A Most Lamentable Comedy

by Janet Mullany

  She looks at me. ‘I’m a dreadful liar, I know, and I shall not insult you by presenting you with an untruth. I can say no more. Believe me, we all wish you well.’

  ‘I trust this has nothing to do with Congrevance,’ I snap. ‘I shall be very angry if that is the case, for I assure you I want nothing more to do with him. You forget too, ma’am, that I am Thirwell’s mistress and thoroughly bought and paid for.’

  I turn my back on her and walk away, feeling churlish and ill-used. The only possible reason Thirlwell might have for taking me up north to the bosom of his family is to test my newly acquired knowledge of sheep – that I doubt; or to engage me in some sort of amorous play with his duchess. That, too, given the gentleman’s behaviour so far, seems unlikely.

  Cries of distress reach my ears, and I see that the boys are losing control of the kite, which is looking fit to plummet earthwards. I run towards them, shouting to them to reel it in, and run, run! I snatch up little James, who cannot keep up with the older boys, and our efforts send the kite aloft once more, as we come to a stop, laughing and breathless.

  ‘Would you like a go, Lady Caro?’

  ‘Oh yes, Will, I would indeed.’ I have not flown a kite in years. I have forgotten the pure exhilaration, the joy, as the kite tugs and kicks like a living creature and dances against the blue of the sky.

  I laugh aloud. I have forgotten what it is to be happy.

  I finish Pride and Prejudice and start on Sense and Sensibility; good lord, what a silly pair of dull girls, one so correct (she certainly deserves that tiresome clergyman) and the other forever spouting poetry. It reminds me of the other girls on the marriage mart when first I came out in society, which I suppose must be a tribute to the authoress. Yet I keep reading, for although I feared Marianne would marry that ancient military relic, who is obviously destined for Elinor, I am glad when Willoughby appears.

  Beck visits to announce that his grace will dine again with me. This time, I decide, I shall play the seductress; surely then his grace will find it entirely inappropriate for me to travel to his estate. Possibly screaming very loudly in simulated ecstasy will persuade him that his affaire will not be so discreet beneath the ducal roof (unless he owns a huge house; I shall have to ask Mrs Tyson). But then if I scream loudly in this house, Mary, if she is awake, may rush down the stairs to rescue me.

  Not tat I find the Duke desirable. Far from it. I doubt very much that he could make me scream. But he has rescued me from debtors’ prison and I owe the gentleman. It is my duty to give him value for money, and since I am sure no sheep are involved, I can discover his preferences. I know too that gentlemen after the act are in a state of extreme stupidity when they will agree to almost anything. At the appropriate moment I have decided that I shall remind his grace of my allowance and point out to him the extreme impropriety of taking his mistress to his country house. I am close enough to London; perhaps it is time to make some sort of entrée into society again.

  I have by no means discarded the possibility of some sort of conspiracy; it is only that I cannot fathom what they have in mind.

  So it is once again, primped, perfumed, wearing a gown that displays most of my bosom and with a vacuous smile, that I present myself to the Duke in the dining room. That is, I enter and curtsy – nothing so vulgar as arranging myself on the table splayed between the oysters and the asparagus as I did once for Elmhurst (needless to say, we dined alone that night).

  If anything, he seems more nervous than before. During the first remove alone he knocks over a wine glass, breaks the butter dish and has to call for two more knives as his cutlery disappears beneath the table.

  I ask him if he has received news from his estate on how his sheep do, and I fear he will bolt from the room, as terrified as he appears. He mutters an incomprehensible reply.

  Eventually – as we eat a particularly delicious blackberry pie, he clears his throat and treats himself to one of his musical nose-blows. ‘I must beg your pardon, Caroline, for exposing you to my – my inebriation, on my last visit.’

  What a fool, I think, as a glob of blackberry and cream drips from his spoon on to the ruffle of his shirt; and how unfortunate for his valet, as everyone knows blackberry stains are impossible to remove. ‘It is no matter, sir. I assure you I hardly noticed.’

