by M. C. Beaton
Within another hour, Belinda Romney had hired assassins to kill Harriet in The Rookery and, mad with jealousy because Huntingdon preferred their godmother to themselves, Sarah and Annabelle had tried to poison her morning chocolate. Had not that cook said so? Had not he told them of his suspicions and fed a little of the chocolate to the kitchen cat? And was not that brave animal as stiff as a board some two minutes after lapping up the noxious mixture? MacGregor had said nothing of the sort, but when this tale emerged from inside the club to the ears of the servants outside, he considered it a very fine story indeed and said without a blink that it was all perfectly true. Tongues wagged and heads nodded.
At last, the marquess was able to persuade his friends to return to their game.
All hopes of wooing Harriet had fled. He had believed a thoroughly nasty piece of gossip as easily as any senile dowager. She would never forgive him. What lady would?
Sarah and Annabelle sensed something was wrong when Jenny rather than Emily appeared in answer to their ringing bells. Emily, said Jenny with flashing eyes, had been sent off. Longing to question Jenny and yet quelled by her hot, angry stare, the twins did not dare.
Looking out of the window later, Sarah saw bouquets of flowers and presents beginning to arrive. She let out a cry of excitement. “Our beaux have sent us gifts. Let us go downstairs. We had better ask Harriet why Emily is gone.”
Harriet was sitting with Miss Spencer. Rainbird and Alice were carrying in more vases. Bouquets and parcels lay in heaps at Harriet’s feet.
“You should have sent them up to us, Harriet dear,” cooed Sarah.
“Why?” said Harriet harshly. “They are all for me.”
“They cannot be,” cried Annabelle. “Nobody likes you.”
“Society has traced all the malicious gossip back to your maid,” said Harriet, in a new, flat, hard voice. “It was Belinda Romney who contrived with Emily’s help to get me to go to The Rookery. But it has come out that both of you had Emily spread gossip about me in Upper Marcham. How could you give a servant such power? It was enough to turn her head. How could you pretend to be so loving and so affectionate and hate me behind my back? Well, I don’t like either of you anymore. Were it not for the affection and esteem I had for Sir Benjamin, I would leave you to your own devices. Go to your rooms and wait until I call you.”
She rose to her feet, and the twins shrank back in the doorway, clutching each other.
“It’s your own fault,” shouted Sarah. “You took Papa’s affection away from us. He preferred you to us … his own daughters. We hate you.”
“I know,” said Harriet calmly. “And I do not care. Go!”
She pointed to the door. Beauty advanced on the twins, his teeth bared.
With squeaks of alarm, they turned and fled.
“I must get out, Josephine,” said Harriet. “The atmosphere of dislike in this house suffocates me.”
“Then we shall go for a walk in the park,” said Miss Spencer. “You must tell me everything again, Harriet, for I cannot quite take it in. But do leave that wretched animal behind. He looks even more evil than when I last saw him.”
It was a grey, sad, misty morning with little drops of water dripping from the trees in the Green Park. Harriet and Miss Spencer walked as far as Buckingham House and then walked on into St. James’s Park while Harriet told over and over again all that had been happening while Miss Spencer had been in the country.
“This Lord Huntingdon is indeed a monster!” cried Miss Spencer. “To say such things! Harriet, you must find a bed for me at Sixty-seven, for I shall make sure that man never approaches you again. You are the one in need of a chaperone.”
Harriet’s cheeks turned pink and she hung her head.
“Now, what have I said?” exclaimed Miss Spencer. “Harriet, never say you have formed a tendre for this brute.”
“Josephine, there are things a lady should not discuss, things a lady should not even feel. I cannot explain,” said Harriet.
“It is I, your friend, Josephine. There is nothing you could say about yourself that could shock me.”
