A Most Lamentable Comedy Page 5

  ‘Have a care,’ Philomena Linsley scolds, pulling her son away. ‘I am sure Lady Elmhurst does not want you climbing over her.’

  ‘It is no matter, Mrs Linsley.’

  An uncomfortable silence ensues, broken by Mrs Linsley. ‘Lady Elmhurst, I do not mean to be impertinent, but what have you done to your bonnet?’

  ‘I used it to carry the bait,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. I think your maid should be able to clean it.’ She hesitates. ‘I have a silk flower that would look very pretty on the crown, if you would care to have it.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Linsley. You are very kind.’ I take it as a friendly gesture. If I ruin a bonnet I generally buy another. I suppose Mrs. Linsley is one of those women who enjoys picking things apart and retrimming them; and I may have to become one of those women from necessity if I cannot succeed with Congrevance.

  I invite the two women to sit and offer them some cider. It is weak enough stuff, but I wonder if it contributed to Will’s sleepiness; and if so, whether it will make Mrs Gibbons and Mrs Linsley unbend a little.

  ‘Lord, it’s hot,’ Mrs Gibbons says after a while, and strips off her stockings to dangle her feet in the water. ‘Lady Elmhurst, give me that child so you may take your stockings off, if you wish.’

  I hoist the sleeping Will on to her lap and remove my stockings, rolling them fast so the other women cannot see how darned they are. The water is cool and delightful, and tiny fishes dart around our toes.

  ‘What an excellent idea!’ As Mrs Linsley takes off her stockings I notice her garters are red ribbons with seed pearls and silver thread – surprisingly expensive and whorish for a respectable married lady. Mr Linsley’s tastes have not changed much, it seems. ‘Oh look, there are the gentlemen.’

  Sure enough, on the other side of the lake, Linsley, Darrowby and Congrevance stroll, coats unbuttoned and neckcloths loosened, and each carrying a stone bottle like the one that holds our cider. They wave back and in a few moments have joined us.

  ‘Water nymphs, I declare,’ Darrowby says.

  ‘The three graces.’ Congrevance bows.

  ‘Six ankles.’ Inigounbsley. No, he has not changed much.

  At the sound of his voice, Will stirs and jumps to his feet. ‘Papa! Papa, may we swim? Lady Caro and I have had such fun. She and I have been fishing, but we didn’t catch anything, and Papa, Lady Caro’s brother is in India and sticks pigs.’

  ‘A swim? What do you think, gentlemen?’

  ‘I swim too, Papa,’ says James from his mother’s lap, proving he has the power of speech as well as that of barking.

  ‘Very well,’ Mrs Linsley says. ‘Inigo, you must be very careful. Hold on to him all the time, and—’

  ‘Don’t fret, my love.’ Inigo grabs his younger son as he scrambles towards the water, eager to immerse himself. ‘Come here, James. Will, don’t take your trousers off in front of the ladies; it’s not polite.’

  ‘We don’t have any towels,’ Mrs Linsley says in a worried tone.

  ‘Oh, they’ll just have to sun themselves,’ Mrs Gibbons murmurs. ‘It is fortunate indeed that it is so warm.’

  The gentlemen and boys meanwhile have modestly removed themselves behind another tree to disrobe, and I must admit that I await with happy anticipation the sight of Congrevance stripped. The subject has been on my mind ever since last night, if not since I first met him.

  ‘Lady Elmhurst,’ Mrs Linsley says, ‘I should be most honoured if you would address me by my Christian name.’

  ‘I too,’ says Mrs Gibbons.

  ‘Oh. Thank you. And I am Caroline.’ Of course we know each other’s names, but we must go through this curious bit of formality; besides, it passes the time until we can ogle the gentlemen. By now we have appropriated their bottles of cider, which have been laced with brandy and are quite potent.

  There is a splash as the first gentleman dives into the water. He emerges shaking water from his head, then swims with slow, strong strokes towards the tiny island, little more than a willow tree clinging to a speck of land. It is Darrowby, followed by Inigo with James clinging to his shoulders, and Will, who shrieks with joy, paddling beside his father.

  ‘Watch me swim, Mama and Mrs Philomena!’

