Restoration (15 page)

So it was then that I entered the room and the music ceased abruptly, as I predicted it would, and Celia turned upon me a gaze full of astonishment and hope and Sir Joshua put down his instrument and held out his hand most cordially to me. I bowed to them both. "I am returned, as you can see," I said superfluously, and then began to compliment them upon their musical talents. Celia was not, of course, in the least interested in my opinion of her singing, but urged me to tell her at once what message I had brought from London. I remained calm in the face of her anxiety and impatience. I offered her my arm.

"If," I said, "you would do me the honour of taking a turn with me in the garden, I will inform you of all that has passed."

Celia cast a look of anguish at her father, but he nodded and so without more ado she laid her white hand on my sleeve and we walked to the hall, where I imperiously summoned Farthingale to go running for a cloak for her mistress.

The day was cold and the sun already a little low in the sky. The shadows cast by Celia and me were long, thus elongating me a great deal, so that had you but glimpsed us on the flat stones, you would have mistaken us for a very elegant couple.

After some moments, during which I rehearsed in my mind what I was about to say, I conveyed to Celia the following fiction, which I had invented on the spot, but by which I found myself to be agreeably impressed. "The King," I said, "would give no promise whatsoever with regard to you. He asks, simply, that you remain here – here at Bidnold and nowhere else – until what he termed 'an awareness of the changeful nature of all things' has grown upon you."

Celia stared at me, utterly disbelieving. "'The changeful nature of all things'? And why would he have me learn that, pray?"

"I cannot say, Celia," I replied. "All His Majesty would say was that he wished you to learn it, but believed it would take time, it being the case that the more youthful a person is, the harder it may be for such understanding to take root."

"And yet," retorted Celia, "has he not, in his cruel repudiation of me, made certain that I have had such an awareness harshly thrust upon me?"

"Indeed," I ventured, "but he is a great deal wiser than you or I, Celia, wise enough to know that, though there is always some learning in times of misfortune or loss, it is only through quiet reflection after the event has passed that we can put such learning to good use."

"But how long is such 'quiet reflection' to last? Am I to grow old in 'quiet reflection' and see my beauty vanish and all that once pleased him come to decay?"

"No. I'm sure he does not intend that."

"Then will it be weeks, months…?"

"He would not tell me, Celia."

"Why?
Why
would he not tell you?"

"Because he cannot say. He has put the matter into your hands and into mine."

"Into yours?"

"Yes. For I am to be the one to tell him – in his own words – When she has fitted her mind with wisdom and put from her all illusion."

"So!" and at this moment Celia pulled her hand roughly from my arm, "
You
are to be Judge! The King sends his Fool to decide on a matter of learning! May he forgive me, Merivel, but this does not strike me as just."

"No. Undoubtedly not. And yet I perceive a kind of justice in it. For I am not, as some other protector might be, enamoured of my role, in that I do not consider myself to be worthy of it. Thus, it is in my interest that you embark upon this journey of learning as quickly as possible, Celia, so that I may return to my life of foolishness, you to your house in Kew and the King to your bed."

"But how am I to come by this wisdom? By what means am I to 'embark'?"

"I do not know. Unless through your one peerless gift -through your singing."

"Through my singing?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"I do not know. I can only guess that this must be your route. In my mediocre way, I am arriving at some misunderstanding of myself and the world through my efforts at painting and I venture to suggest that if you sing, say, of love or betrayal, or I know not what, you will learn not only something of these things, but also of the infinite ways by which men and women deceive themselves and the ruses they employ to make themselves master of another's destiny. And so your journey will already have begun…"

Celia did not look at all cheered by my suggestion. She drew her cloak around her and shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.

"If he had asked of me any practical thing, I would have done it," she said, "but how can I obey a command I do not fully understand? How will I ever obey it?"

"I do not know," I said for the third or fourth time. "I am certain, however, that you shall find a way, through music. And I will do all I can to help you."

That evening, Celia and Farthingale not deigning to stir from the Rose Room, I dined alone with Sir Joshua Clemence, a man who continues to treat me with great civility and for whom I have infinite respect. To my delight, he told me that the decorations at Bidnold amused him and that, though he did not find them restful, they indicated to him that I possessed "a most boisterous originality of mind and this in an age of slavish imitation and apishness."

