It is really wonderful to sit down with you, Major Russell,
and to meet you and the lovely Mistress Russell. (She’s prettier than you might
expect, if you don’t mind an certain unmistakable family resemblance. And he
looks considerably more ragged at the edges, too, for an urbane
partially-retired intelligencer.)
I understand that a book about
the early days of your marriage and the adventures that befell you, is out in
September. Now the first we heard of you, you were a young lieutenant in the
New Model Army, major, and your wife was, er -
Thomazine:
Not quite two. That's right, yes.
So - I have to ask - Mistress Russell, how old were you when you
realised you wanted to marry him?
T: I never didn’t want
to marry him! He’s not really that enigmatic, you know. You just can’t always
tell what he’s thinking.
Russell: (looking
amused) Due to a certain inflexibility of expression, tibber?
T: Well - yes. I was trying not to put it so plain, my
honey, but yes. Because of the scar.
R: Oh, bless you, sweet - as if after the better part of
thirty years I might not yet be accustomed to my marred face.
T: (crossly) It is not marred! I won’t hear
it! You are lovely – you always were,
even when - when I was very little I thought some of the more righteous sort of
smitey angels must have looked like you – all fierce and straight and fiery. (She
ducks her head and won’t look at him.) AndIthoughtyouwerebeautiful.
R: What?
T: (blushing horribly) I thought you were beautiful.
R: What, even when you were -?
T: Yes.
R: Good lord. So – er – when did you actually decide
you intended to marry me?
T: When I worked out that you were someone who could
be married, and not just an angel in a white nightie. I think I would have been
about fifteen. Which is perfectly
decent, dear. I waited till I was all of twenty to do anything about it, didn’t
I?
Good lord. So London – what happened?
T: It was all very exciting, you know.
R: Well, I should not say exciting, my tibber,
rather it was –dangerous and uncomfortable and several things happened that I
would not consider at all a fit and proper subject for an improving work.
T: Of course, my honey. It was fun though, wasn’t it?
R: If you consider being suspected of treason, arson, and
most of the murders in London – not to say having my wife abducted and all but
killed from under my very nose - to be a matter of entertainment, madam, you
want your head testing. Not to say having to engage with the Earl of Rochester
and his infernal ape, and being eyed as a subject of scientific research by the
Royal Society.
T: I enjoyed the ride in the carriage, though....
R: Thomazine!
He is changing the subject, isn't he?
T: Oh bless him yes, he's not yet accustomed to being the
sort of man who has a romantic nature.
R: (definitely changing the subject, with an air of grim
resolution) Well. I had not - as you know, I had not - I did not think
anyone would ever choose to be harnessed to such as I, and so I had not really
made provision for a wife. And then, you know, I met Thomazine -
T: Again. You met me again.
R: We met again, then, and I wanted to - it was in my mind
for the first time that there was, there might be, that I -
T: (demurely) I made it clear that I was not averse
to his courtship.
R: And then I had news that my sister had died, and that I
had come into possession of the house at Four Ashes. What was left of it.
Ah. Your sister. You were never close to her, but did you
ever have any tender feelings for her? What would she have thought of your
lovely new wife?
R: Oh, I didn’t have any. For anyone, I think. My sister
made very sure of that.
T: If you could not listen for a minute, my honey – (fiercely) your sister was a poisonous
bitch and she deserved to burn. And
I’m glad she did, or I might have had to see to it myself.
R: Oh no, Thomazine, don’t say that!
T: She abused
you, Thankful! She should have taken care of you and loved you and instead she
hurt you and told you what a bad, worthless, horrible little boy you were and
that nobody would ever want to love you, ever –
R: But you do, and she was wrong. She would have hated you
for that. Making her wrong, I mean.
T: She would have hated me anyway, dear, for not putting up
with her sh-
R: Thomazine!
T: Chicanery, I was about
to say. And I am sure she would not have approved at all of the fact
that I happen to rather like you. You are a very satisfactory husband, for the
most part.
Because you were brought up strictly Puritan, weren’t you –
I believe your full name is actually Thankful-For-His-Deliverance. Did you
never wish you'd been named something more ordinary?
R: Frequently. Though my sister was Fly-Fornication, so I
consider myself to have escaped lightly.
Which clears that up. So you were saying about London?
T: Oh, it was wonderful.
R: Apart from the being suspected of being a spy, and not
quite killed, parts.
T: It was very exciting, though.
R: (not sounding
convinced) Mmm. It was intended to be a pleasant diversion - I had retired
from my work for the Admiralty, I was looking forward to spending a peaceful
and restful few weeks showing my wife the sights and sounds of London society.
