Plain Jane

by Beaton, M. C.

  Jane floated out to the curricle.

  Although they made the journey back at a sedate pace, the countryside and the houses swam past in the same blur before Jane’s dazed and happy eyes. The whole of London would talk about her. Jane Hart. Jane Hart, who had snared the most handsome man in London!

  They turned into Piccadilly from St James’s Street and were about to turn off into Clarges Street when Jane clutched hold of the guard rail and cried, ‘Stop!’

  Surprised, Lord Tregarthan reined in his horses.

  ‘Joseph!’ screamed Jane. ‘They are killing Joseph,’ and before he could stop her, she had leapt nimbly down from the carriage and had started to run in the direction of the gates of the Green Park.

  Joseph had been out on an errand. He had been sent by Mrs Hart to buy pink ribbons to trim a gown – a job that Joseph considered beneath his dignity. He mutinously decided to take a stroll in the Green Park, for the day was fine and he was reluctant to return to Number 67 and spend the rest of the day fetching and carrying.

  He saw three ruffians bending over something and shied nervously away. Joseph was frightened of the lower orders, who often delighted in tormenting liveried footmen.

  Then he heard a plaintive miaow. Some horrible fascination drove him forward to have a look. One of them held a cat pinned to the ground. It was one of the largest cats Joseph had ever seen, with a brown-and-gold-striped coat. It had golden eyes, beautiful eyes, which seemed to look straight to Joseph for help. Another ruffian took out his penknife. ‘Let’s poke the moggie’s eyes out,’ he said.

  ‘Yus,’ agreed his friends gleefully.

  Somewhere right down inside Joseph’s selfish, sensitive, cringing character, a voice said, ‘No, you don’t,’ and, to his horror, he realized the voice had issued from his own lips, not in a mumble, but in loud, clear tones.

  The ruffian who was holding the knife straightened up. ‘Wot did you say?’ he demanded.

  Joseph opened his mouth to say, ‘Nothing,’ and to let his shaking legs carry him away, but his legs would not move and his voice said loudly, ‘Leave the cet alone. Thet cet belongs o’ me.’

  The ruffians started mincing up and down, their hands on their hips, imitating Joseph’s affected voice. They had let the cat go.

  ‘Run,’ pleaded Joseph silently to the cat. ‘Run away and I will run with you.’

  But the cat stayed, crouched against the ground. The leader of the ruffians, he who had held down the cat, turned and put his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers at Joseph.

  ‘Miaow,’ went the cat.

  Joseph had never accepted a challenge before. Never. The last time he had been in a fight had been with Luke, the Gharterises’ footman. But Luke had not even asked him if he wanted to fight. He had simply set about him.

  Again he waited for his brain to tell his legs and feet to move. Instead his brain told him to take off his black-and-gold coat and lay it carefully on the grass.

  ‘A mill!’ cried the leader’s two companions. The leader himself spat on his hands and approached Joseph. But the leader winked at his two companions and all three set on Joseph.

  For the first few moments, sheer terror combined with mad rage served Joseph well and he sent two of them flying. Neither Rainbird nor MacGregor would have recognized the normally effeminate footman in the Joseph who landed punches with the finesse of Mendoza and the strength of Jackson. But two of them finally managed to seize his arms and swung him round to face the third, who drew back his fist ready to demolish Joseph’s face.

  Joseph closed his eyes.

  Miraculously the grip on his arms slackened and there were cries of alarm and a female voice screaming, ‘Help! Murder! Get the watch.’

  Joseph opened his eyes. Jane Hart was jumping up and down and thumping Joseph’s would-be assailant on the head with her parasol.

  ‘The Quality. It’s a gentry mort,’ yelled the leader. They took to their heels down the park in the direction of Buckingham House. Past Jane, in full pursuit, thundered Lord Tregarthan. While Jane clutched Joseph, they both saw Lord Tregarthan catch up with the ruffians and Joseph screamed with glee as bodies started to fly.

  ‘Lord Tregarthan will be hurt,’ said Jane, making to run to him.

  ‘Not he,’ crowed Joseph. ‘He’s done wiff ’em already.’

