A Most Lamentable Comedy (23 page)

‘On the other hand, Caro, I think you’ll agree that the Cheviot has a most superior wool – the breed is well suited to our rough hills, and because, as I mentioned, the sheep have no wool on face or legs, they are less likely to develop footrot or wool blindness. You may not believe this, Caro . . .’ He leans forward and gazes into my eyes. ‘But sheep are most delicate creatures, prone to all sorts of ills.’

‘Indeed.’ If I have more wine I shall fall asleep. My smile feels more like a grimace at this point, and were his grace to hurl himself across the table and plunge his face into my bosom it would be a relief.

My apparent interest spurs him on to talk more of sheep illnesses, many of which have disgusting names. I am quite glad we have finished eating. He is deep in a vivid description of something revolting called flystrike when he falters to a stop and stares at me.

The reason is quite simple. I have kicked off my slipper and now run my stockinged foot up his leg beneath the table. I smile innocently at him. Thank God he has shut up.

He reaches down, pushes my foot away and continues with a somewhat frantic air, ‘. . . and then there’s pizzle rot, which I hate to see in my rams. The, ah, affected part is—’

‘Shall I retire to the drawing rm?’

‘Indeed, yes, a capital idea.’ He springs to his feet, looking exceedingly nervous.

‘I’ll leave you to your port, sir.’ Thus neatly giving myself a breathing space I leave the dining room and proceed upstairs to the drawing room.

There I sink on to a sofa and contemplate my imminent fate.

The clock strikes one quarter past the hour and Mary creeps in. She looks around the room, wild-eyed, as though expecting to see his grace emerge rampant from behind the furniture. ‘Your fan, milady.’

‘Very good, but he is not here yet. Try again later.’

The Duke spends almost half an hour with his port, and my palms grow quite damp with sweat. Finally he enters, somewhat red in the face and, from his unsteadiness, foxed.

‘Pray, sit, your grace.’ I attempt a seductive coo.

He flops on to the other end of the sofa and gazes at me. I am not sure of his expression – is he nervous, repulsed, confused, amorous? I wait for him to make some sort of gesture that will indicate his intentions.

He produces a handkerchief and blows his nose in his annoying way.

As the Duke clears his throat as though about to say something, Tyson enters with the tray of tea things.

‘Sugar? Milk?’ I spend rather a lot of time fussing around with pouring Thirlwell tea. ‘Why, what pretty cups and saucers. They cannot be English, or are they?’

‘French, ma’am, I believe.’

He grasps the teacup and saucer in one large hand and clears his throat.

Mary taps on the door and enters. ‘Your fan, milady. You forgot it.’

‘Why, thank you. Do you think you could find my vinaigrette?’

The minutes tick by, or at least I assume they do, since there is no clock in the room. After several years, or so it seems, the Duke clears his throat again.

‘Your grace?’

He places his cup and saucer on a small table at the end of the sofa. ‘I should like you to demonstrate your accomplishments.’

Oh, good heavens. He does not move, and to me it is obvious what he expects. I ease myself from the sofa – these stays do not allow a great deal of movement at the waist – and shuffle towards him on my knees.

As I approach, he clamps his knees together, clutches them with his hands and gasps, ‘ the pianoforte, ma’am.’

I swear I blush. Why the devil could he not say what he wanted? At this point all I want is to get the business over and done with.

Another tap at the door, and Mary enters, yawning, with my vinaigrette. I thank her and tell her that is all I shall require until I come to bed.

She frowns and mouths something at me, pointing over her shoulder at the hallway and the clock.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mary, go upstairs and stay there.’

‘Very well, milady.’ She flounces out and bangs the door closed behind her.

I spend some time bent at the waist (or as much as I can in these damned stays) looking through a collection of music. I consider this an open invitation to a gentleman to approach and grab – certainly, it has been most effective in the past – but nothing happens.

I have even practised a little, although my playing is as bad as ever, but I do not believe the Duke’s interest in me is entirely musical. So I spend some time fussing around at the pianoforte, making sure that the candelabra shows me to the best effect (the music on the stand is barely visible, but it does not matter). I remove my bracelets very slowly, letting them slide over my fingers. I fuss with my hair, particularly a loose lock that keeps falling into the bodice of my dress, and giggle a little; oh dear, what a dreadful nuisance. I sit, arranging the folds of my gown so that my limbs are shown to the best advantage.

I have chosen a sonata by Haydn that I have always found quite boring, but since it is one of the first pieces I learned, my performance is not quite so dreadful as the rest of my limited repertoire. As I play, I become aware of another sound.

Now, I am quite used to sniggers, conversation or even rude comments when I play. It is rarely that my playing induces sleep – there are too many mistakes and hesitations for it to be sufficiently restful. But I hear behind me the unmistakable sound of a snore. I raise my hands from the keys.

Thirlwell is fast asleep.

So much for my seductive arts or even my ladylike accomplishments. I have only become a sort of unmusical Orpheus, although I think the amount of drink the gentleman consumed has much to do with it.

I play a fairly loud chord, and then another louder and more untuneful one.

He does not stir.

I approach him, grasp his knee and shake it. ‘Your grace?’

Given his shyness before, I expect him to leap to protect his virtue, but he sleeps on.

‘Sir, wake up!’

I croem" widtho the fireplace and bang the coal shovel against the grate. No good. The Duke continues to sleep.

I consider what I should do. Frankly, I am annoyed. I have spent most of the evening trying to gauge the gentleman’s intentions and doing my best, under extremely trying circumstances, to repay my debt. And now it looks as if my efforts have been in vain, and I shall have to start all over again next time.

