A Lady's Fate

Chapter Seven - Mary

Mary,

I have agonised over whether or not I ought to write you this letter. You will be cross with me for not having written it sooner, I know – but I only ask that you forgive me for my foolish pride and stubbornness, which you have warned me of all-too-many times. You may tut, and scold as much as you like, as long as you continue to read this letter – for I am scared, and alone, and I desperately wish I had you with me now, so that I might listen to your wisdom and enjoy your unfaltering friendship as I have done for so many years.

London is not at all as I had hoped, Mary. We always imagined it as such a vibrant, glamorous place when we fantasised about attending a Season – but unfortunately all I have seen is dirt, gloom and misery. Between the constant clatter of hooves on the road and the wailing of infants echoing from overcrowded, squalid housing, it is nigh impossible for me to get a wink of sleep. As I wake each morning to go to work at the nearby silk factory, the first thing I wonder is how I will get through the day without collapsing in an exhausted heap.

I must continue tirelessly toiling, however – for I know not how much longer I shall be able to remain in employment. My condition is further progressed than we initially anticipated, Mary, and I fear my time draws near. It is all I can do to conceal my swollen stomach from my colleagues, though it grows more difficult by the day. My greatest fear is being found out by one of the other workers – the silk industry in Spitalfields is dwindling, they say, and soon there will be precious little work to go around. As a pregnant woman, I shall surely be amongst the first dismissed.

Now, Mary, I know what you will be thinking – but you must promise me not to come rushing to my rescue. It may seem impossible to refrain from journeying to directly to London upon reading this letter, but I must entreat you to remain at Alverton Hall; doing so is the only way to keep my whereabouts hidden. He is likely looking for us by now, and will expect us to be together – continuing to reside at opposite ends of the country is the safest thing we can do.

Therefore, this is not a plea for rescue, but rather a request for advice. I know that I can count on you, Mary, for you have helped me out of many a scrape over the years. Please send word as soon as possible with whatever wisdom you shall no doubt impart upon me. I am fortunate beyond words to have a friend as loyal as you – for I know that even now, though I am perhaps more distressed than I have been my entire life, you shall find a way to offer comfort from afar.

I love you dearly, Mary, and eagerly await your reply.

Yours etc.,

Margaret

Mary thudded her fist on her writing desk in frustration, taking care not to crumple the wad of paper which had now been thumbed through at least three times. Margaret's words did not improve upon second or third reading – in fact, with each fresh glance at the paper before her, Mary's frustration only increased.

Never in her life had she felt so completely and utterly useless! Never had she felt so ashamed; pained by the knowledge that she had failed Margaret, the person she cared for more than anyone else in the world. Reading of Margaret's unwavering confidence in her near broke Mary's heart - if only Margaret could see just how stupid Mary truly was.

A sensible person would have convinced Margaret that running off to an unfamiliar city alone to give birth to an illegitimate child was a certain recipe for disaster – but clearly, a sensible person Mary was not. Instead, she had agreed to masquerade as Margaret in front of the Earl of Alverton and his daughter, as if she knew the first thing about being a lady.