A Most Lamentable Comedy (10 page)

‘Oh, it’s simple,’ Philomena says. ‘Congrevance will invite you to walk through the woods on the way home, and since it would be improper for you to be alone with him, I shall encourage Fanny to accompany you, and it is almost certain Tom will want to walk also. Then all you and Congrevance have to do is walk ahead and let nature take its course.’

‘But—’

‘Please, Caroline. He must propose to her.’

I consider this idiocy. It is unlikely any of us will go to sleep, and even more unlikely that Will or anyone will else will drop a magic potion into our eyes, or give any one of us an ass’s head, but Congrevance may well have some ideas of his own once we are in the woods. I cannot afford to have my virtue assailed – but I certainly don’t want him kissing Fanny any more, and if she is engaged to Darrowby, possibly he will leave her alone.

‘What if they fight again?’

‘Oh, I am so sorry I ssed that.’ Philomena smiles. ‘It must have been so amusing. But you must not let them, Caroline. It is up to you to distract Congrevance, so Fanny and Tom may be alone.’

A dozen ways of distracting Congrevance flash through my mind. I take another gulp of cold wine.

‘Of course. It will be my pleasure.’

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

T
he heat does not give up and the sun continues to blaze down.

Lady Otterwell reads some dreadful poetry she has written, and we are all too enervated to make the admiring comments she expects – all except Congrevance, that is, who enters into a grave discussion of rhyme and metre with her. To my disgust, she becomes girlish and flirtatious in a pink, wobbly sort of way.

Otterwell’s servants have packed drawing instruments and watercolours, and we ladies are obliged to venture outside the shade of the pavilion – although it is not much of a relief, since the air is so still – and demonstrate our ladylike artistic accomplishments. Remembering my fatuous boast to Congrevance, made to impress upon him what a virtuous sort of marriageable ninny I was, I grit my teeth, and pick a view of Otterwell’s house and the lake. I proceed to produce my usual sort of indifferent mess, the paintbrush slipping in my sweaty fingers.

The footman who set up the easel and stool and carried the paints and board stands behind me, holding my parasol over my head. I can hear his heavy breathing and he stinks like a sweating horse. ‘Pray take off your wig.’

‘Milord wouldn’t like it, milady.’

‘I insist. What part do you have in the play? For sure, Lord Otterwell will be most put out if you are sick with the sun and cannot act. Good. Your gloves too, and your coat.’ To my relief, he obeys – I would not want a footman swooning on top of me; it would do my reputation no good at all.

A scent of citrus indicates that Congrevance is nearby, looking over my shoulder. ‘An interesting use of perspective, Lady Elmhurst.’

‘Nonsense, sir. It is rubbish.’

He laughs and strolls across the hillside to where Philomena sits. I watch as his head disappears beneath her parasol, held by another sweating footman, who has followed the example of mine, wig, gloves and coat discarded. Congrevance and Philomena appear to be deep in conversation. Well, of course it is acceptable for an unmarried gentleman to flirt with a respectable matron, but I see Linsley stride towards them with a scowl on his face and James following behind, petticoats stained with grass and food.

Heavens, I now understand why so many horrid novels are set abroad, where d heat make people behave in most peculiar ways.

After our artistic pursuits – mine is the worst, but only slightly so – Otterwell announces that it is time to leave, and the servants set to dismantling the pavilion and packing china and silver. We walk down the hill, not wanting to strain the horses again, and enter the cool of the woods.

‘Why, this is most pleasant,’ Congrevance says as we are about to board the carriage. ‘Would you care to continue the rest of the journey on foot, Lady Elmhurst? It can’t be more than a mile or so to the house.’

‘Oh, sir.’ I cast down my eyes. ‘As much as I should like to, it would not be proper for me to accompany you.’

Someone – I shall kill them when I find the culprit – gives a muffled snigger.

‘Oh, you are quite correct, Caroline,’ says Philomena. ‘I would accompany you, but alas, I fear James may vomit, for he ate too much cake. Fanny, would you be so good as to accompany Lady Elmhurst?’

‘Oh, very well.’ She does not sound very pleased at the prospect. She glances at Will, who is asleep on his father’s lap.

‘Why don’t you go with them, Tom,’ Philomena continues relentlessly.

