by Rose Tremain
‘Ah,’ said Sir James, laughing as he gathered up his money, ‘this is excellent! Now I shall afford to take us all into Cornwall once again, and this time, Margaret, you shall come with us.’
‘And see Puffins,’ said Penelope.
‘And collect Cowrie shells!’ said Mary.
‘But eat no shrimps!’ said Arabella.
Margaret blushed and smiled, but, to my surprise, said nothing. At this moment the King stood up and walked over to where Margaret sat, and raised her up by the hand, then bowed to me and said: ‘I did not tell you beforehand, Merivel, for fear that you would try to dissuade me, but I have suggested to Margaret that a place at Court be found for her and she has consented to come – if your blessing be given.’
I sat very still and suddenly cold in my chair, while all the Prideaux family gaped with wonder at this announcement.
‘Why …’ said Sir James, accidentally letting fall a cascade of his ha’pennies, ‘that is wonderful, Sir. Wonderful for Margaret … and for Sir Robert …’
‘The Duchess of Portsmouth has written to me,’ the King continued, ‘asking that a new young Lady-in-Waiting be found for her, so this seems to fit very nicely. I shall go to Whitehall tomorrow and set all in hand, as to lodgings and Allowances and so forth, and then, if her Father is willing, Margaret will come to London at the beginning of June. May I assume your consent, Merivel?’
Everybody looked over towards me. Only little Penelope, I think, understood what I was feeling, for she came to me and solemnly took my hand in hers.
Still holding Penelope’s hand, I stood up and bowed to the King. ‘I am honoured. This is … a great Honour,’ I said. But my voice came out very thinly, as though I might have been choking on a Parsnip. ‘But you will not be offended, I trust, if I feel obliged to ask Margaret to say – before Your Majesty and before all the Company here assembled – whether it is an honour she truly wishes to accept.’
The room fell silent. The hour was late and what candles were still alight dripped, with a steady ooze, into their sconces.
‘I do,’ said Margaret.
I stand in thin moonlight by Clarendon’s compound and look for him in the near darkness. I can hear him breathing, but I cannot see him.
Then I feel a Shadow at my side and I know that it is Pearce.
‘Well,’ he says in his ghostly voice, ‘what are you going to do, Merivel?’
‘There is nothing I can do,’ I reply.
I hear Pearce sigh – or perhaps it is the sighing of Clarendon, or the sighing of the Ash trees in the Bear’s Stockade …
‘This bitter night had to come,’ whispers Pearce. ‘The King will betray you now.’
Part Three
The Great Consolation
19
MARGARET HAS GONE.
I accompanied her to London and saw her installed in the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments in Whitehall Palace.
Margaret’s room is not a dark attic space, like Celia’s, but a spacious chamber, with a high bed hung with blue Brocade, and a carved mahogany fireplace, and a table laid out with silver Brushes and Combs. I stood at the window of this room and looked down upon what she was going to see each day, and I saw in a little courtyard a stone fountain in the shape of a Nymph, pouring the water from an Amphora, and the sight of this innocent figure gladdened my heart. In the basin of the fountain there were some bright golden fish, swimming around the feet of the Nymph.
The Duchess of Portsmouth, the King’s beloved ‘Fubbs’, came to us and was very gracious and kind to us, and took Margaret in her arms and kissed her, and told her that her life would henceforth be a beautiful life. And I could see that Margaret believed her, and was full of joy and excitement, and I did not want to disturb this happiness by showing the Fears and Suspicions that still crawled in my mind.
Fubbs may lead a ‘beautiful life’, but she is not a beautiful woman, and this lack of beauty in her only augmented my agitation that the King could look to my daughter for Satisfaction – or had already done so. Fubbs is short and plump, with big eyes in a round face and a little beaky nose. She reminded me of a Wood Pigeon. I said to the Wood Pigeon: ‘Margaret is all I have.’
She came and took my hand and said: ‘The women in my care are my little ducklings and I am their tender Mother Duck.’
