Merivel A Man of His Time (29 page)

‘Ah,’ say I, ‘how kind of them. No doubt they heard that I was ill.’

Will draws back the curtains in my bedroom, that I have kept half closed to keep out the August sun, and opens the window. ‘You are not ill, Sir,’ says he, ‘you are horridly malingering. And you stink like a dead rat.’

‘Now, now, Will,’ I say. ‘Have a care how you speak to me.’

‘I only speak true. I will get hot water brought up to you, that you may wash yourself and put on some clothes before you come downstairs. Meanwhile I shall serve a Cordial to Sir James and his wife.’

Had my Visitors been any other than the Prideaux, perhaps I would not have stirred from my Inertia. But to these I feel bonds of affection (for Margaret’s sake as well as for my own), so I scrub my body, put on the clean garb Will has laid out for me, clamp my wig to my
head
and, on legs very weak and trembling, make my way downstairs.

When I see the Prideaux I am cheered. What consoles me in them is their sanity or normality. Their lives go on, as lives should but seldom do, arranged around a quiet prosperity and domestic comfort. They are never heard to complain about anything, for, in truth, they have very little to complain about. Yet they do not seem smug.

They commiserate with me about the Bear. (This story is out around the County, and no one except James and Arabella Prideaux appears to sympathise with my loss, but all take the side of the Farmers who killed and ate the creature.)

‘What did you intend for your Bear?’ asks Arabella.

‘Oh,’ say I, ‘I intended that he should have an untroubled life. Once I talked about starting a Menagerie here at Bidnold, but I did not, in the end, want a Menagerie, I merely wanted Clarendon to be happy.’

‘Happy?’ enquires Sir James.

‘Yes. Many do not consider animals capable of what we would call “happiness”, but I believe they are wrong. We have only to observe a pet Spaniel made aware that he is to be taken for a walk …’

‘Dogs are perhaps a particular case, Merivel, having chosen Man to be their protector. But your Bear was named Clarendon, you say?’

‘Yes. The King named him, after the late Earl.’

‘Thus, perhaps, unfortunately consigning him to an
unhappy
end?’

‘Indeed. Though His Majesty did not intend this. Watching Clarendon absorbed him. He observed that something in the demeanour of Bears reminds us of ourselves. They have the faces of Outcasts.’

‘Outcasts? The King is not an Outcast.’

‘For eleven years he was. He never forgets it – not for one day. The place he visits most frequently in his dreams is Boscobel.’

The Prideaux nod gravely. After a while Arabella asks: ‘Have you any Souvenir of the poor Bear?’

‘The Pelt was brought to me. To look at this empty skin, with the head still attached, was a fearful thing. But I have had the Pelt taken to be cured, so that I may use it as a rug.’

‘Ah,’ says Arabella. ‘I saw such a thing once, made from a Tiger skin. But a little Stench adhered to it, unfortunately. I could not bear to be near it.’

I change the subject swiftly. We talk about all our girls and they give me news of Mary’s new beau, who is the eldest son of Sir Reginald Brocks-Parton and worth ten thousand
livres
per year. And we exclaim over this sum, and find ourselves embarrassingly short of breath, as visions of True Riches make us pant.

Then James Prideaux says: ‘We fear you are much alone, Merivel. Why do you not come and stay at Shottesbrooke with us until the end of summer? We can make up some parties of Whist and I shall invite musicians to entertain us, and there is a hanging on Mouse Hill next week …’

‘We would be so glad if you would come,’ says Arabella. ‘This was all the purpose of our visit. And it is such a while since we have had a hanging in Norwich. We could take a picnic and enjoy the Spectacle together.’

I look at my friends, so nicely seated in their chairs, holding their glasses of Cordial so correctly, and find that, for the first time since I have known them, I do not, after all, absolutely
like
them. Though I am disconcerted by this and hope that it may be a temporary feeling, it infects me with a sudden stubborn Optimism on my own account and courage enough to reply: ‘That is the kindest offer. But I have made my plans. Before the month’s end I am to set sail for France and Switzerland.’

Thus, it came to me.

