A Most Lamentable Comedy (11 page)

I usually try to avoid infants, but brace myself to pick up the warm, damp, squirming thing, which opens its mouth and eyes wide at the sight of me.

‘Don’t scream,’ I tell it in a whisper.

Its face creases in preparation for a howl.

Oh God
. I set it on my lap and jiggle it around, hoping it does not leave a damp patch on my skirts. It sets up a low sort of crooning, humming sound that reminds me of a hen on its nest. Its mouth opens again into a huge toothless smile, drool falling from its chin.

‘Well, look at her, the little poppet, bless her!’ Mrs Culver, wiping her hands on her apron, comes back to the table. ‘She’s taken such a fancy to your ladyship!’

For one awful moment I wonder if she’s about to try and sell me her child – they live in very modest circumstances and there seem to be quite a lot of children underfoot – but the unpinning of her bodice indicates that I should probably have to buy the mother too. Frankly, I would rather buy the terrier that led us here.

‘We have repaired your jack, Mrs Culver. Caroline, I think we should take our leave now.’ Congrevance, one shoulder propped against the doorway, smiles at us. Good God, I hope he did not see me handle the infant – he will think I am some sort of dreadful broody creature.

Mr Culver lurks behind Congrevance, the jack in his hand, and smaller Culvers arrive, sniffing the fragrant air. It is dinner time at the Culvers’ house, and we must go; besides, I am afraid Congrevance may be invited to repair the clock if we stay. I drain the last of my beer and shake hands with Mrs Culver. I wonder whether we should offer to pay for the spruce beer somehow without insulting her; Congrevance, with the greatest of tact, hands the children pennies from his pockets, and lays a sixpence on the table, explaining it is for the baby. I, of course, have no money on my person anyway.

The air is deepening a little as we leave – not dusk, precisely, it is still far too early for that, but in the dimness of the woods a few fireflies appear. We walk in silence along a rutted track that Mr Culver told us would lead straight to Otterwell’s house. Now and again our hands brush. I have rarely felt so at ease with a gentleman and I do not believe the Culvers’ excellent spruce beer has anything to do with it.

The air is sweet and holds the lingering scent of honeysuckle. Once, Congrevance places his hand on my arm and points with the other; a doe and her spotted fawn stand motionless like statues, regarding us. We standstill too, until the deer bound away, disappearing into the light and shade.

Congrevance is silent – not that he is a particularly garrulous man, but I have become accustomed to conversation with him, even if it is of a suggestive or flirtatious nature. I wonder if he is thinking what I am – that in only a few more days our play will be performed, after which the party will disperse, and everything between us is unresolved.

We arrive at Otterwell’s house near some outbuildings and the kitchen gardens, and stroll round to the front of the house. If anyone notices our arrival, they will immediately jump to improper conclusions.

Let them.

What I do next surprises me and I am sure it surprises him. I turn to Congrevance and lay my hand on his chest, his waistcoat to be exact, as he still carries his coat over one shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ I say. I am not sure what I am thanking him for – for the peace of the woods, for his kindness to the Culvers. Maybe, in some strange sort of way, for allowing me silence as we walked back to the house.

I rise on my toes and kiss his cheek, slightly rough under my lips. Warm.
Him
.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

‘I
t’s not like you,’ Barton says. ‘Sir.’

‘I know.’

‘Just the other day you were saying we should leave, and we’re still here. You haven’t got under her skirts for all you were out with her for hours the other afternoon and missed dinner. All downstairs talk of how you favour her. What—’

‘That’s enough. You haven’t found out how much she’s worth.’

‘Enough to make it worth your while. I told you. Sir.’

I finish pulling my shirt over my head and look at Barton. He stands, razor in one hand, towel over his arm and staring at a basin of soapy water as though he has never seen any such thing in his life before.

‘Barton!’

He grunts.

‘What is the matter with you?’

He heaves a huge sigh, and the shaving water slops in the basin. ‘It’s her, sir.’

