Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton (13 page)

The first part of the wedding-day festivities – the feast given by the bride's father at his house – was over. The long, rich
and highly indigestible meal had been consumed, toast upon toast had been drunk, the guests dipping their sprigs of rosemary into their tankards, the bride bowing prettily in response over her glass; the bride's cakes, enclosed in iced sugar to form one large cake, had been broken, with laughter and jest, over the bride's head. Her gifts had been admired – the fine jewels which were now to be hers, the green velvet riding saddle with silver fringes and lace, the money-chest painted with landscapes and nosegays in the Dutch fashion, as well as such dainty trifles as a diamond bodkin and a silver fork. Scarves, gloves and rings had been distributed among the guests.

Custom decreed that the newly wedded bride should remain for three weeks among her own people but, at her future mother-in-law's request, the motherless Barbara was to go at once to her new family. Now, as the short afternoon faded, Sir Ralph carried his lady off to Maryiot Cells, and all the relations and friends (many of them flushed and unsteady on their feet) followed in their coaches or on horseback exclaiming, not for the first time that day, on the conveniency of a match between two such close neighbours, which thus enabled them to enjoy the friendly rivalry of both Sir Ralph and his father-in-law's hospitality.

The Great Hall at Maryiot Cells was festooned with ropes of evergreens, fashioned by the industrious fingers of the bridesmaids. Scores of wax candles, set in silver sconces, put to shame the twilight that crept in through the leaded lights of the casement windows.

The Dowager Lady Skelton stood with her family grouped around her to receive her guests. She was a dumpy
little woman with a flurried expression who might or might not have been pretty once. The best proof that she must have possessed some attractions lay in the person of her married daughter Lady Kingsclere, a large opulent blonde who, though somewhat handicapped by the prominent blue eyes of the family, had a brilliant pink and white skin and an abundance of yellow hair that entitled her to consider herself a beauty. The death recently of an older married daughter in childbirth, and the death long ago of two young daughters and a son from smallpox, had left large gaps in the Dowager Lady Skelton's family. Henrietta Kingsclere was only twenty-four years old. Secure in the possession of a fine white bosom, a handsome if dull husband and two sons, she displayed a patronising affability towards her young sister-in-law.

Her younger brother, Roger Skelton, a slight, pale, pink-eyed youth, was twenty-one. He had just returned from a tour of Europe during which he had acquired some bad statuary and a passion for gaming.

The youngest member of the family, Paulina Skelton, was a silent, self-contained girl of twelve. Unlike the rest of her family she had clear-cut features and an intelligent expression. She eyed her new sister-in-law distrustingly, thinking that she would not buy a horse that had such uneasy nostrils and eyes.

As the guests poured into the house, the damask curtains were drawn, candle after candle broke into its little flower of flame, the musicians in the gallery struck up the strains of a coranto.
⁴
Lord Kingsclere, as the highest-born gallant in the room, led out the new Lady Skelton. Behind them flowed
the bright train of the dancers, making the gay music visible with their gaily clad bodies. The colours, orange-tawny, grass-green, yellow, peacock-blue, flame, carnation, violet, scarlet, black and white, mingled and shifted, as though the dancers were gaudy threads being shuttled to and fro by an invisible hand.

Before feet had had time to grow too weary or foreheads too sweaty beneath heavy periwigs, supper was announced. Maryiot Cells, always renowned for its hospitality, lived up to its highest standards that wedding night. There were the wines of France, Spain, the Rhineland and the Orient, as well as homely ale, for the thirsty, and for the hungry a bewildering display of eatables, from the solid toothsomeness of collared pig and stewed carps, to the more refined tastiness of marchpanes, pistaches and chocolate amandes. Yet all but the elderly, the stout and the gouty were ready to dance again when the repast was over, to dance the spirited galliard as well as the stately pavane.
⁵

