A Most Lamentable Comedy (26 page)

I wonder how they will manage to keep their stories straight with such an arrangement, but my pleasure in seeing them all overcomes my reservations, and shortly good food and a tolerable wine distract me.

After dinner we play cards, before most of the party, tired from travel and their walk, retire to bed. I’m sharing a bed with Mary, who is so fast asleep she doesn’t notice me or the light from my candle. I am shocked to discover (for I remembered to bring
Sense and Sensibility
) that Willoughby is a thorough rascal.

And so the trip continues, a jaunt through the countryside, stopping to visit picturesque ruins, and once, detouring from the Great North Road to visit an aged uncle of the Admiral. The uncle, a picturesque ruin in his own right, calls us all by the names of people long dead and frequently orders Will to climb up the rigging. The children are fascinated when at dinner, the uncle uses his false teeth, having first removed them, as a hammer to crack nuts on the table. Will offers to help, and is allowed to crack nuts for us all by this entertaining method.

The hours and days pass as we make our leisurely progress northward. The small adventures of travel and a holiday – good and indifferent inns, meetings with strangers, unfamiliar food and dishes and discussions of places we visit along the way – occupy us.

I am still concerned about Mary, who spends much of her time drooping and pale, and occasionally we have to ask our driver to stop if she is feeling particularly unwell. I wish she would confide in me, but I know she is afraid I will sack her; indeed I should be expected to. I decide I must ask Thirlwell to settle a sum of money on her so she can support herself and the child.

Meanwhile the winks, sly smiles and cryptic comments I receive in answer to my questions about Thirlwell’s intentions are about to drive me mad. Now and again I mention Congrevance and am presented with an appalling, studied carefulness; much pursing of lips, propping of chins on fingertips, or wrinkled brows accompanies an inane comment such as: ‘Who? Oh, Congrevance. Yes, indeed. I believe – or so I was told – he went to . . .’ Any number of cities or countries are cited.

I am sure Fanny Gibbons, who trained us as actors, would be shocked.

The countryside grows wilder and hillier, the roads rougher, and heather scents the air. We are now in Northumberland, and I suspect some ridiculously coincidental meeting will be arranged between me and Congrevance; or at least between me and Thirlwell so he may explain himself.

It is no surprise when, on our second morning in the county, the day we are supposed to arrive at Thirlwell’s house, his second best carriage grinds to a halt a few yards from its original position in the courtyard of the inn where we spent the previous night.

Linsley and the Admiral and our coachmen descend to have a masculine discussion of the problem. There is much concerned nodding and bending to inspect axles; carriage wheels are kicked. A few of the inn’s grooms and manservants wander over to join in.

‘Why, what can be the matter?’ Philomena asks with wide-eyed innocence. She, the two boys and her maid travel with us in the Terrants’ carriage, and I am glad, since I am sure she knows of Mary’s condition but is too discreet to mention it.

I roll my eyes and simper. ‘Oh, I am sure the gentlemen will make all well, Philomena. Pray do not concern yourself.’

She smothers a giggle.

As the masculine deliberation continues, we – or at least I – lose patience and descend. Mrs Riley has now joined the men and appears to be lecturing some of the scruffier grooms on their appearance.

‘Why, Lady Elmhurst,’ she says. ‘Here’s a pretty pickle! And look at this fellow – I should not think his neck has been washed in a quarter-year.’

The groom in question shuffles his feet and grins, as though receiving a compliment.

‘Under the pump with you!’ Mrs Riley dispatches him and turns to us. ‘Will and James, pray stand and touch nothing; you must not get dirty and shame us in front of the Duke. Well, sirs, what’s to do?’

Much head-shaking and incomprehensible mumbles – the accent of the people in these parts is almost Scotch, and thoroughly unintelligible to my ears.

The coachman is good enough to translate. ‘We’ll need repairs to the fore axle and offside front wheel, ma’am. ’Twill take at least two days to mend, for the blacksmith in the village has a broken arm, they say, and his sister-in-law’s neighbour’s son will come over today from the next village to help; but it will take him the best part of a day to get here, and—’

‘Never mind,’ says Mrs Riley. ‘Admiral, what do you think we should do?’

More of the infernal lip-pursing, etc., as they all pretend to make a decision that was agreed upon long ago.

