Oh God. Is it so obvious? We glare at each other and shredded petals float to the ground as I crush the flower between my fingers.
She shakes her head. ‘I am sorry. I am not expressing myself well.’ She begins walking again, and I hurry to catch up with her, trying to ignore the chill I feel in my heart. What on earth has she found out about Congrevance?
‘What do you know of him?’ she asks.
‘He is rich, respectable and has extensive lands in Ireland and the north. He has been abroad for some years, and Otterwell thinks he worked for the Crown as a spy.’ I am not too sure about the respectable part. I add, ‘My maid found out about him from his manservant. And if he has been a spy, that would explain his skill in acting.’
She shakes out the handkerchief I lent her, yet another one of Congrevance’s. ‘This is his, I believe?’
‘Why, yes.’ Now what? I am beginning to resent this questioning, as though I am a guilty party somehow. My behaviour has been beyond reproach!
She shows me the embroidered initials on the handkerchief. F. E. With some misgiving, I recall yet another pair of initials on another handkerchief.
‘A laundry mix-up somewhere,’ I suggest. That is how Congrevance explained it.
‘Of course. And Otterwell, who is not a particularly clever man, knew Congrevance abroad?’
‘Yes, in Rome, I think.’ I know what she is saying. I think of how Congrevance has evaded questions about his relatives and his land, and of how little generally he talks about himself.
‘When he – when he kissed me that evening, Caro, I had tried to ask him who he really was. I must say, the kiss was an effective diversion. And although I think he may be genuinely attached to you—’
‘Oh! Do you?’ What a fool I am. I sound like a silly schoolgirl.
‘I think he may not be all that he appears. He is a very good card player; it’s possible that he made his money gambling and is embarrassed to tell you so. He may be from humble beginnings and is intimidated by your title and connections with the ton.’ She grasps my hand and removes the fragments of deep pink petals from between my fingers. ‘Caro, do be careful. Do you owe him any money? Have you told him anything you would not wish others to know?’
This is dreadful, dreadful indeed. I don’t want to hear this about Congrevance, I don’t want to indulge in idle, vicious speculation about him, but . . .
And then I am angry that she takes it upon herself – an actress! – to tell me, Lady Caroline Elmhurst, how I should conduct my business. How dare she! She, with all her alleged worldly knowledge and squalid experiences in the theatre (so far removed from the life of a gentlewoman), has the effrontery to give me advice!
A small voice of reason inside me whispers that she may indeed be right about Congrevance. Despite the heat of the day I experience a cold shiver.
I prepare to give a convincing performance. Somehow I produce a patronising smile. ‘You have a very active imagination, Fanny, although I suppose your profession requires one. While I am most grateful that you should take an interest in my affairs, I assure you it is unnecessary to do so. Mr Congrevance is excellent company – merely an amusement. I am sure you understand.’
‘Caro . . .’ She lays a hand on my sleeve.
I raise my eyebrows and she steps back.
I think briefly, and with great pleasure, of steering her into a cowpat.
‘I believe I would prefer to walk back to the house alone.’ I turn away and after a few steps take a hearty swipe at a buttercup that has the impertinence to grow in my path.
And meanwhile that small, uncomfortable voice of reason, or doubt, or common sense – I am not sure what it is exactly – whispers that she is right; I know nothing of Nicholas Congrevance and he should not be trusted.
He is certainly not the sort of man a woman should fall in love with.
But that is utter nonsense, and immaterial besides, for I have not fallen in love with him.
So there is no unpleasantness to be encountered. None at all.
Mr Nicholas Congrevance
I find Otterwell taking refuge in his library, another stifling-hot room. We have a short conversation in which I suggest he should apologise to the cast, in particular Mrs Gibbons and the two little boys.
‘Certainly not!’ He glares at me in outrage.
I help myself to his brandy, uninvited.
‘Wonderful weather, is it not, Otterwell? It puts me in mind of Rome.’
Otterwell regards me with deep suspicion.
