Free A Most Lamentable Comedy by Janet Mullany

her period of mourning, although I doubt it had a neckline then low enough to show her charms in such a spectacular manner. Rosettes and a line of ruffles around the hem produce a soft, intimate rustle as she moves.
    The first star of the evening, Venus, has appeared. Apparently she does not shine on me.
    I wander through the garden, which is cultivated by Otterwell in old-fashioned Elizabethan style – stiff formal hedges, paths and beds; no romantic vistas or wildernesses here – until the light begins to fail. As I turn back (it would not be courteous to be gone for too long), I see a woman leaning against a plinth in the centre of a rose garden, so still I think she is a statue. In the fading light her gown is a tawny russet, a shade or two darker than her hair. She turns as I approach, one hand resting against the plinth, on which is set a sundial. Fallen petals scent the air, lying pale on the ground.
    ‘Mrs Gibbons.’ I bow. ‘Do you conemplate the passing of time?’
    She smiles, but there is something melancholy in her face. ‘Something of the sort, Mr Congrevance. Do you return to the house now?’
    ‘I should be happy to escort you.’ I offer my arm.
    She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow. ‘I should be angry with you, sir. You left when I sang.’
    ‘Yes, I did. I beg your forgiveness. Your singing moved me greatly.’
    ‘Ah, of course, you understood the Italian.’
    ‘I would have understood whatever language you sang in, Mrs Gibbons.’
    ‘Very pretty,’ she says, much as Caroline did.
    ‘That may be, but it is the truth. Why were you out alone?’
    ‘Oh, the others are somewhere near. To tell the truth, Mr Congrevance, I craved solitude. Sometimes singing makes me sad. I miss the stage and wonder whether I made a mistake in retiring when I did.’
    ‘Do you think you’d return to the theatre?’
    ‘I don’t know. It is . . . complicated.’ She stops and looks at me. ‘I find you interesting, Mr Congrevance. I’ve known a great many people playing roles of one sort or another, and I suspect you are not what you seem. Oh, you’re very good at it – I was quite surprised by your talents as an actor today – but . . .’
    And then I do something foolish. She is the wrong woman, and God knows I have no designs on her. At the same time I am unhappy and unsettled and I have spent several hours of the day flirting with her. Above all, there is also the issue of stopping her mouth and distracting her before she produces further revelations. I bend my head and kiss her. She tenses in surprise and kisses me back – not the frenzied grappling I experienced with Caroline, but the curious, intimate exploration of strangers, our arms slipping around each other; strangers who have played with a slight attraction to each other and have each been alone for too long.
    A roar of anger interrupts us.

Mr Nicholas Congrevance

    T he mild and scholarly Mr Thomas Darrowby hauls me away by the shoulders and aims a wild blow in my direction. ‘You scoundrel, sir!’
    I duck to avoid his blow, and he almost falls over.
    ‘For Christ’s sake, Tom!’ Fanny Gibbons says, blushing deep red.
    ‘Tell me, for God’s sake, he did not . . . did not . . .’ He makes a grab for her hands, and she swats him away as though he were a particularly annoying sort of fly.
    ‘It was a kiss , Tom. That was all.’ She pats his arm. ‘Calm yourself.’
    He looks even angrier, as any man would if a woman spoke to him in that way and under such circumstances, and turns back to me, fists clenched. We’re about the same height – he carries a little more weight, but I think I’m faster on my feet. ‘You have insulted the lady, sir.’
    ‘Then I beg her pardon, sir.’ I bow to Fanny. ‘Forgive me, madam.’
    ‘Fanny, did he force his attentions on you?’
    She hesitates and looks at me. I remember Linsley saying Fanny and Darrowby had found every excuse in the world not to resolve their relationship, and that