A Most Lamentable Comedy Read online

  Stars burst at the side of my head, and the gardens and evening sky wheel in a crazy spiral.

  ‘A beefsteak should do the trick nicely, sir.’

  To my disappointment, the face that leans over mine as I regain my senses is that of Barton. He helps me to my feet, brushing grass from my coat. My eye is rapidly tightening and closing, my cheekbone throbbing.

  ‘Where are they?’

  My question is answered as I see that Darrowby stands nearby. Of the two women there is no sign.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ I say to Darrowby. ‘Maybe I should have hit you. In any case, I had no business kissing Mrs Gibbons. My apologies, sir.’

  He utters a long sigh. ‘Possibly I should kiss her more myself. Women are so difficult, aren’t they? You never really know what they want you to do. But what went wrong? I shouldn’t be asking for your advice. I was about to challenge you to a duel.’

  ‘You may still do so if you wish.’

  ‘Not much point, Congrevance, if the women aren’t to know about it. Besides, we have no disinterested parties for seconds.’ He examines his knuckles and flexes his fingers. ‘I hope I can still write.’

  ‘I’ll set you right up, sir, if you come along with us,’ Barton offers. ‘Or, if you wish, I’ll get out the false beard . . .’

  I shake my head. Not the false beard of which Barton is so fond and that he has assumed for a number of roles – seconds in duels, doctors, priests, et cetera.

  What a failure. Not only have we subverted the code of honour, but we have lost the two ladies to dessert – Darrowby’s timing was not of the best, as by the time he struck his blow they had turned away, arm in arm. Doubtless, if they discussed us at all, it was only to comment on what fools we were.

  She doesn’t care. I should abandon the pursuit. I’ll leave tomorrow.

  Beside me, Darrowby sighs. ‘Congrevance, tell me. Do you think Mrs Gibbons is entirely indifferent to me?’

  ‘Of course not.’ My words ring with false heartiness.

  At rehearsal the next morning, further humiliation awaits.

  Otterwell sweeps into the hall, clad in a long flowing garment and crowned with peacock feathers that nod above his bald head. ‘Costumes, gentlemen!’

  He ushers us into the chamber assigned as the gentlemen’s tiring room and gestures to a large chest. ‘You shall be dressed in the ancient classical style. Mr Linsley will advise you on the fitting of the costumes.’ After Otterwell has left – doubtless he intends to visit the ladies’ tiring room on some pretext – with some trepidation we pick through the garments in the chest, which emits a musty smell; I suspect mice have made their homes in it at some point.

  ‘What the devil . . .’ Linsley holds up a pink knitted item.

  ‘Tights!’ says Darrowby.

  ‘I fear so. And tunics.’

  We gaze at each other in horror.

  So this is the punishment the gods have devised for men who do not fight each other properly.

  Skirts.

  With much grumbling we pull the garments out of the chest and determine that the musty smell comes mainly from the tights; they are knitted silk, and the thought strikes us that possibly they have not been washed since Otterwell’s last theatrical extravaganza. We undress with our backs turned to each other – not from modesty, but from a reluctance to see how hideous these costumes are.

  I tie a belt, some sort of shiny gold rope, around my tunic and shove my feet into leather sandals that curl up at the toes, badly in need of cleaning. Barton would not approve.

  ‘Well, it’s not so bad.’ I take a step towards the pier glass that stands in the corner. A strange downward movement accompanies me. Another few steps and the waist of the damned tights is halfway down my thighs and I am reduced to a waddle.

  ‘You can’t do that on stage,’ Darrowby says as I hoist my skirts and heave the pink monstrosities to their original position. He too takes a turn around the room, his manly stride deteriorating to tiny mincing steps as his tights collapse in folds around his knees.

  ‘Impossible!’ Linsley declares. He leaves the room, to return brandishing a large pair of scissors. ‘Gentlemen, I have the solution. You shall retain both modesty and comfort.’

  A few minutes later, self-conscious and hampered by our skirts, which swish around our knees and get in the way of our normal stride, we make our way on to the stage. Mrs Linsley, seated and surrounded by a great length of stuff on to which she sews some trim, giggles.

