Read Online Margaret the First by Danielle Dutton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Danielle Dutton
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could not wait to be home.
But what could home mean now? To what did we return? Through my open bedroom window came the sounds of morning: the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves, the steady hum of bees. I’d lived in exile half my life, in marriage nearly as long. There was the familiar wooden gate, the leafy garden path. Once, it’s true, I’d wished the war would end, so we could live at Welbeck, where I knew William longed to be. The children in their beds, I’d thought, peacocks on the lawn. But the war had never ended, or it had not ended for us. I’d long ago stopped waiting for home to come.
Still, the king’s words were never far from my mind. A celebrity, he’d said.
Now William finished his book of counsel and had it bound in silk.
I ordered two new gowns: one white and triumphant like a lighthouse, one bruised like autumn fruit.
FIREWORKS, SPEECHES, GUN SALUTES, A BALL. IN APRIL OF 1660, THE Hague celebrated with King Charles II. William rushed to his side. He hoped to be named Master of the Horse, but his reception was cool, the little book went unmentioned, and that post of honor was granted to a handsome new courtier named Monck. Snubbed—even as Marmaduke was made a baron, Lord Jermyn an earl—William refused an invitation to join the king’s brother on the crossing, hired an old rotten frigate, and left alone the following day. He never returned to Antwerp. He sent a letter instructing me to remain where I was, a pawn for all his debts. His trip took an endless week—they were becalmed in the middle of the passage—but when finally he saw the smoke and spires of London, his anger passed to joy. He said: “Surely, I have been sixteen years asleep.”
ALONE IN MY ROOM, I WAS WRITING PLAYS. THEY WERE ALL-FEMALE plays for an all-female troupe. Of course, it was absurd. Women so rarely acted in public. Of course, I never meant them to be staged. “They will be acted,” I said to no one, “only on the page, only in the mind. My modest closet plays.” I smiled. I dipped my quill in ink.
The housekeeper knocked and held out a note. I took up William’s instructions from the ornate pewter tray.
No more to be done, yet everything to do.
Flemish tapestries, drawing tables, lenses, the telescopes from Paris, books, of course, and perfumes, platters, ewers, ruffs, tinctures, copperplates, saddles, wax. There were little green-patterned moths dashing around the attic, bumping at the glass. I thought I felt like that. I dreamed the moths crept upside down on the surface of my mind. In the mornings I met with a magistrate or bid a neighbor farewell. I myself packed linen-wrapped manuscripts into crates. The plays had a box to share, each handwritten folio tied with purple ribbon: in Bell in Campo , the Kingdom of Restoration and the Kingdom of Faction prepare to go to war, and the wives, with Lady Victoria at their helm, insist on joining the battle; in The Matrimonial Trouble , a housemaid who has married the master proceeds to put on airs; in The Convent of Pleasure —the only not quite finished—Lady Happy, besieged by men who wish to marry her fortune, escapes to a cloister. But the pesky men sneak in, dressed like women, to join the ladies’ play within the walls. Enter Monsieur Take-pleasure and his Man Dick.
Monsieur Take-pleasure . Dick, Am I fine to day?
Dick . Yes, Sir, as fine as Feathers, Ribbons, Gold, and Silver can make you.
Takepl . Dost thou think I shall get the Lady Happy ?
Dick . Not if it be her fortune to continue under that name.
Takepl . Why?
Dick . Because if she Marry your Worship she must change her Name; for the Wife takes the Name of her Husband, and quits her own.
Takepl . Faith, Dick , if I had her wealth I should be Happy .
Dick . It would be according as your Worship would use it; but, on my conscience, you would be more happy with the Ladies Wealth, than the Lady would be with your Worship.
Takepl . Why should you think so?
Dick . Because Women never think
But what could home mean now? To what did we return? Through my open bedroom window came the sounds of morning: the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves, the steady hum of bees. I’d lived in exile half my life, in marriage nearly as long. There was the familiar wooden gate, the leafy garden path. Once, it’s true, I’d wished the war would end, so we could live at Welbeck, where I knew William longed to be. The children in their beds, I’d thought, peacocks on the lawn. But the war had never ended, or it had not ended for us. I’d long ago stopped waiting for home to come.
Still, the king’s words were never far from my mind. A celebrity, he’d said.
Now William finished his book of counsel and had it bound in silk.
I ordered two new gowns: one white and triumphant like a lighthouse, one bruised like autumn fruit.
FIREWORKS, SPEECHES, GUN SALUTES, A BALL. IN APRIL OF 1660, THE Hague celebrated with King Charles II. William rushed to his side. He hoped to be named Master of the Horse, but his reception was cool, the little book went unmentioned, and that post of honor was granted to a handsome new courtier named Monck. Snubbed—even as Marmaduke was made a baron, Lord Jermyn an earl—William refused an invitation to join the king’s brother on the crossing, hired an old rotten frigate, and left alone the following day. He never returned to Antwerp. He sent a letter instructing me to remain where I was, a pawn for all his debts. His trip took an endless week—they were becalmed in the middle of the passage—but when finally he saw the smoke and spires of London, his anger passed to joy. He said: “Surely, I have been sixteen years asleep.”
ALONE IN MY ROOM, I WAS WRITING PLAYS. THEY WERE ALL-FEMALE plays for an all-female troupe. Of course, it was absurd. Women so rarely acted in public. Of course, I never meant them to be staged. “They will be acted,” I said to no one, “only on the page, only in the mind. My modest closet plays.” I smiled. I dipped my quill in ink.
The housekeeper knocked and held out a note. I took up William’s instructions from the ornate pewter tray.
No more to be done, yet everything to do.
Flemish tapestries, drawing tables, lenses, the telescopes from Paris, books, of course, and perfumes, platters, ewers, ruffs, tinctures, copperplates, saddles, wax. There were little green-patterned moths dashing around the attic, bumping at the glass. I thought I felt like that. I dreamed the moths crept upside down on the surface of my mind. In the mornings I met with a magistrate or bid a neighbor farewell. I myself packed linen-wrapped manuscripts into crates. The plays had a box to share, each handwritten folio tied with purple ribbon: in Bell in Campo , the Kingdom of Restoration and the Kingdom of Faction prepare to go to war, and the wives, with Lady Victoria at their helm, insist on joining the battle; in The Matrimonial Trouble , a housemaid who has married the master proceeds to put on airs; in The Convent of Pleasure —the only not quite finished—Lady Happy, besieged by men who wish to marry her fortune, escapes to a cloister. But the pesky men sneak in, dressed like women, to join the ladies’ play within the walls. Enter Monsieur Take-pleasure and his Man Dick.
Monsieur Take-pleasure . Dick, Am I fine to day?
Dick . Yes, Sir, as fine as Feathers, Ribbons, Gold, and Silver can make you.
Takepl . Dost thou think I shall get the Lady Happy ?
Dick . Not if it be her fortune to continue under that name.
Takepl . Why?
Dick . Because if she Marry your Worship she must change her Name; for the Wife takes the Name of her Husband, and quits her own.
Takepl . Faith, Dick , if I had her wealth I should be Happy .
Dick . It would be according as your Worship would use it; but, on my conscience, you would be more happy with the Ladies Wealth, than the Lady would be with your Worship.
Takepl . Why should you think so?
Dick . Because Women never think
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