Imprudent Lady

Chapter 2

The only difference putting on her cap made to Miss Mallow was that she thought rather more than she used to about marriage. Her noble resolve to forego nabbing a husband did not inhibit her daydreaming about it, but they became wild, improbable dreams now, untethered to reality. She let her vivid imagination soar, and was pursued in her mind by princes and nabobs, by foreign generals and handsome wastrels, by scholars and sportsmen. One particularly dreary day, with rain sliding down the windows of the studio and the smell of Clarence’s paints in her nostrils, she even imagined she was the object of Lord Dammler’s devotion. He combined the attributes of many of her dream lovers in one person. He was a lord-a marquis to be precise-he was an intellectual and a poet, he was a rake, a sportsman, and the handsomest man in England.

He had risen to prominence a year before with the publication of his Cantos from Abroad. Upon coming into his title and dignities two and a half years before that, his first act had not been to take over the reins of Longbourne Abbey, his late uncle’s estate, or take his seat in the house, or even take a wife, but to take the first ship leaving England’s shore and spend the next three years circling the globe. He had travelled those parts of the world known to few westerners-Greece, Turkey, Egypt, across vast Russia into China, from China by schooner to the Pacific Isles. He had returned via the Americas, North and South according to his poems, and finally across the Atlantic home to England. He had left an unknown young nobleman, and returned a legend. His first set of poems preceded him by six months in the hands of a friend, and by the time he landed the ton was on tiptoe to meet him.

His Cantos from Abroad were tales in verse loosely based on his voyage. The hero was named Andrew Marvelman, which was soon discovered to bear a strong resemblance to his own-Allan Merriman. The circumstances too were remarkably similar-a young gentleman with wealth and duties thrust suddenly on to his shoulders. A mystery and point of deep interest was the reason for his precipitous flight at the very point in his career when it was most probable he would remain at home. The reason was widely held-though not explicitly stated-to involve a liaison with a lady. Certainly ladies and females of all sorts and degrees featured prominently throughout the cantos, as did villains, intrigues and dangers of all kinds. There were harem girls who were in turn replaced by czarinas and Indian princesses as he jaunted recklessly from country to country, being shipwrecked, shot at, mauled by tigers, Musselmen, Cossacks and Indian chiefs. But a bigger and more dangerous event yet awaited Dammler when he was presented to panting Society. It was said by one wit that every man in England was jealous of him, and every woman in love with him. Dammler modestly retorted that the case had been overstated; only those ladies and gentlemen who could read had fallen into a passion of one sort or another over him.

His exquisite person, allied to his high rank and wealth, would have been enough to set him up as a marital prize, even without the glamour of his travel and poems, but it was the poetry and the plethora of rumours preceding his landing that lent him that certain extra charm-the magic that surrounded his name. On that first evening when his name was announced and he stepped into Princess Lieven’s ball to shake hands with his hostess, there hadn’t been a sound in the room. Every eye was turned on him; even breath was suspended at the climax of the moment. There was total silence. “I never heard the likes of it since Beau Brummell's famous question to Alvanley about the Prince Regent-’Who’s your fat friend?’,” the Princess Lieven stated later.

Dammler was tall and supple, his body lean from the rigours of travel, his shoulders wide and straight. His amorous and aggressive exploits left a residue of weariness on his face, and this, combined with the tan he had picked up, saved him from being too handsome. One shock the ton had not been prepared for was the black eye patch over his left eye, but this was in no way a distraction from his charms. Quite the contrary, it was the coup de grace. His coats, his interesting drawl, his habit of hunching his shoulders and throwing up his hands could be and were studiously followed by his imitators, but they none of them were ready to go to the laughable length of either sticking a patch on a good eye, or removing one and giving themselves just cause to wear the patch. In this he was unique. Before he was in the room a minute the Princess had asked the reason for the patch.

“I was hit by a Cherokee’s arrow as I fled downstream in my canoe, ma’am,” he answered smiling. “I lost the maiden I was trying to rescue, unfortunately, but I saved the eye. My patch can come off in a few months.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” she answered promptly. “Let us get used to one such dangerous eye before we are challenged with two.”

“You are too kind, but only think, Princess, if I had the use of both, I could see you twice as well.” He ran an admiring glance over the gaunt lady as he spoke.

“Oh you are naughty, milord,” she tittered, enchanted with him.

“I am you know, but don’t tell anyone, or you will frighten away the ladies,” he laughed, and within seconds he was surrounded by them.

