Lady Caroline Elmhurst
‘Thirty pieces of silver!’
‘Don’t be a fool, Mary. Besides, you’re accepting them too. And don’t grumble under your breath. You know very well I can hear you, and it is most irritating.’
We stop bickering as the footmen, who have loaded our luggage into Thirlwell’s coach, enter the house, shaking rain fror umbrellas.
I have no money for vails, as is customary when leaving a house. But I recognise the footman I know a little, and hold out my hand to him, thanking him for his kindness. He shakes my hand and wishes me luck, and I realise I don’t even know his name. Mary, the great snob, snorts with disgust at my familiarity – naturally, as a lady’s maid, she considers herself far above footmen.
My host, Otterwell, fawns over Thirlwell – I wonder if he will offer to lie down in the puddles between the front door and the coach so his grace’s feet remain dry. Otterwell allows me only a smirk, a careless attempt at a bow and a farewell leer into my bosom.
I thank Lady Otterwell for her hospitality, and how grateful I have been for the kind, nay, extreme condescension of Lord Otterwell, particularly the help he gave me, just the two of us alone, in improving my acting. I am most gratified to see the lady turn upon her husband, spitting abuse (and in front of the footmen!), as we leave the house.
‘You really shouldn’t, milady,’ Mary says. She is in a dreadfully improving mood today, doubtless repenting of the sins she has committed with Barton, but I’d rather have her complaining and criticising than weeping. Her eyes are quite red still. She, I and the Duke arrange ourselves in the carriage – I am indeed glad that Thirlwell and I are not alone, as he might be tempted to claim his property en route. At least I gain a little breathing space this way.
Thirlwell produces a book and reads; Mary finds something to embroider – a handkerchief, I believe, no hint of personal linen or saucy stockings. I look out of the window, at the rain trickling down the glass and the sodden fields and dripping trees, and try not to dwell on my broken heart. It is unlike me to be a great blubbering fool (as I was last night with Mary), but my tears wait like creditors outside a front door; an unpoetic conceit, to be sure.
At least I am wretched in luxurious comfort, enjoying the pleasure of good springs and velvet and leather. But wretched I am, thinking of how deceived I was in Congrevance; how I loved him, love him still, fool that I am; and I thought he loved me until those cruel final words that still pain me like a raw wound. I cannot work out if I should feel better or worse had our consummation in the maze taken me to heights of bliss, or however one wishes to describe that experience – possibly ten minutes more might have helped. But to have neither quality nor quantity; well, I expected better, particularly from the quality of his kisses.
There was a stone beneath me that has left quite a bruise on my arse. The bruise will fade; I wonder how long it will take my broken heart to mend. I do not think it will. But a courtesan, I believe, does better without a whole heart.
I regret, too, that I have lost my friends. There can be no possibility that anyone in polite society will consort with me now I am officially a fallen woman. I should so like to hear about Philomena’s baby, and how Will and Tom and Fanny do. I hope Tom and Fanny marry soon, before something else goes wrong.
We stop for refreshment at an inn, and I must say it is quite pleasant to have the staff b and scrape when they notice the coat of arms on the carriage door – they have to be polite to me, too, since I am in the Duke’s company and do not have the word whore branded on my forehead.
It is there, at the inn, in a private parlour we are shown to, that I discover I cannot possibly be pregnant. Mary, grumbling mightily, has to have our luggage taken from the top of the carriage so she may seek out rags and pins. I regret that I negotiated more wages for the bad-tempered creature; besides, the two of us are as regular as clockwork, like a pair of village pumps together, and it may well save her petticoat.
I am delighted that I have an excuse to keep the Duke out of my bed for the next few days. But the knowledge that I am not to have Congrevance’s child – although I am sure I would have viewed impending motherhood with the greatest of horror and alarm, particularly knowing the worst of the father – makes me burst into tears once more.
Mary hovers over me, offering me a handkerchief, and she actually looks alarmed. ‘It’s not like you, milady.’
‘I have a belly ache,’ I snuffle. ‘Fetch me some brandy.’
If I cannot be happy, I shall be drunk, and then I shall sleep for the couple of hours remaining in our journey. Why not? The Duke has been quite content with his nose stuck in a book, and this offends me somewhat. I would think, under the circumstances, he might be inclined to a little flirtation, or possibly even some conversation. I should have shown some interest in his damned Greek statues. Possibly I shall have to do so in future, but what can you say? They are there. They are old. Some have limbs broken off, and some, specifically the males, have little to boast of.
I shall not think about Congrevance, who in contrast . . .
I am sure that had Congrevance and I ever embarked upon a conversation about ancient broken things, it would have been scintillating, but in truth most of our conversations were a sort of mask for how and when we intended to seduce each other. What we didn’t say, therefore, was far more interesting, and besides, he talked little of himself. So why did I feel that I knew this man?
Because he wanted me to feel so. He planned to seduce me to relieve his boredom – he knew how to play the hand he was dealt. And how expertly he fooled me. I remember that quiet walk in the woods, the feel of his cheek against my lips – enough.
I hold out my glass again.
Mary sniffs and fills it.
