by M C Beaton
“Go, madam,” said Manuel. “Do not stay in London to let the ton know your humiliation. Go! Go, quickly!”
“Leave me!” cried Esther.
Manuel slid out, but he went only as far as the opposite side of the square, where he waited, watching the house.
He was a desperate man, and that desperation had made him stupid. Had Esther been a normal society lady, she would have promptly called at her fiancé’s home and demanded an explanation. But he did not know how lucky he was. For Esther, deep in humiliation, could only remember with hot cheeks the liberties she had allowed Lord Guy. She remembered the scandal her father had caused when he had promised marriage to a miss in the neighbouring county who did not know until she had been shamed and ridiculed that the squire was already married. Rakes were all the same, thought Esther bitterly. But he should not find out that she had spent the day waiting like a fool for the preacher.
Brighton. That was it. She would go to Brighton and take the children with her. There was Miss Fipps, and Miss Fipps was Lord Guy’s cousin. But she had already proved herself an affectionate friend. Esther would tell Miss Fipps about it all when they arrived in Brighton. If she told her before then, she felt sure Miss Fipps would rush to Clarges Street to give Lord Guy a piece of her mind and the wretched philanderer would know how badly she, Esther, had been hurt. Thank goodness she had not told the children, Miss Fipps, or the household about the wedding.
After two hours, Manuel’s waiting was rewarded. A cumbersome travelling carriage pulled up outside Esther’s home. After a little while, Esther appeared, heavily veiled, leading the children and followed by Miss Fipps and her lady’s maid. Trunks were strapped up behind.
In the distance, Manuel heard the baying of the mob, who had risen afresh and were hell-bent on destroying everything in sight. He took to his heels and ran.
Lord Guy Carlton decided to see Esther again before going off to find the vicar. The vicar, the Reverend Abra-ham Pascombe, was an old friend, albeit a drunken and disgraceful one. But Lord Guy felt he would serve the purpose and perform adequately.
Lord Guy walked round to Berkeley Square with a brace of pistols in his pocket. He had to pick his way through shards of glass and broken shutters. Somewhere nearby, the mob had started to burn houses, and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke. London waited for another onslaught from the rabble. The cannon in St. James’ Park had been loaded with ball. A party of Burdettites from Soho rounded the corner with blue cockades and colours flying. They did not try to stop him, contenting themselves with shouting, “Burdett forever. Magna Carta. Trial by jury.” Most of them seemed to be in an advanced state of intoxication.
Lord Guy almost welcomed their presence. It proved that, with or without Esther, he was cured of his nightmares of the battlefield. One of their number fired a gun in the air, and Lord Guy did not even flinch.
He knocked at Esther’s door and waited some time before a cautious voice on the inside could be heard demanding his name and business.
Then he had to wait until the bolts were slid back and the door unlocked.
“Miss Jones?” he said, striding past Graves into the hall.
“Madam has left,” said Graves.
“When? Why? Where?”
“An hour ago. I do not know. Miss Jones has gone to Brighton,” said Graves, answering each question in turn.
“Good Gad. Did she leave no message, no letter?”
“No, my lord.”
If Esther had appeared in front of him at that moment, he felt he would cheerfully have strangled her. No man of his rank and breeding could tolerate such an insult from a woman.
His face hard and set, he turned to leave.
But Graves, who was still annoyed with the way the pampered servants of Clarges Street appeared to demand audience with his mistress anytime they felt like it, said sourly to his retreating back, “Miss Jones decided to leave immediately after receiving a message from your lordship’s servant. I assumed that because of the dangers in Town, your lordship had suggested Miss Jones remove herself and the children to Brighton.”
“Manuel!” said Lord Guy between his teeth.
He turned and strode out of the door, leaving Graves looking after him.
At Clarges Street, he roused Mr. Roger from his bed and told him of the happenings of the morning. “Told you the fellow was up to no good,” said Mr. Roger. “What are you going to do?”
“Come down to the parlour with me and let’s have him in, unless he has run away.”
