Restoration

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