A Most Lamentable Comedy (3 page)

I am tempted to lick the crumbs from my plate, but I really feel I do not know Congrevance sufficiently to do so before him. In the interests of propriety, or its appearance, I suggest we leave for Otterwell’s house. I am not so much of a fool, or a hypocrite, to deny the carnal interest that hums between me and Congrevance. He has done nothing but sum up my various parts since we met, and I must admit I have given him every opportunity to do so. My lawn scarf is too creased to wear at my neckline, and I cannot help if my skirt pulls up a little as I enter the trap. I study him with equal interest. I was not entirely unconscious when arried me inside the inn; I heard the pleasing thud of a man’s heartbeat close to mine, and had the opportunity to examine the cloth of his coat (a very fine wool). An excellent sign, as is his absence from London, for chances are he has had little opportunity to squander his money there, or to know the most sordid details of my fall from grace.

Being pressed against his warm, hard person (his chest, that is) almost made up for the distressing weakness and sickness that assailed me, but happily that was dispelled shortly after by toast and tea (paid for by Congrevance), and now I feel quite restored to health.

He travels simply, but the quality of his clothes, his air, speak of breeding and undoubted fortune. He is accompanied by a manservant whose ugly face and squat build I find repulsive, but with whom Mary, the shameless slut, flirts and giggles as the trap bowls along the country lanes.

‘I have missed this,’ Congrevance says, gesturing in a foreign sort of way.

‘Cows, sir?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head, smiling. ‘The countryside. It is so very green and soft.’

‘You are a great traveller, then?’

‘I was most recently in Italy.’

He doesn’t seem inclined to chat, which is as well – for gentlemen, I find, gnaw upon topics that are of no interest whatsoever, like a dog upon a bone: politics (Bludge), horseflesh (Elmhurst), cricket, surely the worst of the lot (Linsley) and military manoeuvres, a close second (Rotherhithe). So I am quite content to watch Congrevance, and a beautiful creature he is, with his long elegance of bone and his dark grey eyes – a surprise, for I should have thought he would have blue eyes. However, I do not wish to appear a mindless ninny who cannot carry on a conversation, and I like to watch his mouth when he speaks.

‘Do you know which part is yours in Otterwell’s play, Mr Congrevance?’

‘His play?’

‘Yes. Has he not invited you to be an actor in his, or rather Shakespeare’s,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?’

‘Ah. He did not mention anything of the sort to me when we met in Italy earlier this year, although one cannot help but notice how much he admires Shakespeare. And you, Lady Elmhurst? What part is yours?’

‘I am to play Hermia.’ Hermia, in my opinion, is something of a tediously virtuous ninny, but she fits quite well into the impression I intend to make on Congrevance – that of a respectable and modest widow. How very fortunate that he has been abroad, and how relieved I am to find that my reputation has not crossed the Channel. If he had been in London, it would be an entirely different story. Indeed, it is a miraculous stroke of luck that he is a blank slate upon which I can rewrite myself, provided he does not listen to vulgar gossip from his fellow guests.

‘You enjoy the theatre, Lady Elmhurst?’

‘Oh, I adore it.’ I clasp my hands to my bosom (he watches) and sigh deeply (he blinks). ‘It is tremendously diverting. It is one of the great pleasures of town.’ I do not mention that cards and flirting and activities well beyond flirting behind closed doors are what I really prefer. ‘And of course I enjoy music; I play a little upon the pianoforte – my friends say I am not totally devoid of taste – and I have a very small skill with watercolours.’

‘Otterwell has some very pleasing prospects on his estate. I expect you will wish to sketch them. Perhaps I might be permitted to accompany you, Lady Elmhurst.’

‘That would be delightful, Mr Congrevance.’

The question, of course, is whether I should take him as protector or husband. As enamoured as he seems to be of the countryside, there is a good chance he will want to settle on some tedious estate and commune with his cows. He might expect a wife to slop around there with straw in her hair and breed! But I am sure that if Congrevance wished to amuse himself in town, he could keep me in the manner to which I am accustomed (or, to be honest,
unaccustomed
of late). Mary, whose knee is now pressed firmly against that of that ruffian of a manservant, can find out the extent of Congrevance’s fortune well enough.

However, there is no great rush to entrap him. I should wait and see who else Otterwell has invited; for although I cannot deny the attraction I feel to Congrevance, it would not do to sell myself short. How would I feel if, for instance, I missed a duke?

