Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  The two girls looked at each other. “All I know is you got rid o’ those Jenkinses,” Rose said, greatly daring.

  “Good.” Melissa smiled again. “Go about your work, now. And, thank you.” She smiled at them as they filed out, the gardener and his assistant pulling at their forelocks, the girls curtsying. It was over, and she had won. The thought of what she had done made her feel so giddy that she sank down onto a chair, her head in her hands. “I did it,” she muttered. “I did it.”

  “My lady?” She looked up to see Phelps. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Phelps. Are they away?”

  “Yes, my lady, and they didn’t take anything more, I didn’t give them the chance. Jeffrey will drive them to the Crown and they’ll find their way from there.”

  “Very good. And you gave them the money.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He frowned. “But, my lady, do you think that was wise, giving it them?”

  “They did earn some wages, Phelps, and this way they can’t complain of being cheated.”

  “They won’t thank you for it, ma’am.”

  “No matter. They’re gone, thank God. Phelps.”

  “My lady?”

  “How long have you been a footman?”

  “Five years, my lady.”

  “Excellent. Do you think you could handle being butler?”

  Phelps drew in his breath. He’d been certain that that position would be filled by some lofty individual from London. “Oh, yes, my lady! I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you will. If the earl approves, of course. And if he ever answers my letters,” she added to herself.

  “My lady?”

  “Never mind.” She rose and shook out her skirts. “I think I deserve a cup of tea. Will you bring it to me in the drawing room?”

  “Yes, my lady, of course.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him and turned, and an idiotic smile spread over his face. Butler! he thought, and jumped into the air, clicking his heels.

  The late afternoon sun shone into the hall through the casement windows in dancing, gilded motes. Melissa, balanced precariously on a ladder, removed another lustre from the crystal chandelier, lowered for this cleaning, and then wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Hard work, this, since the chandelier had not been cleaned in an age, but her efforts were already bearing fruit. The lustres that had already been dipped in soapy water, rinsed, and then carefully buffed, caught the sun in their facets, sparkling refracted rainbow colors on the dark oak paneling.

  Melissa stretched tired muscles. It was just one day since the Jenkinses had left, and already the atmosphere in the house was lighter. For the first time, she truly felt the mistress of the house, and she could restore it as she wished. Just why that was so important to her, she didn’t know, since, with so few servants, she would have to do much of the work herself. Sometimes the prospect of renovation loomed so large, and so expensive, that it was daunting.

  Carriage wheels crunched on the gravel outside just as she replaced the lustre. “Oh, dear!” Melissa wiped her hands on her skirts and started to climb down. “Phelps?” she called, though she knew he was most likely in the butler’s pantry, taking up his new duties. Oh, dear, someone would have to open the door to the visitor, and she, with a mobcap pulled over her curls and her skirts kilted up, was not the best choice. She pulled her skirts down just as the door knocker crashed down, echoing through the hall. Oh, dear, Melissa thought, and went to answer it, praying it would not be any of the neighbors she had met at St. Mary’s the previous Sunday.

  It was not. Instead a postilion, his livery dusty from the road but his wig still firmly affixed to his head, stood there, and behind him stomped a very old lady, her cane thudding with each step. Melissa watched her in fascination. She was short and exceedingly plump, with a bosom that jutted out so that she appeared in imminent danger of toppling over. Her gown of purple satin dated from another century, full-skirted with cascades of lace at the sleeves, but the black velvet cloak and the multicolored brocade turban looked new. Two bright spots of rouge dotted the raddled cheeks, and the eyes that came up to survey Melissa were bright with malice. “Well, gel?” she barked. “Why do you stand there? Let me by.”

  “But,” Melissa protested, falling back before this apparition.

  “Don’t just stand there like a ninny, gel. Announce me to your mistress! New here, ain’t you?” She gave Melissa a thorough scrutiny. “Hmph! Things were much better done in my day! Now run, gel, and tell your mistress Lady Helmsley wants a word with her.”

