A Most Lamentable Comedy (15 page)

I step forward. I remember how she feels in my arms, when she swooned at the inn; or when I quite unnecessarily tumbled her into the bracken (with the basest of intentions); or the chaste embraces of the play. I remember her laughing with young Will, her hat full of bait, and her kindness to him.

And, oh God, she may love Linsley still. Naturally we did not mention the subject on our ride – it would have been thoroughly ungentlemanly and I might have lapsed into sentimental ramblings and embarrassed myself.

A lock of hair has fallen over her cheek. Her bosom rises and falls.

I kneel at her side. ‘Caroline,’ I whisper. I smooth the lock of hair back.

She makes a sound that might, under other circumstances, be described as a grunt.

Her cheek is soft and smooth.

I should let her sleep. I should let her alone, but there is one thing I must ask her before I leave: does she love Linsley? (I must stay for the damned play, it is my duty as a gentleman.)

I should speak to her when she is awake and vertical, but the temptation to touch her and hold her one last time is too great – yes, indeed, I seem to have an arm around her and her lips inches from my own. Reason tells me that even if she did not harbour a partiality for Linsley, I have only made a fool of myself with her thus far; things have not progressed as they should. There must be other rich and willing widows in England who would be far less work – we shall go to Bath, or some other watering place, I and Barton. But before I go, I must find out for sure.

‘Caroline,’ I whisper again. Her scent makes me dizzy.

‘Nick,’ she murmurs.

She remembers my name! The name she refused to use before and which has not been used by anyone in years. I am absurdly happy. I will do anything, anything for this woman, run through fire for her sweet sake . . . ‘Caroline, I love you.’

What?
Where the devil did that come from? I start back in horror and she tumbles off the bench, landing on her bonnet – the one that has received rough treatment as a bait basket – in a flurry of lawn and petticoats, swearing mightily.

‘What the devil are you doing, Congrevance?’ She scrambles to her feet, pushing me away when I attempt to help her. ‘Hell and damnation, I could have broken my neck. Are you a complete imbecile? What the hell are you about, creeping up on me and – and –
mauling
me so? Am I not safe anywhere here from fools and idiots and lechers who do nothing but look into my bosom?’

‘Madam, I—’

‘Oh yes you were. Do not deny it. I know you for what you are, Congrevance.’ She pauses for breath.

‘You – you do?’ I am horrified. I have never been discovered so before.

She stamps her foot. ‘Do not stand there like a fool staring at me so. Why the devil do you play so hot and cold with me?’

‘I—’

‘Do you think I am made of stone? You pursue every woman here and now I have no friends and—’

‘And you are completely blameless, I suppose? You and Linsley—’

‘You – you idiot, Congrevance!’

She launches herself at me. I fear for my life (she is not a small woman) while at the same time I realise that this is an amorous declaration, albeit of an unusual nature. She grips the shoulders of my coat like death; we overbalance, topple and fall on to the bench, she on top of me.

‘Now what do you have to say for yourself?’ she pants.

I, with the breath knocked out of me by her delightful bulk, can only gasp like a landed fish.

‘Listen,’ she hisses, answering my unasked question, ‘I don’t love Linsley. I have no interest in him. I was doing what you were not man enough to do. And you were most horribly drunk!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was asking him about Fanny and Will, you idiot.’

One part of my mind is giving thanks to something (probably not the Almighty) that she has no idea of my nefarious plans, for she thinks me only a stupid, lecherous coward. But I am more interested in the fact that I am stretched flat beneath her and her eyes are hot – with anger, not desire, but I am willing to overlook that. I am completely helpless and enjoying myself immensely.

I groan.

‘Oh, stop it!’

‘Caroline, I believe I was injured in the fall.’

‘Nonsense. Everything seems to be in prime condition.’ She may mock me, but the wanton, deliberate way she presses against me tells me otherwise. ‘Would you like me to get off you?’

‘No. I want to stay here like this with you for ever.’

She frowns. ‘Meals might be a problem.’

‘Madam, I am attempting to declare my passion for you and you are concerned with being fed?’

