Lady of Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Freda Lightfoot

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Woman of Letters

  Chapter One: A Most Sensitive Child

  Chapter Two: Reluctant Bride

  Chapter Three: Young Lady About Town

  Chapter Four: Captive Wife

  Chapter Five: Doyenne of Drury Lane

  Chapter Six: A Prince’s Mistress

  Chapter Seven: Queen of the Courtesans

  Chapter Eight: A Colonel’s Lady

  Chapter Nine: The English Sappho

  Epilogue: Feminist and Poet

  Author’s Note

  Sources

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Freda Lightfoot

  The French Historical Series

  HOSTAGE QUEEN *

  RELUCTANT QUEEN *

  THE QUEEN AND THE COURTESAN *

  The Lakeland Sagas

  THE GIRL FROM POOR HOUSE LANE

  THE WOMAN FROM HEARTBREAK HOUSE

  The Manchester Sagas

  DANCING ON DEANSGATE

  WATCH FOR THE TALLEYMAN

  The Champion Street Market Sagas

  WHO’S SORRY NOW?

  LONELY TEARDROPS

  Novels

  TRAPPED

  HOUSE OF ANGELS

  Historical

  THE DUCHESS OF DRURY LANE *

  LADY OF PASSION *

  * available from Severn House

  LADY OF PASSION

  The story of Mary Robinson

  Freda Lightfoot

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Freda Lightfoot

  The right of Freda Lightfoot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Lightfoot, Freda, 1942-

  Lady of passion.

  1. Robinson, Mary, 1758-1800–Fiction. 2. Great Britain–

  History–George III, 1760-1820–Fiction. 3. Biographical

  fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8287-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-487-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-442-3 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Prologue

  Woman of Letters

  My portrait you desire! and why?

  To keep a shade on mem’ry’s eye,

  What bliss can reason prove,

  To gaze upon a senseless frame!

  On looks eternally the same,

  And lips that never move.

  But what are features? What is form?

  To combat life’s tempestuous storm.

  Mary Darby Robinson

  ‘Stanzas for a Friend’ who desired to have my portrait

  1800

  ‘So you were once the beautiful Mrs Robinson?’

  I stare up at the man, this ruffian who has burst unannounced into my bedroom, shocked by his sudden invasion upon my privacy. Maria, my beloved daughter, is flapping about him like a startled pigeon, while my first thought is to protest that I still am beautiful. But I say nothing, as I know this to be untrue.

  My health has improved recently, and on the rare occasions I’ve visited London I have ventured out in my carriage to take the air. But I cannot claim that driving about Hyde Park excites the interest it once did. I am no longer a leader of fashion, the doyenne of Drury Lane, or the adored mistress of a royal prince, powdered, patched and painted to the utmost power of rouge and white lead. Fashion is a sylph of fantastic appearance, the illegitimate offspring of caprice – decked with flowers, feathers, tinsel, jewels, beads, and all the garish profusion of degenerated fancy.

  No artist now begs to paint my portrait. My auburn hair is turning to a dull grey, the blue of my eyes look quite washed out, and the delicacy of my features are now somewhat drawn. No lady of fashion would trouble to copy my style of hat or gown, no gentleman pause for a glimpse of my ankle, knowing I will not be stepping down from my carriage, nor parading along the walkways. In truth my beauty has indeed faded, assuming one subscribes to the theory that it is but skin deep.

  My looks and health may not be what they were, but my spirit remains strong and resilient. I have spent the last several months working long hours, as always, writing essays for the Morning Post, commenting on society as I so like to do. I still write and edit poems for them, but as my debts continue to mount I must push myself ever harder.

  My dear friend Coleridge came to London last November, also to take up a position on the Post and supply them with political comment. He enjoyed a Christmas Eve supper with Maria and me, which was most delightful. Godwin too was also present, as were many of our friends. I enjoy life as best I can despite the difficulties I must contend with. Coleridge has even inveigled upon his friend Southey to include a poem of mine, ‘The Haunted Beach’, in the latest Annual Anthology that he edits. It is not the first request of this kind, but Coleridge admires the ‘fascinating metre’, as he describes it, vowing it inspired his famous poem ‘The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner’ which he included in his Lyrical Ballads published a year or two ago. I am deeply flattered. The theme is about how haunted I am by isolation, as much as the landscape the poem describes, and entirely suits my melancholic mood.

  Yet however famous my poems and novels, only my erstwhile lover and my publisher seem to have profited from them.

  Today I have been confined to my bed, as is so often the case, and am only too aware of my own fragility, that violent convulsions could result from the slightest disturbance to my peace and tranquillity. Yet I am determined to remain calm, even as I face what I have long dreaded. The shabby little bailiff thrusts a subpoena into my hand and his callous words rattle my startled brain.

