The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad Read online

  I am finding the adjustment to life in Rio a difficult one. The heat and the mosquitoes are insufferable. When we attended a ball given by an Austrian official, the ladies in their low-cut muslin gowns were so badly bitten that our shoulders were red raw, as if we had been whipped.

  When the royal party entered the ballroom I was in attendance on Dona Leopoldina, although very much in the rear of the party due to my lowly status. Nevertheless, Dom Pedro singled me out, much to my discomfiture. His excuse was that he ‘wished to meet the only English lady at court.’ Dona Leopoldina presented me and I made my curtsey. Her husband puffed out his chest and licked his full lips before kissing my hand. His heavy lidded eyes spoke of sensuality and not a great deal of wit or intelligence.

  ‘I speak little English’, he apologised, ‘and my wife says that my French is even worse.’ He glanced roguishly at her and she responded with a strained smile.

  ‘You must learn to speak Portuguese well, my dear, and then we can converse. You may tell me all about England.’ I curtsied again and he moved on. I had been put totally out of countenance by being favoured so openly. The other ladies-in-waiting were giving me barbed looks. The Countess of K prodded me sharply in the ribs as the procession rounded a corner of the room. Later, Dom Pedro contrived to pinch my rear, while pretending to deal with a mosquito bite.

  Many of the men were hopping up and down scratching at their silk stockings. It was oven hot indoors and scarcely better outside. Unlike on the European continent, the heat did not lessen at night. Oh, for those Italian nights I spent at the Princess of Wales’ villa! Was it only a year ago? I wrenched my mind away from my time with the Austrian Count and its subsequent disasters. When I returned to my rooms, I tore off my underskirts and had recourse to Gowland’s lotion.

  I visit the homes of the British residents whenever possible as an antidote to the stiff ways of the court, but occasionally I am invited into a Portuguese dwelling. I visited the home of a certain Dona Gabriela de Castro, who wished to show off her command of English. Her house was furnished in an elegant style with many English objects, china and glassware and linens, together with French furniture. The ladies of the household busied themselves with embroidery and much nibbling of Portuguese pastries.

  ‘How are you finding life in Rio, Senhora Wickham?’ asked Dona Gabriela, as she casually threw pieces of cake onto the floor. I was too astonished to answer as I watched several black infants scrabbling around for the morsels. They were the children of the slave women of the household, who stood silently ranged around the walls. We discussed the domestic life of the city while I endeavoured to hide my surprise. When I noticed a long whip, standing ready in one corner of the room, I could scarcely contain my horror.

  Summoning up my courage, I asked Senhora Gabriela if she had recourse to the whip often. She frowned, saying, ‘My slaves are docile for the most part but occasionally I whip one as an example to the others.’ She laughed at the shocked look I could not quite disguise. ‘This is not Europe, my dear. There are so many of them and so few of us. I have heard that you do not approve of our methods in England.’ I admitted that our government was now determined to abolish slavery in its dominions and was attempting to persuade other countries to follow suit. This plan, so far, has not been entirely successful. There was much laughter from the Portuguese present, while the slaves looked on in silence.

  When the carriage arrived to collect me the family also left the house in procession, Dona Gabriela’s husband leading, followed by his wife and the older children, with a long string of black slaves following them, nursemaids and bearers, all dressed in the height of Portuguese fashion.

  Chapter 4

  January 6th, 1818

  My Dearest Selena,

  It will be many months before this letter reaches you but the writing of it eases my mind, and I hope you will be greatly diverted by my account of life at this strange court. I have pursued my duties as lady-in-waiting extraordinaire to Dona Leopoldina for two months as of this week, not counting the long days en-route. My position remains a difficult one and I am not accepted by the Austrian faction, although the princess herself is most gracious to me.

  A slave rings a bell in the corridor outside my apartment to summon me to my duties. How I hate this! Only servants are summoned by bells and I am treated as a superior version of one. Yesterday I received my first quarterly payment. An official came and formally handed me a number of gold cruzados, each worth four hundred milreis – about fifty pounds I believe, in a blue velvet bag embroidered with the royal crest in gold thread. Nevertheless, I cannot abide these customs. Only servants and women of the night are paid in this way.