  Congrevance surfaces a little ahead of them, sleek as a seal in the water, and to my disappointment swims to the side of the island and disappears from sight. Linsley and Darrowby arrive at the willow that hangs over the water, where Linsley unloads his son, who joins Will in playing with stones and sticks on a tiny, gravelled sort of beach.

  We ladies modestly avert our eyes – not daring to meet each other’s gaze in case we burst out laughing – until the two gentlemen are landed, their backs turned to us with the utmost modesty before they take shelter behind theidth=. I am happy to say that when I look again, Congrevance has rounded the island and is wading towards dry land.

  Goodness!

  I almost drop my bottle of cider.

  ‘Well, well,’ Fanny Gibbons says. ‘There’s proof of the theory that a big nose portends size elsewhere. And in cool water, too.’

  ‘He has big hands too,’ I say, swigging cider. I should know. ‘Big, beautiful hands. I daresay big feet as well.’

  ‘You mean that . . . ?’ Philomena asks.

  Fanny whispers in her ear, and she giggles.

  I do find unclothed men interesting, I must admit. ‘Which one do you think has the best arse?’ I ask before I can stop myself. Oh, horrors. Surely, even after their overtures of friendship, they will cut me for the duration of the visit.

  ‘Oh, that’s obvious. Little James, of course,’ Philomena says fondly. ‘Look at him – he’s like a little peach.’

  ‘I used to nibble on Will’s arse when he was a baby, it was so round and sweet,’ Fanny says. She sounds quite foxed. ‘Darrowby’s is most . . . handsome,’ she continues. ‘It’s a pity he can’t afford a better tailor.’

  So she’s not his mistress after all – or not yet, although there’s something between them. But I stare at the island, hoping the men – or, to be honest, Congrevance – will find a reason to emerge from their leafy bower. We can see them vaguely through the greenery, and they seem to be having a spirited conversation, gesturing towards the far shore of the lake. The occasional word reaches my ears . . . barley . . . oats . . . manure . . .

  ‘Bah,’ says Philomena, ‘they’re talking about crop rotation again. Congrevance and Inigo bored us to death about it at the picnic. I was surprised how much Congrevance knows about land stewardship, for all he’s been abroad so long.’

  Meanwhile, Will and James splash and giggle at the water’s edge like a couple of little otters. At one point Linsley emerges to settle some dispute about the ownership of a particular stone, and we three hypocrites avert our eyes, talking of the weather with great interest in loud voices for the gentlemen’s benefit.

  ‘Mr Congrevance is a very pleasant gentleman,’ Philomena says when it is safe again. ‘He knows a lot about bonnets and Paris fashions.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, dear heart,’ says Fanny. ‘He knows a lot about pretty women, which is why he talked to you in the first place.’

  ‘I was not flirting with him!’ Philomena takes an indignant swig from her bottle and chokes a little. ‘I am a married woman.’

  ‘You ke lirting,’ Fanny says, patting her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re allowed to flirt with a gentleman as handsome as Congrevance.’

  Congrevance was flirting with her? After kissing me for fifteen minutes – that quarter-hour of vice – the night before? How dare he!

  ‘He flirted with me too, under the guise of sensible talk about the theatre,’ Fanny adds. ‘And helped me most gallantly with my shawl when it caught on a branch. Don’t you think he’s a dreadful flirt, Caroline?’

  ‘I—’ And at that moment, the gentleman in question steps from behind the willow and plunges into the water, allowing me to confirm once more the theory of matching large extremities. In addition,
his skin has a faint golden hue, his chest sports a delightful dense curl of hair in the centre, and he has long shapely legs and is as lean and muscled all over as a greyhound. ‘Oh!’

  ‘We may possibly have a shower of rain in the next few days.’ Fanny almost chokes with laughter.

  ‘Avert your eyes, ladies,’ Linsley calls out with great good cheer. ‘We’re coming back.’

  ‘Indeed, this good weather cannot hold for much longer.’ Philomena dissolves into giggles. ‘What do you think, Caroline?’

  ‘Oh. I think – I think there will be big . . . big . . . clouds,’ I gasp, mortified, as I hear some male chuckles.