  ‘You did not? But I—’

  ‘Well, afterwards you fell asleep, that is true. It is perfectly natural. Some gentlemen – particularly those blessed with strong appetite – need to gather their strength.’ What abominable rubbish, but my emphasised words do the trick.

  He looks at me with absolute horror.

  ‘I shall leave you to your port, sir.’ I rise. ‘Pray, do not linger too long.’

  He rises too, tipping over his water glass and sending his dessert plate on to the floor with a clatter. Tyson opens the door – I swear he winks at me – and it has no sooner closed than it opens again and the Duke runs towards me.

  ‘Caroline, tell me the truth. I did not – oh heavens, tell me I did not take advantage of you . . .’

  I smile sweetly and pluck his napkin from his waistcoat. ‘You fell asleep, sir.’

  We enter the drawing room and the Duke drops on to the sofa, looking so wretched I finally relent.

  ‘Thirlwell, I was teasing you, for heaven’s sake. It is the truth – you fell asleep while I was playing the pianoforte because you had drunk too much port.’

  ‘And I did not . . .’

  ‘No, you did nothing. But I am your mistress; what on earth is the matter with you? Although I suppose you should like to be awake when we—’

  Fortunately at that moment Tyson enters with the tea tray.

  I pour, splashing tea and leaves into the saucers, and fairly shoving a cupful at the Duke. ‘For God’s sake, why don’t you tell me what you are about?’

  ‘What do you mean, ma’am? I beg your pardon if I have done something to upset you – I mean, other than my regrettable lack of manners in falling asleep the other night.’

  ‘You obviously don’t want a mistress. So you’d better tell me why you are pretending you do.’

  There is a tap at the door and Mary enters, a laundry list in her hand. ‘A letter arrived for you, milady.’

  ‘No, it did not. Go away.’

  She does.

  Thirlwell looks at me, brow creased. ‘Why did your maid—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now, if you please, explain yourself.’

  He sighs and places his teacup out of harm’s way. ‘Well, as I explained before, there is a wager—’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  We glare at each other like a pair of bulls, or as Thirlwell would most likely prefer, a pair of rams. It is time to try a different approach. He is a dreadful liar, which means he probably expects only the truth from others. He is surely ill at ease being harangued by a woman (even if he deserves it), for he expects women to flutter around in a pathetic, female sort of way and concur with male opinion.

  I produce a handkerchief from my bosom and dab at my eyes.

  ‘Oh, sir.’ I allow a tremulous quiver to affect my voice. ‘This is very upsetting.’

  ‘My dear Caroline . . .’ He actually pats my hand. Excellent.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘No, no. It is I who should beg yours.’

  I refill his teacup, allowing my hand to shake. ‘I have behaved in a most unwomanly fashion.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself.’

  I notice that he does not rush to contradict me.

  ‘Perhaps I should play the pianoforte for a little. I am sure it would calm me.’

  ‘An excellent notion. Pray proceed.’

  Of course, playing the pianoforte is something he associates with female docility. Place me in front of an instrument, an easel or an embroidery frame, and I shall become a simpering idiot.

  Eyes downcast, I seat myself at the instrument and begin the sonata that sent him to sleep so effectively before, playing softly in th
e hopes that my frequent wrong notes will be hidden.

  Good. He is actually smiling as he listens, and although I know it cannot possibly be my playing – more likely it is satisfaction that I am behaving as a woman should – I know he has let his guard down.

  ‘So,’ I say in my most dulcet tones as I pause between movements, ‘how is Mr Nicholas Congrevance?’

  He sits bolt upright. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You do know the gentleman, do you not?’

  He recovers faster than I would have thought. ‘Why, you’re mistaken, ma’am, although the name is familiar. Was not that the name of one of the gentlemen in the play?’ A credible attempt at a lie for someone who is mostly honest, I think.

