A Most Lamentable Comedy

by Janet Mullany

  I step forward to warn her, but another fellow dashes towards her, and at the same time she turns and sees the ball hurtling at her like a comet. To my astonishment she leaps, arms outstretched – someone has taught her how to catch – colliding with the gentleman in mid-air, and the two of them crash to the ground.

  The gentleman, who has landed half on top of her, extricates himself from her skirts, revealing her shapely ankles as he does so. ‘Good God, Caro, what are you doing here?’

  She gasps, and I realise she has had the wind knocked out of her before she growls, ‘And what the devil are you doing, Linsley? Get off me!’

  He does so, grinning, and offers a hand to help her up. Apparently they know each other quite well, well enough for him to swipe grass off her backside as she stands. A small, pretty woman with a mass of curly hair approaches, glaring, and Linsley puts his hand behind his back, stepping away.

  Caroline, while still clutching the ball to her chest, curtsies in a minimally polite way to the woman. ‘Mrs Linsley.’

  She curtsies back in similar fashion, still glowering at her husband.

  The youthful batsman, meanwhile, comes to join us, dragging the bat behind him. ‘Papa, am I out?’

  ‘You are indeed. I caught you fair and square,’ Lady Caroline says. She picks up her unfortunate bonnet, now looking much the worse for wear, and gives it a hearty shake.

  ‘You’re a girl. Papa, girls cannot play cricket.’

  ‘I can, sir. Did I not just catch you out?’ She hands the ball to him.

  ‘Caroline, this is my son Will,’ Liley says with easy familiarity. ‘And Will, I’m afraid she did catch you out, and if she had not done so, then I would have.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ the child says, his face reddening.

  Another woman, tall, and with short reddish hair caught in a bandeau, taps the child on the shoulder. ‘Will, please bow to the lady and gentleman. Have you forgotten your manners altogether?’

  I think at first she is a nursemaid, although very well dressed for one, until the child replies, ‘Yes, Mama,’ hands the bat over to his father and obeys.

  As Master Will makes his bow, Caroline and the child’s mother stare at each other with obvious dislike, while Linsley turns to me and introduces himself, and the short, pretty woman as his wife. The other woman, Will’s mother, is Mrs Fanny Gibbons. ‘And before I cause you further embarrassment,’ he says, ‘Will is Mrs Gibbons’ son, and this one, Master James Linsley, is mine also.’

  ‘Woof.’ I look down. A small child in petticoats barks at me.

  ‘Woof,’ says Caroline, and the child regards her gravely, then turns to Mrs Linsley and holds out his arms to be picked up.

  Mrs Linsley smiles at her son, and then at me. ‘He is to play Moonshine’s dog and the Indian child,’ she says. ‘And Mrs Gibbons is to direct us and play the part of Helena herself.’

  I would have thought there might be animosity between Mrs Linsley and her husband’s mistress, but they move closer together, much in the same way that ships of the line engage for battle, and I realise that they are united against Caroline. Lady Otterwell, too, raises sail and joins them, and I wonder who will be the first to send a warning shot across Caroline’s bows.

  ‘I regret I never saw you on stage, Mrs Gibbons,’ I say to her, for of course I recognise her name. ‘I’ve been abroad for some time.’

  ‘I’m retired from acting for the most part of six years now,’ she says. ‘But what part is yours, Mr Congrevance?’

  ‘He shall play Lysander,’ Otterwell says. He rubs his hands together, apparently enthusiastic at the prospect of squabbling actresses. ‘I received a letter today from the gentleman who was to play that part that he is detained by some business with a horse and a beehive, and I was quite at my wits’ end until Congrevance arrived.’

  ‘So I shall have to be in love with this gentleman, Otterwell?’ Caroline looks at me with a challenge in her eyes.

  ‘Aye, madam,’ I say, and meet her gaze while shivers run down my spine, and heat rushes to other parts of my anatomy. ‘So you shall.’

