The Wicked Godmother: A Novel of Regency England - Being the Third Volume of A House for the Season

by M. C. Beaton

  “Miss Metcalf, I would be proud to arrange the rental of a box for you. There will be no trouble with the patrons. London has not seen such beauty for many a Season.”

  “How charming of you to say so,” said Harriet, her eyes glowing. “I shall convey your compliment to Sarah and Annabelle.”

  The marquess looked cynically amused. It was obvious to him that Gilbert was longing to tell the naïve Miss Metcalf that he had meant the compliment for her but now decided it would be churlish to do so. The marquess also felt a stab of annoyance that she should appear so relaxed and at ease in Gilbert’s company. But Harriet’s only interest in Lord Vere was as a prospective beau for either Sarah or Annabelle. She liked his easy and unaffected manners. He was handsome, but not in the disturbing and compelling way that the marquess was handsome. She felt happy in his company and wished the marquess would go away.

  As if sensing her thoughts, the marquess rose, bowed, and took his leave. As he walked in the direction of the card room, he told himself firmly that Harriet Metcalf had proved to be as boring and naive as he had expected. She was not worth another thought.

  But neither, it appeared, was any other woman at the ball. The handsome marquess settled down with his friends for a rubber of whist, forgetting even his mistress, Belinda Romney—Belinda, who watched Harriet with jealous eyes and blamed this newcomer to the London scene for the coldness and indifference of her usually attentive lover.

  Chapter

  Five

  And when I feigned an angry look,

  Alas! I loved you best.

  —John Sheffield

  Duke of Buckingham and Normandy

  What screams, what pinches, what giggles, what oh-you-naughty-pusses were inflicted on Harriet by Sarah and Annabelle after the ball when she told them the story of Beauty’s rescuer. Never had the twins been more in charity with their godmother. Never had their vanity been so rampant. To them it was all too plain. Both gentlemen had cultivated the acquaintance of Harriet in order to secure introductions to themselves. For who could possibly believe that the devastatingly handsome and devastatingly rich Marquess of Huntingdon would be in the slightest interested in the welfare of a cur like Beauty?

  And Harriet had behaved just as she ought, that much they admitted as they prepared for bed. There would be a stay of execution. No need to ruin Harriet’s reputation while Harriet continued to perform so admirably. Before leaving the ball, Lord Vere had told Harriet he would call at three in the afternoon; the marquess was to call at a quarter to five.

  Both girls argued over the merits of these beaux and then amicably decided that Sarah should have Lord Huntingdon and Annabelle, Lord Vere.

  They could hardly sleep for excitement. Dresses were planned. Then there were portfolios of watercolours to be arranged and needlework to be displayed.

  The servants discussed the forthcoming visits over breakfast in the servants’ hall the next morning. They gossiped and talked with much of their usual freedom, for Emily, the lady’s maid, was not present, and although only Lizzie, the scullery maid, actively disliked her, the others were only conscious of a lifting of a certain restraint which her presence imposed on the “family.”

  “It would be a great feather in Miss Metcalf’s cap if she could secure just one of them for either Miss Sarah or Miss Annabelle,” said Rainbird.

  “Perhaps their interest lies in Miss Metcalf,” suggested Mrs. Middleton. “She is quite beautiful and so sweet and courteous.”

  “Perhaps it would be best not to say such a thing when Emily is present,” volunteered Lizzie shyly. “I do not think she likes Miss Metcalf.”

  “And what do you know of the grend world, you with your scrubbing brush?” jeered Joseph. MacGregor, the cook, saw Lizzie wince and slammed a cup of tea down in front of the footman with unnecessary force.

  “What do you mean, Lizzie?” asked Rainbird, casting a threatening look at the footman.

  “Only that there is a certain something about Emily,” said Lizzie cautiously. “Alice was saying the other day that Miss Metcalf was the nicest, sweetest lady any servant had ever waited on, and Emily said nothing, but I saw her lip curl.”

