In Which I Suffer an Attack of the Vapours.
Alas. I am bereft as I pen these words as my minstrel suitor is far away in London Town, preparing to sing for the King, no less! He did inform me by letter that he held great fear at the prospect of strumming before His Majesty, as his instrument has not seen the light for many a long year. I was aghast, though, to espy wine stains on the parchment! He did distinctly inform me that he no longer partook of the devil's brew. Hmmmmm.
To quell the lonely hours, I called to my hounds, Michelangelo and the Mistress Grace, so that I could read to them an instalment of Fornication and the Town, featuring the comely Mr. Bug. Alas, even reading of his prowess with the wanton Mistress Caroline Bradshot failed to beguile, so I blew out the candle and we made our solemn journey up to the bedchamber.
'Tis now the morrow and I am in high spirits! A page did arrive at my door earlier, bearing a letter from my Famous Minstrel! 'My beloved,' he had scribed. 'Myself and my fellow minstrels are much delighted with our music and feel the King will bestow upon us his high regard.' Hmmm. It seems my FM has resolved his nervous disposition. He went on, 'You are generosity itself, lending to me your London townhouse whilst I am here. I swear by the love of God I will keep it tikkety-boo and there will be no ribald shenanigans whilst I am in residence. Prepare for my arrival at your country abode within the next few days. Forever yours, XXXX.'
My gnarled hands flew to my creased decolletage. 'Oh my goodness!' I gasped! 'But I am not prepared!' I raced to my looking-glass and was dismayed by my reflection. My skin looked shiny, like a suckling pig on a spit, and I did realise I had become a little heavy around the midriff. I must make haste to the apothecary's!
I flew to my bedchamber and squeezed into my tightest corset, over which I donned my newest gown, a beautiful black velvet number made by an up-and-coming seamstress who goes by the name of Mistress Victoria Beecham. Verily, her gowns are being lauded in high places! With my best jet-black periwig atop my head, I called to the hounds and we set off for town.
The bell jangled as we entered the apothecary's shop and a strong whiff of unguentum assailed my elongated nostrils. 'No whelps in here!' Mr. Squigglydick, the apothecary, boomed. Much affronted, I informed him that they were my hearing hounds, and I very much doubted that he would have spoken to a portly, rich gentleman in that tone. He grumblingly relented and I made my purchases whilst the hounds pittled on the stone floor. So sweet.
Once home, I set to my task with relish. I applied a poultice of bat excrement and guinea fowl urine to my face; this promised to erradicate unsightly crows feet and pock marks. Next, I rubbed goose grease and turpentine into my thighs, a new-fangled ointment that would stop bits becoming wobbly, and finally I filled my bath tub with a powerful mixture that would make my skin infant soft. Lighting my Batford's tallow candle, that emitted a distinct whiff of beef fat, ugh! I lowered myself into the potent mix of claret wine infused with wormwood, sage and juiced eels. After a while, the intoxicating brew fuddled my head and I could not resist partaking of a sup. I did wobble ungainly as I alighted the tub, and snatched up my fan to allay the sweats.
I was indulging in an afternoon slumber when the hounds started yapping, loudly. Hark! There was someone at the door. It was the page again, bearing another letter from London Town. I tore it open as the hounds chased the page down the lane, eager for the taste of human flesh. It was from Missis Aitch, my educated servant.
'Mistress Pepys-Jones,' it began. 'It is with regret that I must inform you that your beau, Master XXXX, has treated your townhouse with great disrespect and has left it in wanton disarray. Your Grinling Gibbons carved and gilded walnut sideboard has been marred with many clay pipe burns. Wine stains and other, unidentified marks, have soiled and sullied your Louis XIV bed linen, and your cherry and ivory chiffonier now has a lute embedded in the roll-top. Your deeply humble servant, Aitch.'
Treacherous! How could he when all I do is give, give, give and ask for nothing in return? I was brought from my abject anguish by another knock at my door. 'Twas him. I glowered and waited for an utterance. He cleared his throat. 'My deepest love,' he stuttered. 'I do not know where to begin. I have blighted your hospitality. I have been appalling.' I looked on his crestfallen countenance and softened. 'No, you have not. Aitch, my servant, said she would purchase some puppy urea to clean my townhouse.'
'No, I have been appalling to you. Whilst drunk, I did lay with a strumpet.' There was a roaring in my ears. 'A trumpet? You told me you played a lute! You are a liar, Sir! Begone, and never darken my door again!'
As the FM hastened down the lane, the hounds at his heels, I did reach for my smelling salts, so overcome with fatigue and distress was I. Will I ever find fulfillment and contentment? Will I? I fear I am doomed to suffer misery to the end of my days.
And so to bed.