‘Nay, good Lysander . . .’ pipes up Master Gibbons, our Puck, who has been appointed prompt for the moment.
My voice is breathless and wobbly.
‘Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet, do not lie so near.’
‘If we were in London, and you a more experienced actress, I believe you could read the line that way,’ Fanny says with great kindness after a short, embarrassing pause. I am glad Otterwell is out of the room. It is bad enough that Linsley is there, smirking away, but I am glad to see Philomena kick him quite hard. What Fanny really means is that I apparently sound as abandoned as I feel at the moment. She continues, ‘However, Lady Elmhurst, Lord Otterwell and his neighbours would be shocked. Could you endeavour to sound more like an Athenian maiden?’
‘I thought I did,’ I say, thoroughly confused. Congrevance holds my hand still, and smiles at me – that rare smile that somehow hurts me and pleases me at the same time.
‘Watch,’ Fanny says. She runs up the stairs that lead on to the stage and sinks to her knees. There, she gazes at Congrevance and repeats the line with the touching innocence of a debutante who has received an invitation from a rake to waltz.
‘I’d feel a fool to say it that way,’ I say. Was I ever that young and stupid?
‘Try for something halfway between,’ Fanny says as she rises, brushing dirt from her dress. ‘We don’t want Mr Congrevance to forget himself, do we? Continue, please.’
With much stopping and restarting, we continue the scene. Master Will as Puck, word perfect and with very little encouragement from his mother, abandons his post as prompt and pretends to squeeze the juice from the magic flower into Congrevance’s eyes. And then Fanny and Darrowby join us on the stage, and things become quite different.
Helena’s first few lines remind me rather uncomfortably of my state of mind when Mary and I escaped from London – that everyone else was better off than me, and I wandered lost in an unfriendly world.
Congrevance awakes – or pretends to – and hurls himself on his knees towards Fanny.
‘And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake,’ he declaims with great ardour, and he sounds absolutely convincing. At that moment I hate Fanny Gibbons as passionately as I ever did. Painful memories overwhelm me as I remember how seven years ago in London I was in love with Linsley and believed that Fanny was attempting to lure him back into her bed. Even though the play demands that Congrevance declare passionate love for her, I am furious that he sounds so convincing.
Congrevance continues. ‘Transparent Helena! Nature shows a That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.’
Fanny utters a strangled shriek and crosses her arms over her bosom, and were I not so angry and sad I should have laughed. As it is, I have to pretend to sleep still, until the two of them have left the stage, when I wake and find myself alone. I speak my lines, of how I have had a nightmare, which when I memorised them seemed as silly as the rest of the play, but now have a new meaning. Hermia has dreamed of her imminent betrayal by her lover, and I realise how fragile is my connection to this man I barely know.
‘Very well done, Lady Elmhurst,’ Fanny says. She scribbles a note in her prompt book. ‘Would one of you gentlemen help Lady Elmhurst to her feet?’
I truly believe that if Congrevance had stepped forward I would have murdered him, so it is just as well Darrowby is the one to come to my rescue.
I know Congrevance is watching. I contrive to show a lot of ankle on my return to the vertical, and my lawn scarf drops carelessly away. Naturally Darrowby can see into my bosom. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I breathe, brushing up against him, my hand resting lightly on his sleeve.
He clears his throat and steps back.
Fanny looks furious; Congrevance’s face is like stone, and I have the great satisfaction of knowing I have made them both jealous.
Altogether it is a satisfying morning’s work and I have worked up quite an appetite for luncheon.
7
Mr Nicholas Congrevance
I cannot help but notice during our rehearsals that Caroline does her best to make me jealous by flirting with Darrowby. I tell myself I should ignore it, but I cannot, and flirt with Fanny Gibbons. Shortly after luncheon we are let go for the day, most of us in poor spirits except for Otterwell, who returned triumphant with his verse after a couple of hours summoning up the spirit of Shakespeare. Even I can tell it is poor stuff. I am much in sympathy with Master Will, who sits, wriggling and screwing up his face, occasionally mouthing some gibberish in the manner of da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.
