by M C Beaton
She went down to the drawing-room just as they arrived. There was Lady Handon, tall and grim and glacial; Mrs. Tykes-Dunne, small and fussy and rouged like a harlot; Mrs. Branston, rich and thin and much given to striking Attitudes; and Lady Fremley, quiet and pleasant, the “good” member of the group, whom they allowed to socialize with them as a sort of memento mori, to remind them that goodness might be a desirable quality in an age when one was likely to drop dead from all sorts of plagues and infections.
As soon as they were settled, they began to talk about the Season to come. With the exception of Lady Stanton, they had daughters of marriageable age and had arrived early in Town to “nurse the ground,” meaning to work to secure invitations for their daughters.
After reciting a list of all the possible men, Lady Handon said, “Of course, there will be two new arrivals, near middle-aged, but rich. Mr. Manderley is one, of course.” The ladies looked slyly at Lady Stanton. They had gossiped among themselves about a possible liaison between Lady Stanton and Charles Manderley after the concert and Lady Handon had said roundly that there was nothing to fear there, that Charles Manderley was hanging out for a mistress. Lady Handon enjoyed the company of Lady Stanton, although she privately damned her as a slut. The fact that Lady Handon permitted her own second footman to pleasure her stringy body every second Friday was beside the point. No one knew about that. Ladies were discreet at all times. Women like Lady Stanton were not, and so the friendship gave Lady Handon a pleasant feeling of superiority, enabling her to pity Lady Stanton for having the misfortune to be beautiful in an overblown sort of way.
Lady Stanton fanned herself slowly. “I think Mr. Manderley has formed a tendre for me.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Tykes-Dunne bristled up. “Wait till he sets eyes on my Arabella. So young, so fresh, so unsullied.”
Lady Fremley said quietly after a quick look at the narrowing of Lady Stanton’s eyes, “I am sure it is not Mr. Manderley who will set us all by the ears, but the Marquess of Peterhouse.”
“Peterhouse?” Lady Stanton looked puzzled. “He’s in his dotage.”
“She means the new one,” said Mrs. Branston. “Divine. My Jessica has met him and he was fascinated by her.”
“How? Where?” demanded Mrs. Tykes-Dunne. “He is not in Town, is he?”
“He is setting his house in Berkeley Square in order for the Season,” said Lady Fremley, her head bent over a piece of sewing. “Walls to be knocked down to make larger rooms, new furniture, new paint and wallpaper. He must plan to entertain lavishly.”
“How do you know all this?” demanded Mrs. Tykes-Dunne.
“My lady’s-maid is friendly with Lord Ager’s footman, and Lord Ager has the adjoining house.”
“Pooh! Servants’ gossip,” jeered Mrs. Tykes-Dunne, privately planning to berate her own maid for being such a dismal source of intelligence. She turned to Mrs. Branston. “Where did you meet him, this marquess?”
Mrs. Branston adjusted the feather on her bonnet and smirked. “As a matter of fact, we were invited to take tea with him.”
“Where?”
“At his castle in Warwickshire.”
“And what took you into Warwickshire?” asked Lady Stanton with dangerous sweetness.
“I’ll tell you what took her,” crowed Mrs. Tykes-Dunne. “You told me, Mrs. Branston, that you were going to try somehow to effect an introduction to the marquess. So you got your coachman to go to the castle and say the carriage was broken and could shelter be offered until it was ready.”
“Really! What a low trick,” exclaimed Lady Handon, wishing she had thought of it herself. “Anyway, what was he like?”
“Very handsome,” said Mrs. Branston. “Very commanding presence, and all that was kind and courteous.” She had no intention of telling these ladies that Peterhouse had appeared briefly, bowed, ordered his servants to serve tea and cakes, and then had disappeared, never to appear again.
“I remember my husband saying that Peterhouse and Manderley were in the same regiment and very close friends,” remarked Lady Fremley, planting another neat stitch.