  “That’s because you don’t work hard enough,” said Mrs. Middleton. “You have too much time on your hands, young Lizzie, and you indulge in fancies about your betters.” A lady’s maid, in the servants’ strict hierarchy, was a scullery maid’s better. Mrs. Middleton privately thought Lizzie a very good worker indeed, but she nourished hopes of elevating the girl should their circumstances change and was apt to cover her very real affection for Lizzie with a brusque and authoritarian manner.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Lizzie listlessly, and Rainbird looked at her sharply. The scullery maid’s hair had lost its sheen, and her face was so pale it was almost greenish in the gloom of the servants’ hall.

  “What our Lizzie needs is some fresh air,” said Rainbird. “Go and take a walk in the Park, Lizzie. Dave will help out with your duties.”

  “Can she take thet dog with her?” asked Joseph eagerly. “It don’t do my position no good being seen with a mangy cur like thet. Luke is always teasing me.” Luke, Joseph’s friend and rival, worked next door as Lord Charteris’s first footman.

  “I don’t mind,” said Lizzie quickly, seeing Rainbird was about to protest. Lizzie would have done anything to please the feckless and vain Joseph.

  “Well, don’t let the beast near the kitchen,” said Joseph ungratefully. “Meh cat must not be tormented.”

  “Why don’t you marry the flea bag?” said the cook sourly. “The Moocher is the only thing you care about apart from your worthless self. Jessamy.”

  Joseph scowled at the insult. Jessamy, a corruption of jessamine or jasmine, was applied to the weak and effeminate. The Moocher rubbed himself against the cook’s legs, and Angus MacGregor absentmindedly bent down and stroked the animal. He, too, was fond of the kitchen cat because the Moocher was a mouser supreme.

  It was unthinkable that Lizzie should show her undistinguished presence abovestairs, so Rainbird went to fetch Beauty and told Lizzie to meet him at the top of the area steps.

  Somewhere down in the depths of Joseph’s self-centredsoul twitched the faint stirrings of a bad conscience. “It’s very good of you, Lizzie,” he said awkwardly. “The brute is as quiet as a lamb. You won’t have any trouble.”

  “Here, give the dog this bone when you’ve got him in Green Park,” said MacGregor. “They aye take to someone who feeds ‘em.”

  He wrapped a marrow bone up in an old page of the Times and handed it to Lizzie.

  “And put your shawl on,” said Mrs. Middleton sharply, for she too had just noticed how sickly the scullery maid looked.

  When Lizzie emerged from the basement some ten minutes later it was to find Rainbird already waiting with Beauty on a leash. Rainbird thoughtfully watched girl and dog walk down Clarges Street in the direction of the Green Park. He realised that all winter long he had been too wrapped up in fantasies about Felice to notice much that was going on about him. Felice, the French lady’s maid who had graced Number 67 the year before, had won her dowry and independence from service and had settled in Brighton. She had refused Rainbird’s offer of marriage, but she was still unwed, and Rainbird hoped she might change her mind. Now the Season was here, and there was no chance of a day off to go to Brighton until it was all over.

  He decided, if Lizzie should still look ailing in a few days’ time, to take her over to an apothecary’s in the City. Servants went to doctors only in extreme emergencies, as one visit to even the most undistinguished physician might take away a whole year’s wages.

  The day was sunny and warm but still had that slight tinge of cold somewhere in the soft wind to remind Londoners that, although it looked as if spring had arrived, a return to winter could be right behind it.

  Lizzie found she was beginning to feel better already. She took her shawl down from her head and wrapped it about her shoulders, enjoying the wa
rm feel of the sun on her hair. Beauty was such a placid, amiable sort of dog, and it was pleasant to have company.

  She decided, instead of crossing Piccadilly to the Green Park, to take Beauty to Hyde Park, where she could enjoy watching the aristocracy riding in the Row.

  Beauty, plodding beside her, felt the warm sun on his coat. He cautiously shook his head. There was no pain at all. He gave it a tremendous shake. Not only was he free of that sharp, stabbing pain, but he could once again hear perfectly. His stomach gave a healthy canine rumble. He was hungry and this human beside him smelled deliciously of marrow bone. Slowly, his ridiculous plume of a tail curled up over his back. Up came his head, and his wicked little bearlike eyes roamed about, looking for trouble.