  My unfortunate mistress is also finding things difficult here. I think she is already disillusioned with her marriage and she suffers greatly from the heat and the boredom of life at court. She adopts a cheerful pose that is more depressing than outright despair. She now rides out occasionally with Dom Pedro in the countryside adjacent to Rio, but I do not think she is happy with him.

  I was presented to the queen when she visited her daughter-in-law’s apartments. As I made my courtesy to Queen Carlota, she showed me her full, twisted countenance for a long moment.

  ‘Qui?’ was her only remark.

  ‘My new lady,’ replied Dona Leopoldina. ‘She is from England.’ Dona Carlota looked me over and I was positively gorgonised by her stare. Her dress was gay and colourful with gold and silver silk embroidery. It was very grand but more suited to a young girl. Her ladies wore equally eccentric garments and I have heard that they sit on the floor oriental-style in their mistress’ chambers.

  ‘I do not care for the English, they are a deceitful people.’ This was Queen Carlota’s parting remark as she took her leave. It was made in French but I caught the general drift.

  Adelaide has warmed somewhat towards Eufrasia and has undertaken to teach her some English. The slave girl now has a smattering of cockney phrases overlaid with a disconcerting Afro-Brazilian accent. “My eye in a bandbox,” one of Adelaide’s favourite sayings, is pronounced as “mi eye in a bumbosh.” This, combined with the aggravations of royal service, can bring on an attack of the vapours during a humid afternoon. The period after luncheon can only be tolerated if one lies down under a large fan, wearing as little as possible. How shocked everyone at home would be if they could see us!

  My friend, Mr Luccombe, has brought me a parcel of goods newly arrived on the packet boat from England. I was delighted to find a new novel I had ordered, Thomas Moore’s Lallah Rookh. It is an oriental fantasy and I am longing to read it. Moore is an Irishman and a friend of dear Lord Byron. The book has been much praised.

  When I read an English novel I am immediately transported back to my home country for a few hours. In the meantime, life here is lived purely for pleasure on the backs of a myriad of slaves and courtiers. I wonder if there is anyone left in Lisbon: the entire population of that city appears to have landed in Rio. Europe, however, is always in our thoughts. All talk is of the latest fashions from Paris, the choicest goods from London, who is being lionised in the theatres and the scandal from the royal courts.

  Often, the fashions are completely passé when they arrive here and after they are given an Afro-Brazilian garnish (much beading and feathers), they often appear very strange indeed. We would shock the stately residents of Bath if we appeared on their streets in this finery. They would surely choke on their chocolate.

  How I long to receive a letter from you, dear friend! I trust you and dear Miles are well and in the best of spirits and that the gods of fortune are smiling upon you. It seems so long ago since we were all together in London, giving card parties and having adventures in Brighton and Bath, not to mention my experiences in Paris and Venice.

  If my relatives could see me now, how amazed they would be, especially my esteemed brother-in-law, Mr Darcy. But I fear I have been cast off by my family. Who knows when I shall see you all again or set foot on English soil once more? Ho
wever, I must not give way to a fit of the dismals. I must return to my duties and also do battle with the wildlife. The mosquitoes are outrageous.

  With fondest love,

  I remain your friend Lydia Wickham

  After sealing the letter I made my way to Dona Leopoldina’s apartments for our appointed hour of English conversation. On the way I stopped and looked out of a window, where I caught sight of Dom Pedro in the gardens. He was wearing a shining white military tunic adorned with a great deal of gilt frogging. His tight, white breeches were tucked into highly polished black boots. He was idly tickling the rump of a pretty slave girl with his riding crop, as she bent over a spade and turned the earth.

  When he caught sight of me, his swarthy face broke into a wide smile and he saluted me with the crop, placing his hand on his heart. I bobbed a curtsy and he blew me a kiss. I moved on hastily but not before His Highness finished this romantic little scene by spitting into the bushes with some expertise. Expectorating contests are held frequently in the gardens, with Dom Pedro competing with guards and servants.

