Because she was taking some action she felt better. After all, she was capable of choosing the most becoming and suitable of her dresses, capable of applying the patch close to her eyes to call attention to their brilliance.
Dressing took a long time and she could not arrange her hair as effectively as Armistead could, but at length she was ready. Perhaps she should start tomorrow morning. No, she could not endure another night of suspense. She must see the Prince – and the sooner the better.
She sent for her young postilion – he was only nine years old – and told him that she wished to drive her small pony phaeton to Windsor, so he was to saddle the ponies and bring it to the door.
The boy looked astonished, but when she told him to be quick he went away to do her bidding.
How long it seemed while she waited there! The time seemed to have flown by since she had made her decision; again and again she looked at her reflection and thought of how much better a job Armistead would have made of her toilette.
At length the phaeton was waiting and she climbed into it while her youthful postilion took his place and they set off. Preparations had taken so long that it was getting dark when they reached Hyde Park Corner.
As the coach rattled on she was rehearsing what she would say to the Prince when she saw him; but first she must make sure that he would see her. This thought made her shiver with sudden anxiety. What if he refused? He had sounded so insistent in his letter. ‘We must not meet again.’ But he could not really have meant that. He had written it in a sudden passion. Perhaps inspired by Grace Elliott or her enemies at Cumberland House.
They had reached Hounslow and pulled up at an inn.
The innkeeper came out to welcome her and usher such an obvious lady of quality into the inn parlour.
She declared that she could take nothing. She was only eager to continue her journey as soon as possible.
‘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.