A Most Lamentable Comedy

by Janet Mullany

  ‘No matter. Thank you. Now, the Duke dines here tonight and we should talk about the menu.’ I am relieved that oysters and asparagus are not in season; it is odd that although some foods are as extolled as aphrodisiacs, very few are recommended for quenching desire.

  We talk of food for a while in the pleasant atmosphere of the kitchen, with its well-scrubbed flagstone floor, the scent of smoke and food, and copper pans and blue and white china arranged on a dresser. A cat and her kittens lie before the fire – and that reminds me, how shall I avoid pregnancy? It is a pity indeed that there is no instruction book for courtesans, in the same style as the book Mrs Tyson produces, which has recipes and information on cleaning things and other aspects of household management.

  We decide on roast duck and a beef pie and vegetables for the first remove, and a gooseberry fool and Aylesbury cakes for the second, foods the Duke enjoys, according to Mrs Tyson. Mr Tyson will choose the wines, also knowing his grace’s tastes. I am all too aware that I shall be the delicacy that concludes the feast.

  ‘And Mrs Tyson, if you will be so kind, please put fresh sheets on my bed.’ There. I’ve said it. I shall do my duty.

  ‘Oh. I don’t think that will be necessary— Why, of course, milady. Yes indeed, milady, right away.’ She looks as embarrassed as I feel.

  ‘Have you been in the Duke’s employment long?’ I wish to know, of course, if the Duke has ever had a mistress before, and this seems a good introductory question.

  ‘Why, I was the old Duke’s housekeeper, milady. When Mr Tyson and I married, the young Duke sent us to look after this house, for we wanted our own establishment, and he wanted a place near London.’

  ‘To keep his mistresses?’

  Now that sounds absurd, as though he has a house bursting with women of ill repute, as others may keep rabbits, although I am sure a lot of gentlemen would find the idea attractive.

  ‘Oh no, milady. No, his grace is more interested in his old statues and his livestock.’

  As I suspected.

  ‘Not like the old Duke, his father,’ she says with a knowing look.

  I make an encouraging sound, for I still have a taste for unseemly gossip, even if I am now a subject for it myself.

  ‘Now the old Duke, he kept a mistress, a French lady, not some ten miles from his house, and when she died, he brought their son into the household. A sweet child he was, and the old Countess was pleased to have a companion for her son, for the two were only a year apart in age. ’Twas a pity indeed that— What is it, George?’

  The servant, a child who reminds me of Will Gibbons, for he is only a little older, bows. ‘Please, milady, Mrs Tyson, there’s a grand lady to see milady and she said she’d wait in the garden. And may I show the boy who came with her the kittens?’

  I can’t think who could possibly be calling on me, with my new reputation as a courtesan – indeed, no one knows where I am. It can only be someone to whom I owe money, but curiosity, as well as manners, compels me to receive my guest.

  To my astonishment, it’s Mrs Riley. A heap of weeds lies at her feet as she examines a rose bush with a fierce expression on her face. When I appear, she straightens and pushes her grandson Will forward to make his bow. He runs to me and throws his arms around me, much to my surprise, and I bend to kiss him.

  ‘Lady Caro, I am so glad to see you. I am in London visiting my grandmama and we have been to the Tower to see the wild animals and all manner of wonderful things. I wish you had been with us.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you too, Will.’

  ‘Will you come with me and George – he is my new friend – to see the kittens?’

  I am amused to see that once again Will has decided that a complete stranger should be his friend, just as he did with me.

  ‘No, Will,’ his grandmama says. ‘Lady Elmhurst and I wish to talk.’ She beckons to George. ‘Fetch me a bucket of water with soap and a good handful of red pepper in it; that will take care of these greenflies, hideous things, and Lady Elmhurst and I will take tea in the garden.’

  The two boys run off together.

  ‘Mrs Riley, I trust you are in good health? I am of course very pleed to see you, but you should know that I am ruined.’ I am dying to know why she is here after I left Otterwell’s house in disgrace; double disgrace, one should say – an adulterous embrace with Linsley followed by becoming a duke’s lightskirt.

  ‘Oh, I am too old to bother with such things. Besides, I have been ruined at least twice in my life.’ She hands me a trowel. ‘See if you can do something with those weeds.’

