The lyrics had truly fascinated her, however, especially when they’d been written by a young man destined to be king. On first reading, the song seemed acelebration of passing time in good company, but underneath was a commentary on wastrel youth.
Had Kynaston understood that, even then? She didn’t know if he ever sang the last verse.
Pastime with good company I love, and shall until
I die.
Grudge who may, but none deny, if God please,
thus live will I.
Then the jolly chorus, well suited to stamping feet, even in the original:
For my pastance hunt, sing, and dance!
My heart is set on all goodly sport
To my comfort. Who shall stop me?
And indeed, who would have stopped a prince? Or a young, rich earl?
But in the third verse the tone changed to advice to be wiser.
But every man has free will, the best to choose, the worst to refuse.
My plan will be, virtue to use, vice to refuse. That shall be me.
If Kynaston had sung that, he’d not taken it to heart.
Suddenly weary, Ariana picked up her candlestick, preparing to relight the candle and return to bed.
A key turned in the lock of the front door.
She stared for a second, but then realized a thief wouldn’t have a key, and a servant wouldn’t use the front door. She ran down the corridor toward the rearto lurk in the shadows there, then remembered to raise her hood in case her hair caught the candlelight. She heard the door shut, and a mumbled curse. Then a clatter and another curse. She guessed that he’d dropped the key.
Drunk again?
She leaned slightly to see. The one candle lit the scene like a theater stage. Kynaston, in greatcoat and tilted hat, was making his way toward the candle—with considerable difficulty. Definitely drunk, and badly so. He was weaving his course and almost tripping over his own feet.
When he arrived at his destination, he clutched onto the table with both hands. Perhaps without that support he would have crumpled to the ground. Ariana could almost feel his effort to firm his legs and straighten. He kept one palm flat on the table as he very, very carefully lifted off the glass surround to liberate the candle. It immediately began to flicker, probably in response to unsteady breathing.
“Plaguey thing,” he slurred, perhaps to the glass, the candle, or some other insubstantial offender.
He grabbed the candlestick and turned toward the staircase. He reached the newel post but then, clinging to it, must have decided the mountain was too steep to climb. He loosed his grasp and staggered, still muttering and cursing, toward the library. When he shut the door, the hall was plunged into a darkness that seemed an echo of the darkness Ariana felt about his state.
She stayed where she was, furious at Lady Cawle. But then, what could the lady do? Lock him up? Punish him in some way? Maybe she did lecture him and even berate him, but housing him might have been the only kindness in her power.
Ariana felt the inevitable temptation to go to the library to see if there was anything she could do. That candle could be a danger in such unreliable hands. It would be folly, however, and whatever the Earl of Kynaston needed, it wasn’t her preaching at him.
She no longer had any way to light her candle, but the moonlight coming in through the fanlight over the door was sufficient for her to make her way up the first flight of stairs. As she turned into the next flight, that light ended, so she had to feel her way back into her bedroom.
The moonlight there was startlingly bright after such darkness and she easily returned the candlestick to its place, took off her robe and slippers, and got back into bed. There was still enough warmth between the sheets to comfort her and she snuggled down.
She was ready for sleep now, and she would not let a miserable ruin of a man below prevent her.
Surprisingly, after a while, that proved true.
•••