  I may be overcome with hopeless lust, and half foxed on the fortified cider, but there is one thing I have noticed about Congrevance that has me puzzled – on the pale gold of his skin, the sunlight picked up the gleam of thin silver lines across his back. It’s something I should never expect to see on a gentleman, for such scars can only be from a flogging.

  I am aware that Congrevance may not be all – or he may be more than – he has allowed. And I wish to find out more.

  6

  Mr Nicholas Congrevance

  Having been thoroughly ogled by the three ladies, we gentlemen return to civilised manners and our clothes, although the two little boys are allowed to run around naked, squealing and laughing. I must admit that I am surprised at how well the three women seem to get on together now – part of it must be attributed to the empty bottles, of course – and take the matter up with Linsley as we stroll back towards the house.

  He is more discreet than I would have suspected. ‘Well, Fanny will like anyone who is kind to Will, for some look down on him because he’s a bastard. And Philomena is the sweetest woman in the world.’ He’s quite genuine in his expression, even though they have been married some years.

  ‘But why was Lady Caroline so coldly reced when she arrived?’

  ‘Some blame her for Elmhurst’s death, and she has a . . . certain reputation. Much of it is vicious gossip, for she has been wrongly accused of everything from murder to adultery—’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Good God, no. The circumstances of Elmhurst’s death were unfortunate, but Caro held no blame. However, now I think of it, I’m not too sure about the adultery, for she is of the ton, but . . .’ He stops and taps me on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way. ‘Listen, Congrevance. I’m fond of her in a way, although I found her a great deal of trouble during our liaison. I wouldn’t like to see her injured or slandered.’

  ‘Sir, am I to believe you are warning me to behave in an honourable fashion towards your former mistress?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’ We resume walking. ‘Both of them. If you flirt too much with Fanny, you’ll have Darrowby to reckon with as well, although I’m inclined to think a little competition would do no harm. The two of them have put up obstacles in each other’s path for almost six years, and Philomena and I are finding it tedious, as fond as we are of both of them. Good God, Otterwell should take better care of his hedges – they are like forests. I suppose in the north you have more dry-stone walls than hedges?’

  I wonder at the sudden change of topic, but it is explained by the appearance of Mrs Linsley, who has left the other two women to join her husband.

  ‘You’re gossiping about us all,’ she says with great affection, taking Linsley’s arm. ‘Gentlemen are such gossips, aren’t they, Mr Congrevance?’

  ‘Guilty as charged, madam.’

  ‘And what have you been saying about me?’

  ‘That you are a paragon of womanhood,’ I say.

  ‘Oh fie, you are a dreadful flirt, just as Fanny said. What is it, James?’

  The small, persistent presence tugs at Mrs Linsley’s skirts. ‘Carry me, Mama.’

  He’s a solid child, and she is such a small thing. I grab him by the skirts and swing him on to my shoulders, where he tugs my hair and squeals with pleasure. The Linsleys look upon me with great approval. Well, I have never objected to small children (other than six-year-olds who snatch pretty women from under my nose).

  ‘I suppose you intend to seek a wife now you have come back to England,’ Mrs Linsley says with the enthusiasm of a married person seeking to enrol all in that happy state.

  ‘Possibly. To tell the truth, Mrs Linsley, I haven’t given the matter much thought.’ Since I have usually sought other men’s wives, this is only too true.

  ‘Oh, sir. You should. Look how happy little James is with you.’ She laughs and lays one hand on my sleeve. ‘Nay, I will not tell you of the virtues of my sisters, for one is married and the other two fend very well indeed for themselves in society. I daresay we will find you someone at the ball after the play, unless you—’

  ‘Now, Philomena, leave the man alone. Don’t interfere,’ Linsley says.

  ‘Or perhaps even tomorrow,’ she continues. ‘Some of Otterwell’s neighbours are to dine with us, and doubtless there will be some eligible ladies.’

  I mumble something non-committal, with little James’s feet kicking against my chest, and resolve to stop acting like a fool with Caroline. She is, after all, only a woman of little breeding, attractive fortune and passable looks, and her hoydenish streak and idiosyncratic fondness for small boys are of no consequence. It is her fortune I must bear in mind. I shall not need to associate with her for long, once I have what I need. My campaign begins in earnest tonight.

