“Your devotee?” asked William.
“Do you think he’s a rogue?” Margaret asked.
Yet he seemed so fresh, so young, even if not, in truth, so many years younger than she. And the strangest expressions fell from his mouth: “All my cake will be doe.”
They began to go on outings; William approved, amused.
One morning Flecknoe took Margaret to see an amaryllis. It was grown in a pot by a gentleman named Fox. There were many witty young people around, some claiming to have read her books. And what did she think of the flower? “Like two lilies lashed at their feet,” she said. She declared it somewhat mannish. Her audience approved. “Look, you are a star,” Flecknoe whispered into her hat.
Another afternoon, as he perched like a crow on an Ottoman stool, Margaret asked her new friend to describe the vast Atlantic. “Oh, it was most abundant,” he said, putting down his glass. He told her of the savages. Of garish birds and waterfalls and Brazilian rivers and death. He hoped to visit Greenland next. “I shall take you to see Mercator’s map!” he said, on display in a mansion near Whitehall.
The following morning they walked the Strand, past cab stands and Roman baths and the stalls at Covent Garden. All was renovation, the king importing new styles from France—the long dark wigs and silverwork doublets, aviaries and fountains and gardens shaped like stars—and Flecknoe bent low to tell her how the previous night the king’s brother had secretly married Anne Hyde. “The court is in a state!” he laughed.
The map was under glass.
Annotated in Latin, she could see for herself that the northern tip of Scotland—Scotia—crept onto its bottom edge. At center were four islands: one green, two yellow, one pink, which, he told her, comprised the North Pole, a whole divided by four indrawing rivers to a whirlpool in the middle. “Here,” he said, “lies the very pole of the pole of the Earth, where all the oceans’ waters circle round and fall, just as if you’d poured them down a funnel in your head, only to see them come back out the southern end. And in the middle of the middle sits a large black rock, the very pole of the pole of the pole of the Earth, wholly magnetic, possibly magic, and thirty-three miles across!”
“Where is the ice?” she wanted to know.
Walking back up the Strand, he explained about floes. But rather than return to Dorset House, he proposed they venture on—from Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill, up Friday Street to Cheapside—to a coffeehouse called Turk’s Head in Cornhill.
“Have you never been, Lady Cavendish?” he asked.
“Please call me Margaret,” she answered.
It was dim inside, yet most heads lifted when Flecknoe stooped in with a marchioness on his arm. He placed her at a table with several of his friends—a James, a Henry, a Gibson, a Joseph, a Balthy, a Cutch—then returned with coffee, gritty and sweet in a dish. She thanked him and sipped as his friends resumed their conversation about the London stage. A stack of dirty dishes mounted as they spoke: of Beaumont and Fletcher, Ben Jonson’s Volpone, of Davenant’s new wings. When the talk turned to a technicality of narration, Margaret abruptly spoke. “Have you noticed,” she said, “how few plays begin or end with a woman’s character speaking?” The one called Gibson readily agreed. But Margaret said no more, and soon it was time to go.
That night she only poked at her food. Her stomach turned. In bed under a canopy—a dusky swath of red—she was struck just after midnight by the vision of a gown—a dress for the North Pole!—the first she’d dreamt up in ages. And very early, in a kind of violent compulsion, too eager to wait for her husband’s consent, she sent off an order for three bolts of bright blue silk, and gilt lace, and green and yellow taffeta . . . but how would she manage a magnetic hat?
Then, of a sudden, William was ready to leave London.
It wasn’t Flecknoe’s recent request for patronage, or the money she’d spent on the gown. He’d simply come to face his fate: he would never find a position in the king’s innermost circle—too old, too stuffy, a reminder of the past.
Margaret said she was ready, if readier months before.
“Wasn’t this what you wanted?” he asked.
“It was,” she said. “It is.”
“What is it you want, my dear?”
But Margaret wanted the whole house to move three feet to the left. It was indescribable what she wanted. She was restless. She wanted to work. She wanted to be thirty people. She wanted to wear a cap of pearls and a coat of bright blue diamonds. To live as nature does, in many ages, in many brains.
“I want my crates” was all she said.