  The last thing I expected was to receive a visit from the high-and-mighty Mrs Riley and become her undergardener, but I am quite pleased to see her and Will. It is also more pleasurable than I would have thought to dig up weeds – Mrs Riley tut-tuts at one point and snatches away something that looks like a weed to me but is apparently not. Meanwhile she, despising garden implements, pulls weeds from the earth with her bare hands and beats the soil from their roots on her skirts.

  George and Will arrive with the bucket of soapy water Mrs Riley requested, and she allows them to tip it over the rose bush, much to their delight.

  I am longing to ask after the Linsleys and whether Mrs Gibbons and Darrowby have found yet another excuse not to wed, but she anticipates me. ‘Will is staying with me for a few weeks while his mother is on her wedding trip. They married by special licence two days ago in my drawing room, none of this dreadful vulgarity in a church. Inigo gave her away, which I considered indelicate, and I regret he wept throughout. I was never so embarrassed in my life.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear they married. And how is the Admiral?’

  ‘Very well. He cried too. I felt as though I were surrounded by watering cans. What sentimental fools men are.’ She brushes dirt from her hands. ‘Ah, the children have brought us tea. How delightful. Let us repair to the shade.’

  Mr Tyson, who accompanies the boys, arranges a pair of Windsor chairs and a small table under an apple tree for us, and we sit. The boys run off to fetch the kittens and settle in a sunny spot, with the mother cat keeping an anxious eye on her offspring.

  ‘Mrs Riley, I am delighted to see you and Will, but how did you know where I was?’

  She gives the teapot a vigorous stir. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be informed. And how do you do with the Duke?’

  ‘Tolerably well, ma’am. He dines here tonight and I’d be delighted to invite you to stay for dinner.’ I should be indeed. I would love to have a chaperone – two, if you count Will – so his grace cannot lunge for me across the table.

  ‘We’re already engaged, thank you.’ Odd, that she does not find my invitation unusual. ‘To get to the point, Lady Elmhurst, I am here as an emissary. We – that is, the Linsleys, the Darrowbys and myself – feel that we misjudged you. There was some unpleasantness regarding you and Inigo, who has a regrettable informality in his manners, and it was interpreted as . . . well, you know. Thank God he has stopped keeping mistresses; not that he could ever afford to do so properly, as you wellnow. In short, ma’am, we misjudged you. We wish to offer our apologies and extend an olive branch.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’ I gaze stupidly at my tea as tears of relief and happiness threaten. ‘I am more grateful than I can say. I—’

  ‘If it is agreeable, Mrs Linsley would like to call on you.’

  ‘I should be honoured, if she is certain her reputation will not suffer.’

  Mrs Riley laughs. ‘Do not concern yourself. The ton has bred scandal about Inigo, Philomena and Mrs Gibbons for years. Now tell me of Congrevance. Was he satisfactory between the sheets?’

  I surprise us both by bursting into tears.

  ‘My dear Caro!’ She fusses over me, offering a handkerchief and a vinaigrette. ‘I did not mean to upset you, indeed. My apologies. I am perhaps too plain spoken.’

  I gulp tea. ‘I beg your pardon. I am not usually given to weeping. Congrevance was a grave disappointment.’

  ‘I
ndeed? I am surprised. I would have thought from – well, from his general appearance and air, that he would have been a most competent lover.’

  ‘Competent for less than a minute by my reckoning, ma’am.’

  ‘Well!’ She shakes her head in disbelief and then smiles. ‘You should be complimented, Caro. A man like Congrevance would not lose control so easily, you may count on it. He must have been overcome with passion.’

  ‘It’s little comfort to me now.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She pats my hand. ‘But tell me, Caro, you are not with child, are you?’

  I shake my head, but an unpleasant suspicion creeps into my mind concerning Mary, who has been dour and unhappy ever since we left Otterwell’s. The only complaints of belly aches or headaches have been mine, with no reciprocal grumbling from her. Surely it must be too soon to tell, but . . . and that raises the question of how I shall avoid the same problem in the future.

