Rose Tremain - Restoration

"It is most beautiful," said Celia. "Only it does not sing."

Celia turned her face towards me then and I saw that it had regained some measure of its youthfulness and repose. It struck me, as it had never struck me hitherto, that she was indeed a very pretty woman.

"Well," I said. "It does sing. But it has to be encouraged. I could, if you wish, fetch my oboe and play a few notes to it and you might hear its very melodious trill."

"Pray, do," said Celia.

I shall now tell you that, in the preceding days, during which I had begun to regain some solace of mind, I had spent many hours alone in my Music Room doing battle with my instrument, as a result of which I was now able to play a little song upon it, entitled Swans Do All A-Swimming Go .

It was this then, after I had offered Celia a glass of mulled wine and she had, to my astonishment, accepted it, which I attempted to play for her and the bird. Like all beginners, I made a false start or two, but eventually succeeded in playing the piece quite jauntily. When I had finished, Celia, who had been watching me, turned away and put a hand up to her mouth, as if to hide a smile. I was not the least offended, because my efforts with these wretched Swans amused me greatly and, as I laid the oboe down, I burst out laughing. Celia now could no longer contain her mirth, and for a full minute we stood side by side and laughed and the bird opened its marigold beak and poured out at us a crystalline trill.

A most pleasant hour then ensued. Uninterrupted by the odious Farthingale, Celia and I drank the spiced wine and, with great dignity and courage, she asked me to forgive her for the insults of the morning in the Marigold Room. "The truth is," she said, "I believe we live in an age where many are made fools and many are deceived. I, in my faith in the King's love, am very probably as foolish as you. And yet I am convinced he will call me back to him."

"Celia," I began, "is it not better not to hope…?"

"I have no choice," she said, "I must hope or die. For to no other thing on earth do I give any value whatsoever. There if no other thing for me but this."

"Then with all my heart I shall pray that King Charles will send for you. But meanwhile – "

"Meanwhile, Merivel, accept my gratitude for this lodging. I shall spend much of my days alone, but I trust the times when we meet may be as cordial as this."

"Amen," I said.

"Merely, Merivel, do not expect me to be merry."

"I shall not."

"And I would ask you, now that Sophia and I are comfortable in the Rose Room, to let this be my private habitation. Never, if you will, come near it."

"Naturally, I would not…"

"Then we shall endure," she said, "until a better time arrives."

She stood up to leave then. Emboldened by her honesty and courtesy, I asked her whether she would sup with me that evening. She hesitated only momentarily before replying that she would.

So overjoyed by this was I, that I descended at once to the kitchen. To Cattlebury's creative hands, I consigned a menu of eel tart, pigeon breasts stewed with madeira and Spanish plums, roasted quail with a salad of fennel, followed by egg pudding and boiled apples. Farthingale, I commanded, was to be served her supper upstairs.

She came flying down to Bidnold in her coach and the snorting and whinnying of her horses was to be heard far and wide. She entered my house in all her most magnificent finery with her head held high and proud, my Lady Bathurst with a great anger and lust upon her!

She demanded to see me. She was told I was at supper with my wife. She pushed past the servants and swept into the Dining Room, where Celia and I were at work upon the eel tart. She stared at us. She wore on her head a most admirable velvet cap, from which protruded upright two pheasant tails, a most peculiar but arresting fashion. I gazed at her.

She did not have to speak for me to understand the crime of which I stood accused. Since the arrival of Pearce, I had not once been to visit her or sent word to her. By now, the news that my wife had come would have reached her and she would have wrongly supposed this to be the cause of my neglect.

I must now tell you that Violet Bathurst's language, learnt I suspect from Bathurst and the hunting field, can turn at times most deliciously vulgar and I saw, even as Violet opened her mouth, that this would be one such time. Anxious that Celia be spared accusations that would distress her, I stood up, bowed and apologised to my wife, caught Violet by her angry wrist and pulled her peremptorily from the room.

Letting her fury rain down upon my head, I led her quickly to my Withdrawing Room, where I slammed my door behind us, took the wild struggling creature in my arms and kissed her with considerable force. Her body was hot and trembling and her rage seemed to have perfumed her skin with a scent so magnificently irresistible that in a matter of moments I had torn the pheasant tails from her head, lain her down upon the carpet from Chengchow, unbuttoned my breeches and entered her with more passion and haste than I had felt for any woman since my lost afternoons of Rosie Pierpoint. With each push of my loins, Violet swore at me, thus further exciting both herself and me, so that shrieking and foul-mouthing each other, we arrived together at our little moment of ecstasy and clung to each other, swooning and gasping as it passed.

We stood up at last. Violet had ceased her shrieking. I kissed her shoulder, swearing on the life of my sweet mother that I was not, nor would ever be, in the habit of touching my wife and promised to visit her the following evening and spend the night in her bed. At which time, I told her, I would explain my absence, which had been caused only by a visit from my friend Pearce, with whom I had had such grave discourse that all thoughts of pleasure had been dislodged from my mind.

I fastened the pheasant tail hat to her lovely head. She placed a very tender kiss on my flat nose and obediently left. I waited until I heard her coach clatter off into the night, and then returned to the Dining Room. The eel tart had been removed and the pigeons served. Celia sat upright and still, sipping her wine.

"I must apologise," I said, "for the unforeseeable interruption. Pray do begin upon your pigeons."

"Thank you," said Celia. "Your cook, at least, is exceedingly good. Tell me, Merivel, do you have mistresses?"

"Naturally," I replied, "I am a man of my time."

"And is that woman one of them?"

"She is. Her name is Lady Bathurst."

"And do you love her?"

"Ah," I said, "that word that finds itself so frequently upon our lips!"

"Well?"

"No, Celia. I do not love her. Now pray tell me how you find Cattlebury's madeira sauce?"

Celia replied that it was excellent. My unexpected exertions with Violet had given me a ravening hunger and I set upon several pigeons with somewhat unseemly attack. I was wiping my mouth in preparation for the quail when I heard the unmistakable sound of a horse cantering swiftly up the drive. Moments later, just as the quail were being put before us, the Dining Room door was flung open once more and Will Gates came rushing in.

"A letter, Sir!" he said excitedly. "Come this very moment from London."

"Very well, Will. There's no need for such haste. Give it to me."

He put the letter into my hands. He looked at it and I looked at it. We both knew, by the unmistakable seal upon it, that what had arrived on this extraordinary night was a letter from the King.

It is in my possession still, this letter.

This is what it says:

Merivel,

To our dear Fool, we send greetings.

Pray be good enough to visit us in our Physic Garden at eight o'clock before noon tomorrow, Friday December the tenth in this the fourth year of our Reign, 1664.