Why wait for a letter that might never arrive? Why not profit from the last of summer to make a long and absorbing journey across France into a land I have never seen? Immediately I began imagining all the wonders I might encounter: castles upon crags, forests of deep darkness, shining lakes, glaciers, mountains rising to the waning moon, fields of Gentian flowers, a Carillon of bells at sunset, and wayside inns serving Rhenish wine and wild boar.

And if, when I arrived at the Château de Saint Maurice, Louise’s father’s abode, I were refused all entry to it and to Louise’s life, why then at least I would have travelled somewhere. I would have breathed
the
pure air of the hills, stood higher in the world than I have ever stood, to see what view was there. I would have Tales to tell.

After James and Arabella Prideaux had departed, I called Will to me and told him: ‘You were right, Will. I have been malingering. But you shall suffer no more of it. I shall make plans to depart for Switzerland forthwith.’

‘Switzerland?’ said Will. ‘I would not go there, Sir Robert. I heard tell it be even colder than Scotland. How shall you keep your blood warm?’

I was about to reply that I would drink a great deal of the excellent liquor they call Schnapps, known for its body-heating properties, but instead I said: ‘It is still summer, by the calendar. Summer will gently merge into Autumn as I go, but then I shall see golden Beeches and stately firs and snow on the mountain tops. And on my arrival I shall be the guest of the Baron de Saint Maurice, in whose house great fires burn …’

‘Forgive me, Sir, but has he veritably
invited
you?’ said Will.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘The invitation is of long standing. Merely, I have not been at liberty to take it up.’

‘And how long do you plan to be absent from Bidnold?’

‘I do not know. A few months, perhaps. All shall depend on how long I am welcome in the Baron’s château.’

‘And us, Sir? Cattlebury and Myself and the other servants. What are we to do in your absence?’

‘What you always do. Keep the house. A portion of the King’s
loyer
will be left in your personal care to cover all expenses. I ask only that you conceal the money in some place where none but you can come to it – for after Sharpe’s absconding with my purse, we are able to trust nobody. Make sure that you have everything always in readiness for my Return.’

Will stared at me. Then I saw that his face had creased itself into an expression of troubling sadness and he began shaking his old head, as if in exasperation at my recent changes of Tune and Whim.

‘What is it, Will?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, Sir,’ he said. ‘Except I know that I may feel somewhat lonely and abandoned …’

‘You are not “abandoned”, Will. It is only for a short space of time. And please bear in mind also that, although I shall not be here,
His
Majesty has the right, by the generous stipend that he pays me, to take up Residence at Bidnold at any time. Thus the Candelabra in the Dining Room and all the Silver and Pewter Ware must be in a perpetual state of shining readiness.’

‘I will bear it in mind …’

‘And do not believe that I shall not be thinking about
you
. Every morning, when I wake in some Medieval tower and look north-westwards towards England, I shall imagine you rising in your room at Bidnold and drinking your bowl of Chocolate, then giving your Orders for the day as to what is to be scrubbed or rearranged or polished or brought in or taken out.’

‘Will you really, Sir?’

‘Yes. It is most certain.’

Will nodded. His features unclamped themselves a little from their creased state, but something of sorrow remained stubbornly in them as he turned and left the room. For his sake, I knew I might yet be dissuaded from my audacious plan to travel to Switzerland, so I went immediately to my escritoire and took up my pen.

My dear Louise
, I wrote,

I have made up my mind: I am setting forth to find you
.

23

I EMBARKED ON
my journey.

Always in my mind was a many-turreted castle. To these turrets led stairways of stone, winding in upon themselves, chill to the touch.

Before taking ship I set down in London and found my daughter in great Rapture with her life.

Fubbs whispered to me, ‘Margaret is much noted by the young Beaux of the Court. The youngest son of Lord Delavigne, the Honourable Julius Royston, is vaporous with longing, but I have forbidden Margaret to lose her virginity to him. She must hold out and that way she may get a proposal.
Un Match très, très auspicieux, mon cher Merivel! La noble et riche famille Delavigne!
And he is such a charming young man, you cannot imagine …’

Fubbsy’s delight in Margaret was, I observed, a tender and affecting thing. When Margaret was talking, Louise de Kéroüalle’s bright bird eyes fixed their gaze on her, as a Mother’s gaze fixes itself encouragingly upon an infant in its efforts to walk or speak. When they moved out of a room, Louise linked arms with Margaret and they leaned close together like conspirators.