The ladies chattered on. Lady Stanton leaned back in her chair, her mind busy. She would like to be a marchioness and have a castle in the country and a house in the best part of Town. She would get Manderley to introduce her.
“No, I don’t think it’s clever of you. I think it’s cruel,” Lady Fortescue was saying to a chastened Sir Philip. “He will come because you left him no option. He will exchange a few words with her and then take his leave and she will be plunged into even more misery. No, I am not going to tell Mrs. Budley a thing. You will wait in the hall at five o’clock and when he arrives you will tell him that she is still gone out and not returned.”
“But—”
“No buts. Mrs. Budley is beginning to come out of her long depression and I will not have her plunged back into it.”
Sir Philip, feeling like a schoolboy in disgrace, trailed off down to the kitchens where Despard, the French chef, and his assistants were hard at work. Sir Philip drew himself a pint of ale from the barrel in the corner and sat down at the kitchen table, blind to the glares of the chef. He was sure the marquess must have felt a lot more for Mrs. Budley than ordinary friendship. Ordinary friendship between a man and a woman was not possible. There was always some sexual element there, however slight. If only he could create some diversion which would mean Lady Fortescue, Colonel Sandhurst and Miss Tonks were kept busy. He sipped his beer and thought hard. And then he looked at the kitchen fire burning brightly in the range which the duke had bought for Harriet in the days when she had been the hotel cook.
He scuttled upstairs and went in search of Mrs. Budley. He ran her to earth in one of the bedrooms where she was dusting. “One of the maids is sick,” she said, “so Letitia and I are doing our best.”
“I wonder if you could do something for me without telling the others,” said Sir Philip.
She looked at him cautiously. “It depends on what it is.”
“There is a new scent on sale at the perfumier’s in Bond Street called Desire of Paris.” He held out some money. “I would like you to purchase some for me.”
“Why can’t you buy it yourself?”
“Lady Fortescue is always lecturing me about the money I spend on perfume. Go on. Humour an old man. There is something else.”
“Which is?”
“There is some gentleman calling at five o’clock to reserve a table for dinner. Very important. A friend of the Prince Regent. I was not told his name. Goodness! It may even be the Prince Regent himself. I wish to surprise the others but I have business to do. Could you wait for this gentleman in the hall at five o’clock, and then, as soon as you have taken his reservation, could you go out and buy me the scent? Please.”
Mrs. Budley gave a little sigh. She had been feeling better of late but she still did not care much what she did. “Very well,” she said, although a logical part of her mind was wondering why Sir Philip could not leave whatever business it was he had to deal with this client.
“And don’t tell the others,” he warned. “It’s to be a surprise. And wear something elegant. You have been neglecting your appearance of late. And no girlish confidences with Miss Tonks.”
A gleam of humour lit up Mrs. Budley’s normally sad eyes. “Anything else?”
“No, no, that will do.”
Mrs. Budley put it all out of her head until she realized five o’clock was approaching. She went back to her bedroom in the apartment the poor relations had rented next door and changed into a walking gown and fur-lined pelisse.
At a quarter to five, Sir Philip was up on the roof, slithering and sliding and cursing and dislodging slates which fortunately fell on the backyard side rather than into the middle of Bond Street, until he finally clutched the chimney-stack.
From a study of the blueprints, he knew which was the kitchen chimney, and taking an old jacket he had brought with him, he stuffed it hard into the chimney-pot
and then made his precarious way back to the skylight. Everyone with the exception of Mrs. Budley would, he knew, be in the sitting-room.
He burst in, crying, “Fire! Fire!”
“Where?” demanded the colonel, helping Lady Fortescue to her feet.
“In the kitchen. Down the back stairs. Quickly. We may be able to help put it out.”
* * *
Unaware of the uproar in the kitchen, for Sir Philip had urged the others not to ring the alarm bell in case it should prove to be a mere hearth fire, Mrs. Budley stood patiently in the hall.
