A Most Lamentable Comedy (12 page)

‘No, boy!’ Lord Otterwell says. ‘No barking!’

‘What a naughty child!’ Lady Otterwell says.

‘Carry on, please,’ Fanny says. ‘James, you shall bark later, but not now. Remember that now you are a little boy.’

‘Woof,’ says Master James.

‘Enough! Off the stage with you!’ Otterwell bellows, scarlet with rage – and with heat, too, I imagine, for the room is exceedingly stuffy.

‘Sir!’ Fanny starts forward, but it is too late. The Indian child bursts into tears, producing, indeed, a torrent of water at both ends, for in his fright he now stands in a puddle of his own making.

Will rushes to his brother’s side and puts a protective arm around him. His voice quivers slightly. ‘He is only a baby, sir. He does not know—’

‘Silence!’ Otterwell thunders.

I start from my seat, but to my surprise Congrevance reaches the distressed children before I do and picks James up, wet petticoats and all, soothing him.

Fanny, meanwhile, storms on to the stage and delivers a veritable tirade at Otterwell. ‘How dare you treat a child so! Pray remember, Otterwell, it is I who direct this play and I who tell the actors what they should or should not do.’

‘On my stage and in my house, ma’am, and I will not have this production be a laughing stock.’

‘As it may be anyway, sir, unless you allow me to do as I see fit.’

‘I assure you, ma’am, you are not as indispensable as you believe, and neither is this child. My tenants are pleased to produce scores of children who would do as well in the role, nay, indeed, be honoured to assist me. I have presented dozens of theatricals to the delight of the gentry, who have the most discerning taste and education, and—’

‘You mean they are dull and polite, sir, and do not wish to give offence. The child remains. Your behaviour is grossly insulting to me and to the Linsley family – you remember, sir, this child is the nephew of an earl.’

I am ashamed to think that I, who foresaw the clash of wills between Fanny and Otterwell at our very first rehearsal, actually looked forward to it with anticipation.

‘That’s enough!’ Congrevance, even with a wet, weeping child in his arms, has an air of authority. He turns to a housemaid, one of the fairies. ‘Please fetch Mrs Linsley to see to her son. Mrs Gibbons, Lord Otterwell, may I suggest we take a half-hour break.’

The actors shuffle off the stage. Fanny storms out of the hall through the doors at the end that open into the gardens. Will steps down from the stage, wide-eyed, and I wonder whether he is about to cry himself, frightened by his mother’s rage. I place my arm around his shoulders.

Philomena arrives, and scoops her child into her arms. ‘What has happened?’

Congrevance informs her in a few brief words.

‘This is intolerable. I shall tell Inigo and we shall leave immediately.’ Her lip quivers. ‘Oh no. If Tom hears of this, he will give his notice to Otterwell and then he will not be able to marry Fanny until he has found a new position. They are so happy. This is dreadful, Caro. What shall we do?’

Congrevance answers. ‘You clean your child up, Mrs Linsley, and perhaps Will can go with you. I’ll change my coat and speak with Otterwell. Lady Elmhurst, will you talk with Mrs Gibbons?’

I step outside into the bright sunlight of the garden. It is dreadfully hot again, and a group of Otterwell’s gardeners lounge in a patch of shade, not even pretending to work. There is no sign of Fanny, but I do not doubt I shall find her. I am not looking forward to this interview at all. Fanny is friendly enough to me, but that is all, and generally we have the sunny presence of Philomena to maintain civility. I wanted to tell Congrevance that Philomena might have been the better emissary, but she had her hands full with two distressed children; besides, I had absolutely no intention of becoming involved with the matter of James’s wet petticoats.

Fanny sits under a large oak tree at the edge of the garden, where it becomes parkland. The air shimmers with heat, and far off a cuckoo calls. She sees me approach, and I believe she tucks away a handkerchief, but she makes no effort to stand or greet me.

‘What a pleasant spot. May I join you?’

She shrugs. ‘I can hardly stop you, Lady Elmhurst.’

This is not a good sign, that she does not use my Christian name, but I sit a couple of feet away from her and remove my bonnet, smoothing the ribbons out. ‘Your son is with Philomena.’

‘Thank you. I have decided that – that Will and I shall leave the house as soon as possible,’ she says.

