A Most Lamentable Comedy

by Janet Mullany

‘He went ahead yesterday, milady, in the best carriage.’

  So this luxurious vehicle, also with a coat of arms on the door and furnished inside in leather and velvet, is his second best; even Bludge did not own two such carriages. Despite myself, I am impressed.

  ‘I suppose we are bound for Northumberland,’ I say.

  ‘Indeed, ma’am, you are most astute.’

  It seems I have underestimated the Duke of Thirlwell.

  There is one thing only that prevents me from opening the door of this superior vehicle and seeking liberty – to be precise, one person. Mary has given up all pretence of sitting and lies with her head in my lap, her face pale and sweaty with a greenish tint. I have no doubt now that she carries that rogue Barton’s child.

  And to be completely honest, there are a set of lesser reasons that make an escape impractical: what I have to sell – that is, the clothes on my back and my pearl earrings, for I doubt I could flee with any more of my belongings – would not support me for long. I wish to confront Thirlwell with this latest outrage. Above all, I want to see exactly what his grace has in mind for me next, and how involved my alleged friends, the Linsleys and the Rileys, are in the matter.

  And although I can hardly bear to admit it, I know Congrevance is tangled in this somehow and I long to see him one more time. I allow myself to dream that somehow I can forgive him.

  I am such a fool. He must know I’m Thirlwell’s mistress (or allegedly so); if he were kindly inclined towards me at all, could he forgive me?

  After several stops to change horses, we arrive at a pleasant inn where I am shown into a private room. I am glad to see the table is set for dinner (I am not so indignant or lovelorn that my appetite is lost), and to my great pleasure, Philomena Linsley rises from a chair to give me a hearty kiss.

  ‘Where is he?’ I mutter. I am not sure of which one I speak.

  ‘Oh, Thirlwell has gone ahead, you need have no fear, and Beck goes to catch up with his master.’

  So I am being handed on to a different set of gaolers, albeit friendly ones, who I am in truth very glad to see.

  Philomena glances at Mary, whom I have deposited on another chair. ‘Your maid looks very unwell.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Travel sickness can be a most unpleasant thing. I’m surprised, for I’d expect Thirlwell’s carriage to be better sprung.’ She sends for her maid Kate and her travelling medicine cabinet, and we embark on a discussion of what might suit Mary best, deciding on a dose of ginger and camomile.

  Kate takes Mary upstairs, ostensibly to unpack what we need for the night, but I suspect Kate will do the work while Mary sleeps. After a while, the rest of the party, Linsley, his sons and Admiral and Mrs Riley, arrive from an expedition in the surrounding countryside. Will rushes to my side, enquiring after his friend George and the cat and kittens, and James, somewhat muddy, presents his mother with a bunch of drooping buttercups.

  ‘We have been to see a ruined castle, Lady Caro,’ Will says. ‘I wish you could have come with us, but there will be other interesting sights, Papa says. And I shall see Mama when we arrive at Lord Thirlwell’s house.’

  Mrs Riley cross-questions me about the condition of the cuttings we planted in the garden on her last visit two days before. I have to admit that the garden was the last thing on my mind as we left the house.

  James, who has progressed beyond barking, sits for a time on my lap and tells me at great length about a pig they met on their walk. A very friendly young pig, it seems, who showed much interest in them.

  ‘And then—’ Will says, interrupting him.

  ‘Let your brother tell the story,’ says Linsley.

  ‘And then the piggy ate Will’s button.’

  Sure enough, Will shows us his coat with the button missing.

  ‘We’ll have our revenge,’ Linsley murmurs to me. ‘I believe we are to have roast pork for dinner tonight.’

  ‘And are you brave enough to tell me more of this great conspiracy you and Thirlwell have cooked up?’

  ‘Why,’ Will sI’m not a clever enough fellow for that sort of thing. I’m just a simple country gentleman.’ He winks at me and shakes out a newspaper. ‘Besides, it would upset Philomena, and I can’t have that happen in her delicate condition.’

  ‘Well, Lady Elmhurst!’ Admiral Riley takes a seat next to me. ‘We have excellent weather for travel, and two fine carriages between us, for Mrs Riley’s son the Earl of Terrant was good enough to lend us his while he and his family travel on the Continent. We may exchange places often so we do not tire of each other.’

