by Rose Tremain
I thumb another Miracle, which is the Raising of Lazarus, but I do not enjoy this one very much either, worrying about the Stench that may have lain upon the cadaver in the heat of a Judaea afternoon, and turn from it at random to the Book of Ecclesiastes, where I read: ‘That which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth so dieth the other; yea, they all have one breath, so that a man has no Pre-eminence above a beast.’
Death is much on my mind. It aimed at me, but it did not strike me.
I departed from the snow-covered clearing in the woods, but Colonel de Flamanville did not. He lay upon the ground, shot in the heart by Beck. His blood pooled upon him, above and below, crimson and bright. Beck knelt down beside him and wept and kissed his face, and all Beck’s fine uniform was stained red. And I thought how courageous was this Capitaine to hide his weapon so that he might fulfil such a fearful pledge. I knew, on the instant, that he had done it for love of the Colonel.
I returned to him the pistol, which I had fired far wide of my adversary, inadvertently despatching a Pigeon, which plopped down from a frosted bough. I shook his hand very warmly, then the Baron and I walked back towards the Château, leaving the grieving Adjutant to make arrangements for the corpse. At first we were silent as we walked, then the Baron said: ‘You were courageous, Merivel. There was, I now perceive, a chance that you might have died.’
I wished to say that, in my understanding of a complicated and Uncertain Situation, there was a deal more than ‘a chance’, but I did not. I did not want to taint, by cynical words, my feelings of gladness to be alive.
We walked on. The sun was full up and shining on the snow. Far above us the great mountains peered down upon us, immovable, indifferent. I found in me a great Thirst for Sack.
At length the Baron said: ‘We shall let a suitable interval go by. Then we shall arrange your wedding to Louise. I shall invite all of Neuchâtel. Marc-André Broussel will sing for you. I shall spare no expense. It shall be the finest celebration I have hosted in my life! Perhaps, your daughter will travel from England and bring the Duchess of Portsmouth with her? We would be greatly honoured …’
From what I knew of her, I could not imagine Fubbs wishing to rise from her Chaise Longue and transport herself and her Wardrobe, and her mountain of jewels, halfway across a Continent to bear witness at the wedding of a Glovemaker’s son, so I said to the Baron: ‘My daughter tells me the Duchess is not very fond of fresh air, so perhaps Switzerland, with its abundance of air of impeccable freshness, may daunt her? But of course she shall be invited.’
And then I fell to thinking whom, indeed, I might invite, and it came to me that the person whose presence at my Marriage would move me most would be Will. I longed to see his features afflicted with a sudden gladness of heart.
But of Will I had no word. Every day I looked for some chaise or mule that would convey to me a Letter from Bidnold, but none arrived. I would have risked writing to Cattlebury to enquire after Will, but Cattlebury is almost incapable of reading, ‘Unless, Sir Robert, it be a Recipe and all laid out on Individual Lines, with numbers writ as Numbers, and then I can comprehend it.’ So this did not seem a very useful thing to do.
I had now resolved to write to Sir James Prideaux, and beg him to ride to my house and give me some report of how things stood there, but so taken along by the anxieties of the Duel had I been that this I had not yet done.
‘What say you to a May wedding?’ said the Baron suddenly.
Towards evening, as Louise and I lay in her bed, exhausted by the afternoon’s Exertions, celebrating our forthcoming marriage, she said: ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Merivel. A letter arrived for you this morning.’
At once my heart flew to Will. But it was not his laboured hand upon the letter, it was Margaret’s, and she wrote thus:
My Dearest Papa,
I pray this letter reaches you and is not Stopped by snow.
You must forgive me for disturbing your sojourn in Switzerland, but I have no choice but to do this. The King is lately taken ill with terrible Convulsions. He has rallied a little, but we are all able to tell, by his Countenance, that he is weak. He has much pain in his Bladder and in his Kidneys. His leg is very Sore.