  Thus it is that I make a point that evening of ignoring Caroline altogether, but flirt with Mrs Gibbons while Darrowby glowers. Bearing in mind Linsley’s theory, I assume it can only benefit the couple, as well as my own interests.

  My campaign with, or rather against, Caroline continues in the drawing room, but I find it harder than I imagined not to watch her, her face animated and beautiful as she slaps cards on the table and rails at Otterwell for his bad play. Or as she performs some piece on the pianoforte, quite badly, to tell the truth. After producing a fistful of wrong notes, she stops, announces that she will not take the repeat as it bores her and surely will bore us all, and bangs out some concluding chords. For some reason her lack of accomplishment, and her honesty about it, is quite charming. I find myself looking forward to the rehearsal of our play the next day with great eagerness.

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  Another rude awakening at the crack of dawn – how I shall survive these next few days I do not know – another hastily grabbed breakfast, and so we gather at Otterwell’s theatre for our first proper rehearsal. I do, however, still feel sustained by the triumphs of the previous day: Congrevance in all his unclothed glory, and my successful effort to ignore him at dinner, for every woman knows the way to attract a gentleman is to pretend indifference. The only problem was that he seemed to be ignoring me too, which was not my intent. Today, possibly, I shall unbend a little, and heavens, I shall have to pretend he is my lover (in the play, that is).

  I have spent some little care on my appearance – a cotton gown, almost totally devoid of ornament, save for some pretty tucks at the hem, in a peach and white stripe, and a lawn fichu tucked around the neck. I look almost . . . virginal; the sort of woman a gentleman retired from foreign adventures might very well choose as a wife. I debate on whether I should wear a coral cross, but not wishing a thunderbolt to strike me, decide against it. The only ornament I wear is a pair of pearl bobs that would not look out of place on a miss fresh from a schoolroom. I can only hope I sustain the appropriate behaviour to match my appearance.

  Fanny Gibbons is most correct, addressing us all formally, and after a mild tussle with Otterwell about who is to lead the rehearsal, she takes over. With a polite yet firm smile, she sends Otterwell to his library to finish his improvement on Shakespeare, since the whole first scene in the Athenian court has been cut. And so, since Oberon is busy chewing his quill in the library, Titania takes advantage of her consort’s absence to consult with her cook about dinner, and we begin at the scene where Hermia and Lysander are lost in the woods.

>   Fanny allows us to read from our prompt books, in which we may mark our directions on the stage. Congrevance is not half a dozen words into his speech before she stops him.

  ‘Mr Congrevance, please remember you are weary. You too, Lady Elmhurst. Start again, if you please.’

  After three attempts, in which Mrs Gibbons tries to stop Congrevance striding on to the stage as though he were a lord surveying his estate, and orders me not to smile – I am sure she is wrong, all actresses smile – I actually manage to say the lines I drummed into my head yesterday.

  ‘Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed; For I upon this bank will rest my head.’

  ‘Lie down, Lady Elmhurst.’

  I dutifully write it in my prompt book.

  ‘Very good, Lady Elmhurst. Now lie down, if you please.’

  ‘I am afraid my stays do not allow me to do so, Mrs Gibbons.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Short stays in future, please. Mr Congrevance, if you could be so kind.’

  I look at the floor. ‘But it’s dirty!’

  Congrevance removes his coat and lays it on the floor.

  ‘Very good, Mr Congrevance. We shall keep that, although you will wear a cloak in the play. Please make a note of it. Now, if you could help Lady Elmhurst lie down.’

  His arm snakes around my waist, and his other hand grips mine. Goodness, how strong he is. He gazes into my eyes and, as he lowers me to the floor, murmurs, ‘Would I were my coat, madam.’

  I giggle.

  Fanny frowns at me. ‘On one knee, Mr Congrevance, for your next line.’

  Still holding my hand, he kneels beside me, and I feel quite dizzy with longing.

  ‘One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.’

  Oh heavens. My mind is a complete blank. It is as if no one in the room, the house, the word exists except we two. I swear the spiders pause on their cobwebs, a bee buzzing at the window stills, and we gaze into each other’s eyes as time slows and stops.