‘Well, what sin has Miss Fox committed that has led to her feeling the need to run from the Horescombes?’
‘Vauxhall Gardens! That is where I knew her from. She was wearing a most daring pink dress and she and the young lady with her seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely. And I wish you would stop calling her Miss Fox. Her real name is Sophy Ludgate, and Maria has told me some tales of her daring, I assure you.
Her brother looked more shocked than she had judged likely. ‘Vauxhall Gardens — at a ball there? I would not have believed it of her.’
Emmeline made haste to explain. ‘Well, but it is not so very bad. Just a simple childish prank. She must have been made to suffer afterwards, by the state of play now.’
‘We must send to the general now. The Horescombes must be frantic with worry.’
‘Yes, but I think she might be better to stay here tonight, do you not? I had a tray sent to her room and her bed made ready and told her she must rest and we will deal with everything in the morning. We can let the Horescombes know she is safe for tonight.’
‘But what if she runs away? How could we make that up to the general?’ The marquis pretended a shudder, ‘He’s a tartar when crossed.’
‘We’ll put a footman outside her room or some such thing.’
The thought of Miss Fox, or Miss Ludgate, being above stairs gave Wrexham a different kind of shiver, but still he agreed. He wrote a letter to the Earl of Horescombe and gave it to Dow, ‘To be sent on the moment, Dow.’
Sitting in her chamber, where a friendly fire had been made up and a hot brick had been placed between the sheets, she had no idea what to do next. She was warm and safe tonight, at least, if not at ease. If she dropped her guard, she would find herself in Newgate Prison, and this was probably where she belonged. Lying was becoming a way of life to a girl so strictly brought up. The maid who had brought her supper tray and had turned down the bed had been nervous in her presence. Fear of complaint perhaps. She wondered if Mr Dow the butler, or Dow as she should call him now she was in the role of lady, was as fair to the household as Mr Larkins had been to her. Of course, it had been Mrs Badger, the housekeeper at Foster Hall who had been her superior, but Beth knew that it was a butler who gave a house its tone. The girl’s fear, in the presence of so lowly a guest as she, said that something was not quite right, unless of course she was very new.
Almost subliminally, Beth had noticed some things out of alignment with a well-run home. On the upper floor, this marquis’s magnificent home had some dust in places Mrs Badger, the housekeeper at Foster Hall, would not have tolerated. But it was more than that. She might give herself time to think about it, if it was any of her business.
The young maid, perhaps sixteen, had asked if she wished to be undressed and Beth had almost laughed. She had never been helped to dress in her life, beyond the age of about four. Her mama had no time to dress children. She turned away, though, and said merely, ‘That will not be necessary, Aggie, thank you.’
She had been just such a servant in a fine country house. Had, unlike many others, stayed faithfully in her place and had worked her way up to being a lady’s maid, by great diligence and skill, to the young lady of that family. Miss Sophy was not at all a strict mistress. On the contrary, she was affectionate and kind, and as a young lady of fashion, a credit to the attentions of her maid. If sometimes she did not understand that a velvet cape whose lining had been torn and stained could not be mended (for it required to be completely relined) for a ball the next evening — well, that was perfectly natural. It was essential for the smooth running of a house, had said Mr Larkins the butler, to have their labours be invisible to the Quality at all times. So Beth had sat up all night and sacrificed her only half-day that month to be certain it was done as her mistress required.
Mr Larkins had noticed, as he noted everything that happened in the house, and had nodded to her in a way that made her heart swell with pride. Mr Larkins was a deity to Beth. Her mother had been in service with him twenty years ago, and had written to him (for she too had risen to the heady heights of lady’s maid, and knew her letters) and had known that he kept an orderly house above and below stairs. The hierarchy was more strictly observed below than above stairs. No young pot boy or footman would offer her an insult of any kind, and relations between the servants was strictly forbidden. The position was everything her mother could wish for her. She sent home money every quarter day, and it added to her mother’s meagre income from the farm.
Now, with another five children to care for, the Widow Culpepper would miss that money grievously.
She could go home, of course, but she had visited once since she’d had her position and she was not quite fitted to the life anymore. She could still milk a cow and harness the plough horses, but she had annoyed her mother with her new found ‘finicky ways’. She washed all the children’s clothes and held each of her brothers and sisters under the pump, and her mother had told her off for wasting time. ‘And don’t look at me as though you wish to wash me too, Elizabeth Culpepper, or I’ll slap your face for you.’ Her mother was her heroine, and Beth had been very sad to make her feel belittled, but when one’s job for seven years had been in the service of cleanliness and order, it was difficult not to bring this home to the farm. Her mother had forgiven her, having once suffered from the same time-wasting obsessions, before life on a farm with Ned Culpepper and their children had changed her priorities.
