A Most Lamentable Comedy (25 page)

‘Your grace – Simon – I can resist you no longer!’

Letter from Nicholas Congrevance to
his half-brother the Duke of Thirlwell

Brother,

I cannot believe what I read.

You have not told her the truth yet?
I am all astonishment. This is what we agreed, you incompetent oaf, your grace. What the devil have you been about all this time?

It is to your credit that I trust you, your grace. At least I try to. Allow me to amend that – I trust your morals, but certainly not your judgement.

To remind you of the arrangement: you were to tell her as soon as she was settled in the house that we are half-brothers, and that you have no intention of becoming her lover, but offer yourself as a friend only.

The rest was up to me at our meeting here. As I told you, I did not expect you to explain my former occupation or any other shameful aspect of my behaviour. How in God’s name do you think she will react now, thinking you and our mutual acquaintances have made a fool of her? I hope to God she has flayed you with that acid tongue. Be assured she will do so in the future.

Please tell me that somehow you have persuaded her to come to Northumberland, although how you shall do so I have no idea and can offer no suggestions.

I remain, your grace,

Your most obd’t srv’t,

Nicholas Congrevance

Letter from Nicholas Congrevance
to the Duke of Thirlwell

Briefly, brother, this is far worse than I anticipated.

Your newest idea is worse than the original. Yes, I am aware that Barton and his beard will be invaluable, or would be if I were to agree to this insane plan. May I point out to your grace that women may enjoy being heroically rescued from brigands and such in popular novels, but the men they regard as heroes in real life do not land them in situations where they require a rescue.

Similarly, Caroline is more than capable of rescuing herself, except from creditors.

Since you seem incapable of acting rationally and asking the lady to accompany you to Northumberland, but are intent upon relying on theatrical subterfuge (I suggest you offer your talents to Lord Otterwell for his next theatricals), I do have a suggestion for removing her from the house. You will have to find alternative accommodations for the servants, for it will render the place uninhabitable for a few days. It is a simple process involving the house’s cesspit, and here are my instructions
[odiferous details of no interest to the reader follow].

Lady Caroli
ne Elmhurst

‘I
t’s not proper.’ Mary, lips pursed, shakes out a petticoat.

‘I’m his mistress.’

‘No you’re not. It’s not decent.’

‘You mean that if you entered a room and found me on the lap of a gentleman whose mistress I was, it would be decent? I must start somewhere, you silly girl.’

To my surprise, she giggles. ‘The look on his face, milady.’

I remember the Duke’s pop-eyed, red-faced terror. I laughed then, too, helpless with mirth by the time he had tipped me from his lap and was heading for the door at an undignified gallop. He’d almost bowled Mary over in his haste.

But I remember how he turned to face me at the last moment, and his frozen expression reminded me that he was a duke; a powerful man related to royalty and descended from many generations who held life-and-death power over commoners like myself.

The Duke was in those few minutes an impressive figure of a man as he said with quiet menace, ‘You do me wrong, ma’am.’

And that was it. He left.

‘Do you think he’ll be back, milady?’

‘Oh, I expect so. You know what men and their wounded dignity are.’ I wonder how long we have before he turns us out, and what Mary and I shall do. Just as the Duke has power over his tenants and household, I am responsible for Mary. She has stuck with me through thick and thin – mostly thin, and probably because there was a slight chance that I might pay her.

This is the morning of the sixth day since, and we have heard from neither his grace nor Beck.

There’s a tap at the door, Mrs Tyson with hot water for me, and I climb out of bed. A faint odour hangs about her – I do not like to comment on it, for it is most unpleasant. Perhaps she trod in something.

Mary hovers with a hairbrush at the ready. ‘What shall you do today, milady?’

‘Oh, I thought I’d take a walk after breakfast, and then I suppose I should practise the pianoforte. I wonder if anyone will call.’

‘Morning dress, then, milady, and a spencer for later. You should hurry, for it looks like rain.’

When I am dressed we go down the stairs and I become aware of a smell – a very unpleasant smell indeed, like the one that clung to Mrs Tyson. I pause at the landing outside the drawing room.

‘Mary, do you smell that?’

She nods.

The smell is noticeably stronger as we descend the final flight of stairs, and Mary and I both scream as a rat darts along the assage, zigzagging as they do when they are on unfamiliar ground. The door to the servants’ quarters flies open, releasing a great gust of stink, and a dog, not much bigger than the rat, hurls itself in pursuit.

‘Good boy, Jack! Get him!’ someone cries from downstairs.

Before I know it, I am standing on a chair in the dining room, clutching my skirts to my legs, while the dog, shaking the rat by its neck, growls and snarls.

Mary, meanwhile, has rushed to the sash window and pushed it open, so that she may vomit outside.

A figure, draped in white – I swear it must be a corpse and bearing with it the putrefaction of the grave – emerges from the open door. But it is Tyson, with a piece of cloth draped over his face and wearing a long linen apron.

‘Beg your pardon, milady,’ he says. ‘We have a bit of a blockage.’

‘A bit of a blockage?’ The smell is so bad I can scarcely breathe.

Mary, wan and wobbly, creeps to my side. ‘Is – is it dead?’

‘Yes, miss. I’m afraid Jack is the only one who’ll have any breakfast this morning . . .’

Mary dashes back to the window.

‘This is intolerable!’ I cry. ‘Can you send for Beck?’

‘I have done so, milady, but I fear we’ll have to dig into the pit, and the rats—’

‘Oh God!’ I cover my mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. ‘Will there be more rats?’

‘There will likely be a few, milady, and they’re bound to run upstairs, for they can get beneath doors just as that one did. But Jack won’t mind, will you, you good dog! It’s grand sport for him, milady.’