‘I am most sorry to hear it.’

‘Indeed. Are you, Lady Elmhurst?’

‘For God’s sake, Fanny, are you determined to make enemies of us all?’ I speak more sharply than I intended and her eyes flood and spill over.

I hand her a handkerchief and allow her to collect herself.

‘I have made a great many mistakes,’ she says, wiping her eyes.

I hope she does not mean her engagement to Darrowby – after all, I risked my honour in bringing it about. ‘Congrevance has gone to talk to Otterwell.’

‘Ah, yes. I fully expect to offer my apologies to Otterwell, which he will accept with the greatest of condescension. I am sure Mr Congrevance will be suitably ambassadorial.’

What does she mean by that? ‘I believe there will be no repercussions regarding Darrowby’s employment, or at least so Congrevance hopes.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Tom was to leave soon, to work for a newspaper in London.’

‘Well, then, it seems all will be for the best.’ I try to keep my voice cheerful. ‘Shall we take a walk? I am sure it will do us good.’

She plucks some blades of grass and lets them flutter to the ground. ‘Caroline, upon reflection I realise I should not have accepted Tom’s proposal. I have known him several years and thought only that I liked him well enough. It is only within the last few days that I have realised I love him most passionately. But I have been afraid for some time that now that Will is older, and particularly now that I am to marry, Inigo will want to bring our son up himself.’

‘What would Tom say to that?’

‘I think he would be quite agreeable to the plan. After all, neither Tom nor I can give Will the opportunities Inigo and Philomena can. It makes perfect sense. And neither do I wish to take Will from his father. They are very close, even now he has a son of his own, and of course you know Philomena is expecting again.’

I had no idea, and am disappointed that I should hear it from another, and not Philomena herself. I had hoped we were better friends than that, and I am taken aback by the jealousy that afflicts me. ‘No, I didn’t know. But surely you cannot deny your own happiness on a supposition? Have you spoken to Inigo about it?’

‘Oh, you know Inigo. He is like most men in that he will ignore an unpleasant confrontation. Besides, for all his good humour, he comes from a family that is used to getting its own way.’

‘Would you like me to speak to him?’

‘Oh, Caroline, no, I cannot impose upon you so.’ She grasps my hand and squeezes it, attempting a smile. ‘I wish I did not love Tom so. Love complicates things, does it not?’

She stands, brushing grass from her skirts. ‘I know we have not always been friends, but since we are speaking to each other so openly, there is something I must talk to you about. Let us walk together as you suggested. I think it might be easier.’

‘Very well.’ We put our bonnets on against the fierce heat. In a few minutes we reach a great mass of rhododendrons that give some welcome shade, and neither of us speaks until we are there.

She smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Caroline, I shall step down from my high horse. The play will go on as planned – I would not disappoint my son, or our friend Barton, who is an accomplished actor despite the hideous false beard he insists on wearing. These things happen all the time in the theatre – we scream at each other and then swear eternal friendship. I had no great liking for Otterwell before he made little James cry, but I shall tolerate him for a few days more.’

‘That is most generous of you.’ I am quite relieved, thinking this must be the other matter she wishes to talk to me about.

I am mistaken.

‘Caroline, I must speak. My conscience does not allow me to do otherwise. I feel it is only right that you and I should talk about our friend Mr Congrevance.’

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

‘Y
ou must forgive me for what I am about to say,’ Fanny continues. ‘It is purely supposition. I could well be wrong, but I have worked in the theatre all of my life, and have met some crooks and rogues. I married one when I was too young to know better. He abandoned me and I found out only a year or so ago that he had died in the most miserable of circumstances – but that is not the point. You surely have noticed Mr Congrevance’s skill at acting, Caroline. I suspect that he acts when he is off the stage too.’

I pause to pick a rhododendron bloom, as big as my fist, and for all its glorious colour with hardly any scent in the golden centre.

‘Fanny, I don’t understand what you say.’

‘I knew this would be difficult. Are you in love with him?’

‘No.’ I stare at the flower in my hand, wishing that this conversation was not taking place and dreading what is to come.

‘Forgive me, but are you his mistress yet?’

Oh God. Is it so obvious? We glare at each other and shredded petals float to the ground as I crush the flower between my fingers.