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

Now I am not the sort of fellow to ponder much on philosophies or languish around thinking poetic thoughts of love, life and death – in my life, I have had to deal with more practical issues. But I cannot help but reflect that I emerged from that canal a changed man, and a stranger to myself.

Would the Nicholas Congrevance of only a few weeks ago be content to look at trees and meadows and hardly bother to respond when a pretty and undoubtedly available widow tries to engage him in conversation? Barton, of course, will find out the extent of her wealth from that saucy maid, with whom he is getting on famously. And I – well, glib reports of my doings abroad, adventures and the hint of a love affair gone sour (a broken heart in a man rouses a competitive spirit in a woman, I find) – these should have flowed from me as naturally as water. But my wits are quite softened, and while this is not unpleasing – for Lady Caroline Elmhurst is certainly good to look at (particularly around the bosom), and her husky voice most attractive – I must rally myself for my meeting with Lord and Lady Otterwell.

The trap turns off the road; a boy runs from the gatehouse to open finely wrought-iron gates and the wheels and the horse’s hoofs crunch on gravel. The drive curves to an open vista with an avenue of lime trees leading to Otterwell’s house, a handsome structure of honey-coloured stone. It is precisely the sort of house that I am denied by both birth and fortune; the sort of house that I might, with luck, lease for a quarter or so, before I leave to seek my riches again.

The trap draws up at the front of the house, where two symmetrical sweeps of stairs lead to an imposing front door. I take Lady Elmhurst’s hand and assist her down from the trap; it is a pity indeed that we are both decently gloved.

The trap leaves to go to the servants’ entrance, and the crunch of feet on gravel announces the approach of Lady Otterwell, carrying a basket of flowers. Less pink in the face than in Rome, she is still pretty in a plump, petulant sort of way. She sees me, drops the flowers, and sinks into a curtsy so deep I wonder if she will be able to get up again without assistance.

‘Monsieur le Vicomte!’ she cries. She wobbles and regains her vertical state as the front door opens and Otterwell emerges from the house, bald head gleaming, wearing one of his colourful waistcoats. ‘Oh, Otterwell, my dear, look who is here! It is St Germain-d’Aubussy! Oh, the honour. I am quite overcome . . .’

Otterwell sweeps a courtly bow and I wonder for a moment if he will topple down his marble stairs, before he makes the journey safely and grips my hand. ‘Why, sir, this is an unexpected and delightful surprise. It is, let me see, but six months since we met in Rome, and I am delighted you should condescend to visit. I—’

‘I beg of you, Lord Otterwell, not a word more. It is not safe.’ I glance around as though foreign conspirators lurk in the neatly trimmed bushes. ‘A
nom de guerre
– or of peace, rather. I regret I had to deceive you, but when king and country . . .’ I shrug. ‘I am Nicholas Congrevance.’

‘You . . . Good lord. Well, of course you are welcome, Congrevance.’ He wrings my hand with the greatest of affability, while clearly believing he has a (possibly French) aristocrat spy in disguise under his roof. ‘We must call the gentleman
Mr Congrevance
, my dear.’

‘Oh, how . . . how romantic,’ Lady Otterwell sighs. ‘I always said, did I not, Otterwell, that the dear Vicomte had hidden depths. I assure you,
Mr Congrevance
, you shall be safe under our roof. I wish . . . although of course you probably cannot . . . but it would be so exciting if you could tell us . . .’

A loud sneeze interrupts us as Lady Elmhurst simultaneously stuffs the gathered flowers back into their basket and curtsies to her host and hostess.

Otterwell bows and looks into her bosom. I can hardly blame him.

‘How charming that you should be able to join us, Lady Elmhurst,’ Lady Otterwell says with deep loathing. ‘Do come and meet the other guests.’

‘I am delighted that you were kind enough to invite me,’ Lady Elmhurst replies with equal insincerity as she takes her hostess’ arm. ‘You are looking very well, Lady Otterwell.’

‘I see you have made the acquaintance of Lady Elmhurst,’ Otterwell says, winking heavily at me.

ont size="3">‘But recently, sir. We met in Guildford, and shared the trap.’ I wonder about the relationship of these three; clearly there is no love lost between Lady Otterwell and Lady Elmhurst, in whose person Lord Otterwell takes a far too obvious interest. I suspect it was he who invited her, possibly with ungentlemanly intentions, a thought that makes me uncomfortable, although I am not sure why.

