A Most Lamentable Comedy (2 page)

And they have continued to say the most dreadful things about me as I have grieved and suffered this past year. There is no family loyalty towards me at all (the stupid fools).

I am most sadly put upon by all, and indeed, if I cannot find some gullible fool with a great deal of money to marry soon, all shall be lost.

I can only hope my latest dark cloud has a silver lining. Perhaps this most recent venture will have a happy outcome for me – no, it
must
have a happy outcome, for things could not get much worse than they are now, as I flee with my possessions and a sulky maid my only (unwilling) companion.

I find the letter from Lady Otterwell in my reticule and read it again. Yes, I have accepted the invitation to their house in the country – I doubt my creditors will follow – but what I have agreed to is worse than anything I envisioned even in my darkest hours.

Lord Otterwell has a longing for theatricals, and so I shall become – oh, the horror – that most vile and depraved of creatures, an
actress
!

Venice, a few weeks earlier

Colonel Maximilian Franklin
alias
the Reverend Tarquin Biddle
alias
Vicomte St Germain-d’Aubussy
alias
Lord Francis Bartholemew
alias
Sir Rowland Weston
alias
Viscount Glenadder
alias
Mr Sebastian Fitzhugh-Churchill
alias
Count Mikhail Orchovsky
alias
the Earl of Ballyglenleary
, et cetera, et cetera.

Upon other occasions I have appreciated the Contessa’s choice of spontaneity over finesse, but when her rate husband’s servants throw me into the canal, I regret I did not remove my boots.

I’m dying, sinking into hell, my breath going, dragged down to a dark, noisome abyss, and my last thoughts are of mist and the sun rising like a new copper penny; green fields and the song of a lark against a glittering hazy sky.

God or the devil knows where I am going, but I want to go home.

I am surprised to find that hell is a warm, noisy sort of place where a lot of people, many with high piping voices, chatter incessantly, and I am destined to vomit for all eternity.

‘That’s it, sir. You’ll feel better for it.’

The voice is familiar. Barton, my manservant, is here too? And those dark eyes ranged around me must belong to imps or devils or some such, with the flicker of firelight in the background. But it’s a gentle golden light, not the raging fires I anticipated. As the most recent paroxysm dies away, I become aware that I’m not in fact dead, but I am stark naked beneath some sort of rough blanket, and lying on a – a
table
? Surrounded by Italian children?

Barton, concern on his ugly face, nudges the basin beneath my chin. ‘You want to get it all up, sir. You know what’s in them canals.’

I do indeed, and am inspired to do as he says.

Later, and after several attempts to sip wine, I take note of my surroundings. There are indeed a fair number of children, ranging in age from a small child barely walking to a girl of about sixteen, who looks vaguely familiar. They gaze at me with unabashed curiosity; apparently I am the evening’s entertainment. The room is low-ceilinged, and firelight dances off copper pots and low dark beams, pinkish plastered walls with a saint in an alcove. The air is scented with woodsmoke, tobacco and garlic. Someone, the mother of the brood, I presume, clatters around at the hearth, and a male figure is slumped in a chair, puffing on a pipe.

The oldest girl approaches me and shyly asks in Italian how I am doing.

‘It’s Maria from the piazza,’ Barton says. ‘The one you always buy flowers from.’

Flowers for the Contessa – bought with her money. Ah, yes, Maria. Of course I barely noticed her, as generally I only notice women who are rich and beddable, but she apparently saved my life. I clasp her hand and thank her. She giggles and tells me how she was riding home in her brother Giovanni’s gondola when they found milord in the water, apparently dead, but I puked as soon as he pulled me aboard. Encouraged by this sign of life, they brought me to their home. Maria then sent Giovanni for Barton, suspecting that something untoward had happened for the English milord to end up fully bare-arsed and three-quarters drowned. She giggles mightily at this point. And now, if milord is feeling better, dinner is to be served and the family needs the table. Milord’s servant has brought trousers for milord. Barton, enterprising and capable man that he is, has packed our things, suspecting that Venice and I have outworn each other’s welcome.

Later that evening, with the family asleep around us, Barton and I confer in whispers by the fireplace. Indeed, so sore is my throat that I can barely talk.

‘Paris, then, sir? Or how about Vienna?’

