by Deryn Lake
Samuel gave a sheepish grin.
“I don’t know is the answer. Our love affair was a long time ago and a great deal has happened to both of us in the interim. Her husband, by the way, is a complete wastrel. He was sick all over me - hence these extraordinary garments - and looks wrecked into the bargain. As a matter of fact I don’t think he has long for this world.”
“Then there’s hope!”
“Samuel, really,” John said impatiently. “I cannot cut out the past as if it never happened and neither can Coralie. We are two entirely different people. And that is truly all I have to say on the matter. Please let it rest.”
“I was only conjecturing,” said Sam, somewhat hurt.
“I’m sure you were. Anyway, here’s the inn. I’m going to have a drink. I feel as if I’ve earned one.”
They were joined an hour later by Dominique Jean, grinning all over his face at the sight of them.
“This is my manservant,” said John hastily. “His name is Samuel O’Swann. He and I often share a jug of ale together.” Dominique raised his eyebrows but made no comment and sat down happily enough, raising his glass of claret to John.
“To you, monsieur. Merci.”
“How did you get on up at the big house?”
Dominique frowned. “Let me explain to you about the two commodes that my late father-in-law made. They are not to be confused with those smelly close stools which were used in the past for lavatorial purposes. No, they are small cabinets for storage made by a master craftsman. You have not yet seen them, monsieur, but when you do please note the bombe form of the pieces and the exquisite use of marquetry. Furthermore, the great Pierre Langlois crowned their tops with specimen marbles imported from Florence.” The little bird-like man kissed his fingers.
“Pierre Langlois, eh?” said Samuel, forgetting his Irish accent. “He was a well known craftsman. Did you say he was your father-in-law, sir?”
“Indeed he was. As you know, gentlemen, he died recently, which was a great loss to us all.”
“May I address you as Dominique?” said John.
“Please do so, monsieur.””
“Tell me, how was Lord Arundel when you left?”
“I did not see him,” Dominique answered, sipping his wine. “His wife came and spoke to me when I examined the commode.”
John felt a thrill of interest. “Oh really?”
“Yes. She seemed very guilty about the whole affair. I imagined it was either her husband or her daughter who fell over it in the first place.”
“How bad is the damage?”
“Reasonable. I can do the repair on site, though it will probably take a day or two.”
“What about your tools?”
“They are in my coach which, with luck, should be here this evening.”
“I have been invited to dine there tomorrow, you know.”
“Then no doubt I may well see you.”
“Tell me, my friend,” John asked, liking this Frenchman and feeling that his opinion would be worth consideration, “what is Sir Francis really like?”
Dominique barked a laugh. “He is one of the most colourful characters of the age. He is utterly ruled by his prick, if you’ll forgive my being so forthright. He loves women and drinking above everything else. Do you know what Bubb Doddington said about him?”
“No,” answered Samuel, leaning forward.
“I heard this from my father-in-law who overheard the conversation in another room. He - that’s Doddington - said that Dashwood was like a public reservoir, laying his cock in every private family that has any place fit to receive it.”
John laughed but Samuel guffawed joyously.
“Oh, John,” he said, “you’re going to be hard put to it tomorrow.”
“Indeed I am,” the Apothecary answered.
Dominique looked surprised. “You obviously get on very well with your servant, monsieur.””
“Yes,” said John, calming down, “I most certainly do.”
Chapter Eight
The following night, John Rawlings dressed very finely in a creation of succulent damson taffeta with a silver waistcoat embroidered with a million little stars in a shade of ripe plum. He set forth at exactly three-forty in the coach belonging to Pierre Langlois, currently in the ownership of his son-in-law. It had arrived on the previous evening - much to the delight of Dominique - and had gone round to the stableyard of the inn. But early the following morning the water gilder had set off in it carrying a long apron together with the tools of his trade. On his face he had had the most determined expression. He had returned, looking somewhat sour, at exactly half past three.