  Melissa opened her mouth again, and at that moment Phelps, struggling into the new black coat of which he was very proud, hurried into the hall. “My lady!” he exclaimed, looking at Melissa, and Lady Helmsley turned towards him.

  “Who’re you? Where is Jenkins?”

  “Gone, my lady.”

  “Gone? Well, no matter, we’ll soon get to the bottom of this!” She continued her progress across the hall, the thumps of her cane echoing, her expression disapproving in spite of the improvements in the hall. “Well? What are you waiting for? Show me to the drawing room and announce me to your mistress! Since this maid here seems to be too stupid.”

  “But she is—”

  “Now, if you please!”

  Phelps glanced helplessly past Lady Helmsley for guidance. Melissa, her hand to her mouth, quickly shook her head and gestured towards the stairs. “Very well, my lady. If you’ll just come this way?”

  “About time,” Lady Helmsley muttered, and followed Phelps slowly up the stairs.

  Phelps ran into Melissa a few moments later on the first-floor landing. “Oh, my lady,” he began.

  “Shh!” Melissa glanced past him towards the drawing room. “Who in the world is she, Phelps?” she whispered.

  “His lordship’s aunt.”

  “What!” Again she looked quickly towards the drawing room, but there was no sign the old lady had heard. “Oh, dear! Bring her tea, then, and tell her I shall be with her presently. And send Liza to me,” she called over her shoulder as she scurried off to her room.

  Some time later Melissa slipped quietly into the drawing room, having washed and changed into a simple round gown of black sarcenet, with a pleated white ruff at the neck and starched white cuffs. Liza had brushed her curls until they shone, and though she no longer appeared a scruffy maidservant, she looked much too young to be the lady of the house.

  Melissa paused for a moment, watching her guest, who remained unaware of her, frowning at the portrait that hung over the mantel in place of the hunting scene. Oh, dear, Chatleigh’s aunt. She had known she would someday have to meet her husband’s family. She just hadn’t realized they would be so redoubtable.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, the thin silk of her gown rustling. “Good afternoon, Lady Helmsley,” she said in a clear voice. The other woman started and turned towards her.

  “Good God, gel, weren’t you ever taught not to sneak up on people?” she snarled, and then her eyes widened slightly. “But you are—”

  “Forgive me for not being on hand to greet you, or rather,” she smiled, “for not greeting you when I was on hand. Please, sit down.” Melissa motioned towards the sofa that faced the fireplace. Formidable the woman might be, but she was also old, and her hand clutching the cane was white at the knuckles. “That fire draws well since the chimney has been cleaned. You must forgive my appearance downstairs. I am afraid we are short on staff.”

  “Yes,” Augusta murmured, for once in her life at a loss for words. “So you masquerade as a common servant. About what I expected, from what my nephew said.”

  “Oh, dear.” Melissa reached over to feel the teapot and then went to the bellpull. “I can imagine just what he did say.”

  “You needn’t look amused, gel. It was bad enough.”

  “I’m sure it was. Phelps, please bring us some fresh tea. And, Lady Helmsley, I’m sure you must be sharp-set after your journey?”

  “D
on’t bother about me, gel.” She glared from Melissa to Phelps. “And who is he?”

  “The butler. You might just ask Mrs. Barnes if she would make us some watercress sandwiches, Phelps.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Phelps said, and left the room.

  “Mrs. Barnes!” Augusta stared at her, arrested in the act of biting into a piece of bread and butter. “Not the Mrs. Barnes who was nanny here?”

  “Yes, I found her in a cottage on the estate, and I’ve asked her to come back as housekeeper.”

  Augusta regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Getting above yourself, ain’t you, gel? Hiring staff without consulting anyone?”

  “I’ve consulted Chatleigh. Whether he chooses to read my letters is his problem.”

  Augusta leaned back in the corner of the sofa. “Can’t say I blame him, gel, knowing you as he does. Out for the money, ain’t you?”

  Melissa gestured about the drawing room. “What money?” she asked, her eyes innocent.

  “Don’t think to cozen me, gel!” she said, thumping her cane. “I know what you want. Well, you won’t get it. Don’t think I will countenance your presence in this family.”