Given the tensions between the players, we are all relieved to go our own ways thereafter. I stroll around the grounds, taking care to avoid any of the others, and eyeing various spots that might be useful for the art of seduction (the maze, certain secluded paths and so on).
One thing I have learned about Caroline is that she does not like a rival, so that evening I set out to charm the daughters of Otterwell’s guests. They are a group of toothy gigglers, overdressed and overcurled, Miss Clark and Miss Julia Clark, and Miss Eggham. I cannot tell one from the other. Neither do I care. I produce the same tired compliments that have served me well in the past, forcing the shallow words out; thegiggle; and so on. After dinner (following some sensible male conversation) we join the ladies in the drawing room, where I make a point of helping the three misses choose music to play and assisting them with their shawls.
I am heartily sick of it and bored almost to death.
I have sworn once again I shall not look at Caroline. So I find myself Orpheus to her Euridice, although naturally she does not call to me, or follow behind me, but every atom of my being is aware that she is nearby. I am also aware that at some point I must make the first sortie in my campaign, and I have no idea how to go about it.
Nicholas Congrevance seems to be an entirely clumsy oaf, as incompetent as he ever was at the age of sixteen, the last time I used the name. I regret ever having brought him to life again. My other manifestations would have handled the situation far better.
The Reverend Tarquin Biddle: Madam, as a younger son I am in no position to offer you anything other than my heart, which will be yours for eternity. Alas, my meagre allowance is spent on my ministry among the poor of Naples . . .
Count Mikhail Orchovsky: When those muzhiki at the bank are finished robbing me, I will take you to the steppes, where we shall ride in my troika, naked beneath the skins of bears I have killed with my bare hands, and I shall make love to you like a tiger . . .
The Earl of Ballyglenleary: Och, ma’am, we’re an ancient family, and I the last of our clan, and under an ancient curse. ’Tis said only a bonnie lass bearing gold can break the curse, but I dinna ken the meaning of that. I canna offer for your hand, for I own only a crumbling romantic ruin, and now even my heart isna mine own . . .
In retrospect, I’m amazed any of the women believed me, particularly as the foreign accents of Orchovsky, Ballyglenleary, St Germain-d’Aubussy et al. tended to slip during amorous encounters. Did those women, who squandered their husband’s money on me as easily as they might patronise a milliner or jeweller, know they were dealing with a scoundrel – and not care? The best that can be said is that I did not leave a trail of broken hearts or bastards behind me. And, without boasting overmuch, I gave the ladies value for money – which brings me to another troubling thought about Caroline. I might be able to kiss her for fifteen minutes, but I doubt whether I could last as long in more intimate circumstances.
‘Oh, how delightful,’ trills one of the Misses Clark, interrupting my unhappy reflections. ‘Mrs Gibbons is to sing for us.’
Fanny Gibbons moves into the bright candlelight around the pianoforte. She looks particularly handsome tonight, and I can well believe she captured hearts and theatre audiences in London. Mrs Linsley seats herself at the pianoforte, removes a few bracelets and flexes her fingers. The two of them confer briefly, and then they begin.
I know the music, and Mrs
Gibbons sings in the original Italian. It is as though she has read my mind.
‘Che farò senza Euridice?
Dove andrò senza il mio ben?
Euridice! Euridice!’
Her voice is remarkable, strong and clear, supremely eloquent. Something strange is happening to me, a tightness in the throat, a pricking sensation around my eyes. The golden light and Mrs Gibbons’ tawny-coloured gown blur before me.
Good God, I am about to burst into tears.
I stand, muttering an apology to my neighbours as the legs of my chair scrape on the floor. The drawing room has doors that stand open to the garden, and I flee outside, taking deep breaths of the air, fragrant with stock and wallflowers. I had forgotten the scents of an English garden, the long-shadowed clarity of an English summer evening. The sun has barely set and the air is soft and warm.
Behind me, Mrs Gibbons continues to sing of love, loss and despair.
I find my handkerchief and blow my nose.
There is an answering snort as someone else does the same.
I turn warily, hoping whoever it is has not observed my excessively emotional state.