  ‘My husband has an earthy nature,’ Dona Leopoldina commented on one such occasion. ‘It must be the Latin temperament,’ she added without conviction. Indeed, the prince is much pre-occupied with bodily fluids of all kinds and makes no secret of the fact.

  I am perturbed by Dom Pedro’s interest in me. I fear he has marked me for his next conquest. An Englishwoman at this court is a great novelty and I am regarded as something rich and strange, like a human version of the white tiger, rare and decidedly peculiar. As such, I am a challenge to someone like Dom Pedro.

  When my duties were concluded I returned to my rooms, where I found that Adelaide had admitted Jerry Sartain, who was sprawled in a chair looking perfectly at home. I could not imagine how he had gained entry to the palace. The guards must have been asleep at their posts.

  ‘He just turned up like a bad penny,’ Adelaide explained as Eufrasia came in with coffee. They both departed the room, leaving me alone with Jerry.

  ‘You should teach that girl some English,’ Jerry remarked, referring to Eufrasia. ‘How old is she? Her figure is excellent.’

  ‘Please do not annoy me with your coarseness,’ I begged. ‘Why have you arrived in this manner? I have not seen you since we disembarked from that dreadful ship.’ Jerry waved away my complaints. ‘I have had plans to make, my sweet. I am joining an expedition into the interior. Who knows what we may find? I hope to improve my fortunes considerably.’ He gave me a shrewd look. ‘I trust you will find ways to do the same.’ When he saw my expression of concern he stood up and drew me close. ‘Don’t worry about me, Lydia. Think only of yourself. We may meet again one day and, in the meantime, perhaps a last…?’ He gazed meaningfully at the chaise longue and held me tighter.

  ‘No! No!’ I shrieked. ‘Do not be ridiculous. We are in the royal palace. You should not be here and we cannot afford to be seen together.’ I noticed that my cries had not brought either of my attendants to my rescue.

  My erstwhile admirer shrugged and indicated an oddly shaped container covered with a cloth. ‘I brought you a farewell gift, sweet Lydia. It will remind you of me every day.’ I gazed at the object with trepidation as he whipped off the cover. There was an ear-shredding cry as a brilliantly plumaged bird was revealed beating its wings against a cage. I stared at it for a moment, stupefied. Adelaide came into the room, saw the creature and screamed. The large red and green bird screamed back at her. When I turned around I found that Jerry had slipped silently away and I instantly regretted my hasty words as I remembered our delightful coupling so long ago.

  The parrot or macaw, or whatever it is, has a rich vocabulary in several languages, eclipsing even the parrot kept by our ship’s captain. Only by covering its cage with a cloth can we silence its filthy verbiage. Adelaide has officially named the bird Napoleon but when she thinks I am not present she refers to it as Jerry.

  Chapter 5

  February 3rd

  ‘What do you do with yourself all day, my dear?’ Mr Luccombe is filled with curiosity about my role.

  ‘I wait upon Dona Leopoldina, but of course I share the duties with other ladies so I am not required at all hours.’

  My host’s expression became thoughtful and he eyed me keenly. Taking my arm he led me into his study where he picked up a ledger and clutched it to his chest in a solemn manner.

  ‘You must know, my dear, that I am not merely a business man. I also serve my country in various ways. Occasionally, I solicit suitable people to assist me.’

  The hairs on my arms were standing up at this point, despite the heat. Scenes from my past life flashed before me, the resolute pursuit of my person by Captain Marshfield through various parts of the continent, and his insistence that I spy on the count and the Princess of Wales. No doubt the captain had contacted Mr Luccombe and alerted him to my arrival. I would never be free of the wretch, and he still owed me payment. Mr Luccombe’s next words confirmed my fears.

  ‘I believe you have served in a certain capacity before, Mrs Wickham. Is that not so?’

  Reluctantly, I agreed. ‘Whatever do you wish me to do here in Brazil?’

  ‘Simply to let us know the mind of Dom Pedro and the royal family. Our government wishes to know their attitude to us. We are, you know, Portugal’s oldest ally. That should be worth something.’ I doubted that the British Government would want to know what was going on in Dom Pedro’s mind – I could hazard a guess.