He then, over a most flavoursome carbonado of pig produced by Cattlebury, broached the subject of his daughter, informing me (as if I did not know it already) that, having given her heart to the King, it was impossible for her to care at all for anyone or anything else on earth. "Even her mother and myself," he said, "though she is loyal and kindly to us, if the King demanded of her that she sacrifice us to get his love, I do believe she would.do it."

"Sir Joshua -" I began.

"I do not exaggerate, Merivel," he said. "For this is the nature of obsession; it is like a fathomless well, into which even those persons or things previously held dear may one day be thrown."

"So what is to become of Celia, if the King does not call her back?"

"He
must
call her back! She has told me what has been said to you. And so the matter rests in your hands, Merivel. If I read the thing rightly, she has been too importunate with the King. You must help her to see the folly of this. Cynicism is the only form of armour in this age and even my sweet daughter must learn to put it on. She must learn that what she hopes for will never happen."

"What does she hope for?"

"I cannot say, Merivel. I am too ashamed to say."

I did not pester Sir Joshua on this matter and we ate the carbonado in silence for some minutes, during which I was forced to spit out a piece of gristle Cattlebury had inadvertently left in the stew. At length Sir Joshua said:

"You are quite right in believing that she may find some solace – and perchance wisdom – through her singing. While discarding much else, her love for song has remained with her, mainly because it seems it was her voice which first captured the King's heart."

"I know…" I began, "or rather, I did not know… but can imagine…"

"Yes. So by all means encourage her to sing. You play an instrument, I presume."

"Well, the oboe, Sir Joshua, but – "

"Good. She is most fond of the oboe."

"But will you not remain here at Bidnold? Will you not stay with us and accompany Celia on your viola?"

"How courteous of you. But no, I cannot, for my wife is not well and has need of me. I would dearly have loved to take Celia home, but I understand the King wishes her to remain with you."

"So he instructed me."

"Then she must stay. We are now near to Christmas. Pray do all you can Merivel to get her back to Kew before the spring comes."

That night, as I climbed into my soft bed, which I had not seen for more than a week, I expected to be punished for my lies in my dreams. But I was not. All I remember is a most agreeable dream of Meg Storey. I painted her portrait. In the picture, she was wearing a dress of hessian, such as I had seen upon the old woman pissing in the ditch, but her face above it appeared most beautiful and full of joy.

Here I am then, in my crimson suit, as I described myself at the beginning of this tale. You have all too clear a picture of me now, have you not? And, as you see, I am hedged about with events. I am, precisely as I suggested, in the middle of a story, but who can say yet – not you, not I – how it will end? It is too soon, even, to say how one would wish it to end. The delight or disappointment lies in all the surprises yet to come.

I am striving, since the arrival of Celia, to put some control upon my appetites, so that she may like me more, or at least despise me less. I have tempered my greed. I have made no visits to the Jovial Rushcutters. I have cut down on my consumption of wine and sack. I have restrained my farts. But tonight, alas, I am acting like a very fool and debauche. I am at the Bathursts and a great party is in progress in the hall. The Duke and Duchess of Winchelsea are here and assorted other witty aristocrats. We have drunk a great quantity of champagne, and now we are all screaming and braying with mirth, for old Bathurst, who disappeared suddenly half an hour ago, has just ridden into the hall on his vast stallion which, afrighted no doubt by the sight of us, has arched its tail and farted and then through a quivering black anus has let fall onto the parquet a most glistening quantity of shit. Winchelsea is laughing so hard, his face is puce and his eyes bulging, and when I glance up at Violet (who holds her liquor like a Wapping bargeman) I see that she, too, is convulsed behind her fan.

I sway to my feet. "A pox on wisdom!" I shout. "Let us all play at mares and stallions!"

"Ole!" cries Winchelsea and stamps his feet like a dancer of the Flamenco (feet that are perpetually kept, I must add, in extraordinarily high-heeled shoes, Winchelsea not being as tall as he would wish) and at once the whole company falls to clapping their hands and stamping, all that is except an obese elderly man opposite me who has turned to Lady Winchelsea and with his fat hands removed her left breast from her dress and is holding it, as if it were an object of immense weight and value – a ninepin made of solid gold, say.