And I laughed to hear her choose a bird metaphor, when I had just labelled her a Pigeon, and at this moment the King appeared and we all fell into our bows and curtseys, and I felt my heavy Sword jangling about me, like a loose bridle bit on a horse, and the King said to his Fubbsy: ‘Margaret taught me to play Rummy. Now I am very good at it. She will teach you, if you are nice to her.’
The King was wearing a sober brown coat and looked tired, and his limp seemed to have grown more pronounced since he left Bidnold. To me he said:
‘I miss Norfolk, Merivel. How is Clarendon?’
‘As ever he is, Sir,’ I said. ‘He is lonely.’
He looked at me with tenderness. ‘You will be lonely, now that I have stolen Margaret from you,’ he said, ‘so what are you going to do?’
I did not know how to reply. The echo of Pearce’s ghostly words I heard in this question troubled me for a moment. But more than this, I had not been able to think what I would do, beyond grieving for Margaret. I had had an image of myself, standing at the Bear’s compound for hour upon hour, watching the animal’s sad perambulations round the Stockade fence, but not knowing how to improve his lot, or mine. But then I heard myself say: ‘I have an invitation to travel to Switzerland, Your Majesty.’
‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘Very good. But can you be certain that no Giraffes will come there?’
‘Giraffes!’ said Fubbs. ‘Que voulez-vous dire?’
‘Merivel knows what I mean. He would not want any long-necked thing spoiling his revels.’
‘What “revels”, Papa?’ said Margaret.
‘Why none,’ said I, ‘but it is merely that, as His Majesty knows, on the subject of Giraffes one cannot be too careful!’
At this, both I and the King fell to laughing, while the women looked at us with that profound irritation one feels at being excluded from a secret joke.
Then the moment came for me to say Goodbye to Margaret.
This I had dreaded exceedingly, both for the sadness of it and the fear that I would make myself ridiculous by weeping. So I readjusted my Sword and stepped boldly up to Margaret, as though presenting myself with punctuality at a meeting of the Overseers of the Poor of Bidnold Parish, and took her hand in mine and bade her take good care of herself, and to write me letters as often as she could.
But she drew me to her and put her arms round my neck and said: ‘I love you, my dear Papa.’ And this threatened to weaken my resolve not to cry, so I held her for a moment and kissed her cheek, and then I turned away from her and, after making a clattering kind of Obeisance to the King and Fubbs, left the room.
And so I returned once more (after so many Departures, so many Returns) to Bidnold and sat in my Library, sipping wine, trying to advance my mind in the direction of doing something, but failing utterly. All I did was sit there drinking. I was in such a Trance of Inactivity that it felt to me as though I might never move again and be turned to stone in my chair.
After a long while of this petrified Stillness, I thought how difficult it had become for me to believe that I had ever done anything. When Will came in to light the fire, as a cool summer evening fell, I said to him, ‘Tell me, Will, have I ever moved from my position here in this chair?’
‘What are you talking about, Sir Robert?’ asked Will.
‘It feels to me as though I had sat here always … and all of Existence had gone on without me.’
Will shook his head in perplexity. Fussing with his tinder box he said: ‘Well, you once rode to London with a brace of Roasted Quail in your coat pocket, and we could never quite remove the stain of them. But if you do not believe you have ever done anything, why do you not read a little fr
om the Book you wrote about your life? There must be some Doings set down there.’
I looked towards the escritoire, where I had hidden The Wedge. I had in recent times given it very little thought, but now I was suddenly anxious to peruse it, if only to reassure myself that I had had the capacity to live through momentous happenings and still breathe.
While Will’s fire broke into hesitant life, I walked stiffly to the desk and opened the drawer where The Wedge lay. I picked it up, all dusty and corrupted by mouse droppings and fly shit as it was, and returned to my chair. Will regarded me anxiously.
‘Is there, in your Book, Sir, any mention of me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Will, there certainly is,’ said I. ‘Many a mention. And look here, near the end, here is a letter, copied out, that you wrote to me when I proposed a visit to Bidnold, never imagining that it would be mine again, yet yearning to see it once more.’