She shakes her head. ‘I am sorry. I am not expressing myself well.’ She begins walking again, and I hurry to catch up with her, trying to ignore the chill I feel in my heart. What on earth has she found out about Congrevance?

‘What do you know of him?’ she asks.

‘He is rich, respectable and has extensive lands in Ireland and the north. He has been abroad for some years, and Otterwell thinks he worked for the Crown as a spy.’ I am not too sure about the respectable part. I add, ‘My maid found out about him from his manservant. And if he has been a spy, that would explain his skill in acting.’

She shakes out the handkerchief I lent her, yet another one of Congrevance’s. ‘This is his, I believe?’

‘Why, yes.’ Now what? I am beginning to resent this questioning, as though I am a guilty party somehow. My behaviour has been beyond reproach!

She shows me the embroidered initials on the handkerchief.
F. E.
With some misgiving, I recall yet another pair of initials on another handkerchief.

‘A laundry mix-up somewhere,’ I suggest. That is how Congrevance explained it.

‘Of course. And Otterwell, who is not a particularly clever man, knew Congrevance abroad?’

‘Yes, in Rome, I think.’ I know what she is saying. I think of how Congrevance has evaded questions about his relatives and his land, and of how little generally he talks about himself.

‘When he – when he kissed me that evening, Caro, I had tried to ask him who he really was. I must say, the kiss was an effective diversion. And although I think he may be genuinely attached to you—’

‘Oh! Do you?’ What a fool I am. I sound like a silly schoolgirl.

‘I think he may not be all that he appears. He is a very good card player; it’s possible that he made his money gambling and is embarrassed to tell you so. He may be from humble beginnings and is intimidated by your title and connections with the
ton
.’ She grasps my hand and removes the fragments of deep pink petals from between my fingers. ‘Caro, do be careful. Do you owe him any money? Have you told him anything you would not wish others to know?’

This is dreadful, dreadful indeed. I don’t want to hear this about Congrevance, I don’t want to indulge in idle, vicious speculation about him, but . . .

And then I am angry that she takes it upon herself – an
actress
! – to tell
me
, Lady Caroline Elmhurst, how I should conduct my business. How dare she! She, with all her alleged worldly knowledge and squalid experiences in the theatre (so far removed from the life of a gentlewoman), has the effrontery to give
me
advice!

A small voice of reason inside me whispers that she may indeed be right about Congrevance. Despite the heat of the day I experience a cold shiver.

I prepare to give a convincing performance. Somehow I produce a patronising smile. ‘You have a very active imagination, Fanny, although I suppose your profession requires one. While I am most grateful that you should take an interest in my affairs, I assure you it is unnecessary to do so. Mr Congrevance is excellent company – merely an amusement. I am sure you understand.’

‘Caro . . .’ She lays a hand on my sleeve.

I raise my eyebrows and she steps back.

I think briefly, and with great pleasure, of steering her into a cowpat.

‘I believe I would prefer to walk back to the house alone.’ I turn away and after a few steps take a hearty swipe at a buttercup that has the impertinence to grow in my path.

And meanwhile that small, uncomfortable voice of reason, or doubt, or common sense – I am not sure what it is exactly – whispers that she is right; I know nothing of Nicholas Congrevance and he should not be trusted.

He is certainly not the sort of man a woman should fall in love with.

But that is utter nonsense, and immaterial besides, for I have not fallen in love with him.

So there is no unpleasantness to be encountered. None at all.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

I find Otterwell taking refuge in his library, another stifling-hot room. We have a short conversation in which I suggest he should apologise to the cast, in particular Mrs Gibbons and the two little boys.

‘Certainly not!’ He glares at me in outrage.

I help myself to his brandy, uninvited.

‘Wonderful weather, is it not, Otterwell? It puts me in mind of Rome.’

Otterwell regards me with deep suspicion.

I continue. ‘Ah, yes. Happy times, were they not? The best of society, the sunshine and picturesque scenery . . . Do you remember the day we spent at the Conte di Bardolini’s villa? You must remember it, sir – that was where I discovered you and Bardolini’s mistress on a balcony.em" had your breeches around your ankles and
madama
bent over the balustrade with her skirts up, the better to admire the view.’