  Unaware of the metamorphosis that was going on somewhere down about knee-level, Lizzie continued on in the direction of the park, enjoying the soft luxurious sensation given by a pair of new leather shoes. When Rainbird had received the glad tidings of the servants’ increase in wages, he had not been so far lost in fantasies about Felice to neglect to reward the staff. Alice and Jenny were given silk ribbons; Mrs. Middleton, a new cap. Dave got a new leather waistcoat; Joseph, a silk handkerchief; and Angus MacGregor, a new Sheffield-steel carving knife. And Lizzie, who had worn nothing but clogs before, was given a pair of shiny black-leather shoes with cheap tin buckles.

  Lizzie was very religious, and the Lord her God was a terrible God, always just up there on the clouds waiting to blast the vain sinner. Later on, when she thought of the terrible events of that morning, Lizzie was sure He had punished her for her False Pride.

  She crossed Park Lane and made her way into Hyde Park. The trees were covered in a delicate haze of green, and the scent from the blossom on the cherry trees made her head swim deliciously. She bent down and slipped Beauty’s leash, unwrapped the marrow bone and gave it to him, spread her shawl on the grass near the Row, and sat down. MacGregor had given Lizzie the wrong bone. The one he had given her had been set aside to make stock and still had a large piece of meat attached to it. Beauty gnawed and tore at it, feeling the warmth of the meat descending to his thin belly, feeling the sun on his coat, occasionally shaking his head to make sure the dreadful pain had gone.

  He licked the last piece of marrow from the bone and then rolled over and laid his head on Lizzie’s lap and gazed up at her with eyes moist with love. For surely this goddess was responsible for his well-being. Lizzie carelessly stroked his narrow head, thinking what a mean, ill-favoured beast he was and wondering how anyone as beautiful and dainty as Miss Metcalf could own such a pet. Miss Metcalf, mused Lizzie, who had only seen her once, was so pretty and sweet that she reminded you of all the good safe things in life, like spring flowers and new bread, honey from the comb and strong tea—those being the things the little scullery maid held most dear next to Joseph.

  The Row had been empty, as few of the fashionables stirred from their bed before noon.

  Then Lizzie heard the thud of horses’ hooves and looked up. Two people, a man and a woman, came galloping down the Row. Lizzie had a quick impression of a tall handsome man and a pretty woman in a scarlet riding habit before disaster struck. Beauty’s ruff went up, and he was off like a shot, snapping and snarling at the heels of the lady’s horse, which reared in fright and tossed her from its back. The gentleman reined in his own mount and leapt down. Lizzie rushed forward and grabbed the snarling and growling Beauty, leashed him, tied him to a sapling, and then miserably ran forward to where the gentleman was kneeling beside the lady.

  A pair of furious hazel eyes glared into her own and a voice like ice said, “Cannot you control your dog?” He turned to the lady and said, “Are you hurt, Belinda?”

  The lady called Belinda said waspishly, “No, I am not, and no thanks to this vulgar creature here. Call the watch, Huntingdon, and have her dragged off to the roundhouse.”

  Lizzie’s eyes dilated with fright, and she tried to choke out an apology, and then to the marquess’s fury, she fainted dead away.

  “You are a fool, Belinda,” he said. “Let me help you up. The matter is not so great that you must frighten little servant girls with threats of prison.”

  Belinda Romney sprang to her feet and brushed the dirt from her riding dress. “This is too much,” she raged. “First you cut me at the Phillips’ ball while you make a fool of yourself over that Metcalf female, and now, when I am nigh killed, you call me a fool. Well, that dog is going to receive the whipping he deserves.”

  She advanced on Beauty, her riding crop raised. But the marquess recognised Harriet’s dog. He agreed with Belinda that the animal needed a whipping, but for some reason he could not bear to see his mistress strike Harriet Metcalf’s pet. He caught her arm and swung her round. “No, Belinda,” he said. “No scenes. The one I had to endure last night was enough.”

  Lizzie stirred at his feet and moaned faintly. He knelt down beside her and lifted her head from the grass.

  He was aware of Belinda’s stormy departure, aware she had every right to be furious with him.

  Lizzie recovered consciousness. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “The dog … he had been so quiet. I had no idea he would be so bad.”

  “Fortunately for you,” said the marquess grimly, “I know that animal and know he has been sick since he arrived in London. Come and I will set you on your road.”