But Miss Spencer was shocked, and baffled, as Harriet quietly outlined the sick physical craving the very sight of the marquess aroused. The fires of passion had never burned brightly in Miss Spencer’s chaste breast. Ladies surely never felt these passions. Men felt them—the brutes! Everyone knew that.
“Well,” she said gruffly, “I shall move in with you just the same. Perhaps Harriet Metcalf needs a chaperone to protect her from Harriet Metcalf!”
Reluctant to return to Clarges Street and see the hate-filled eyes of her goddaughters, Harriet suggested they should repair to Gunter’s in Berkeley Square for a refreshing ice. Over two hours had passed before Harriet’s reluctant steps led her back to Number 67.
Sarah and Annabelle had left. A virulent note blaming Harriet for everything was all they had left behind. They had gone to stay, they said, with their aunt in Bath, where the fresh air and congenial company might help them forget Harriet’s cruelty.
“So that’s that,” said Harriet wearily. “I had best return to Upper Marcham.”
“Why?” demanded Miss Spencer. “The rent of this house is paid, you have these wonderful servants to support you. Dear Harriet, I have a comfortable income. I have always wanted an entrée into society. My relatives are gentry, as you know, but not of the first stare. I see on your mantel you have scores of invitations. Let me chaperone you, Harriet. We could have such fun,” she added wistfully.
But Harriet was determined to return to her cottage, and only after a long argument with Miss Spencer did she give way and agree to stay for at least another week.
Harriet then had very little time to talk to Miss Spencer, for callers began to arrive in droves.
The Marquess of Huntingdon called at five o’clock to find Clarges Street blocked with carriages and Miss Metcalf besieged with well-wishers. He tried to convey to her his apologies, his regret for his behaviour, but he could not be very plain and open about it with so many listening ears.
Disappointed, he took his leave. Her eyes had changed, he thought sadly. They had lost that look of trusting innocence. She had looked up at him briefly as he had said farewell, and those blue eyes of hers had been mature, tired, and world-weary.
Chapter
Twelve
Good-night to the Season!—Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a brier?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married—or buried?—no matter:
Good-night to the Season—good-night!
—Praed
After such a dramatic beginning to the Season, Harriet expected her hectic adventures to go on, but after a week, life settled down as much as it can settle down for anyone during the London Season.
The lawyer, Mr. Gladstone, wrote in reply to a letter from Harriet, expressing his shock over the twins’ behaviour and strongly supporting Miss Spencer’s idea that Harriet should stay and enjoy the Season herself. He said the Hayner girls were well entrenched in Bath and surrounded by eligible beaux. He did not tell Harriet that they continued to revile her at every opportunity.
At first, Harriet was not able to enjoy any of it. She did not enjoy the novelty of being a celebrity and would have left for Upper Marcham had not society turned its frivolous mind to other things and other scandals and ceased to make her life a misery.
It was forcibly borne in on Harriet, however, that there were an amazing number of respectable gentlemen in society who did not seem in the least put out by her lack of dowry. Now that she had surrendered her place among the chaperones to Miss Spencer,
she found she was never without a dance partner or escort.
Miss Spencer urged her to settle for some respectable gentleman of good fortune and so secure her future. But Harriet did not feel herself good enough to be the bride of any respectable gentleman. She craved the Marquess of Huntingdon’s company. The longing for him was like a fever in her blood, and she dreamt many shocking dreams about him.
And yet there was nothing now in the marquess’s behaviour to rouse mad passionate fancies in any female breast. He had raged at Belinda so much that she had moved out of Town until such time as she felt she could show her face again. She said she did not think Harriet would actually go into The Rookery, and the marquess did not know that the shrewd Emily had told Belinda that the naïve Harriet would probably rush there without thinking.
He was carefully polite and correct whenever he met Harriet at the opera or at a ball. He sometimes even, if rarely, asked her to dance, but always a country dance, one of the kind where one seemed to spend as much time dancing with other gentlemen in the set as one did with one’s own partner. He did not ask her to waltz. The fact that he did not ask anyone else was small consolation to the tormented Harriet, who longed to feel his hand at her waist and then harried herself with introspection over her unladylike lusts.