‘Damned grass,’ says Lady Caroline Elmhurst. ‘It’s the same every time I come into the country. What are you doing here, Congrevance? Did the Misses Clark and Miss Egg-whatever-her-name-is tire of your charms?’
‘They bored me.’ I offer her my arm. ‘I’d rather be with you.’
She lays her fingertips on my arm and we stroll across the lawn. ‘Oh, certainly. Very pretty, sir. As I’m the only woman out here, of course you can make that claim.’
‘However, I feel it is only correct to tell you, Lady Caroline . . .’
She plucks a handkerchief from her sleeve and blows her nose in a long, protracted sort of way.
I clear my throat and continue, ‘I do not believe I shall ever fall in love again. You see, my heart was broken . . .’
She gives a final snort into the handkerchief and tucks it away. ‘I beg your pardon. I did not hear all you said.’
‘I was saying that as much as I enjoy female company, I regret I shall never love again, having known only one woman, an incomparable member of her sex, who . . .’ I pause, so she can ask me about my broken heart. No woman, in my experience, can pass up such a challenge.
She gives a loud sniff, but not one inspired by sentiment.
Guessing that her handkerchief must be flooded, I offer her mineheight="0et>
‘Thank you. I daresay you’ll get over her. One tends to.’ She blows her nose. ‘And you seem to amuse yourself quite well in the meantime. Why does your handkerchief have these initials?’
‘I shall have to reprimand my manservant. We stayed at a sorry sort of inn on the way here, where our linens were washed.’ I resolve not to lend any of my collection of mismatched handkerchiefs to this sharp-eyed woman again.
‘My maid does my linens when we travel. She’s very skilled with stains.’
While I would be quite happy to discuss the lady’s underlinen, this conversation is not proceeding exactly as I would have wished.
‘Have you visited Otterwell’s maze?’ I ask.
‘Not yet. I shall ask Will to take me, as he can find his way to the centre and back again.’
‘Ah, Lady Caroline, I should quite like to take you there myself.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ She flicks the handkerchief in my direction, a flirtatious gesture that loses its impact with the soggy nature of the item.
‘Call me Nick,’ I blurt out. No one has called me that in years.
She loosens her hand from my arm. ‘I don’t believe we should be on such intimate terms, Mr Congrevance. I shall return to the house now.’
I bow. ‘Very well, Lady Elmhurst.’
She nods in a dignified fashion, an effect spoiled immediately after by another wetly unabashed nose-blow, and stuffs the handkerchief, now somewhat the worse for wear, back into my hand.
I watch her walk away, feeling confused and not altogether happy. She wears a gown much the same colour as the evening sky, a soft grey-mauve – I wonder if she wore it during her period of mourning, although I doubt it had a neckline then low enough to show her charms in such a spectacular manner. Rosettes and a line of ruffles around the hem produce a soft, intimate rustle as she moves.
The first star of the evening, Venus, has appeared. Apparently she does not shine on me.
I wander through the garden, which is cultivated by Otterwell in old-fashioned Elizabethan style – stiff formal hedges, paths and beds; no romantic vistas or wildernesses here – until the light begins to fail. As I turn back (it would not be courteous to be gone for too long), I see a woman leaning against a plinth in the centre of a rose garden, so still I think she is a statue. In the fading light her gown is a tawny russet, a shade or two darker than her hair. She turns as I approach, one hand resting against the plinth, on which is set a sundial. Fallen petals scent the air, lying pale on the ground.
‘Mrs Gibbons.’ I bow. ‘Do you conemplate the passing of time?’
She smiles, but there is something melancholy in her face. ‘Something of the sort, Mr Congrevance. Do you return to the house now?’
‘I should be happy to escort you.’ I offer my arm.
She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow. ‘I should be angry with you, sir. You left when I sang.’
‘Yes, I did. I beg your forgiveness. Your singing moved me greatly.’
‘Ah, of course, you understood the Italian.’
‘I would have understood whatever language you sang in, Mrs Gibbons.’
‘Very pretty,’ she says, much as Caroline did.
‘That may be, but it is the truth. Why were you out alone?’
