Twelve

Desperate Measures

Lady Messingham sat at her dressing table in dishabille, garbed only in her stockings, shift, and stays, as her lady’s maid put the finishing touches on her coiffeur. The lady regarded her reflection in the glass with a slight moue. Though Sarah was a competent enough dresser, she lacked the flair of Monsieur Brissard. The unfortunate dismissal of her personal friseur was but the first of what already appeared vain attempts to economize.

Sarah applied a light dusting of powder to her mistress’s face, and foregoing the proffered black silk patch, the lady rose to be dressed for her morning call to Lady Hamilton, currently in residence with the Princess Augusta at Leicester House.

Sarah had already pressed her best dove-colored mourning gown for the occasion, but Lady Messingham turned up her nose. “I have done with mourning, Sarah. I care not what anyone says. If I am to go to Leicester House today, it will be in the height of style.”

After selecting a modish new mantua of Spitalfields silk, Sarah assisted with panniers and petticoat, then pinned onto the gorgeous confection of rust and ochre hues an ornate stomacher worked in a complex pattern of silk and gold lace. It was one of Susannah’s dearest gowns and suited her coloring to perfection, but also the last she would order from Madame Guilane, she thought with a touch of melancholy.

“What shall it be, my lady?” Sarah proffered the jewel box.

“The emeralds, don’t you think? I am going to the court of the Princess Augusta, after all.” Lady Messingham donned eardrops and matching pendant, pausing to admire the effect of the milky stone surrounded by diamond baguettes that lay shimmering against the creamy white expanse of her bosom.

“Aye, my lady. Those jewels be fit for royalty.”

Her mistress’s lips curved with the consolation that though she must economize, no one had finer jewels.

***

She had already descended the stairs and called for her chairmen, when the footman announced the arrival of Mr. Allendale. She swept into the library where he awaited with a worried frown. “Sir, you are unexpected and come at a most inconvenient time.”

“A thousand pardons, my lady, but there is never a convenient time for such pressing matters. The state of your accounts—”

She silenced him with an admonishing look and swiftly moved to close the library door. “Your discretion leaves much to be desired.”

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I fear I am a bit overwrought these days.” The gentleman pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his bushy brow. “I genuinely fear for you, Lady Messingham. If you had only heeded my advice to take up residence in the country, all this may have been avoided. But now… I’d never have guessed that matters would come to such a pass.”

“What are you saying, sir?” she asked with mounting alarm.

“My dear lady, I know not how to break the news gently.”

“Then just out with it!” she exclaimed, her face already ghostly pale.

“I am in receipt of a summons for you to appear before Colonel Sir Thomas de Veil, the Westminster magistrate. Unless you are immediately prepared to settle your accounts, there is little I can do.”

“When, Allendale?” she asked with rising panic. “How much time do I have?”

“Tomorrow at half eleven, you are expected to present yourself at number four Bow Street.”

He pulled the parchment from his pocket and presented the summons into her trembling hands. She grasped the back of a nearby chair with the fear she might soon collapse.

“I am sorry, my lady. I will see myself out.” She watched in silence as Allendale stiffly departed, leaving in much greater haste than she would have expected, but then again, he evidenced obvious relief in having dispatched his duty and was no doubt pleased to have washed his hands of her.

She tried to focus on the document in her hands, desperate for a loophole or some way to forestall the proceedings, but her welling tears blurred the words. She collapsed into the chair. “Good God! What am I to do now?”

She briefly considered asking Lady Hamilton for a loan, but dismissed the notion as quickly. Little good ever came from borrowing from a friend. Besides, the sum was too great and she had no true assurance of repayment.

Reflexively, her hand went to her throat where her fingers met the cool stones, and the answer was upon her like a bolt from the blue.

She paused to consider the prudence of it, but perceiving no other viable course she scrawled a hasty note of regret to Lady Hamilton, claiming a severe megrim. Then, feigning the same, she instructed her servants not to disturb her for the balance of the afternoon. Sarah helped her to undress and returned to her with the jewel case, which Lady Messingham accepted before dismissing the servant.

With a determined but heavy heart, she removed her emerald necklace and eardrops. She lifted them reverently, holding them up to the light. A perfect match for her eyes, the emeralds had always been her favorite. No. These she could not bring herself to sacrifice. Instead, she laid them aside to her right.

She lovingly caressed the carved mahogany lid before raising it to reveal her full treasure trove. The first item to catch her eye was a triple strand of pearls with a diamond and ruby clasp. Taking them into both hands, she raised the pearls to her lips and passed them lightly over her front teeth. She closed her eyes to appreciate the slightly gritty sensation she might never know again.

With regret, she laid them on the dressing table to the left. She continued through the box delicately examining, mentally appraising, and sorting the contents into two distinct piles before replacing those few items she had reserved back into the box. The rest she swept, along with her diamond wedding ring, into a silk-lined purse.

She dressed herself once more in her plainest gown and slid her bundle into the pocket beneath her petticoat. Covertly, she moved through the house and down the servants’ stairs to exit facing the mews. Stepping through the garden gate, she pulled her cloak closely about her, and with her hand protectively over her hidden treasure, made her way briskly down Bedford Street toward the Strand.

From this bustling intersection, it was little trouble to hail a passing sedan chair. “Where to, missus?” one of the burly fellows asked.

Her response was tremulous but resolute. “To Fleet Street. I seek a pawnbroker.”