“What’s the matter?” John had asked as he had met him in the downstairs lobby.
“That bastard Arundel, he is a salaud.”
“Why? What has he done?”
“He owes me £700 for work I have carried out on his behalf. I have sent him bill after bill but all I get is vague promises and when I press him he becomes the noble aristocrat, too high and mighty to settle up. Furthermore he terrifies that child of his. She is scared out of her wits by him.”
“Really? What gives you that impression?”
“Something I overheard today. I’ll tell you of it another time. Now you must make haste.”
John stepped into the coach gratefully, glad that Dominique had offered to lend it to him, delighted that he was not going to have to ride in his most elegant night clothes.
He was set down at the front door in the colonnaded entrance, already lit with flaming torches set in sconces along the wall; all this despite the brightness of the day. He pealed the bell which was answered immediately by a footman.
“Sir Francis is expecting you, sir. If you would follow me.” The servant led the way across the hall to a room directly opposite. Throwing it open he said, “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, my Lord,” in an extremely adenoidal voice.
John stepped inside and hardly knew where to look first, so fine and splendid was everything about him. Immediately opposite where he was standing were three mighty arched windows giving splendid views of the lake and its little wooded islands. Above his head the ceiling was painted with a fresco depicting a meeting of the gods, the males with pieces of flowing cloak or discreetly raised knees hiding their genitalia, the women with arms draped decorously over their breasts. He was still gazing at it when a voice from a deep and comfortable chair said, “Good afternoon, sir.”
The Apothecary dragged his attention back and gave a florid bow before saying, “Good afternoon, my Lord.”
“You may call me Sir Francis,” replied the other with a growl of a laugh. “Everybody does.”
John focused his eyes and found himself looking down into an extraordinary face the colour of a rich royal ruby, adorned by a long and large shining nose that spoke volumes of its owner’s addiction to fleshly pleasures. Above the nose were two deep-set eyes, dark as chestnuts and equally fierce in their aspect. But the lips were those of a worldly libertine, the bottom one being full and demanding, the upper scarcely visible. In his hand Sir Francis held a glass of red wine and while he scrutinised John from top to toe he sipped at it continuously.
“You’re very finely arrayed if I may say so, sir. Who’s your tailor?”
The Apothecary was on the point of telling him and then remembered his pose. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of him, sir. “Tis a wee fellow from Dublin. My father swears by him.”
Sir Francis got to his feet, moving athletically for a man of his build. “Let’s have a good look at you.” He studied John’s face in the light streaming through the three windows. “Oh, it’s quite a handsome lad that the Earl of Cavan produced. It was the Earl of Cavan you said, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
John prayed silently that if such a man existed then Sir Francis would have no particular knowledge of him.
“I don’t know much about the Irish peerage,” the other man said reassuringly. “In fact all I kn
ow about that country is that I am thinking of introducing some sort of postal system at some time in the future. A good plan, don’t you agree?”
“Oh yes, Sir Francis,” John replied enthusiastically. “It is high time that we were organised in that regard.”
“Um, well I’ll remember your words if ever the time comes. Now, my boy, to more serious matters. What would you like to drink?”
“A glass of claret would go down well, thank you.”
Sir Francis crossed to a sideboard, poured out a glass of deep-red wine from a sparkling crystal decanter, then motioned John to a seat, and returned to his own chair opposite.
“My wife tells me that you want to interview me with regard to writing something or other in an Irish journal.”
“That’s correct, Sir Francis. Any views you have about the postal system or anything else for that matter would be greatly appreciated.”
“I see. Well, now is not the time. Perhaps later in the week.”
John was just starting his torrent of effusive thanks when there were footsteps in the hall outside and then the door was flung open. Arundel stood in the entrance, swaying very slightly.
“Ah come in, Charles. I was wondering where you had got to. Allow me to present to you the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, son of the Earl of Cavan.”