The following morning, before she’d even risen, William was off to Whitehall Palace to seek the king’s permission to leave. If he couldn’t hold sway at court, at least he’d be lord of his county, as he had been before the war, the most powerful man for over half a million acres—from Kegworth to Three Shire Oak and all the way back around.
NOTTINGHAM WAS A NOT INCONSIDERABLE TOWN, WITH WIDE streets and sturdy houses, shops of salt-glazed pots, and Wensleydale and Cheshire cheeses, and stockings and licorice and ale. They stopped at the inn overnight. Morning brought the forest. Sunlight shot from spots between the trees, a dizzying reiteration as the carriage rushed along. It was the farthest north she’d ever been on the planet. The land seemed wilder to Margaret than anything she’d seen. William saw something different. He reminisced. Where once had been the densest of woods, branches entangled like fingers in a grasp, now stood a modern and managed park: timber for building, charcoal, hunting for the rich. Yet to her eyes, Sherwood Forest was vast. It was thick with green and black with moss and lit by starry mountain-laurel clusters puffed up in the dark.
They stopped to stretch.
Margaret heard a heron’s plaintive franck. There were mushrooms on rotted bark, cinnamon ferns in mud. So here was England, yet again—not London, that calamity—England. But it might as well have been the moon, so alien to her memories, to gold soft fields and hills. “What is that?” she asked, head cocked to the side, and he answered it was a river, hidden in the brush. It sounded unlike any she’d ever known. Not the Scheldt, nor the Thames or Seine. “Does every river make a music of its own?” she wondered, tired. Thames, Trent, Tees, Tyne, Tweed, Tay, Dee, Spey: names of rivers, south to north, she’d memorized as a girl. “Margaret,” he called from the carriage, for it was time to go—but something rustled, something whistled, something rattled, remote or close. Thames, Trent, Tees, Tyne, Tweed, Tay, Dee, Spey. Of course, this forest was famously enchanted, enchanting, and heavy with its fame. Her feet began to sink. “Margaret,” he called from the carriage, “we’re almost there.”
WELBECK SPANNED CENTURIES: GOTHIC AT ONE END, ELIZABETHAN in the middle, and at the other end a classic Jacobean front. Inside, the house had been denuded in the war. Fortunately, Henry’s wife—who’d lived there with her family until William and Margaret’s return—left several beds, and pots and pans, and candlesticks and stools, and two imposing suits of armor erect on a red leather floor.
“Still, it’s nice,” William murmured, “to be at home at last.”
For days he seemed ceaseless, sleepless: there were his nearly horseless stables and the crumbling castle of Bolsover not a day’s ride to the west. His holdings spilled over borders, into Derbyshire and Yorkshire, and, riding through, he discovered many fewer deer, missing fences, and missing woods, yet was happier each night at supper than his wife had ever seen. He arranged with merchants for iron grates for their fires, glasses for tables, linens for beds, then met with tenants until midnight to settle disputes at The Swan. Margaret watched him come and go, Lord Lieutenant of Nottinghamshire. He could arrest a man, raise a tax, argue for hours about bullocks or plows. He appeared to her a stranger wearing her husband’s skin.
She wandered from empty room to empty room, mapping the house with her feet, in gold shoes that echoed off the walls. It was a little, she decided, like living at the Louvre, so frigid and bewildering, though s
he’d never tell him that. From its formal entrance and polished stairs, the house pushed back from the London road, turned right and south to water gardens, left to the ancient monastery out of which the whole building had sprung. Her own vast chamber was on the second floor, puckered by a wall of oriel windows, each pane divided into sixteen squares that glittered in the dawn. A yellow writing table faced the southern wall. Hung with heavy tapestries, the bed looked like a ship. Against her will, it seemed, she fell asleep by day, the bed as dark as night, and when she woke, her dreaming filled the chamber. But Margaret detested a nap, the day flapping loose all around. She scribbled: “Idleness is the burden of my sex,” but nothing else. She had nothing to do and no one to see—William off working, no rats in the hall, no Flecknoe to entertain her. She had nothing but time, and no reason not to write. Each hour that passed with no ink from her quill was a quiet affliction, a void. She stared at that sunny table, ill fitted to the room, and watched as a violent downpour passed over their lake and woods.