‘Well, I—’

‘Oh, do, Tom.’ She turns the full force of her smile on him. ‘You and Congrevance can make up your quarrel of yesterday.’

‘Quarrel? What quarrel? Why, our guests must all be the best of friends . . .’ Linsley leads Otterwell and Lady Otterwell into a frenzy of nosiness, and Darrowby jumps down from the carriage before the embarrassments of last night can be revealed. With the threat of a vomiting child, it is a wonder all the occupants do not choose to disembark.

Congrevance offers me his arm and tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow. His coat is slung over the other shoulder, for he is still in his shirtsleeves, and my hand encounters fine fabric and, beneath, the warmth and strength of his arm. As we stand back to allow the carriages to pass us, he murmurs, ‘We must endeavour to lose the happy couple, Lady Elmhurst.’

‘You mean we should become separated from them?’

‘Precisely. We shall leave the path as soon as we can.’

Now I had thought we might walk ahead of them, leaving a good distance, so Darrowby might fling himself at her bosom, or sink to his knees, or do whatever he must, but this suggestion is a little unnerving.

First, I am sure we shall get lost. And second, that that is exactly what Congrevance intends – all the better to frolic with me in the woods! And of course I cannot let him have his wicked way with me yet. I must behave as the most virtuous of women until he is panting at my feet, ready to do exactly v hei wish. My attempts to be cool towards him have not been particularly successful, and I am sure he is aware of the heated imaginings that run through my mind; on the other hand, his mask as a rakish seducer frequently slips and shows . . . what, I am not quite sure.

Men do not marry their mistresses. I must keep that in mind. Although I am not sure of the proprieties, if you will, between a gentleman and his future mistress, I am fairly sure an agreement should be drawn up, preferably by a lawyer, before intimacies take place. A cold-hearted approach, to be sure, but not that much difference from the alliances of the great families of the
ton
.

The carriages disappear around a bend in the track, and we four are left alone in the woods.

‘How delightfully cool it is!’ I cry. Not the most original of remarks, to be sure, but no one else seems inclined to make conversation.

‘I am sure the weather will break soon,’ Darrowby replies. ‘I hope it remains fine for the play.’

Obviously talk of the weather will not do. Congrevance tugs me forward. ‘Look for a path to the side or some such,’ he murmurs into my ear. We set off at so fast a clip I am almost running to keep up.

We are out of their sight now, and Congrevance points to a gap in the trees. ‘There!’

He urges me forward – I grab at my bonnet as it catches in a tree branch, and then he pushes me down to the ground, one hand over my mouth.

I regret that although I should be terrified, I am thrilled by his proximity as we lie in the bracken – it is a pity indeed that so many small flies buzz around us. He is half on top of me and I can feel his heartbeat; his citrus scent and the feel of that wonderful masculine body against mine makes my head swim.

He lowers his head, and his hair and breath tickle my ear. ‘Listen,’ he whispers.

‘. . . the disappointment, Fanny, could scarce be borne. It is my fault, I know, that I have not spoken before. I am mad with jealousy that you should even look upon another man.’

‘I told you it was nothing. For God’s sake, Tom, ask me to marry you and have done with it.’

‘Oh, Fanny . . .’

‘Do not kneel there, sir, a horse has passed by. May we not keep walking while you propose? These flies are driving me mad.’

Congrevance raises his head. His eyes dance with amusement and we both shake with silent laughter.

Darrowby and Fanny’s voices fade away as they continue along the path. I think they are unaware of our absence.

I, however, am only aware of Congrevance, who takes his hand from my mouth – or almost sos h thumb trails along my lip.

‘This is most improper,’ I say.

‘Exceedingly so.’ He makes no effort to move.

‘What if I were to scream for help?’

‘Do you think it likely?’

‘You are compromising me.’

‘And you are enjoying it.’

‘I am not, I assure you. I have a paintbrush in my pocket I could use as a weapon.’ Two wicked lies in one.

‘Ah, but you see, I shall immobilise you.’ He grasps my wrists and holds them above my head, pressing against me even closer. (I am quite sure, by the way, that what I feel at this moment is not a paintbrush, and neither is it in his pocket.)