  I don’t want to insult Mrs Riley, but she has admitted that she has been the subject of scandal herself, and she is of an earlier, and somewhat more lax, generation. So I ask her with as much delicacy as I can muster.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you have anything to worry about there,’ she says, and gathers her reticule.

  ‘Ma’am, exactly what do you mean?’ Is the Duke gelded? Does he favour unnatural practices, and if so, how have I never heard any such gossip?

  ‘Believe me, Caro, everything will work out well in the end,’ is her cryptic reply. ‘Heavens, look at the time. I must take that child home and wash him before >we dine. He gathers dirt like a cheese rolling down a hill.’

  We retrieve Will; he and George have been thwarted by the mother cat, who has taken her offspring back to the kitchen. They now entertain themselves in pulling carrots and picking beans from the garden, eating half as many as they collect. I kiss Will farewell – in truth, he is quite filthy, but so am I from grubbing in the garden, and his grandmother is not much better, with long streaks of dirt on her gown and her hair coming down.

  I trudge upstairs and find Mary fast asleep on my bed, which only confirms my suspicions of her condition. I know it is probably ridiculously early, but my sister claimed she knew from the moment of conception and was unwell but a week following.

  ‘I beg your pardon, milady.’ She wakes up and stretches. ‘I was helping Mrs Tyson with the sheets and I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘It must be the warm weather.’ Yes, of course. That must be it. ‘Send for hot water, Mary. I’d best bathe.’

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Somehow I have decided, and I’m not quite sure when this happened, that if I’m to be the Duke’s mistress, I shall be the best he has ever had – entertaining, charming and endlessly inventive in the sensual arts. I select my finest gown and my least-darned stockings. I suppose I should have shopped for some new ones, but at least I have some pretty garters to wear.

  Mary and the Tysons haul hot water upstairs for me and fill a tin bathtub. I abandon myself to the pleasure of hot water and lavender-scented soap, and Mary scrubbing my back.

  A horrible thought occurs to me. ‘Mary, what about my hair?’

  ‘We’ll wash it of course, milady.’

  ‘No, no. Not that hair. That hair.’

  ‘That hair? Oh, lud, milady, do you mean we should – it wouldn’t be nice, milady.’

  But I’m not nice any more, and somehow – well, it must be from certain obscene prints that Elmhurst was good enough to share with me – I am convinced that his grace should find me as bald as an egg beneath my skirts.

  ‘Yes, we should remove it. Will – will it hurt, do you think, Mary?’

  ‘Ooh, I expect so, milady. I’ve never done it, but I believe you use boiled sugar and rags, at least that’s what I’ve heard.’

  It hurts already, just thinking about it, and I believe it may take some level of expertise. I am not too keen on Mary learning the skill on my person (hot sugar syrup!). I clamp my knees together in a self-protective gesture.

  ‘We should have asked his grace’s manservant if that is what the Duke prefers.’

  ‘Yes, milady.’ She giggles, but a drop of what can only be a tear falls on to my shoulders. I must add manservant to the list of words that make Mary cry, in addition to earrings, flowers, ironing, ribbons, cucumbers (I do not enquire too closely into the last item) – it goes on and on.

  ‘Maybe you could practise on yourself.’

  ‘No one’s likely to see, milady.’ A heavy sigh, another tear. ‘Besides, I don’t think it’s decent for a woman of my station, begging your ladyship’s pardon.’

  Bathing done, I dress in a clean shift, petticoat and my prettiest pair of stays, and my best (or least worse) stockings. Mary laces, arranges and smoothes in silence. I believe another fit of disapproval has overtaken her. I rub lotion on to my face, wondering whether I should attempt to paint my eyes with lampblack and redden my lips, or attempt a worldly elegance. I smother myself in perfume.

  Then I have to wait for my hair to dry so I do not leave wet patches all over my silk gown, but to my great pleasure Mrs Tyson sends up her copy of La Belle Assemblee. It turns out to be a very pleasant afternoon. In fact, if all I had to do were to slop around in a state of undress and pick at some food with my fingers, spilling it all over my magazine, with maybe a few glasses of wine, I couldn’t be happier. But tonight I am to become Thirlwell’s mistress.

  I ignore the quivers of nervousness until they intensify so that I cannot ignore them. A quarter-hour before Thirlwell’s arrival, as Mary arranges my hair, I lose my nerve.