  ‘You are under arrest, Mrs Robinson, for debt.’ Turning to my daughter, who is quite beside herself with anxiety, he orders Maria to assist me to dress. ‘I am instructed to take your mother to the sheriff’s office where she will temporarily reside while she settles with her creditors. If she fails to do so within the next few days, then she’ll be transferred to the Fleet.’

  I feel the blood drain from my face at this horrifying prospect. Being only too familiar with that establishment, I have no wish to enter its portals ever again. Maria and I look at each other in terror. My head is spinning, my heart pounding in my breast. Could this really be happening to me again? Have I not suffered enough?

  ‘How foolish of me to imagine that I might find sanctuary here at Englefield Cottage,’ I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone. In recent years I h
ave become something of a recluse, not even able to afford to visit family in my old home city of Bristol, which I would so love to do.

  Maria rushes to my side. ‘You mustn’t let them take you, Mama. We will fight this.’

  Gathering my courage, I smile and pat her cheek, noting its paleness. ‘Fetch my warmest gown and wrap, dearest, and perhaps two petticoats. Prison cells are cold places.’

  I surrender myself to the inevitable and allow my daughter to dress me, then my manservant to assist me to the bailiff’s carriage where I am conveyed to dubious quarters in the sheriff’s office. The room does not even have the benefit of a window for me to look out at the sun. To be fair, that good gentleman is kindness itself, perhaps out of pity, for which I am truly grateful even as I smilingly grit my teeth in frustration.

  In the miserable days that follow I write to the Prince, hoping for a response, and to my dear friend, William Godwin, with resolute good humour. ‘I assure you that my feelings are not wounded, neither is my spirit dejected … I have had various proposals from many friends to settle the business – but I am too proud to borrow while the arrears now due on my annuity from the Prince of Wales would doubly pay the sum for which I am arrested.’

  For this reason I do not rush to write to my old friend, Sheridan, feeling that I have troubled him enough in recent years. Besides, like my lover, he is even deeper in debt than myself. And Godwin knows well enough that I would never call upon my husband to relieve my difficulties, despite being legally entitled to do so. How could I, a woman of pride and follower of my dear friend and William’s own much lamented wife, the late Mary Wollstonecraft, so demean myself? Do I not still greatly revere her feminist doctrine? Perhaps I have always felt this need for equality, this inner pride in myself, even when I was a foolish, spoiled young miss taking her first faulty steps into the world.

  The Prince’s predictable response is that ‘there is no money at Carlton House!’ He is very sorry for my situation, but his own is equally distressing.

  ‘You will smile at such paltry excuses, as I do,’ I write to Godwin, ‘but I am determined to persist in my demand. Half a year’s annuity being nearly due, which is two hundred and fifty pounds. And I am in custody for sixty three pounds only!’

  My dear friends do come to my aid, perhaps prompted by Godwin, and within a few days of humiliating captivity, the paltry sum is paid. I am a free woman again, much to my beloved daughter’s relief.

  Oh, but how did I come to this pretty pass? How can it be that a woman who possessed both beauty and talent in her youth, who was courted by the highest echelons of society, finds herself so poorly placed, so desperately vulnerable?

  Could it be because men always betray me? If so, then why? Is it the consequence of my own foolishness or simply the curse of being beautiful? As a young girl I knew little of the world’s deceptions, as if though I had been educated in the deserts of Siberia. But then even my own father let me down. What sort of a start in life is that for a much-adored daughter?

  One

  A Most Sensitive Child

  Who has not waked to list the busy sounds

  Of summer’s morning, in the sultry smoke

  Of noisy London? …

  The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;

  While tinmen’s shops, and noisy trunk-makers,

  Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,

  Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries

  Of vegetable vendors, fill the air.

  Mary Darby Robinson

  ‘London’s Summer Morning’

  1767

  I shall ever remember the day we arrived in London, the wonder of it, the grandeur of the people in their fine carriages, the excitement that burned in my breast at just ten years of age. But having sold our home and all our possessions I knew that my mother felt bewildered and cast adrift, overawed by the noise, the sights and smells of this great city. Summoned to Papa’s lodgings in fashionable Spring Gardens, and ordered to bring my brother George and me with her, she had donned her best gown, pinched some colour into her cheeks, and set out with hope in her heart that the loneliness of the last few years might be over at last.

  My father’s cold reception destroyed all of that.

  ‘Is this the best you can manage?’ he demanded. ‘This measly sum cannot be all the money you’ve raised!’

  ‘I did the very best I could, Nicholas.’

  ‘It is nowhere near enough,’ he snapped.

  My father was a man of some spirit and did not suffer fools gladly, but, much as I adored him, I was alarmed and deeply troubled to see him treat Mama so callously, when they had once been the most devoted of couples.