‘Who?’

‘Mary.’ His lip trembles. For one awful moment I fear he is about to burst into tears. I snatch the razor from him; I certainly don’t want Barton, in this fragile state, anywhere near my throat with cold steel. I proceed to lather my face.

‘She – she’s like a – a flower. So pretty and delicate, like.’

I almost cut myself.
Barton?
Barton, comparing a woman to a flower?

I squint in the mirror to reach that tricky place beneath my ear. ‘And your problem, Barton? Not got under her skirts yet?’

In the ominous silence that follows my question, I see Barton’s face redden. His large, meaty fists clench.

‘I beg your pardon. That was most indelicate.’

He heaves a great sigh. ‘Oh yes, sir, of course I did. What do you take me for, sir? Lovely, it was. But – but I want to keep doing it. With her. Only her, if you follow my meaning.’ His face takes on a soft, dreamy expression so incongruous with his ugly features that I’m tempted to turn Catholic and cross myself. ‘Marry her.’

I drop the razor.

Barton continues to stare into space, doubtless anticipating the pleasures of the marriage bed. I retrieve the razor and wipe dust from it; Otterwell’s servants, nearly all of whom have been press-ganged into the play in some way or another, have been neglecting their usual duties. Barton hardly seems to notice as I take the towel from his arm and dry my face.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say finally.

He nods and hands me a neckcloth.

We don’t need to spell out the situation. Without money, Barton cannot marry Mary. With money taken from Mary’s mistress, under the usual circumstances, he still cannot marry her, for of course we will disappear soon after. He may have some savings of his own, but I doubt whether he is in the position to make a respectable marriage. And to what trade could he turn his hand to support a wife and family? He is an excellent rogue but an indifferent valet.

With a great dramatic sigh Barton empties the shaving water into the slop bowl.

Having tied my neckcloth, I stroll over to the window. My room looks out over the flower gardens, and I can see a woman there, wandering around the rosebeds.

Caroline, walking and reading – possibly she is perfecting her lines for the play. Yes, she clasps the book to her bosom (would I were the book), recites, looks down to her place again. Most of us spend our time alone muttering to each other, forcing lines into our memories at this point in the preparation for the play. Otterwell has become most impatient with us.

I give one last glance at the woman upon whom I have improper designs and whom I must seduce sometime within the next few days and whose money I must purloin.

p height="0em" width="27" align="justify">I curse myself for my inaction. Damn the play, damn whatever it is about Caroline that makes me want to adore her, make passionate love to her and run from her like the wind, inexplicably all at the same time. In my heart I know I should leave her and Otterwell’s house. Yet I have made no move to do so.

I remember again how she sat in a beam of sunlight, a baby on her lap, looking like an Italian Madonna in a church. The baby smiled at her and she smiled back, both of them innocent and unsullied. A painter would have loved that scene, the rough table, scrubbed almost white, where a stoneware bowl and a jug of flowers stood, and the contrast of light and shadow in the room. And surpassing all, the beautiful woman with a child.

The woman who kissed me and thanked me; I am not sure for what. She will probably not thank me in a few days when she realises I have seduced and abandoned her, and left with her guineas in my pocket (which reminds me, those damnable earrings are still in my possession). I doubt whether she will laugh at her adventures, sigh a little, and consider the experience money well spent.

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

At breakfast this morning I am inspired to write to my fecund sister Jane. We quarrelled most violently after Bludge died and I ran with a fast set in London; she disapproved thereafter of my marriage to Elmhurst, which makes no sense at all. Would not she, as the wife of a churchman whose sights are set on a bishopric, rather have me married than not? However, if I am the one to offer the olive branch, she will appear at a moral disadvantage, something she will be aware of and that gives me a small moment of pleasure.