Dear Papa, I would not trouble you with this, but today he comes into our Chambers and lies down upon the Duchess’s bed and sends for me. He takes my hand and says to me, ‘Margaret, I pray you, write to your Father and ask him to be good enough to come to me. I know not what is coming upon me, whether I am bound for Death, or no, but I know that my Spirit would be greatly cheered by having your Father near me, to attend on me and to make me smile.’
So, Papa, please come at once. I beg you to come. The Duchess is full of fear that His Majesty is going to die. I know that you would do anything to forestall this. You can be housed in the Duchess’s apartments, so that you may be near the King, day and night.
We shall await your arrival every day.
From your loving daughter,
Margaret
I sat very still and petrified on Louise’s bed. Seeing me thus turned to stone by the letter, she took it from my hands and read it, and, being a woman of admirable Judgement, she said, without hint of disappointment or self-pity: ‘You must go at once. Father’s Coach will take you to Neuchâtel in the morning, and from there you may get a Chaise to Dijon and on to Paris.’
I brought Louise to me and kissed her cheek. ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘I can do no other.’
‘I shall wait for you, Merivel. I shall not let Life take you away from me for ever.’
‘No, indeed. And I shall visit the King’s Jeweller in London and buy you a ring.’
‘Shall it be Sapphire, like the ring which saved Clarendon?’
‘It shall be of whatever stone pleases you.’
‘Bring me a Ruby, then. As hot and fiery as my blood.’
Louise clung to me and wept when I departed. It was as though we were making some terrible adieu.
As I got into the coach, the Baron thrust into my hands a sheaf of Papers, torn from his Notebook. I hoped that these might be his own Observations on my Treatise, in which he seemed to take a passionate interest, but the Baron’s Papers contained no thoughts upon my Great Subject. They were mere lists of all the People he would invite to my wedding, and plans for what Entertainments we might have and the Songs Broussel would sing for us, and the Banquets we would devour.
I barely glanced at them, but only thrust them into my Valise, remembering as I did so my wedding to Celia long ago and how I had first wept at it, and then later found myself imprisoned in a Closet, watching through a crack in the door as the King made love to my new bride.
And I thought how all the Arrangements of my life had flowed out from this Wedding, which had not been real, but only Counterfeit to suit the King’s lusts, and how, in my fifty-ninth year, I was now headed towards a second Marriage Ceremony, which did not, in truth, seem quite real to me either, and which was being arranged to gratify the late-flowering lusts of Louise de Flamanville.
Looking over at my Coach companion, the Priest, garbed all in black, sleeping now as the coach jolted through the darkness, I imagined that it was not he but Pearce who sat opposite me. But Pearce did not sleep. He cast upon my features a stare that was without Pity.
‘What are you doing, Merivel?’ he said. ‘What is the meaning of this Second Wedding?’
I imagined leaning towards Pearce, and taking one of his cold hands in mine and putting it against my heart to try to warm it.
‘I am going to be honest with you, Pearce,’ I said. ‘I shall not lie. I have great admiration for Louise de Flamanville. Among women, she is remarkable. And there are more than a few moments when I feel love for her. But truly, this marriage is about riches. It is about the getting of a great Estate and a life of ease.’
‘Just as it was the first time.’
‘If you will.’
‘And you are not ashamed?’
‘’Tis a great pity, my friend.’
‘If it is such a “pity”, what else would you have me do?’
Here I could not guess what Pearce might say. His voice came no more. All that now haunted the coach was that Silence of his, which is like no other silence on earth, and this I had to endure without flinching. I let go of his hand. I closed my eyes and turned my thoughts towards the King.
On the 29th of January 1685 a Barque named The Kentish Maid took me across the Channel, and although the seas were lumpy and flecked with foam, and spray was hurled again and again onto the decks, I remained well and was once again made strangely happy, finding myself in this new Element, where Man can alter nothing, but only Accept what the wind decrees and try to steer his fragile tub to safety.