  “Thank you, Phelps.” Melissa waited while Phelps set the tray down, and then reached for the silver pot. “And so why are you here?” she asked in a quiet voice that would have warned anyone who knew her.

  “To get my nephew out of this mess.”

  “I see.” Melissa slowly sipped her tea. “In other words, to buy me off.”

  “If necessary.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Augusta’s eyes flashed. “Oh, you won’t refuse, not if you know what’s good for you. I can make life very uncomfortable for you, gel, and you’ll regret the day you ever joined this family—”

  “Oh, really!” Melissa set her cup down hard and jumped to her feet, striding across the room. “I already do regret it! What have I gotten since my marriage but insults, loneliness and hard work? I tell you, madam, I rue the day I met your nephew, and if there were any way out of this mess, I’d take it! But I am stuck, and so are you. And I wonder,” she went on, her voice bitter, “if you’d be so eager to dissolve this marriage if you knew that your precious, stupid nephew has had the good fortune to marry an heiress?”

  “Good God,” Augusta said softly, staring up at her. “Oh, come off down your high ropes, gel, and sit. Come on. Sit.” She patted the sofa. Melissa glared at her for a moment and then sat down, indignation roiling within her. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe what you want, ma’am.”

  “Then what in God’s name were you doing in his room like a common whore?”

  Melissa drew herself up. “I am not a whore, madam,” she said, quietly, but her eyes flashed. “I am the daughter of Major Sir Richard Selby, and by God, I am not a whore!”

  “Major Sir—!” Augusta stared at her. “Good God, you’re not Townsend’s granddaughter!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good God! I think, gel, that you had better tell me your side of the story.”

  Augusta’s tone may have moderated, but there was no disobeying it. Melissa folded her hands in her lap, took a deep breath, and began. For the most part her story was met by silence, until she described how Justin had reacted when the innkeeper had come into the room. At that, Augusta made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Looking up, Melissa was startled to see her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. For the first time, the humorous aspects of the situation struck her, too, and by the time she was finished she was nearly choking with laughter.

  “Men are such fools. Not to see at once that you are quality, gel,” Augusta said, conveniently forgetting that she had not seen it immediately, either.

  “Of course, the circumstances, ma’am,” Melissa murmured, but her eyes were bright.

  “Nonsense! Nevertheless.” Her brow furrowed. “What were you doing in that inn? Best tell me the truth,” she said, sharply, as Melissa hesitated. “Can’t help you if you don’t.”

  Melissa’s eyes rose at that, but in spite of what Augusta had just said her face was not encouraging. “I was running away, ma’am, as you may have guessed. I planned to obtain a position in London, where no one would know me.”

  “Why?”

  Melissa hesitated again. “You know of my stepfather? Sir Stephen Barton?”

  “Yes. Nasty sort.”

  “Yes. So you understand. He made my life, and my brother’s, a living hell.” Melissa turned her head, but if Augusta, studying her, learned more from her expression, she didn’t let on.

  “He is a problem, if we are to launch you successfully,” she said, briskly. “So is your mother.”

  “My mother was the sweetest, kindest—”

  “Doubtless. She was also connected with trade. The daughter of a merchant!”

  “But that is why I am an heiress, ma’am,” Melissa said, demurely, and Augusta shot her a look.

  “Regardless. It is a problem, gel. You may be sure that many people remember your father, and that Townsend disowned his son for making such a disastrous marriage.”

  “Papa wouldn’t have wished to be a viscount, anyway. He was happy in the army.”

  “Doubtless,” Augusta said, dryly. “At least your lineage on your father’s side is good, and you are presentable, gel. Or you will be.” She cocked her head. “Redheads ain’t quite the style, but if we can get you into some proper gowns, I think you’ll do.”

  “Thank you,” Melissa said, ironically.

  Augusta shot her a look. “You’ll need help, of course, but plenty of time for that before the season starts.”

  “Do you mean—are you saying I should go to London?”

