‘Whither are you bound, Madam?’ asked the innkeeper.

‘To Windsor.’

‘Madam, you cannot cross the Heath at this hour. Stay here until morning.’

‘I must press on.’

‘I must tell you, Madam, that every carriage which has crossed the Heath these last ten nights has been attacked and rifled.’

‘I must take that chance.’

‘But you … a lady and no one to protect you but that young boy!’

She smiled. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said.

‘There are some dangerous men about.’

She was immediately dramatic. She threw back her head and smiled. Let me be murdered, she thought; and then he will be filled with remorse. For the rest of his life he will remember that my death was due to his treatment of me.

‘I do not fear dangerous men,’ she said.

‘You will be risking your life.’

‘Perhaps I have no great desire to save it.’

The innkeeper looked at her oddly. Her face was vaguely familiar to him. It could not be. Not the Mrs Robinson! But of course, and she was going to Windsor because His Highness had lately arrived there.

All the same, if she were to encounter a highwayman he wouldn’t care if she was the Prince’s mistress; and now he knew who she was, the innkeeper believed that that was a diamond she was wearing at her throat. She was asking for trouble, she was, but he could do no more than warn her.

As she rode off into the darkness he stood at the door of the inn scratching his head and watching until the phaeton was out of sight.

Perdita rode on. Hounslow Heath! Notorious as the haunt of the most desperate highwayman. Her little postilion was frightened; she could sense his fear. The Heath stretched out before them – ghostly in starlight. At any moment from behind one of those bushes a dark figure might rise up, flourish a pistol and call ‘Stand and deliver.’

She herself caught the boy’s fear. All very well to act a part before the innkeeper, to pretend that she did not care whether she was murdered or not. That was a part she played. But this was reality. Deep emotions, such as fear and misery penetrated the mask. She suddenly knew as they crossed the Heath that she did not want to die at the hands of some rough murderer.

She heard something like a sob from the little postilion; and then she saw the masked figure on the road.

Providence was with her, she was sure, for just as he was about to grasp the reins, the phaeton bounded over a hump in the road which threw the man backwards and gave her the chance she needed. She whipped up the horses and before the highwayman had a chance to recover his balance she had a start. He was running behind them, calling them to stand and deliver, shouting that he wanted their money or their lives.

Perdita did not heed him; the ponies seemed to sense the danger and galloped as never before, and after some moments of intense anxiety with great relief she saw the lights of an inn. She decided that if she reached it safely she would spend the night there for in any case it would be too late to get a message to the Prince at Windsor now.

The poor little postilion was white with fear and a little resentful, wondering why they had had to risk their lives by crossing the Heath only to pull up at the Magpie.

The landlord received them with pleasure and when she recounted the adventure assured her that she was a very brave lady and lucky to escape not only being robbed but with her life.

She was exhausted she said, and would have food sent up to her room. Her young postilion needed food too; he had acted with courage in an alarming situation and she wished him to know that she was pleased with him.

When the food was brought to her room she found she was very hungry and remembered that it was long since she had last eaten. She ate and lay down on her bed and was soon fast asleep.

She was awakened after a while by the sounds of commotion in the inn yard, where there was a great deal of running to and fro; visitors she supposed, and slept again to be awakened some hours later by more noises. This time it sounded like departures.

The busy life of an inn, she supposed, and slept again.

She was awake early and immediately became anxious to continue the journey to Windsor. She washed and dressed, put on her rouge and patches to the best of her ability, sighing for Mrs Armistead who would have done so much better than she could.

Then she went down to take a little refreshment before leaving.

This was brought to her and when she had eaten and had made her way out of the dining room, she saw a woman descending the staircase. At first she thought she was dreaming.

Mrs Armistead!

But what could her lady’s maid be doing here at the Magpie Inn at this hour of morning?

It was a mistake. It could not be Mrs Armistead. It was her double.

For a few seconds they stood perfectly still looking at each other. Surely that calm handsome face could belong to no one else.

