‘She – she’s like a – a flower. So pretty and delicate, like.’
I almost cut myself. Barton? Barton, comparing a woman to a flower?
I squint in the mirror to reach that tricky place beneath my ear. ‘And your problem, Barton? Not got under her skirts yet?’
In the ominous silence that follows my question, I see Barton’s face redden. His large, meaty fists clench.
‘I beg your pardon. That was most indelicate.’
He heaves a great sigh. ‘Oh yes, sir, of course I did. What do you take me for, sir? Lovely, it was. But – but I want to keep doing it. With her. Only her, if you follow my meaning.’ His face takes on a soft, dreamy expression so incongruous with his ugly features that I’m tempted to turn Catholic and cross myself. ‘Marry her.’
I drop the razor.
Barton continues to stare into space, doubtless anticipating the pleasures of the marriage bed. I retrieve the razor and wipe dust from it; Otterwell’s servants, nearly all of whom have been press-ganged into the play in some way or another, have been neglecting their usual duties. Barton hardly seems to notice as I take the towel from his arm and dry my face.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say finally.
He nods and hands me a neckcloth.
We don’t need to spell out the situation. Without money, Barton cannot marry Mary. With money taken from Mary’s mistress, under the usual circumstances, he still cannot marry her, for of course we will disappear soon after. He may have some savings of his own, but I doubt whether he is in the position to make a respectable marriage. And to what trade could he turn his hand to support a wife and family? He is an excellent rogue but an indifferent valet.
With a great dramatic sigh Barton empties the shaving water into the slop bowl.
Having tied my neckcloth, I stroll over to the window. My room looks out over the flower gardens, and I can see a woman there, wandering around the rosebeds.
Caroline, walking and reading – possibly she is perfecting her lines for the play. Yes, she clasps the book to her bosom (would I were the book), recites, looks down to her place again. Most of us spend our time alone muttering to each other, forcing lines into our memories at this point in the preparation for the play. Otterwell has become most impatient with us.
I give one last glance at the woman upon whom I have improper designs and whom I must seduce sometime within the next few days and whose money I must purloin.
p height="0em" width="27" align="justify">I curse myself for my inaction. Damn the play, damn whatever it is about Caroline that makes me want to adore her, make passionate love to her and run from her like the wind, inexplicably all at the same time. In my heart I know I should leave her and Otterwell’s house. Yet I have made no move to do so.
I remember again how she sat in a beam of sunlight, a baby on her lap, looking like an Italian Madonna in a church. The baby smiled at her and she smiled back, both of them innocent and unsullied. A painter would have loved that scene, the rough table, scrubbed almost white, where a stoneware bowl and a jug of flowers stood, and the contrast of light and shadow in the room. And surpassing all, the beautiful woman with a child.
The woman who kissed me and thanked me; I am not sure for what. She will probably not thank me in a few days when she realises I have seduced and abandoned her, and left with her guineas in my pocket (which reminds me, those damnable earrings are still in my possession). I doubt whether she will laugh at her adventures, sigh a little, and consider the experience money well spent.
Lady Caroline Elmhurst
At breakfast this morning I am inspired to write to my fecund sister Jane. We quarrelled most violently after Bludge died and I ran with a fast set in London; she disapproved thereafter of my marriage to Elmhurst, which makes no sense at all. Would not she, as the wife of a churchman whose sights are set on a bishopric, rather have me married than not? However, if I am the one to offer the olive branch, she will appear at a moral disadvantage, something she will be aware of and that gives me a small moment of pleasure.
In the breakfast room I sit through as much billing and cooing as I can stand, while Tom caresses jam on to his beloved’s toast, and Fanny, fondling the spoon in an indecent way, stirs sugar into his tea. Their feet intertwine beneath the table; they touch hands as often as they can. Every meal has been the same since the announcement of the engagement.