“How dee do?” said Lord Arundel, extending a long white hand before making a perfunctory bow.
“How do you do, my Lord?”
John echoed his bow but made his a little deeper. It was perfectly clear from the expression on Charles Arundel’s face that he had no recollection whatsoever of their previous meeting.
“A glass of wine, Charles? You just have time before we sit down to dine.”
“That would be splendid, Lrancis. I slept this afternoon so I’ve recovered from this morning.”
John shot him a glance from under his lashes. Lord Arundel was thin, indeed almost gaunt, and wore a brilliant white wig which accentuated his beau monde macquillage. He looked to the Apothecary as if he suffered from anaemia and was covering it up by wearing a white foundation and powder. His lips, which he had not carmined however, appeared bloodless and drawn, and John thought him a most unattractive specimen. He wondered what could possibly have possessed Coralie Clive to marry such a creature and could only conjecture that he must have been handsome in the days when she first knew him.
“Cavan?” said Lord Arundel, wrinkling his nose very slightly. “Is that an Irish title?”
“Yes, my Lord,” John answered politely.
“I see.” And Charles put a great deal of meaning into those two words.
John found himself disliking the fellow, partly because he had ruined the green velvet coat of which the Apothecary had been particularly fond.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked spitefully.
“Than when?” said Arundel, peering down the length of his thinly sculpted nose.
“Than yesterday, sir. I was the person who helped you to your room.” John smiled disarmingly.
“Were you, by Jove? Then I owe you my heartfelt thanks.” Despite the warmth of the words Charles contrived to say them with a chill in his tone.
John was just beginning to get annoyed when a footman threw open the door and intoned that dinner was served. At this Sarah, Lady Dashwood, accompanied by Coralie Clive appeared and were escorted in to dine by their husbands with the Apothecary following somewhat lamely behind.
Once in the dining room, he was again struck by the beauty of the ceiling which carried a huge painting of the Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne. Indeed the theme of the room was definitely bacchanalian and John, looking at the sideboard loaded with decanters, felt that he was in for a definite feast. Mentally he girded himself for the fray. His eye wandered to a plaster statue of the Venus de” Medici standing in a niche in the right-hand wall. She seemed to preside over the room and John could not help but contrast her voluptuous curves, scarcely concealed by her judiciously placed hands, with the flat and forbidding figure of Sir Francis’s wife, who sat looking grim as ever on her husband’s right. Coralie, on the other hand, looked beautiful, though greatly changed, in deepest red.
John studied her. Her figure was much the same, perhaps an inch or so fuller, though still admirable. Her hair, black as midnight, had just a hint of frosting, yet her emerald eyes were clear and fresh despite the little lines round them. He looked at her hands, one toying with the stem of her wine glass, and was filled with a longing to hold one.
She must have caught his gaze because she said with a certain amount of amusement, “And how was your father when you last saw him, Mr O’Hare?”
He answered, with Sir Gabriel Kent in mind, “Still well despite his great age, thank you ma’am. He spends much time in reading these days but is most delighted when he is visited by my daughter.”
Lady Dashwood looked up. “You have a daughter! I did not realise you were even married, sir.” She said the words like an accusation.
“I was married some years ago, my Lady, but unfortunately my wife…died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied in her usual stiff way. But Coralie said in an undertone, “How unhappy you must have been.”
“I was indeed, madam. I was wounded to the heart for more than one reason.”
Sir Francis called from the end of the table. “Mr O’Hare, I’m sorry for your personal tragedy but we do not have sad people around us for long. So drink and be merry. I would like to propose a toast. To the Earl of Cavan and his many sons.”
“I’ll drink to that and gladly,” John answered and rose to his feet as did the other men present.
“And now,” said the host, beaming geniality, “let us eat.”
It was an excellent meal of several courses into which John tucked heartily. However, he could not help but notice that Charles picked at his food, moving it round his plate with his fork, yet drinking heavily all the while. He came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the man though he couldn’t as yet identify what it was.