No polite party had seen such an unseemly scramble since the Prince of Wales entertained King Louis of France at Carlton House. A ‘squeeze,' of course, was all the go, but a stampede was what Princess Lieven’s ball was rapidly disintegrating into. She had to hustle the guest of honour into a private parlour and bolt the door to save him from having the hair pulled from his head, and the black jacket ripped from his back.

“I had thought I was returning to civilisation,” he told her, and she later told waiting Society. “It seems I am back among the savages. You ought really to have warned me, Princess, and I’d have brought my pistols.”

“What you need is a bodyguard,” she told him, and before long it was necessary for him to acquire not one but two. When he sauntered down Bond Street or rode in the park, he was accompanied by two men, each six-and-a-half feet tall and as broad as doors, to stave off the mobs. One was a jet black Nubian picked up on his peregrinations, the other a dour Scotsman with red hair and freckles. These persons accompanied him everywhere, but Society soon learned that Dammler did not like being pulled about and disappeared if physically handled. The colourful trio was a windfall for the cartoonists. The escorts were dubbed Dammler's “Guardian Angels,” and were represented by Gilray with wings and halos in the pictures that decorated the store windows.

The question uppermost in the mind of Society was, naturally, which fortunate female would attract Lord Dammler. His behaviour was maddeningly provocative. He would partner some dashing heiress for one or two days-appear with her at the opera and the balls-then two nights later she would be replaced by another. Rumours were rampant as to his having a wild but secret affair with this married lady or that widow, but they were not credited by the knowing. No lady would remain silent if she had indeed made a conquest of such magnitude. She would shout it from the rooftops. Several did lay claim to having entrapped him, and he was too polite to deny their lies outright, but only smiled and said, “Possibly, I don’t seem to recall the name of the lady I was with last night.”

It soon became obvious that his affection centered on no lady, but a young female of quite a different sort. He was frequently seen in company with a lady of pleasure of exquisite beauty, whose outstanding attraction was her hair. By some alchemy it had achieved a shade somewhere between silver and gold. She appeared in the park in a phaeton pulled by a matched pair of horses from the royal stud at Hanover, of much the same colour as her hair. She also appeared in an enviable collection of gowns and jewels.

Cantos from Abroad was in every hand and on every lip, in every book shop window and on every polite table top, and Lord Dammler’s fame rose higher, till it seemed he must be giddy from such heights. He was amazed and amused, tolerant and good-humoured, but eventually bored with it all, and began retiring from the gay social round. He dispensed with his “Guardian Angels,” and to escape for a spell, he accepted an invitation to a house party at Finefields, the estate of Lord Malvern and his pretty young wife Constance. No daring friend ever inferred to the Countess of Malvern that she had been well-named. Her affairs were infamous throughout the land. It was generally assumed that she had added Dammler to her long list of admirers. Certainly the lady did nothing to deny the rumour.

Stories sped back to London of orgies and affairs of unprecedented decadence, of a duel between Dammler and Malvern over the Countess’s honour. “Dammler mustn’t have taken to her,” Princess Lieven quipped. Malvern is very piqued if his friends don’t make love to Constance.” The poet was more discussed in his absence than in his presence, and when he returned to town, there was a fresh arrow in his quiver. He brought with him another installment of his Cantos from Abroad- those stanzas completed during the last six months of his tour, now polished and ready for publication. They involved the last lap of his journey home, with a detour into South America and the sea voyage aboard a ship which contained an improbable school of nuns and a licentious crew. The cantos were an immediate success. Miss Mallow, like everyone else with a guinea to spare, dashed out and bought a copy to delight her idle hours.

Perusing them, she wondered that anyone could bother to read her own dull stuff, with characters no more interesting than her Uncle Clarence, whom she had converted into a lady who wrote bad music which she constantly compared to Bach, with that gentleman on the short end.

Prudence and the poet lived and wrote in the same city, worked for the same publisher and public; their lives travelled in parallel lines, never touching. Lord Dammler occupied a large part of Miss Mallow’s mind, but he did not know of her existence. She was, in fact, once drawn to his attention by their mutual editor, Mr. Murray.

“Have you had a look at this novel, Dammler?” Murray asked one day when Prudence’s latest work was on his desk.

“I don’t read novels, except for Scott’s,” Dammler drawled, without ever glancing at the three volumes, nicely bound in blue with gold lettering.

“Oh, well if you care for Scott, I daresay you wouldn’t like this. Tame stuff-domestic, but good. Scott likes it. While you’re here, I mean to give your arm a little twist. There’s a dinner in honour of Mr. Wordsworth next week at Pulteney’s Hotel. I’m enjoining my more illustrious writers to attend and pay him homage. Will you come?”

“No.”

