by M C Beaton
Curtly, Esther explained.
“Then the least I can do is buy the mare from you,” he said.
“Fustian,” said Esther roundly. “Since you are returning to the wars, you will not be able to look after a horse, let alone a wife.”
“Oh, do not make me even more ashamed than I feel,” he said quietly.
“What am I to do?” cried Esther. “The Prince of Wales …”
“Society will have something else to talk about next week,” he said. “An engagement for a week will quieten scandal. You do not want Peter and Amy to suffer because of my behaviour—behaviour, I may point out, which was really no fault of my own. I did not know what I was doing.”
“Oh,” said Esther bleakly, feeling very sad. Then she rallied with an effort. “One week, then, my lord,” she said firmly. “And during that week you will behave like a gentleman. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Lord Guy meekly. He picked up the reins and turned his head away so that Esther should not see the triumphant smile on his face.
Chapter
Seven
“Morning Post” (“The Times” won’t trust me), help me, as I know you can;
I will pen an advertisement—that’s a never-failing plan.
“WANTED—By a bard in wedlock, some interesting young woman:
“Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!
“Hymen’s chains,” the advertiser vows,“shall be but silken fetters,
“Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the letters.”
—SIR THEODORE MARTIN
“What has our Lizzie been up to?” asked Rainbird as Mrs. Middleton dragged the blushing scullery maid into the servants’ hall.
“Our Lizzie has a letter and refuses to let me see it,” said the housekeeper.
“Now, Lizzie,” said Rainbird, “girls in your position are not supposed to receive letters without telling their betters where they come from. You don’t have any family, so who has been writing to you?”
“It’s private, Mr. Rainbird, sir,” said Lizzie desperately.
Rainbird felt uncomfortable. Mrs. Middleton was right, of course. On the other hand, it did seem terrible that Lizzie was forbidden any private life at all.
“Let her keep it,” said Alice slowly. “Seems to me we do have some rights. Lizzie wouldn’t do anything wrong.”
“She’s bin writing for jobs, that’s what,” cried Dave. “You shouldn’t ha’ taught’er to write.”
“You haven’t, have you, Lizzie?” asked Rainbird.
“Not a job, no,” whispered Lizzie.
“Here comes that Manuel,” called Joseph.
“I’ll speak to you later, Lizzie,” said Rainbird. The staff were united in their dislike of Lord Guy’s servant and never discussed anything personal in front of him.
“That ees that,” said Manuel furiously.
“What ees what?” mocked Jenny.
“My lord tell me to go to the Times and put an advertisement in to say he wed this Miss Jones.”
They all cheered, and Manuel looked at them angrily. “It mean he no’ go back to Spain. I rot here in this stinking country.”
“Watch your mouth,” said Rainbird. “If you’ve been told to put in an advertisement, go and do it, and don’t stand around here sulking and glooming. Off with you.”
“One day, you be sorry you speak to Manuel with disrespect,” said the servant, charging out.
“Good,” said Rainbird. “I’ll say one thing for that Spanish onion, he don’t stay around very long, always creeping here and there.”
“What do you say to this idea?” said Angus MacGregor. “We wait until he’s asleep tonight and take a look in his wee book. He must keep it on him, for I searched his stuff and it wasnae there.”
Mrs. Middleton let out a squawk. “You are not taking those children seriously, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Aye, I am a wee bit. I hae a mind to make sure.”
The men fell to discussing ways to stay awake to search Manuel’s clothes when he fell asleep. Lizzie began to edge away towards the door.
“No, Lizzie,” said Rainbird, his quick eye catching the movement. “Come here. I am afraid we are going to have to see that letter.”
Tears started to Lizzie’s eyes as she reluctantly handed it over.
Rainbird read it aloud. “Dear Miss L. O’B,” he read. “In answer to your advertisement in the Morning Post, I am a single fellow of comfortable means and I feel we should suit. I am not ill-favoured and have a cobbler’s stall at the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard. If you call, we can discuss matters to our mutual benefit. Yr Humble Servant, Josiah Dancer.”