It was a strange sensation, sitting next to Coralie, wondering what she was thinking, almost as if the clocks had been turned back and the intervening years with all their spent passions and terrible dramas had not taken place. But they had and there could be no denying them. John decided that there was only one thing to do and that was to get as merry as possible without reducing himself to the level of Charles Arundel, whom he already cordially disliked.
“Do you travel at all, Mr O’Hare?”
“Not a great deal, Sir Francis. But I hear that you are quite a voyager.”
“Oh yes, indeed. When I was very young I went on the Grand Tour and the impression it left on me was remarkable. I also went on a visit to meet the Empress Anna Petrovna of Russia and I have made a journey to Greece and Asia Minor.”
“I envy you that, sir.”
“It was in Asia Minor that I met young Arundel’s father.”
“Really?”
John stole a glance at Charles and saw that a bright pink flush had now invaded his cheeks.
“Oh yes. I have been a friend of his ever since. He was a member of the Divan Club which is an organisation specifically for people who have visited the Ottoman Empire.” John’s ears became alert, wondering if it was possible that this was the club to which Sir John Fielding had referred. “How very interesting, sir. Does that club still function?”
“No, alas. It was difficult to find members with the right qualifications. But I am still friendly with several of the people concerned.”
At this Dashwood gave rather a coarse laugh in which Charles joined. John was convinced that they were referring to something else and wondered if it could possibly be another club. He was just about to make some superficial comment when there came another ring at the front door.
Sir Francis looked up. “That will be James Avon-Nelthorpe. He is travelling from London and said he might be late.” He turned to his wife. “You have no objection to him joini
ng us I take it, my dear?”
She sighed a little and turning to a servant said, “Lay another cover, would you.”
There was the sound of voices in the hall and then the door to the dining room was opened and a footman intoned “The Honourable James Avon-Nelthorpe and Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe.” Every head turned to look and John, giving the couple who stood in the doorway a quick glance, formed the immediate impression that the Honourable James had brought an ancient London whore with him. For the woman in his company was easily old enough to be his mother and was fat, short and wore far too much rouge. On top of her white-blonde mass of curls she had a pink hat with a whirl of pink feathers floating at the side, this matching her open robe which covered a very fussy white petticoat beneath. Dimly visible beneath this extraordinary outfit were a pair of pink top-boots, and pink gloves gave the finishing touch.
“Damme James,” said Sir Francis, rising. “You did not say you were bringing your wife.”
“Oh, cooee!” exclaimed the newcomer. “Sorry to intrude, I’m sure. Do hope you’ll forgive me Lady Dashwood. It’s just that James has hurt his back and he has no one attend to it for him but his little wifey.”
She grinned, displaying a row of small white teeth, sharp as blades.
“Oh, no trouble at all,” Sarah answered in her monotonous voice. “Wilkins, lay two places.”
“I don’t think you know everyone,” said Sir Francis, still standing. “Lady Arundel, may I present Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe?” The fat lady bobbed a curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Lady Arundel. The pleasure is entirely mine.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” said Coralie extending a gracious hand.
“And may I present the Honourable Fintan O’Hare to you, Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe?” Over him she ran a shrewd little eye, encased in pouches of fat, in quite one of the most penetrating glances he had ever seen, indeed he almost felt stripped bare so all-consuming was it.
John rose and bowed fulsomely. “How nice,” was all he could think of saying.
The Honourable James meanwhile stood shuffling from foot to foot, blushing violently. He was an extraordinary young man with bright hair, the colour of carrots, which he wore tied back in a queue. In contrast with his wife he had a lanky frame with hardly an ounce of superfluous flesh on it and wore his clothes with a certain natural inelegance, rather as if they were the first thing he could find to put on. His skin was fair and covered with freckles and he was only saved from being rather ugly by a fine pair of eyes, topaz in colour, which gleamed as he looked round the assembled company.