Soon Margaret took to sitting in a room a floor below her own, a medieval wood-paneled gallery painted like a rainbow the century before. It was here she came to read in the afternoons.
And there that William found her, one day, and invited her on a walk. It was a filmy winter afternoon, and he’d show her the path to Clipstone Park, his chosen boyhood province, just beyond their woods—past the ornamental canals, the fishpond, swans upon the lake. He took her hand as they rounded the water, a scene he had often described. But when they cleared the trees, he met instead with a shock: stump after stump after stump after stump after stump and dried-out shoots. He sat on the ground. The sky was white. The day was everywhere quiet. “I left it,” he finally said, “so full of trees. And a river of fish and otter. And rabbits and partridge and poots.” Now he grieved. Now everything hit him at once. All he’d lost was lost in that grove. “Sixteen years,” he said. And Margaret helped him up. She took him home and sat him before the fire, placed a blanket over his knees—he was almost seventy, after all—then settled down beside him to watch the falling sleet. The clock chimed ten o’clock. “Damned Roundheads!” he cried at last. “Damned charcoal! Damned war!” That night they shared a bed, as once had been their custom.
Yet in the morning, out the window, in addition to the frost there was the grange farm that needed tending: cattle, oxen, horses, rye. He pulled on his boots in the icy hall. The winter was hard, and a new kind of normal settled with the snow. No one came to visit. No neighbors for miles around.
“For my pleasure and delight,” she wrote in a letter to Flecknoe, “my ease and peace, I live a retir’d life, which is so pleasing to me as I would not change it for all the pleasures of the publick world, nay, not to be mistress of the world.”
So passed several months.
She even tried to help with the sheep.
Then, one spring day, her missing crates arrived.
SHE WAS READING FRANCIS GODWIN’S MAN IN THE MOONE—ITS MAN borne into space in a carriage drawn by swans—when she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel. Two boxes from Martin & Allestyre were set down on the drive. “My modest closet plays,” she said. She nearly ran to the stairs—for the recovery of her wayward crates that spring and the preparation of her plays for publication had rekindled inside Margaret a flame she’d feared gone out. Indeed, she’d said to William: “a flame I’d feared gone out!” But now, in turning the pages, she grew concerned and then incensed: “reins” where she had written “veins,” “exterior” when she had clearly meant “interior.” The sun went down. The room grew dim. She tipped a wick into the fireplace and nearly lit herself—ting ting ting went the kitchen bell—then hurried with a candle down the long and flickering hall.
William was already seated before a small beer and lamb. Margaret placed a napkin in her lap.
“Before the printer ruined it,” she cried, “my book was good!”
“Could it be,” he asked, soaking his bread in blood, “that you were yourself the cause of this misfortune?”
“It could not,” she said, and took a bite of pie.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you had not yet come, at that time, to so fully understand the words which you were using. You’ve been on such a course of reading that I’m sure you will be happier with the next.”
Cyrano de Bergerac, Francis Bacon, Robert Hooke. And pamphlets from that Invisible College now chartered and renamed: the Royal Society of London for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge, with rooms at Gresham College and a silver mace from the king.
“I suspect they gave it very little attention,” she finally said. “A little book by a little woman, they thought.”
That night she wrote to Flecknoe: “My wit at last run dry!” Since leaving Antwerp, since returning to England, she’d written nothing new, only tidied up those plays. “And yet,” she pressed on, “perhaps these plays will find some profitable use?” She snuffed the candle, closed her eyes.
But weeks passed with no word from Flecknoe, no word about her book. The summer grew heavy with rain.
“Margaret,” William asked one day, “what is it you are doing?”
“Revising my books,” she said.
“I’ve long admired your books as they are.”
“And that is a huge consolation to me,” she told him, “in this censorious age,” but went on fixing sour rhymes, replacing omissions, undoing misplacements—and not only words but entire passages, theories. “Now,” she said, and dipped her quill in ink, “it will be for all history as if my errors never were.”
“And you’re happy in our new life?” he asked.
“Very happy, My Lord.”
