The Secret Mandarin. Sara Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ of course, would take some weeks and I resigned myself to the decision slowly. For a woman like me there are few options. I had, I realised, come back to London hoping for something that was no longer there—an insubstantial promise of love that I had trusted like a fool—a promise, that, despite everything, I could not believe was truly gone. I had hoped that a few months’ absence, might, at the least, allow me some shadow of the life I had before. I missed my friends in Drury Lane—the bright-eyed actresses and their dowdy dressers, our plump and jolly regulars backstage who accompanied us on afternoon trips to Regent Street and Piccadilly, shopping in Dickins, Smith & Stevens or setting out to James Smith’s to buy umbrellas or fancy parasols. I missed the fun of sherry and shortcake in the early evening and the backstage parties later on, the lazy band tuning up in a side room and the whores plying their trade on our doorstep. If I had expected to return to any of that I was mistaken—in the event of wanting to keep my son respectable, that is. I was at my family’s disposal once more. It hurt. Still there were many women in a far worse position than I.

      It’s so easy to fall. From my sister’s house in leafy Kensington, on Gilston Road, it is but a small drop to some damp room down by the river where you grow very thin and are used very harshly. I wanted no son of mine to dwindle to a stick. Too many children, half abandoned, live their lives hungry. Open your eyes and you’ll see them in the filthy, dark corners, angular and ravenous. Even their hair is thin. Their mothers, poor souls, have nothing to give as they disappear into the quicksand, penny whores if they’re as much as passingly pretty and washerwomen if they’re not. Most people of our acquaintance do not even notice the desperation of the thousands, but there are plenty who regularly pawn their clothes for a little bread and would sell their honour, their spirit and their children if they could, for a life less comfortable than a nobleman’s dog.

      We were doing our best to salvage my mistake and, with a little stake money, India at least offered a decent chance for Henry (who, raised respectably with his cousins, would be free of my disgrace) and for me (since abroad I might still marry tolerably well).

      I moved into my old room at the back of the house. Like a beating heart, in the background the city pulsed with vitality, but I might as well have been in Calcutta for all I could partake of it. I had nothing to do apart from spend time with the children for a few hours in the morning but I accepted that, for Henry’s sake.

      ‘He has your smile, Aunt Mary,’ Helen said.

      ‘I am not sure I am pleased by that,’ I told her. ‘Henry has no teeth yet.’

      And this set us giggling. We drew pictures with coloured pencils and I kept Helen and Thomas amused with stories. I liked to hold Henry. I allowed myself to dote on him for hours until Harriet came to take him out in the perambulator after lunch.

      Then, most afternoons I read an old copy of Moll Flanders and pondered on a woman, fallen like me, and attempting to be practical while indulging a hopeless love. I ran over again and again what had happened and cursed the unfairness of it. Damn William and his upper-class sang-froid that had left me abandoned like this. And yet I did not believe I was capable of settling for what Jane had. My spirit is too unruly. I loathed Robert and his like—their grasping, scraping self-righteousness. The lack of passion. The awful fear of what Others May Think. It seemed to me preposterous that Jane should love him—a man who calculated every step from a very high horse. To Robert what I had done was incomprehensible. For myself, I regretted what had happened, but running over the events in my mind, I knew why I had made my choices. I had been unlucky.

      The night Henry was conceived William had been courting me for a year with what gentlemen call ‘no satisfaction’. He took me to his private rooms for dinner. The hangings on the wall glowed sumptuous red in the candlelight. We ate roasted boar with pear relish and crisp parsnips studded with rock salt, all served on silver platters that seemed to dance as the light flickered down from the sconces on the wall. As he downed French burgundy, I sipped champagne and William wove a wonderful spell. He would keep a house for me, he said. Anything I desired. Anything. Of course, such promises of devotion fired a passion in me that was blinding. I lived to be adored and here was a Duke’s son, on his knees.

      When I surrendered he kissed me all over and I hardly blushed. In the end he was so gentle that it surprised me. William was a large man and so much of the world that I expected him to make a hearty lover. Instead, ‘You beautiful woman,’ he moaned, the sweat dripping off him as he fumbled like some schoolboy. I should have known then how weak he really was. Instead, his vulnerability touched me and excited by the jewels and promises I took pity on him and forgave his physical frailty. I trusted him completely.

      Now, in the cold bedroom at the back of my sister’s house, the pale walls blue in the fading light of the afternoon and my cheeks already wet with tears, I cried for myself and my poor baby boy—whatever might become of us. I was sequestered—all respectable doors bar these were closed to me, and though Drury Lane would have welcomed me back with open arms, I had Henry to consider. It was a sacrifice all right and a shock to find that in six months nothing had changed. Still, I comforted myself that there is always hope and I did not wish for one second that the storm had done its job.

      One afternoon about a week after I returned to Gilston Road, Harriet knocked on my bedroom door. She curtseyed, unwillingly, I thought, and held out a tiny salver with a calling card. I expected no visitors and eagerly turned it over to see who might have arrived. My stomach lurched as I read the name—William. A warm surge of hope fired through me. Perhaps everything would be all right after all. I told Harriet that I would come down shortly.

      ‘Where are the children?’ I asked as she left.

      My voice was casual—at least I hoped it sounded so. My hands shook.

      ‘Upstairs, Miss Penney.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      In the mirror my colour was high, my heart racing. Of course, I had rehearsed this moment—meeting William by chance in public, perhaps in Hyde Park, or seeing him on the other side of the street. But since his absolute abandonment, my letters returned, the long hours of waiting, the humiliation of being shunned, well, I had never imagined that he would actually call. All my thoughts had been directed to being beautiful at a distance. Of taking him by surprise and prompting him to adore me once again. The father of my child was downstairs. And Jane—Jane was out.

      I laid my palms on my cheeks and took as deep a breath as I could, confined by my corset. Usually when I acted I did not tie my stays so tightly. The night I met William I had not worn a corset at all. I was Titania, Queen of the Fairies, all flowing chiffon and trailing beads. He had kissed my hand and remarked that the part had become me—henceforth he would think of Titania no other way.

      ‘Do you think of Titania often, your Lordship?’ I drawled, all confidence.

      ‘From now on I shall,’ he bowed.

      Now, blushing, I hurried downstairs to the drawing room, my confidence much dented since my fairy days. William was standing by the fireplace. He looked as handsome as ever. As I entered, Harriet brought in a tray of tea things and laid them on the table next to the sofa. She curtseyed and left. I kept a steady gaze on the tall figure by the mantle. William did not meet my eye. I would not, I swore inwardly, take him back unless he begged.

      ‘You are well?’ he enquired at length.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You look well.’

      I waited and in agony indicated the teapot. ‘Might I offer you…’ My voice trailed off.

      William nodded. My hands СКАЧАТЬ