Reflections: Marguerite Part Two
We must have arrived. After being woken by a vigorous shaking over the cobblestones, other sounds come slowly to my comprehension as the carriage is finally halted: horses’ hooves on the paved ground, much shouting, and that perpetual thrum of the rain. This, then, is Dover.
How I long for Paris of the olden days, and its ‘hundred delightful pleasures’. Even in a deluge, the city was lively and there were always distractions to take one’s mind from the weather. Here, the people scurry inside and stare balefully at the clouds, busying idle hands and minds in the dim light of a candle; there, we would splash our way through the streets, ladies holding their skirts up well nigh to their garters, and pass from théâtre to café to salon with a smile for the bridgemen and a laugh at the rain. In Paris, the Paris I recall fondly, the good times could not be damped down.
‘What dreadful weather,’ Sir Percy murmurs, peering out of the offside door.
He glances upwards at the sky and for a moment appears wistful in profile, with the gentle pout of his mouth beneath firmer lines of nose and brow. A painful reminder to me of how my fingers once traced those planes and curves, and my lips pressed his in a kiss.
Looking away, I notice that we are outside the Fisherman’s Rest, the porch of the old hostelry filled with warm light against the bleak day. The invitation of boiling soup and a hearthside seat is welcome, and doubly so for Armand will be waiting for me within.
An ostler, cringing in the cold rain, appears at the carriage door. My husband clears his throat and turns to me. ‘Ready, m’dear?’
‘M’dear’. Then he is preparing for that perpetual comedy wherein he is the star player, for in private I receive only the stiff formality of ‘Madame’. Call me what you will, Sir Percy, I have played many roles myself.
He collects his hat and bows low before me, somehow compacting his frame to alight from the carriage, with broad back and shoulders briefly filling the door. From without the sight of a tailored coat and shining boots, not to mention a handsome face genial in expression, raises a cheer of ‘Good day, Sir Percy!’ And then it is my turn.
There is nothing to compare with the stage. That moment in the wings before facing your audience, when the hope of applause soars in your heart and the fear of rejection lays leaden in your stomach. Stepping with trembling legs out onto the boards, sending up a prayer that memory has not deserted you as you wait for your cue. Then suddenly the moment arrives when you are cast upon a sea of faces, not knowing how strong the tide is or where it will carry you, until that first wave of admiration or mockery breaks upon the stage. It is truly having the world at your feet to bask in their praise, but the thrill lasts only as long as the performance: bouquets wither, success is temporary, and acting but a mask of bravado. It is safe and convenient to hide behind a role, but life should not imitate art.
‘Good day to your ladyship!’
On this wet afternoon in Dover, my audience consists of Sir Percy, once my most ardent admirer, the drowned ostler and his mate, and a poor beggar shaking his pewter tankard whilst crying for alms. ‘Remember the poor blind man!’
‘Your servant, Sir Percy!’
‘My lady!’
I feel wretched, and must look far worse. My lord is waiting at the door, his hand proffered unceremoniously to help me down. As I stoop my aching back, we are on a level for once and our eyes meet, but then his are lowered in a gallant bow of the head. Did I see a ray of sunlight break through the grey clouds, or only imagine it? My fingers are folded in his, but I choose to lean on my cane for support in navigating the narrow steps.
Dieu, but my gown is ruined! What use of having the hem brushed at every posting inn along the route when this English mud clings to my person like glue? I have wilted like a hothouse flower, and yet Sir Percy might just have left the dressing room. Ah, but I have performed in far worse costumes and survived; this will only be a provincial audience, after all.
He releases my hand as soon as I join one foot with the other on the slick surface of the stones, allowing me to rescue my damp petticoats from further assault. Fortunately I am provided shelter from the rain beneath the wide brim of my new portrait hat, but I shudder when I consider the bedraggled plumes atop it!
‘Remember the poor blind man!’
Bon sang, that poor soul! Even lacking eyesight, he must know that Sir Percy Blakeney can spare him a coin or two, and yet he is pushed aside like a stray dog. I wish they would not do that, they are frightening him!
‘Let the poor man be!’ Les imbéciles! I shall show them that working in a stable does not permit them to treat all men like beasts. ‘And give him some supper at my expense!’
I shall have to ask Sir Percy to ensure that le bon vieillard is cared for, and not kicked to the gutter the moment we are inside. Muttering ‘yes, m’lady’ signifies little; they say the words as readily as they tug their forelocks. I am not fooled.
Au nom du ciel! And now I must stand in the porch whilst the good landlord bows and scrapes! What is the name of this man? Gelée? Why does he not let me pass?
‘Sir -’
I am in time to recover my wits: upon realising that Sir Percy has not followed me to the door, my appeal to him must become a complaint at the miserable climate in which I am forced to live. The ostlers are finally at their business, and the landlord is too busy fussing.
‘Brr! I am as wet as a herring!’
And soon will perforce start to smell like a fish. I am reminded of how the rain does not cleanse the air here, but merely stirs up the cloying stench of chalk and the tang of seawater. ‘Dieu! What a contemptible climate!’
And what of Sir Percy? He can only have gone to establish if our own coach and team are here, but I do not see the urgency in such an errand. Surely he could have stayed at my arm for five minutes longer.
After travelling all day, with only a mannequin for company, I am impossibly weary, the rain has ruined my gown and a chill has penetrated my bones - is it asking too much for a chair by the fire?
‘My lady!’ And still the man dallies, dancing around like a turkey with a sore foot! He must let me pass, I can no longer wait politely for this ceremony to conclude.
‘Pardieu, my good man! Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold!’