by M. C. Beaton
Rainbird remained silent. He felt sure if he managed to wait quietly long enough then the agent would get around to talking about the real purpose of his visit.
And so it was. After trying unsuccessfully to bait Rainbird, Palmer heaved a disappointed sigh and said, “A tenant is arriving next month. Parcel of women, by the looks of it. Saw the lawyer concerned. Seems this knight, Sir Benjamin Hayner, died and left his two daughters in the care of a twenty-five-year-old miss called Metcalf. This Miss Metcalf will be arriving with the two girls. Again, there is going to be the question of accommodation for their lady’s maid.”
Rainbird winced, and Palmer looked at him curiously. Rainbird had fallen in love with the French lady’s maid who had been resident the last Season.
“Last year,” said Rainbird, carefully controlling his expression, “Mrs. Middleton had to give up her parlour on the backstairs. I trust this won’t be necessary again.”
“It’s all up to this Metcalf. Leave it to her. She should be something new in your experience, Rainbird. According to this lawyer, she’s the biggest saint in the length and breadth of England.”
“Good,” said Rainbird. “A saintly tenant would care for the welfare of the servants. In fact, any lady cares for her servants. It is only those who are neither ladies nor gentlemen who treat servants badly.”
“Meaning me,” said Palmer, a dangerous colour mounting up his face.
Rainbird studied him with the curiosity of a jackdaw, as if hoping the terrible Palmer might have an apoplexy and leave this world a better place, but Palmer soon recovered and demanded to see the housekeeping accounts.
At long last the ordeal was over. Mrs. Middleton took the books back to her parlour and comforted herself with a good cry, for Palmer’s rude and brutal manner always made her feel as if she had been assaulted. She dried her eyes and looked up as Rainbird entered the room.
“Oh, Mr. Rainbird,” she said, fluttering to her feet. “I am afraid I have been crying, and my eyes are so red and …”
“It does not matter,” said Rainbird. “I brought a little brandy to comfort both of us. I know we should share it with the others, but then, they are not so much in need of comfort at the moment as we. How that wretched man does rile me! Also, we did not lose our well-earned money on some useless horse.”
“I suppose they cannot be blamed all the same,” said the housekeeper. “Joseph made the bet sound so tempting—and I would have certainly given him my money if you had not been so much against it, Mr. Rainbird. We cannot all be as clever as you.” She sighed and gazed at him adoringly, but the butler was busy pouring the brandy and did not notice her doting expression.
“Now, Mrs. Middleton,” said Rainbird, settling down in a battered armchair opposite the housekeeper, “things look quite hopeful for the coming Season. Palmer said a Miss Metcalf is the new tenant. She is quite young, but she is to chaperone two young misses during their debut. According to the new tenant’s lawyer, this Miss Metcalf is a sort of saint. I shall ask her to raise our wages for the term of the rental, only to the level we should be getting paid. They are bringing a lady’s maid….”
Mrs. Middleton looked miserable again. The last lady’s maid had not only taken up residence in the housekeeper’s parlour but had stolen Rainbird’s heart. “As far as I can gather,” went on Rainbird gently, “this lady’s maid might be well-content to share a room with Alice and Jenny.”
“Well, it will be nice,” said Mrs. Middleton cautiously, “to have only ladies in the house. They are so much easier to look after than the gentlemen, saving your presence, Mr. Rainbird. Yes, young ladies will be a pleasant change.”
Miss Josephine Spencer stood in the rain with a large silk umbrella over her head, watching the Misses Hayner and Harriet preparing to leave Chorley House. She herself had conveyed Harriet, Beauty, and Harriet’s shabby trunks by her own gig from the village.
She had had some conversation with the twins before they had left the house and was relieved to find their manner towards Harriet affectionate. Nothing to worry about there.
But it appeared as if the girls had suddenly discovered that Beauty was also going to London.
“You cannot possibly take that mongrel into society,” giggled Sarah. “Give the cur to Miss Spencer. I am sure she will look after him for you.”