And I thought how, in my restlessness and longing for Wonders, I might have made a good Mariner and come at last, perhaps, to be the Captain of some trading vessel, bound for far-off continents and never settling anywhere, but always moving across the Globe under crimson skies and uncountable stars.
And it seemed to me, too, that there is a kind of peace to be found on the ocean, a beautiful quiet that is almost always absent from life upon the land, where both men and objects have the habit of calling out to us and importuning us with this or that demand, and there is no stillness anywhere.
And I wondered whether, had I spent my life at sea, I would now be a person of Stoical calm, accepting without complaint all that Time and weather could cast at me, and inhabiting at last that mantle of serenity with which Pearce always longed to clothe me, and always and ever failed.
I fell into conversation with the Captain of The Kentish Maid and told him how the beautiful intricacies of his ship made me glad, and I could tell that this cheered him very much. He caressed the wooden rail upon which we leaned and said: ‘She is a darling vessel, Sir. She will sail to the very blade’s edge of the wind without complaint. She has been through some mighty storms and ridden them down – she and I together. But she is old, alas, and leaky now. She may not see out another season.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Poor Kentish Maid. And now this same Anxiety must we feel with regard to the King.’
‘What, Sir?’
‘I am travelling home to be at the King’s bedside. He is a sick man.’
The Captain gaped at me. He shook his white head, disbelieving. ‘He cannot die,’ he said. ‘You are not telling me that Charles Stuart is going to die?’
‘I know not, Captain. All I know is that I have been summoned. I am a physician and the King’s old friend.’
The Captain shook his head again, staring down at the shifting, shimmering water. ‘He made us Comfortable,’ he said sadly. ‘As though we were Hove-To. When he came in, we all sat down where we were and breathed a sweet Sigh.’
30
ON THE EVENING of Saturday the 31st of January I arrived at the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments and found there no scene of lamentation, but only Fubbs, a little fatter and dressed in a crimson velvet gown, taking a quiet supper with Margaret. With them was a young man, who was introduced to me as the Honourable Julius Royston, youngest son of Lord Delavigne.
Both women greeted me with delight. Margaret, looking wondrously pretty in a dark-blue dress trimmed with the Swiss Lace that I had sent her, seemed most anxious that I should make the immediate acquaintance of Julius Royston and, knowing that this was the young man who had been paying court to my daughter, I turned on him my sternest gaze.
Little daunted by my look of severity (which I do think is never as severe as I might sometimes imagine it to be) this Royston folded himself into an immaculate bow and babbled that he had been ‘most impatient’ to meet me and was only sorry that the occasion of my return was the illness of the King.
‘How goes His Majesty?’ said I to Fubbs.
‘He is sleeping now,’ she said. ‘He likes to retire early. But in these last days he seems to be more himself, does he not, Margaret?’
‘Yes. And he even took a short Constitutional yesterday, just as far as the Crocodile. He will be so glad to see you, Papa. Every day he has asked me if you were yet come.’
I sat down at the supper table, and one of Fubbsy’s Servants laid a place for me and brought me almost immediately a very refreshing cold soup of potatoes and leeks. Between ardent spoonfuls, I regarded my daughter and Royston, and saw pass between them those looks that only enamoured Lovers send to each other, and I began to pray that this son of an Earl was an Honest man.
He was handsome in a sallow kind of way, reminding me somewhat of the King when he was young, with large brown eyes and dark curls, and a smile of some sweetness. I could not but be inclined to like him. I put his age at about twenty-two or twenty-three and, studying his features, I could not discern on them any signs of Debauch or Wickedness. His voice was mellifluous.
‘So tell me, Royston,’ said I, taking up the glass of white wine set before me, ‘what brought you to Court?’
‘My father is Secretary to the Earl of Buckingham, Sir,’ said Royston, ‘and found for me a Position in the Office of the Superintendent of the Royal Palaces. I have studied Horticulture in Paris and all my fervour is in the Design of landscapes and gardens. I hope to make my mark in this field.’
