Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton (28 page)

The question of entertainment was more complicated and debatable. Would His Majesty and the Duchess of Portsmouth (her resigned, good-natured little Majesty need not be considered) look for something sophisticated, or would they be in the mood for revelry of an unpretentious and pastoral nature? Barbara and her gay young friends were in favour of private theatricals, and had gone so far as to select a play in which Barbara was to act the part of the heroine who disguised herself as a boy to escape the attentions of an elderly and dissolute admirer, with all manner of ludicrous and diverting consequences. But Sir Ralph, who could not see why a costly and heavy supper should not be enough entertainment for anyone, King or commoner, having watched a rehearsal and expressed his dislike of the idea of his wife masquerading in male attire, flatly refused
to sanction the performance unless all the impertinent and immodest parts were left out. As this meant leaving out most of the play, Barbara sulkily abandoned the idea.

Old Lady Skelton suggested a masque.
²
Barbara declared that masques were old-fashioned. Nevertheless it was undeniable that Maryiot Cells would make an exquisite setting for an open-air performance of this kind, the formal gardens gaudy with flowers, the smooth grass sloping down to the glassy river, and across the water the velvet darkness of the yew glades. Perhaps after all, Barbara thought, it would be a mistake to try and imitate the sophisticated licentiousness of Whitehall; better to use the peaceful beauty of her surroundings as a background for her own unusual personality. And then it occurred to her – not a masque with its banal and tedious route of Savages, and Satyrs, Rustics, Witches and Cupids, and all the household, even Agatha Trimble and Cousin Jonathan, clamouring to dress up and take part, but a ballet danced by herself and a selected few from her younger and better-looking acquaintances, as she had heard that the nobles and ladies of King Louis' Court danced at Versailles. And so, after many arguments and discussions, the ballet was hastily evolved, the music written by a talented young man who was staying at Maryiot Cells, the dances arranged and rehearsed.

The ballet was based on the story of Diana and Actæon.
³
Barbara was to be Diana, the Queen Huntress, goddess of the Moon and of the chase. Her costume of fine white silk was to be a becoming blend of the modern and the antique. The low-cut bodice, though modish in outline, left her smooth pale shoulders as exposed as those of any classical
goddess; her tight, silver-laced corsage was fashionably seventeenth century; the folds of her clinging dress, slit up the sides to imitate a hunting tunic, boldly displayed the shape, and sometimes even afforded a glimpse, of her beautiful legs. Her quiver of arrows was silver; she had silver sandals on her feet; a crescent moon of diamonds glittered in her rich bronzen hair.

A cluster of willow trees by the river bank would make an admirable grove where Diana and her nymphs could disport themselves, dancing in stately measure, till the audacious young hunter, prying upon the goddess's privacy, provoked her indignation and his doom. The nymphs would gather round young Charles Rich, while he hastily fixed on his head the antlers which were to indicate his metamorphosis into a stag. All the young sparks of the neighbourhood were eager to wear skin rugs and to be the hounds who were to fall on their master and tear him to pieces; but Lady Skelton, who had no intention of allowing the ballet to degenerate into a rough-and-tumble, insisted on their numbers being kept down to manageable proportions. The audience was to sit on the gently sloping grass facing the river, and so would have an excellent view of Diana and her nymphs as they emerged from the dark background of the yew glades and crossed the low stone-bridge.

Everything had been thought out and planned as far as time permitted; only the weather remained unaccountable. Supposing it was sullen and overcast, or worse still supposing it rained, drenching the flimsy-clad goddess and her nymphs, and the richly-clad audience? If the weather was uncertain the ballet would have to be performed in
the long gallery or Great Hall, in which case it would lose much of its charm. Amid all the bustle of preparation the weather became the chief topic of conversation. On the whole there was dismay when, three days before the date of the royal visit, it became hot and cloudless. It was feared that this sudden heat could not last. ‘I mistrust that bright blue sky. Depend upon it the weather will break before their Majesties arrive,' grumbled Cousin Jonathan as he puffed about the bowling-green. Still, sunny days, heavy with heat and with summer's perfumes, flamed and faded into evenings as limpid as water. The short nights were breathless, hardly much cooler than the days. But Cousin Jonathan was wrong. The dawn of the day – the King's day – was as radiant and full of promise as its predecessors. ‘King's weather' everyone said, in the exuberance of their excitement and relief.

Barbara, preoccupied with preparations for the royal visit and thoughts of the success and admiration which she confidently expected to win, gave little heed to a matter which was of considerable interest to other, less self-absorbed members of the family. Paulina Skelton, who had been staying for the past six months with an aunt near Woburn, was returning to her home on the day of the royal visit, bringing with her a young man, Christopher Locksby, to whom it was understood she would shortly become engaged. Her relations were well satisfied at the prospect. The Locksbys were an old, highly esteemed and well-to-do
family. The young man, who had recently returned from a prolonged tour of Europe, was reported to be all that was most amiable – good-looking, of a cheerful spirit, lively wit and agreeable manners.

