Chapter Six. The King's Drops

Some days passed, during which I felt a welcome calm settle upon my spirits.

When Pearce informed me he must return to Whittlesea, I thanked him – with precisely the kind of sentimental profusion he so scorns in me – for saving me, before it was too late, from becoming a veritable lunatic and earnestly begged him to visit me again at Bidnold as soon as his work permitted. He replied that he would pray for me and urged me meanwhile to return to my medical books, "in order," as he put it, "to replace the world of acquisition with the world of knowledge." I had not the heart to tell him that I did not feel capable of doing this. "What I can promise you Pearce," I said, "is that my foolish expectation with regard to all matters Royal is dead. I do not expect, as long as I live, to see the King again. Where my future lies, I cannot tell. In my painting, perhaps?"

I report here that Pearce's opinion of my pictures was very little higher than Finn's, but he made no comment upon this last statement, only busied himself with gathering up his "burning coals" and placing them into a little tragic pile. In a sudden excess of affection for him, I offered to give him my horse, Danseuse, for his journey, but he refused, informing me that the mare was too strong and high-spirited for him and requesting me modestly to purchase a new mule for him.

One of my grooms was duly sent on this errand and returned with a speckled, ungainly creature, "somewhat prone to bite, Sir Robert, but stout-hearted, Sir, for the long trek."

I did not tell Pearce about the biting and the mule was straight away saddled up. Pearce mounted and without further word to me, trotted off down the drive. Just as he reached the first bend, I saw the animal throw its head round and attempt to snap at Pearce's foot. Pearce answered this insult with a kick to the mule's flank and man and beast shot off at gallop, leaving behind them a small plume of dust, at which I stared until it settled.

Feeling chilly and in need of some refreshment, I asked Will to bring a jug of mulled wine to my Withdrawing Room, where I intended to pass an hour or two alone in thought. Somewhat to my consternation, I found Celia there, staring at my bird.

"Ah," I said, "I will not disturb you," beginning to turn and go from the room.

"What is the bird?" enquired Celia.

I hesitated. The notion that Celia, like Pearce, would slander the poor thing depressed me exceedingly.

"It was a gift to me," I said hesitantly. "I am told it is an Indian Nightingale."

"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.