‘I think that with you, Congrevance, I should need to keep my strength up.’

I have rarely had a woman say such deliciously slutty things to me. I love her to distraction – no, I don’t. I
lust after
her to distraction (and that just sounds foolish). ‘Yes, you certainly would. However, I think, since I cannot move, that you should kiss me.’

‘And I think, sir, you should ask me properly.’

‘Kiss me, you shameless creature. If it pleases you, that is.’

‘If it pleases me.’ Her eyes no longer blaze. They are dreamyand soft, as soft as her lips on mine, and then I no longer see her eyes. I don’t need sight, I don’t need anything except this woman, her scent and warmth and roundness . . .

‘Pray take your hands off my arse, Congrevance.’

I open my eyes. ‘Tell me you love me.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Why?’

‘Damn it, Caroline, let’s go to bed—’

She hops off me with great speed and stretches out one foot, clad in a kid slipper. She prods me where women do not generally touch a gentleman with their foot, but quite gently. ‘I think, sir, you forget yourself.’

‘On the contrary, I am more than usually aware of myself, madam.’

‘Indeed.’ She bends (ah, heaven) to retrieve the unfortunate bonnet. ‘I suggest we go back to the house separately. I have a reputation to maintain. Damn you, Congrevance, you trod on my bonnet – see the footprint?’

‘My thoughts were elsewhere.’ I stand too, and brush bits of moss from my coat.

‘No matter. I’ll give it to Mary. She’ll need cheering up when Barton breaks her heart.’

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

Oh, the vile seducer!

How delicious he felt beneath me. And he invited me to go to bed in broad daylight! – that might have been a problem, although I daresay we could have wedged a piece of furniture against the door. I can only too easily imagine Mary blundering into the bedchamber with an armful of linen, chattering away and then bursting into giggles. Indeed, I find there is nothing to fan the flames of ardour like a little furniture-moving before the act; it is most arousing – why, I think as though Congrevance were privy to my thoughts. I can imagine the cock of his eyebrow, his half-smile, if I said that to him. And doubtless he would say something delightfully suggestive and absurd in return.

But I turned him down. I must be insane, for other than the difficulties of keeping the servants out, is not that what I intended from the beginning? And he declared himself in love with me, but why could I not say the words?

Sir, I am by no means indifferent to you.

Mr Congrevance, you may have noticed my distinct partiality for you.

I blush to tell you that I esteem you greatly, Congrevance.

Nick, I am so in love with you I think I shall die if
you do not remove your breeches this very instant.

Because to say
I love you
is so easy when y are in a close embrace and all you can think of is the gentleman’s smell and taste and the feel of him (dear God). Too easy.

I pause and pretend to untangle a branch from my skirts. He stands there still, staring at me; even at this distance I can see that the perturbation in his breeches has not subsided (an excellent sign).

Shall I run back and fling myself into his arms? Absolutely not.

I am not a lovesick ninny like my maid. I am a sensible woman and I shall wait until Nicholas Congrevance has declared his intentions before I yield my honour (or, to be strictly truthful, what is left of it).

Our dress rehearsal is in truth a great disaster.

Mr Linsley, whom I encounter swearing mightily over the table where he keeps his properties, finds that they are disarranged and some missing. Puck, therefore, takes a large carrot from the kitchen to use as the flower whose juice causes instant passion in those into whose eyes it is squeezed. I regret that some of us find this obscenely amusing. Even Otterwell sniggers and quotes something about a flower shepherds do call by a grosser name – I presume it is Shakespeare. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – Will and James, becoming hungry, eat the carrot, and then substitute a pineapple.

They eat that too, having persuaded one of the footmen to cut it up for them. Lady Otterwell, who wanted to eat the pineapple, is most angry, and in her bad temper one of her fairy wings falls off.

When Darrowby and Congrevance almost come to blows over Fanny, Darrowby’s sword becomes stuck in its sheath. He becomes exceedingly red-faced as he tugs at it, and everyone on stage, even Fanny, laughs helplessly. This is but one of our many mishaps, but I do not think the way Fanny treads on my toes and changes our carefully rehearsed moves, leaving me to flounder helplessly, feeling like a fool, is an accident.