I lean over to get Lady Winchelsea's attention.

"My Lady," I say, "your neighbour has appropriated something of yours!"

She looks down. She sees her white bosom cupped in her neighbour's florid hands. She gives me a smile of haughty disdain. "Yes," she says, "naturally, he has."

I then feel myself punched hard in the small of the back by a man I knew at Court, an effeminate cavalier by the name of Sir Rupert Pinworth. "Legends!" he says. "Did you not know they were legends, Merivel?"

"What are legends, pray?" I ask.

"Frances Winchelsea's bosoms. Are they not, Frances?"

Lady Winchelsea grins at Pinworth. Her neighbour has now placed his quivering lips around her nipple. Taking no more heed of this than if he had offered her a bowl of radishes, she nods and leans back in her chair and extracts from her bodice her other breast, upon which there is a most fetching brown mole.

The company has not ceased its stamping and clapping, but now most have turned their gaze upon Frances Winchelsea and are applauding her bosoms. I look at Winchelsea. Though somewhat discomforted by the fact that Bathurst 's stallion is backing into his chair, he, too, is applauding. And I suddenly feel most exceedingly stupid. Everyone at the table but me appears to take it quite for granted that Frances Winchelsea's breasts will be displayed and admired in the course of any evening where she is present. I realise all at once how my long sojourn in Norfolk has severed me from the sources of gossip and "legend." I no longer know what is being done or said in high society. My face is burning. I cannot describe to you how foolish I feel. I hide my embarrassment by burying my face in my glass and quaffing yet more champagne.

When I look up again, I see that Lady Winchelsea's breasts have been put away, but that her elderly neighbour is still leaning towards her, his mouth a-dribble. To cheer myself up, I have a wager with Pinworth that the old man's hand is upon his prick. I hear myself bet twenty shillings and sixpence. Pinworth guffaws very prettily, showing his elegant teeth. He pushes back his chair and scrambles under the table. He re-emerges quickly, his face aflame.

"Not merely upon it, Merivel!" he declares. "But entirely around it. He has taken the ancient thing out!"

"Then you owe me money, Pinworth!"

He giggles. He informs me he has no money whatsoever, but lives entirely off the favours his beauty can command. "Do not underestimate beauty," he declares. "It is the hardest currency to be had." He is lying about the twenty shillings and sixpence but, before I can upbraid him, he fixes me with his languid brown eyes and says: "I hear your wife is very beautiful."

I look quickly at Violet, to see if the word "wife" (the mention of which causes her such a deal of anger) has reached her ears, but she is not at her place. She has risen and is attempting to restrain Bathurst 's stallion, the eyes of which are wild and white and which looks as if it will rear or bolt any minute.

Knowing that it is only the quantity of wine I have drunk which prevents me from feeling apprehensive about a sudden death by trampling, I return my attention to Pinworth. "Yes," I say, "Celia is a most pretty woman."

"But," says Pinworth, "I also hear she won't let you lay a finger upon her!"

It is at this moment that Violet succeeds in leading the horse out, Bathurst being now so drunk, he is a slack heap upon it, and so, for some new distraction, the guests now cease their clapping and stamping and turn their attention to me and my role as cuckold which, it seems, is known throughout the land and appears to be a subject that is aired as frequently as Lady Winchelsea's nipples.

I am bombarded by questions. Even Lady Winchelsea's elderly neighbour takes his eyes from her long enough to enquire of me: "How does it strike you, being locked out of the bedroom?" I am about to reply that I give the matter no thought whatsoever, but it seems that I'm not allowed to speak, but only to be the butt of jokes and questions. As is my way, I smile good-naturedly When I am told that I would be a good subject for a play,
Sir Willingly Deceived
, I slap my crimson thigh and guffaw in agreement. "I would be flattered to be portrayed in a play!" I hear myself declare, but in truth, drunk as I am and eager as I was this night to engage in exorbitant revelling, I feel my good humour being suddenly pricked, as if by a brittle shard of ice. And I know only I feel this. Still grinning, I look from one face to another. What I see behind the smiles and what I hear in the laughter is pity.