  ‘I can’t do this!’

  ‘Yes you can, milady. You must, otherwise we’ll be out on the streets.’

  ‘Fetch me some brandy.’

  Mary leaves the bedchamber and returns with a scant half-inch of brandy in a glass.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘You’d best keep your wits about you.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘You must put your gown on, milady. Come, get up.’

  I groan and let her drop my gown over my head. Heavens, I show a lot of bosom. For sure I must not bend over, for I’ll fall right out.

  I hear the sound of the front door opening and the voices of Thirlwell and Tyson.

  ‘Go on, milady.’ Mary gives me a shove – the arrogance of the girl – towards the bedchamber door.

  ‘Mary, listen – after dinner, when we have retired to the drawing room, I want you to come in every quarter of an hour. You can listen to the clock in the hall. Make any excuse you like. Bring me my fan. Bring—

  ‘What if it only takes fourteen minutes? Besides, I don’t want to see the Duke undressed.’

  ‘Neither do I, Mary. That’s the point. I don’t know. Just do as I say.’ I am convinced he will spring on me when I am pouring tea and there are no servants around.

  ‘Which earrings would you like to wear, milady?’ Oh lord, she is crying again.

  ‘Not those ones!’ I smack Elmhurst’s earrings from her hand, and they fall to the floor. ‘My pearls. No, the paste ones.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll give you a new pair.’ Mary retrieves the earrings from the floor with a tragic air and blows dust from them. ‘You could do with some new silk stockings, too.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You could give him a hint, milady.’ This is fine advice from the woman who has received only wilted flowers and (possibly) a growing belly from her lover. Besides, she knows I’ll give her my old silk stockings, which are marginally better than the ones she wears and continually darns.

  I take a deep breath, as Fanny Gibbons taught us to do before going on stage. Mary is right; my womanly charms are all that stand between me and the streets, and I remember my earlier determination to be the most fascinating and desirable woman of the demi-monde.

  I descend the stairs and enter the dining room.

  The Duke rubs his hands and beams at me with extraordinary affability. He looks quite presentable in a black coat and bre
eches, but has undergone a haircut that leaves him with a tuft standing straight up from the crown of his head.

  ‘My goodness!’ he declares. ‘Pray, madam, do you like sheep?’

  18

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  Do I like sheep?

  For sure, I thought for one dreadful moment this was Thirwell’s favoured perversion, and that an unfortunate animal would be produced for his grace’s pleasure. I prayed it would not be a ram that would require my participation.

  I had thought Thirlwell’s passion old statues. I was wrong. His grace likes, nay loves, adores, idolises sheep.

  All sorts of sheep – and there are many. Lambs, ewes and rams I knew about, and my knowledge is expanded all through dinner.

  I interrupt his flow of words. ‘A moment, sir. I thought you were talking of sheep, yet you apparently also like pigsght="0e>

  He waves his fork at me. ‘No, no, my dear Caroline. It is hogg, with two Gs – it is what we call a sheep of nine months to a year and a half. Now, as I was saying . . .’

  I struggle to make sense of what he says. ‘So a sheep may be a glimmer, a hogg and a teg, all at the same time?’

  ‘Very good! Yes, so long as it is female. Or it may be an old-season lamb. On the other hand, if it is a male castrated late, that is, after six months, it is a stag.’ And off he goes again, and even when he talks of rams (or, as I learn, tups, for the word means the same) he does not turn to bawdy innuendo, but is still as earnest and pedantic as ever.

  I am mightily bored.

  I dressed in my best and even considered unnatural and painful applications of molten sugar for this sheep-obsessed booby?

  I nod and smile.

  He progresses on to breeds of sheep.

  ‘Now, the Swaledale is a particularly good sort of sheep. You’ll recognise them by their curly horns and black faces, and both meat and wool are very good. I do find the wool somewhat coarse in texture, although it has a good bind and fills the hand . . .’

  Unfortunately this makes me think of Congrevance. I have drunk just enough wine to make me at ease, and appreciate the delicious food and the play of lamplight upon silver and china. Were I alone with the right gentleman, I could quite easily feel amorous.