Viper Wine (26 page)

‘Dearheart.’ She pronounced the word with a crisp, married tone. ‘We have spoke of this! I have nowhere to put my second nursemaid, she must needs sleep with the cook, we are so full of books. We have a whole houseful of books arrived the other week, and yet you come home with more? It is beyond all reason, Kenelm. I love your learning but this is madness, darling.’ Again, the endearment: tartly said. ‘I am going to bed, and doing so I walk past stacks of books along the way. I am surprised I must not yet sleep with my bed full of books, my pillow stuffed with them . . .’

Thus lamenting, Venetia made her way upstairs, stopping resentfully to blow a kiss back at him, at which Kenelm ran to her, knelt, or rather subsided before her, and clasped her hand to his cheek. And they tarried a while together, embracing, until she said, fondly, that he was ripe as a brewhouse and she was going to bed.

In the hall, he picked up his volumes unsteadily, and went to his study, where after many attempts, he lit a candle, found his quill, and settled down to drawn the symbol, the image of life eternal: Divine Gnosis.

His quill was remarkably poor, much worse than it had been that morning, but he took care to cover one sheet with insignias of the circle and the straight line, along with divers occult marginalia.

The dots, in the shape of the quincunx – the sign of five. An ancient signification; a pattern used for the planting of fruit trees in the garden of Cyrus.

As he drew, the dots seemed to disappear in front of his eyes.

When he could inscribe no more he staggered to his hammock and dived headlong across it into heavy slumber.

In the dry-parched morning, before he took his cup of ale, he looked for the sheet he had drawn on for so long, and found it blank.

When he looked in the mirror, would that be blank also? Had all his solid parts been blasted, as his penmanship, to vanishment? This seemed as Magick, and yet it must have an explanation in Natural Philosophy. He seized the sheet again.

When he held it up to the light there were craven scratchings and marks: signs of a quill at work without any ink.

‘One spoonful of this beauty elixir every day has much greater bio-availability than a capsule so it’s readily absorbed into the body and can help eliminate wrinkles from within . . .’

Fountain: The Beauty Molecule – a drink containing Reservatrol, extracted from Japanese knotweed, launched on the UK market in 2013

Venetia continued to be nurtured by her secret advantage, holding it close like a trump. Three mornings a week, the ladies came to Venetia’s salon: tapping cards, clinking coins, exchanging sharp talk. They liked to see one another, and to drink posset, but more than anything else, they liked to win at cards. The sweetness of winning, the desire to taste it in their mouths, brought them back to the table again and again. Penelope and Venetia felt a longing for it in their throats every morning. Only Olive amongst them had some deficiency of will or surplus of self-restraint, and played for fun, not for love of winning – but the other two needed her to make up the table, so she become a gambler too, out of friendship.

With Venetia’s returning confidence came her old habits of sociability, and she had a whim to see young Lettice at her card table. Besides, it was her duty to include the poor child. Lettice arrived unconscionably early – from her bedroom window, Venetia saw her standing on the doorstep in a new bonnet, what, an hour ahead of time? Venetia felt oppressed, sometimes, by Lettice’s adoration.

It soon became clear that Little Miss Furtherto-Moreover had picked up fashionable ways. She clasped Venetia close in a loving embrace, then without looking at her, flung herself down on the daybed in an affectation of exhaustion. She had, she said, been dancing her very slippers out, though when Venetia pressed her, it seemed the revels had taken place more than a week ago, so Lettice’s exhaustion could not have been a direct consequence. Certainly, she found enough energy to regale Venetia with many opinions as they took their spiced cups of caudle.

‘Penelope, I adore that woman, she really is my dearest creature, and to me her plain, blunt manner is simply who she is. I insist you cannot take her any other way, because she is born to be like that. We were out in Hyde Park last week with our new mufflers and she looked at my muffler and said, “Yours is an ominous colour, because it is yellow, because Mrs Anne Turner wore it when she was hanged.” She said so, just so! Anyone who did not know her as well as I do would think it was an insult, but she and I have a most special understanding, so it made me love her all the more . . .’

