A Most Lamentable Comedy

by Janet Mullany

  ‘Of course.’ He turns the earrings over in his hand. ‘Very pretty, Lady Elmhurst, but not worth more than ten guineas, in my estimation.’

  hei"0em" width="27" align="justify">‘I believe you are wrong, sir.’

  He dangles the earrings between forefinger and thumb, eyes dark and wicked, and leans forward, his elbow on the table among the discarded cards.

  ‘I believe, Lady Elmhurst, we can come to an . . . arrangement.’

  ‘An arrangement?’ I try to sound offended, but fear my voice reveals only breathless anticipation. I rise in an attempt to regain my wounded dignity.

  ‘Yes, madam.’ He has taken one swift step, meeting me at the side of the table. ‘If you are willing.’

  My legs almost give way. ‘Why, sir, what can you mean?’

  He inclines his head towards mine, his voice low and caressing. ‘A kiss, madam, but one kiss, and honour will be satisfied.’

  4

  Mr Nicholas Congrevance

  My behaviour alarms me. This is not how I conduct myself.

  Never.

  I am not one of those hair-raking, pacing, heroic fellows who charge into the amorous fray like a ram into a field of ewes, and sweep defenceless women into bed. My success is due entirely to my good manners, my ability to listen to women talk, to sympathise; to behave, as one lady said, ‘like a sister with a cock’. (A most troubling definition, I realised later. At the time, my mind was on other matters.)

  I certainly did not leave a string of happy, satisfied women in my wake by thrashing them at cards and then asking them to sell themselves.

  And now I’ve done it and I have no idea of the course I should take. I can barely think, not with Caroline so close. I wonder for a moment if she will storm out in disgust, but she gazes at me, her lips parted in voiceless assent, an invitation no man can resist. I am not made of stone. I can rethink my tactics later.

  I shall not be ungentlemanly about it.

  Definitely not.

  With what is left of my common sense, I prepare to brush my lips against hers in moderately chaste fashion, and determine that none of the following shall occur:

  Interplay of tongues.

  Unseemly groping or rubbing.

  Moving lips from mouth to lobe of ear, neck or any other regions.

  Groaning or other lewd sounds.

  Loosening of any articles of clothing.

  Any of the above that will prompt her to respond in kind.

  She is the first to disengage. ‘Do you usually kiss ladies for a quarter-hour at a time?’ she asks.

  ‘Do you usually time such activities?’ I respond, feeling like a fool as, sure enough, the last chimes of the quarter-hour fade away. I pluck at my disordered neckcloth. I have broken every single resolution regarding the nature of the kiss. I want to toss her on to the card table and finish what we have started, I want to run from Otterwell’s house before I am in deeper trouble than I am now – and I am duty bound to report to Barton that a successful campaign is under way, although I have never felt so at a loss, such a fool, after one kiss.

  She sets the bodice of her gown to rights and reaches past me for her fan, discarded on the table among the cards, murmuring something in which I catch one word: bed.

  She is inviting me to bed? Already? I have made a conquest in half an hour’s bullying and a quarter of an hour’s kiss?

  She looks at me expectantly.

  ‘I . . . I am most deeply honoured, madam. Should it be, well, that is to say, I, ah, do you wish your maid to . . .’

  ‘Congrevance,’ she says, in the sort of clear, kind voice one would use to a very young child, ‘I do not need my maid to open the door. I am going to bed now. Good night, sir.’

  She walks past me, opens the door herself and leaves.

  Wonderfully well done, I tell myself, and after a decent interval – God knows I do not want her to think I follow behind her with my tongue hanging out – I trudge upstairs to report to Barton.

  ‘Going well, I see, sir,’ he says with a broad smile, taking in my dishevelled appearance, the shirt outside my breeches, the wrecked neckcloth.

  I don’t have the heart to contradict him.