“Goodness!” said Alice, round-eyed. “Our Lizzie has gone and advertised for a husband. Why, Lizzie?”
“I don’t want to be a servant anymore,” said Lizzie, twisting her apron in her work-worn fingers.
“But we only need about two more Seasons,” cried Rainbird, “and then we can have that pub, and you will be independent.”
“But never really, please, Mr. Rainbird, sir,” said Lizzie. “You see, we’ll all keep our ranks, I know we will. You and Mrs. Middleton will be in charge; Mr. MacGregor will cook; Joseph, Alice, and Jenny will wait; Dave will do the pots; and I will be the scullery maid, just like always.”
“No, Lizzie,” said Rainbird, “we will hire a couple of servants for the heavy work. You will be an independent lady.”
“I want to use my share of the Vail Box for a dowry,” said Lizzie, drying her tears with a corner of her apron. “I want a home of my own.”
“Did you give this address to the newspaper?” asked Rainbird.
“No,” said Lizzie. “I collected the reply. There was only the one.”
“Come on, Liz,” wheedled Joseph. “You can’t leave us. Look, I got you a present.” He drew the red silk rose out of his pocket and held it out. Lizzie winced and turned away. She recognised that rose, the rose given to Miss Hunt, the rose which had nearly broken her heart and had made her spend most of her precious bonus of two pounds putting an advertisement in the Post.
“I don’t want it,” she said, putting her hands behind her back. “It was for Miss Hunt.”
“I really bought it for you. Honest, I did,” said Joseph. “Luke was there, and I couldn’t tell him it was for a scullery maid, so I lied and said it was for that Miss Hunt. Luke made me try to give it to her.”
“I want permission to go out, Mr. Rainbird,” said Lizzie in a shaky voice. “I’ll always be the scullery maid here, and even Joseph is ashamed of me. Mr. Dancer sounds nice and he’s literate.”
“Lizzie, Lizzie. He paid someone to write that for him.”
“I want to go,” said Lizzie, stamping her foot.
“Know your place, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Middleton, “and don’t ever speak to Mr. Rainbird like that again.”
“Oh, leave her,” said Rainbird wearily. “Go on, Lizzie, ’fore my lord gets back and starts ringing the bells and makes me change my mind. We’ll manage without you for a little.”
When Lizzie had left, they all looked reproachfully at Joseph.
The front-parlour bell began to ring, and Rainbird ran to answer it.
Lord Guy and Mr. Roger were sitting together. “Bring us a bottle of the best burgundy, Rainbird,” said Lord Guy.
“Certainly, my lord,” said Rainbird, “and allow me to offer you my congratulations.”
“Thank you, but your congratulations are not in order. Miss Jones became engaged to me because I involved her in a scene before the Prince of Wales and had to propose to her to save her reputation. She plans to terminate the engagement in a week.”
“All sorts of things can happen in a week,” said Mr. Roger bracingly.
“I received a note from Miss Fipps that they are to go to the opera tonight,” said Lord Guy. “I hope some fool does not let off a squib or I might go into a trance again. What a milksop I am! London’s full of fightin
g men who don’t faint and turn green at the memory of battle. You don’t, Tommy.”
“Doesn’t affect me that way,” said Mr. Roger with a shrug, “but I get some devilish nightmares.”
“But nonetheless, Rainbird,” said Lord Guy, “I am indebted to you for the idea of the children’s party.”
“I felt sure it would provide you with an opportunity to appear in a good light, my lord,” said Rainbird.
“There is that,” said Lord Guy. “It was also enough to put me right off any idea of setting up my own nursery. Bring that bottle, Rainbird, and then tell Manuel I need him to help me dress.”
“I believe he has stepped out, my lord.”
“Then send someone to find him. I really must think seriously about sending Manuel home. He has turned most odd since his arrival in England.”
Lizzie walked all the way to the City, anger with Joseph speeding her steps. Dancer was a happy-sounding name, she thought. He had his own stall, therefore he was independent. Through him, she could escape her basement life, a life where she was not allowed to marry. Even if they got the pub, Joseph would never ask her to marry him. He would always think of her as a scullery maid.
