In an attempt to provide relatable context for my latest historical novel, I have been organizing a portrait gallery of some of the colorful characters who lived, loved, fought, and died during the reign of George III. The King’s eldest son, George, Prince of Wales, was an untamed, big-hearted, self-indulgent force of nature, and his youthful affair with the glamorous actress Mary Robinson (1758-1800) had been the stuff of the day’s tabloids.

As I looked at Mrs. Robinson’s portrait and thought about her harrowing novel The False Friend, I got to thinking about a difficult period in my own life, when I was blindsided by a string of betrayals by some people I believed to be my trusted friends. No doubt Mary’s youthful experiences with love, relationships, and disappointment helped her develop the plot of one of the last books she ever had published during her short life. 

On December 3, 1779, 17-year-old George, Prince of Wales (later King George IV), attended a performance of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in London. He fell madly in love with Mary Robinson, the 21-year-old leading lady portraying the character Perdita. The passionate Prince swore his undying devotion and promised the actress he would lavish her with riches when he came of age, if she would leave her husband and be his lover.

Mary’s marriage was an unhappy one. She had spent several months living in debtors’ prison with her ne’er-do-well spouse, and wrote poetry from the cell to earn money to support him and their baby daughter. The Prince’s love-struck pleas persuaded her to walk away from her family and her career.

It wasn’t long before Mary’s fickle teenage paramour lost interest in her and became enthralled by a courtesan, who was 12-years his senior. Mrs. Robinson was furious, but she soon became romantically involved with a nobleman in the Prince’s social circle, and then fell in love with Banastre Tarleton, a handsome and conceited lieutenant colonel in the British Army. Their relationship was tempestuous. In 1798, after 15 years, Banastre dumped Mary and married the wealthy young illegitimate daughter of a duke.

By this time, Mary was a successful author. Her four-volume novel, The False Friend, was published the year after Banastre jilted her. It tells the distressing story of an orphan named Gertrude St. Leger, who turns 18 and goes to visit the nobleman who had been her benefactor throughout her sad childhood. At every step in her journey to find love and her place in the world, the young woman is subjected to brutal and unrelenting torment. Men and women offering Gertrude sanctuary or protection invariably ended up preying upon her vulnerability. After all that Mary Robinson had endured in her life, it was understandable that she would write such a demoralizing story.

As I read The False Friend, I could feel my heart pounding and my blood pressure rising. At no point did the author offer any humor or even the slightest serene interlude. Despite the strain of focusing my eyes on the small font, the difficulty of differentiating between the letter ’s’ and the letter ‘f’ in the 18th-century typeset, and my mounting anxiety, I was riveted by the narrative. The startling conclusion was more heart-wrenching than anything I had anticipated.

About 200 years after the publication of The False Friend, I was beset with a bleak string of betrayals in my own life. Sharing personal experiences in a forum like this would mock the adage against airing our dirty laundry in public. Any full disclosure may have to wait until I publish a memoir. In the meantime, please accept my word at face value. I will say the run of perfidy by some of my loved ones and associates began when I was going through a painful and life-altering breakup.

After I finally mustered the nerve to tell my lover that it was over between us, it took me several weeks to figure out where I was going to go. The only thing I knew for certain was that it had to be far away. I simply didn’t feel strong enough to resist the charms of the man I loved, if I remained nearby.

Among my concerns was that a long road trip would be disruptive to my pets. My little brown tabby cat had been a birthday gift to me, 12 years before. She had recently developed a thyroid condition and required daily medication, so I was relieved when a friend offered to take her. Normally, I would not have given her up, but I was confident that I was placing the kitty in a home where she would receive good care. Once I had all of my possessions, my dog, and my other cat loaded into a van, I began the long drive from California to the East Coast.

As it happened, my birthday was on a Friday, not long after I arrived at my destination. I was happy to receive an invitation from a couple I knew to join them for dinner at a nice restaurant in town, after which we would go to a comedy club. A gourmet meal and a few laughs with old friends seemed like the perfect antidote to my doldrums. I was all dressed and ready to go, when at the last minute they informed me that they would be going without me. They had decided to make it a romantic evening, just the two of them, and I would be an unwelcome third wheel.

Dumbfounded, I sat on the couch for a while in my pretty clothes, staring blankly at the front door, with my elderly Queensland Heeler at my feet. 

Self-doubt swept in to fill the gaping void left over from leaving my lover, my friends, my job, and everything familiar. Just as I was on the verge of breaking into tears, the phone rang. Maybe it was my darling!

It turned out to be the friend who had adopted my cat. “Well,” I thought, “At least someone was kind enough to remember my birthday.”

“Hello,” she said. “I called to tell you that I had the cat euthanized yesterday.”

“What? … Why?  What happened?”

“She didn’t like my other cat, and she peed on the floor, near the front door.”

“So you killed her?”

“Well, I shouldn’t have to remind you that she was old and sick anyway.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” I hung up. 

I went outside with the dog for a short walk. It was a nice evening, and I spent a little time sitting on a bench near the lake, gazing at the stars. When we got back to the house, we headed for the bedroom. The dog took his place on his pillow in the corner. My shy gray tabby crawled out from under the bed and hopped up onto the mattress to snuggle with me. After reading the same paragraph for the third time without comprehending the words on the page, I set my book face down on the nightstand, then turned off the light. I pulled the cat a little closer, closed my eyes, and silently prayed for guidance. And I kind of laughed at myself, thinking of the many times when I was fully cognizant of what I need to do, but I was too stubborn, scared, or complacent to do it.