Oh, I admit, I am jealous. I wish Congrevance and I could be as open and as amorous. I want someone to smile on me indulgently and make silly arch comments the way the Otterwells and the Linsleys do, and talk of weddings and honeymoons and new clothes and family members yet to be met. So I write to my sister, and after much crossing out I take my letter and my addled head into the garden, and read through my attempt:
My dear sister,
I trust you and the Reverend Pargeter and Thomas Peter Paul Henry Robert Ann Annabel Catherine Katherine my dearest nieces and nephews are all well. I regret that you acted like a pig-headed fool, chose to disown your own flesh and blood cast me aside our correspondence has been limited of late. Do not excite yourself, dear sister, I am not about to ask you for money, not that you would lend me any that I write with bad news. It is in fact quite the contrary. I am well and not pregnant out of wedlock as doubtless you suspect happy. Currently I visit Lord and Lady Otterwell’s house as an honured guest in their ridiculous theatricals with a most lively respectable group of mostly high-born ladies and gentlemen.
Sister, my news is of the very best kind. I have met a gentleman. He is handsome and rich and I believe returns my affections and I long to bed him I await his proposal, for although he has not yet declared himself I am sure he will. Be happy for me; he is all that is desirable in a man very respectable and beautiful naked of a good family from the north. I trust that next time I write I will have enjoyed his be an engaged woman.
I think often of the time you stole my doll and pulled off all her hair when we were the most affectionate of sisters and wish we could return to that happy state. Please write to your most loving sister,
Caroline
Well, it will do, I suppose, once I have made a clean copy.
I wander further into the gardens and see a burly figure bent over a flower bed, carefully plucking Otterwell’s choicest blooms in his large fingers. As I watch, he raises a rose to his hairy nostrils and sniffs, his ugly face transformed. Barton, picking flowers for Mary – she has appeared recently with flowers pinned to her bodice.
He sees me and hides the roses behind his back, raising his hat.
‘Good morning, milady.’
‘Good morning, Barton. I did not know you liked flowers.’
He blushes deep scarlet and mumbles something. Then he smiles. ‘I have a part in the play, milady.’
‘Indeed?’ I do hope Otterwell has not cast him as a fairy.
‘Yes, milady, I am one of the rude mechanicals. The footman who was to play the part has a boil on his – he cannot sit down and must have it lanced and stay abed, so I am to play the part of the wall.’
‘I am sure you will do wonderfully well.’ I speak with sincerity, for his sheer solidity and size must suit the part well.
‘Thank you, milady. I will wear the false beard I have for such occasions.’
‘You act often, then?’
‘No, milady. That is – well, abroad, sometimes, we – the master and I . . .’ He stumbles to a stop, obviously reluctant to continue.
I remember that Congrevance has been a spy. Afraid that Barton is about to reveal secrets of the realm, I hasten to reassure him. ‘Oh, of course, Barton, you need say no more. understand.’
He shifts from one foot to the other, crushing a pansy beneath one large boot. ‘Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.’
I nod to him and walk on, folding the letter and placing it in my pocket. It is almost time for breakfast, and today we will have rehearsals in the morning and afternoon. It is the first day on which we are to attempt the complete play, without our prompt books
and supposedly without interruptions. Time is running short.
So, it appears later, are tempers.
We are at the beginning of the play. Congrevance and I are seated on the chairs in the theatre, the Linsleys and Darrowby are somewhere in our backstage area and Fanny stands before the stage, making notes and occasionally giving directions to the cast.
Master James, hand in hand with Lady Otterwell, makes his appearance as the Indian child fought over by the king and queen of the fairies.
He barks.
Some of us laugh, and pleased by his success, James does it again.
‘No, boy!’ Lord Otterwell says. ‘No barking!’
‘What a naughty child!’ Lady Otterwell says.
‘Carry on, please,’ Fanny says. ‘James, you shall bark later, but not now. Remember that now you are a little boy.’
‘Woof,’ says Master James.
‘Enough! Off the stage with you!’ Otterwell bellows, scarlet with rage – and with heat, too, I imagine, for the room is exceedingly stuffy.