  ‘Oh, how foolish of me!’ I let a girlish giggle escape. ‘I am quite confused. Why, I must be the one who overindulged in wine tonight.’

  Absurd as this is, he accepts it, and his rigid stance relaxes just a little. I continue to play, but inside I seethe with rage.

  You despicable sheep-lover, I’ll show you Caroline Elmhurst is not to be trifled with.

  I finish the piece, and he applauds as I rise and curtsy. I have to move fast as he is about to stand, ever the gentleman, while I am on my feet. I bound over to the sofa and hurl myself into his lap, landing astride so he cannot tip me off too easily.

  ‘Your grace – Simon – I can resist you no longer!’

  Letter from Nicholas Congrevance to

  his half-brother the Duke of Thirlwell

  Brother,

  I cannot believe what I read.

  You have not told her the truth yet? I am all astonishment. This is what we agreed, you incompetent oaf, your grace. What the devil have you been about all this time?

  It is to your credit that I trust you, your grace. At least I try to. Allow me to amend that – I trust your morals, but certainly not your judgement.

  To remind you of the arrangement: you were to tell her as soon as she was settled in the house that we are half-brothers, and that you have no intention of becoming her lover, but offer yourself as a friend only.

  The rest was up to me at our meeting here. As I told you, I did not expect you to explain my former occupation or any other shameful aspect of my behaviour. How in God’s name do you think she will react now, thinking you and our mutual acquaintances have made a fool of her? I hope to God she has flayed you with that acid tongue. Be assured she will do so in the future.

  Please tell me that somehow you have persuaded her to come to Northumberland, although how you shall do so I have no idea and can offer no suggestions.

  I remain, your grace,

  Your most obd’t srv’t,

  Nicholas Congrevance

  Letter from Nicholas Congrevance

  to the Duke of Thirlwell

  Briefly, brother, this is far worse than I anticipated.

  Your newest idea is worse than the original. Yes, I am aware that Barton and his beard will be invaluable, or would be if I were to agree to this insane plan. May I point out to your grace that women may enjoy being heroically rescued from brigands and such in popular novels, but the men they regard as heroes in real life do not land them in situations where they require a rescue.

  Similarly, Caroline is more than capable of rescuing herself, except from creditors.

  Since you seem incapable of acting rationally and asking the lady to accompany you to Northumberland, but are intent upon relying on theatrical subterfuge (I suggest you offer your talents to Lord Otterwell for his next theatricals), I do have a suggestion for removing her from the house. You will have to find alternative accommodations for the servants, for it will render the place uninhabitable for a few days. It is a simple process involving the house’s cesspit, and here are my instructions [odiferous details of no interest to the reader follow].

  20

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  ‘It’s not proper.’ Mary, lips pursed, shakes out a petticoat.

  ‘I’m his mistress.’

  ‘No you’re not. It’s not decent.’

  ‘You mean that if you entered a room and found me on the lap of a gentleman whose mistress I was, it would be decent? I must start somewhere, you silly girl.’

  To my surprise, she giggles. ‘The look on his face, milady.’

  I remember the Duke’s pop-eyed, red-faced terror. I laughed then, too, helpless with mirth by the time he had tipped me from his lap and was heading for the door at an undignified gallop. He’d almost bowled Mary over in his haste.

  But I remember how he turned to face me at the last moment, and his frozen expression reminded me that he was a duke; a powerful man related to royalty and descended from many generations who held life-and-death power over commoners like myself.

  The Duke was in those few minutes an impressive figure of a man as he said with quiet menace, ‘You do me wrong, ma’am.’

  And that was it. He left.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be back, milady?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so. You know what men and their wounded dignity are.’ I wonder how long we have before he turns us out, and what Mary and I shall do. Just as the Duke has power over his tenants and household, I am responsible for Mary. She has stuck with me through thick and thin – mostly thin, and probably because there was a slight chance that I might pay her.

  This is the morning of the sixth day since, and we have heard from neither his grace nor Beck.