Venetia was an indulgent patron to Lettice, and she was used to her importunities, and glad she had forged new friendships. It was sweet of the girl, really, to talk as if she were unaware that Penelope and Venetia had been close friends for a decade. Venetia hoped Lettice’s nerves would soon abate. But a tray of sweetmeats gave her second wind.

‘There is something particular about my feeling for French music,’ said Lettice. ‘I do not say that I have any talent, it is simply that I have a feeling for it deep in my heart. When I stop singing, people ask me why I have stopped, that is all. I do not know what they mean by it. Master Warwick asked me how long I had been singing, and I said since my birth, practically . . .’

Venetia found herself reaching, surreptitiously, to pour her Viper Wine into her cup, so that its rich, liverish taste might comfort and distract her.

It had revolted her at first; now it was half-disgusting, half-delicious, and she was drawn to taste it again and again, as if every next sip might bring her to decide if she liked it or no. She supped from her caudle-cup slowly, with an opaque look, nodding as Lettice spoke.

A jangling at the gate announced Olive and Penelope had arrived, at last, and they came into the salon exclaiming about a dozen things at once while Mistress Elizabeth helped them out of their furs and tippets. Penelope was in her usual grey twill, but Olive was wearing something new, of yellow, with frills and rosebuds adorning it. She had stuck her ‘heartbreaker’ ringlets down upon her forehead, as some of the younger ladies did at court. She looked very much the new penny, and she seemed to know it. She came close and as she embraced Venetia, she held her at arm’s length, the better to view her, and making a loud noise of approval.

‘My sweet,’ she said significantly, ‘you are the very picture of beauty today.’ Then, embracing her closely, Olive whispered in her ear, ‘Your teeth are red!’

She turned away to sit down with a meaningful swish of her skirts.

‘She is always the picture of beauty,’ said Lettice loyally, without looking at Venetia.

‘But today she has never looked more beautiful,’ said Olive, winking. ‘Has she, Pen?’

‘Well,’ said Penelope, getting ready to equivocate. Then she looked up at Venetia and seemed struck by her appearance.

‘You do look rather pert. Are you
enceinte
?’

‘No,’ said Venetia, swallowing the hot caudle she hoped would shift the viper stain from her teeth. ‘More’s the pity – I would love a little girl.’

‘She’s newly plucked maybe,’ said Olive cheerfully. Discreetly, to Venetia: ‘Has Kenelm noticed?’

‘He notices a change, but not the reason for it,’ replied Venetia.

The lovely cure was taking effect. Life could be resumed, and with it everything she had put off wanting for so long. New clothes, new portraits, the court masque – all these trivial activities, as well as the business of being alive, and being adored, for really they were one and the same, were they not? She could lift her veil and shine her light upon Edward Sackville.

There was the distant sound of horses stamping in the mews; winter sun glowed intensely on Venetia through the casement above their card-table, lifting her dark hair so it was momentarily bright copper.

Penelope was about to cut the cards when Chater hovered into view, his hands on his prayer book, clearly about to address them. He had been in the room long enough to sense that they had been talking about secret things. He looked at Venetia and Olive, at Olive and Venetia, and he saw that they shared a conspiracy, and that it was a personal matter that went to the core of their feminine selves. Chater had enough secrets himself to know one when he smelled one.

There were a few prie-dieu chairs in Venetia’s drawing room, against the wall, but prayers were not required today – Pen and Olive were both Protestant – and so Chater simply read aloud some of Venetia’s book,
A Mirrour for a Modest Wife.
Chater declaimed sonorously and with style.

As he spoke he looked often at Olive. Her pretty, too-tight face was frozen into a rictus of concentration. If she could have frowned she would have frowned, but instead her face had settled into an expression that looked somehow stunned. Chater could not help looking at her more than was seemly, examining her face with an unwilling, morbid fascination. While he was concentrating on speaking, he had less control over his eyes, which returned to Olive again and again, as a tongue returns to search a chipped tooth. He was drawn to shiny, broken people.