Her sister Nessie had promised Beth (secretly) to wash the little ones every Friday night and to keep herself as neat as she could. But after that visit, Beth knew that quite apart from being another mouth to feed, she could never return to that home to live. Jem, her brother, was more diligent than her Pa, but at sixteen he still only earned a few shillings from other farmers, as well as growing and tending what fed them on their own tenancy, which he had taken over from his dead pa. Between Jem and Nessie, Mother had borne only dead babes, for Ness was but eleven, with Maisie at eight, John at six and little Theodore at four, by which time Pa had (fortunately) died. It may be a sin to think so, but there could be no doubting that Mother and Jem had done better without him, his drinking, and his inconsistent working of the farm. The farm profits were eaten up by the rent. Nessie would be off to service in a year or so, but until then, any actual money, beyond some pennies for eggs or milk sold, came from the wages of Beth. She needed to make sure she could replace them soon.
She must get away from these solicitous captors and begin to make a new path for herself. As Beth snuggled beneath the warm sheets she sat up and sipped the hot milk that had been left for her, suddenly finding it all so funny. The luxury of this room, with the silken coverlet, the fine linen, the pretty paper on the walls, the gilded furniture and ceiling. A marquis and a princess calling themselves her friend. She laughed. Yesterday morning Lady Foster had cast her out. If she thought of her fate at all, she might suppose her sleeping in some flea-ridden lodgings. Certainly not a friend of royalty, sleeping in a canopied bed. It was sinful not to give thanks for God’s mercies, after all. She leaned back on the goose down pillows, determined to enjoy this one night when she might be as surrounded in luxury as Marie Antoinette.
But everyone knew what had happened to her …
Chapter 6
Beth awoke in the night. She was restless, having just had her head lopped off as she slept, and decided to go in search of a book, having seen a library off the tall, square entry hall. Perhaps, if she read and did not go back to sleep, a little later she might leave before the house arose: she was too afraid of walking the streets of London in the pitch dark. This last resolve seemed doomed, for there was a liveried footman in the hall, sprawled in a chair sleeping. She could get past him in bare feet, but was quite sure he had been set to make sure she did not leave the house. A prison indeed.
She slid into the library and longingly looked around the shelves, trailing her fingers across the book spines, as she had done frequently in Foster Hall. She had read th
ere too, taking books and hiding behind a large chair, curled up to read without being seen. To borrow them and take them to her room was to court disaster. Books were expensive, after all, and to be found with one would be theft. In the servants’ attics, there were too many people who could find out about her occupation. She had been taught her letters by her mama at an early age, as had all the children. Strangely, her father had not objected to this, since he had some pride in his heritage (that might be descried in the pages of an old family Bible) some ancient relatives of his being landed gentry. Her mother had held, in this one instance, that reading was necessary to know one’s scripture. But she had still let Beth read other tales, some that her mother possessed and hid against being sold by her father. There were others that the vicar lent her, and so she had grown in her love of books.
She was especially adjured to keep silent about this, for to be educated above one’s station was still prohibited with some masters. It made servants rebellious and unfitted for their station, it was held, and they should know as little of one’s business as possible. Of course, in realty, servants knew everything between them, and that was irrespective of their ability to read, Beth had discovered. But upper servants were sometimes taught, for the convenience of their betters, and Beth had contrived to make Miss Sophy think, without lying precisely, that she had been an excellent teacher, and that Beth had learnt only from her young mistress, in case she be thought presumptuous in her learning. Even when Beth had read for two hours in the short night-time permitted a servant, she’d thought herself almost more refreshed than when she only slept.
Now, among the handsome leather Latin volumes (Beth had not mastered Latin, unfortunately) she found a copy of Robinson Crusoe, which her mother also possessed. She greeted it as a friend, and took it down avidly, almost heading for a place behind a chair. But then she realised that her position as guest gave her some privileges, so she sat on the chair instead. She was able to extinguish her candle and read by the dying embers in the fire, which warmed her.
In ten minutes or so, she was quite engrossed, when a candle spilt some light on the carpet, as a man entered. She saw by the glittering braid on his uniform that it was the footman from the hall. He did not perceive her, and moved towards a tray on a side table, and poured himself a glass of amber liquid. At first frozen, Beth stood up, letting the book fall to the floor.
The candlelight covered her and a voice behind it said ‘Miss!’ There was fear in that voice, and it showed Beth her power. Mr Larkins had very strong views on servants drinking and she was outraged, so that even when his voice became more insolent, Beth remained so. ‘Miss, I was bringing his lordship a nightcap—’
‘And tasting it to boot, I see. What is your name?’
‘George, Miss.’
‘Well, George. I think Mr … I think Dow would be very disappointed in what I have just witnessed.’
George let a short laugh escape him. ‘Yes, Miss.’ But he sounded unconcerned, insolent still. Feigning servility.
‘I know the marquis would be.’
His tone changed. ‘If you could avoid disturbing the marquis with this, Miss … I was just a bit cold in the hall, and wanted to warm myself, miss.’
‘With the master’s French Brandy. It is not right, George.’
‘No, Miss’
‘Why did you laugh when I said I would tell Dow?’
‘I didn’t laugh, Miss.’
‘Oh, so I may wake up the marquis …’
‘Please Miss …! Mr Dow’s partial to the brandy himself miss. Upon occasion.’
The things she’d noticed in her short visit made her enquire, ‘Is Mr — is Dow a good butler?’
George looked shifty, ‘He’s a very accomplished—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Beth dismissively, cutting short his speech. ‘But what is his temper with the other servants?’
