A Most Lamentable Comedy (16 page)

It would be easy, so easy, to take those few steps into his bedchamber. Just a few steps to the doorway – and as if on cue, the door creaks slowly open and a faint golden light spills on to the floor. Barton, waiting for his master, stands with a lit candle in the doorway.

‘Dismiss him for the night,’ I whisper.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

‘I
’m honoured, Caro. Deeply honoured. But . . .’ I raise her hand to my lips again and the whole world flares into that patch of skin. ‘Good night, my love.’

I let her go with much reluctance and bow, not even sure why I do not accept her offer. Some delicacy, or chivalry, or some notion of honour from long ago prevents me, as amorous as I feel.

She looks confused, blushes, stammers something and turns away in a rustle of silk. She disappears into the darkness, heading for her own bedchamber.

I turn to Barton and shove him back into my chamber. ‘What the devil are you doing, playing peeping Tom?’

He puts his candle on the mantelpiece. ‘I’d never have believed it.’

‘Believed what?’ But I know. I strip off my coat and hand it to him – rather, I hold it out to him and he makes no move to take it.

I shrug and fling the coat on to the bed./p>

‘You had her. You reeled her in. She would have let you take her on the damned stairs. She—’

Unbuttoning my waistcoat, I stop his spate of words. ‘Enough. I’ve told you—’

‘And you must think me a right fool. Sir.’ That brief pause before ‘sir’ tells me all I need to know about Barton’s state of mind.

‘As you wish.’ I drop my neckcloth on to the floor.

He ignores it. ‘You’ve lost it. Lost your nerve like a horse that won’t take a hedge. You ain’t got a grand plan for this one. You’re floundering like a fish out of water. You ain’t good for anything.’

‘I think I’ve heard enough, Barton.’

‘She – or something, I don’t know what, and I don’t care over much – has made a eunuch out of you. Sir.’

‘That’s enough!’ I shout, more loudly than I expected.

We stare at each other and I wonder if we are about to come to blows. He outweighs me by a good three stone although I have the longer reach. Both of us have clenched our fists.

He gives a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘I only hit
men
. Sir.’

‘Very well. You may leave. And don’t come back. You may consider your employment with me at an end.’ I cross the room to find my writing desk and open the secret drawer, my hands shaking. I know that what I am about to do to him is as insulting, if not more so, as his behaviour to me.

‘I think this should cover any outstanding salary.’ I toss the coin towards him.

He makes no effort to catch it.

We both watch the guinea roll in a few lazy circles before coming to rest, light from the candle dancing on the gold.

He doesn’t move. I didn’t expect him to; he’s a proud man, Barton, in his way. One of us will leave this sorry mess with his pride intact, but it is not to be me.

He nods, once, and turns to leave. The door closes quietly behind him.

Dear God, I am a fool.

Then the door opens again. For one heart-stopping moment I wonder if it is Caroline – but no, it’s Barton. Barton, come to beg my pardon?

Without looking at me, he crosses the room to where his false beard rests on the wig stand, clutches it to his chest and leaves again.

Once more the door closes behind him, leaving me with my thoughts, which are not pleasanes.

The next day is that of our play. I find Will hanging around the garden, disconsolate. Like me, he seems uncertain of how to spend the day. We have many hours to fill until our performance at seven o’clock, which will be followed by Otterwell’s ball and a supper for audience and the hungry players.

‘What’s the matter, Will?’

He turns tragedian’s eyes on me. ‘Mama says I cannot go fishing with Lady Caro, and Mama and Papa and Mrs Philomena are too busy to take me.’

‘I’d be happy to take you, Will, but I should ask their permission first.’

‘Oh, sir! Oh, sir, that would be splendid!’

We set off to find them, but backstage is deserted. Some sort of needlework project lies deserted, the needle stuck hastily into the cloth. A man’s coat and a neckcloth are flung on to a chair.

‘Woof.’ A familiar bark, or voice, rather, greets us, as James runs into the room. He flings himself at his older brother. They begin to tussle together as small boys will.

Behind him is Mrs Linsley’s lady’s maid, a tall, handsome woman. I ask her where Mr and Mrs Linsley are.

‘Oh, they’re upstairs, sir.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘Yes, sir. Upstairs.’