Of course we cannot all cram into Terrant’s carriage – why, even for the beginning of the journey, before Mary and I joined them with a second carriage, it was a tight fit, with the children sitting on laps and Linsley in front with the driver. No, no, fitting the nine of us into one carriage is impossible.

‘Shall we send word to Thirlwell that we are delayed?’ I suggest, eagerly anticipating the reasons why this ordinary and sensible solution will b earsrned down.

A veritable storm of head-shaking ensues.

‘Indeed, no, Lady Elmhurst, it cannot be done,’ the Admiral says.

‘Why not? There are horses, and these idlers.’ I gesture to the grooms and other servants belonging to the inn, who have begun a game of dice in a sunny corner of the courtyard. The cobblestones, I imagine, make for some interesting results.

‘Beg pardon, milady, but his grace is most particular about his horses,’ says Thirlwell’s coachman. He gives a longing look towards the dice game. A couple of maidservants and a few large stone bottles have now joined them, and there is some flirting and much merriment.

‘Then a horse from the inn?’

Naturally all the inn’s horses are spoken for, lame or suffering from mysterious ailments, or some such.

Wishing to cut to the chase, and to see the expression on their faces, I say, ‘Why, I have the best idea. Why do not I take the other carriage and go ahead to meet his grace? We are great friends now, and I so wish to thank him for his hospitality. Besides, I am sure he has a blacksmith on his estate whom he could send over to help.’

Dead silence. A few embarrassed glances later, there is a chorus of agreement.

I look around for Mary, who seems to have disappeared. Ah, there she is, poor girl, discreetly losing her breakfast in a corner of the courtyard.

Mrs Riley frowns. ‘You know, Caro, I believe your maid may be—’

‘Yes, she is unwell and she had better come with me.’

I do not want to leave her here at the mercy of Mrs Riley, who will surely bully her, even in a kind way, into a confession; besides, the ginger and camomile are in the carriage.

So Mary and I set off in Terrant’s carriage, she pale and lying down on one seat, while I await whatever ridiculousness will reunite me with Congrevance, not even sure whether I want to see him again. But my palms grow quite damp with sweat and I cannot help wondering how I look today, and how he will look, and what his manner will be. (Idiot that I am.)

What if he is contrite and loving and tells me he did not mean those dreadful words he spoke? Or he could be surly and unwilling, forced by Thirlwell and the others to make an honest woman of me. That would be dreadful. I only hope Barton is still with his master, for surely Mary must marry now; and I believe Barton, in returning the earrings, must be an honest man.

We are in the middle of nowhere, hills covered in bracken and heather, with huge rocks scattered here and there, splotched with orange and green lichen, and deserted except for sheep. It’s very quiet. A curlew calls overhead, and now and again I hear the bleat of a sheep (or possibin bramb, glimmer, hogg, teg, ram, ewe, stag, etc.).

The carriage jolts to a stop and I hear a murmured conversation between our coachman and postilion.

I pull the window down. ‘What’s the matter, sirs?’

‘Milady, stay in the carriage if you please!’

Mary looks out of the window and screams.

I join her and see why. There is a large, dark furry blob on the road in front of us.

A bear?

Yes, it’s a bear, sitting on its haunches, and as I watch, it lifts one large paw, armed with long yellow talons, to scratch its ribs. It swivels its head and snuffs the air.

Perhaps it has escaped from a circus, for it wears a collar. Even in the depths of Northumberland I believe bears do not run wild.

The horses shift and snort. They are not pleased at the presence of the bear.

I hear the thud of hoofs, and men on horseback, masked and bristling with weapons – blunderbusses and some other ancient rusty guns – swarm around the carriage.

Mary and I scream (I, I must admit, while trying to stifle laughter) as one of our attackers waves a blunderbuss at our driver, yelling at him to ‘Stand and deliver!’ in the dreadful local accent.

First bears and now
banditti
in the English countryside! It is just like a horrid novel.

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

‘O
h God! They’ll kill us.’ Mary clutches my sleeve. ‘Milady, I’m sorry, I’m with child.’ What an odd time to tell me. ‘I know. Don’t worry.’ I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I don’t think they’re really highwaymen.’

But at that moment a shot is fired outside, and Mary and I shrink against the seat.