I look up from my writing case, tossing billets-doux into the fire. ‘No. It’s been too long. I want to go home.’ My fingers search for the hidden spring in the writing case, and with a quiet click the secret compartment opens.

Barton raises his scarred eyebrows as gold glints in the firelight. ‘Ireland?’

‘No. England.’ England. It must be the damn weakness from nearly drowning that makes me want to weep.

He shakes his head. ‘Well, I suppose no one knows you in England. It’s as good a place as any. Near twenty years since I was there, too. What shall we do there? The usual?’

I nod and lay a handful of coins on the table for the family who have saved my life and shared their meagre food with us. It is the least I can do, for I plan to steal away before dawn.

‘And your name this time, sir?’

My name.

‘My own name.’

He looks at me blankly.

‘My name is Nicholas Congrevance.’ It is a stranger’s name on my tongue.

‘Yes, sir. Of course it is, sir.’ He winks at me.

Guildford, Surrey
Lady Caroline Elmhurst

‘A
nd did you have a comfortable journey, milady?’ Mary asks. She has just alighted from the roof of the coach from London, showing, in my opinion, an unnecessary amount of ankle and petticoat. Now we both stand in the courtyard of the King’s Head, the nearest stop to Elmhurst’s house, surrounded by our luggage, while around us fellow travellers arrive and depart.

‘Quite delightful and refreshing,’ I reply. ‘And you?’

She has the look of a cat that has been in the cream. ‘The gentlemen on the roof were most attentive, and, lord, I ate like a pig. Pie, cake, bread and ham – why, it was a regular feast.’ From the pink spots on her cheeks, she has also consumed a fair amount of gin. She turns to smile at her admirers who have plied her so willingly with food and drink.

Since the rain let up an hour from London, she is dried out, whereas my clothes are quite creased asoggy still. I had but one meagre cup of tea along the way (for I could not afford more), and I was crammed in between a fat woman who ate seven hard-boiled eggs and two raw onions (how they stank!) and a man with a runny nose who sniffed regularly – I timed him – once to a count of ten. The gentleman – I use the term loosely – who sat opposite me gazed at my bosom and tried to press my knee between his for almost the entire journey.

I suppose I should only be grateful that I was not forced into the even more vulgar company of those who travelled outside, but as I reflect upon this small comfort, my stomach gives a low, menacing growl.

Another coach pulls into the courtyard, the horses sweating and their hoofs striking sparks from the cobbles. Servants rush forward to change the horses and greet the passengers.

‘Oh.’ Mary now stares at a gentleman who steps down from the coach, hatless and pulling on a pair of gloves. ‘Now
that’s
what I call a man.’

Oh, indeed. Tall and lithe, long muscles I can imagine only too well beneath that tailoring (not up to London standards, and cut a little loose for the highest of fashion, but who cares), tawny gold hair, an aristocratic slash of long nose beneath straight, dark brows – and that mouth. Good God. The sort of lips that make a woman—

‘That’s enough. Mind your place,’ I snap at Mary, afraid that I too am standing there with my mouth hanging open. The gentleman – do I know him? I don’t believe so – disappears to the other side of the coach, doubtless to direct his servant.

At my side, a man wearing a linen apron bows obsequiously, to my relief. A canny innkeeper must know the presumed value of his customers, and if I have passed his test, I may yet preserve my reputation as a wealthy and respectable widow at Otterwell’s.

‘Would you care for some refreshments, milady?’

‘I think not, sir. I should like to hire a trap to take me to Lord Otterwell’s.’

‘A gentleman has just hired it, milady, and is about to leave, though the driver should be back in an hour or so. If you’d care to step inside . . .’

Oh, certainly. Caught like a fly in some squalid private parlour where I shall be charged an inordinate amount of money for some weak tea and other refreshment. ‘You have no other means of conveyance, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not, milady.’

The innkeeper bows again, and opens a door, inviting me and my dwindling funds inside. A gust of cooking smells, roasting meat, fresh bread, assails me – oh heavens, I am so hungry I think I shall die. I wonder at what hour Otterwell dines.

Beside me, Mary, the greedy thing, smacks her lips. ‘A cup of tea would be just the thing. Wouldn’t it, milady?’