  3

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  It is just my luck. I should never have come had I known Linsley and his harem were to be in attendance. It is bad enough that he flaunts his bastard in public, but that slut the actress, my former rival, is accepted in society, too! It is quite scandalous. I hear he keeps her in a cottage not half a mile from his house. As for his wife, that common little thing who was after Elmhurst and any other titled gentleman she could get her hands on, there was a great deal of talk when she married Linsley. He is of a good family after all, his brother being the Earl of Terrant, whereas she is from trade. In fact I believe her family owns a coal mine or some such.

  And the look in Linsley’s eyes when he realised he had bedded all three of the women within arm’s reach – oh, the mortification, and in front of Congrevance, after all my hard work to convince him of my respectability! Or to be exact, as much hard work as I could reasonably fit in during the half-hour of our acquaintance.

  At least there is nothing scandalous in my dealings with Otterwell, although he probably wishes there was; he is one of those people one is forever running into at this party or rout or ball or that. Possibly he flatters himself that the frequency of chance meetings is fortuitous, although I am sure Lady Otterwell keeps him on a tight rein. I don’t believe the Otterwells are aware of my dire financial straits, and of course the others spend most of their time in the country.

  I can only hope Mary smoothes things over in her dealing downstairs with Barton – and I hope she has finally forgiven me for the remark about the stinking sores. It was, after all, the inspiration of the moment and I did not realise she was so offended by it.

  Otterwell has given me a good room – it has wallpaper of pagodas and a vaguely Chinese air about it, old fashioned but comfortable, with a view of some rosebeds and a lake. It is all pleasant enough in the evening light, although I wish there were one soul in the house who actually seemed glad to see me. Otterwell is pleased to see my bosom, and that is about all.

  The door opens and Mary enters, carrying my freshly ironed dress for the evening. She appears in good spirits, to my relief, and chatters on about the room she is to share and what the servants have had for dinner as she helps me into the dress. Otterwell keeps country hours, with dinner at six. I am still starving, having been prevented from reaching the cake by a bastion of female disapproval that afternoon.

  ‘Don’t you gobble at dinner, milady. It’s not genteel. After them foreign ladies, he won’t like it.’ Mary reaches into her pocket and hands me a hunk of bread and butter. No need to say who he is, of course. I hate to tell her that my new reputation is ruined already. My foolish comment that I should fall in love with him stings, as I know the only fall he had in mind for me was backwards with my skirts up. And, his comment implied, I was only too ready to do so, thanks to Linsley’s appalling familiarity. I finish the bread, brush crumbs from the gown, and allow Mary the pick of my ribbons as thanks for her good service.

  ‘And how is your friend Mr Barton?’ I ask as she rummag among the ribbons.

  She giggles. ‘Oh, he’s a fine one, milady. He and his master have been all over Europe and now Mr Congrevance has a fancy to return home, so they’re back in England.’

  ‘Home? Where is that exactly?’

  ‘He didn’t say rightly, milady. Some castle in Ireland and lands in the north somewhere. Beautiful shirts he has, milady. All silk.’

  I think of them at their ironing, elbow to elbow, gossiping about their master and mistress. It has a certain appeal. ‘And what did you tell him of me?’

  ‘Why, that you’re in no hurry to marry, as you’re comfortably off.’ Mary says it without a trace of irony. She adds, ‘And that you miss Lord Elmhurst.’

  I stand up so fast my chair tips over backwards. ‘That was completely unnecessary!’

  ‘Well, milady, I thought it might spur on
him if—’

  ‘Pray do not make things up.’ A ludicrous command if ever there was one.

  She shrugs, not offended, and rights the chair. ‘And Mr Barton says he’ll take me to see a ferret.’

  ‘Very well. You be careful it is not a ferret he keeps in his trousers.’ I catch a sight of myself in the mirror. ‘Can we make this neckline higher?’

  ‘Higher?’ She stares at me as though I am mad. It is certainly a request I have never made before.

  ‘Never mind. It will do.’ I adjust my turban, fiddle around changing my earrings and putting the original pair on and leave for the drawing room.

  Another lady is headed in the same direction, tall, grey-haired and with a familiar look to her. She turns, hearing me behind her, and I sink into a curtsy as my heart sinks even lower. It’s Inigo Linsley’s terrifying mother, the Dowager Countess, given to odd outspoken bursts – she is never afraid to speak her mind. ‘Good evening, Lady Terrant.’

