A Most Lamentable Comedy (20 page)

‘I should be delighted to act as your hostess, your grace. Do you have an elderly female relative, who could chaperone me in your London house?’

He loosens his high collar. ‘You misunderstand me, ma’am. I entertain little in London. I am thinking of a more intimate connection. In short, ma’am, in my bed.’ This last in a whisper.

‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t quite catch that last part.’

‘In my bed,’ he hisses, now bright red.

‘Your grace?’ I cup my ear as a deaf great-aunt might do.

‘
In my bed!
’ he bellows, and his voice echoes and rings in the ancient room.

‘Well, why didn’t you just say so?’ We resume walking and I watch with fascination as the blush fades from his fair skin, remaining for a little while longer on the tips of his rather prominent ears. ‘Do you perhaps have a wager with some other gentleman that you cannot bag yourself a London mistress?’

‘No. Well, that is to say . . . Why, ma’am, you are remarkably astute. That is indeed . . . almost . . .’ He nods again, so vigorously I fear he will injure his neck. ‘But tell me, how did you guess? I do hope I have not offended you. I should tell you that I find your face and form entirely exquisite.’

‘Thank you, your grace. How much money rides on this wager?’

‘Ah. I . . . my secretary, Beck, will know. The exact amount escapes me at the moment.’

‘And what if I refuse your offer?’

He stops again, and wrinkles his brow. ‘But . . . my dear Lady Elmhurst, I . . . If you are a woman of honour, surely you must repay your debts.’

‘Normally a gentleman does not ask a woman of honour to repay her debts in bed.’

‘True, ma’am, true, but I believe you to be above these trifling conventions of society. Besides, your circumstances are somewhat unusual. I assure you I shall extend to you the utmost courtesy and generosity.’

Unusual? Hardly, for most women of quality have little control over such things as money and whose bed they shall share, unless they choose celibacy. It is the way of the world. I cannot pretend I writhe with shame and guilt or wish to rend my garments; neither can I bring myself to proclaim that I am virtuous, pure and would rather die than become a courtesan. I was well on the way to becoming a fallen woman when I allowed Colonel Rotherhithe to pay my rent, if not before.

Certainly, allowing Congrevance untold liberties – the consummation of which was such a grave disappointment – was not the action of a woman of virtue.

I turn to the Duke, who has the same sort of eagerness on his face that young Will and James have on seeing a dish of sugar plums.

‘Sir, I accept your offer. I think it only right to tell you I am in love with another gentleman, but as I do not expect ever to see him again, I believe there will be no awkwardness.’

‘Oh, thank you, ma’am. Capital, capital. I do appreciate your candour.’ He beams as though I have given him the best news in the world and actually shakes my hand. ‘And now – yes, I do believe Beck has finished drawing a document up for us; shall we . . . ?’

What an odd gentleman he is.

We return to the table, where I scan the document Beck has prepared, although the letters blur and dance before my eyes. I sit staring at it, not even sure what I have let myself in for, or for how long. There is mention of a house in Hampstead and an allowance (not overgenerous in my opinion) and servants. (Hampstead! What on earth shall I do there, other than the time spent on my back? Although I do not quite phrase the question that way, the Duke explains that it is convenient to the road north.) I insist that Mary shall remain in my employment with a substantial raise in her pay to forty guineas a year, to be backdated to the beginning of the last quarter, with any money owed by me to be paid also by Thirlwell; the Duke agrees with an alacrity that suggests he is as eager as I to get the document signed, although for different reasons, and Beck writes in the additional terms.

We both sign, with Beck as our witness; it is done.

‘We’ll leave this afternoon,’ Thirlwell says. ‘Beck shall go ahead and make sure the . . . ah, the sheets are aired and so on – I mean, he’ll make sure the house is in good order. I trust that’s convenient, ma’am.’

‘Perfectly. Thank you, your grace.’ After all, I have no wish to stay in this house, where almost every room, excepting my bedchamber, holds memories of Congrevance. No, even my bedchamber, for I spent a great deal of time imagining him there, until our disastrous encounter in the maze stripped away my illusions.

But I can’t help remembering, however hard I try, how I first met Congrevance and decided he was the man for my purposes, and my thoughts then:

. . .
although I cannot deny the attraction I feel to Congrevance, it would not do to sell myself short. How would I feel if, for instance, I missed a duke?