Harriet looked embarrassed. “I am sorry, Sarah, but I must insist he comes. I shall keep him away from you. He is such a good watchdog.”
“Stoopid,” said Annabelle. “You do not understand, dear Harriet. The dog stays behind.”
“I must insist,” said Harriet, who had fed Beauty a large meal so that the animal might look more placid and approachable than usual.
“Then, if you insist, it may go in the baggage coach with Emily.” Emily was the twins’ lady’s maid. Miss Spencer looked curiously at Emily. She thought Emily looked like a fox with her reddish-brown hair and eyes of a peculiar shade of yellow. Emily gave her mistresses a sidelong look, and then her thin mouth curled in a faint grimace.
“I do not think that a very good idea,” said Harriet.
“I—”
Beauty suddenly bared his teeth and gave the twins a sinister canine sneer. He growled far back in his throat, a threatening rumble.
“Oh, very well, Harriet,” said Sarah. “But it is most odd of you.”
“Thank you,” said Harriet with a sunny smile. A footman was holding open the carriage door. Harriet urged Beauty in and then climbed in after the dog.
It was then that Miss Spencer saw Sarah turn to Annabelle and roll her eyes heavenwards in mock resignation. Then she went through the mime of wringing someone’s neck. Annabelle laughed hysterically, and then they both got into the coach after Harriet.
Miss Spencer shook her head as if to clear it. It was natural that anyone would be annoyed with Harriet for insisting the dog went along as well. The animal was quite horrible. On the other hand, she knew the girls had for the moment forgotten her presence, and the air of contempt and dislike exuding from the two of them had been almost tangible.
Miss Spencer walked to the carriage window. Harriet was sitting with her back to the horses and Beauty was lying at her feet.
“Good-bye, Harriet,” said Miss Spencer. “If you are in need of help, write to me and I shall come to London directly.”
“Good-bye, Josephine,” said Harriet, looking at her friend through a blur of tears. “I am sure I shall not be in need of help, but, of course, I shall write to you just the same.”
“Good-bye, Miss Spencer,” chorused the twins, looking the very pattern cards of propriety.
Miss Spencer stood back, her fears put to rest. The twins were very pleasant little girls. She had been imagining things.
The coachman cracked his whip; the carriage began to roll off down the drive. Harriet’s lace handkerchief fluttered briefly at the window. The coach passed the lodge gates and swung out onto the London road.
Miss Spencer climbed into her own gig and picked up the reins. Life seemed empty and flat. Miss Spencer began to run through in her mind the names and addresses of all her friends and relatives in London. Perhaps she might go on a visit, just to see Harriet’s coming out.
For it was Harriet’s debut as much as it was the twins’.
Chapter
Three
There pay it, James! ‘tis cheaply earned;
My conscience! how one’s cabman charges!
But never mind, so I’m returned
Safe to my native street of Clarges.
—H.D. Traill
At first it seemed as if Number 67 was all set for one of the most tranquil periods the town house had known since it was first built early in the previous century.
From Rainbird down to Dave, the staff vowed they had never known such sweet and charming ladies.
Miss Metcalf, on being appealed to by Rainbird shortly after her arrival for an increase in the staff’s wages, had said she would write to the lawyer, Mr. Gladstone, asking hi
s permission. Mr. Gladstone had replied that since the servants appeared to be asking only a reasonable amount, he would allow Harriet to pay the increase, but added that he had written to Mr. Palmer, complaining that servants should be paid so little in this year of Our Lord, 1809.
At first Harriet was at a loss as to how to begin finding suitable social company for her charges, but Rainbird had stepped in with a list of the correct people to cultivate. Joseph was sent to the pub patronised by the upper servants, The Running Footman, to spread the gossip that the Hayner girls were very rich, and soon a few invitation cards began to arrive.
London was still thin of company, but Harriet was anxious to give Sarah and Annabelle a head start on the other hopeful debutantes.