T: - and instead you ended up having to go back to work.
R: Indeed.
Mistress Russell
- may I call you Thomazine? - thinking of the wedding favour you embroidered
for Thankful, do you actually like embroidery or is it something that a woman
like you has to do?
T: Oh, please do call me Thomazine. I like it – I like pretty things – but, um, I’m not actually that
good at it. I’m fierce at setting things in order, but I’ve not the patience
for embroidery. I’m more of a tidier-upper. My garden is perfectly lovely,
mind. To think what it looked like at Four Ashes when I first saw it –
R: It looked like a house that had been burned to the
ground, love, and was in the process of being rebuilt.
T: It proper gave me the shivers at first – knowing it had
burned with her in it. But it’s all
right, isn’t it? We’ve sort of made it our own. (She looks at him, trying not to
laugh) When your husband is a man of business who trades as far as the
Indies, you acquire some very odd
trinkets....
R: (smugly) Singular, my tibber
T: He is making up for lost time, I think. I was brought up
plain – not strict, but plain – mam is a very sensible goodwife, so hard work
doesn’t bother me at all. Hard work, clean linen, and good feeding. This one – (she pats him affectionately) – is like a magpie. He’d stuff the
house with the most impractical gauds if I let him.
Major, did you
ever get that ribbon back?
R: To my sorrow, I did not. My wife suggested that it might
be indiscreet to pursue its restoration to its rightful owner, given the
circumstances of its, ah, loss and recovery.
You give the
impression that this love is a miracle to you, is this so and Thomazine, how do
you feel about that?
T: Before he says anything at all, I will say – for an intelligent man, really, he can be slow at
times. My husband is an articulate, loving, handsome man: he has all his own
hair and rather good teeth. He has a little tiny mark on his face that I hardly even notice any more and he
thinks it gives people a disgust of him.
(She spreads her hands in a gesture intended to take in the stupidity of men in
general) He probably could have married any woman he chose to, before me,
if he was only minded to ask!
R: That is kind,
Zee, but, ah, as your estimable father would put it – cobblers. It is still a
miracle to me. God grant it will always be so. I never thought I would be any
more to you than an old and trusted family friend.
T: No, my honey, neither did I at times. I thought you
would never notice.
Now a slightly
risqué one! Major, Thomazine startled you by complimenting you on your fine
bottom. What do you think of her nether regions?
R: Ah, that is a tender subject presently. I am, as they
say, damned if I do and equally damned if I don’t. It, ah, I –
T: I have increased, somewhat, of late. It puts him in an
awkward position, you see.
R: I will say only that I admire and respect my wife’s mind
above all, and any alteration of her outward seeming is of no account.
T: Liar.
R: Mm. Or a professional diplomat who chooses not to sleep
in the outbuildings.
Thomazine, are
you reconciled to the fact that the Dutch are not actually monsters or do you
still fear they may have two heads or eat babies?
T: Having seen those appalling blue painted jars his
friends in the Low Countries gave us on the occasion of our marriage – horrible
things they are, of no conceivable purpose, about the height of a small dog and
appearing to have been painted by a blind man with rheumatic fingers – yes they
are, darling, they’re awful, you say so yourself: you’ve been trying to break
one for months – I do not consider my husband’s friends to be monsters, but
their taste in furnishings is lamentable.
And they encourage him.
Two for both of
you here. How did being society outcasts affect you both?
T: I think we were more sad for each other....if you see
what I mean? I don’t think I like society – not society-society, not, you know,
silks and pearls society – and so I didn’t expect to go back there so I didn’t
care but I was buggered if those
horrible people were going to run my darling off his patch – as a matter of
principle.
R: Although I never liked society much anyway. It has a
habit of staring at me.
T: What of it?
R: I hate being stared at, tibber.
T: (shrugs) I know,
love. But since you’re not a murderer, and the worst your friends in the Low
Countries can be accused of is appalling taste in porcelain, it offended me
that you should be blamed for something you hadn’t done. So the more people
whispered, the more annoyed I got. They could at least have said things to your
face.
Now, Wilmot won’t
read this I promise, so - what did you really
think of the monkey?
T: Horrible. It was quite sweet, but, um, kind of strange –
altogether too much like a hairy baby. I liked it, but it unsettled me.
R: You’re sure you don’t want one, then?
T: (looks at him for
a minute) – oh. You mean to be funny. No, it had hands like a tiny little
man, and it was altogether too knowing to be quite comfortable. I think I
prefer real babies.
R: Which is a crowning mercy, all things considered.
What is your
favourite tipple, Zee? And Thankful?