Mr. Roger swathed his burly form in a Chinese dressing-gown and followed Lord Guy downstairs. Lord Guy rang the bell and when Rainbird appeared he curtly ordered Manuel to be brought in.
Manuel had not fled. He was confident his plan had worked. He was sitting in his attic room busily writing when Rainbird told him he was wanted.
“I come soon,” he said, picking up his papers and stuffing them in his pocket.
“You’d better come sharpish,” said Rainbird. “My lord looks like death.”
Rainbird stood by the door of the front parlour until Manuel came downstairs. He held open the door, ushered Manuel in, and closed it behind him.
“What did you tell my fiancée?” demanded Lord Guy harshly.
“I did not tell her anything, my lord. I think you go there and go myself to attend to your wishes.”
“You could have looked in my bedroom. I am curious about you, Manuel. Very curious.” Lord Guy drew a pistol out of his pocket and levelled it at him. “If you make a move, I will blow your head off. Tommy, search him.”
Manuel made a dive for the door. Lord Guy fired a ball over his head into the woodwork, and Manuel stood stockstill, white-faced and trembling.
“Now, Tommy,” said Lord Guy grimly.
Tommy seized Manuel by the scruff of his neck with one large hand and ferreted in his pockets with the other. He drew out a black notebook and a sheaf of papers and newspaper cuttings. He kept hold of the servant while he tossed them over to Lord Guy.
He studied them in amazement. The notebook contained details of everything that had happened since Manuel had taken up the post as his servant. There were also cuttings from an American newspaper called the Sun.
Rainbird, Angus, and Joseph came bursting into the room, having heard the shot. They stood looking amazed at the smoking gun in Lord Guy’s hand and the wretched Manuel being held in Mr. Roger’s hands.
“If you are a spy,” said Lord Guy heavily, “you are a damned inept one. There is not one thing here that is not common knowledge. Who are you? Speak before I shoot you.”
Manuel fell to his knees. “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded. “I only want to be a great journalist, like Monsieur Cavet. Like him, I am a Frenchman.”
“I thought your country was Spain.”
“I am French by birth. I was born in Agde. My father, he is Spanish. My mother was French. My father married again, an Englishwoman, who taught me her language. I knew I would have to be cautious when we reached Spain, for I speak Spanish with a French accent. I wish to be a journalist for the American papers like Monsieur Cavet. But the newspaper told me they did not want the reports of London society, they wanted my experiences at war.”
“Do you mean to say,” said Lord Guy wrathfully, “that you wormed your way into my household to spy on me?”
“No, no, no!” wailed Manuel. “I wish to write like Monsieur Cavet. Please look at his articles….”
“My stupid fellow, I have no time to look into your journalistic ambitions at the moment. Now, what did you say to Miss Jones?”
Manuel hung his head. “I think if you marry her, you no go back to Portugal. I must go to Portugal to continue my writings. So I tell her you laugh about her and say you trick her.”
Lord Guy signalled to Rainbird to step forward. “What do you do with me?” cried Manuel.
“I do nothing with you until I find Miss Jones and get her to marry me.”
Lord Guy turned to Rainbird. “This man
is to be locked in the cellar,” he said. “I will decide what to do with him when I return. In the meanwhile, Manuel, I will keep your notebook and these newspapers. Tommy, go with Rainbird and keep Manuel covered with your gun. When he is locked up, prepare to come with me to Brighton. We’ll take the vicar with us!”
Miss Fipps tried several times on the road to Brighton to get Esther to explain why she had rushed off from London. Esther stubbornly said over and over again that the children would be better removed from the danger of the mob, and although that seemed very sensible, she looked so miserable and white as she said it that Miss Fipps came gloomily to the conclusion that Something Terrible had happened between Miss Jones and Carlton during the night.
Amy and Peter were fortunately still at the age when they considered all adult behaviour incalculable and as little subject to reason as that of the ancient Greek gods. Foremost in their minds was the thought they were going to see the sea for the first time in their lives.