Much of the day was taken up being pinned and fitted by the dressmaker. Sarah and Annabelle were furious when it transpired that Harriet was to have a new wardrobe as well, but they concealed their rage, writing instead to Mr. Gladstone, demanding such extravagance on the part of their godmother be stopped. Mr. Gladstone replied that it was only right that Harriet should be decked out in a style that befitted her station and it would shame the Misses Hayner in the eyes of the ton were they to appear with a poorly dressed chaperone.
To do them justice, the twins had become firmly convinced some time ago that Harriet had stolen away their father’s affection. But the sad fact was that Sir Benjamin had come to despise and dislike his vindictive wife during her lifetime. After seeing too many of her nastier traits in his own daughters, which no teaching by several excellent governesses could appear to eradicate, Sir Benjamin had come to the conclusion that both his daughters were sly and devious. But he was a careless and jovial man, not given to much deep thought on any subject. He was rarely at home, and, when he was, he always summoned Harriet to dinner—a practise that his daughters had hoped would end with the death of Harriet’s parents. Up until then, they had thought Papa merely amused at the foibles of the shabby-genteel Metcalfs, and it was only after the death of Mr. and Mrs. Metcalf that his real affection for Harriet began to shine through. They had always concealed their envy and dislike of Harriet very well, and Sir Benjamin would never have saddled Harriet Metcalf with his daughters’ debut had he guessed the extent of their jealousy.
But the early days, while the girls prepared for the Season, passed pleasantly enough. By rigorous dieting, Annabelle had managed to lose a few pounds of weight, and by eating regular meals, Sarah had gained the same amount of weight her sister had lost. They came to look very alike, although Sarah was still nervous and intense and Annabelle sluggish and lazy.
Both agreed privately that Harriet should be treated with courtesy until she had created the groundwork for their social success. That she worked so hard at achieving this end did nothing to soften the feeling of either towards her.
Perhaps the only person in the house who was not very happy was Lizzie, the scullery maid. Try as she would, she could not like Emily, the lady’s maid. Emily had not ousted Mrs. Middleton from her parlour, but appeared content to share an attic with Jenny and Alice. Nor had Emily caught Joseph’s eye, something that really would have annoyed Lizzie, who was hopelessly in love with the vain footman. It was that Lizzie sensed a cruelty in Emily which the others did not seem to notice. She had a secretive way of looking at people out of the corners of those odd yellow eyes of hers, as if she was privately laughing at some particularly nasty joke.
And Lizzie was, moreover, not feeling very well. The rain still poured down, day after day, which meant muddied floors and floods in the kitchen to clean up. There were also fires to be made up in all the rooms and fenders to be polished.
All the servants had eyed Beauty askance, particularly Joseph, who was not only frightened it would savage his pet—the kitchen cat called the Moocher, a tawny, disreputable miniature lion of an animal—but was also dismayed to learn he was expected to take the beast out for walks.
But Beauty created no problems. He trudged miserably at Joseph’s heels outdoors and slept in front of the fire indoors. Harriet thought her pet was adapting well to city life, mainly because she had not very much time to worry about his oddly chastened mood. But the truth of the matter was that Beauty had cankers in his ears and was in perpetual pain and discomfort. His coat grew shabby and dull, and he barely touched his food.
An end came to the dog’s misery one day when Joseph was walking him along Curzon Street. A light carriage had overturned, spilling its occupants into the kennel. Joseph stopped to watch the drama. Then he found he was being addressed by a tall, elegant gentleman.
“Is that your dog?” asked the gentleman. Joseph looked up—it was not often that Joseph, who was tall, had to look up at anyone—and saw a strong, handsome face shadowed by the brim of a beaver hat.
“No,” said Joseph, who was ashamed of Beauty’s mangy looks. “Belongs to my mistress.”
“It looks ill,” said the tall gentleman. He bent down to where Beauty sat shivering in the rain at the side of the pavement, looked at the dog’s teeth, and then flipped back Beauty’s floppy ears, one after the other.
He straightened up. “The dog has cankers in both ears. Give me your direction, and I shall leave a solution with your mistress that will cure the animal of his discomfort in a few days.”