Barbara, who thought Paulina dull, smiled maliciously when she heard these panegyrics. ‘Our Paulina has done wisely to wait so long,' she said, making Paulina's twenty years sound like forty, ‘since she has apparently secured for herself a paragon such as few of us poor women can hope to mate with.'

It was as well, she thought, that Paulina was to be married at last. She was one of those reserved, silent girls who might either remain unwed (and in Barbara's opinion there were quite enough female relations as it were at Maryiot Cells), or else suddenly elope with someone unsuitable, such as the family chaplain.

When, she wondered with a stab of jealousy and a surge of her familiar restlessness, would some new impulse set the stagnant water of her own life flowing again? Since her return from London in the spring she had gone out regularly, though less frequently than before, on the Highway. Jerry Jackson's death had been a shock to her but not a deterrent. He was, as he had written of himself, ‘overripe for the gallows'. Men like Jerry Jackson, common adventurers and rogues when all was said and done, were born to die at a rope's end. Not so ladies of birth and rank like Barbara Skelton. She had no fears for her own safety. She was impressed by her own extraordinary luck. Each threat to her purpose had been swept from her path, she thought complacently.

But she had to admit to herself that she could not recapture the fevered excitement of those early days when she had first taken to the Road, nor the intoxicating delights of robbing and loving in company with ‘Gentleman' Jackson. The danger remained, the momentary thrill, the secret satisfaction of her hidden life, but something was missing. What it was she did not know, for her heart, for all her crimes and passions, understood nothing, and so could not tell her that she was lonely.

People remembered afterwards how beautiful Barbara Skelton had looked. It was such a brilliant day, the epitome of summer; the air was motionless, drowsy with sunshine yet vibrant with the myriad small sounds of a summer's day. Perhaps it was the very perfection of the day that gave it an air of unreality, of expectation, as though such perfection was too great a burden to be laid on a mutable world. There was a painted look about the formal gardens, inlaid with the glowing colours of flowers, the translucent greenness of the trees and their intense lacy shadows, the lawns sloping down to the topaz river, and the rainbow-coloured silks, satins and brocades of the chattering, fashionable throng.

Then the sound of music, the lilting, plaintive voices of flutes, flageolets,
⁴
violins and harpsichord, pure and deliberate as drops of spring water, floated through the slumberous air and, because the day was so beautiful, it seemed to even the more critical of the audience that this was a melody more sweet than ordinary.

A hush fell on the spectators as the little group of dancers glided out from the mysterious darkness of the yew groves, a bevy of green-robed nymphs and, in their midst, the white and silver figure of the divine huntress. People had not known before how exquisitely Barbara Skelton moved, how proudly she held herself, worshipping in each fluid step and gesture her own youth and grace and loveliness. Diana-Artemis would have danced like this in the Attic sunshine, disdaining in her superb virginity any other temple than the forest solitude.

The dancers crossed the bridge, drew near the audience, sank down in attitudes of studied languor and abandon on the sward. The King leant forward and looked at Lady Skelton, his lean sallow cheek propped on his hand, a gleam of more than usual interest in his heavy-lidded eyes.

And Barbara? In this moment of triumph one man's face stood out from the crowd, caught her attention, set her heart beating wildly. It was not the King's face.

Paulina was standing near the royal party and by her side stood a young, fair-haired man. He was a good height without being very tall, well and sturdily built; his face was comely, more than strikingly handsome, but with a look of gaiety, good humour and candour in his bright blue eyes and on his wide, well shaped mouth that Barbara was sure she had never seen before on any man's face. He was looking at her in a kind of wondering and delighted admiration, and instantly, in a lightning flash, she wished to possess that amiable and candid gaiety and bask in it for the rest of her life. Paulina's hand was resting possessively on his
sleeve. So this was Kit Locksby whom Paulina expected to marry. So much the worse for her.

The great day was drawing to its close. Hundreds of pounds' worth of food had been consumed in an hour or so at the sumptuous supper that had followed the ballet. The royal couple and the royal mistress had paid their gracious compliments and given their gracious thanks (His Majesty expressing a hope that he would see Lady Skelton at Court that autumn) and taken their leave. Coach after coach filled with courtiers and their hangers-on had rolled away down the beech avenue.

While the servants tried to bring order into the prevalent confusion and set the place to rights, the family, exhausted and gratified, milled to and fro aimlessly in the garden, reluctant after the excitements of the day to settle down to an ordinary evening's routine.

Young Lady Skelton stood on the lower terrace chatting in an animated manner with her mother-inlaw, her brother-in-law Roger, Paulina and Kit Locksby. It was clear that she was a trifle overstrung, and who could wonder? As hostess, as principal performer in the ballet, she had carried out her exacting tasks with remarkable verve. A faint flush stained the creamy pallor of her cheeks, her green eyes glistened between the long lashes, her strange nostrils looked more than ever like wings poised for flight.