Lady Otterwell hands her dishevelled basket of flowers to a servant, and then the four of us proceed around the side of the house. Beneath the spreading branches of a cedar tree ladies take tea, while on the lawn in the sunlight some gentlemen and a small boy play cricket. I notice that at Lady Elmhurst’s approach most of the women busy themselves with their conversation, turning their shoulders away from her. It is done quite deliberately to snub her, and I wonder why she is so very unpopular.

She, however, extricates herself from Otterwell’s arm with a puff of annoyance, looks longingly at the cakes – I wonder whether she fainted from hunger at the inn – and wanders towards the game. As she does so, the batsman hits the ball vigorously and it flies high in the air towards her – a good hit for a little fellow, for he can only be about six years of age.

I step forward to warn her, but another fellow dashes towards her, and at the same time she turns and sees the ball hurtling at her like a comet. To my astonishment she leaps, arms outstretched – someone has taught her how to catch – colliding with the gentleman in mid-air, and the two of them crash to the ground.

The gentleman, who has landed half on top of her, extricates himself from her skirts, revealing her shapely ankles as he does so. ‘Good God, Caro, what are you doing here?’

She gasps, and I realise she has had the wind knocked out of her before she growls, ‘And what the devil are you doing, Linsley? Get off me!’

He does so, grinning, and offers a hand to help her up. Apparently they know each other quite well, well enough for him to swipe grass off her backside as she stands. A small, pretty woman with a mass of curly hair approaches, glaring, and Linsley puts his hand behind his back, stepping away.

Caroline, while still clutching the ball to her chest, curtsies in a minimally polite way to the woman. ‘Mrs Linsley.’

She curtsies back in similar fashion, still glowering at her husband.

The youthful batsman, meanwhile, comes to join us, dragging the bat behind him. ‘Papa, am I out?’

‘You are indeed. I caught you fair and square,’ Lady Caroline says. She picks up her unfortunate bonnet, now looking much the worse for wear, and gives it a hearty shake.

‘You’re a girl. Papa, girls cannot play cricket.’

‘I can, sir. Did I not just catch you out?’ She hands the ball to him.

‘Caroline, this is my son Will,’ Liley says with easy familiarity. ‘And Will, I’m afraid she did catch you out, and if she had not done so, then I would have.’

‘It’s not
fair
,’ the child says, his face reddening.

Another woman, tall, and with short reddish hair caught in a bandeau, taps the child on the shoulder. ‘Will, please bow to the lady and gentleman. Have you forgotten your manners altogether?’

I think at first she is a nursemaid, although very well dressed for one, until the child replies, ‘Yes, Mama,’ hands the bat over to his father and obeys.

As Master Will makes his bow, Caroline and the child’s mother stare at each other with obvious dislike, while Linsley turns to me and introduces himself, and the short, pretty woman as his wife. The other woman, Will’s mother, is Mrs Fanny Gibbons. ‘And before I cause you further embarrassment,’ he says, ‘Will is Mrs Gibbons’ son, and this one, Master James Linsley, is mine also.’

‘Woof.’ I look down. A small child in petticoats barks at me.

‘Woof,’ says Caroline, and the child regards her gravely, then turns to Mrs Linsley and holds out his arms to be picked up.

Mrs Linsley smiles at her son, and then at me. ‘He is to play Moonshine’s dog and the Indian child,’ she says. ‘And Mrs Gibbons is to direct us and play the part of Helena herself.’

I would have thought there might be animosity between Mrs Linsley and her husband’s mistress, but they move closer together, much in the same way that ships of the line engage for battle, and I realise that they are united against Caroline. Lady Otterwell, too, raises sail and joins them, and I wonder who will be the first to send a warning shot across Caroline’s bows.

‘I regret I never saw you on stage, Mrs Gibbons,’ I say to her, for of course I recognise her name. ‘I’ve been abroad for some time.’

‘I’m retired from acting for the most part of six years now,’ she says. ‘But what part is yours, Mr Congrevance?’

‘He shall play Lysander,’ Otterwell says. He rubs his hands together, apparently enthusiastic at the prospect of squabbling actresses. ‘I received a letter today from the gentleman who was to play that part that he is detained by some business with a horse and a beehive, and I was quite at my wits’ end until Congrevance arrived.’