I continue. ‘Ah, yes. Happy times, were they not? The best of society, the sunshine and picturesque scenery . . . Do you remember the day we spent at the Conte di Bardolini’s villa? You must remember it, sir – that was where I discovered you and Bardolini’s mistress on a balcony.em" had your breeches around your ankles and madama bent over the balustrade with her skirts up, the better to admire the view.’
He gasps.
‘Pretty, wasn’t she? Did you make her scream like a she-cat? No? Oh well, no matter.’
‘Now listen here, Congrevance . . .’
‘And Lady Otterwell was looking for you, as I remember. It was a good thing I was on hand to distract her.’
‘You – what the devil are you telling me? Distract her how?’
‘I showed her the paintings in Bardolini’s collection, sir, and advised her on how to find a good laundress in Rome. Of course I doubt whether she would have minded your little adventure. I’m sure she’d find it most amusing if I told her.’
‘Exactly what are you suggesting?’
I let him simmer in silence.
Eventually he lets out a great, aggrieved huff of air. ‘I thought you were a gentleman, Congrevance.’
‘So I am, sir – when I need to be.’
‘Very well, very well. I’ll make my apologies. And I trust you’ll keep your silence about the Italian whore.’
We shake hands. I leave him to rehearse his apologies – doubtless he will compose them in abysmal verse – and wander through the downstairs of the house, wondering where Caroline is. It is time to resume the pursuit.
From an open window, I hear the voice of young Master Will, and see him and Caroline, hand in hand, wandering among the flower beds.
‘. . . and then we shall go fishing again, shan’t we, Lady Caro?’
‘Of course, so long as we are all here. Will you be sad when the play is done?’
‘I don’t think so. Do you think I should go to look for Mama?’
‘Yes, she’ll probably be glad of your company.’ She cuffs his shoulder in a friendly sort of way, points him towards one of the paths, and he runs away.
She stands looking after him, and then turns towards the house, meeting me as I intended. She looks particularly pretty, although slightly flushed with the heat, in a cotton gown and a wide straw hat, and with the scarf at her bosom coming adrift.
‘Mr Congrevance, is our half-hour up yet?’
I bow. ‘I don’t know. I’d rather be out here with you, Lady Elmhurst, except that during the play I am able to take your hand f times, put my arm around your waist twice and kiss your hand three times.’
‘Indeed. How like a man to keep a list. Did you count when we take our bow at the end? You will be able to hold my hand then.’
‘Then that makes six in all, and I daresay I can kiss your hand again at that time without exciting too much attention. Thank you for reminding me.’
She stares in the direction Will has taken, looking thoughtful. ‘I hope Otterwell keeps his temper for the rest of the day. I am afraid he might be particularly cruel to Will.’
I kick at the gravel of the path. ‘Because he is a – a bastard, you mean.’
‘Exactly. He’s an earl’s nephew too, but . . . Well, someone should teach Otterwell a lesson.’
‘Don’t worry. I think I have. You’ll see him apologise when we are together next.’
‘And that was your doing? How?’
‘I blackmailed him.�
�� It’s strange, but quite often the truth is the most preposterous thing of all, and I expect Caroline to laugh in disbelief.
Instead she looks away, her lips pursed. What does she know of me? Immediately I wonder if Barton has been indiscreet.
‘I’m jesting, of course,’ I add with a smile, and take her hand.
‘Of course, but I wonder . . . Congrevance, there is something I very much desire of you.’
I fear my mouth hangs open or I drool upon my neckcloth, for she takes her hand away and snaps, ‘Not that, Congrevance.’
‘Not that yet?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Pray wash your head in the fountain if it will help clear your mind, sir. It is this. Fanny and Darrowby—’
‘Why,’ I interrupt, ‘must the whole world – or at least anyone other than the happy couple themselves – feel compelled to hold their hands every step of the way to the altar? Can we not leave them to their own devices now that she has accepted him?’
She grins, enchanting. ‘I think he accepted her. But this is the problem . . .’
She explains to me the latest obstacle they have found to ruin their happiness, the future of Will.