In the breakfast room I sit through as much billing and cooing as I can stand, while Tom caresses jam on to his beloved’s toast, and Fanny, fondling the spoon in an indecent way, stirs sugar into his tea. Their feet intertwine beneath the table; they touch hands as often as they can. Every meal has been the same since the announcement of the engagement.

Oh, I admit, I am jealous. I wish Congrevance and I could be as open and as amorous. I want someone to smile on me indulgently and make silly arch comments the way the Otterwells and the Linsleys do, and talk of weddings and honeymoons and new clothes and family members yet to be met. So I write to my sister, and after much crossing out I take my letter and my addled head into the garden, and read through my attempt:

My dear sister,

I trust you and the Reverend Pargeter and
Thomas Peter Paul Henry Robert Ann Annabel Catherine Katherine
my
dearest
nieces and nephews are all well. I regret
that you acted like a pig-headed fool, chose to disown your own flesh and blood cast me aside
our correspondence has been limited of late. Do not excite yourself,
dear
sister,
I am not about to ask you for money, not that you would lend me any
that I write with bad news. It is in fact quite the contrary. I am well and
not pregnant out of wedlock as doubtless you suspect
happy. Currently I visit Lord and Lady Otterwell’s house as an honured guest in their
ridiculous
theatricals with a most
lively
respectable group of
mostly
high-born ladies and gentlemen.

Sister, my news is of the very best kind. I have met a gentleman. He is handsome and rich and
I believe
returns my affections and
I long to bed him
I await his proposal, for although he has not yet declared himself I am sure he will. Be happy for me; he is
all that is desirable in a man
very respectable and
beautiful naked
of a good family from the north. I trust that next time I write I will
have enjoyed his
be an engaged woman.

I think often of the time
you stole my doll and pulled off all her hair
when we were the most affectionate of sisters and wish we could return to that happy state. Please write to your
most
loving sister,

Caroline

Well, it will do, I suppose, once I have made a clean copy.

I wander further into the gardens and see a burly figure bent over a flower bed, carefully plucking Otterwell’s choicest blooms in his large fingers. As I watch, he raises a rose to his hairy nostrils and sniffs, his ugly face transformed. Barton, picking flowers for Mary – she has appeared recently with flowers pinned to her bodice.

He sees me and hides the roses behind his back, raising his hat.

‘Good morning, milady.’

‘Good morning, Barton. I did not know you liked flowers.’

He blushes deep scarlet and mumbles something. Then he smiles. ‘I have a part in the play, milady.’

‘Indeed?’ I do hope Otterwell has not cast him as a fairy.

‘Yes, milady, I am one of the rude mechanicals. The footman who was to play the part has a boil on his – he cannot sit down and must have it lanced and stay abed, so I am to play the part of the wall.’

‘I am sure you will do wonderfully well.’ I speak with sincerity, for his sheer solidity and size must suit the part well.

‘Thank you, milady. I will wear the false beard I have for such occasions.’

‘You act often, then?’

‘No, milady. That is – well, abroad, sometimes, we – the master and I . . .’ He stumbles to a stop, obviously reluctant to continue.

I remember that Congrevance has been a spy. Afraid that Barton is about to reveal secrets of the realm, I hasten to reassure him. ‘Oh, of course, Barton, you need say no more. understand.’

He shifts from one foot to the other, crushing a pansy beneath one large boot. ‘Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.’

I nod to him and walk on, folding the letter and placing it in my pocket. It is almost time for breakfast, and today we will have rehearsals in the morning and afternoon. It is the first day on which we are to attempt the complete play, without our prompt books and supposedly without interruptions. Time is running short.

So, it appears later, are tempers.

We are at the beginning of the play. Congrevance and I are seated on the chairs in the theatre, the Linsleys and Darrowby are somewhere in our backstage area and Fanny stands before the stage, making notes and occasionally giving directions to the cast.

Master James, hand in hand with Lady Otterwell, makes his appearance as the Indian child fought over by the king and queen of the fairies.

He barks.

Some of us laugh, and pleased by his success, James does it again.