Joseph, who had already taken in the richness of the gentleman’s clothes, said promptly, “Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street. Miss Metcalf.”
“Here is my card,” said the gentleman.
Joseph took it and read the name, THE MARQUESS OF HUNTINGDON. His eyes widened. Joseph knew all the gossip there was to know about his betters. The marquess, he remembered, had been abroad for a long time in America, where he owned a tobacco plantation in Virginia. He was reputed to be one of the richest men in England, and the most handsome.
“Yes, my lord,” he said, bowing so low he almost touched noses with Beauty. The marquess nodded and strolled off along Curzon Street with his friend, Lord Vere.
“Why on earth did you waste your time over that brute of a dog?” said Lord Vere. “There’s nothing up with it that a good bullet straight between the eyes wouldn’t mend.”
“I noticed it looked sick,” said the marquess mildly. “But you are quite right. I should curb these charitable impulses. Now I have to call on some old spinster called Metcalf at Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street and give her medicine for the brute. But it’s good stuff. I’ve used it on my own hounds, and if it can put one more animal out of misery, then why not?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Lord Vere eagerly. “When are you going?”
“Possibly tomorrow. Why so eager to accompany me?”
“Vulgar curiosity, that’s why. I want to get a look at the inside of that famous Clarges Street town house and see the sort of lady who’s brave enough to take it.”
“What is so special about the house? Is it haunted?”
“In a way. There’s a curse on it. All sorts of odd things happen to people who stay there. The old Duke of Pelham hanged himself there. The house now belongs to the new duke, but he never goes near it. It’s the place where Clara Vere-Baxton died and last Season the new Lady Tregarthan discovered Clara had been murdered by Dr. Gillespie.”
“Oh, I remember that scandal,” said the marquess. “But you surely don’t believe in all that fustian about a curse. Come with me tomorrow, and we shall find, I assure you, some sweet little old lady, no doubt short-sighted, who does not even know her dog is sick.”
Joseph presented the marquess’s card to Harriet when he returned. The twins were out shopping with their maid, Emily. Harriet was too shocked upon finding out her pet was ill to pay much attention to the fact that it was a marquess who was going to supply the cure. She told Joseph to fetch her a bowl of potassium permanganate and warm water and some cotton wool.
Then she knelt down beside Beauty and gently lifted his ears, wincing as she saw the angry scarlet infection inside. She gently bathed his ears, fussing over him, and he rolled his eyes m
iserably and feebly licked her hand.
So ashamed was Harriet that she had not noticed how ill her dog was that she failed to tell the girls about the Marquess of Huntingdon. Also, she knew that Sarah and Annabelle did not like Beauty. Had Joseph told her that the marquess was an eligible and handsome man, then she would most certainly have roused the twins early in the morning to prepare for his call. But the little Harriet had seen of the young men of the town had led her to doubt that anyone under the age of forty would trouble themselves about a mongrel, and so she cheerfully imagined the marquess to be quite old and countrified.
Sarah and Annabelle came home carrying a great many packages and boxes. Harriet did feel they spent far too much money on trifles, but as it was their own money they were spending, she decided to let them have their heads, and perhaps curb them if they had to have another Season before finding husbands.
When Harriet awoke the next morning, she was aware of a change in the sounds coming from outside. There seemed to be a great deal of movement and bustle, and, above it all, the birds were singing on the rooftops.
Harriet leapt from the bed and drew back the curtains. Golden sunlight flooded the room; sunlight gilded the cobbles of the street. She raised the window with some difficulty because the wood had swollen with all the rain and the frame was inclined to stick. Warm, sweet air flowed into the room.
She stretched her arms above her head. It was going to be a beautiful day. Her mind was full of plans. That evening was to see the first of their social engagements, a ball at Lord and Lady Phillips’ in Brook Street. Lady Phillips was a fat, friendly lady who had taken a great liking to Harriet.
Harriet, under Rainbird’s instructions, had invited her to tea shortly after her arrival in London. Rainbird had said that Lady Phillips was one of the easiest members of the ton to get to know and one of the most pleasant.