‘He won’t like it if you’re drunk.’
‘He won’t know.’
‘Sometimes you snore when you’re drunk, milady.’
‘You horrible liar.’
‘Ladies, are you ready to depart?’ Thirlwell lls through the closed parlour door. As Mary and I emerge, he offers me his arm with much gallant twinkling, and I think with a mild sort of pleasure that my particular condition will wipe the smile off his face later tonight.
I manage a grimace, mostly inspired by the brandy, that may pass for a smile, and the well-sprung motion of the carriage makes me drowsy. As I fall asleep, I hope I don’t snore, or, worse, drool.
‘Lady Elmhurst?’
I wake to see the beaming face of the Duke of Thirlwell just inches from my own – even in his expensive carriage there is very little room, and he has bent forward to wake me.
‘We have arrived, ma’am.’
‘You know, Thirlwell, you may as well call me by my Christian name. It is rather absurd not to do so.’
‘If you insist – Caroline.’
I am not in a position to insist on anything, but I alight from the carriage. I feel out of sorts and I have a slight headache. It’s still light; we have drawn up in front of a modest row of brick houses, and the one nearest us has the door open and a couple, the man in livery, standing on the doorstep.
They are introduced as Mr and Mrs Tyson, the entire staff of the house, apart from a boy who comes in during the daytime. She ushers me and Mary into the house, murmuring of tea and how she hopes the rooms are aired well enough and other domestic matters. Tyson meanwhile hauls luggage inside.
We are shown into a modest parlour. It is altogether a very unassuming house for a duke, but I imagine it is just one of several properties he owns.
Mary goes to unpack, and after Mrs Tyson serves tea, curtsies and leaves us, the Duke and I are alone for the first time.
Once again I assume the womanly duty of pouring tea and search around, as befuddled as I am, for a topic of conversation.
‘It is no longer raining,’ I offer.
‘Ah. It’s been quite dry here for some days, I believe.’
I break the deathly silence that falls. ‘I regret I shall be indispos
ed for a few days, your grace.’
‘You will be?’ He looks quite alarmed. ‘Shall we send for the doctor?’
He’s obviously spent too long with ancient statues. ‘No, sir. Not indisposed in that way. I mean it is my . . .’ I search for an appropriate phrase. ‘My female time.’
‘Oh. Oh, that.’
Do I imagine things, or does his face show a sudden flash of relief?
He rubs his hands together, a favourite gesture and one that already makes me flinch after less than a day in his company. ‘Well, never mind. I’ve ordered you an early dinner; I expect you’d like to rest after the journey.’
‘You’re not staying, your grace?’
‘No, ma’am. Caroline, I mean. I have a – some other business in town I should attend to. I shall return in a few days, and meanwhile . . .’ He gazes at the other end of the room, where a pianoforte stands. ‘Ah, good. I see Beck has rented an instrument as I requested. I trust it proves satisfactory.’
‘You’re very good, sir.’ I walk over to it and bang out a few notes, hoping I look more enthusiastic than I feel. ‘Oh, quite a superior tone. How splendid.’
I notice also, at this end of the room that looks out over a small garden, that there is an easel and a set of paints and brushes, tablets of paper and so on. A small bookcase holds some rather serious-looking literature bound in opulent gilded leather. Good God, it is like an expensive academy for young ladies, and I thought I was descending into the very pit of impropriety. It is bad enough to have become a whore, but to be expected to practise the accomplishments of polite society as well seems to be remarkably unfair.
‘I shall be away for much of the time,’ my future protector says, ‘so I trust you will keep yourself pleasantly occupied. And there are some very pretty walks around here also.’
‘Thank you.’ He really is trying quite hard to be congenial, but the knowledge that after a few days I shall be thanking him on my back (or on my knees or whatever his grace prefers) makes me less than grateful.
‘Well!’ He puts his teacup on to the table. ‘I don’t want to keep the horses standing for too long. I’ll send word when you may expect me. Please send for Beck – the Tysons know how to reach him – should there be anything you require.’
He fidgets, produces a handkerchief and blows his nose with a peculiar squeaking sound. That, and the hand-rubbing, could drive me mad in a matter of a few hours.
I curtsy, he bows, and then he leaves, reminding me that the next day is Sunday and I should make sure to attend worship (another obligation I was hoping to evade. Is there truly no peace for the wicked?). It is dreadfully polite and awkward. I must be his first mistress, that must be it – and he still has to prove to his friends, or with whomever he has placed his bet, that he has made a conquest. How exactly will he do so? Invite a gaggle of languid dandies to take tea and inspect the bedsheets?
I am not sure I believe his explanation, anyway. For some reason the Duke of Thirlwell is determined to take a mistress he does not really want, and I am compelled to take a protector I do not really want.
What a sorry state of affairs.
Letter from the Duchess of Thirlwell
to the Duke of Thirwell
My dearest and best Woolly Ram,
I am quite desolated without you but hope your Particular Business in town progresses well. How I long to see your sketches of fine antiquities that amuse me so greatly. I particularly like the male ones, although they are not nearly as Masculine as you.