‘And they will be down . . . ?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘Ah. And how about Mrs Gibbons and Mr Darrowby?’

‘They’re resting before the play. Tiring work, it is.’

‘I daresay.’ I glance at the discarded coat and neckcloth. Had I played my cards right last night, Caroline and I could be resting upstairs even now, or at least making each other very tired. ‘I was going to offer to take young Will fishing, but I don’t want to do so without his parents’ knowledge.’

‘That’s very kind of you, if I may say so, sir. I’ll tell them, sir.’

‘Papa and Mrs Linsley often retire in the afternoon,’ says Will with great cheer. ‘So do Grandmama and Admiral Riley. I suppose it is what happens when you are old.’

I am relieved to hear that the Linsleys have kissed and made up (and frankly jealous of Darrowby and Mrs Gibbons and full of admiration for the Admiral and his lady), but it means that I cannot speak to any of them to clear Caroline’s name, as I promised. It will have to wait until the performance.

Will, something of an expert in finding rods and provisions, leads the way to the estate manager’s office and the kitchen respectively – the latter a madhouse. It is vilely hot, cooks screaming and red-faced, sweaty staff running around on a floor slippery with offal and discarded vegetable trimmings.

When we get outside, it feels almost cool, for a few minutes at least.

Having collected some worms from a compost heap in the kitchen garden, we make our way to the lake where we swam a few days ago, and find a shady spot.

I wonder if Will knows of his mother’s impending marriage, but it is he who brings the subject up in a rather roundabout way.

‘I think the ending of the play is silly,’ he says as he casts his line into the water.

‘Why?’

‘Everyone gets married.’

‘Why is that silly? It’s what people do.’

‘I would have wanted them to stay in the wood and have more people wear asses’ heads.’

‘Well.’ I watch my float bob on the water. ‘I suppose that is the dream part of the play, and the getting married business is when people awake. And eventually you do have to wake up.’

‘But everyone all at once,’ Will grumbles. ‘Are you and Lady Caro to marry, sir?’

No, indeed, I wear the ass’s head. ‘I don’t believe I am to have the honour, Will.’

‘She is quite pretty,’ Will says. ‘And she can fish and catch a cricket ball, which not many ladies can.’

‘True.’ She has other talents too, of which I have had but the merest intimation, but thoughts of her have been enough to keep me awake and amorous and unhappy most of the night. ‘I hate to tell you this, Will, for it must get tedious to hear it repeated so often, but you will understand all this business of getting married when you are older.’

‘That’s what Mama says.’ Will swipes at his face briefly.

‘I had a stepmother when I was growing up.’ For once, the truth, but I consider myself safe in telling Will of this; besides, he is a child and in distress. ‘After my mother died, I went to live with my papa and some people I had never met before. He and my mother lived apart, as people sometimes do.’

‘Your mama died?’

‘Yes, when I just a little younger than you.’

‘Was your stepmother cruel, like the ones in stories?’

‘Not at W She was very kind. But it was strange and lonely at first, going to a place I did not know, and finding my father had others who were important to him. I met my half-brother for the first time.’

At this point I am most grateful that a fish is good enough to succumb to Will’s bait. He leaps to his feet, his face full of excitement. ‘Oh, sir! I have a fish!’

Sure enough, he has a bite on his line, and with great pride reels in a carp some four inches long. Although he wants to take it to show to his mother and father, I persuade him to release the gasping, flapping thing back into the water.

It proves to be the first and only bite we get – it is no wonder, for I suspect the heat makes the fish stupid. The air shimmers heavy above the lake. Will yawns and falls asleep, curled up on my coat.

I lean back against the trunk of the willow we sit beneath and think of Caroline.

It seems I do little else these days.

And those damned earrings. I still have her confounded earrings.

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

To think that when I first arrived, the play was but a distraction, a triviality! Now, at this moment, before the velvet curtain draws back, it is the most important thing in the world; more important, almost, than Congrevance, who stands beside me and gives my hand a brief squeeze. He is a part of this new world I discovered, thanks to Otterwell and his play – a world where friendship and affection, and even love, are possible. I have seen Otterwell, pale beneath his actor’s paint, pacing back and forth behind the stage, muttering and nervous, and this sign of weakness almost makes me think well of him.