  At the same time, Linsley’s mother, the formidable Mrs Riley, tall, silver-haired and imperious, strides into the hall e a warrior queen, accompanied by Otterwell and several housemaids. She comes to a halt and stares at us, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Inigo,’ she booms, ‘pray, what do your associates wear beneath their skirts?’

  He wriggles with embarrassment and mutters, ‘Linen, ma’am.’

  The housemaids, retrieving threaded needles from their apron pockets, giggle.

  ‘Speak up, Inigo.’ She frowns at the housemaids. ‘You, Susan, Kate and Meg, pay no attention to the gentlemen and get on with your sewing. I ask you again, gentlemen, what do you wear beneath your skirts?’

  Linsley wriggles like an embarrassed schoolboy and Darrowby is in an equal state of red-faced shame.

  I step forward. ‘Drawers, ma’am. Cut off above the knee.’ I grasp the hem of my tunic in demonstration, and Mrs Linsley and her assistants turn scarlet, overcome with mirth.

  ‘There is no need for that sort of thing, Congrevance. At least one of you has some sense.’ She gives her son a pointed look.

  ‘I must insist you wear the tights, sirs,’ Otterwell cries.

  The word tights sends the women into a fresh fit of laughter.

  ‘Regrettably, my lord, we cannot walk in them.’

  ‘But they were borrowed from Drury Lane. I trust you did not cut them too.’

  At this point we are joined on stage by Caroline, who arrives in a rush, bosom heaving, and I at least notice that the bosom continues to heave even after she comes to a stop.

  ‘This is intolerable, Otterwell!’ she cries.

  She is magnificent, hair loosened, her arms bare to the shoulder and much of her bosom revealed by thin draperies. She turns her head to catch we three staring at the revealed flesh. ‘Pray avert your eyes! You too, Otterwell.’

  Fanny Gibbons comes on to the stage too, similarly clad, although the results, particularly around the bosom, are not nearly so spectacular. ‘Caroline, you cannot tell the audience to avert their eyes.’

  ‘I think you look lovely,’ Mrs Linsley says, glancing up from her sewing. ‘Don’t you think so, Congrevance?’

  Some strange sort of noise emerges from my throat.

  ‘Oh. Do you? Do I?’ Caroline gazes down at herself with what appears to be indecison, then fixes Otterwell with a fearsome glare. ‘Can you explain, sir, why I am dressed so, and the other ladies are almost decent?’

   a’am, they did not have stays in ancient Greece—’

  ‘Nonsense, Otterwell. I am made to look like a . . . like a . . .’

  ‘Like a goddess,’ I say, to my extreme embarrassment once the words are out.

  ‘Oh. Do you think so indeed?’ She gives we bare-legged gentlemen a close inspection. ‘What are you wearing under your skirts?’

  ‘Cut-down drawers,’ Mrs Riley interjects. ‘They are quite decent, ma’am, I assure you.’

  ‘More decent than I.’ She tosses her mane of hair and crosses her arms over her bared bosom. ‘I insist I have a scarf or some such, Otterwell, otherwise I shall not play.’

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  For sure, it is my trump card. Once the words are out of my mouth, Otterwell becomes almost obsequious, discussing suitable wraps with Philomena – after all, as she sweetly points out, we are in an Athenian wood and surely any sensible woman would wear a pelisse or spencer or some such. Lady Otterwell, clad in regal purple and huge silk flowers with a tottering crown, joins u
s, and Otterwell makes a great effort not to look at my bosom. Lady Otterwell sends a maid for a hefty brown woollen shawl that looks as though it was borrowed from a horse, and the rehearsal begins.

  And Congrevance thinks I look like a goddess! I am mightily pleased and almost forgive him for the male perfidy of the night before. I am glad to see the shadow of a bruise on that handsome cheekbone. He deserves it – I wish I had planted it there myself. After his maudlin ramblings of lost love and broken hearts (or whatever he was talking about) and his attempts to lure me into the maze, the vile seducer, he had the audacity to kiss another woman, my former rival (although I suppose he does not know that, unless Linsley has blabbed to him of it).

  However, I am happy that my hay fever has abated this morning, and it is a pleasure to not sneeze continually.