‘Well, for God’s sake, why do they not talk to Linsley?’
‘Fanny is afraid.’
‘I don’t think Fanny Gibbons is afraid of anything.’
‘Sir, she fears she will lose her son.’
‘Well, she won’t lose him exactly, but—’
‘But that is how it will feel to her.’ She sidles close to me and lays a hand on my arm. ‘I wish you would—’
‘Ma’am, are you trying to seduce me?’
She gives a loud snort. ‘Concentrate, if you please. I should like you to talk to Linsley.’
‘But – but that’s preposterous. I hardly know the man. Why me?’
‘Because you are not involved in the matter.’ She walks her fingers, forefinger and middle finger, up my arm, her touch melting my skin through my coat and shirt. ‘Say you will, Congrevance. I shall be very . . . grateful.’
Good God, she is as duplicitous as I! How delicious!
‘And how will this gratitude reveal itself?’
She smiles.
‘I expect Fanny will be grateful too,’ I say, in a speculative tone, purely to provoke her.
‘And Mr Darrowby.’ She flutters her lashes.
‘Why, it will be a veritable . . . orgy . . . of gratitude.’
She stifles a giggle. ‘Indeed. So you will do it?’
I gaze into her eyes and wait, that heart-stopping moment before a line that Fanny has taught us in the play. ‘No.’
‘Oh, fie, Congrevance!’ For a moment I think she will cuff me, as she did young Will. ‘You are such a tease.’
‘So are you, Caroline. No, I’m sorry. I will not get involved in this matter. They must decide it between themselves. They’re not children, you know, but rational beings.’ Besides, I don’t want to be further caught in the good-natured but interfering web that binds this group. God only knows what sort of plots are hatching regarding Caroline and myself.
She shrugs. ‘Well, then, there is nothing for it . . . Oh, did you know, Congrevance, that Philomena is expecting again?’
‘Yes, she and Linsley told me when we had our picnic on Puck’s Hill. He thought she should not sit in the sun and paint.’
She frowns and a brief flash of disappointment crosses her face. ‘She didn’t tell me. Fanny told me.’
I don’t quite understand the subtleties of this part of the conversation, but am quite happy to have her at my side – she seems to haveforgotten that her hand lies on my arm, and she smells sweetly of rosewater.
She gazes into my eyes, but not with the playful amorousness of a few moments ago. There is something searching in her look; I hope to God she does not know me for what I am and what my intentions are.
‘Congrevance?’
‘Caroline?’
She unties her bonnet strings, the moment passed. ‘I should like some lemonade. Let us go inside.’
Lady Caroline Elmhurst
The rehearsal resumes, and Otterwell, much to my surprise, takes James and Will aside and presents them with a basket of sweetmeats, patting the two boys on the head and behaving for all the world like an affectionate uncle. He makes a short, graceful speech in which he apologises for any bad feelings he may have caused, and hands the business of the rehearsal over to Fanny. I am not sure if he has spoken to her privately, or whether he has judged that a businesslike way of going about things will appeal to her.
Fanny seems completely recovered, save for a slight redness around the eyes. She is her usual brisk self, although I detect a certain coolness towards me, and no wonder. Well, she will thank me when I have an answer from Linsley about Will, and will be my friend again – I think.
We stop and start and everything goes wrong. We forget our lines, the painted backdrop falls with a great explosion of dust and we make our entrances from the wrong side of the stage. Late in the afternoon we stop for refreshments, and at that point we can hardly bear to talk to each other; we each skulk alone, daring anyone to approach, everyone sweaty and ill-tempered. Even Congrevance perspires with slightly less elegance than usual.
The little boys take the opportunity of stuffing themselves with sweetmeats, and Fanny mutters that they will make themselves sick, a prophecy James fulfils, necessitating yet another change of clothes and mopping of the stage.
I drag myself upstairs to change for dinner. My appetite is low, and I am hot and in no mood to tolerate Mary, who flits around the bedchamber singing. She sports a wilting nosegay.