‘I remember that visit, Sir.’
‘Do you want to hear what you wrote?’
‘Yes …’
‘Here it is, then: “Oh, Sir Robert! You cannot know how much we are all here every one of us who remember you filled with joy at this great Coming Event, which is your arrival at Bidnold. Please, Sir, be assured we will make all very fit and Nice for this fortunate Returning …”’
‘My sentences were not very good,’ commented Will.
‘Your sentences were excellent.’
‘“Fortunate Returning” is not correct, is it, Sir?’
‘I think it is marvellously correct and apt. For, if you remember, Will, this was a Fortunate Return. I had thought the house lost to me, and then the King arrived, with a great many dogs, and it was on that day that he restored to me the West Tower and told me it was mine for ever.’
‘I shall never forget the rejoicing in my heart, Sir Robert …’
‘Many times I took Margaret up there, to that white space and showed her the Fantails on the window ledge and the great view of the Park …’
‘And I knew it would all be yours again one day. I knew His Majesty would give it back to you.’
‘Well, I did not know it. I did not dare to hope. But now it is mine again. Only Margaret is gone.’
‘At least, thank the Lord, she is not gone to Heaven.’
‘No. But I am afraid of what will happen to her, Will. The Court has brought a thousand young women to ruin. I am so afraid that my limbs seem to have adhered to this chair.’
I managed to consume a little food at supper, but I kept thinking to myself, ‘I need more than food and wine to console me: I need some kind of Oblivion …’
Then, I remembered that I still had in my possession a fair quantity of the Opium I had bought from Apothecary Dunn for Violet Bathurst’s operation, and without further consideration went to my room and got it, and made up a jar of strong Laudanum.
I undressed myself, put on my nightshirt and got into bed. Outside, the bright June night was still lively with birdsong. I opened The Wedge and began to turn the pages, looking for every mention of Margaret. Here and there I saw that my Handwriting was very poor and slap-dash, as though I had been in a terrible haste to set things down.
Sipping the Laudanum, I forced myself to read the passage where I cut into Katharine’s womb to deliver Margaret. And though it was very terrible in its detail, it created in me a kind of rapture, knowing that I and I alone had brought Margaret alive and breathing into this world, and, but for my medical skills, the baby would have died. And so I thought, this I did, at least. In the paltry sum of my life, there is this one marvellous thing: I saved Margaret from death.
I sipped more Laudanum. I imagined myself young again (or almost young, at forty years of age) and lifting my daughter into my arms, and I saw great beauty in the scene, as though it had been captured there and then by an Artist in a painting, and the light in the painting was golden and soft.
When I opened my eyes from this Reverie, I saw that the veritable night had come. I listened for the sound of Clarendon wailing in the darkness, but could hear nothing. I knew that sleep was about to enfold me and I laid my head down. The last thing I remembered was the sound of The Wedge falling onto the floor.
When I woke, I did not know where I was or what was happening.
I heard a voice saying: ‘Wake up, Sir Robert. Wake up!’
I saw dawn light at the window and fancied myself in some room at Whitehall, with a fountain outside and golden fish swimming in circles.
‘Men are here,’ said the voice, ‘and very angry. You must get dressed and come down.’
‘What men?’ I managed to say.
‘Village folk. Farmers. And they have Weapons about them in the shape of pitchforks and shovels, and some kind of Gun.’
‘What?’
‘Come along, Sir. I smell that you have been quaffing Brandy, but you must get up, or I fear they will march in here.’
‘Where am I? Am I in London?’
‘No. You are at Bidnold. Now, I have your coat and Breeks, Sir. Kindly step out of the bed so that you can put them on.’
I now realised that the voice belonged to Will. I looked up at his crumpled face and a shiver of remembrance came into into my afflicted mind of all the Laudanum I had sipped as the night fell, and what dreams and wonders I had beheld.
But now those wonders were well and truly fled. I took Will’s outstretched hand and pulled myself into a sitting position, and I saw the room turning about me in wild circles.