There’s much yelling and shouting, and the door of the coach swings open. One of the ruffians, his face obscured by his hat, steps inside, waving a pistol.

At that moment, the coach gives an almighty jerk – I discover afterwards that the horses decided the bear was thoroughly untrustworthy – and my assailant lifts one leg to brace himself against the seat. Afforded this excellent opportunity to grab and twist, I do so, and the bandit falls backwards out of the coach with a strangled howl of pain. His pistol clatters to the floor.

I grab the weapon as the other door flies open to reveal a bearded ruffian; a ruffian with a very familiar beard.

‘Barton!’ I cry, lowering the pistol. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘Mary, my love!’ He ignores me and snatches Mary in his arms.

‘Careful—’

My warning comes too late. Mary vomits on to his waistcoat.

‘There, there, my little flower,’ Barton croons, mopping her up with his coat. ‘Beg pardon, milady. Don’t worry, milady, that pistol is not loaded.’

I toss it aside, thoroughly annoyed. ‘You must marry her immediately. Where is your master?’

Barton looks up. ‘He came in the other door, milady, or at least, I thought he did, to rescue you.’

Oh no.

Chiding myself – surely I should have recognised him, by what I held briefly in my hand if nothing else – I open the door, noticing that the carriage sits at an odd angle.

Mary screams again, and I turn to see the bear attempting to squeeze itself inside. The creature has a powerful odour.

‘Good boy, Daisy!’ Barton says. ‘Don’t you worry, my love, he’s as gentle as a little lamb; he wants only to be your friend, don’t you, Daisy?’

I open the other door and peer out.

Lying in the mud is a familiar figure, curled up, hands clutched at his groin. I recognise that long, elegant thigh, the tumble of tawny hair, now that his hat has fallen away.

I jump down beside him.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

Absorbed as I am in my pain, I know it is she who jumps into the mud with a splash and a curse. My eyes are tight shut. I want to look at her, but fear that any movement will add to the dreadful pain and possibly make me vomit.

She kicks me fairly hard in the ribs.

‘What the devil are you doing, Congrevance?’ She kicks me again. ‘And that’s for my “somewhat overblown charms”, you whoreson.’

Well, I didn’t expect her to cradle my head on her bosom and shower me with kisses after nearly castrating me. Neither had my brother led me to believe that women attacked by brigands turn on their rescuers, but I daresay I look as ruffianly as the rest. I spit out some mud. I daren’t move, but I believe I can speak now.

‘Sorry,’ I croak.

‘Bastard,’ she spits at me.

I swear I shall kill my brother for this.

‘Mr Congrevance, sir?’ It’s Jeb, one of the men from the estate who my brother recruited for this ridiculous venture. ‘Have some of this, sir, it will do you good. Milady, please do not kick him again, he’s hurt.’

She swears and stamps her foot – I know because the mud splashes in my face.

I sit, very cautiously, and take a swig from the flask. It is some vile sort of home-brewed spirit that courses a fiery tide down my gullet and threatens to return.

Jeb stares after Caroline with horror as she stamps off to sit on a boulder at the side of the road. ‘Is she the one, sir?’

I nod.

He mutters something under his breath, shaking his head – I make out the words
poor
and
bastard
.

Barton jumps from the carriage and turns to help Mary down. She’s pale and in tears, but has a radiant smile on her face.

‘We’re getting married, sir,’ he says and places one big hand on her midriff with surprising tenderness. ‘She’s having a baby!’

‘My felicitations.’

Daisy squeezes himself out of the carriage after them and lumbers over to the side of the road.

Caroline gives the bear a furious glare, and I don’t know whether it’s just coincidence, but the creature backs away to Barton’s side.

Mary reaches out a timid hand and strokes the bear’s head. It makes a low, rumbling sound of enjoyment.

The coachman approaches me. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, we have a broken wheel. When the bear scared the horses, we bumped against a rock at the side of the road.’

‘Oh, very well done,’ Caroline says. ‘By the way, Congrevance, the Duke has been tupping me for weeks now. He’s much better than you are in bed.’ She ties her bonnet with a determined air and shakes out her rumpled skirts. ‘Bigger, too.
Much
bigger; I believe you know to what I refer. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’