The empress of ice cream

Louise

‘We must tempt him to pleasure,’ Lady Arlington says. ‘If we can drag him from despondency, the rest will surely follow.’

Her voice, with its sharp Dutch inflection, carries into the room where I am sitting. Her husband’s voice does not penetrate so easily - a low rumble of which I can only catch a few words.

‘But grief is a kind of pleasure,’ Lady Arlington argues. ‘At least, a form of self-indulgence. Charles is gorging himself on sorrow today; tomorrow it will be a different kind of excess. Both stem from the same immoderation of character that he has always shown.’

Another rumble.

‘But we don’t have to choose,’ Lady Arlington says. ‘For the time being at least, she can be both. As for the other thing - we can cross that particular bridge when we come to it.’

She comes to see me, all smiles. ‘I have persuaded Bennet to let us go to court, to see a play. A private performance. The king is a great lover of theatre, usually, but since his sister’^ death he has been somewhat distracted. We are hoping that this entertainment may reawaken his interest.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ I say dutifully. As their guest, I have little choice in the matter.

‘And I will lend you a dress. Using his sister’s seems to have piqued his interest, but it is something best not tried twice.’ She goes to my closet, studying what I have brought with me. ‘Dark clothes suit you, though. I will find you something grey.’

The play, frankly, turns out to be wearisome. There are only twenty or so of us watching, and most seem to find it hilarious.

although I find myself wondering if they are laughing because of the play’s wit, or in the hope of making the king laugh too. It is something about a courtier who pretends to be a commoner in order to avoid marriage with a woman he affects to dislike but actually wishes'to seduce. Rather than express merriment I do not feel, I adopt an expression of - I hope - polite but neutral curiosity.

The only other person not laughing is the king. While the others titter and guffaw, he is silent. After a while I glance at him, and find him looking at me. His stare is unnerving. I feel myself colour, and resolve to stare just as fixedly at the actors.

In the interval ices are served, but although Lady Arlington points them out to the king he waves the server away. He says to the person next to him, loud enough that I can hear, ‘What do you think of the play. Lord Clifford?’

‘Wonderfully amusing,’ Lord CHfford assures him. ‘The best he has done.’

‘I find it contrived.’

‘Indeed, sir. It is somewhat contrived.’

‘And yet you think it hilarious.’

‘Amusing, sir. I said amusing. It is amusingly contrived.’

‘Both acts were overlong.’

‘They were a little on the long side,’ Lord Clifford agrees. ‘But no less amusing for it.’

The king is looking at me now, not at his minister, and I wonder whether some of this baiting of the man might be for my benefit. ‘It was tedious and superficial.’

‘It repays careful attention, shall we say—’

‘The jokes were coarse and the characters thin. What do you say, mademoiselle?’ This last suddenly addressed to me.

‘I could not follow all of it,’ I say carefully. ‘But in any case, I prefer tragedy. What Racine calls its majestic sadness. If I am to be moved, I would rather be moved to tears than to cynicism.’

His mouth twists into a wry smile. ‘Then you have come to the

right place, mademoiselle. For in England tragedy is all we know.’ He taps the chair where Lord Clifford is sitting. ‘Come and sit by me. My French is still better than Lord Arlington’s. I will translate the few jokes that are worthy of it.’

I sense the glances going back and forth across the room as I get up and move to the chair that Lord Clifford immediately and without protest vacates - the studied indifference on the faces of those who nevertheless miss nothing and who are instantly computing what this might mean.

As I sit down the king says under his breath, ‘Your presence will make the thing bearable, at least.’

‘Well,’ Lord Arlington says that night at dinner, mightily pleased. ‘It seems you are a success. The king asked after you three times this evening, after you had gone.’ He tucks a napkin under his collar and picks up a fork. He is proud of his Continental manners, although in truth they would be considered effete in France. ‘He wants to know when he can visit again. Of course, I told His Majesty that you are still tired from your journey.’

‘You are very considerate,’ I say politely. ‘However, I am feeling perfectly rested now.’

‘Even so. No point in rushing it.’ He plunges his fork cheerfully into the plump leg of a chicken.

‘But tell me. Lord Arlington,’ I persist. ‘If I am to be the queen’s lady-in-waiting, should I not be presented to Her Highness .>’

‘The queen is rarely at court,’ Lady Arlington says. ‘Since her last miscarriage she has been in very ill health. She has been in bed most of this past month, and her doctors are close to despair.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. I shall pray for her recovery.’

‘Some in this country pray for exacdy the reverse,’ Arlington says mildly. He slips into French, presumably to^ prevent his servants from understanding what he is saying. I have already come to realise that this means a conversation about religion or politics.

both of which are extraordinarily dangerous subjects here. ‘Parhament would like nothing better than for the king to be free to marry a Protestant. Needless to say, that would be a disaster, not least for France. I wonder . . .’ He glances at me thoughtfully. ‘What is it, fny dear:*’ his wife asks.

‘Nothing,’ he says in English. ‘Just a passing thought.’

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