  They waited while Lord Tregarthan strolled back towards them, ruefully examining a split in his driving glove. He did not seem either ruffled or out of breath.

  ‘Splendid, my lord,’ said Joseph. ‘Oh, how splendid.’ Then he sat down on the grass and began to cry. Lord Tregarthan looked on in a mixture of amusement and exasperation as Jane, oblivious of the gathering crowd, sank down onto one knee and peered anxiously into Joseph’s tear-soaked face.

  ‘Are you hurt, dear Joseph?’ she pleaded. ‘Do stop crying and tell me what I can do. Oh, here’s a cat. Shooo!’

  ‘No,’ said Joseph. ‘’S my cat.’

  He scrubbed his eyes with his shirt sleeve and leaned down and stroked the cat. It rubbed itself against his knee and purred.

  ‘The kitchen cat, Joseph?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Joseph. ‘Kitchen cat. Champion will rats, ’e is. Take ’im ’ome.’ He rose to his feet, gathering the great brown-and-gold cat into his arms as he did so. It lay in his arms and regarded Jane with an insolent golden stare.

  ‘Now, young fellow,’ said Lord Tregarthan severely. ‘An explanation, if you please. My curricle is blocking the traffic in Piccadilly right at this moment and Miss Jane is distressed.’ He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the circle of people about them. ‘If the vulgarly curious would please leave, unless anyone likes a taste of my fists, I might be able to hear you.’

  Nervously, the crowd began to edge away. Still rattled by the occasional dry sob, Joseph told his tale, omitting, however, to say he had never seen the cat before.

  ‘Highly commendable,’ said Lord Tregarthan dryly. ‘Take that animal away. And do not forget your coat.’

  Jane handed Joseph his coat and, still clutching the cat, he went off, carrying his coat over one arm.

  ‘What very odd servants you have, to be sure,’ said the beau. ‘Come, Miss Jane, and I will take you home.’

  After he had returned Jane to her mother with smooth apologies for having kept her so late, he begged permission to call on Mr Hart in the morning and took his leave.

  It was only as he was driving along Curzon Street that a sudden horrible thought struck Lord Tregarthan. At the same time, he heard himself being hailed from the pavement and saw his friend, Mr Nevill, who sprang lightly up beside him. ‘Why so glum?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell me, Peter,’ said Lord Tregarthan in a neutral sort of voice, ‘if you told a young lady you intended to call on her papa on the morrow, what would she think?’

  ‘Why – that you had marriage in mind.’

  The beau drove on in silence.

  ‘I say,’ said Mr Nevill, ‘never tell me you’ve asked leave to pay your addresses to the Hart chit!’

  ‘No. I desired to see Captain Hart with a view to discussing a purely masculine matter.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Entirely my affair. If anything comes of it, I will let you know. However, I fear I may have given both Jane and Mrs Hart the wrong impression.’

  ‘Did you make love to the girl?’

  ‘No, of course not. She is much too young.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘But I tell you, Peter, there is something about that little waif that makes me behave in the oddest fashion. She did not want to go to the park, but requested a drive about London. Then, when we were on Westminster Bridge, the wretched Cully challenged me to a race from Streatham to Croydon, and before I knew what I was about, there I was, enjoying myself immensely, going like the devil, with Jane Hart cheering me on.’

  ‘Did she?’ Mr Nevill looked at his large friend in awe. ‘A Trojan of a girl.’

  ‘Not only that,’ said the beau, ‘she then involved me i
n a fight in the Green Park because her footman was under attack.’

  ‘You know, you had better watch,’ said Mr Nevill. ‘I have never known you behave in such an unconventional manner. Are you sure there is not a certain something about Jane Hart which . . . ?’

  ‘Do look,’ interrupted Lord Tregarthan. ‘Isn’t that fellow a veritable quiz? His cravat is so high, he has to stare at the sky as he walks along.’

  Mr Nevill began to laugh and the subject of Jane Hart’s attractions was soon forgotten.

  Although Lord Tregarthan was quite sure Jane herself would not expect a proposal of marriage, her mother was another matter. He decided to send a note round that very evening to Mrs Hart explaining that the matter he wished to discuss with Mr Hart was one of business. He called his butler and handed him the note, his butler handed it to the first footman, who handed it to the second footman, Abraham, and Abraham set off in the direction of Clarges Street.