‘Will,’ I said, ‘I am not well. I cannot get up.’
‘You must get up. Or do you want to be pitchforked in your bed?’
‘Pitchforked in my bed? You are talking Nonsense, Will. You belong in a Bedlam. Now, kindly let me sleep …’
‘No. For once you must do as I say, Sir Robert. Something grave has occurred.’
‘Something grave?’
‘Alas, it has.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just before six. Please hold yourself up, Sir Robert, while I put your Breeches on.’
I sat there swaying, wondering whether I was going to vomit upon Will’s ancient head, while he stuffed my nightshirt into my Breeks.
‘What grave thing can occur so early in the morning? I am not usually awake at this hour …’
‘I know you are not, Sir.’
‘I have always imagined that nothing could veritably happen until I was … Now hand me the pisspot, Will. I am going to be sick.’
Will scrabbled to find the pot and held it before me just in time to receive a stream of brown vomit, stinking of Brandy and Physick. This was as horrible a vomiting as any I had ever made, and I felt sorry for Will who had to see it and smell it, but its effect was salubrious, for after it my mind felt a little more clear.
Wiping my mouth and blowing my nose, I said: ‘What “grave thing” has visited us, Will? Is Lady Bathurst dead?’
‘Not Lady Bathurst. But a sheep.’
‘A sheep?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And why am I being woken for this? Do not sheep die all the time? I seem to remember that in the Bible they are always tangling themselves in Thorn Bushes or else being Sacrificed …’
‘It is your Bear, Sir Robert. Escaped from the Pound and killing livestock. Now, stand up, please, and put on your wig. Your hair is very distressed.’
I stood, while Will brushed my wig and put it on me.
‘There must be a mistake,’ I said. ‘The Stockade Fence is mighty strong and I have never seen the Bear attempt to climb it.’
‘Well, it is out somehow. Now you must face the farmers’ anger.’
I went shakily down the stairs. My legs felt as though they would buckle under my weight. In the hall I saw a group of five men, carrying forks and shovels, and with one among them hoisting a Blunderbuss upon his shoulder.
When they saw me they all – without any courtesy or politeness – began to talk at once, telling me that a Wild Beast was roaming their fields and that they were hold
ing me accountable and would be presenting Bills for each and every loss. As they carried on shouting at me, they threw down onto the stone flags of the hall the bloodied carcass of a sheep.
‘I cannot tell what you are saying if you all speak at once,’ I said. ‘Am I to understand that my pet animal, Clarendon – so named by His Majesty the King – has done harm?’
‘He may be your pet animal, Sir Robert,’ said the Blunderbuss man, ‘but he is a Beast! Look at this ewe. Mauled and half eaten! ’Twill be our children next.’
I looked down at the angry faces. I had met these folk before, several times over the years, but never in my house, and it was only here, in my grand Hallway, that I understood how poor they were, with their clothes bundled together out of rags, and their boots heavy and worn. They stank of the earth and of unwashed flesh. A new wave of sickness rose in me and I sat down quickly on the stairs.
‘What would you have me do?’ I said weakly. ‘As you see, I am not well today …’
‘We cannot help that, Sir. Will you let us be ruined, with all our livestock taken? Will you let our children be killed?’
‘No. Of course that should not be. The Bear must be recaptured.’
‘Recaptured? Recaptured? Pray, do not insult us, Sir Robert. If you put him back, what will he do but come out again?’
‘I will build the fence higher.’
‘And meanwhile? Sheep, goats, chickens … All gone into his great maw. And us sinking into poverty.’
I looked helplessly at the men and they looked helplessly at me.
‘What would you have me do?’ I said again.
‘He must die,’ said Mr Blunderbuss, whose name I now remembered was Patchett, and who lived on a poor farm just outside Bidnold Village, where the fields were choked with Ragwort, and all his toil was in trying to get this Ragwort out, so that it would not afflict his cattle with Gripe, but every year it returned. ‘We are sorry about it,’ Patchett continued, ‘if he was your Pet. But a Bear is a mighty strange Pet, and he must be put away.’
