M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker, Six Sisters and School for Manners Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.
Praise for A House for the Season:
‘A romp of a story . . . For warm-hearted, hilarious reading, this one is a gem.’
Baton Rouge Sunday Advocate
‘A witty, charming, touching bit of Regency froth. Highly recommended.’
Library Journal
‘[Beaton] once again adroitly manipulates the floating upstairs population that keeps the downstairs on its toes.’
Publishers Weekly
‘[Beaton] is adept at character portrayal and development . . . Plain Jane is sure to delight Regency enthusiasts of all ages.’
Best Sellers
‘[Beaton] has launched another promising Regency series.’
Booklist
Titles by M. C. Beaton
A House for the Season
The Miser of Mayfair • Plain Jane • The Wicked Godmother
Rake’s Progress • The Adventuress • Rainbird’s Revenge
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Also available
The Agatha Raisin Companion
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 1987
This paperback edition published in the UK by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2013
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1987
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-78033-307-6 (paperback)
eISBN: 978-1-47210-438-0 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Cover design and illustration: www.kathynorrish.com
For Rachel Field
with love
‘Miss F.,’ says I, ‘is said to be
A sweet young woman, is not she?’
‘O, excellent! I hear,’ she cried;
‘O, truly so!’ mamma replied.
‘How old should you suppose her, pray?
She’s older than she looks they say.’
‘Really,’ says I, ‘she seems to me
Not more than twenty-two or three.’
‘O, then you’re wrong,’ says Mrs G.
‘Their upper servant told our Jane,
She’ll not see twenty-nine again.’
‘Indeed, so old! I wonder why
She does not marry then,’ says I.
‘Miss F.,’ says I, ‘I’ve understood,
Spends all her time in doing good;
The people say her coming down
Is quite a blessing to the town,’
At that our hostess fetched a sigh,
And shook her head; and so, says I,
‘It’s very kind of her, I’m sure,
To be so generous to the poor.’
‘No doubt,’ says she, ‘’tis very true;
Perhaps there may be reasons too:
You know some people like to pass
For patrons with the lower class.’
And here I break my story’s thread.
Just to remark, that what she said,
Although I took the other part,
Went like a cordial to my heart.
JANE TAYLOR
ONE
Gossip is mischievous, light and easy to raise, but grievous to bear and hard to get rid of. No gossip ever dies away entirely, if many people voice it; it too is a kind of divinity.
HESIOD
The sleepy little village of Upper Marcham had never before enjoyed such a juicy scandal.
Widower and local worthy Sir Benjamin Hayner died and left the management of his vast estates and all his fortune to an impoverished gentlewoman, Harriet Metcalf. Miss Metcalf was to hold control of said estates and fortune until Sir Benjamin’s twin daughters, Sarah and Annabelle, should reach the age of twenty-one. The twins were only eighteen years old. Harriet Metcalf, their godmother, was a mere twenty-five years old.
Sir Benjamin had been a close friend of Harriet’s parents and, after their de
ath, had invited Harriet to dinner at Chorley Hall, his stately residence, on many an occasion.
But no one, least of all his many relatives, expected that he would will the control of his affairs to such a one as Harriet.
The fact that she would have to surrender all on the twins’ twenty-first birthday and return to living on a tiny income derived from a family trust did nothing to allay the pain.
For Harriet Metcalf was an Adventuress and a Scarlet Woman. After all, one had only to look at her.
She had a thick cloud of fluffy blond hair and huge deep blue eyes. She had thin arched eyebrows, which were quite dark, and long sooty eyelashes. Blondes were unfashionable. But that was not what made her suspect.
She had a willowy and seductive figure. She was of a sunny nature, but the locals and relatives claimed that no one with such an aura of strong sensuality could be anything other than No Better Than She Should Be. Sir Benjamin had been a handsome man. Tongues wagged as the villagers speculated on the nature of Miss Metcalf’s relationship with the late Sir Benjamin Hayner.
Hitherto, Harriet had been respected and extremely popular.
One would have expected a certain amount of sour grapes on the part of the relatives, but the suspicions and animosity of the villagers were new, and Harriet was hurt and bewildered by it.