‘Oh, the others are somewhere near. To tell the truth, Mr Congrevance, I craved solitude. Sometimes singing makes me sad. I miss the stage and wonder whether I made a mistake in retiring when I did.’
‘Do you think you’d return to the theatre?’
‘I don’t know. It is . . . complicated.’ She stops and looks at me. ‘I find you interesting, Mr Congrevance. I’ve known a great many people playing roles of one sort or another, and I suspect you are not what you seem. Oh, you’re very good at it – I was quite surprised by your talents as an actor today – but . . .’
And then I do something foolish. She is the wrong woman, and God knows I have no designs on her. At the same time I am unhappy and unsettled and I have spent several hours of the day flirting with her. Above all, there is also the issue of stopping her mouth and distracting her before she produces further revelations. I bend my head and kiss her. She tenses in surprise and kisses me back – not the frenzied grappling I experienced with Caroline, but the curious, intimate exploration of strangers, our arms slipping around each other; strangers who have played with a slight attraction to each other and have each been alone for too long.
A roar of anger interrupts us.
8
Mr Nicholas Congrevance
The mild and scholarly Mr Thomas Darrowby hauls me away by the shoulders and aims a wild blow in my direction. ‘You scoundrel, sir!’
I duck to avoid his blow, and he almost falls over.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tom!’ Fanny Gibbons says, blushing deep red.
‘Tell me, for God’s sake, he did not . . . did not . . .’ He makes a grab for her hands, and she swats him away as though he were a particularly annoying sort of fly.
‘It was a kiss, Tom. That was all.’ She pats his arm. ‘Calm yourself.’
He looks even angrier, as any man would if a woman spoke to him in that way and under such circumstances, and turns back to me, fists clenched. We’re about the same height – he carries a little more weight, but I think I’m faster on my feet. ‘You have insulted the lady, sir.’
‘Then I beg her pardon, sir.’ I bow to Fanny. ‘Forgive me, madam.’
‘Fanny, did he force his attentions on you?’
She hesitates and looks at me. I remembe
r Linsley saying Fanny and Darrowby had found every excuse in the world not to resolve their relationship, and that the two of them needed a push in the right direction.
In a split second, I decide what I must do. ‘Of course not!’ I say in a loud, blustering tone. ‘She’s only an actress, after all. You saw how she flung herself at me at the rehearsal today.’
‘Oh!’ Fanny looks at me, uncertain, and then at Darrowby. ‘Tom, I—’
‘You – you foreign bastard!’
I’m tempted to laugh, but another of Darrowby’s wild swings catches me in the ribs and I drop to one knee, clutching my side. I lurch back to my feet again.
My gaze meets that of Caroline, who stands a few feet away. Apparently she did not go indoors as I thought. Is she jealous?
‘It really doesn’t mean anything to Congrevance,’ Caroline says. ‘He was inviting me into the maze but a quarter-hour ago, Darrowby.’
‘You blackguard!’ Darrowby rushes at me again, but this time I step aside and he blunders into a shrub. As he extricates himself, picking leaves from his waistcoat, he splutters, ‘I demand satisfaction, sir!’
Excellent. Now Fanny will see him as a hero.
Instead she takes Caroline’s arm, and the two ladies regard me with contempt and Darrowby with what appears to be kindly pity.
‘I suppose men can’t help it,’ Caroline says.
‘Probably not. Caro, I rather fancy some of the little cakes we had with tea in the drawing room. Shall we see if there are any left?’
I have never been so embarrassed in my life, and Darrowby blushes bright red at Fanny’s indifference. She gives us one last amused glance. ‘I trust neither of you will do anything foolish.’
height="0em" width="27" align="justify">‘Hit me!’ I mutter to Darrowby.
‘What?’
‘Hit me. You’re losing her interest.’ I brace myself. ‘Thumb outside your fist, Darrowby, you’ll break a bone else.’ I’m not thinking too clearly, but my reasoning goes something like this: Fanny will be impressed by Darrowby’s manly strength and his ardent defence of her honour; Caroline will dart forward with a cry of distress as I fall.
A Most Lamentable Comedy Page 6