Congrevance arrived yesterday, much weary after his long journey by the mail coach – shame upon you that you could not provide him with a superior form of transport. I was much surprised at his Foreign Polish – oh dear, that sounds like furniture – and I took the liberty of inviting him and Mr Pickering and the Revd and Mrs Fellwinkle to dine; also my Aunt Brillstone was there, so I was very well chaperoned. He (Congrevance) looks a little like you, but I think you are more handsome. The tenants are very excited, by the way, that Congrevance has returned, and I think it a most romantic story.
We had a pretty good dinner – mutton and trout and a stuffed marrow and a salad, and then cheese and nuts and a peach ice, sadly with the last of the ice; I am sorry, my dear, for I know how much you like such things. We asked Congrevance to tell us stories of foreign parts, and he was vastly entertaining, but I see a melancholy in him. Aunt Brillstone was in fine spirits; she told me she would have her skirts up for him in a heartbeat and I confess I blushed, this being almost in the gentleman’s hearing.
But Lady Caroline Elmhurst! I am much shocked. Is she as beautiful and reckless as everyone says? I hope she is not too charming.
Congrevance has the spare bed at Pickering’s while he works on his house, which is in a sorry state, and he and the men have been hard at work repairing your dry-stone walls. I gave him some salve for his blisters and, by the way, he repaired the wobble in the dining-room table, that the butler said could not be done. For a gentleman – I suppose that is what he is – he is remarkably good with his hands.
I met him only a couple of times when we were all children; I remember how people were shocked that the old Earl should bring his bastard into his house, and they whispered that his mother was French and nearly got her head cut off. My dear, you never told me we had her portrait – he showed it to me; it is the one of a lady as a nymph or some such that hangs in the drawing room next to the one of the ugly dogs. She was very pretty in a foreign sort of way. I am glad that you and Congrevance are once again the greatest of friends.
And now my candle is almost burned down and it remains only to tell you that your Little Lambkin misses her Great Ram most sorely and longs once more to bury her hands in his fleece and caress his great curved horn [at this point the letter becomes very personal and of no consequence]
Letter from Mr Nicholas Congrevance to his
half-brother the Duke of Thirlwell
Brother,
Your dry-stone walls are a disgrace, for Pickering has been too rheumatic to climb the lls, but slowly we make progress.
The Duchess is an angel you do not deserve; I do not think I have met a sweeter woman, although her Aunt Brillstone seems most peculiar. When I dined at the house, the lady insisted on showing us after dinner how the minuet was danced at the assembly rooms in her youth, fell on to the sofa and broke wind like a monstrous female trumpet before falling asleep. The astonishing thing is that she drank only water at dinner. Your Duchess only smiled and rearranged her aunt’s skirts so we did not have to view her garters or more.
You need more ice. I shall look into obtaining some, but meanwhile the ice house needs a thorough draining and cleansing.
Yes, I keep busy.
Tell me how Caroline does and remember what happens to you and your line if you take advantage of the situation.
I remain, sir, your most loving brother, etc.
Nicholas Congrevance
Letter from the Duke of Thirwell to his
half-brother Mr Nicholas Congrevance
My dear brother,
The Duchess writes that she finds you handsome and charming, and I should be obliged if you do not become overly familiar with her. My affairs in London progress well; I am happy to report that Lady Elmhurst is currently indisposed in a Female Way (I am sure you know of what I speak; it is an extraordinary messy business indeed, quite unlike ewes) and so I have had no reason to visit her. I daresay I shall have to put in an appearance soon, for I am afraid a woman of her reputation and tastes may get into trouble – by which I mean gambling and low company and so on. I am happy to report that she still yearns and sighs heavily for you and drank herself into a stupor on our journey.
I was somewhat alarmed to discover that although I suspect her education is sadly lacking (she stared at the books in the house as though they were vermin), she is not without some native intelligence. From the first, she voiced her suspicions that my motivation for taking a mistress was not what it might seem; I had to
invent, or rather, she did, a preposterous story about a wager.
Pray put a roof on your house soon.
Your loving brother,
Thirlwell
17
Lady Caroline Elmhurst
The day has come, or rather the night has come, and with it comes Thirlwell, to take his ducal delight.
Beck arrived this morning to tell me that his grace will dine with me tonight, the fifth day as the Duke’s official mistress, and I can put the moment off no longer. I must do my duty, repay my debt, and it is with a heavy heart that I descend to the kitchen to talk to Mrs Tyson about dinner.
I interrupt the lady taking her ease at the kitchen table, a cup of tea by her side, feet up, shoes off and deep in perusal of a fashion magazine.
‘Oh, milady. I beg your pardon.’ She stands up, attempting to push her feet into her shoes and hide the magazine behind some bowls on the table.
‘What were you reading?’
‘La Belle Assemblee, ma’am.’
I gaze at the magazine, as a starving woman might at food. I have tried to read some of the books upstairs; there is one, however, by a female author, entitled Prejudice and Pride or some such, that is quite good.
‘May I borrow it, Mrs Tyson? When you are finished with it, that is.’
‘Why, of course, milady. It’s several months old, though.’
A Most Lamentable Comedy Page 16