The fact was that all gossip stemmed from the twins themselves, who were so convinced, through their own jealousy of Harriet, that their stories were true that their scandals carried a ring of truth. Sarah and Annabelle were circumspect in their gossip, and no one ever quite knew the source of it – certainly not Harriet, who adored the twins and considered herself honoured that she was to have the care of them, if only for a short time. (Their birth had been too much for the late Lady Hayner, who had survived only a few hours after she had delivered them into the world.)
For Sir Benjamin had also requested in his will that Harriet should take the twins to London for their come-out, and if they failed to ‘take’ at their first Season, then to present them at a second.
The funeral had been held on a bitterly cold December day, and Harriet had cried for at least two weeks afterwards. But desire to do the best for her old friend made her dry her eyes and begin to think about planning to take the girls to London.
Harriet lived in a cottage on the outskirts of the village. It was small, picturesque, Tudor, and damp. Up until her seventeenth year, she had lived with her parents in The Grange, a handsome Queen Anne mansion on the west side. Life had been comfortable; the future looked secure. It was understood Harriet would be taken to some genteel watering spa to make her come-out and there find a husband who was more interested in refinement than money. Mr and Mrs Metcalf prided themselves on their refinement. Mr Metcalf often said the Metcalfs could have been dukes or earls had they not considered titles vulgar. Harriet never found their threadbare snobbery in the least odd. Never of a particularly critical disposition, Harriet loved and obeyed her parents and could not seem to understand why Sir Benjamin found their conversation, dress, and manners a constant source of amusement. The Metcalfs were more amusing than Astley’s Amphitheatre, he used to say with his jolly laugh.
That his twin daughters disliked her and were jealous of her had never entered Harriet’s innocent mind. She was too much in awe of her godchildren’s exquisite gowns and accomplishments to see the spite beneath the correct facade.
After her parents’ death, Harriet had been all too conscious of her straitened circumstances. Her parents had left many debts, and so the house and furniture had been sold, leaving only enough to allow Harriet to purchase the small cottage in which she now lived with Beauty, a large, slavering mongrel of tetchy disposition. Harriet loved Beauty: she often found humans erratic and puzzling, but felt safe with the devotion of this black-and-tan dog that loved her back while hating everyone else in the whole wide world.
There were very few members of the gentry in the village and certainly no female of Harriet’s age whom her parents would have considered of suitable rank, and so when Sir Benjamin died, Harriet felt the need of a friend badly. Before the reading of the will, she had at least been on nodding terms with most of the village, but now, mysteriously, even the shopkeepers looked at her askance.
Any men who had proposed when her parents were alive had all been turned down by them as Quite Unsuitable, and now there seemed to be no man around who wanted to marry a spinster of twenty-five who did not even possess a dowry.
Harriet was, however, not entirely alone. An odd friendship had sprung up between the soft and lovely Harriet and a formidable spinster, of the parish of Upper Marcham, called Miss Josephine Spencer. But for the past two months Miss Spencer had been taking the waters in Bath, and, although Harriet had written to her, she had not received any reply.
She did not want to burden the twins with her troubles – they had surely enough to bear with the burden of their father’s death. Much as she admired Sarah and Annabelle, Harriet could not help wishing the capricious knight had not seen fit to make her – at a ridiculously early age – the twins’ godmother.
Harriet was sitting in the cold and bleak parlour of her cottage on a snowy afternoon, wondering what on earth to do next, when screams of fury coupled with loud barking and ending in the sound of ripping cloth came from the front garden.
It’s Beauty, thought Harriet in dismay.
She ran and opened the low door of her cottage. There on the threshold, hammering Beauty on his thick narrow head with her umbrella, stood an irate Miss Josephine Spencer.
‘Oh, Josephine,’ said Harriet, who was one of the very few people who had ever been allowed to call Miss Spencer by her first name, ‘do come in. Down, Beauty! Bad dog.’
Beauty promptly rolled over on the path and stuck all four legs straight up in the air and managed not only to look like a dead dog but one in which rigor mortis had set in.
‘Just look at my cloak,’ raged Miss Spencer. ‘A pox on that animal.’
