A Most Lamentable Comedy by Janet Mullany

Author:Janet Mullany
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780755354887
Publisher: Little Black Dress
Published: 2011-07-06T23:00:00+00:00

My head certainly needed clearing this morning and I find the ride with Otterwell and Linsley just the thing. Otterwell is in good spirits, playing the gracious host, pointing out features of his land that he is particularly proud of – a tenant’s cottage converted into a miniature Parthenon, for instance.

‘Splendid.’ Linsley reins in his mare. ‘I think, Otterwell, you may have a leak in the roof – see how it sags.’

‘Nonsense, man!’ Otterwell frowns. ‘What ou think, Congrevance? It is to my own plan, you know.’

‘Most artistic, sir, but the chimney looks about to come down.’

Otterwell raises his hat to a woman who hoes the garden, a child at her skirts. ‘A good morning to you, Mrs Fell. And how is young Jack?’

‘Good morning, my lord, sirs. Beg pardon, but I’m Mrs Fuller and this is my daughter Joan. And it’s true what the gentlemen say about the roof and chimney, we’ve had that much damp in here, mushrooms grow in the dresser—’

‘Very well, my good woman. I’ll have the bailiff come out when he’s not busy.’ Otterwell’s tone indicates his tenants have been inconsiderate enough to change names and gender purely to provoke him. He sets forward at a brisk trot.

The ride concludes with an invigorating gallop across a section of heath, brilliant with furze. A pair of kites circle overhead in the bright blue sky. We arrive back at the house and Linsley and Otterwell repair to the morning room for breakfast, while I take a stroll around the grounds. I had hoped the drink last night and the ride this morning might stop me thinking of Caroline.

It hasn’t. I keep remembering last night, Caroline in Linsley’s arms, their low, intimate whispers and laughter. What is wrong with me? I find myself, terrifyingly, wanting her to tell me it is all a terrible misunderstanding, or that I had a nightmare. I want her to smile at me, to kiss me; I want to pick her flowers, like that sentimental clod Barton does for his Mary. I haven’t felt this way, distracted and unsure of myself with a woman, since I was sixteen, and that was a disaster I don’t care to dwell upon. Oh yes, I believed myself then desperately in love—

What? In love?

It must be all the Shakespeare and sentiment and silliness and hot weather and exposed bosoms. I am not myself. Possibly I caught some mysterious malady from that Venetian canal and my brain is affected. This thought does not cheer me.

I wander among Otterwell’s beautifully clipped yews and down a mossy path, at the end of which is a stone bench.

On that bench Caroline lies asleep. Her bonnet dangles from one hand, the other is under her cheek. She looks younger, defenceless and peaceful – so often she has a fierce sort of restlessness that exhilarates and arouses me. I have the urge to protect her – from adventurers such as myself, for instance.

I step forward. I remember how she feels in my arms,

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