I am delighted that one of us is enjoying himself.

Jack picks up his breakfast in his mouth and retires to a corner.

Mrs Tyson, also with her face covered, joins us, her skirts tucked up, and wearing old-fashioned pattens; there must be a veritable flood downstairs.

‘A dreadful thing indeed, milady,’ she says. ‘And now the fire is out.’

She moves towards the front door as someone knocks, and I pray it is someone – even the Duke – who can rescue us.

It is the capable and well-trained Beck, who raises a handkerchief to his nostrils and bows. He does not seem particularly surprised that I am standing on a chair, Mary is vomiting out of the window and a dog in the corner is consuming a rat.

‘Milady, his grace wishes you to leave as soon as it is convenient.’

‘Oh, thank goodness.’

‘Mrs Tyson will help you pack your belongings.’

‘No, no, we shall manage quite well on our own.’ I am afraid that Mrs Tyson, who has been in the thick of the stink, may transfer it to our clothes.

I extricate Mary from the window and lead her upstairs. She is quite ill and weak, so I make her lie on the bed, with a wet cloth on her forehead, while I throw my belongings into trunks and bags, knowing they will be horribly wrinkled. After a while, Mary is recovered enough to totter upstairs to her bed-chamber and retrieve her own things.

And so we leave the Hampstead house; I barely have time to say our farewells to the Tysons, and then we are outside in the blessed fresh air. I shake out my skirts in case they hold any lingering odour and help Mary into the carriage.

‘Where is his grace?’ I ask Beck.

‘He went ahead yesterday, milady, in the best carriage.’

So this luxurious vehicle, also with a coat of arms on the door and furnished inside in leather and velvet, is his second best; even Bludge did not own two such carriages. Despite myself, I am impressed.

‘I suppose we are bound for Northumberland,’ I say.

‘Indeed, ma’am, you are most astute.’

It seems I have underestimated the Duke of Thirlwell.

There is one thing only that prevents me from opening the door of this superior vehicle and seeking liberty – to be precise, one person. Mary has given up all pretence of sitting and lies with her head in my lap, her face pale and sweaty with a greenish tint. I have no doubt now that she carries that rogue Barton’s child.

And to be completely honest, there are a set of lesser reasons that make an escape impractical: what I have to sell – that is, the clothes on my back and my pearl earrings, for I doubt I could flee with any more of my belongings – would not support me for long. I wish to confront Thirlwell with this latest outrage. Above all, I want to see exactly what his grace has in mind for me next, and how involved my alleged friends, the Linsleys and the Rileys, are in the matter.

And although I can hardly bear to admit it, I know Congrevance is tangled in this somehow and I long to see him one more time. I allow myself to dream that somehow I can forgive him.

I am such a fool. He must know I’m Thirlwell’s mistress (or allegedly so); if he were kindly inclined towards me at all, could
he
forgive
me
?

After several stops to change horses, we arrive at a pleasant inn where I am shown into a private room. I am glad to see the table is set for dinner (I am not so indignant or lovelorn that my appetite is lost), and to my great pleasure, Philomena Linsley rises from a chair to give me a hearty kiss.

‘Where is he?’ I mutter. I am not sure of which one I speak.

‘Oh, Thirlwell has gone ahead, you need have no fear, and Beck goes to catch up with his master.’

So I am being handed on to a different set of gaolers, albeit friendly ones, who I am in truth very glad to see.

Philomena glances at Mary, whom I have deposited on another chair. ‘Your maid looks very unwell.’

‘She is.’

‘Travel sickness can be a most unpleasant thing. I’m surprised, for I’d expect Thirlwell’s carriage to be better sprung.’ She sends for her maid Kate and her travelling medicine cabinet, and we embark on a discussion of what might suit Mary best, deciding on a dose of ginger and camomile.

Kate takes Mary upstairs, ostensibly to unpack what we need for the night, but I suspect Kate will do the work while Mary sleeps. After a while, the rest of the party, Linsley, his sons and Admiral and Mrs Riley, arrive from an expedition in the surrounding countryside. Will rushes to my side, enquiring after his friend George and the cat and kittens, and James, somewhat muddy, presents his mother with a bunch of drooping buttercups.

‘We have been to see a ruined castle, Lady Caro,’ Will says. ‘I wish you could have come with us, but there will be other interesting sights, Papa says. And I shall see Mama when we arrive at Lord Thirlwell’s house.’

Mrs Riley cross-questions me about the condition of the cuttings we planted in the garden on her last visit two days before. I have to admit that the garden was the last thing on my mind as we left the house.

James, who has progressed beyond barking, sits for a time on my lap and tells me at great length about a pig they met on their walk. A very friendly young pig, it seems, who showed much interest in them.

‘And then—’ Will says, interrupting him.

‘Let your brother tell the story,’ says Linsley.

‘And then the piggy ate Will’s button.’

Sure enough, Will shows us his coat with the button missing.

‘We’ll have our revenge,’ Linsley murmurs to me. ‘I believe we are to have roast pork for dinner tonight.’

‘And are you brave enough to tell me more of this great conspiracy you and Thirlwell have cooked up?’

‘Why,’ Will sI’m not a clever enough fellow for that sort of thing. I’m just a simple country gentleman.’ He winks at me and shakes out a newspaper. ‘Besides, it would upset Philomena, and I can’t have that happen in her delicate condition.’

‘Well, Lady Elmhurst!’ Admiral Riley takes a seat next to me. ‘We have excellent weather for travel, and two fine carriages between us, for Mrs Riley’s son the Earl of Terrant was good enough to lend us his while he and his family travel on the Continent. We may exchange places often so we do not tire of each other.’