  I wonder how they will manage to keep their stories straight with such an arrangement, but my pleasure in seeing them all overcomes my reservations, and shortly good food and a tolerable wine distract me.

  After dinner we play cards, before most of the party, tired from travel and their walk, retire to bed. I’m sharing a bed with Mary, who is so fast asleep she doesn’t notice me or the light from my candle. I am shocked to discover (for I remembered to bring Sense and Sensibility) that Willoughby is a thorough rascal.

  And so the trip continues, a jaunt through the countryside, stopping to visit picturesque ruins, and once, detouring from the Great North Road to visit an aged uncle of the Admiral. The uncle, a picturesque ruin in his own right, calls us all by the names of people long dead and frequently orders Will to climb up the rigging. The children are fascinated when at dinner, the uncle uses his false teeth, having first removed them, as a hammer to crack nuts on the table. Will offers to help, and is allowed to crack nuts for us all by this entertaining method.

  The hours and days pass as we make our leisurely progress northward. The small adventures of travel and a holiday – good and indifferent inns, meetings with strangers, unfamiliar food and dishes and discussions of places we visit along the way – occupy us.

  I am still concerned about Mary, who spends much of her time drooping and pale, and occasionally we have to ask our driver to stop if she is feeling particularly unwell. I wish she would confide in me, but I know she is afraid I will sack her; indeed I should be expected to. I decide I must ask Thirlwell to settle a sum of money on her so she can support herself and the child.

  Meanwhile the winks, sly smiles and cryptic comments I receive in answer to my questions about Thirlwell’s intentions are about to drive me mad. Now and again I mention Congrevance and am presented with an appalling, studied carefulness; much pursing of lips, propping of chins on fingertips, or wrinkled brows accompanies an inane comment such as: ‘Who? Oh, Congrevance. Yes, indeed. I believe – or so I was told – he went to . . .’ Any number of cities or countries are cited.

  I am sure Fanny Gibbons, who trained us as actors, would be shocked.

  The countryside grows wilder and hillier, the roads rougher, and heather scents the air. We are now in Northumberland, and I suspect some ridiculously coincidental meeting will be arranged between me and Congrevance; or at least between me and Thirlwell so he may explain himself.

  It is no surprise when, on our second morning in the county, the day we are supposed to arrive at Thirlwell’s house, his second best carriage grinds to a halt a few yards from its original position in the courtyard of the inn where we spent the previous night.

  Linsley and the Admiral and our coachmen descend to have a masculine discussion of the problem. There is much concerned nodding and bending to inspect axles; carriage wheels are kicked. A few of the inn’s grooms and manservants wander over to join in.

  ‘Why, what can be the matter?’ Philomena asks with wide-eyed innocence. She, the two boys and her maid travel with us in the Terrants’ carriage, and I am glad, since I am sure she knows of Mary’s condition but is too discreet to mention it.

  I roll my eyes and simper. ‘Oh, I am sure the gentlemen will make all well, Philomena. Pray do not concern yourself.’

  She smothers a giggle.

  As the masculine deliberation continues, we – or at least I – lose patience and descend. Mrs
Riley has now joined the men and appears to be lecturing some of the scruffier grooms on their appearance.

  ‘Why, Lady Elmhurst,’ she says. ‘Here’s a pretty pickle! And look at this fellow – I should not think his neck has been washed in a quarter-year.’

  The groom in question shuffles his feet and grins, as though receiving a compliment.

  ‘Under the pump with you!’ Mrs Riley dispatches him and turns to us. ‘Will and James, pray stand and touch nothing; you must not get dirty and shame us in front of the Duke. Well, sirs, what’s to do?’

  Much head-shaking and incomprehensible mumbles – the accent of the people in these parts is almost Scotch, and thoroughly unintelligible to my ears.

  The coachman is good enough to translate. ‘We’ll need repairs to the fore axle and offside front wheel, ma’am. ’Twill take at least two days to mend, for the blacksmith in the village has a broken arm, they say, and his sister-in-law’s neighbour’s son will come over today from the next village to help; but it will take him the best part of a day to get here, and—’

  ‘Never mind,’ says Mrs Riley. ‘Admiral, what do you think we should do?’

