I observed Celia closely. Her beautiful smile, which I had seen so often given to the King, but scarcely ever to me, was almost constantly upon her lips, thus rendering her most infinitely pretty and sweet. Hers is the kind of sweetness which, once glimpsed, makes my heart tender – as if towards a child – and my manhood cruel – wanting to possess and abuse that very same childlike thing. I saw that Finn was utterly captivated by her. I saw also that Celia knew him to be captivated and did not mind, indeed allowed herself to flirt a little with him. And this last observation created in me a bitter yearning. Why – when she was my wife – could she not behave so charmingly to me?
I sat and watched her until I could endure it no longer, then went to the Music Room and played some foul blasts upon my oboe and kicked over my music stand, then threw the instrument down and went calling for my groom. On my way to the stables, I met Cattlebury who informed me that he had come by two dozen thrushes for supper. I told him curtly that I was not hungry but that he should serve up the wretched birds in a pie "for my wife and her new friend, Mr Finn". By the time they sat down to table (Celia's smile rendered all the more irresistible by the soft candlelight, no doubt) I had already consumed several flagons of ale and was conversing with a roofing man upon the abundance of rats to be found in thatch. "What if they are plague rats?" I asked. "Then death will come by the roof." And the old man nodded. "Widow Cartwright says the plague will come to Norfolk. Round and about springtime."
I went to Meg's bed very late and categorically drunk, after pissing in her fireplace and dousing what small warmth there was in the garrett. Once I held her in my arms, I went to sleep instantly, with my ugly head on her breasts.
When I woke, burdened as I knew I would be with an aching head and the smell of my own foul breath, I found myself alone, it being one of Meg's duties to rise early and sweep the floor of the tavern and air the place before the arrival of the first peasant for his cup of small beer. Ill as I knew myself to be, I rose immediately and went to the low window and looked out for, to my great chagrin, I now remembered that Danseuse had not been stabled the previous night and had spent it tied to a post under the cold stars. In what condition of cold and suffering I would find her, I did not know.
I could see almost nothing from the small window, except that a beastly drizzle was falling, dense like a mist. It is on such inhospitable mornings that the memory of midsummer causes my brain sudden suffering. My Merivel ancestors, haberdashers of Poitou, never endured an English winter. It is their blood, undoubtedly, that has made mine so susceptible to weather.
Meg found me kneeling at the window, and apparently thought I was at prayer, for she said, with a peevish coldness: "Prayer will not save you, Sir Robert."
"I am not praying, Meg," I said, "but scanning the environs in search of my horse."
"Your horse is in the stables," she said curtly, set down a pot of coffee and a dish of apple fritters on a table, and went out, each one of her words and gestures conveying intense displeasure. I remained kneeling, like a penitent. My life is a very muddled occurrence, I remarked to myself.
Finding no forgiveness or yielding in Meg that morning, I had no choice but to set off for home, a little restored by the coffee and fritters and mighty glad that my horse had not perished by my neglect, but my spirits at one with the weather. The thought of returning to be met by Finn in his ludicrous wig was so distasteful to me that I considered riding directly to Bathurst Hall, but found that the memory of Violet's party and the jokes about my ignominious role as cuckold still pained me. Furthermore, I felt no desire whatsoever for Violet, her demeanour and her coarse language now striking me as intolerably vulgar. I could do little, therefore, but return home, planning as I rode to soothe my body with soap and hot water and then to persuade Celia to sing for me alone, contriving some laborious task (such as the stretching of canvases) for Finn and banishing Farthingale to her room.
It was at this moment that I found myself at the place where I had seen the poor people grovelling for kindling. I reined in Danseuse and sat looking about me. There was no stirring anywhere, only the silent rain and the dripping of the trees.
I dismounted and tied the mare to a spindly ash. On the right of the lane was a small wood, to the left common land where the cottars of Bidnold grazed their sheep and goats. I had some vague notion of searching for the two Paupers, not with the intention of asking anything from them or indeed endeavouring to place them with one of Justice Hogg's three categories, but merely of regarding them face to face and seeing what state of misery or despair I could determine in them. In the near darkness, one of them holding a small lantern on a pole, they had struck me as people in terrible need, their faces cadaverous, their eyes fearful. In their masses, I beheld, unmoved, such poor folk in London, yet the sight of these two, a man and his wife in rags, had troubled me sufficiently to send me wandering into the wood in search of the hovel in which I supposed them to live.
I found nothing. Indeed the air in the wood was so still, it was difficult to imagine it disturbed by any living breath. After tearing my stockings on some briars, I abandoned my search and returned to my horse. As I re-mounted, I told myself that, were I in a condition of wretchedness, I would not seek out the Overseers in their wigs and wanton finery, but rather be at pains to conceal myself from them by whatever means I could devise.
At Bidnold, just as I feared, I found Finn at work upon the infernal portrait.
Celia, in a dress of cream-coloured satin, had been seated upon an ottoman (removed without my permission from the Withdrawing Room and placed near the Studio window). She held a lute in her lap and by her side sat her trembling Spaniel, Isabelle.
"Finn," I said, "you have positioned my wife in a draught. See how the dog is shivering."
To my delight, the artist looked momentarily dismayed, but Celia, without moving one half inch from her pose, informed me brusquely that she was not in the least cold.
"Ah," I said, "but you will surely catch an ague if you sit long there. I suggest we adjourn to the Music Room, where a fire has been lit."
"What time is it?" said Celia.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What hour is it?"
"I have no idea. I could, if you wish, consult the handsome timepiece given to me by – "
"I believe my guest will arrive at mid-day."
"Your guest? What guest, pray?"
"Am I not allowed guests, Merivel?"
"Naturally. I only wished to enquire – "
"He is my music teacher. At my father's request, he has agreed to make the journey from London."
"Ah."
"Thus my days will not be as tedious as they were. I will have the pleasure of sitting for a fine artist and the pleasure of singing for an inspiring Musikmeister."
"I'm sorry you have found the days 'tedious'."
"It's not your fault, Merivel. I don't belong in such a life."
"Happily," interrupted Finn, "you will soon be back at Court."
"Yes," said Celia. "Once the portrait is done, you will have to let me go, Merivel. Though it has been difficult for me to practise my singing without an accompanist, that is now remedied, thanks to my father. I am thus doing as you suggested, trying to come to a clearer understanding of my destiny through song. Thus, you must report that I have done all that the King requested."