Murray sighed. “Just for the dinner-put in an appearance, Dammler. Your absence will be remarked upon.”

“I am already promised to my aunt, Lady Melvine, that evening.”

“She’ll understand.”

“I trust Mr. Wordsworth also is capable of understanding-though one might be forgiven for doubting it from what he writes. Do give him my regards.”

“Come after dinner for the speeches.”

Dammler stared, the brilliance from his one visible eye conveying worlds of astonishment. “What- purposely commit myself to sit for hours on a hard chair to listen to undeserved praise being heaped on Mr. Wordsworth. You are run mad, John. Mad as a hatter.”

“Well after the speeches then. Come in about ten o’clock, just to meet Wordsworth and say how do you do.”

“Oh, very well, if I happen to be in the vicinity. Pulteney’s you say?”

“Yes,” Murray smiled, taking this, as indeed it was meant to be taken, as a promise.

An invitation to the same party was extended by letter to Miss Mallow as a special treat. Murray had a good notion of the dull existence the poor girl led and wished to do her a favour. She was thrown into transports of delight, and for five days was in a fever of happy activity having a new gown made up, and dreaming of the famous people she would meet. This was her first foray into public literary life, and she looked forward to at last meeting other authors. Murray told her Fanny Burney would be there and had expressed a particular desire to meet her. Miss Burney was the most famous female writer of the period. Prudence felt she had reached the pinnacle of fame. It never occurred to her Lord Dammler might attend.

He might as well not have for all the effect her presence had on him. Murray introduced them just as Dammler was about to slip out the door fifteen minutes after his arrival. Neither Murray nor Wordsworth regretted his hasty departure. Once he had ambled in attention had been pretty well diverted from the guest of honour. It had taken a team of six strong men to get Wordsworth through the crowd surrounding the young poet. They shook hands and exchanged compliments unheard due to the general noise.

“Oh, Dammler, here is someone you ought to know,” Murray said as Dammler headed for the door. Prudence had managed to sidle up to get a better look at him without being discovered. “Miss Prudence Mallow, one of my rising writers.”

“Charmed, Miss Mallow,” the poet said in his drawling voice, with a formal bow from the waist and a smile that kept Prudence from work for two days.

She nearly forgot to curtsy, but stood staring at Dammler with an awestruck expression, taking in every detail of his face and form. She hadn’t known such perfection existed on earth. In fact, she had to step up her idea of heaven upon seeing him.

Familiar with this reaction on the part of young ladies, Dammler shouldered the burden of conversation and asked, “What Is it you write, Miss Mallow, novels or poetry?”

“Poetry,” she answered, with no intention of deceiving him, but not aware of what she said.

“I shall look forward to reading it,” he told her, and bowed himself away.

Prudence’s daydreaming rose to a higher pitch as a result of this encounter. The hero she had envisioned from the prints and cartoons in magazines and shop windows was filled out, improved, born anew upon a vision of the real man. Around three o’clock that morning as she lay wide awake reliving the evening, she recalled that she had not offered a word of praise to the poet on his work, nor offered to give him a copy of hers, which was surely hinted at by saying he looked forward to reading it. She arose from her bed, lit her taper, and inscribed her own copy to him that instant. The top corner of the first volume was a little dented from having been dropped, but the damage was not very noticeable. She pondered over what message to inscribe, and decided on the formal “Best wishes to Lord Dammler from Miss Mallow.” This book handled by herself would soon rest in his hands. Words and ideas culled from her brain would be transmitted through his eye to his brain. It was an intimacy never looked for. She fell asleep wondering what he would think of her book, and awoke with a headache to send it off to Mr. Murray to deliver to Lord Dammler.

Next morning when Dammler stepped into Murray’s office for a business meeting, the publisher gave him the three volumes of Miss Mallow’s first book.

“How extremely kind of her,” he said with a sort of sneering smile. “I am now expected to call in person and thank her, I collect.”

“A note will suffice.”

“I shan’t encourage her advances. You will kindly thank her on my behalf, John.”

John smiled, used to Dammler’s offhand ways. A half hour later Dammler was sitting in Lady Melvine’s saloon being scolded for leaving early the evening before.

“I have brought you a gift to make it up,” he said, giving her the volumes from Miss Mallow. “By a new writer Murray is encouraging. Very good he tells me.”

“Miss Mallow,” Lady Melvine read the name. “I am not familiar with her writing. Is she pretty?”

“No.”

“What is she like?”

“I have no recollection, but she cannot have been pretty or I would have. I seem to recall she wore a cap.”

“Ah, an older lady.”

He nodded, and began to quiz his aunt about some foolishness or other.