Again, he worked to get her out. They watched a licorice harvest near Worksop one day, where millions of capricious insects glittered in the fields. They shared a radish salad, spotted a white-tailed deer. And when they returned to Welbeck that night, a letter was waiting from William’s daughter Jane.
Now Margaret learned that readers thought her plays lacked all direction: no catastrophes, no drama, just a jumble of speeches and scenes. They tire the brain. Only flit from place to place.
“But I’d have my plays,” she said, still standing in her jacket, “be like the natural course of all things in the world. As some are newly born, when some are newly dead, so some of my scenes have no acquaintance to the others.”
“Surely you cannot hope to please every reader, my dear.”
“It seems I cannot hope to please a single one!”
And as the leaves yellowed, Margaret withdrew. The evenings grew darker faster. She sank into herself. William had seen it more than once, yet he couldn’t always be there. He spent some nights each week at Bolsover Castle, attending to the rebuilding: an entire new roof for the western wing, where rooks had nested and frogs in puddles croaked. Ensconced in her rainbow gallery, Margaret sat late with pamphlets by Hooke, Boyle, and Wren: on optic lenses, windy holes, or ways of killing rattlesnakes, or making maps from wax. Then Christmas arrived. Then New Year’s Eve with oysters. Her stepchildren paid a visit.
“Come, Margaret,” William said.
“Come along,” the grandchildren called.
At last, she stepped outside. She squinted in morning light. Small green shoots shot up across the yard. Spring had come to Welbeck in a burst of green-winged orchids. Margaret walked to the village in a hat like a Chinese fan. The villagers hadn’t seen her in months, only heard of her from the household staff. An old man in the market square wore bluebirds on his arms. She passed the bakery, the dressmaker’s, and then she opened a door. For she’d ordered a book—Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis—and began to read it there in the shop, of a traveler caught in a storm, led to discover an unknown world, the utopian Bensalem, its Salomon’s House the ideal college of learned men: investigating, experimenting, for the good of all mankind. “We must hound Nature in her wanderings,” she read. Unlock her secrets and penetrate her holes. “Break her,” B
acon argued, “and soon she will come when you call.” The stationer watched the marchioness. As she read, her face grew taut. She closed the book and turned to go. He watched her cross the busy square toward the path back to Welbeck alone.
IT BROKE UPON HER WITH THE RAIN. AFTER NEARLY TWO YEARS OF stagnation, fearing her wit run dry, as the rains washed over the forest, muddying roads, and the bluebells bloomed, Margaret sat and wrote . . .
Orations of Divers Sorts, Accommodated to Divers Places is set in a nameless city somewhat like London, a little like Colchester, and a bit like Antwerp besides. This is how it starts: Margaret invites the reader to imagine herself in a market.
Imagine yourself in a market that bustles.
The sunny smell of hay and shit. See stalls of cabbage and leek, fish with frosted eyes, baskets of eels and flowers. See herbs and chickens, hanging capons, and soap and cows. See the barber who performs surgery on a man with bleeding teeth. See packets of peppercorns, dry-salted meat. There are musicians somewhere, tuning, and many men preparing to step up onto boxes and speak. But all around you, too, observe the ruins of war. You have only to alter your gaze to witness endless rubble. Dress in comfortable shoes—we’ll be moving from place to place—yet in something fit to be seen, for who knows if we’ll happen upon the king playing tennis in the park. Have no fear, gentle reader, for you will be returned to your home, and safely, as soon as the orators have done. But expect disagreement, hullaballoo. Some men will argue for war and others for peace, some for the rights of the rich and others that all ownership is theft. Then, in the middle of the day, with the sun at its summery zenith, after a series of speeches that are none too kind to women, and despite the fact that women are not born orators, we women, who’ve been listening, will gather ourselves to speak.
The first of us will say: “Men are so Unconscionable and Cruel against us, as they Indeavor to Barr us of all Sorts or Kinds of Liberty, as not to Suffer us Freely to Associate amongst Our own Sex, but would fain Bury us in their Houses or Beds, as in a Grave; the truth is, we Live like Bats or Owls, Labour like Beasts, and Dye like Worms.”
Margaret the First Page 7