R: Well, I do rather like coffee –
T: Eeeww, Russell, how can
you? It’s horrible!
R: It’s nicer than tea, my tibber – at least it tastes of
something!
T: Yes, it tastes like printers’ ink! I much prefer a nice home-brewed ale. There is nothing so good as warm buttered ale on a cold night. You don’t want to be drinking that horrible bitter stuff. Curdle your belly, it will. It’s not good for you, you mark my words. And it keeps you wakeful.
T: Yes, it tastes like printers’ ink! I much prefer a nice home-brewed ale. There is nothing so good as warm buttered ale on a cold night. You don’t want to be drinking that horrible bitter stuff. Curdle your belly, it will. It’s not good for you, you mark my words. And it keeps you wakeful.
Thomazine, what
did you think of Prince Rupert? (You may answer honestly as I can guarantee
that this missive will never reach his eyes.)
T: Much overrated!
I am told that some ladies consider him quite the fancy man. Does nothing for
me at all. I mean, he’s really old – not to say having almost no hair at all,
for some bizarre reason – what is
that thing with the wigs? I am absolutely not surprised that he hasn’t got a
wife. Thankful, what are you laughing at, please?
R: An excess of actresses, my tibber. That’s another reason
why he hasn’t got a wife. Bless you.
T: What? Oh! How
wicked!
A question for
you both now, on the matter of wigs. Like them or loathe them?
T: Full of fleas, and they look ridiculous. I don’t care
what his opinion is – I don’t, dear, you’re not having one. I like your hair as
it is. Don’t you dare cut it all off again. (She looks at me and shakes her head) He used to do that, you know,
before we were married. Cut all his hair off, and grow horrible scabby beards –
to make himself look plain.
R: Plainer.
T: Whichever. It
didn’t work, and you are beautiful. Shut up arguing about it.
R: (smiling very
slightly) I consider myself told....
Thomazine. Aphra
Behn. Do you like her or does she shock you?
T: I did like her a good deal – no, no she doesn’t shock
me. Well, she did shock me, when we
were in Bruges, but that wasn’t – that’s another story, I think, and for
another time. That was something else she did. The thing with Affie, she has a
habit of making things up.
R: She does it for a living, sweet, she has a lot of
practice.
T: Surely. It doesn’t make her any more bearable. She
teases me beyond endurance, you know. There’s romance, and then there’s Romance. And hers are just bloody stupid.
R: Well, she has to sell her plays –
T: It’s all the same one, just with different names in it!
Something squawks
upstairs. Thomazine claps a hand to the front of her dress in a sort of
horrified reflex and flees.
R: Ah. Nathaniel. A delightful infant, but an impressive
trencherman, for a child not six weeks old.
I think that’s
normal, at six weeks old. Somehow, I can’t imagine you two settling peaceably
at home to play with fat fair-haired babies for the rest of your lives
together.
R: (wistfully) It
would be delightful, though. To have a home at last, and my own people about
me, and time to enjoy it...without being shot at, threatened, or burned. I cannot
conceive of a happier fate.
How do you think
Thomazine would feel about that?
R: Oh, I imagine she’d love it. My wife would have made a
far more efficient supply officer than I ever did – as she says, she is a most
ferocious tidier-upper. Sadly, I suspect that given my previous employment,
adventure is not yet finished with us.
One last question
– I can see you’re keen to go and spend time with your family. What is
a tibber?
R: Oh, that! ‘Tes a Chiltern word, my duck. (It is really
weird hearing him with an accent, however briefly – a roight praper Buckinghamshoire ahccent at
that) It’s a kitten, hereabouts. I’d fallen into the habit of calling her
so when she was little. Sort of stuck.
It has been really lovely talking to both of you. I wish
you much joy and peace in your marriage and hope that I can continue to read
your adventures written by the exceptional talent of M. J. Logue. Buy it here ...
 |
| 'Some strange woman walking down a tarmacked street in Germany, pretending to be Thomazine Russell ...' About M.J. Logue: Writer, mad cake lady, re-enactor, historian. Been slightly potty about the clankier side of Ironside for around 20 years, and lists amongst my heroes in this unworthy world Sir Thomas Fairfax, Elizabeth Cromwell and John Webster (for his sense of humour.) When not purveying historically-accurate cake to various re-enactment groups across the country, M.J. Logue can usually be discovered practising in her garden with a cavalry backsword. Often to be found loitering, in an ill-tempered manner, at A Sweet Disorder - do come along and pass unhelpful remark. M.J. Logue is joint first of my all time favourite authors. Her other books can be found here |
© Diana Milne July 2017 © M. J. Logue August 2017