  And I very much enjoy the sight of Congrevance in a skirt, or rather, his tunic. At first the men are awkward, but then some strutting and posturing occurs, and their skirts swish with great assurance, the peacocks.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ cries Fanny. ‘Pray have a care when you sit. The audience does not wish to see your unmentionables!’

  ‘But they’ll be wondering,’ Linsley says. ‘We might as well let the audience know what we have beneath to avoid vulgar speculation.’ The other two nod in agreement; they do not refer, I believe, to the linen, which in truth may cover all but has a certain transparent quality.

  ‘Knees together, gentlemen,’ Fanny snaps, sounding remarkably like Mrs Riley, and meekly they obey.

  Otherwise the rehearsal is frustrating and tempers grow short. We no longer have pockets for our prompt books and we stumble over our lines. Otterwell makes the mistake of advising Fanny on some point of stagecraft, and the atmosphere becomes unpleasantly chilly. (That is, unpleasantly chilly for the others, maybe, but highly diverting to me.)

  Today Otterwell has decided we shall enjoy an expedition and a picnic luncheon on a grand scale. Outside the sun blazes down, and open carriages await us in the driveway, the horses dozing and twitching flies from their flanks. It is quite a relief to be decently laced into stays and a great joy to have Congrevance look at my bosom again (Otterwell and Linsley too, although I must say it is mere habit with them, as a dog may cock its leg against a tree). I remember only just in time that Congrevance behaved exceedingly badly the previous evening (I do hope Fanny enjoyed it, for the man can kiss, but I did not feel it proper to question her about it), and moreover has disposed himself shamelessly in his tunic and lack of tights (delicious). I must remember to treat him with disdain, for I do not want to be an easy catch. I may masquerade as an actress, but that does not mean I adopt the low morals associated with the profession, unless of course I should receive an offer I could not refuse (in fact it would be simpler all round if Congrevance were to offer marriage and my conscience remain untroubled. I am much pleased with my firm moral stance).

  I arrange my muslin shawl carefully over my shoulders. I do not wish to burn, and neither do I wish to be driven into a ditch, as Otterwell has the reins.

  We trot through the dappled golden and green light of woodlands before emerging into the bright sunlight of a dusty track leading between fields. Ahead is our destination, Puck’s Hill (doubtless named by Otterwell), where we are to picnic. The horses strain forward as the ground slopes uphill, harness creaking, the air heavy with their sweat.

  ‘There’s no need to punish your cattle, Otterwell,’ Congrevance says from behind me. ‘We shall walk. You’ll join me, Lady Caroline?’

  Well, heaven forfend I should appear indifferent to the plight of the sweating horses. Otterwell applies the brake – even so, the horses snort and slither on the dusty track, worn smooth in the heat. Congrevance vaults over the side of the carriage and offers his hand as I alight. Behind us, the other carriage halts to discharge its occupants.

  Lord, it’s hot, and the air smells of horse (and also of Congrevance, delightfully so, who assists me with opening my parasol).

  ‘Caro – Lady Elmhurst – tell me you are not indifferent to me,’ he murmurs in my ear.

  ‘Lord, Congrevance, you have such a practised air. You must have said that to dozens of women.’

  He gives me a rueful crooked smile. ‘Hundreds, ma’am.’

  Then he is gone from my side, to assist Mrs Linsley with her armful of young Master James, shawl, parasol, toy wooden horse and various other necessities. She smiles up at him with a friendly ease that I envy. If only I were indifferent to Congrevance, for then we could be as comfortable together. But as it is, I must be on my guard until he has declared himselfnt>

  In the bright sunshine I shiver as I remember the mob of creditors in London and the threat of debtors’ prison. And I wonder if it is possible to be both comfortable and yet full of desire for a gentleman at the same time. I admit I have never had both; comfort with Bludge, desire for Linsley and Elmhurst and Rotherhithe (and a few other gentlemen, but they hardly count). Maybe it is why people marry when they do not have to (that is, with no expectation of a happy event, or for pressing financial need, or to satisfy family expectations). Indeed, it is a mystery. I sigh so loudly that Fanny, who walks by my side, asks if the heat is too much for me.