Lady Caroline Elmhurst

‘T
hirty pieces of silver!’

‘Don’t be a fool, Mary. Besides, you’re accepting them too. And don’t grumble under your breath. You know very well I can hear you, and it is most irritating.’

We stop bickering as the footmen, who have loaded our luggage into Thirlwell’s coach, enter the house, shaking rain fror umbrellas.

I have no money for vails, as is customary when leaving a house. But I recognise the footman I know a little, and hold out my hand to him, thanking him for his kindness. He shakes my hand and wishes me luck, and I realise I don’t even know his name. Mary, the great snob, snorts with disgust at my familiarity – naturally, as a lady’s maid, she considers herself far above footmen.

My host, Otterwell, fawns over Thirlwell – I wonder if he will offer to lie down in the puddles between the front door and the coach so his grace’s feet remain dry. Otterwell allows me only a smirk, a careless attempt at a bow and a farewell leer into my bosom.

I thank Lady Otterwell for her hospitality, and how grateful I have been for the kind, nay,
extreme
condescension of Lord Otterwell, particularly the help he gave me, just the two of us alone, in improving my acting. I am most gratified to see the lady turn upon her husband, spitting abuse (and in front of the footmen!), as we leave the house.

‘You really shouldn’t, milady,’ Mary says. She is in a dreadfully improving mood today, doubtless repenting of the sins she has committed with Barton, but I’d rather have her complaining and criticising than weeping. Her eyes are quite red still. She, I and the Duke arrange ourselves in the carriage – I am indeed glad that Thirlwell and I are not alone, as he might be tempted to claim his property en route. At least I gain a little breathing space this way.

Thirlwell produces a book and reads; Mary finds something to embroider – a handkerchief, I believe, no hint of personal linen or saucy stockings. I look out of the window, at the rain trickling down the glass and the sodden fields and dripping trees, and try not to dwell on my broken heart. It is unlike me to be a great blubbering fool (as I was last night with Mary), but my tears wait like creditors outside a front door; an unpoetic conceit, to be sure.

At least I am wretched in luxurious comfort, enjoying the pleasure of good springs and velvet and leather. But wretched I am, thinking of how deceived I was in Congrevance; how I loved him, love him still, fool that I am; and I thought he loved me until those cruel final words that still pain me like a raw wound. I cannot work out if I should feel better or worse had our consummation in the maze taken me to heights of bliss, or however one wishes to describe that experience – possibly ten minutes more might have helped. But to have neither quality nor quantity; well, I expected better, particularly from the quality of his kisses.

There was a stone beneath me that has left quite a bruise on my arse. The bruise will fade; I wonder how long it will take my broken heart to mend. I do not think it will. But a courtesan, I believe, does better without a whole heart.

I regret, too, that I have lost my friends. There can be no possibility that anyone in polite society will consort with me now I am officially a fallen woman. I should so like to hear about Philomena’s baby, and how Will and Tom and Fanny do. I hope Tom and Fanny marry soon, before something else goes wrong.

We stop for refreshment at an inn, and I must say it is quite pleasant to have the staff b and scrape when they notice the coat of arms on the carriage door – they have to be polite to me, too, since I am in the Duke’s company and do not have the word
whore
branded on my forehead.

It is there, at the inn, in a private parlour we are shown to, that I discover I cannot possibly be pregnant. Mary, grumbling mightily, has to have our luggage taken from the top of the carriage so she may seek out rags and pins. I regret that I negotiated more wages for the bad-tempered creature; besides, the two of us are as regular as clockwork, like a pair of village pumps together, and it may well save her petticoat.

I am delighted that I have an excuse to keep the Duke out of my bed for the next few days. But the knowledge that I am not to have Congrevance’s child – although I am sure I would have viewed impending motherhood with the greatest of horror and alarm, particularly knowing the worst of the father – makes me burst into tears once more.

Mary hovers over me, offering me a handkerchief, and she actually looks alarmed. ‘It’s not like you, milady.’

‘I have a belly ache,’ I snuffle. ‘Fetch me some brandy.’