In something of a bad temper, I leave the room and call down the stairs to the servants’ quarters. I wonder if I should disarrange my hair and clothing to look as though I have been thoroughly ravaged by his grace – but really, why should I bother to preserve his male dignity?

‘His grace has fallen asleep,’ I tell Tyson.

‘Indeed, ma’am. I’ll call his carriage.’

Thirlwell’s coachman, a large, burly man who looks at my bosom and winks – I give him a frosty glare – eases the unconscious Duke over his shoulder and removes him from the house.

I tell Tyson the dinner was excellent and go upstairs to bed. I have to wake Mary up to unlace my stays, and she is so stupid and sleepy I send her away and finish getting ready for bed on my own. Next time I shall wear the short stays; it will make life infinitely simpler.

Letter from Mr Nicholas Congrevance to his
half-brother the Duke of Thirlwell

My dear brother,

An extraordinary thing has happened. You may remember I spoke to you of Barton, my former manservant, who departed from my service in great anger. He left Otterwell’s before I did, taking with him a pair of earrings that belonged to Caroline, which I had won at cards; I regret he also left behind a broken-hearted woman, Caroline’s maid Mary. Now he has once again appeared.

A circus of sorts arrived in the village a couple of days ago. The parish authorities were most nervous, anticipating all sorts of dreadful consequences such as a crop of bastards nine months hence and general corruption, so I put on my best coat and rode down to the village as your grace’s representative. (Since I have spent most of my time on that damned roof when it is not raining, I am burned as dark as a gypsy myself and do not cut as impressive a figure as you might wish.)

It was a drab collection of wagons and people in dirty costumes. Under the sun of Italy they would have looked picturesque; here in the dour north they looked merely grubby. As a preview to the day’s show, a dancing bear was performing on the village common. Its keeper was none other than Barton, wearing his false beard. You may remember him as the Wall in the play. He has an inordinate fondness for the beard.

Also, now, apparently for the bear, which has become a sort of brother to him. They are fairly alike in build and countenance and the animal is as gentle as a kitten under his command. I took them to the alehouse and the bear drank us both under the ta and was kind enough to share its fleas.

The upshot is that I have hired him again, at the moment with no pay, and as Barton was afraid the animal would pine for him, the estate now has its own bear. I traded the animal for a quantity of mutton and vegetables from the gardens and four jewelled stickpins I received from obliging ladies in my former profession. I have also arranged for the bear, whose name is Daisy (it is a male, but Barton is sentimental about flowers), to receive a gallon of ale every day. Its only contribution to the estate so far is the destruction and consumption of wasps’ nests. Barton believes Daisy can be trained to herd sheep; I have my doubts. Barton takes him on a leash to accustom them to his presence, but so far they scatter in panic. I suspect the creature has poor eyesight and operates predominantly by scent, for mostly it seems unaware of them. I insist in any case it be muzzled.

Barton has taken upon himself the task of digging manure into what will be my garden, while Daisy sleeps nearby. I had wanted him to assist me with the roof, but the bear insists upon accompanying us and Barton is afraid its extreme affection may cause a fall. The bear’s devotion does not bode well for any sort of intimate connection Barton may plan with Mary. She may well lie down with Barton and get up with the bear’s fleas.

Before I address the pressing subject of manure collection and spreading on the estate, may I remind your grace of what I will do to your person should you lay a finger, let alone any other part, upon Caroline.

That said, let us speak now of dung
[the letter becomes concerned with agricultural matters and is of no further interest]

Letter from Nicholas Congrevance to
Lady Caroline Elmhurst (never sent)

My love,

I am so jealous of my brother I think I may well try to kill him next time I see him. I know it is a most awkward situation and I trust he has revealed all to you now. But the fact that he may call upon you any time, talk to you, even look at you – although I do not want him looking at you more than is necessary for common courtesy – makes me rage with jealousy and anger and regret.

I was a fool. More, a selfish fool. Had I told you I loved you – although I did, I recollect, but you were astute enough to doubt my regard – and proposed marriage to you, what would have been your response? Moreover, if I had told you I had lied about my wealth (and if you, Caro, had told me of your distressing financial situation; the blame is not all mine), what then? We could have left for the Continent to escape your creditors, and I could have found a reasonably respectable occupation (as a teacher of languages, for instance). We would have been poor; I like to think we would have been happy.

I dare to think you might still take me as your husband. I beg that you will. I may have been dishonest before, but now I must tell you the truth. You will marry – if you wish to – a man who is little more than a poor labourer, until my brother is pleased to release some money to me from the bequest that our father the late Duke made me. I am fortunate in that I do have at least this last evidence of my father’s repatioI loved him greatly, by the way, as I do my brother, even though I find him the most provoking man that ever lived. He has a generous heart beneath his peculiar ways.

What concerns me most in our situation is that you will feel that this marriage is forced upon you, and I beg you not to let your pride stand in the way. I would not have you starve; neither would I have you live without love. My love, to be specific.

I wish also to tell you, should this matter weigh as much upon your mind as it does mine, that in Intimate Congress I have been known to last
forty-five minutes up to an hour once an entire morning two hours as much time as required
a considerable and respectable (or unrespectable) amount of time.
I have never received a complaint, and bear in mind, ma’am, I performed in a professional capacity.
Without unnecessary obscenity or boastfulness I believe I can and shall love you in all ways and always as you deserve and desire.