George, his handsome face gazing down at this little lady’s with something approaching trust, decided on a sliver of openness. ‘Variable, Miss. Very variable.’
‘Is he lax?’
‘Lax and a tyrant at once, I’d say.’ He regarded her closely, but did not discern any threat to him in her manner. Indeed, she seemed to have suspected something of the truth, though how, he could not guess. He added a little. ‘If this house were a ship, mutiny would be brewing.’
Beth put her head to one side. ‘Has he been here long?’ Something told Beth this could not be possible. George shook his head. ‘And before Dow? Who was the butler then?’
‘That was Wright, Miss. And he was a right ‘un. Begging your pardon, Miss. Worked for the Family for years and ran a superior household, if you know what I mean. Now the housekeeper and Cook are at each other’s throats, the maids are terrified, and Dow has dismissed three footmen in the last month.’
Beth looked at him aghast. ‘Then why do you take such a risk as to—?’
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, much, Miss. The footmen aren’t dismissed for any particular purpose. Just according to Mr Dow’s constitution that day.’ Beth shook her head in wonder. George grew serious. ‘If Mr Wright were still here, Miss, I’d never—’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Beth, and she thought she did.
A noise disturbed them, and another candlelight entered before the marquis, dressed in only a shirt, breeches and boots. He looked from Beth to the footman and she felt compelled to say, ‘Thank you George, you may give that to me and leave.’
The footman froze for a fraction of a second before saying, ‘Yes miss,’ and handing her the generous glass of brandy, departed soundlessly.
‘Miss Fox! I beg your pardon.’
Beth noticed the strong column of his throat, rising from his open necked shirt, and strove to be calm. ‘I must beg yours, sir. I came down merely to find a book. I found myself unable to sleep.’
‘I am on the same errand.’
She held the glass uncomfortably. ‘George asked if he could get me something and seeing the brandy there, I presumed to ask for a glass.’ The marquis’s eyebrows rose. ‘It was a - a - habit of mine to have a glass with my father in the evening.’
‘Was it?’ his eyebrows rose, and he grinned. ‘How unusual!’ he gestured gallantly at the glass, ‘Do carry on.’
Beth lifted the strong spirits to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes watered and her throat burned, but beyond a slight croak, she made no fuss.
The marquis came forward and took it from her. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was teasing you. Did you find the footman dipping into my brandy?’ he smiled at her, amused. ‘I will have to see about that…’
‘Oh, do not, I beg,’ she said, her face flushed. ‘I would not want to be the means to have a man dismissed.’
‘You will not be. A warning only will suffice.’
He stepped aside after she smiled at him and opened the door, which he had made sure remained ajar in the name of propriety, even wider to let her pass. She stopped opposite him and looked up at his cleft chin. ‘Do you know how long George has been with you?’
‘Well, no. Should I?’ He was surprised to see what passed for anger in her eyes and gave himself to think. ‘I believe he may have been quite young when he joined us, perhaps fourteen.’
Her face lost the angry look. She looked at him frankly, and pushed herself on to speak. ‘Many years, then. When servants behave loosely, it is as well to look at the head of the house.’
‘Myself?’ he replied, still amused.
From the perspective of a servant, there was only one head of a house, the steward (but many houses no longer possessed such) or the butler. It took her a moment to say, ‘The head of household, I should say.’
‘Dow?’
She cast down her eyes. ‘I should say no more, my lord, it is not my business. I apologise for mentioning it.’
She slid past him then, and he noticed that her night rail had been mended more than once. Miss Sophy’s disguise complete, if his sister was correct. But she did not appear t
o him to be the hoydenish, forward young lady his sister described. She seemed quiet. Yet it had been forward to mention the running of the house when you were but one night a guest. He rather approved of her kindness to the footman, though he had no idea why she would put herself to the trouble. It was not as though he were her old retainer, like his servants in the country were to him, many of them were his childhood friends.
He’d liked her from the first: she was quietly pretty — not a showy filly, but there was both bravery and fear in those melting brown eyes. At first, he’d thought her a mere child, despite the plump bosom, but now he thought she had rather more years behind her than the fifteen or so he’d judged. Why that disturbed him, he did not know.
It was some time before he bethought himself of Dow. True, things did not run as smoothly as in Wright’s day, and the household bills recently had risen, so his man of business had mentioned. But it was nothing he chose to worry about. However, dipping the brandy might be the thin edge of an unknown wedge. He supposed, he thought drearily, he must look into it.
Chapter 7
Beth’s nervous exhaustion after encountering the marquis with the dark blue eyes and that strong cleft chin had betrayed her. She had fallen asleep in the down bed, and slept until the scared young maid opened the curtains.
Beth sat up, cursing that she had to choose this night, of all in her life, to sleep past dawn. She had lost her opportunity to make an early escape. As the maid placed a pillow behind her and handed her a tiny cup of chocolate to waken her, she wondered if something in her did not really wish to escape this gilded cage. She sat back and watched as the maid laid out her second gown, already having tended to her travel-stained dress and pelisse of yesterday.
Beth and the Mistaken Identity Page 5