  He helped Lizzie to her feet, but she swayed again and would have fallen if he had not had a firm grip on her.

  He gave an exclamation of annoyance and shouted for his groom, who usually stayed a discreet distance away when he was out riding with Belinda. “Fetch my carriage,” he called. “This servant is unwell.”

  “Look, child,” he said, giving Lizzie a little shake, “no one is going to send you to prison. Instead, you will be safely conveyed back to Sixty-seven Clarges Street—that is where you work, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Lizzie. “Scullery maid.”

  The Marquess of Huntingdon did not expect Harriet to be awake, for it was only ten in the morning when he returned to Clarges Street with Lizzie and Beauty—London’s equestriennes such as Mrs. Romney being the only ones who rose so early. But when he carried Lizzie into the hall, Harriet came running down the stairs in her undress, her hair loose about her shoulders. He found himself staring and said sharply, “Your dog, ma’am, nearly caused a bad accident.”

  “The girl!” gasped Harriet. “That is one of my servants.” She had been introduced to all the staff by Rainbird on her arrival and remembered the little scullery maid who had stood so shyly at the end of the reception line.

  “The girl has not been hurt, but she fainted.”

  Rainbird came hurriedly forward. “Allow me, my lord,” he said, lifting Lizzie’s slight body from the marquess’s arms. “I shall take her belowstairs.”

  “Very well,” said Harriet. “Bring refreshments to the drawing room.” She had learned to grace the front parlour by that grander name. “Tell Mrs. Middleton I shall come to see the girl as soon as possible. What is her name?”

  “Lizzie.”

  “If you think Lizzie requires the services of a physician, then by all means summon one. My lord, do not stand in this cold hall.” She led the way into the parlour.

  Harriet was wearing a nightgown with one of the fashionable aprons which had come into vogue for undress. The nightgown was made high at the neck and had long sleeves. Harriet had found one was expected to wear more in bed than out of it. She raised her arms and hurriedly screwed her hair up into a knot on top of her head.

  “Pray be seated,” she said to the marquess, “and tell me what happened.”

  “I was riding in the Row with a certain Miss Romney …” He broke off and raised his thin eyebrows, studying the pink rising in Harriet’s cheeks and noticing the sudden compression of her soft mouth. So little Miss Metcalf had already found out about his mistress. “Your dog attacked her mount, and she was thrown.”

  “Was she badly hurt?” a
sked Harriet.

  “Mrs. Romney was fortunate, Miss Metcalf. Only in her pride.”

  “And Lizzie?”

  “My companion was naturally in a rage. She threatened to have your maid dragged off to a roundhouse.”

  “Poor Lizzie. She is little more than a child.”

  “A sick child, I fear. Did you not notice the unnatural pallor of her skin?”

  “I did not,” said Harriet, feeling dreadful. “I never go to the kitchens. I only saw the girl once on my arrival. Oh, how thoughtless and uncaring I seem. First Beauty and now Lizzie. And Miss Romney? Perhaps I should call on her to offer my apologies.”

  “I think not, ma’am.”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Harriet miserably. “Miss Romney is your mistress, is she not?”

  “Curb your tongue, Miss Metcalf, or have you as little control over it as you have over that pesky dog?”

  Beauty oiled up to the marquess, licked his hand, and drew back his black lips in a sycophantic smile.

  The marquess scrubbed at the back of his hand with a handkerchief. “That animal looks almost human. Does he always smile like that?”

  “I had not noticed. I did not think animals capable of smiling. I think he just looks as if he is.”

  “Where did you find such an unusual lapdog?”

  “It was after my parents died. They had the typhoid, you see. Papa would not clear out the cesspool. He said the gentry should have a mind above such things. Papa was always saying things like that. It made Sir Benjamin laugh, and I remember at the time wishing that Sir Benjamin would press Papa to do some practical things instead of always laughing at him. In any case, Mama and Papa died, and I learned I should have to sell up and move to a small cottage and that I would not be able to afford any servants. I am quite capable of looking after myself, but … but I did feel so lonely, and I found Beauty in a sack with a litter of other puppies by the side of the river. Someone had thrown the sack from the bridge with the puppies in it, but it had missed the water. Only Beauty was alive….” Her voice trailed away, and she looked down at her hands.