Restoration

nor Fabricius ever possessed any as fine. There was no doubt in my mind that they had come from the King. It was not necessary for him to send any message with them. They themselves were the message. Returning the scalpel to its velvet cushion, I saw, however, that its silver handle had been engraved with the date, December 1664. I turned it and found on the other side a marking of four words.

I held the thing up and saw, written on the handle of this sharpest and most terrible of blades, this terse exhortation: Merivel, Do Not Sleep.

Chapter Nine. The Overseer

With January came the kind of ferocious winds my mother had mentioned in her prayers for the chimneys. Norfolk people call these gales 'The Russian Wind', for this is where they come from, it seems, down from some petrified icy mountain range (the name of which I do not believe I have ever known) and across the northerly oceans to howl round our houses for days and nights together, like the howling of bears and wolves.

Though not as susceptible to cold as, say, Pearce (who can catch any ague from a mere draught) I nevertheless began to notice a most miserable ache in my bones, relief from which could only be had by sitting in a hot bath and having Will rub my backbone with a sponge.

I thus fell to wondering how the men and women of All the Russias survived the dead chill of the winter. I endeavoured to picture in my mind a people I knew nothing of. And this is how they appeared to me: their faces were rubicund and fleshy, all bearing a strong resemblance to the landlord of the Jovial Rushcutters. And their bodies – even the bodies of the women – were fantastically draped about with furs of every kind, furs not fashioned into coats or cloaks but simply hanging and dangling here and there, so that they looked like paupers in tatters, but were inside this assortment of animal skins most comfortable and cheerful.

Now, in my occasional visits to Meg, I let go my stories about the Land of Mar and began a sequence of inventions I entitled Merivel's True Tales of Russia, which succeeded most well with her sweet gullible mind. But more than this, I began to imagine how much more contented all of us at Bidnold would be if we were warm and so placed an order for a large assortment of furs with an ancient London furrier by the name of Jacob Trench. I requested that Trench sew a motley of skins together into simple tabards 'to be placed over the head and hang upon the shoulders, thus leaving the wearer's arms free for such tasks as his station in life dictates, but keeping his trunk warm.'

Trench being old and meticulous and used to making ermine cloaks and the like, fussed me with tedious letters, requesting that I stipulate precisely what furs were to be used and in what quantities and what colour and quality of silk and satin I required for the linings and furthermore suggesting that I come to London with my staff for individual fittings.

Though I felt most vexed by the delay, I could not behave discourteously to Trench, he being such a trusted friend of my father's. I decided therefore to simplify the operation. I instructed Trench to use only badger skins and to line the tabards not with silk or satin but with a sturdy wool cloth, 'such as may be worn even by my groom and my scullery boy.' The cost of the tabards was going to be considerable, but so vivid had my imaginary Russians become that I had convinced myself that I at least could not survive the winter without this peculiar garment of fur. The idea, furthermore, that we could wait out the spring dressed as badgers delighted me considerably. No more would I be told I must be quiet to chance upon a badger in the woods of Vauxhall; I would become a badger.

Meanwhile, we waited. Ice formed in the well and the ravaging frost made cracks in the roof tiles. A chimney pot came hurtling down and decapitated a guinea fowl. 'How slowly, how slowly time passes,' said Celia, warming her hands by the fire. 'How shall I endure it?'

There was indeed a kind of sameness to each day. In the mornings, I would persuade Celia to come to my Music Room and sing. My oboe practice had increased tenfold. I would rise at dawn, in the freezing dark and take up my instrument and struggle with scales and arpeggios until the sun crept into the sky but, despite this, I was unable to accompany Celia with any grace at all and, whenever I attempted to do so, she would cease her singing almost at once and pray me not to bother. Thus, there was not, of course, the duet that I had fancifully imagined, but only Celia's voice, singing alone, singing of lost love, while I sat on a chair and stared at her white throat and wondered if time or chance or 'the changeful nature of all things' would ever allow me to put my lips tenderly upon it.

At noon, I would dine with Celia, but these meals were becoming irksome to me, owing to the constant presence of Farthingale who was growing more odious and ugly as the days passed, but from whom Celia would seldom permit herself to be parted.

In the afternoons on fine days, I would ride in my park, urging Danseuse to her splendid gallop. Celia's little dog, Isabelle, whom she could not be bothered to exercise, ran snapping at our heels for some of the way and when we outran her would turn and trot home to her mistress who sat dreaming by the fire in her room, reading the poetry of Dryden or doing her eternal petit point.

There was no doubt, Celia was languishing. She was polite to me because she believed the King had made me her overseer. Upon my report of her depended her return to London – or so she understood it to be. But I knew what I was to her: I was a penance she had to endure. I was as irritating to her as my oboe playing, as ugly and discordant. The idea that she could ever love or respect me, I now saw was utterly preposterous. I was on the point of abandoning my ploy to keep her at Bidnold beyond the King's stated time when a most strange incident occurred.

I had spent an evening in my Studio, trying to draw in charcoal the Russians of my unreliable imagination, abandoning my hopeless smudges and scribbles at last towards midnight. I undressed and put on my warmest nightshirt and a nightcap with a little lining of rabbitskin, got into my turquoise bed and fell at once into a heavy sleep.

I woke in some confusion. A hand was pressing my shoulder and a voice was urging me to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw Celia, wrapped in a cloak, bending over me. She was holding a lighted candle and her long hair fell loose about her face, like a curtain.

'Merivel,' she said in a whisper of great urgency, 'come down. Your bird is dying.'

'My nightingale?'

'Yes. You are a physician. It will die if something is not done.'

I did not know what time it could be, for I had forgotten to wind my timepiece (if I had been the King, I would have had a diversity of clocks to choose from). I knew only that it was the very middle of the night and so cold that I could see my breath by the light of the candle.

Having given her message, Celia fled from my room, taking the candle with her so that I was left in utter darkness. As I struggled to light a lamp, find my wig and my stockings and wrench a blanket from the bed in which to wrap myself, I wondered why in the world Celia had been looking at my bird at this peculiar hour-she who, with the griping Farthingale, habitually retired to her room no later than nine o'clock. I was more puzzled by this than filled with worry for my bird, until that is I reached my Withdrawing Room at last and saw the poor thing.

Celia had placed the cage on the carpet in front of a fire upon which new logs had been laid. I knelt down.

'Look,' said Celia. 'It has fallen over.'

It was lying on the floor of the cage, its legs in the air, one wing feebly flapping.

'What is to be done, Merivel?'

I looked up at Celia. I had detected in her voice a note of great sadness, of despair even. I was so utterly astonished that she should appear to care so much for something that, I, too, cared about that I was speechless, thus causing her to say once more:

'Merivel, what is to be done?'

I looked again at the nightingale. Its marigold eye, usually such a bright thing, appeared clouded, almost as if a membrane obscured it, but though I diligently searched what remained of my medical mind, I could not recollect what this might signify. I rubbed my eyes. Starved of sleep, wearied by drawings of Russians, I could discover no sensible path to follow.

'I do not know what is to be done, Celia,' I said.