Only one thing troubled the two women, and this was the vexed condition of the King’s health. Fubbs told me that he had suffered a Convulsion very suddenly that morning, while having his moustache trimmed, and fallen into a Faint. When I asked if I might see him she said: ‘He is sleeping. But when the Queen heard of it, she insisted that he be moved to her Apartments and I cannot take you there.’

I walked with Margaret round the gardens and noted subtle changes
in
her bearing. Where, before at Bidnold, she had tended to skip about and be careless, like a girl, now she moved with a slow grace, holding her head still and high, and when she took my arm I saw that she was careful to arrange her hand upon it so that her fingers were prettily spread, as though at some stately dance. And those people who passed us – mostly gatherings of fops draped about with heavy Swords – smiled at her and inclined themselves in small, unnecessary bows.

‘My word, Margaret,’ said I, ‘I see that you are quite noted here. How has this come about?’

‘I do not know,’ she said sweetly, ‘only that the Duchess is much noted and I am frequently by her side.’

‘And are you also at the King’s side?’

‘What do you mean, Papa?’

‘Do you sometimes walk out alone with him?’

Margaret lifted her face to look sideways at me, but then walked on without answering my question. Only when we reached the shade of a young oak tree did she stop and say: ‘When you are in Switzerland, my dear Papa, I shall hope that you will not worry your head on my account. Fate has smiled very kindly on me. I did not die of the Typhus. And now – see where we are walking! I believe you should have trust in me, in my good Sense.’

I placed a kiss upon her brow. There was very much that I wanted to say, but I discerned in Margaret a great Unwillingness to hear it said. So we walked on, and I tried to get my mind away from all the things that still troubled it, and press it forward to where Gentian flowers might spring up at my feet.

My way through France was plagued by burning weather.

In the succession of coaches, every passenger, both man and woman, fell to complaining about the heat, fanning themselves and blowing and puffing like Pug dogs, and loosening their Attire, or taking it off, so that bits of their bodies, damp with sweat, might be exposed to the air.

The stench in these Conveyances was worse than any I had ever endured and I shall not soon forget it.

Then, in one of them, there occurred something most Singular
and
shameful, which I am embarrassed to set down, yet I have determined upon doing so. (There is surely no purpose to the writing of one’s Life unless it include the base and vile things, as well as the dutiful and the benevolent?)

On our way to Besançon my companions were all men, except for one woman sitting opposite me. This woman was a Matron, aged about fifty, of great girth and with skin whiter than lard, and she had furnished herself with a jar of meat pâté, from which she ate continuously, sucking noisily on a spoon.

Some twenty miles from Besançon, plagued as we all were by the sun burning upon the carriage roof, this creature did decide, unceremoniously and without any by-your-leave, to remove her drawers. She pulled them clean off and bundled them away, and hitched up her skirt and did not care that the passengers saw her Cunt. On the contrary, fanning out her great thighs so that all her private Anatomy was visible to us entirely, she observed nonchalantly that women must take precautions against a Sweating Cunt, ‘for in the sweat can the Pox come in’.

‘Ah,’ said I, averting my eyes a little from a sight she appeared so keen to display to me, ‘I have never heard that said before, Madame, and I am a Physician.’

‘A Physician? Well, Monsieur, let me add to your score of knowledge, for it is well know how scant that may be in your Profession. My own Mother died this way, from a Pox got in a Tropical Heat, and by this heat alone and not from the prick of any man.’

After saying this, she continued to eat her potted meat and I could not refrain from staring at her – at her mouth gulping the pâté, and at her Cunt, very dark and glistening with sweat, and pushed forward on the seat opposite me. And I knew that for all that she disgusted me, I would, had we been alone in the lurching carriage and she willing, have fucked her well and truly. And I thought, with pity for myself, how Solitary a thing my life had become, devoid of any animal love.

I closed my eyes and slept a little, and woke with my mind and body in a boil of lust, but could do nothing to relieve it, and I cursed the fat woman for torturing me so, and wished myself to be a Bear, with no scruples or modesty, that I might take out my member, grown
very
large and aching, and thrust it in her without ceremony, and get my pleasure and release forthwith.