  ‘Ha. Lady Elmhurst.’ I haven’t seen her for some years, after she left London under a cloud, so I heard, while I was on honeymoon with Elmhurst. I know Linsley was frightened to death of her, although she liked him above all of her sons. She gives me a good inspection, and comments, ‘You’re ageing well.’

  Since I admit to three and twenty I do not take this as a compliment. She, however, is as handsome and bright-eyed as ever. I know she married very young, and she must now be well over fifty. Then she says, ‘I am Mrs Riley now. I married again, to an Admiral Riley. When you are my age one may do as one pleases.’

  ‘Oh. My felicitations, madam.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear of Elmhrst’s death. He was a handsome rogue.’ Before I can say anything, as taken aback as I am, she adds, ‘I shall have to talk to Otterwell about his gardeners. They should all be hanged.’

  Indeed, yes, the lady has a passion for gardening, I remember, and doubtless intends to make good use of her stay stuffing her pockets full of purloined cuttings from Otterwell’s garden. She turns on her heel and marches down the stairs ahead of me, and I am glad I have her preceding my entry into the drawing room. She may be a commoner now but the guests part before her like the Red Sea, bowing and scraping, and then almost fall over themselves in their haste to get away from her without seeming rude.

  Ignoring them, Mrs Riley makes a beeline for a white-haired, jovial-looking fellow, who must be her new husband, while I express an interest in the pictures on the walls. This gives me the chance to observe my fellow guests.

  A tall, brown-haired man I have not seen before escorts Mrs Gibbons, and they are both in lively conversation with Congrevance, who looks devastatingly handsome in his black coat and breeches. Lady Otterwell flutters around him with an inappropriate girlishness. I wonder about the extent of their acquaintance in Rome (surely he was not her lover?), and, not for the first time, why he pretended to be a French nobleman. Was he truly a spy? It is most romantic and exciting, if true, but I have found so many gentlemen claim they have been involved in espionage abroad that they might as well have donned uniforms and made themselves into a regiment.

  We are led into dinner, and there is a minor whirlwind as the guests, torn between avoiding Mrs Riley and myself, choose their seats, with the consequence that I find myself next to her and with Mrs Gibbons’ companion on the other. He introduces himself in a most friendly way (obviously not someone who partakes of London gossip) as Mr Thomas Darrowby, Otterwell’s secretary. I flirt a little with him purely to annoy Fanny Gibbons who sits opposite, but she smiles with great serenity and converses with her neighbours. Mrs Riley throws in an odd comment as the fancy takes her.

  ‘And what is your part in the play?’ I ask Darrowby.

  ‘I play Demetrius, Lady Elmhurst. Lord Otterwell is most gratified that Mr Congrevance has joined us, having lost his Lysander. He and Lady Otterwell, of course, are to play both Oberon and Titania and Theseus and Hippolyta.’

  I try not to giggle, for the plump Lady Otterwell is a most unlikely queen of the fairies, let alone of the Amazons, but then it is a most silly play, as I remember, with two sets of lovers lost in the woods, and fairies and enchantments and so on.

  ‘And Philomena Linsley is our wardrobe mistress.’ He smiles down the table at her with great affection. ‘Of course, she’s more interested in the costumes than in acting. I know her well, Lady Elmhurst. She is like a sister to me. Our families have been friends for years, and I was secretary to her brother-in-law for a time.’

  Indeed. I wonder what Mr Linsley thinks of Darrowby following his wife around. Linsley, it appears, is stage manager, and his son, Will, a youthful Puck.

  ‘And the rude mechanicals?’ I ask.

  ‘Otterwell’s servants,’ Mrs Riley says. ‘His butler fancies himself a thespian, and so plays Bottom and takes charge of their rehearsals. Of course Otterwell plans to cut out all the business with the ass’s head so his butler does not make love to her ladyship. And your audience will be Otterwell’s friends and neighbours from miles around, with a ball following, and too much strong beer and a roast ox for his tenants.’