  “And why not? You are Countess of Chatleigh, are you not?” She rose, a trifle unsteadily, and Melissa’s hand shot out to catch her arm. “I would go to my room now.”

  “Yes, of course. But are you sure about London?”

  “Do you wish to go?”

  “Oh, yes, very much, but what of Chatleigh?”

  “You let me see to him.” She turned in the doorway. “I’ll handle him.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that, ma’am,” Melissa said, and the two women smiled, in perfect charity with each other.

  Early morning. Though the sun was beginning to rise and the day showed promise of being clear and bright, still the mists rose from the valley. Inside the inn all was quiet, except for the bustle of the servants. The Crown had been known for its hospitality for years; why, hadn’t it once played host to King Edward IV? But such a venerable, well-run inn was apt to be expensive, as Sir Stephen Barton had found last evening when he’d called for an accounting of his bill. Much too expensive for a man whose pockets were continually to let. It was his daughter’s fault, of course, ungrateful child that she was. A child should see that her father was taken care of in his old age.

  His bag packed, Sir Stephen crossed the room in stockinged feet and unlatched a window. It creaked ominously as he swung it open, but no one seemed to notice. Good. As convenient as the Crown was to Chatleigh Hall, it had one problem common to all inns. It expected guests to pay their shot, and this, Sir Stephen was not prepared to do.

  There, the ground wasn’t far away, and luckily a sturdy vine of ivy grew nearby. Sir Stephen looked around, but there was no one to be seen. Out, first, went his portmanteau, falling solidly to the ground. Following that went his boots and his greatcoat, and, at last, Sir Stephen himself. For once in his life he was grateful for his lack of stature as, clinging to the ivy, he began to climb.

  He was about halfway to the ground when a noise made him look down. “Hey!” he cried, but softly. A man with a sharp-featured face was bending over the scattered belongings. At Sir Stephen’s cry, he snatched up the greatcoat and took off at a shambling run. For Sir Stephen, this was the final indignity. Anger gave him speed and the courage he usually lacked. He scrambled down the remaining ivy and set off at a run himself, heedless of the
rough stones under his stockinged feet. No one stole anything from Sir Stephen Barton!

  In spite of the man’s lead, Sir Stephen gained on him. He brought the thief down with a tackle that drove the air from his lungs, pinning the man down before he could escape. “Give me back my coat, you—” he gasped, when suddenly something hit him from behind.

  “You leave my husband alone!” a woman shrieked, raining blows down upon Sir Stephen’s defenseless back.

  Sir Stephen twisted around. “Madam, cease at once!” he yelled, jumping to his feet and holding up his arms to shield his face.

  “Don’t you touch my husband, you, you—”

  “Mother, stop!” the man called. “Guess we showed him.”

  “But he attacked you, Mr. Jenkins!”

  “No matter, mother.” Jenkins rose to his feet, a picture of wounded dignity as he shot his cuffs and straightened his rusty black coat.

  Sir Stephen glared at them. “You’re nothing but a pair of common thieves,” he said.

  “And what are you, guv’nor?” Jenkins said. “Leaving the inn without paying?”

  “That is not your affair. My coat, please.” Jenkins hesitated. “Now!” Sir Stephen stretched out an imperious hand, and Jenkins, too accustomed to obeying the commands of the quality, handed it to him. “I’ve a mind to turn you over to the authorities.”

  “Oh, please, guv’nor, don’t do that!” Jenkins stared at him in alarm. “Got hard enough times as it is.”

  “You should have thought of that before undertaking to steal.” Sir Stephen pulled on his greatcoat, looking now the complete man of fashion, except for the hole in his stocking through which his toe showed.

  “The quality don’t understand hard times,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Like her, up to the Hall—”

  “Lady Chatleigh?” Sir Stephen was suddenly alert. “What about her?”

  “Well, turned us off, didn’t she? Without even a character, and us with all the years we worked there.”

  “Turned you off, did she?” Sir Stephen, his hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat, stared at them, as likely a pair of thieves as he’d ever met, and a smile slowly spread across his face. “I see. I think perhaps we could be of service to each other.”