  More of the infernal lip-pursing, etc., as they all pretend to make a decision that was agreed upon long ago.

  Of course we cannot all cram into Terrant’s carriage – why, even for the beginning of the journey, before Mary and I joined them with a second carriage, it was a tight fit, with the children sitting on laps and Linsley in front with the driver. No, no, fitting the nine of us into one carriage is impossible.

  ‘Shall we send word to Thirlwell that we are delayed?’ I suggest, eagerly anticipating the reasons why this ordinary and sensible solution will b earsrned down.

  A veritable storm of head-shaking ensues.

  ‘Indeed, no, Lady Elmhurst, it cannot be done,’ the Admiral says.

  ‘Why not? There are horses, and these idlers.’ I gesture to the grooms and other servants belonging to the inn, who have begun a game of dice in a sunny corner of the courtyard. The cobblestones, I imagine, make for some interesting results.

  ‘Beg pardon, milady, but his grace is most particular about his horses,’ says Thirlwell’s coachman. He gives a longing look towards the dice game. A couple of maidservants and a few large stone bottles have now joined them, and there is some flirting and much merriment.

  ‘Then a horse from the inn?’

  Naturally all the inn’s horses are spoken for, lame or suffering from mysterious ailments, or some such.

  Wishing to cut to the chase, and to see the expression on their faces, I say, ‘Why, I have the best idea. Why do not I take the other carriage and go ahead to meet his grace? We are great friends now, and I so wish to thank him for his hospitality. Besides, I am sure he has a blacksmith on his estate whom he could send over to help.’

  Dead silence. A few embarrassed glances later, there is a chorus of agreement.

  I look around for Mary, who seems to have disappeared. Ah, there she is, poor girl, discreetly losing her breakfast in a corner of the courtyard.

  Mrs Riley frowns. ‘You know, Caro, I believe your maid may be—’

  ‘Yes, she is unwell and she had better come with me.’

  I do not want to leave her here at the mercy of Mrs Riley, who will surely bully her, even in a kind way, into a confession; besides, the ginger and camomile are in the carriage.

  So Mary and I set off in Terrant’s carriage, she pale and lying down on one seat, while I await whatever ridiculousness will reunite me with Congrevance, not even sure whether I want to see him again. But my palms grow quite damp with sweat and I cannot help wondering how I look today, and how he will look, and what his manner will be. (Idiot that I am.)

  What if he is contrite and loving and tells me he did not mean those dreadful words he spoke? Or he could be surly and unwilling, forced by Thirlwell and the others to make an honest woman of me. That would be dreadful. I only hope Barton is still with his master, for surely Mary must marry now; and I believe Barton, in returning the earrings, must be an honest man.

  We are in the middle of nowhere, hills covered in bracken and heather, with huge rocks scattered here and there, splotched with orange and green lichen, and deserted except for sheep. It’s very quiet. A curlew calls overhead, and now and again I hear the bleat of a sheep (or possibin bramb, glimmer, hogg, teg, ram, ewe, stag, etc.).

  The carriage jolts to a stop and I hear a murmured conversation between our coachman and postilion.

  I pull the window down. ‘What’s the matter, sirs?’

  ‘Milady, stay in the carriage if you please!’

  Mary looks out of the window and screams.

  I join her and see why. There is a large, dark furry blob on the road in front of us.

  A bear?

  Yes, it’s a bear, sitting on its haunches, and as I watch, it lifts one large paw, armed with long yellow talons, to scratch its ribs. It swivels its head and snuffs the air.

  Perhaps it has escaped from a circus, for it wears a collar. Even in the depths of Northumberland I believe bears do not run wild.

  The horses shift and snort. They are not pleased at the presence of the bear.

  I hear the thud of hoofs, and men on horseback, masked and bristling with weapons – blunderbusses and some other ancient rusty guns – swarm around the carriage.

  Mary and I scream (I, I must admit, while trying to stifle laughter) as one of our attackers waves a blunderbuss at our driver, yelling at him to ‘Stand and deliver!’ in the dreadful local accent.