She found she was becoming quite excited at the prospect of meeting this noble stranger, and her very excitement was a sign of her recovery from her infatuation with the marquess. She was beginning to feel as if she had just recovered from a long illness. Spring was in the air and the dusty little gusts blowing in from the street carried a hint of warmth.
The hall was usually a dark place, and so the great chandelier above her head blazed with light as it did every day. It cost a great deal in wax candles, but Sir Philip insisted it was the best advertisement they had and it did make the entrance hall look rich.
She turned to look up at it and heard a voice say tentatively, “Mrs. Budley.”
The Marquess of Peterhouse.
How many times in her dreams had he called to see her? A thousand? And all she could find to say was, “How do you do?”
“I am well. I—”
A door from the back of the hall opened and Sir Philip appeared like a pantomime demon in a cloud of black smoke.
“My lord!” he cried. “Take Mrs. Budley out. No need for alarm. A small hearth fire.” And with that he darted up the stairs with amazing alacrity for one so old.
“But I was to wait here for someone,” protested Mrs. Budley to his retreating back.
The marquess, a hand under her arm, urged her to the door.
“Never stay and argue when there is a possibility of fire, Mrs. Budley. I do not have my carriage, but we will be very unfashionable and take a hack to Gunter’s.”
She was now too dazed by his presence, by his commanding air, to protest, or to think that her duty lay with her colleagues. He hailed a passing hack and helped her in after calling “Gunter’s” to the Jehu on the box.
“Well, Mrs. Budley,” he said, “I am interested to learn how it comes about that when you expected me, you were dressed to go out.”
“I did not know you were coming,” she protested. “I did not even know you were in Town! Sir Philip said—”
He interrupted her. “If it has anything to do with Sir Philip, I am sure it is going to be a long and complicated story. We shall soon be at Gunter’s and you may tell me there. Nasty things, hacks. You would think this fellow might have changed the straw on the floor.”
A few minutes later and they were at Gunter’s, the pastry cook’s, in Berkeley Square. He waited until they were seated and had been served with tea and cakes before he said with mock solemnity, “You may begin.”
“Oh, it is all so confusing,” she sighed. “Before I begin, do you really think all will be well at the hotel? Perhaps I should really go back …”
“I am sure Sir Philip arranged everything, including the fire. Go on.”
“Sir Philip said a gentleman was to call at five o’clock and that I was to wait in the hall for him and take his booking. Sir Philip said it was someone, he thought, from the Prince’s household. Oh, and after that, I was to go to the perfumier’s and buy him scent. That did not seem at all odd because he is inordinately fond of scent. So I dressed to go out. And then you arrived. And then the fire.”
“Did you,” he asked after a short pause, “by any chance tell Sir Philip that I had proposed to you?”
Amazed that she was not blushing, Mrs. Budley studied a cream cake with interest and said, “Yes. Yes, I did. I had to tell them why I had betrayed them and what had overset me.”
“You are not to blame. I think what happened is this. Sir Philip followed me to Limmer’s today and insisted on making my acquaintance. When he left, he said he would tell you to expect me at five o’clock and then, like jesting Pilate, did not stay for an answer. I felt honour-bound to call, although I suppose I could have sent a servant to say I was otherwise engaged. Sir Philip then concocts some elaborate lie so that you will be waiting in the hall at precisely the correct time and in your outdoor clothes. I then think he tried to set the hotel on fire.”
“He is mad!” cried Mrs. Budley.
“He is ambitious on your behalf.”
Mrs. Budley looked at him steadily. “I said mad, and I mean, mad. I sometimes think Sir Philip does not realize our new social position. Such a thing will not happen again, my lord. Pray tell me now how you go on.”
He told her about the castle and estate, and prompted by her interested questions, began to relax and enjoy himself. He loved the castle and his land, he said. Did she remember the Appletons, the farmer and his family? And yes, she did, for she had met them when she had been driven about his estates, and she asked many questions as to their welfare. He thought with surprise that it was a relief to talk about his concerns. One could not do that even with one’s friends, such as Charles Manderley, who would have found it all very boring even if he had known the places and characters on the estate that the marquess described.