After he was finished, Penelope immediately started dealing the cards, while Olive laid her hand on Chater’s. ‘Father, that was most beautifully said.’

‘My lady, if you ever feel you would benefit from a spiritual conference, or private prayers . . . Or even a walk and a long talk, I am more gentle than I look; indeed, I can even be quite a pleasant companion,’ he said, laughing at himself. ‘I can resist from delivering any thunderous sermons for, oh, at least half an hour.’ He could be so sweet; no wonder the ladies loved him.

Olive smiled at him sadly. ‘You have my sympathies but we are not of Rome.’

‘Venice, did you really write this book – all those purple passages?’ asked Penelope.

‘No, that which we just heard was taken from Chater’s own little book, which is a work in progress, but what I hear I like,’ said Venetia, patting Chater encouragingly on the sleeve.

Chater coughed with disbelief. So Venetia had not read her own book before it was published. He had just declaimed some of its star passages. It was currently on sale in Powles Churchyard under her name – both her names, Venetia Stanley – writ large – and Lady Digby – a little smaller. She had remarked that she did not intend, so late in life, to lose names, only acquire them.

‘Chater, my dove, I fear Kenelm needs you – he was asking for you earlier, as soon as we could spare you . . .’ Venetia knew how to play Chater. He headed for the door without demur.

Chater had no sooner left the room but he heard them begin laughing and casting dice. Kenelm’s hat was missing, which meant he was out. He had been duped, again. Oh, she was magnificent! He walked off, fuming, getting his revenge by thinking about Olive – yes, putting Venetia entirely from his mind for a moment or two. He wondered how he could obtain a personal appointment with Olive. She should not be wearing quite so many bows and rosebuds in such bright, divers shades. He loved her for her daring, but he could not let it continue. She should wear cream or goose-grey, with a plain stomacher. None of these virago sleeves, thank you. He would help her find a new safe apparel. She was a lost, brittle thing – perhaps he would be able to steer her to the safety of the Old Faith. Her conversion would be a great coup.

Olive’s face had been meddled with by a physician, that was evident. She seemed proud of the fact; she presented herself like a gift to the world. She had the air of one who felt they had got away with it. He admired and envied her, and yet the righteous part of him wanted to smite her vanity. Yea, smite with a thunderclap and lay bare her real face, which, however raddled, would be more beautiful than the painted, fake version – more beautiful because it was, above all things, true. And then, when her finery was gone, she would need Chater. He imagined Olive weeping for him through the night. Then he would lead her, through suffering, to His redemption.

Chater whistled as he walked through the garden and about his business, knowing none of this would come to pass, but daydreaming about how he might attend church with his convert, the new humble, penitent Olive, who would be modestly dressed and leaning on his arm.

Inside, the ladies were absorbed in a new game. For a few weeks, it had been Glecko, then farthing-gleek and toe-gleek. Then they had moved on to beast, and angel-beast, which diverted them for a while. Now they were playing one-and-thirty, which called for more subtlety of method, and projects of collecting and discarding, which the ladies enjoyed. They removed the eights and nines from the pack and threw them on the floor; they sipped their Malaga sack and focused on their hands, except for Lettice, who was full of information.

She told them about the Queen’s new pet, a Welsh giant called Evans. Lettice had seen him and been too afraid to approach. ‘I do not know what it is in me that holds back when everyone else is leaping forth, but I could not approach the giant, could not accost him. Could not!’ She then told of the damage done by fire to Master Jonson’s lodgings, reciting with great sadness an inventory of all the masterworks the great man had lost to the flames. When Venetia observed, showing the suggestion of a smile over her cards, that it was typical of dear Ben to make the most of any calamity, Lettice replied pertly that these were uncopied, unpublished works, and Ben had told her so himself. She sighed quietly, as if Venetia were sadly ignorant of Ben’s talent, and said to herself, ‘A very great loss.’