Lament for a lost lover

“They say it was a great love affair between Buckingham and Shrewsbury’s wife,” said Charlotte.

“She has been his mistress,” Carleton put in. “That has been common knowledge for a long time and Shrewsbury, like a self-respecting husband, challenged Buckingham to a duel.”

Harriet smiled at Uncle Toby. “Would you do that, my darling, if I took a lover?”

Uncle Toby almost choked with laughter. “I would indeed, my love.”

“Just like my Lord Shrewsbury,” cried Harriet, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “I hope,” went on Carleton looking steadily at her, “that you would not behave like Lady Shrewsbury. That lady dressed herself as a page and held Buckingham’s horse while the duel took place, and as soon as it was over and Shrewsbury mortally wounded, the lovers went to an inn and Buckingham made love to her dressed as he was in his bloodstained clothes.”

“An act of defiance against morality,” I said.

“Trust you to discover that,” said Carleton half mocking, half admiring.

“And what is going to happen to these wicked people?” asked Matilda. “Shrewsbury is dying, and Buckingham is living openly with Lady Shrewsbury. The King has expressed his displeasure but has forgiven Buckingham. He is such an amusing fellow, and in any case Charles is too much of a realist to condemn others for what he practises so assiduously himself.”

“Not duelling,” said Charlotte.

“No, adultery,” added Carleton. “Charles hates killing. He thinks Shrewsbury was a fool. He should have accepted the fact that his wife preferred Buckingham and left it at that.”

“Kings set the fashion at courts,” said Charlotte. “How different from Cromwell.”

“One extreme will always follow another,” pointed out Carleton “If the Puritans had not been so severe, those who followed might not have been so lax.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Matilda, “what a pity things can’t be as they were before the war and all these troubles arose.”

“It’s the perpetual sighing for the old days, I fear,” said Carleton. “They seem so good looking back. It’s a disease called nostalgia. It affects quite a lot of us.”

He was looking at me, resenting the happiness I had had with Edwin, believing that in spite of what I had discovered I still remembered it.

The celebration took place shortly after that conversation. It began as a happy occasion and almost ended in disaster. For several days they had been preparing for it in the kitchens and our table was a credit to the servants. We had the family and the Dollans and the Cleavers and another family who came from a few miles away. The two boys were with us and everyone was complimenting me on Edwin’s healthy looks and saying that there could be little wrong with a boy who could recover so quickly from a virulent fever.

Harriet somehow managed to make herself the centre of attraction just as she had in the old days. She sang for us, and as she sat there strumming her lute with her lovely hair falling over her shoulders, my mind went right back to the days in Congreve when she had seemed to me like a goddess from another world. That she seemed just that to Uncle Toby was obvious. He was so proud of her, so much in love, and it occurred to me that even if she had contrived to marry him for what she could get, at least she had made him happy.

I was pleased too that Matthew Dollan was there, and Charlotte, too. Charlotte seemed to be quite happy, although she could not rid herself of that suspicious attitude which seemed to say, I know you’re only being pleasant to me because it’s polite to be so. When the children had gone to bed we went to the ballroom which had been made ready for dancing, and there the musicians played and we were very merry. As Carleton led me into the dance, he asked if I felt it was an occasion worthy of the reason for having it.

“I think it goes well,” I said.

“A thanksgiving because our young Edwin was snatched from the gates of death?”

I shivered.

“What a fond and foolish mother you are, Arabella! The boy is completely healthy. You should be thanking the fates for my return to you, not his from the aforementioned gates.”

“It is to celebrate two happy events.”

“So you are glad to have me back?”

“Have I not made that clear?”

“On occasions,” he said. “I say, look at Toby.”

I looked. He was dancing with Harriet. His face was overred I thought and his breaking a little short.

“He drank too much wine,” I said.

“Not unusual, I’m afraid.”

“Harriet shouldn’t let him exert himself like that. Will you speak to her?”

“I will. When the dance is over.”

But that was to prove too late, for there was a sudden cry, and a hushed silence.