To claim a dance and a kiss from the bride was the privilege of each male wedding guest, and young Lady Skelton declared laughingly that she needed a hundred mouths and as many pairs of feet to fulfil her obligations. As it was, a wild and buoyant gaiety upheld her, a gaiety without root or reason, born of the moment, of her youth, of the wine and music and bright colours, the flattery, the kisses and the laughter. An unwonted flush stained her cheeks to a pale carnation, her lips were moist and red, her eyes gleamed between the long lashes, her dark burnished curls hung loose. So debonair and heedless she seemed that more than one of the older ladies regarded her curiously, hardly knowing
whether to pity or disapprove, for after all marriage was a serious thing, as the poor, giddy young creature would soon find out, and no cause for wanton jollity.

But Barbara neither noticed their pursed lips nor would have cared had she done so. This was her hour, brimful of the excitement, the sharp edge of delight for which she craved. All time was gathered up in this room of shimmering candlelight and quivering music, and laid at Barbara Skelton's feet as a wedding gift.

But Sir Ralph had other notions. He was showing signs of restlessness, as his friends noticed with sly amusement. It was past midnight and time for him to claim his bride.

They were dancing a cushion dance, which entailed more kissing than ever.
⁶

‘She must come to and she shall come to and she must come whether she will or no,' went the refrain, and then: ‘She must go fro and she shall go fro and she must go whether she will or no.'

As Barbara frolicked her way through the dance her bridesmaids, at a nod from the Dowager Lady Skelton, came forward to escort her to the nuptial chamber. Instantly the dancers swarmed round her, scrambling with shouts and laughter to snatch the lucky love-favours from her gown. Flushed and dishevelled, her low-cut bodice slipping from her shoulders, Barbara made her escape and ran up the Great Stairs.

From above she could hear that the dancing had begun again. She leant for a moment against the balustrade listening to the muted sound of music and tripping feet and voices from below.

‘She must go fro and she shall go fro and she shall go whether she will or no.'

The words, unaccompanied by the candlelight and smiling faces had a sinister sound as though some obscure threat lay behind their apparent inconsequence. Standing there in the shadows in her pale gown Barbara felt like a forlorn and resentful ghost. To be out of the bright centre of things, to be forgotten, even for this brief space, was to taste something of the anonymity of death. Why could she not stay where she belonged among those riotous young people below, instead of being undressed and put to bed with a man whom she did not love?

But to her bridesmaids this was the crowning moment of the day. A vicarious excitement was apparent in their gestures and voices. ‘As though they prepared me for my execution,' thought Barbara sulkily. Before undressing her they urged her to partake of beer and plum buns swimming in a bowl of spiced ale. ‘To keep away timorous thoughts, dear cousin,' murmured Ursula Worth kindly. Penelope Carew laughed boldly, ‘Oh never you fear! She will cheer up quick enough when her bedfellow comes.'

Arabella Crosbie worried, ‘I hope we have remembered to put everything in the benediction possett – milk, wine, yolk of eggs, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg … Moll, did we remember the nutmeg?'

But Moll Kirby and her sister were admiring the bridal bed. It was richly upholstered with olive green, rose and silver brocade hangings and curtains, and topped with plumes of ostrich feathers. Ann Kirby fingered the head valances. ‘Lord! this is the finest bed I have ever seen. Why,
Her Majesty couldn't wish for better. You ought to beget some pretty little children in it.'

Barbara said complacently, ‘Sir Ralph is wondrously free and kind in his behaviour to me. He will deny me nothing.' Arabella recalled her companions to their duty. ‘Come now, girls, or the groomsmen will have undressed Sir Ralph before we have Barbara ready.'

They crowded round her, lifting the chaplet of pearls off her hair, taking care to leave no pins in her curls, for that would have portended the direst ill luck. They had her in her satin bed gown, her hair combed and perfumed, and had bundled her into bed, when the noise of footsteps and masculine voices outside announced the arrival of the bridegroom.