She had been uneasy about the servants immediately after the twins’ departure—for surely her behaviour had given the staff licence to be familiar? And had she not blamed the twins for giving a servant power by taking her into their confidence? But all were correct to a fault and treated her with great respect.
Every morning, she continued to school Lizzie and took delight in the scullery maid’s enthusiasm for her books.
At first, the end of the Season seemed a long time away. Then all at once it came rushing upon her in a flurry of hectic balls, routs, and picnics. Five respectable gentlemen proposed. Five were given Miss Spencer’s permission to pay their addresses to Harriet, and all five were disappointed when the fair Miss Metcalf sadly refused all their offers.
“What do you want in a husband?” cried the much outraged Miss Spencer. But Harriet could no longer bring herself to confide her strong feelings for the marquess to her friend.
Meanwhile, the marquess received a long letter from Lord Vere. It was full of enthusiastic descriptions of battles. He added he was grateful to sweet Harriet Metcalf for having been the means of removing him from the boring London scene.
The marquess studied the letter thoughtfully. He had often wondered if courting Harriet Metcalf might be unfair to poor Gilbert, who had appeared to suffer so badly because of her rejection of him.
The end of the Season was very near, the marquess realised, a Season during which he had done nothing but ache and long for Harriet Metcalf. He wanted to ask her to go driving with him, and yet he was frightened to be alone with her in case he found she had nothing but contempt for him. After all, it was his mistress who had nearly caused her harm.
He called at Number 67 only when he knew there would be other callers there. He watched Harriet when he was sure her attention was engaged with someone else, studying the shine of her hair, the soft femininity of her figure, and the dainty turn of her wrist.
Only Rainbird, serving biscuits and wine, turned one afternoon and surprised a look of longing in the marquess’s eyes.
Miss Metcalf’s financial circumstances were well-known to the servants. They could not understand why she did not want to marry any of the solid and worthy suitors who had tried to claim her hand in marriage.
Rainbird found excuses to busy himself about the front parlour until the Marquess of Huntingdon took his leave. He saw the carefully guarded look in Harriet’s eyes as she curtsied good-bye to him, and then noticed that all animation seemed to have gone out of her after he had left.
That evening, when Harriet and Miss Spencer had gone to a rout at the Bellamys’ in Curzon Street and had sent Joseph back, telling him to call for them in one hour, Rainbird gathered all the servants together and outlined the problem. Miss Metcalf was in love with the Marquess of Huntingdon. The marquess was in love with Miss Metcalf, but obviously they were never going to get together because of the Awkwardness created by the marquess’s rough behaviour on the night he had believed Miss Metcalf to be a tart.
So, said Rainbird, it obviously followed they must do something about it.
“Och, it’s a peety we cannae just throw them in a bed together and lock the door,” said Angus MacGregor.
“Don’t be vulgar,” snapped Rainbird, noticing the shocked look on Mrs. Middleton’s face.
“Why bother?” drawled Joseph. “She’ll soon be gone and that’ll put an end to Some People getting ideas above their station.” He sent a smouldering look in Lizzie’s direction, noticing to his fury that her eyes no longer filled with tears when he teased her.
“Why bother, you man-milliner?” said Jenny. “ ‘Cos she’s given us good wages and been sweet and kind and gentle, which is something the likes of you, Joseph, would know nothing about.”
“Squabbling isn’t solving this problem,” said Rainbird impatiently. “Even that wretched dog has become as quiet as a lamb. You overfeed him, Angus. All he does is sleep. Why doesn’t he bite Lord Huntingdon and she could throw herself into his arms, or bathe the wound?”
“Not if he got another one on his bum,” said the cook with a great horse laugh.
Mrs. Middleton was a great believer in the power of love letters.