As they neared Brighton and the children were screaming with delight at the sight of the grey sea lying below them, Miss Fipps asked timidly, “Where do you intend to stay, Miss Jones? At an hotel?”
“No,” said Esther. “I shall find a house.”
“Perhaps there will not be one to rent,” ventured Miss Fipps timidly.
“Then I shall buy one,” said Esther.
Miss Fipps sighed. How wonderful to have so much money that it was a matter of indifference whether one rented a house or bought it.
She did not know that Esther, normally thrifty, cared for her wealth only in that it might supply some means of material comfort to ease the bruising her soul had received at Lord Guy’s hands.
Miss Fipps was feeling tired and slightly sick from the swaying of the carriage. She was sure they would search until nightfall for a house and finally end up at an hotel.
But no sooner had they arrived in Brighton than Esther sent her footmen off to find out agents with houses for sale or rent. By an hour’s time, she had taken possession of an elegant house on the Steyne, renting it and its servants for a month—the owners, who had not expected to find a tenant until the summer, being so overwhelmed with a generous offer of hard cash that they had promptly moved out and inflicted themselves on their relations for the month.
Standing in the middle of a pretty drawing-room, Esther rapped out orders like a general. The carriage was to return to London and bring the rest of the luggage from Berkeley Square. The new maid, Charlotte, was to accompany the baggage so that she might begin her training under Esther’s eye. Fires were to be lit in all the rooms. Accompanied by the housekeeper, Esther walked through the bedrooms examining the linen to make sure it was dry and aired, the cellars to see they were properly stocked, and the kitchens to make sure there was a sufficient quantity of food.
It was getting on for six in the evening. The children were clamouring for a walk by the sea, and Esther, frightened to let herself sit down and think, said she would take them.
It was a chilly spring evening as she walked on the pebbly beach with the children running before her. The waves advanced and retreated, moving the shingle back and forward with a sad, sighing sound. The sun was setting, laying out a long golden path across the sea from shore to horizon.
How wonderful it would be, thought Esther wretchedly, to walk into that golden path and keep on walking until the sea covered her head, that cropped head which the fickle and philandering Lord Guy had not liked.
When she saw the figures of two men approaching from the distance, along the beach, she called sharply to the children. She was not accompanied by a maid or footman and did not want two bucks to take her for a governess or nursery maid, not knowing that the richness of her new wardrobe and the stern haughty look on her face made such a mistake nigh impossible.
But Peter and Amy appeared deaf to her calls as they ran and played and shouted to each other.
She called again, more sharply. But to her horror, the children were now running towards the two approaching figures. One was tall and slim and elegant, and the other, short and swarthy.
With a fast-beating heart, Esther recognised Lord Guy and Mr. Roger.
The sudden hope in her heart made her feel sick.
Amy and Peter had reached Lord Guy. He was laughing down at them. He ruffled Peter’s red curls, and then, holding each child by the hand, he continued to walk towards Esther.
When he came up to her, he was laughing at something Peter had said, but the gaze he turned on Esther was stern and cold.
He held up his hand as she began to speak, and said, “Tommy, take the children back to the house and tell them what is to happen this evening. Children, we are to have something of a party, and you must wear your best clothes and be on your best behaviour.”
“A party!” screamed Amy in delight. “What is it for?”
“That is a secret,” he said. “If you go now and if you are very good, perhaps Mr. Roger will tell you.”
“You cannot come down here and start ordering my brother and sister about,” cried Esther.
But Amy and Peter were already dancing off beside Mr. Roger, plying him with excited questions.
He waited until they were out of earshot and then turned to Esther.
“You owe me an explanation, madam,” he said.
“I owe you an explanation!” said Esther.
“Why did you run away? I had a time of it finding you. I tried all the hotels and inns and finally roused the agents. I discovered your house just when I had nigh become sick and tired of looking for it.”
“You came to look for me,” said Esther in wonder.
“Madam, I am not in the habit of visiting Brighton out of season for any normal reason. Why did you leave? What did Manuel say?”