  He was a young man who had but lately joined Lord Tregarthan’s establishment. He was tall and good-looking but still naive and countrified and rather overpowered by the tonnish ways of the London servants.

  He met Rainbird, who was standing on the steps of Number 67 taking the air. Perhaps if he had stated his business immediately the note would have been delivered, but, feeling at ease under Rainbird’s benign look, he said he was from Lord Tregarthan’s household and that he had but lately come to town. One thing led to another and soon Abraham was confiding his fears of grand society and Rainbird was giving him various tips as to how to go on.

  Then there came the sounds of a noisy altercation from the kitchen below, and Rainbird invited the young footman down the area steps, saying he would settle the matter in a trice. The cause of all the row turned out to be Joseph’s cat. MacGregor was threatening to behead it, Jenny and Alice were screaming it had a nasty look and, as sure as eggs were eggs, the animal had fleas, Joseph was clutching the cat to his bosom, Mrs Middleton was bleating in dismay, and Dave was joyfully taking one side and then the other. Lizzie was standing a little away from the argument, wondering what best she could do to aid Joseph.

  The noisy freedom and interchange of views amazed Abraham, who was used to the stiff formality of Lord Tregarthan’s servants’ hall. He thought Alice was the most beautiful maidservant he had ever seen and if she did not want the cat then the cat should go. Abraham cheerfully joined in the argument.

  Lizzie quietly fetched a saucer of milk and some scraps of beef. She gently took the cat away from Joseph and carried it to a corner of the kitchen, crouching protectively down beside it while it fed. Lizzie thought it was a strange-looking cat, more like a wild animal than a pet, but if Joseph loved it, then she would love it too.

  Soon the bells began to ring. Mrs Hart, amazed and bewildered and overjoyed by Lord Tregarthan’s request, had listened to Jane’s tale of how the beau had suggested she patronise Leonie and had gone to see that person immediately, dragging Jane, Euphemia, and Felice along with her.

  Now she was back, and, not finding Rainbird on hand to open the door or Joseph to carry in parcels, she was ringing the bells in the front and back parlours, striding from one room to the other, jerking the bell cords so hard that the bells up on the kitchen wall were fairly jumping on their wires. The cat was forgotten as the servants sprang to their posts.

  Abraham cheerfully said goodbye and promised to call again. He walked back through the dusk, congratulating himself on having found new friends. London did not seem such a hostile and foreign place any longer. It was only when he reached his own servants’ hall and was asked sharply whether he had delivered the note that he realized it was still in the pocket of his tails. Fear of losing his employ made him say, ‘Yes.’ He would find some way of slipping out later and delivering it.

  But he was put to clean the silver, then he had to trim the lamps, then he had to carry coal, for the evening had turned chilly, then my lord arrived home for a late supper and he had to scramble into his best livery and powder his hair and take up his stance in the dining room.

  After all that, the house was locked up for the night and all hope of taking the note round to Clarges Street had gone.

  SEVEN

  I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the suppression of the emotions in each.

  SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, RODNEY STONE

  Euphemia was every bit as jealous as Jane had ever wanted her to be, and Jane found herself not enjoying it one whit.

  The elder sister made a point of visiting Jane in her bedchamber before she went to sleep to pour into her unwilling ears all the rakish exploits of Beau Tregarthan that Euphemia had managed to pick up from the Marquess of Berry. The marquess had failed to tell Euphemia that the beau had recently returned from the wars and so Jane was left with the picture of a Corinthian who pursued brutal sports as enthusiastically as he pursued every high flyer in Town.

  ‘I pity you, Jane,’ said Euphemia sweetly as she made for the door.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Jane stoutly. ‘You’re jealous because your beau is old and looks like a wasp and my Lord Tregarthan is an Adonis.’

  But the damage had been done. Jane lay awake, terrified. Were she to become engaged to Lord Tregarthan, then she would be expected to allow him to kiss and cuddle her. But what would that be like? Men had such brutal lusts – everyone knew that.