‘I am so sorry,’ said Harriet, ushering her into the parlour. ‘See, your cloak has only parted at the seam, so if you will but give it to me, I shall have it mended in a trice.’
Miss Spencer took off her cloak. ‘I don’t know why you keep that dog. Useless for hunting, useless as a pet, vicious, greedy, and mean. If he were mine, I would shoot him! I say, you know I hate that beast. Haven’t I always said so? Don’t cry.’
Harriet’s blue eyes had filled with tears. ‘It is not that, Josephine,’ she sobbed. ‘I wish I had your strength. I feel so weak and silly.’
‘Compose yourself,’ said Josephine gruffly. ‘You know nothing really matters much if one has courage. Just look at me.’
Harriet dried her eyes and surveyed her friend. No one could ever accuse Miss Spencer of weakness. She was a leathery woman with a sallow, lined face and small, twinkling black eyes. No one knew Miss Spencer’s age, although she was believed to be in her fifties. She was wearing a repellent hard-hat and a gown of purple velvet, much seated. She had first met Harriet at a church fête three years ago. She did not know even now what had made her take such a liking to the younger woman, for Harriet was gentle and vague, and Miss Spencer normally found it very difficult to get along with members of her own sex at the best of times.
‘Did you get my letter?’ asked Harriet, taking a needle and thread out of her workbasket and examining the seam of Miss Spencer’s cloak. A dismal howl sounded from the garden. Beauty, thinking somewhere in the bony cavities of his limited brain that all must now be forgiven and forgotten, was demanding to be let in.
‘Leave the horrible carriage rug where it is for the moment,’ said Miss Spencer. ‘Yes. I got your letter – eventually. Those Harrison people with whom I was staying assume that all correspondence consists of bills and so they simply stuffed it away along with all their unpaid accounts and did not discover it until a few days ago. I came as fast as I could. This is a very good piece of fortune. Very.’
‘How can you say that?’ cried
Harriet. ‘The poor twins have lost their father. I am to have the management of the estates and fortune and I have to bring the girls out and I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘The good fortune is this. Until the girls are wed, you will be able to live in a comfortable style and have pretty gowns and a good London address, and, with luck, make a fine marriage for yourself.’
‘But I cannot afford clothes fine enough to allow me to act the part of a chaperone at the London Season.’
‘My dear child,’ said Miss Spencer, ‘you take the money out of the estate.’
‘I could not do that,’ said Harriet. ‘You see, after the reading of the will, Mrs Draycott – you know, Sir Benjamin’s sister – said in a very loud voice that she was sure I would contrive to feather my nest very nicely before the twins came of age. And also, the villagers are become most strange and unfriendly. I wondered whether Mrs Draycott had set them against me.’
‘Mrs Draycott, as you very well know, lives in the next county and never talks to anyone in the village here. Are you sure those two girls, Sarah and Annabelle, have not been gossiping nastily?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Harriet, much shocked. ‘Of course, you do not know them at all well, but they are perfect ladies in everything they do, more mature than I and much more worldly. They would never stoop to do such a thing as gossip.’
Miss Spencer delivered herself of a monumental sniff. Outside, Beauty set up another dismal howl. ‘I must let him in, dear Josephine,’ pleaded Harriet. ‘He will not touch you when you are in the room with me. You had been away so long, he had forgot you. He is not a very intelligent animal, but so good-hearted and my only friend apart from you so—’
‘Let him in,’ said Miss Spencer grumpily, ‘and then perhaps we might be able to get down to business.’
Harriet rushed from the room, and soon a volley of ecstatic yips and a scrabble of paws sounded from the tiny hall.
Beauty slouched in at Harriet’s heels, waited until she was seated and settled with her sewing on her lap, and then he promptly lay down across her feet, turning one small, brown, bearlike, malevolent eye in Miss Spencer’s direction. Miss Spencer glanced around the parlour and thought, not for the first time, that all men were fools. It was so like a man, so like the late Sir Benjamin, carelessly to leave such a dotty will. How much more sensible it would have been to have left poor Harriet a tidy sum and thereby ensured her independence.
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