“Your servant? He told me you had been … laughing … about how you had tricked me.”
“Manuel, it appears, is a budding journalist, a fool and probably quite mad.”
“A journalist!”
“The silly idiot thought to make a name for himself in an American newspaper, like some French journalist called Cavet. Alas, for poor Manuel! This Cavet writes as if he had obtained a post in a noble household and goes on to describe scandalous happenings in the household. But it is all fiction. Only Manuel could believe that someone called Lord Pink really existed. The articles were translated into French and published in the French papers, which is where Manuel first read them. This journal, the Sun, went so far as to encourage him in his folly by suggesting in a letter written to Manuel a year ago that he confine his reports to that of a servant at war. He evidently tried to pass his time in London by taking notes of troop movements.”
“He is despicable!” said Esther.
“I do not know what to do with him now. I studied the drafts of some of his articles on the journey here. Amazingly enough, apart from occasional lapses into bad English, he writes extremely well. The descriptions of Portugal were so vivid I could almost fancy myself back there. I have him locked in the cellar in Clarges Street. But now we have disposed of Manuel, the question remains why you believed such a farrago of nonsense.”
“Your reputation,” said Esther, hanging her head. “My father played such a trick once on a girl, made love to her and ruined her. She did not know he was married.”
“ ’Fore God, Esther, I am unwed, and I am not your father, and your own reputation is now somewhat soiled.”
“I do not have your experience of love affairs,” said Esther, blinking tears from her eyes.
He sighed wearily and turned away from her and looked out to sea.
“I should not have distrusted you,” said Esther shakily. “I had always thought myself intelligent and sensible. But I am so confused. The world of the ton has different moral laws from my own private world.”
He turned back to her. “We are wasting time. Come. I have brought the vicar with me. We must be married while he is still sober.”
“Married? Do you feel you have to marr
y me?”
“Yes,” he said baldly. He made no move to take her in his arms and his eyes were as cold as the darkening sea.
“Then I will not marry you,” said Esther. “Consider yourself free.”
He drew a pistol from his pocket and levelled it at her.
“You are going to marry me and no one else, Esther, so start walking back to that house you have rented as quickly as possible.”
Esther gave a nervous laugh. “May I point out that it is the man who is usually forced to marry at gunpoint?”
“I am in no mood for jesting,” he said coldly. “March.”
So Esther marched, her thoughts in a miserable turmoil. All her initial hope and elation at seeing him was dying away. Although he might have led a scandalous life, Lord Guy was as much a member of the ton as Mr. Brummell. Where she stumbled, he moved with easy grace through the peculiar ways of society. He had stayed alone with her, he had kissed her in public. He felt he had to marry her.
He had moved next to her and taken her arm in a strong grip, speaking only once to remind her he had the gun in his pocket.
“Why is Esther looking so white and miserable?” whispered Amy to Miss Fipps.
“Bride nerves,” said Miss Fipps. “All ladies look thus at their wedding.”
Reassured, Amy clutched her little nosegay of flowers and prepared to take her place behind Esther at the “altar”—an escritoire draped in red velvet that had been set up at the end of the drawing-room. The vicar, the Reverend Abraham Pascombe, seemed to be in a state of suppressed fury, which indeed he was. He had never felt so sober in his life. Neither Mr. Roger nor Lord Guy had allowed him anything stronger than coffee, saying he could drink as much as he liked after the ceremony was over. He drawled and droned his way through the wedding service until he heard the jolly sound of a cork being pulled coming from the dining room across the hall, where the servants were preparing the wedding supper. He brightened perceptibly and rattled through the rest of the proceedings with an almost indecent haste.
In all her misery and bewilderment, Esther could reflect only that there was a lot to be said for the efficiency of an army man combined with the talents of Miss Fipps. How had they managed to find, not only a bouquet for herself, but a nosegay for Amy, and huge vases of flowers for the room at such short notice? She stumbled her way through the responses, pausing only to raise her eyebrows when she thought she heard the vicar mumble, “Oh, get on with it, do!”