Soon after this, my husband called Thomas, and bid him order the cloth for his dinner to be laid in his study, and bid him tell his mother that he would dine by himself. When I heard this, I was more shocked than I had been yet. "Now his anger begins to work, Amy," said I, "how must I act?" "I do not know," answered she, "but I will go into the study, and try what can be done, and, as a faithful mediator, will try to bring you together." She was not long before she returned, and bursting into tears, "I know not what to do," says she, "for your husband is in a deep study, and when I told him you desired him to dine with you in the parlour as usual, he only said, 'Mrs. Amy, go to your lady, tell her to dine when and where she pleases, and pray obey her as your lady; but let her know from me that she has lost the tenderness I had for her as a wife, by the little thought she had of her children.'"
Nothing could have shocked me more than the delivery of this message by Amy. I, almost bathed in tears, went to him myself; found him in a melancholy posture reading in Milton's "Paradise Regained." He looked at me very sternly when I entered his study, told me he had nothing to say to me at that time, and if I had a mind not to disturb him, I must leave him for the present. "My lord," said I, "supposing all that has been said by this girl was truth, what reason have you to be in this unforgiving humour? What have I done to you to deserve this usage? Have you found any fault with me since I had the happiness of being married to you? Did you ever find me in any company that you did not approve of? Have you any reason to think that I have wasted any of your substance? If you have none of these things to allege against me, for heaven's sake do not let us now make our lives unhappy, for my having had legitimate children by a lawful husband, at a time that you think it no crime to have had a natural son by me, which I had the most reason to repent of."
I spoke the latter part of these words with a small air of authority, that he might think me the less guilty; but, I believe, he only looked on what I had said as a piece of heroism; for he soon after delivered himself in the following speech: "Madam, do you not think that you have used me in a very deceitful manner? If you think that I have not had that usage, I will, in a few words, prove the contrary. When first I knew you, soon after the jeweller's death at Paris, you never mentioned, in all that intricate affair I was engaged in for you, so much as your having any children; that, as your circumstances then were, could have done you no harm, but, on the contrary, it would have moved the compassion of your bitter enemy the Jew, if he had any. Afterwards, when I first saw you in London, and began to treat with you about marriage, your children, which, to all prudent women, are the first things provided for, were so far neglected as not to be spoken of, though mine were mentioned to you; and as our fortunes were very considerable, yours might very well have been put into the opposite scale with them. Another great piece of your injustice was when I offered to settle your own fortune upon yourself, you would not consent to it; I do not look on that piece of condescension out of love to me, but a thorough hatred you had to your own flesh and blood; and lastly, your not owning your daughter, though she strongly hinted who she was to you when she was twice in your company, and even followed you from place to place while you were in England. Now, if you can reconcile this piece of inhumanity with yourself, pray try what you can say to me about your never telling me the life you led in Pall Mall, in the character of Roxana? You scrupled to be happily married to me, and soon after came to England, and was a reputed whore to any nobleman that would come up to your price, and lived with one a considerable time, and was taken by several people to be his lawful wife. If any gentleman should ask me what I have taken to my bed, what must I answer? I must say an inhuman false-hearted whore, one that had not tenderness enough to own her own children, and has too little virtue, in my mind, to make a good wife.
"I own I would," says he, "have settled your own estate upon you with great satisfaction, but I will not do it now; you may retire to your chamber, and when I have any occasion to speak with you, I will send a messenger to you; so, my undeserving lady countess, you may walk out of the room."
I was going to reply to all this, but instead of hearing me, he began to speak against the Quaker, who, he supposed, knew all the intrigues of my life; but I cleared her innocence, by solemnly declaring it was a thorough reformation of my past life that carried me to live at the Quaker's house, who knew nothing of me before I went to live with her, and that she was, I believed, a virtuous woman.
I went away prodigiously chagrined. I knew not what course to take; I found expostulation signified nothing, and all my hopes depended on what I might say to him after we were gone to bed at night. I sent in for Amy, and having told her our discourse, she said she knew not what to think of him, but hoped it would, by great submission, wear off by degrees. I could eat but little dinner, and Amy was more sorrowful than hungry, and after we had dined, we walked by ourselves in the garden, to know what we had best pursue. As we were walking about, Thomas came to us, and told us that the young woman who had caused all the words, had been at the door, and delivered a letter to my lord's footman, who had carried it upstairs, and that she was ordered to go to his lordship in his study, which struck me with a fresh and sensible grief. I told Thomas, as he was to be her brother, to learn what my lord had said to her, if he could, as she came down; on which he went into the house to obey his order.
He was not gone in above a quarter of an hour before he came to me again, and told me she was gone, and that my lord had given her a purse of twenty guineas, with orders to live retired, let nobody know who or what she was, and come to him again in about a month's time. I was very much satisfied to hear this, and was in hopes of its proving a happy omen; and I was better pleased about two hours after, when Thomas came to me to let me know that my lord had given him thirty guineas, and bid him take off his livery, and new clothe himself, for he intended to make him his first clerk, and put him in the way of making his fortune. I now thought it was impossible for me to be poor, and was inwardly rejoiced that my children (meaning Thomas and Susanna) were in the high road to grow rich.
As Amy and I had dined by ourselves, my lord kept his study all the day, and at night, after supper, Isabel came and told me that my lord's man had received orders to make his bed in the crimson room, which name it received from the colour of the bed and furniture, and was reserved against the coming of strangers, or sickness. When she had delivered her message she withdrew, and I told Amy it would be to no purpose to go to him again, but I would have her lie in a small bed, which I ordered immediately to be carried into my chamber. Before we went to bed, I went to his lordship to know why he would make us both look so little among our own servants, as to part, bed and board, so suddenly. He only said, "My Lady Roxana knows the airs of quality too well to be informed that a scandal among nobility does not consist in parting of beds; if you cannot lie by yourself, you may send a letter to my Lord ——, whom you lived with as a mistress in London; perhaps he may want a bedfellow as well as you, and come to you at once; you are too well acquainted with him to stand upon ceremony."
I left him, with my heart full of malice, grief, shame, and revenge. I did not want a good will to do any mischief; but I wanted an unlimited power to put all my wicked thoughts in execution.
Amy and I lay in our chamber, and the next morning at breakfast we were talking of what the servants (for there were thirteen of them in all, viz., two coachmen, four footmen, a groom, and postillion, two women cooks, two housemaids, and a laundry-maid, besides Isabel, who was my waiting-maid, and Amy, who acted as housekeeper) could say of the disturbance that was in the family. "Pho!" said Amy, "never trouble your head about that, for family quarrels are so common in noblemen's houses, both here and in England, that there are more families parted, both in bed and board, than live lovingly together. It can be no surprise to the servants, and if your neighbours should hear it, they will only think you are imitating the air of nobility, and have more of that blood in you than you appeared to have when you and your lord lived happily together."