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  Well, the man can certainly kiss, even if he does turn into a rambling fool thereafter. I am actually glad of it – it made me appear less of a rambling fool myself, for I was afraid I should push him on to the card table or the floor to finish the business. I drag myself upstairs on weak and trembling legs, taking deep breaths to steady myself; it is like climbing the Alps. I have not been kissed like that in an age; I am thrown into a turmoilmust not, shall not, do it again. He has taken unpardonable liberties with my person (a quarter-hour! A quarter-hour! Oh heavens!), and I cannot have him think me a trollop, even if I wish to behave like one. No, I am a chaste and respectable widow, unless one of the other guests takes it upon him- or herself to tell him otherwise, and I can do little about that. (He carries the scents of citrus and bay on his person. I shall never look upon a lemon in the same way again.)

  I push open my bedchamber door, imagining the absolute horror of finding no one but Congrevance stretched naked upon the bed (Oh! Sir! What are you about? I shall scream! And so I should, I am sure. Without a doubt he would make me do so.)

  Mary springs to her feet from her seat by the fire, blinking and pretending she has been wide awake all this while. ‘Have you had a pleasant evening, milady?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ (I wonder what colour the hair on his chest is. And how much he has. I saw the hairs on his wrists glint coppery brown in the candlelight.)

  Mary moves behind me to unfasten my gown. ‘Why, you’ve a button undone already, here.’ (That was when he pulled my gown down and bit my shoulder. Not too gently. I did not want gentleness.) ‘I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, milady.’

  I don’t argue. I am indeed drunk; intoxicated by Congrevance.

  I shall have to be very careful indeed.

  And, damn him, he still has my earrings.

  Nine in the morning! It is quite hideous. I am surprised the sun is up (true, we left London in a rainy dawn, but we had stayed up all night). I barely have time to snatch a cup of coffee and slice of seed cake before running to Otterwell’s theatre. For yes, he has a theatre in his house, albeit a small one, built below a musicians’ gallery in the old part of his house – little more than a platform with curtains. Chairs are arranged on the worn flagstones of the room, and sunlight slants in through mullioned windows.

  I am the last to arrive, and can only take a chair in the front row. Otterwell, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and Mrs Gibbons stand on the stage, while behind them two aproned servants paint scenery. I stifle a yawn and sit.

  ‘Delighted you could join us, Lady Elmhurst,’ Otterwell says. ‘And now our company is all gathered together’ – he smirks knowingly at us as he quotes from the play – ‘I shall yield the stage to my fair colleague, Mrs Gibbons. But first allow me to welcome you all to this theatre, our wooden O, where we shall pay tribute to the Bard; a poor thing, but mine own. You see Geoffrey and Stephen hard at work here, and they are also to play Snug and Peter Quince. They have been at it for some weeks now, is not that right, sirs?’

  The two of them, paintbrushes in their hands, bow and mutter something obsequious to their master. From their expressions, they do not seem to be nearly as excited by their extra duties as Otterwell is.

  ‘And now,’ Otterwell proclaims, ‘we shall become actors and actresses!’ He trots down the stairs at the side of his stage and proceeds to hand out pencils and prompt books, small, roughly bound and printed copies of the play, interspersed with blank pages.

  Fanny Gibbons steps forward. ‘We have but two weeks to rehearse,’ she announces, ‘and so I trust all have learned their parts? Except for Mr Congrevance, of course, who only just yesterday arrived – a fortunate accident, indeed, for otherwise we would have no Lysander.’ She smiles, presumably at him. I am t
oo well bred to twist in my seat and look at him. Her gaze shifts to me. ‘You know your part, Lady Elmhurst? It will help him a great deal.’

  I nod in a responsible fashion.

  She narrows her eyes a fraction, and her stance becomes masculine – for sure, I do not know how she does it.

  ‘The course of true love never did run smooth; But either it was different in blood . . .’

  Oh heavens, she quotes from the play – or at least so I suppose – and I am expected to respond.

  Someone mutters from behind me, and I repeat his words. ‘O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low!’ (What all this means I have no idea.)

  ‘Very good, Lady Elmhurst.’ She pauses for one moment. ‘I regret that is a scene we shall cut. Ladies and gentlemen, if you will follow me, we shall mark together the rest of the cuts on which Lord Otterwell and I have agreed.’