‘Gardens?’ said I. ‘I myself am very consoled by gardens, as perhaps Margaret has told you?’
‘Yes, Sir. She has described to me your recently planted Hornbeam Alley at Bidnold Manor.’
‘C’est quoi, “hornbeam”?’ asked Fubbs. ‘Do you mean “sunbeam”?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ said I. ‘Hêtre blanc in French, I think.’
‘Ah, Hêtre blanc. Oui, je vois. Très joli. Anyway, you see, Merivel, that our dear Julius is a man of ambition. A man who understands the direction of his life.’
‘Yes, I surmise this …’
‘You will not remember, Sir Robert,’ said Royston, ‘but I was brought once to Bidnold Manor when I was a child.’
‘You were?’
‘By Lady Bathurst. She was my Godmother.’
‘Violet Bathurst was your Godmother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that not a coincidence, Papa?’ said Margaret.
‘Yes,’ I stammered. ‘Yes it is …’
‘I remember that I was kept with your Manservant a while, for that my Godmother had some private business in your house that I could not attend, and that your Man was very kind to me.’
‘Ah. Dear Will. I’m sure he was. Indeed, he would have been.’
But into my mind there passed a flagrant memory of Violet, arriving in haste at the house, in the company of a rather captivating small boy, whom she was returning to his parents or to his School or to someone-or-other (but to whom I paid scant attention), and rushing to me, so that she and I could hurry to some indecent Sexual Feast in my bedroom before she resumed her journey.
I could not prevent a smile from crossing my features. I gulped wine and said: ‘Dear Violet. She and I were good friends. I swear to you, Royston, that I did all I could to save her when her Cancer came. But I could not.’
‘I know that, Sir Robert. And she always spoke very tenderly of you.’
We fell silent for a moment. My soup plate was taken away and a morsel of chicken was set before me.
Turning to Fubbs I said: ‘Your Grace, do you have any word from Bidnold? I sent a letter to Will Gates from Switzerland, but have no Answer.’
‘No,’ said Fubbs. ‘We have heard nothing. Have we, Margaret?’
‘No. But no doubt all is well, Papa. Letters from Switzerland may frequently go astray.’
After supper, seemingly at some sign from Fubbs, she and Margaret bid us an abrupt Goodnight and disappeared to their chambers, leaving me alone with Julius Royston.
I, too, was tired and looked ardently towards laying my head down. But no sooner had the women left than Royston, his face all suddenly Beet-coloure
d, leaned impulsively towards me and said: ‘I must say this to you before my courage goes. I shall not procrastinate, for the matter is very simple. Sir, I love Margaret. I love Margaret with all my heart and all my might. I have loved her from the moment I saw her. In that very instant, was I lost … ’
‘Ah …’
‘Sir Robert, I have asked Margaret to be my Wife and she has consented. And I know we shall be the happiest pair in all of England, if you will but give your permission for our Marriage.’
He was an affecting spectacle, his face so red and his curls suddenly damp, and his hands now clenched together as if in an ardent Prayer. Something in my heart was touched by him.
‘Let us sit down,’ I said. ‘And we shall discuss this calmly. As I trust you may have discussed it with your own father. What does Lord Delavigne say to the match?’
‘Oh, he is most heartily glad! He thinks Margaret quite adorable, as she is, as she is. No more adorable young woman ever came into the world …’
‘Might he not have hoped that you would choose a bride from a more Noble family than mine?’
‘Well, as to “nobility”, His Majesty speaks far more fondly of you than of many Noble Lords at Court. But it matters not for me. I’m the Youngest of four sons. All he wishes for me is that I get a good Place in the world and that I am happy. But, Sir Robert, I shall never be happy, I shall never have one ounce of contentment in my life if I cannot make Margaret my wife. Please say you will consent! Oh, I pray you, do not torture me, but say you will bless us and give your permission!’