Evening was falling, and fog was beginning to creep up from the river. She crossed the Fleet Bridge where nuts, gingerbread, oranges, and oysters lay piled up in movable shops. Saloop stalls were dotted at the corners of the winding City streets. The saloop stall was a small kitchen table on wheels, with cupboards, and fitted with an urn for the making of the saloop—an infusion of sassafras, sugar, and milk, sold at three halfpence a bowl. Its price made it popular with workers, who found the price of tea and coffee too high.
One of the Prime Bits of Gig of the all-night Bucks, successors to the Mohocks, was to overturn these stalls and wreck the owners’ livelihood. But it was not only the loutish members of the aristocracy who put decent folks in danger. The lower orders had been getting uppity ever since the French Revolution and were just as happy to molest a respectable female or throw an elderly gentleman in the kennel.
Lizzie had learned to keep a weather eye out for trouble. With her hair covered with her shawl, she hurried on up Ludgate Hill.
But before she could reach St. Paul’s, she had to crouch back against the houses to let a crowd of dustmen go by. One dustman was being subjected to Burning Shame, having been found in bed with another dustman’s wife, and tried in a City tavern. His hat was decorated with a crown of holly and two large carrots. He was mounted on the shoulders of four dustmen, and a procession was formed, with the chief dustman leading it, and another, with a bell, announcing the crime. Then came the rest of the dustmen, wearing their fantail hats, each decorated with holly and a lighted candle. Behind rode the mounted culprit, considerately provided with a pot of beer and a pipe, and the rear of the procession was made up of the dustmen’s wives and daughters.
Lizzie backed into a dark doorway, not out of fear of the people in the procession, but because she did not have any money with her. The dustmen with boxes were collecting money on either side of the street. When they considered they had enough, then the whole crowd, including the culprit and the wronged husband, would settle down for a whole night’s drinking in one of the taverns.
When the last candlelit hat had bobbed past down Ludgate Hill, she hurried on. The fog was thickening and taking on that greyish-yellowish hue that meant it was going to become a suffocating pea-souper.
By the time she reached St. Paul’s churchyard, she was anxious to have the meeting over and done with so that she could return to Clarges Street while she could still see her way.
She hesitated a little all the same, overcome with shyness, peering through the fog at the row of little stalls like medieaval booths, lined up against the churchyard railings.
She saw the cobbler’s stall. There was a young man in front of it. He was well set up, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and good legs. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.
Lizzie took a deep breath and started forward.
“Lizzie!” A hand caught her arm.
In a fright, she wrenched her arm away, and then found herself looking up into Joseph’s round blue eyes.
“Don’t do it, Liz,” he said.
“I shall do as I please,” said Lizzie, made heady with power. What a weakling Joseph now seemed compared to that strong young man. Joseph was out of his livery. He was wearing a suit of ordinary brown wool with a coarse cotton shirt and a belcher neckerchief.
The sight of an ordinary Joseph—no longer flattered by black-and-gold livery—strengthened Lizzie’s resolve.
“Leave me be,” she said. With head held high, she walked toward the cobbler’s stall.
But as she approached, the young man walked away along by the churchyard, whistling to himself. Lizzie watched him go, and stood irresolute. He had been only a passer-by.
“Lizzie,” came Joseph’s voice in her ear again.
“Leave me alone, Joseph, do,” said Lizzie, but in less determined tones than she had used before. “I came to see this Mr. Dancer, and see him I will!”
“Well, let me come with you, just to make sure he’s honest,” said Joseph.
Lizzie looked about. The fog was getting thicker. A drunk reeled past, staggered, and swore.
“All right, then,” said Lizzie, “but you’re not to interfere.”
Together they approached the stall. A wizened little man popped out from the back and looked up at them curiously.
“Mr. Dancer?” asked Lizzie timidly, thinking this might be the father.
“Not me,” said the man. “Minding ’is stall for ’im. Be back soon. You wantin’ ’im?”