  Her governess had once given her a talk on such matters, shortly before her services were no longer considered necessary. She had said that there were several things a lady must endure in order to present her husband with an heir. No lady enjoyed such things. One must close one’s eyes tightly and think of one’s country.

  Euphemia seemed to accept this, but Jane had burst out in protest. What were all the love poems and romances about if it were all so unpleasant?

  Love poems and romances were about courtship, the governess had said severely. That was the real and only honeymoon for a lady. The getting of babies was a different matter entirely.

  So Jane tossed and turned, all her pleasure in being taken to a dashing dressmaker, all her joy in her new fashionable crop quite gone. She heartily wished Lord Tregarthan would cry off, forgetting he had not even proposed.

  Then she heard a scream coming from away down in the bowels of the house. With nervous fingers, she lit her bed candle, and, shielding the flame, went to the door of her room and opened it.

  The scream came again, louder this time.

  A door crashed open in the attics and Rainbird came down the stairs, clad only in his nightshirt.

  ‘It’s Lizzie,’ he said. ‘The scullery maid. Go back to bed, Miss Jane.’

  There was the sound of thumping from the attics as the other male servants got up.

  Too awake and curious to go back to bed, Jane followed Rainbird down the stairs.

  She entered the kitchen door at his heels.

  Lizzie was standing on the kitchen table in her shift. Her eyes were wide and dilated. When she saw Rainbird, she pointed with a shaking finger to the floor.

  Rainbird held his candle high.

  In front of the hearth, neatly laid out, were three dead rats, five mice, and a large pile of dead black beetles. Standing beside them, its tail swishing backwards and forwards, was Joseph’s cat.

  Rainbird began to laugh.

  ‘Come down, Lizzie,’ he said, putting down his candle and lifting the shaking girl down from the table. ‘The livestock is all dead.’

  Joseph and MacGregor burst into the kitchen and stared in amazement at the kill made by Joseph’s cat.

  ‘Weel, that settles that,’ said MacGregor. ‘That animal stays.’

  ‘I knew he’d be a good ’un,’ crowed Joseph who had left his genteel accent behind him on his pillow. ‘Think on’t, Lizzie, they’re better dead than running about all night.’

  A gentle snore from under the table made t
hem all laugh. Dave, the pot boy, was sleeping through all the commotion. The cat stalked forward and pushed MacGregor’s leg with one paw.

  ‘D’ye see that?’ cried MacGregor. ‘Was ever an animal so intelligent! Come along, Moocher, and I’ll gie ye some gizzards.’

  ‘Not Moocher,’ wailed Joseph. ‘I wanted somethink more h’elegant.’

  ‘Now, Miss Jane,’ said Rainbird severely, ‘back to bed. The excitement is over.’ He looked at her narrowly. ‘You look troubled, miss. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No,’ said Jane bleakly. ‘Nothing at all.’

  After they had all left, Lizzie settled down on her bed, which was a straw mattress on the scullery floor. She cringed as she felt the cat pressing against her. But Lizzie had long been afraid of the rats and beetles that came out when the other servants had gone to bed. It was the noise the hunting cat had made that had frightened her, not to mention the pile of dead creatures she had found on the hearth. She now realized if she encouraged the Moocher to sleep with her, she would no longer have anything to fear. And it was Joseph’s cat.

  ‘Puss, puss,’ she murmured sleepily. The large cat butted her in the side with its head, then it curled up and lay against her, warm and comforting. Lizzie felt in her bosom for Joseph’s handkerchief and smiled to herself as she fell asleep.

  * * *

  When Jane awoke the next morning all her fears had gone. What a fool she had been to listen to Euphemia! She rushed to the looking glass and admired her new crop of pomaded curls. She was only eighteen and had not even been out and yet she was to receive a proposal of marriage.

  Although the ballgown had been ordered for the ball on Thursday, there had been no time to buy Jane a new gown for the proposal. Felice had worked over one of Euphemia’s new ones and was soon on hand to help Jane into it.

  Jane was to stay in her room until Lord Tregarthan had seen her father. Then she would be summoned to the drawing room and left alone with her beau. She had risen very early and was waiting at the window a full hour before Lord Tregarthan’s curricle drew up outside the house.