  ‘I should think my services would be worth something also, sir. Yet I have still not been paid for my work in Italy,’ I replied, a sour note entering my voice.

  Mr Luccombe waved the ledger at me, almost dropping it. ‘Do not concern yourself, my dear. I will reimburse you for your work here.’

  I sighed, wondering why I was always required to spy on my lovers. I devoutly wished to be with Jerry Sartain at that moment, but even he needed me to obtain money for him. All men require something from us. I sighed again and agreed to Mr Luccombe’s proposition.

  ‘Capital! Then you must come with us to watch a procession tomorrow.’ There is a procession of some kind almost every day in this city. Endless saints’ days and national events are commemorated with everyone working themselves into a frenzy. It is quite tiresome, as if London was celebrating a coronation several times each week. Of course, the citizens have so much leisure because all the work is done by slaves.

  Seeing my hesitation, Mr Luccombe assured me that tomorrow would be special. ‘It is the Goldsmiths’ procession, the biggest and most popular of them all. Everyone will be out on the street in their finery and there will be a grand firework display afterwards. You must not miss it.’ No doubt there was an ulterior motive in all of this.

  On the following morning Adelaide and I donned our mantillas, anticipating much drunkenness on the streets, intense heat and crowds. I have become quite fond of this headdress but my maid complains that it makes her feel ridiculous.

  ‘We will blend into the crowd with ease if we wear these things,’ I told her. She disagreed saying, ‘With our complexions we will stand out like a pimple on a baby’s bottom. It’s all very well for these girls with their dark, flashing eyes but it doesn’t suit an English miss.’

  When we joined the Luccombes, with their family and slaves, the procession was approaching. The religious emblems and statues borne aloft on great biers were preceded by a strange sight – black women called Baianas, from the province of Bahia, were dancing along dressed in the skimpiest of costumes with feathered headdresses. In between the hymns and the devout exclamations, these females were being ogled and cheered as they undulated and shook their bodies in a most suggestive manner.

  Everyone followed them from street to street. ‘Here come the Bananas again,’ Adelaide called as she ran ahead.

  ‘Baianas, Baianas, not bananas,’ puffed Mr Luccombe, struggling along in his black serge frock coat. In the Street of the Goldsmiths, the sun glinted on gold and silver plaques
as the crowd applauded the women again. They were followed by a troupe depicting the sacrifice of Abraham.

  ‘Stop, stop,’ begged Mrs Luccombe. ‘Let us fortify ourselves before we go any further.’

  We stopped to take tiny bowls of black bean broth ‘to line the stomach’ said her husband. These were followed by small glasses of cachaça, the local cane sugar spirit, which is a powerful brew. I was quite overcome after one glass and my mantilla fell askew. We all headed towards the parade ground where the fireworks would be held, fighting our way through the heaving crowds. The slaves carried plates and baskets of food, but at that point I gave up the struggle and allowed myself to be borne along by the tide of people.

  Suddenly, I was thrust against the chest of a somewhat ruffian-looking fusilier officer who was leaning against the door of a carriage. To my surprise and horror it was Dom Pedro. ‘Your Highness!’ I exclaimed, removing my face from his jacket. ‘You are… here?’ I realised how silly the remark sounded but I was taken aback. There was nothing unusual about finding the prince in disguise on the streets of Rio. It was well known that this was his favourite occupation. He found it an invaluable way to meet new female acquaintances.

  ‘How delightful, Meez Wickham!’ He flashed a smile full of teeth and pressed me against his chest for a second before releasing me and making a formal bow. ‘Allow me to escort you, senhora.’

  ‘To where, Your Highness?’ The prince’s thick, dark eyebrows shot up like a pair of acrobatic moles over his hot eyes. I had given him an opportunity.

  ‘Let me show you this city – the real Rio de Janeiro. You will be amazed.’ Whatever he wanted to show me I doubted it would include a great deal of scenery.

  ‘With respect, sire, I must return to the palace to attend on Dona Leopoldina shortly.’ He waved away this remark, lifted me bodily aside from the melée and deposited me in the carriage. I am not averse to assertive behaviour in men, but as we drove away I had a strong feeling that this particular escapade would not end well.