A Most Lamentable Comedy Read Free

side, a man wearing a linen apron bows obsequiously, to my relief. A canny innkeeper must know the presumed value of his customers, and if I have passed his test, I may yet preserve my reputation as a wealthy and respectable widow at Otterwell’s.
    ‘Would you care for some refreshments, milady?’
    ‘I think not, sir. I should like to hire a trap to take me to Lord Otterwell’s.’
    ‘A gentleman has just hired it, milady, and is about to leave, though the driver should be back in an hour or so. If you’d care to step inside . . .’
    Oh, certainly. Caught like a fly in some squalid private parlour where I shall be charged an inordinate amount of money for some weak tea and other refreshment. ‘You have no other means of conveyance, sir?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, milady.’
    The innkeeper bows again, and opens a door, inviting me and my dwindling funds inside. A gust of cooking smells, roasting meat, fresh bread, assails me – oh heavens, I am so hungry I think I shall die. I wonder at what hour Otterwell dines.
    Beside me, Mary, the greedy thing, smacks her lips. ‘A cup of tea would be just the thing. Wouldn’t it, milady?’
    My hunger is followed by ae of nausea. Oh, good heavens, I fear I am about to swoon. And not the swoon I have perfected (have not all ladies? A graceful sinking at the knee with a heartfelt sigh on to the closest piece of comfortable furniture, certain to inspire the nearest gentleman to besotted acts of gallantry). No, this is the real thing – a helpless and sickening plunge into darkness (and the filthy cobbles of the courtyard).
    Mr Nicholas Congrevance

    I’ve forgotten how lovely Englishwomen can be, and she’s entrancing, this stranded beauty surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of her belongings – surely that can’t be a porcelain candlestick peeping out from the large basket? Maybe this is how English ladies travel. Her maid, a cheeky, pretty piece, has already given me the eye and now flutters her lashes at Barton, so she is not able to see her mistress stagger and sway, but I do, and cross the courtyard in a few swift strides. She slumps into my arms, somewhat damp – she must have been caught in the rain – and her bonnet falls from her head and rolls on to the cobbles.
    She is entirely without colour, her eyes and mouth half open, and I hoist her into my arms.
    ‘Why, she don’t usually faint like that, sir,’ her maid offers, swinging her mistress’ hat by the ribbons, and brushing a fleck of horse dung from it.
    ‘She’s ill? Should we send for a doctor?’ I peer into the woman’s face, a perfect oval, long dark lashes on her pale skin, and a mouth a little wide for fashion. A curl of dusky hair, dark brown, tumbles on to my arm.
    ‘No, sir, she’ll be right as rain. I think the journey has been too much for her, poor lady.’
    The obsequious innkeeper bows, holding the door open, and I carry my fragrant armful – moist with a hint of lavender – into a private parlour.
    ‘We’d best loosen her clothing,’ the maid says with great cheerfulness, and unfastens the lady’s spencer and plucks a muslin fichu from her bosom as I deposit her on to a settle.
    Good God.
    Barton, behind me, gives an appreciative grunt.
    ‘Out!’ I push him and the innkeeper out of the door, and order tea and toast for the lady.
    ‘That’s a prime piece, sir,’ Barton says with a chuckle, when I join him outside. ‘A good big arse on her, too.’
    ‘Mind your place,’ I snap at him.
    ‘The maid, sir.’
    ‘Indeed.’ I couldn’t help but notice that myself.
    After a discreet interval of some ten minutes or so, I enter the parlour, where my rescued lady sits, still a trifle pale, before a plate of crumbs and with a teacup in her hand, in an inteesting altercation with her maid.
    ‘Did you have to tell them in London I was covered with stinking sores, milady?’ the servant demands, elbow deep in grubby linen. She folds the items and smacks them on top of the candlestick.