And so on, and so on. The play drags on interminably; by the end, we all yawn during the rude mechanicals’ play, which I suspect is better acted than our attempts (Barton portrays a stalwart and bearded wall), and mutter our witty asides with a distinct lack of energy. A sudden drizzling sound from one side of the stage reveals that young Master James, invigorated by his carrot and pineapple (and with an exceedingly dirty, sticky face), has decided that Moonlight’s dog shall do against one of the pillars of Theseus’ palace something that comes naturally to a dog.

‘James, you do not do that in the house and in front of the ladies!’ Mr Linsley, who acts as our prompt, storms on to the stage, and plucks his son away with dire threats of punishment.

Moonlight’s dog returns to the stage much chastened and tearful and insists on sitting on his mother’s lap after he has said, or barked, rather, his few lines. Even little Will, our most professional of actors after his mother, forgets his lines in the epilogue and weeps. Philomena herself looks tired and subdued, dark shadows around her eyes. I suspect she and Linsley are still at odds with each other.

Finally it is over and we have a dinner we are nearly all too tired to eat. There is little lingering by the gentlemen over port in the dining room, or over tea in the drawing room. Fanny is remarkably cheerful, claiming that a bad dress rehearsal means a good performance, but I do not believe her.

I hear yawns and conversation as the others say their good nights and leave for bed.

I sit on a window seat, too tired to move. I shall stay here a little and then wake Mary, who has probably fallen asleep in a chair, but at the moment it is too much effort to move. I have opened the window to let in a little night air, but the air is sultry and heavy. Summer lightning flickers at the horizon, the threat of a storm still far away.

I remember last summer, nights like this when I sat at an open window, breathing in the night scents and waiting . . .

‘You look tired.’ To my surprise, it is Congrevance who settles beside me, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Go to bed, Caro.’

No one has talked to me with such kindness and intimacy since my early days with Elmhurst, and generally such a comment was made to entice me into bed with him (not that I ever needed much encouragement). Possibly Congrevance has the same thought, but it is not uppermost in his voice. I wonder if this is the true man revealed.

‘I shall.’

‘What are you thinking about? You look sad.’

‘Elmhurst died on a night much like this.’

He nods. I am grateful that he does not ask questions – surely he must know all by now; Lady Otterwell and the others must have fallen over themselves to heap infamy upon my head. But he says nothing, only takes my hand and squeezes it.

Then, ‘You were right.’

‘Right about what?’ Usually women
are
right, when in dispute with men, except I can’t think of anything I have done recently in which I could claim myself a moral victor.

‘I should have spoken to Linsley. I shall. I will clear your name, Caroline.’

I shrug. ‘It’s kind of you, Congrevance, but this will blow over, I am sure.’ Because, as I know, if it’s not one thing, it’s another, and trouble follows me around; much of it, of course, of my own making.

‘Nevertheless, I will.’ He looks at our entwined fingers. ‘A boy like Will . . . Even with a loving father, there will come a time when the circumstances of his parentage will injure him.’

‘You speak as though—’

‘Not now.’ He stands. ‘Another time I shall tell you all. Come.’

I rise, m hand still in his. Congrevance, a bastard? I open my mouth to ask him, but his finger on my lips silences me.

Hand-in-hand, like a pair of children, we walk out of the drawing room and into the hallway, where moonlight spills silver across the oak floorboards and staircase. We don’t need candles to light our way upstairs. The stairs creak lightly as we ascend; my gown rustles.

Is this a seduction?

He knows which is my bedchamber, and I his (what else are servants for?). We pause at the top of the staircase. The house settles into its nighttime silence; the small creaks of ancient timbers, our breathing, the scratch of a mouse in the wainscoting.

We turn to each other, hands still clasped.

He raises our joined hands to his mouth and kisses my fingers.

I touch his face – the fine contours of bone and skin, slightly rough beneath my fingers. His seriousness, his kindness and his confession of childhood pain move me in a different way than his usual flirtation. This is a man I could bed and love. This is a man to whom I could spill my secrets, and who in turn would share his with me.