  When we come to the crown of the hill, an extraordinary sight awaits us. Otterwell’s servants, in livery and with hair powder running in sweaty rivulets down their faces, stand outside a pavilion with a distinctly Eastern air – a silk pennant at its peaked top and ochre and scarlet fringes hang limp in the still air. Even as we approach, one of the footmen sways and collapses full length on the ground, overcome by the heat. A couple of others drag his recumbent body into the shade of a clump of gorse bushes so our appetites will not be spoiled by his suffering.

  Otterwell mops at his sweaty face with a large handkerchief and ushers us into the shade of the pavilion. A few flies rise from the food and buzz away with weary indolence, as overcome by the heat as we. We ladies sink on to the pillows and carpets spread on the floor and fan ourselves.

  Oh, thank heavens Otterwell has brought ice for the lemonade and champagne. I press a handful to my throat and groan aloud with pleasure as cold water trickles into my bodice.

  Behind me, someone, Congrevance I believe, clears his throat.

  And the devil of it is that he is the only one who is not red-faced and sweating; in fact the warmth makes him quite brisk, fetching us platefuls of food and filling our glasses. He must be used to the heat from Italy, I suppose. He takes little Will outside and plays catch with him for a time.

  Even Otterwell is subdued for once. Instead of boring us to death with his eternal Shakespeare quotations, he drinks a lot of wine and falls asleep with his head on Lady Otterwell’s lap, Titania’s very own ass, as I remark to Philomena.

  She giggles. ‘Oh, you are so wicked, Caroline.’

  Little James totters towards her and collapses on to her lap. She smoothes the sweaty curls on his forehead.

  ‘What a sweet child,’ I say, hoping it sounds sincere, for I am grateful to Philomena for her friendliness. And to be sure, although I can enjoy the company of a rational child like Will for a time, one who mostly only barks is something of a mystery to me.

  ‘My sister expects her next confinement any day,’ Philomena says. I assume she means the one who is married. ‘I do so enjoy being an aunt. Do you have nieces and nephews, Caroline?’

  ‘Oh yes. I dote upon them.’ I rackine-befuddled brain to remember how many children my fecund sister has produced. ‘They are the most lovely children.’

  I expect they are. The last one I saw, when I was in my sister’s good graces, was at his christening, a red-faced, shrieking creature I was frightened to hold.

  ‘And how about you, Mr Congrevance?’

  He has dropped down beside us on to his elbow, coat discarded and in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He rests one wrist on his raised knee – it was most enjoyable when he posed so in his tunic. A little, a very little sweat stands on his forehead, darke
ning the hair that springs forward. As I watch, a bead trickles from his temple. Were we alone, I should lean forward and touch my tongue . . .

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Philomena repeats her question about nieces and nephews.

  ‘Several, ma’am.’ He springs to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Philomena bites her lip as he walks away, his back stiff. ‘I do hope I have not offended him. It would be a shame if our plan were to go awry.’

  I yawn. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably gone to look for a tree or a furze bush or something. What plan?’

  ‘Why, Linsley has decided we should bring Fanny and Tom together, and you and Congrevance are to help us.’

  ‘What? How?’ I glance towards Congrevance, who stands with his back to us – not in the way of a gentleman who has found a bush or tree to his liking, but in a most elegant way, gazing out poetically, I suppose, at the view, which is quite striking. We ladies have failed to gush sufficiently over the fine prospect, as we are made quite limp and stupid by the heat.

  ‘Oh, it’s simple,’ Philomena says. ‘Congrevance will invite you to walk through the woods on the way home, and since it would be improper for you to be alone with him, I shall encourage Fanny to accompany you, and it is almost certain Tom will want to walk also. Then all you and Congrevance have to do is walk ahead and let nature take its course.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please, Caroline. He must propose to her.’

  I consider this idiocy. It is unlikely any of us will go to sleep, and even more unlikely that Will or anyone will else will drop a magic potion into our eyes, or give any one of us an ass’s head, but Congrevance may well have some ideas of his own once we are in the woods. I cannot afford to have my virtue assailed – but I certainly don’t want him kissing Fanny any more, and if she is engaged to Darrowby, possibly he will leave her alone.