  First bears and now banditti in the English countryside! It is just like a horrid novel.

  21

  Lady Caroline Elmhurst

  ‘Oh God! They’ll kill us.’ Mary clutches my sleeve. ‘Milady, I’m sorry, I’m with child.’ What an odd time to tell me. ‘I know. Don’t worry.’ I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I don’t think they’re really highwaymen.’

  But at that moment a shot is fired outside, and Mary and I shrink against the seat.

  There’s much yelling and shouting, and the door of the coach swings open. One of the ruffians, his face obscured by his hat, steps inside, waving a pistol.

  At that moment, the coach gives an almighty jerk – I discover afterwards that the horses decided the bear was thoroughly untrustworthy – and my assailant lifts one leg to brace himself against the seat. Afforded this excellent opportunity to grab and twist, I do so, and the bandit falls backwards out of the coach with a strangled howl of pain. His pistol clatters to the floor.

  I grab the weapon as the other door flies open to reveal a bearded ruffian; a ruffian with a very familiar beard.

  ‘Barton!’ I cry, lowering the pistol. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘Mary, my love!’ He ignores me and snatches Mary in his arms.

  ‘Careful—’

  My warning comes too late. Mary vomits on to his waistcoat.

  ‘There, there, my little flower,’ Barton croons, mopping her up with his coat. ‘Beg pardon, milady. Don’t worry, milady, that pistol is not loaded.’

  I toss it aside, thoroughly annoyed. ‘You must marry her immediately. Where is your master?’

  Barton looks up. ‘He came in the other door, milady, or at least, I thought he did, to rescue you.’

  Oh no.

  Chiding myself – surely I should have recognised him, by what I held briefly in my hand if nothing else – I open the door, noticing that the carriage sits at an odd angle.

  Mary screams again, and I turn to see the bear attempting to squeeze itself inside. The creature has a powerful odour.

  ‘Good boy, Daisy!’ Barton says. ‘Don’t you worry, my love, he’s as gentle as a little lamb; he wants only to be your friend, don’t you, Daisy?’

  I open the other door and peer out.

  Lying in the mud is a familiar figure, curled up, hands clutched at his groin. I recognise that long, elegant thigh, the tumble of tawny ha
ir, now that his hat has fallen away.

  I jump down beside him.

  Mr Nicholas Congrevance

  Absorbed as I am in my pain, I know it is she who jumps into the mud with a splash and a curse. My eyes are tight shut. I want to look at her, but fear that any movement will add to the dreadful pain and possibly make me vomit.

  She kicks me fairly hard in the ribs.

  ‘What the devil are you doing, Congrevance?’ She kicks me again. ‘And that’s for my “somewhat overblown charms”, you whoreson.’

  Well, I didn’t expect her to cradle my head on her bosom and shower me with kisses after nearly castrating me. Neither had my brother led me to believe that women attacked by brigands turn on their rescuers, but I daresay I look as ruffianly as the rest. I spit out some mud. I daren’t move, but I believe I can speak now.

  ‘Sorry,’ I croak.

  ‘Bastard,’ she spits at me.

  I swear I shall kill my brother for this.

  ‘Mr Congrevance, sir?’ It’s Jeb, one of the men from the estate who my brother recruited for this ridiculous venture. ‘Have some of this, sir, it will do you good. Milady, please do not kick him again, he’s hurt.’

  She swears and stamps her foot – I know because the mud splashes in my face.

  I sit, very cautiously, and take a swig from the flask. It is some vile sort of home-brewed spirit that courses a fiery tide down my gullet and threatens to return.

  Jeb stares after Caroline with horror as she stamps off to sit on a boulder at the side of the road. ‘Is she the one, sir?’

  I nod.

  He mutters something under his breath, shaking his head – I make out the words poor and bastard.

  Barton jumps from the carriage and turns to help Mary down. She’s pale and in tears, but has a radiant smile on her face.

  ‘We’re getting married, sir,’ he says and places one big hand on her midriff with surprising tenderness. ‘She’s having a baby!’

  ‘My felicitations.’

  Daisy squeezes himself out of the carriage after them and lumbers over to the side of the road.