  And so we do, and a tedious job it is, as we reduce the play down to little more than some scenes in the woods and the mechanics’ play at the end. There are some grumbles from the few who have actually memorized their part (or are bold enough to make that claim), while Otterwell beams and smirks, and announces that we are to picnic in the grounds this afternoon while we polish our lines.

  Excellent, I am starved.

  But dues must be paid. I turn to the person who so obligingly whispered my lines to me. ‘Sir, I am much indebted to you. How may I repay you?’

  Mr Nicholas Congrevance

  A sumptuous picnic has been set up for us in a pretty little Greek temple, but there’s no sign of Caroline. I wander back towards the house, thinking that she might be seeking out a hat or scarf or some other sort of female frippery. I plan to escort her to join the others, and to my great satisfaction I catch sight of her walking across the lawn in front of the house, curls floating in the breeze that forms her muslin gown to her figure. Her bonnet is cradled in the crook of one arm, and I wonder if she has raided Otterwell’s strawberry beds like a mischievous bird.

  I certainly made a fool of myself last night. I can only hope that today I may redeem myself; the first thing I should do is return those damned earrings, which burn a hole in my waistcoat pocke, and indeed, in my recently acquired conscience. Nicholas Congrevance with a conscience! How has this happened?

  She smiles and my mouth becomes dry. Extraordinary.

  I clear my throat and bow. ‘Lady Elmhurst, may I offer myself as an escort? Otterwell and the others are gathering for the picnic.’

  ‘How very kind of you, Mr Congrevance.’

  I offer my arm.

  ‘Regrettably, I have an assignation with another gentleman.’

  An assignation? What can this mean? Linsley? Darrowby? Surely not Otterwell himself, under Lady Otterwell’s nose? ‘Who the devil— I mean, may I ask who?’

  She smiles, looking beyond me. ‘Ah, here he is. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr Congrevance.’

  I turn, full of murderous rage, ready to throttle my rival, and see, to my absolute surprise, young Will Gibbons, carrying a fishing rod and a large basket.

  ‘Lord Otterwell’s cook gave me bread and cheese and cider,’ the child says. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Did you get some bait, Lady Caro?’

  She allows this boy who barely knows her to address her in such an appallingly familiar fashion?

  ‘Indeed I did.’ She lowers her bonnet, the crown of which I now see is lined with rhubarb leaves, and inside – a mass of grey and pink wriggling things – worms!

  ‘Oh, capital!’ Will exclaims, jumping from one foot to the other. ‘We are to go fishing, Mr Congrevance. Did not Lady Caro choose some excellent worms for us? Would you like to come too, sir?’

  ‘Mr Congrevance has another engagement,’ Caroline says with a polite smile. ‘Come, Will, let me help you with that basket.’

  She hands him her bonnetful of bait, takes the basket, and the two of them walk across the lawn away from me.

  I go to join the other guests. Jilted for a six year old! I am losing my touch for sure.

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  Young Master Gibbons proves excellent company, and to my surprise I am quite glad that he asked me to take him fishing in return for those lines he whispered to me. I am touched that he should decide on the spur of the moment that I am a friend, for God knows I have few enough here; and also much gratified that Congrevance was jealous – yes, jealous! I don’t think he’s used to women saying him nay.

  Will is interested in everything, pointing out birds and insects, and chattering away most agreeably without expecting much effort in return. He le me through Otterwell’s grounds to a pleasant spot by a small lake with a minuscule island in its centre, and we set up our fishing stance in the shade of a large willow tree. It is, as we both know, the worst time of day to fish, but we agree that maybe the fish will be obliging enough to gather in our shady spot.

  I compliment him on his mastery of the play.

  ‘Oh, that is easy,’ he says. ‘Mama can look at a page and memorise it, and I can too. She says it is useful for an actor to be able to do so.’

  ‘And do you wish to go on the stage when you are grown?’

  He selects a worm from my bonnet with great care. ‘Yes. Or I shall be a soldier or a coachman, for then I will not have to go away to school as Papa wishes.’

  ‘And what does your mama say?’