  There’s a tap at the door, Mrs Tyson with hot water for me, and I climb out of bed. A faint odour hangs about her – I do not like to comment on it, for it is most unpleasant. Perhaps she trod in something.

  Mary hovers with a hairbrush at the ready. ‘What shall you do today, milady?’

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d take a walk after breakfast, and then I suppose I should practise the pianoforte. I wonder if anyone will call.’

  ‘Morning dress, then, milady, and a spencer for later. You should hurry, for it looks like rain.’

  When I am dressed we go down the stairs and I become aware of a smell – a very unpleasant smell indeed, like the one that clung to Mrs Tyson. I pause at the landing outside the drawing room.

  ‘Mary, do you smell that?’

  She nods.

  The smell is noticeably stronger as we descend the final flight of stairs, and Mary and I both scream as a rat darts along the assage, zigzagging as they do when they are on unfamiliar ground. The door to the servants’ quarters flies open, releasing a great gust of stink, and a dog, not much bigger than the rat, hurls itself in pursuit.

  ‘Good boy, Jack! Get him!’ someone cries from downstairs.

  Before I know it, I am standing on a chair in the dining room, clutching my skirts to my legs, while the dog, shaking the rat by its neck, growls and snarls.

  Mary, meanwhile, has rushed to the sash window and pushed it open, so that she may vomit outside.

  A figure, draped in white – I swear it must be a corpse and bearing with it the putrefaction of the grave – emerges from the open door. But it is Tyson, with a piece of cloth draped over his face and wearing a long linen apron.

  ‘Beg your pardon, milady,’ he says. ‘We have a bit of a blockage.’

  ‘A bit of a blockage?’ The smell is so bad I can scarcely breathe.

  Mary, wan and wobbly, creeps to my side. ‘Is – is it dead?’

  ‘Yes, miss. I’m afraid Jack is the only one who’ll have any breakfast this morning . . .’

  Mary dashes back to the window.

  ‘This is intolerable!’ I cry. ‘Can you send for Beck?’

  ‘I have done so, milady, but I fear we’ll have to dig into the pit, and the rats—’

  ‘Oh God!’ I cover my mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. ‘Will there be more rats?’

  ‘There will likely be a few, milady, and they’re bound to run upstairs, for they can get beneath doors just as that one did. But Jack won’t mind, will you, you good dog! It’s grand sport for him, milady.’

  I am delighted that one of
us is enjoying himself.

  Jack picks up his breakfast in his mouth and retires to a corner.

  Mrs Tyson, also with her face covered, joins us, her skirts tucked up, and wearing old-fashioned pattens; there must be a veritable flood downstairs.

  ‘A dreadful thing indeed, milady,’ she says. ‘And now the fire is out.’

  She moves towards the front door as someone knocks, and I pray it is someone – even the Duke – who can rescue us.

  It is the capable and well-trained Beck, who raises a handkerchief to his nostrils and bows. He does not seem particularly surprised that I am standing on a chair, Mary is vomiting out of the window and a dog in the corner is consuming a rat.

  ‘Milady, his grace wishes you to leave as soon as it is convenient.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

  ‘Mrs Tyson will help you pack your belongings.’

  ‘No, no, we shall manage quite well on our own.’ I am afraid that Mrs Tyson, who has been in the thick of the stink, may transfer it to our clothes.

  I extricate Mary from the window and lead her upstairs. She is quite ill and weak, so I make her lie on the bed, with a wet cloth on her forehead, while I throw my belongings into trunks and bags, knowing they will be horribly wrinkled. After a while, Mary is recovered enough to totter upstairs to her bed-chamber and retrieve her own things.

  And so we leave the Hampstead house; I barely have time to say our farewells to the Tysons, and then we are outside in the blessed fresh air. I shake out my skirts in case they hold any lingering odour and help Mary into the carriage.

  ‘Where is his grace?’ I ask Beck.