Then the woman turned and unhurriedly, and with the utmost dignity, made her way back the way she had come.

Perdita cried suddenly and imperiously: ‘Armistead.’ But the woman did not look back as she disappeared round a turn in the staircase.

Impossible, thought Perdita. I must be dreaming.

The innkeeper was at the door rubbing his hands, trusting she had spent a good night and had had a good breakfast.

She assured him she had and he told her that the phaeton was ready to leave when she was.

And then she received her second surprise. A man sauntered across the yard. She knew that man. He was a servant of the Prince’s. His name was Meynel. He had on one or two occasions brought messages to her from the Prince.

How strange. It was like a dream. First she imagined she had seen Armistead – but she had seen Armistead – and then the Prince’s servant.

The innkeeper was beside her.

‘Is that man attached to the household of the Prince of Wales?’ she asked.

The innkeeper looked sly. ‘Oh, Madam, we entertain the quality here. I could tell you …’

She did not answer. She went out to the phaeton. Mrs Armistead! Meynel! How very strange.

All the way to Windsor she was thinking of the strangeness of this encounter. A suspicion had come into her mind. The Prince had shown an interest in Armistead. She had caught him watching her now and then. There had been an occasion when she had seen his arrival and he had been a long time coming into her room. And Armistead had left her … after all these years … so oddly.

Armistead! An assignation with the Prince!

‘Oh no, no,’ she murmured.

But in her heart she believed it was true, and something told her that if it was, this was indeed the end.


* * *

The next day she arrived in Windsor. She gazed wistfully at the castle and thought of how happy she could have been had she been a princess who might have married him. Everything would have been so different then. There would have been none of the anxieties which had led to friction between them.

She saw herself as a princess arriving from a foreign country, startling him with her beauty.

But encroaching reality was so alarming that it robbed her dreams of any substance; at such a time even she was forced to recognize them for the fancies they were.

She would be brisk and practical; so she pulled up at an inn where she wrote a letter and sent the postilion to the castle with it instructing him to find Lord Malden who, she was sure, was with the Prince, and when he had found him to tell him from whom the note came and beg him to deliver it into no hands but those of the Prince of Wales.

The boy was away for a fretful hour and a half before he returned and said that he had at length been taken to Lord Malden and given the note to him.

‘You did well,’ she told the boy.

The waiting was almost unbearable. At one moment she was assuring herself that the note would bring the Prince to the inn full of remorse; at another she pictured his becoming angry with her for following him to Windsor, but soon to be placated by her soft words and beauty. One thing she could not visualize and that was that he would not come at all.

It was Lord Maiden who came, looking melancholy and anxious. Dear Lord Maiden, who had always been such a good friend!

She greeted him eagerly. ‘The Prince …’

Lord Maiden shook his head.

‘You gave him my note?’

‘I did.’

‘And you have a reply for me. Why did he not come himself when I begged him to?’

‘The Prince is determined not to see you.’

‘But why … why … what have I done to deserve this? Did he read my note?’

‘Yes and …’

‘What? Pray do not hide anything.’

‘He tore it into pieces and said he had no wish to see you again.’

‘But …’

Lord Maiden took her hand and looked into her face. ‘You should return to Cork Street. You will find you have many friends … many friends …’

He was regarding her with that hungry expression which she knew so well.

She withdrew her hands impatiently.

‘I must see the Prince.’

Malden shook his head. ‘He is determined.’

‘And so am I.’

‘But …’

She seized his hand suddenly. ‘Promise me this, that you will do your best to persuade him …’

Lord Maiden replied tenderly: ‘You know that if there is anything on earth I can do to add to your happiness it shall be done. You have lost the Prince of Wales but you have friends left.’

She felt so sickened with anxiety that she turned peevishly away. She had never known Maiden not to plead his own cause! She knew what he was hinting. Don’t mourn because you are no longer the mistress of the Prince of Wales. There are many other men who are ready to take you on.