  ‘What more could I have done?’ Her plea was heart-rending. ‘I sold our precious home, all the furniture, every item we possess save for the modest box of clothes we’ve brought with us, exactly as you instructed. Shamed and humiliated before our friends and neighbours, I have lost everything.’

  She had indeed, including her youngest son, my beloved brother, William, who died of smallpox last year, aged only six. He was the second child Mama had lost to that disease, my sister having perished at just eighteen months some years ago. In view of this grief, the trauma of being abandoned by her husband, and then to be made homeless, had been almost too much to bear.

  My mother was no great beauty, but she was slender and vivacious, and as Hester Vanacott, born of a well-to-do family, had in her youth attracted many suitors. Her parents had not approved of her attraction to a young man in trade. Seeing how badly her husband’s betrayal had hurt her, I wondered if she had since regretted having chosen Nicholas Darby.

  As a prosperous Bristol merchant, Papa had initially provided well for his family: a large house, elegantly furnished in the most expensive and sumptuous style. Wine and fine food had graced our table where he liked to entertain his many guests. My brothers and I enjoyed the best schooling, and every indulgence. Even the bed I slept in bore covers of the richest crimson damask, my dresses of the finest cambric. And during the summer months we would move to Clifton Hill to benefit from the purer air.

  Perhaps it was because he was an American that my father possessed such a bold and reckless nature. But to our great misfortune his streak of restlessness and craving for adventure could not be quenched. How I ached for him to find happiness and contentment at home with his family, but innocent and gauche as I then was, I knew it was not to be.

  My privileged childhood had ended the day Papa set sail for his native land and embarked upon a wild and perilous adventure to establish a whale fishery on the coast of Labrador, and attempt to civilise the Esquimaux Indians. Mama had been devastated by his departure, refusing to risk her life upon a stormy ocean, or abandon her children. My father thought her cowardly and obstinate but, loving her as I did and not wishing to lose her, I had been secretly relieved. Life without either parent would have been bleak indeed. I believed she showed great bravery by staying at home and attempting to provide a stable life for us under the most difficult circumstances. Money and letters did not always arrive on time, or at all for months on end, as Mama stubbornly reminded him in the argument which was growing louder by the minute.

  ‘In the three years since you left us, Nicholas, I have done my best to hold the family together, even in the face of learning of your infidelity with … with that woman.’

  ‘Her name is Elinor,’ he coldly responded.

  I glanced anxiously up at Mama, hoping she wouldn’t disgrace herself by weeping. Being quite old enough to appreciate the pain she felt in her husband’s betrayal, I rested a comforting hand upon her arm so that she was aware of my support. My disappointment in my father was keen. Had I not adored and worshipped him my entire life? But Papa had found himself a woman willing to live with him in the frozen wastes of America. Rumour had it that this Elinor was one of the Indians he had gone out to help, that there might even be a child, but Mama valiantly stiffened her spine and made no mention of these
suspicions. As always, she focused entirely upon us, her adored children, and kindly patted my hand, acknowledging our closeness.

  ‘Mary has continued to attend the school run by the Misses More, and is already proficient in French as well as reading, writing, arithmetic, and needlework of course, essential for any young lady. George too is doing well, and John settled into his apprenticeship. I dislike this interruption to the children’s lives and education.’

  ‘Miss Hannah is most complimentary of my ability to recite poems,’ I excitedly put in, longing to make Papa proud of me. ‘I knew Pope’s “Elegy On The Death of an Unfortunate Lady” before I was eight. And the sisters took the entire school to see King Lear at the Theatre Royal, Bristol’s new theatre. It was most thrilling, and not at all sad. In this version Cordelia was saved and Lear survived. Oh, how I should love to be in such a production.’

  He ignored my chatter as if I had never spoken, brushing off my childish enthusiasm with scant attention. ‘The children will be educated here in London from now on, and you, Hester, will lodge with a respectable clergyman’s family. I shall return across the Atlantic to launch a new venture.’

  Mama stared at him aghast. ‘You are going overseas again? But that is sheer madness! Did the Indians not burn your settlement last time, and murder many of your people? How can you be so foolish as to risk your life again?’

  ‘Do not exaggerate, Hester. Only three men died, although unfortunately we did lose several thousands of pounds worth of ships and equipment.’

  I winced at this, hating the implication that it was almost worse to lose boats than lives.

  ‘And what of the financial disaster that followed?’ Mama bravely persisted. ‘Are we not now facing ruin?’

  ‘It was unfortunate that my patrons reneged on their promise to offer protection against any losses, but I have every faith the scheme will fare better next time. I shall employ experienced Canadian fishermen.’

  This news was a death knell to Mama’s hopes, but even she could see that her arguments were falling on stony ground, that my father’s thoughts were already far from the needs of his family.