‘Oh!’ How wicked and delightful this man is. But I shall not succumb this easily. Or shall I? His head lowers to mine. He will kiss me.
Oh
. Oh heavens, his mouth—

Something crashes through the bracken towards us, and Congrevance twists away from me as a small furry presence yips at us.

The terrier, for that is what it is, worries at Congrevance’s coat, growling, tail wagging, delighted with our company. It releases the coat, rushes at me and licks my face.

‘Damnation, I was just about to do that myself,’ Congrevance says with a grin, and hands me his handkerchief. He stands and shakes out his coat. ‘Down! Good dog.’

The dog sits, tail sweeping the bracken, eyes bright as it waits for the game to be resumed. Congrevance reaches a hand to me and we brush bracken debris from ourselves.

‘Let’s see where this path leads,’ Congrevance says. ‘I am pretty sure it will take us to Otterwell’s house; besides, we should take this dog home.’

‘How do you know he has a home?’

‘He’s well mannered. I expect he belongs to one of Otterwell’s tenants.’ He sets off along the narrow path, the dog scampering after him, and I follow them, half relieved and half disappointed that the seduction was interrupted in such an undignified way. It strikes me how very much Congrevance looks at home striding through the bracken with a dog at his heels.

‘Do you have many dogs on your estate?’ I ask.

‘I’ve been out of the country for some time. But yes, I like dogs.’

‘And what sort of land do you have? Is it like Otterwell’s estate?’

‘Hilly. With sheep.’ He picks up a stick and throws it for the dog, which is delighted to be set to work and streaks off after it.

This is interesting. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or his land, and I wonder why. I shall have to make Mary ask some questions of that rogue Barton, who I am sure is up her skirts already, but I am hardly in a position to give moral advice.

A walk of several minutes takes us to a clearing where a small house stands, and a man in rough clothing works at a bench outside, turning over various pieces of metal. Chickens cluck and scratch around the house. A small child rushes inside, and emerges with a woman, who wipes her hand on her apron and drops a curtsy.

‘Milord, milady, welcome. We’d be most honoured if you’d take refreshment with us, wouldn’t we, husband?’

Her husband grunts, makes a minimal bow and returns his attention to his work.

The woman, whose name she tells us is Betty Culver, leads us into the house, apologising profusely for its condition, and shoos a chicken and several children out of the way. ‘You’ll take a dish of tea, milady?’

I open my mouth to accept, but Congrevance interrupts. ‘Thank you, mistress, but some ale would serve us well enough on such a hot day.’

I am surprised he knows how expensive tea is – a rude shock recently to me – and am impressed with his tact. She pours spruce beer from a jug into horn cups, and Congrevance takes two, saying he’ll go to talk to her husband outside.

We are in a large room that is both kitchen and parlour, with a hearth at one end. An iron pot sits in the embers and the air is scented with woodsmoke and cooking bacon. As Mrs Culver chats, I learn that Mr Culver is under-gamekeeper to Otterwell. His present task, that of mending someone called Jack, is mystifying to me, and I suppose it shows on my face, for Mrs Culver laughs.

‘No, no, mistress, I mean the jack for cooking. You know what men are, they take something to pieces to improve it and it turns out worse. Maybe milord can help him, for I’d dearly like to cook something other than bacon boiled with vegetables. He’s a good man, Mr Culver, but helpless as a babe with machines. Our old clock has never been the same since he took it apart to clean it.’

She indicates a clock in the corner, a fine ancient piece with a face painted with suns and stars. As I look, the hands shift to the hour of four o’clock, and it whirrs and strikes. And strikes. At seventeen, it stops.

If it is indeed four o’clock, we shall probably miss dinner at Otterwell’s, something that does not worry me unduly. I sip my beer, content to be inside in the shady cool of this pleasant house, where I am unknown and do not have to act any part.

A child rushes in with a handful of green stuff, some sort of cabbage, drops it on to the table and runs out again.

‘If you’ll excuse me, milady.’ Mrs Culver takes the cabbage from the table, shakes it dry and grasps a large wooden spoon. With it she lifts the lid of the pot, releasing a gust of bacon-scented steam, and then adds the cabbage to whatever else is cooking there, stirring vigorously.

Something squawks and then gives a tentative wail from the corner – the latest addition to the Culver family. Mrs Culver looks up from her cooking, and I see that were we of equal rank, she would ask me to take the baby.