Into the bridal chamber burst the groomsmen, all very jocular and all more or less drunk, and in their midst Sir Ralph in his embroidered night-shirt, steady enough on his feet but flushed and sweating profusely. Clapping him on the back they urged him with all the bawdy jokes proper to the occasion to get into bed with his bride.

Now was the moment for the time-honoured game of throwing the stocking. The best man and groomsmen seated themselves with their backs to the bridegroom's side of the bed, the bridesmaids seated themselves in like manner on the bride's side. Each groomsman held one of the bridegroom's stockings, each girl one of the bride's. At a word from the bride they tossed the stockings backwards over their shoulders. Those who scored a hit on the bride or bridegroom might expect to be married themselves within the year. The room was filled with guests who had crowded in to see the fun. There was a gust of laughter, shouts,
giggles, and girlish shrieks as the silken hose flew wildly across the wedding bed. Everyone talked at once, argued, accused each other of cheating, vowed that they must have another chance, scuffled about on the floor to retrieve their stockings, ended by pelting each other with them, snatching them from one another, chasing each other round the bed, kissing each other, excited, tipsy and hilarious. The married pair sat up in bed and laughed politely, Sir Ralph concealing his impatience and Barbara her yawns, for she had been up since half-past four that morning and was sleepy.

Arabella Crosbie brought in the benediction possett at last, and handed it to the bride and bridegroom, who toasted one another as they drank from the silver cup. The guests, in spite of this hint, would have gone on rollicking in the bridal chambers for hours, but Arabella with a firmness beyond her years took the situation in hand. Assisted by her fellow bridesmaids and the more staid onlookers, she pushed and urged the revellers out of the room, warning them that if they lingered much longer it would be dawn, and time for the bride to be roused with music and a sack possett. It was obvious, even to the most inebriated, that this would not be a very satisfactory state of affairs for the bridegroom, and so the room was emptied. Footsteps and loud voices and laughter died away down the passages.

Arabella Crosbie drew the curtains of the bridal bed, saying with an arch smile, ‘I wish you joy of one another,' extinguished all the candles but one and tiptoed from the room.

Her good wishes were not fulfilled as far as Barbara was concerned. She submitted to Sir Ralph but did not enjoy him.

‘Like rich men that take pleasure
In hiding more than handling treasure.'
¹

March 1683

T
HE LADIES OF
Maryiot Cells were sitting at their needlework in one of the bay windows of the Long Gallery – young Lady Skelton, the Dowager Lady Skelton, Paulina Skelton, Aunt Dorothy Worth (who had come to live with her niece since the death of Barbara's father), Mistress Agatha Trimble (a widow and a relation of old Lady Skelton's), as well as a waiting gentlewoman who was some kind of an ignored and impoverished cousin of the Skelton family.

As they stitched away at their crewel work, their rosemary stitch and needle-point, they chatted about this and that, all, that is to say, but young Lady Skelton, who was embroidering tiny silken nosegays on a flowered taffeta gown, with a patience that by no means expressed her inner feelings, and her sister-in-law Paulina who was always of a silent habit.

The Dowager, as usual, was preoccupied with the subject of health – her own and other people's. Now that the March winds had come round again she must expect to find herself very out of order and troubled with her cough. As a girl her mother had always given her, at this time of year, a chest preservative made of the dried lung of a fox
ground to a powder and mixed with a little almond milk or broth. There was nothing like these tried remedies, when all was said and done, but Dr Henley would have none of it, and ordained for her syrup of roses and asses' milk, which she did not believe to be by any means so efficacious. This reminded her how feeble Cousin Jonathan had grown since his last apoplectic fit.

‘He should wear oiled cloth between his socks and the soles of his feet if he does not wish to go to his earthly mansion within the year,' said old Agatha Trimble, in a tone which conveyed that only Christian charity of the highest order, overcoming her dislike of Cousin Jonathan, had prompted her to make the suggestion.