“Why do we not send him a letter—a very … hmm … warm letter supposed to come from Miss Metcalf—and ask him to call, let me see, tomorrow at ten in the evening. She will be returned from the Franklyns’ rout and will not be going on to the Phillips’ musicale until midnight.”
“Even if that worked,” said Rainbird, “what about Miss Spencer? How would we get rid of her?”
“Tie her up,” said Dave gleefully.
“Miss Spencer is very fond of Mr. Rainbird,” said Lizzie. “We could get her down here and keep her here for a bit. Awfully fond of a good bottle of wine is Miss Spencer.”
“But Miss Metcalf would wonder at you taking Miss Spencer off,” pointed out Alice, “and her might come down here to see what was going on. Then when his lordship arrived Miss Spencer would go upstairs as well.”
“I think I could arrange to see Miss Spencer quietly,” said Rainbird with a mocking twinkle in his eye. “Look, it is not a very strong plan, but unless we can think of anything else, we had better try it.”
They sat up late, mulling over first one plan and then the other. At last they settled for Mrs. Middleton’s idea. Rainbird darted up the stairs to collect good quality parchment and the plain seal Harriet used for her letters.
Mrs. Middleton drew the candle nearer her and began to write. She imagined she was writing to Rainbird and the flowery effusion she produced received warm praise.
“My dear Huntingdon,” Mrs. Middleton had written, “I am shortly to leave for the Country and do not wish to go without saying good-bye to One whom I have forgiven long ago, to One whom I think of daily. If my tender words do not disgust you, if you should wish to receive the warm tokens of my Esteem, if you would grant me Licence to bid you a tender farewell, please present yourself here at ten of the evening. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, H. Metcalf.”
“Lovely!” said Rainbird. “Joseph may deliver this first thing in the morning.”
“Read it out,” urged Dave.
The butler read it out; the ladies sighed, but the cook said, “He will know it didnae come from her. It lacks elegance.”
Mrs. Middleton looked as miserable as a poet who had just been savaged in the Edinburgh Review. The others leapt to her defence, and Angus was told to go and put his head in one of his cooking pots.
In the morning, Rainbird, being assured by Jenny that Miss Spencer was up and dressed, scratched at her bedroom door. Rainbird was the only man who had ever appeared on Josephine Spencer’s horizon to make her sometimes regret her spinster state.
She liked his sparkling grey eyes and his comedian’s face. She liked his wiry body. She liked the way the butler, without stepping one inch out of line, made her feel like an interesting and attractive lady. So when Rainbird asked her if she would come to the servants’ hall at quarter to ten that evening so that he might ask her sage advice about a personal matter, she readily agreed. When he added that he would rather she did not mention the matter to Miss Metcalf, for although Miss Metcalf was a sterling lady, she did not possess Miss Spencer’s knowledge of the world, Miss Spencer, much intrigued, promised not to tell Harriet.
Dressed in his best livery, Joseph presented the forged letter at the marquess’s town house. Angus MacGregor was right. The marquess did not believe it came from Harriet at all and wondered if Belinda were back in London and plotting mischief. He was about to send it to her with a covering letter, explaining his suspicions, when he thought it might after all be an excuse to see her alone. He knew she was leaving London, and he could not bear the idea of her going without at least having a short word with her in private. The letter would provide a good excuse. He would pretend to believe she had actually written it. As the day went on, the longing to believe she had actually written it overcame his common-sense and as the hour of ten approached, he found he was dithering like a schoolboy, throwing away one mangled cravat after the other until he achieved the desired effect.
Miss Spencer was at first put out to find the servants’ hall full of servants. But Rainbird ushered her up to the housekeeper’s parlour on the half-landing of the backstairs, saying Mrs. Middleton had kindly agreed to let them have the use of her room.
The other servants had strict instructions to leave the house as soon as the marquess had been ushered in. Joseph was to be sure to take Beauty with him.