vote. John, oddly enough, ended up voting for Ban rather than for himself; and when the tallies showed him in third place, John withdrew from the contest. Though Ban emerged the victor, the ugly experience resulted in the permanent alienation from the bosom of his family. As her final act of charity toward him, Jane Tarleton bequeathed Ban five thousand pounds in her will to square his gambling debts.
“You’ll always have me, my darling,” I assured him, then chuckled. “Somehow, no matter what you say or do to me, I remain your lodestar.”
“What should you say, Mary, if I proposed to remain at home this evening?”
My heart had stopped at the word “proposed.” It took a moment or two for me to realize what Ban was really saying. “You are not heading off to Brooks’s, then?”
Ban shook his head. “I will never again enter my name in the betting book.” I questioned how he could keep his word and so abruptly change his conduct. He held his mangled hand before my face. “One day I had five fingers; the next, three. For the rest of my life, with no alternative possible, I have had to make do with the trio.”
And then I wondered, if he could now be so resolute, so adamant, why could he not have come to the same decision earlier? It would have spared us so much anguish.
“I am sorry,” Ban said, kneeling at my feet and placing his head in my lap like a penitent. “Today I turn over a new leaf. I promise you.” He buried his head in my skirts and I felt his hot breath suffuse the silks until my skin grew warm and tantalized beneath them.
“Will you do me a favor?” he murmured, and whatever he might ask of me, I knew I could not refuse. “I should like to publish a second edition of my Campaigns and would be ever grateful for your assistance. More than you know, you have shown me how to be a better man. In your womanly tenderness, most assuredly, so, but also as an author. You, my dearest love, and your literary triumphs over social adversity and charges of moral turpitude are beacons that light my way.”
So in the summer of 1795, while my novels became a success on the Continent, making history for an English author, we revised Ban’s memoirs—though once again the Battle of Cowpens was omitted. The second edition was well received, praised for its literary merit as well as for its content, and Ban could not have been more pleased.
Later in the year Hookham & Carpenter published my Sappho and Phaon