My hunger is followed by ae of nausea. Oh, good heavens, I fear I am about to swoon. And not the swoon I have perfected (have not all ladies? A graceful sinking at the knee with a heartfelt sigh on to the closest piece of comfortable furniture, certain to inspire the nearest gentleman to besotted acts of gallantry). No, this is the real thing – a helpless and sickening plunge into darkness (and the filthy cobbles of the courtyard).

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

I’ve forgotten how lovely Englishwomen can be, and she’s entrancing, this stranded beauty surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of her belongings – surely that can’t be a porcelain candlestick peeping out from the large basket? Maybe this is how English ladies travel. Her maid, a cheeky, pretty piece, has already given me the eye and now flutters her lashes at Barton, so she is not able to see her mistress stagger and sway, but I do, and cross the courtyard in a few swift strides. She slumps into my arms, somewhat damp – she must have been caught in the rain – and her bonnet falls from her head and rolls on to the cobbles.

She is entirely without colour, her eyes and mouth half open, and I hoist her into my arms.

‘Why, she don’t usually faint like that, sir,’ her maid offers, swinging her mistress’ hat by the ribbons, and brushing a fleck of horse dung from it.

‘She’s ill? Should we send for a doctor?’ I peer into the woman’s face, a perfect oval, long dark lashes on her pale skin, and a mouth a little wide for fashion. A curl of dusky hair, dark brown, tumbles on to my arm.

‘No, sir, she’ll be right as rain. I think the journey has been too much for her, poor lady.’

The obsequious innkeeper bows, holding the door open, and I carry my fragrant armful – moist with a hint of lavender – into a private parlour.

‘We’d best loosen her clothing,’ the maid says with great cheerfulness, and unfastens the lady’s spencer and plucks a muslin fichu from her bosom as I deposit her on to a settle.

Good God.

Barton, behind me, gives an appreciative grunt.

‘Out!’ I push him and the innkeeper out of the door, and order tea and toast for the lady.

‘That’s a prime piece, sir,’ Barton says with a chuckle, when I join him outside. ‘A good big arse on her, too.’

‘Mind your place,’ I snap at him.

‘The maid, sir.’

‘Indeed.’ I couldn’t help but notice that myself.

After a discreet interval of some ten minutes or so, I enter the parlour, where my rescued lady sits, still a trifle pale, before a plate of crumbs and with a teacup in her hand, in an inteesting altercation with her maid.

‘Did you have to tell them in London I was covered with stinking sores, milady?’ the servant demands, elbow deep in grubby linen. She folds the items and smacks them on top of the candlestick. Her arse seems much reduced, and I suspect she has removed some half-dozen petticoats. Barton will be disappointed.

‘Don’t be a fool. It worked— Why, sir, I am much obliged for your kindness.’ Her voice is warm and throaty. ‘May I have the honour of knowing who my rescuer is?’

‘Congrevance, madam. Nicholas Congrevance. I trust you’re recovered?’

‘I am Lady Caroline Elmhurst.’ She pauses and looks for a reaction. Obviously her name should mean something to me. ‘Have we met in London, sir?’

Her maid mutters something, curtsies and leaves the room, banging the door behind her.

I take Lady Elmhurst’s outstretched hand, her fingers warm and supple in mine. ‘No, madam, I’m but lately come back to England.’

‘You have been on the Continent, then, Mr Congrevance?’

‘Yes, I have. Do you travel alone, madam?’

She lowers those long eyelashes and sighs. ‘I am a widow. And you, sir?’

Well, well. She wears no mourning jewellery that I can see, so this cannot be a recent bereavement.

‘I travel only with my man, Barton. I am a bachelor, madam.’

She nods and gives me a discreet, appraising glance as she offers a chair and tea. I accept for the pleasure of seeing the grace of her arms and bosom as she wields the teapot, lashes still modestly lowered.

‘I’m bound for Otterwell’s place, as I believe you to be,’ I tell her. ‘Might I offer you and your maid a place in the trap, Lady Elmhurst?’

‘You are too kind, sir.’ She raises her eyes to mine – large, blue-grey and enchanting. An extraordinary sensation comes over me; I fall into their depths as surely as I was lost when I sank into the canal.

Lady Caroline Elmhurst