‘Sir!’ Fanny starts forward, but it is too late. The Indian child bursts into tears, producing, indeed, a torrent of water at both ends, for in his fright he now stands in a puddle of his own making.
Will rushes to his brother’s side and puts a protective arm around him. His voice quivers slightly. ‘He is only a baby, sir. He does not know—’
‘Silence!’ Otterwell thunders.
I start from my seat, but to my surprise Congrevance reaches the distressed children before I do and picks James up, wet petticoats and all, soothing him.
Fanny, meanwhile, storms on to the stage and delivers a veritable tirade at Otterwell. ‘How dare you treat a child so! Pray remember, Otterwell, it is I who direct this play and I who tell the actors what they should or should not do.’
‘On my stage and in my house, ma’am, and I will not have this production be a laughing stock.’
‘As it may be anyway, sir, unless you allow me to do as I see fit.’
‘I assure you, ma’am, you are not as indispensable as you believe, and neither is this child. My tenants are pleased to produce scores of children who would do as well in the role, nay, indeed, be honoured to assist me. I have presented dozens of theatricals to the delight of the gentry, who have the most discerning taste and education, and—’
‘You mean they are dull and polite, sir, and do not wish to give offence. The child remains. Your behaviour is grossly insulting to me and to the Linsley family – you remember, sir, this child is the nephew of an earl.’
I am ashamed to think that I, who foresaw the clash of wills between Fanny and Otterwell at our very first rehearsal, actually looked forward to it with anticipation.
‘That’s enough!’ Congrevance, even with a wet, weeping child in his arms, has an air of authority. He turns to a housemaid, one of the fairies. ‘Please fetch Mrs Linsley to see to her son. Mrs Gibbons, Lord Otterwell, may I suggest we take a half-hour break.’
The actors shuffle off the stage. Fanny storms out of the hall through the doors at the end that open into the gardens. Will steps down from the stage, wide-eyed, and I wonder whether he is about to cry himself, frightened by his mother’s rage. I place my arm around his shoulders.
Philomena arrives, and scoops her child into her arms. ‘What has happened?’
Congrevance informs her in a few brief words.
‘This is intolerable. I shall tell Inigo and we shall leave immediately.’ Her lip quivers. ‘Oh no. If Tom hears of this, he will give his notice to Otterwell and then he will not be able to marry Fanny until he has found a new position. They are so happy. This is dreadful, Caro. What shall we do?’
Congrevance answers. ‘You clean your child up, Mrs Linsley, and perhaps Will can go with you. I’ll change my coat and speak with Otterwell. Lady Elmhurst, will you talk with Mrs Gibbons?’
I step outside into the bright sunlight of the garden. It is dreadfully hot again, and a group of Otterwell’s gardeners lounge in a patch of shade, not even pretending to work. There is no sign of Fanny, but I do not doubt I shall find her. I am not looking forward to this interview at all. Fanny is friendly enough to me, but that is all, and generally we have the sunny presence of Philomena to maintain civility. I wanted to tell Congrevance that Philomena might have been the better emissary, but she had her hands full with two distressed children; besides, I had absolutely no intention of becoming involved with the matter of James’s wet petticoats.
Fanny sits under a large oak tree at the edge of the garden, where it becomes parkland. The air shimmers with heat, and far off a cuckoo calls. She sees me approach, and I believe she tucks away a handkerchief, but she makes no effort to stand or greet me.
‘What a pleasant spot. May I join you?’
She shrugs. ‘I can hardly stop you, Lady Elmhurst.’
This is not a good sign, that she does not use my Christian name, but I sit a couple of feet away from her and remove my bonnet, smoothing the ribbons out. ‘Your son is with Philomena.’
‘Thank you. I have decided that – that Will and I shall leave the house as soon as possible,’ she says.
‘I am most sorry to hear it.’
‘Indeed. Are you, Lady Elmhurst?’
‘For God’s sake, Fanny, are you determined to make enemies of us all?’ I speak more sharply than I intended and her eyes flood and spill over.