  After dinner – we dined early, as Otterwell has announced that since we have but two weeks to perfect our play, we start rehearsals the next day at ten of the morning (is he mad?) – there are cards, so I play whist in a boring and ladylike sort of way, winning a few shillings. I feel quite satisfied with myself – everyone has drunk enough wine from Otterwell’s excellent cellar to be cordial (and Mrs Gibbons, most gratifyingly, plucked Mr Darrowby from my side with a proprietorial air and a cool smile). It seems the evening is about to end, as people yawn and exclaim at the time, the women gathering fans and shawls.

  I should know, surely by now, that when things appear to be progressing well, disaster is about to strike.

  ‘So, Lady Elmhurst.’ A hand brushes against the back of my chair, and thereby against my bare shoulder. ‘I hear you are a great card player. What say you to a hand of piquet?’

  Congrevance.

  ‘Why, sir, I was thinking of my bed.’

  Moving round to sit opposite me, he smiles in a predatory sort of way. ‘A pleasant thought indeed, Lady Elmhurst. I could spend a great deal of time thinking of you in your bed. But before you retire . . .’ He is already picking the low numbers from a pack of cards.

  I watch, fascinated, as he indulges in some fancy shuffling, sweeping the cards face down into a sinuous curve on the table, tipping them over, and gathering the pack together with those long, elegant hands. He has beautiful hands and I find myself torn between watching them and his lips.

  ‘Very well.’ The words tumble from my foolish mouth before I can stop them. ‘I trust a shilling a point is satisfactory?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There is a slight stir around as the other guests, bedtimes postponed, gather round to watch this new entertainment for the evening. Otterwell calls for candelabra to be moved closer to our table so that all may see.

  We cut for who should deal, and although Congrevance picks the higher card, he bows towards me and indicates that I should be younger hand, with the privilege of dealing first. It’s most gentlemanly of him, indeed, as it gives me an advantage in the game, but I am not sure I trust him.

  So I shuffle and deal, and find myself possessed of a miserable hand.

  Congrevance, lounging opposite me, smiles, discards five cards and picks five new from the talon. Quite as I would expect. I do the same, hoping to replace my incoherent dozen cards with something better – but no, they are only incoherent in a different way, with a meagre pair of kings and a run of hearts in my favour.

  He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my declaration.

  Good heavens, the man is distraction itself, and it crosses my mind that I am being played as surely as his hand.

  Someone places a glass of wine at my side, and I take a sip, while reflecting that I have had a considerable amount to drink already, and this will not help my game. But it seems I am beyond help or luck. In fact, a
nd to make short work of misery, I am trounced, defeated, trampled and, despite my initial advantage as younger hand, at the end of the partie some three hundred and eighteen points in debt.

  There is a slight smattering of applause. The fools. Where do they think they are, at the play? And I – I am not the heroine of a tragedy; rather, I am the clown in the farce who’s just landed on her backside. Damn them all.

  ‘Oh, well played, sir, well played indeed!’ Otterwell crows. ‘Not to worry, Lady Elmhurst, the luck will turn, you know.’

  ‘Another partie, Lady Elmhurst?’ Congrevance asks, as smooth as silk, as deadly as sin. He rises to his feet and stretches, and I look away, fearing I drool, even as humiliated as I am.

  I force a smile to my lips. ‘I regret not, sir.’

  Now that the entertainment is over, the others resume their leisurely progression from the room. A footman enters and snuffs the candles, but when he approaches the table, Congrevance gestures to him to leave us.

  ‘You owe me, madam.’

  ‘I regret I am at somewhat of a disadvantage, Mr Congrevance.’ A disadvantage puts it mildly, indeed. I, who have but a couple of guineas to my name, am now in debt to the tune of fifteen guineas and three shillings.

  The last person to leave the room hesitates, drawing his breath in sharply. I see it is Linsley, and shake my head. God knows he is in trouble enough with his wife after this afternoon’s blunders. He nods, bows and leaves the room, and Congrevance and I are left alone.

  A nearby clock strikes midnight as I unhook my earrings, and toss them on to the table. They land with a slight metallic sound, diamonds and sapphires winking in the candlelight; the last of my good jewels, a gift from Elmhurst, the pieces I swore I would never sell. ‘I trust these will satisfy my debt, sir.’ I add, in as careless a way as I can, ‘Until I return to London, that is.’