“Do you plan to spend the Season in London?” Mrs. Budley asked while her treacherous heart begged that he would say yes.
“I am opening up the town house for the Season. It is the correct place to find a bride and I plan to settle down at last.”
Although her face reflected nothing but polite interest, he felt somehow that he should not have said that. “There should be no difficulty.” Mrs. Budley spoke with a calmness she did not at all feel. “You may take your pick.”
“Let us talk of something else,” he said quickly. “How goes your business?”
“Very well. We are fully booked for the Season and our dining-room is crowded every night. That is why I did not think it at all odd that there was supposed to be some gentleman from the royal household calling to see us. It is very difficult to get a table. Society likes to be served at table by such as Lady Fortescue.”
“And yourself? Do you wait table?”
“No, my lord. I and Miss Tonks act as chambermaids if any of our servants are ill.” She looked across the pastry shop. “Why, there is Mrs. Carley. We made our come-out at the same time.”
The marquess noticed the way that Mrs. Carley’s eyes rested briefly on Mrs. Budley before shifting away.
“The lady does not appear to recognize you.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Carley knows very well who I am. I am become as unrecognizable as a member of the demi-monde.”
“Stupid widgeon,” he exclaimed loudly and stared so awfully at Mrs. Carley that she turned red and gathered up her belongings to make her escape.
He turned to Mrs. Budley and said with unconscious arrogance, “Surely my presence is enough to establish you socially?”
She gave a gurgle of laughter. “My lord, Mrs. Carley and such like her probably think I am your mistress.”
“Why are you in such a position!” he exclaimed.
“Through poverty,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, “and through loneliness, as I told you before. My situation often irks me, but I have only to remember what my life was like before Lady Fortescue took me up for gratitude to return. It seems another world now … society. I remember my first Season. How easy life seemed then! Pretty gowns and pretty compliments and everything laid out before me on a sunny road. I never noticed the wretches begging in the streets, never thought of essentials such as food and clothing and coals. I was still not quite grown-up, I think, when I met the others. An unhappy marriage does not age one but keeps one young and romantic.” She smiled. “I grow older by the minute and must remember where my duty lies. Thank you so much for entertaining me, my lord.”
He was as anxious as she to escape. He
did not quite know what his feelings were, only that he felt uncomfortable.
For her part, Mrs. Budley was feeling strangely calm. Seeing him again had knocked all her dreams right out of her head. To accept her situation in the social scheme of things and put aside dreams of romance and marriage meant a certain degree of contentment. She was anxious to be gone.
“I would rather walk,” she said outside Gunter’s. “No, please, it is only a short distance. May I thank you for all your kindness? I shall never forget it.” She swept him a curtsy. “Good day, my lord. We shall not meet again.”
He stood, feeling strangely lost, watching her gallant little figure turn the corner of Berkeley Square.
“Why, my lord! We meet again.”
The words seemed a parody of Mrs. Budley’s farewell and he swung round angrily. Mrs. Branston was standing there with her daughter Jessica. Jessica simpered horribly. But Jessica was a débutante and this was what he was going to meet during the Season. He glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he were hoping to see Mrs. Budley return, but she had marched out of his life and left him feeling a trifle shabby although he did not know why.
Chapter Five
Like a dog he hunts in dreams,
and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers,
and the shadows rise and fall.
—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
THE MYSTERIOUS fire in the kitchen was out, Sir Philip having scrambled back over the tiles to remove the old jacket from the chimney. But the walls of the kitchen were soot-blackened and would need to be scrubbed and lime-washed.
“Most unlike our Mrs. Budley to disappear during all the fuss,” said Lady Fortescue. She gave Sir Philip a hard look. “I suppose you haven’t been up to anything?”