I hand her a handkerchief and allow her to collect herself.
‘I have made a great many mistakes,’ she says, wiping her eyes.
I hope she does not mean her engagement to Darrowby – after all, I risked my honour in bringing it about. ‘Congrevance has gone to talk to Otterwell.’
‘Ah, yes. I fully expect to offer my apologies to Otterwell, which he will accept with the greatest of condescension. I am sure Mr Congrevance will be suitably ambassadorial.’
What does she mean by that? ‘I believe there will be no repercussions regarding Darrowby’s employment, or at least so Congrevance hopes.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Tom was to leave soon, to work for a newspaper in London.’
‘Well, then, it seems all will be for the best.’ I try to keep my voice cheerful. ‘Shall we take a walk? I am sure it will do us good.’
She plucks some blades of grass and lets them flutter to the ground. ‘Caroline, upon reflection I realise I should not have accepted Tom’s proposal. I have known him several years and thought only that I liked him well enough. It is only within the last few days that I have realised I love him most passionately. But I have been afraid for some time that now that Will is older, and particularly now that I am to marry, Inigo will want to bring our son up himself.’
‘What would Tom say to that?’
‘I think he would be quite agreeable to the plan. After all, neither Tom nor I can give Will the opportunities Inigo and Philomena can. It makes perfect sense. And neither do I wish to take Will from his father. They are very close, even now he has a son of his own, and of course you know Philomena is expecting again.’
I had no idea, and am disappointed that I should hear it from another, and not Philomena herself. I had hoped we were better friends than that, and I am taken aback by the jealousy that afflicts me. ‘No, I didn’t know. But surely you cannot deny your own happiness on a supposition? Have you spoken to Inigo about it?’
‘Oh, you know Inigo. He is like most men in that he will ignore an unpleasant confrontation. Besides, for all his good humour, he comes from a family that is used to getting its own way.’
‘Would you like me to speak to him?’
‘Oh, Caroline, no, I cannot impose upon you so.’ She grasps my hand and squeezes it, attempting a smile. ‘I wish I did not love Tom so. Love complicates things, does it not?’
She stands, brushing grass from her skirts. ‘I know we have not always been friends, but since we are speaking to each other so openly, there is something I must talk to you about. Let us walk together as you suggested. I think it might be
easier.’
‘Very well.’ We put our bonnets on against the fierce heat. In a few minutes we reach a great mass of rhododendrons that give some welcome shade, and neither of us speaks until we are there.
She smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Caroline, I shall step down from my high horse. The play will go on as planned – I would not disappoint my son, or our friend Barton, who is an accomplished actor despite the hideous false beard he insists on wearing. These things happen all the time in the theatre – we scream at each other and then swear eternal friendship. I had no great liking for Otterwell before he made little James cry, but I shall tolerate him for a few days more.’
‘That is most generous of you.’ I am quite relieved, thinking this must be the other matter she wishes to talk to me about.
I am mistaken.
‘Caroline, I must speak. My conscience does not allow me to do otherwise. I feel it is only right that you and I should talk about our friend Mr Congrevance.’
11
Lady Caroline Elmhurst
‘You must forgive me for what I am about to say,’ Fanny continues. ‘It is purely supposition. I could well be wrong, but I have worked in the theatre all of my life, and have met some crooks and rogues. I married one when I was too young to know better. He abandoned me and I found out only a year or so ago that he had died in the most miserable of circumstances – but that is not the point. You surely have noticed Mr Congrevance’s skill at acting, Caroline. I suspect that he acts when he is off the stage too.’
I pause to pick a rhododendron bloom, as big as my fist, and for all its glorious colour with hardly any scent in the golden centre.
‘Fanny, I don’t understand what you say.’
‘I knew this would be difficult. Are you in love with him?’
‘No.’ I stare at the flower in my hand, wishing that this conversation was not taking place and dreading what is to come.
‘Forgive me, but are you his mistress yet?’
A Most Lamentable Comedy Page 9