If I cannot be happy, I shall be drunk, and then I shall sleep for the couple of hours remaining in our journey. Why not? The Duke has been quite content with his nose stuck in a book, and this offends me somewhat. I would think, under the circumstances, he might be inclined to a little flirtation, or possibly even some conversation. I should have shown some interest in his damned Greek statues. Possibly I shall have to do so in future, but what can you say? They are there. They are old. Some have limbs broken off, and some, specifically the males, have little to boast of.

I shall not think about Congrevance, who in contrast . . .

I am sure that had Congrevance and I ever embarked upon a conversation about ancient broken things, it would have been scintillating, but in truth most of our conversations were a sort of mask for how and when we intended to seduce each other. What we didn’t say, therefore, was far more interesting, and besides, he talked little of himself. So why did I feel that I knew this man?

Because he wanted me to feel so. He planned to seduce me to relieve his boredom – he knew how to play the hand he was dealt. And how expertly he fooled me. I remember that quiet walk in the woods, the feel of his cheek against my lips – enough.

I hold out my glass again.

Mary sniffs and fills it.

‘He won’t like it if you’re drunk.’

‘He won’t know.’

‘Sometimes you snore when you’re drunk, milady.’

‘You horrible liar.’

‘Ladies, are you ready to depart?’ Thirlwell lls through the closed parlour door. As Mary and I emerge, he offers me his arm with much gallant twinkling, and I think with a mild sort of pleasure that my particular condition will wipe the smile off his face later tonight.

I manage a grimace, mostly inspired by the brandy, that may pass for a smile, and the well-sprung motion of the carriage makes me drowsy. As I fall asleep, I hope I don’t snore, or, worse, drool.

‘Lady Elmhurst?’

I wake to see the beaming face of the Duke of Thirlwell just inches from my own – even in his expensive carriage there is very little room, and he has bent forward to wake me.

‘We have arrived, ma’am.’

‘You know, Thirlwell, you may as well call me by my Christian name. It is rather absurd not to do so.’

‘If you insist – Caroline.’

I am not in a position to insist on anything, but I alight from the carriage. I feel out of sorts and I have a slight headache. It’s still light; we have drawn up in front of a modest row of brick houses, and the one nearest us has the door open and a couple, the man in livery, standing on the doorstep.

They are introduced as Mr and Mrs Tyson, the entire staff of the house, apart from a boy who comes in during the daytime. She ushers me and Mary into the house, murmuring of tea and how she hopes the rooms are aired well enough and other domestic matters. Tyson meanwhile hauls luggage inside.

We are shown into a modest parlour. It is altogether a very unassuming house for a duke, but I imagine it is just one of several properties he owns.

Mary goes to unpack, and after Mrs Tyson serves tea, curtsies and leaves us, the Duke and I are alone for the first time.

Once again I assume the womanly duty of pouring tea and search around, as befuddled as I am, for a topic of conversation.

‘It is no longer raining,’ I offer.

‘Ah. It’s been quite dry here for some days, I believe.’

I break the deathly silence that falls. ‘I regret I shall be indisposed for a few days, your grace.’

‘You will be?’ He looks quite alarmed. ‘Shall we send for the doctor?’

He’s obviously spent too long with ancient statues. ‘No, sir. Not indisposed in that way. I mean it is my . . .’ I search for an appropriate phrase. ‘My female time.’

‘Oh. Oh, that.’

Do I imagine things, or does his face show a sudden flash of relief?

He rubs his hands together, a favourite gesture and one that already makes me flinch after less than a day in his company. ‘Well, never mind. I’ve ordered you an early dinner; I expect you’d like to rest after the journey.’

‘You’re not staying, your grace?’

‘No, ma’am. Caroline, I mean. I have a – some other business in town I should attend to. I shall return in a few days, and meanwhile . . .’ He gazes at the other end of the room, where a pianoforte stands. ‘Ah, good. I see Beck has rented an instrument as I requested. I trust it proves satisfactory.’

‘You’re very good, sir.’ I walk over to it and bang out a few notes, hoping I look more enthusiastic than I feel. ‘Oh, quite a superior tone. How splendid.’

I notice also, at this end of the room that looks out over a small garden, that there is an easel and a set of paints and brushes, tablets of paper and so on. A small bookcase holds some rather serious-looking literature bound in opulent gilded leather. Good God, it is like an expensive academy for young ladies, and I thought I was descending into the very pit of impropriety. It is bad enough to have become a whore, but to be expected to practise the accomplishments of polite society as well seems to be remarkably unfair.