  He wrinkles his nose and casts his line on to the water. ‘She wants me to be an educated man like Mr Darrowby, or a lawyer. But she doesn’t want me to go away to school.’

  ‘Lots of boys like school. My brother did.’

  ‘Did he teach you to play cricket?’

  ‘Yes. He taught me about worms and fishing, too. He’s in India now.’

  ‘I should like to go to foreign lands,’ Will says. ‘Does your brother ride on elephants?’

  We chat about India, and I try to remember something from my brother’s infrequent letters other than complaints about the climate, his digestion and his servants.

  While Will fishes, I apply myself to learning my part – now reduced almost to the point of incomprehensibility, although Otterwell claims he plans to write any supplemental lines to explain exactly why the lovers are in the wood. Doubtless it is Oberon who will intone these amendments to the Bard. I wonder how long it will take for him and Mrs Gibbons to make enemies of each other (I cannot help it; I have a natural inclination towards mischief). Occasionally Will exclaims that he is sure a fish is biting, and we both hold our breath, watching the line, until we decide that it must have become bored and gone elsewhere, or that we need fresh bait. He seems quite content to concentrate on the fishing itself rather than be concerned about the catch.

  We dine on bread and cheese, and after a while Will yawns and rub his eyes. ‘You will look after my line, won’t you, Lady Caro, if I go to sleep? I don’t think I shall, though. But if I did, you would wake me if we got a bite?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Will yawns again, and settles down to sleep, his curly head in my lap.

  It is very pleasant beneath this tree, green and gold light filtering through the trees from the blue sky above. Fairly sure here are no fish to be had, I reel in Will’s line and throw some crumbs into the water. The ducks are cautious at first, then peck greedily at them, and circle, expecting more. There is a flash of azure as a kingfisher flies past.

  The weight of the sleeping child on my lap is surprisingly comforting. I cannot say I am one of those women who dote, or claim to dote, on children, but I find them refreshingly short on guile and prejudice. I had always expected to breed, but the honour was denied me in matrimony (and fortunately outside of it, too). However, if I had been so careless as to bear Linsley’s child, he or she would have been of almost Will’s age, a thought that makes me unaccountably melancholy.

  My reverie is interrupted by the crack of a foot on a branch, and an irate voice.

  ‘What are you doing, Lady Elmhurst?’

  5

  Lady Caroline Elmhu
rst

  I don’t bother to turn my head. ‘Fishing, Mrs Gibbons. Pray calm yourself.’

  She moves into my line of vision. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to be rude, but when I found Will was not in the nursery with his brother, I was worried. Mr Congrevance mentioned you and he were to go fishing, so I thought I should make sure all was well.’

  ‘I do not eat children, Mrs Gibbons.’

  ‘Of course not. I thought you might find his company irksome after a while. You cannot be used to the ways of small boys.’

  ‘On the contrary, he is a good companion.’

  She looks pleased at my words – not my intent, it is true – and smiles at her son, leaning down to stroke his hair. ‘I think so too, but then, as his mother, I am prejudiced.’

  I wonder if she will wake Will and take him away, but instead she peers across the lake and waves. ‘There’s Philomena and James. Over here!’ she calls.

  Mrs Gibbons leaves me to confer with Mrs Linsley, and I hear a (mostly) whispered conversation. The parts I do hear are not encouraging.

  ‘I assure you, Fanny, that if Lady Elmhurst takes your son fishing, it can be with no good intentions.’

  ‘Oh come, let us try to be a little more charitable towards her. What on earth could she possibly hope to gain from such an act? In anyone else I would think it exceedingly kind.’

  ‘Kind! You don’t know her as I do. In London, when first I met Linsley . . .’

  Eventually Mrs Linsley approaches and drops a barely civil stiff half-curtsy to me.

  I acknowledge her with a nod of my head. Heavens, it is like a pair of cats circling each other, tails fluffed out, and I wait to see which of us will yowl first.

  It is James who breaks up the frigid atmosphere by barking at his half-brother, and then tugging at his hair in an attempt to wake him. Will whimpers and bats him off, falling back into sleep again and drooling on my skirts.