“Yes,” said Lizzie.
“See ’ere. I wants to go for a pint o’ shrub. Keep an eye on the place. Be back in a tick.”
Without waiting for a reply, he scuttled off into the fog.
“Let’s go, Liz,” wheedled Joseph.
“No,” said Lizzie. Somehow, she was sure Mr. Dancer would turn out to be someone like the young man she had seen, someone to be proud of, someone to keep house for.
They waited uneasily while the fog thickened. Lizzie could barely see Joseph’s face.
Night had fallen. The fog had silenced everything. Carriage wheels were muffled. Passers-by loomed up as blacker blobs in the gloom and then disappeared. Lizzie shivered and drew her shawl more tightly about her.
“Someone’s coming,” said Joseph, “and I think I heard the name Dancer.”
Suddenly, unnaturally loud in the fog, a woman’s voice said, “I hopes you know what you’re a doing of, Mr. Dancer. Wot if the law gets you? What’ll become of me and the childer?”
“I’m a careful man, Mrs. Dancer, that you should know by now” was the guttural reply. “If this Miss L. O’B turns up, I tells her I’ve got to see the dowry first. She brings it over. We takes it from her. The law won’t bother wiff silly girls wot advertises in the papers. Jeff Barker over in Cheapside had fifty pound off of a girl wiff the same trick.”
“She’d better show up,” came the woman’s voice. “You paid a crown to the scrivener for that letter. A whole crown!”
Joseph slid an arm around Lizzie’s waist and led her unresistingly away.
He did not say anything, simply walked along slowly, holding her, until he felt she was crying, and stopped, and put his arms about her, holding her close and letting her cry.
At last, when he felt she was becoming calmer, he said, “I’ve got money, Lizzie. We’ll have something strong to make us feel better and then we’ll get home somehow.”
“It’s not home,” said Lizzie bitterly. “How can sixty-seven Clarges Street be home?”
Joseph wanted to say because that was the place where everyone loved her and cared about her, but pride stopped him.
“Here’s a tavern,” he said instead. He guided her through the door, noticing with relief it was a respectable establishment.
“Eh, say, wehtter,” said Joseph, genteel o
nce more, “we’ll hehve two glesses of rum.”
“Right you are, guv,” said the waiter cheerily. “Bad night for you and the missus to be out.”
“Yes,” said Joseph. He sat beside Lizzie on a settle near the fire and took her hand. He wondered all at once what it would be like to be married to someone like Lizzie, to have a real home, not to be constantly at someone’s beck and call, not to be tied by fetters of class that bit like iron.
“Luke said the other day as how you was getting to look uncommon pretty,” said Joseph.
“Did he?” said Lizzie. She tried to shrug off the compliment, but a warm glow started somewhere in the pit of her stomach and spread up through her whole body.
“Yes, he did. He thought I was interested in that awful frump, Miss Hunt, and he said I’d be better off with you because you’d turned into a looker,” said Joseph, and seized with a fit of mad daring, he squeezed Lizzie’s hand.
The waiter put two glasses of rum and a jug of hot water in front of them and sauntered off to tell the other waiter to go have a look at the little lady over at the fire who looked like one of them mad-oneys in the Bible pictures.
“My dear Miss Jones,” ventured Miss Fipps, “I really do not think we should venture out this evening.”
“It’s just a little mist,” said Esther, letting the curtain fall back.
“You know how dirty fog can make everything,” pursued Miss Fipps in her gentle but stubborn way. “Your new opera gown will be quite ruined.”
“I can put my cloak right round it,” said Esther, feeling petulant and impatient, and immediately ashamed of her childish thoughts. Miss Fipps was being eminently sensible. She, Esther, would normally have been equally as sensible, but she had never worn such a gown before or gone to the opera. Her gown was of gold tissue, a miracle of the dressmaker’s art. Esther had felt like quite another person when she had looked at herself in the looking-glass. If she did not go to the opera, then … no one … would see it. She voiced that thought aloud.