‘And how is Barton?’ I ask.
She blushes and simpers. ‘Quite the gentleman, milady. He—’
‘Enough. Did you iron my gown? I need some clean stockings.’
She sulks for all of a minute before resuming her song, some silly thing about a sailor returned from the sea to find his sweetheart, while I lie flat on the bed wishing I did not have to go back downstairs. I am sick of them all, and even flirting with Congrevance has lost its charm since my conversation with Fanny. And what if Congrevance does not declare himself, or, worse, turns out to have some terrible secret (an attic full of mad wives, an orphanage full of bastards: in short, a past mohameful than my own)? I have nowhere to go after the play, for Otterwell, having squeezed our acting skills from us, will politely cast us out. I shall have no choice but to go into squalid lodgings and wait for my creditors to catch up with me and throw me into debtors’ prison.
A wash, a change of linen and a fresh gown cheer me a little; I should like nothing better than a good dinner with a lot of wine followed by some card games (which in my fantasy I would of course win), but alas, after dinner Fanny is to run through the copious notes she has made on our performance.
Tomorrow is our final rehearsal – in costume, with no interruptions, and with the servants’ part of the play starring Otterwell’s butler and Barton in his false beard. And after that, the next day, our performance in front of Otterwell’s guests. According to him, it is the social event of the county. It is a daunting prospect, and at dinner all we can talk of is the play. Even those of us who did not take it seriously before, myself included, do so now.
Fanny’s notes are humiliating in the extreme. Naturally I come in for a fair amount of criticism – smiling too much (still), not speaking out to the audience and so on. Even Otterwell receives some harsh words, but he smiles genially and takes notes. Altogether, we are roundly scolded for our transgressions and told to go to bed early, like a group of fractious children.
Although I was tired earlier, I now feel quite lively – I did manage to take several glasses of Otterwell’s wine at dinner, and am not inclined to go to bed. I wonder if I should remind Congrevance of his offer to show me the maze, but remember that duty calls; if he will not speak to Linsley, then I shall do so. Besides, I must still play my cards carefully with Congrevance – why the devil does the man linger and procra
stinate, even if it involves such delightful flirtation? I have made it clear enough, I believe, that I am available and it is up to the gentleman to make the next move.
As we prepare to leave the drawing room, I drop my fan as Linsley passes by. He picks it up and hands it to me, and I take the opportunity to whisper to him, ‘Sir, I must speak with you.’
He looks startled.
‘Meet me back here when all have gone.’
He nods. I linger as the others leave the room, and then make my way to the doors that open on to the garden. The night air on the terrace is not as refreshing as I hoped, still humid and heavy.
Presently Linsley joins me. ‘What mischief do you plan now, Caro? I can assure you I’ll have no part in it.’
Not a promising beginning, but I must say what I have to. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Fanny and Darrowby, and I am tired of everyone thinking so ill of me.’ How remarkable – in the one sentence my voice descends into a whine and I have become the petulant, wilful creature of my short-lived affaire with Linsley.
‘Hurry up, there’s a good girl, Philomena is waiting for me.’
‘Fanny is concerned that you will want Will to live with you and is wondering whether the engagement should continue.’
‘The idiot woman,’ he says, with a fair amount of kindness. ‘Of course I want Will to be educated and have the advantages I can give him. I had thought of sending him to school, but he is still so young, and I think a tutor would do just as well. But as for claiming my rights under the law – now does she really think I am so hard-hearted that I would deprive the child of his mother?’
‘So you will talk to her? After the play, of course. I think she is afraid to broach the subject with you.’
‘Of course.’ He clears his throat. ‘It’s very good of you to be so concerned for Fanny. I am glad you have all become friends.’
‘Oh, me too,’ I say, wondering exactly how friendly Fanny and I are now. ‘Inigo, I am so glad I didn’t marry you.’
‘I too, although I don’t remember asking you.’
‘You didn’t.’
We both laugh at this, in a way we could never have done during our liaison.
A Most Lamentable Comedy Page 10