I shall have friends again, for Congrevance shall make it so. I heard him approach Fanny Gibbons, who cut him off with a curt request to talk afterwards. This time, now, is when we must forget our petty affairs and adopt instead those of Athenian men and maidens and fairy folk.

The musicians who are to play at the ball perform a brief overture; Linsley, prompt book in hand, nods to the footmen who work the curtain; it swishes back to display a vast rustling crowd beyond the lamps at the edge of the stage. There is some scattered applause at the set, and, I think, for the actors, as Oberon strides majestically on to the stage to deliver his prologue.

And I – I am no longer myself. We are all transformed, other creatures, let loose in an inhospitable wood, the playthings of supernatural creatures, until order is restored and all is made well.

It’s like a dream, a dance – knowing what to say and where to move, and I am assured that the man I am in love with, after misadventures and sadness, has my heart and I his.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

I must tell her I am leaving the next day.

We exit the stage, our hands still clasped, and I realise I am sweating like a horse. Presumably Caroline is too, for she tosses aside the scarf that has, more or less, decently covered her shoulders and bosom. Around us our fellow actors jostle and laugh, drunk on the success of the play. Someone, Otterwell, I think, claps me on the shoulder and bellows, ‘Well played, sir, Lady Elmhurst! Well played indeed!’

I ignore them. I see only her, her beauty made exotic by her painted eyes and loosened hair, her hand hot in mine.

‘Come. We’ll get some air.’ I am sure she knows what I intend, for I am certain she thinks the same.

We have learned the jumble of rooms behind the stage well, and know to take a dark, crooked passage that leads to an ancient door. Outside, wind stirs the tops of the trees, and lifts our draperies, ruffles our hair. It is considerably cooler and dark, not the dark of night – it is too early for that – but the dark of heavy clouds. Thunder rolls and mutters quite close.

She stops and raises her hands to the back of her neck to lift her mass of hair, with a sigh of pleasure. The nape of her neck is warm and fragrant, slightly damp under my lips.

‘Damn you, Congrevance.’ She turns in my arms and we kiss, clumsy, our mouths bumping rather than caressing.

Someone behind us clears their throat and then coughs in an obvious sort of way. It’s one of Otterwell’s footmen. ‘Beg pardon, sir.’

‘What is it?’

The servant tears his gaze from Caroline’s bosom. ‘A gentleman inside wishes to see you, Mr Congrevance.’

‘Tell him you couldn’t find me.’ He nods and returns indoors.

I grab Caroline like a drowning man. I
am
a drowning man. There’s no denying it, I am in too deep, in something more terrible and wonderful – and much, much better tasting and smelling – than any Venetian canal.

She breaks her mouth from mine. She’s out of breath, as indeed I am. ‘Too near the house. He – they – they’ll come looking for us. Not here.’

We start to walk – although indeed it is more than a stagger than a walk, with our frequent pauses to kiss and touch.

She leads me towards the maze. The wind now comes in powerful gusts, bringing the scent of rain with it.

I hesitate. I shouldn’t do this.

She smiles, and says in that lovely husky voice, ‘I explored it this afternoon, like Ariadne with a ball of twine. I wished you had been with me. I—’

‘And am I to be the monster at the centre?’

‘I hope so. Indeed, you may be as monstrous’ – she glances down where the wind whips my draperies against me – ‘as you please.’

I growl at her, and she shrieks, laughing, and darts inside.

I follow without a moment’s hesitation, all my scruples gone. She has the lead on me – I see her draperies flutter around a corner and run to catch up with her. The dark yew hedges give little light, but I can hear the crunch of her feet on the gravel. I take a turn and stop. She isn’t there, and panic rips through me, halting me.

‘To your left.’ I take the turn and she stands before me, hands on hips, but before I can touch her she springs forward and dashes around another corner. I lunge to catch her, and my hand closes on the hem of her gown, pulling it from her shoulder for one brief moment before she laughs and wrenches it back.

She runs fast with the speed and grace of a goddess, remaining just out of my reach, and then suddenly we’re at the still, silent heart of the maze, only a few paces wide. The gravel beneath my feet gives way to flagstones and the thyme planted between them gusts sweet in the air. She stands next to a plinth, on which a statue rests; the living woman in drapery mirrors the marble goddess, hand outstretched.