A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  When he didn’t reply, she said, “Please George, I need something to take my mind off – off everything.”

  He smiled sympathetically. “Very well, my dear. I would also like to see this fair on the Thames. But only if your mother agrees.”

  When Isabel approached her, her mama’s brow furrowed. “You will stay close to George at all times, Belle? It isn’t the place for a lady, so I’ve heard.” Then she shrugged her shoulders. “However, if it will cheer you up, you must go. I know Mr Bateman told you he was going out of town for a while, but the length of his absence is very worrying. Perhaps we have misread his intentions, although I could have sworn he cared for you.”

  Isabel nodded, and turned away. She didn’t want to speak about his absence. It hurt too much.

  * * *

  Isabel and George bundled up in layers of warm clothing, and climbed inside the coach, which set off at a brisk pace towards Blackfriars Bridge.

  Isabel stared out the carriage window. The streets were piled high with snow, but it was no longer snowing, only drizzling. As they approached the frozen river, it looked dirty and lumpy. However, it must be frozen solid, as throngs of people were walking on it.

  They alighted from the carriage and Isabel looked around in fascination. It was indeed an amazing spectacle. The fair had its own main street on the river, which was sign-posted ‘The City Road’, and as they approached, a Thames waterman called out, “Threepence to enter the Frost Fair!”

  George handed him a couple of coins to cover the entrance fee, and then they carefully made their way down the slipway onto the river.

  Vendors sold trinkets and memorabilia, children’s swings had been set up, and there were bookstalls, dancing-booths and merry-go-rounds.

  A group of men played skittles on the ice, and a number of printing presses had been erected. Isabel walked over to one of the printers who chanted, “Print a poem, print a poem, take it home, take it home, as a souvenir of the great frost.” She halted before him.

  “Would you like me to buy one for you?” George asked, and at Isabel’s nod, he asked the vendor to print her a poem.

  She scanned it quickly:

  Behold the Liquid Thames frozen o’re,

  That lately Ships of mighty Burthen bore

  The Watermen for want of Rowing Boats

  Make use of Booths to get their Pence & Groats

  Here you may see beef roasted on the spit

  And for your money you may taste a bit

  There you may print your name, tho cannot write

  Cause num'd with cold: tis done with great delight

  And lay it by that ages yet to come

  May see what things upon the ice were done

  “Thank you.” She smiled at her stepfather and placed the poem in the small basket she had brought with her.

  A fiddler struck up a tune in one of the dance-booths, which was decorated with streamers and flags, and a couple linked arms and began to dance. Isabel and George watched them for a few minutes before walking on.

  Oxen roasted on spits above a blazing fire, and Isabel sniffed the roasting meat appreciatively. Revellers were eating gingerbread and a woman walked past with a basket on her head, covered by a cloth, crying: “Hot apples, hot apples for sale.”

  George bought a couple of the apples, and he and Isabel were enjoying the sweet treats when a young man staggered in front of them. George took Isabel’s arm and drew her close to his side, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. A strong smell of liquor emanated from the man. Glancing around uneasily, she realised that strong liquor was readily available from any number of stalls.

  And not only the stalls. A vendor ambled past, calling out that he had cups of gin for sale. And when they reached the centre of the river, Isabel saw rough booths made of sail cloths, blankets and oars, with signs on them advertising Purl and Mum. There was also tea, coffee and chocolate on sale.

  She turned a puzzled frown on George. “What are Purl and Mum?”

  “It is strong liquor, my dear. I believe we should leave now that you have seen a bit of the fair. There are far too many inebriated persons around. Come now.”

  It began to rain more heavily, and Isabel wiped raindrops from her eyes. Suddenly, she heard someone shout her name and turned to see Mr Bateman striding towards her.

  “Cherny! Isabel! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come off the ice!”

  Instinct took over and, dropping her basket, Isabel ran. She couldn’t face him. Not now. She had to get away.

  But she had forgotten how slippery and treacherous the surface of the frozen river could be, and she fell.

  The rain was harder now, and it muffled the noise of the revelry around her, but it wasn’t loud enough to stifle a loud, cracking sound which made the ice suddenly reverberate. Isabel screamed as the booths and the printing presses in front of her began to capsize into the river.

  People yelled, running in every direction from the cracking ice. Isabel scrambled to her feet to head to safety, but a large man crashed into her, and sent her flying. And then she was in the freezing water.

  She gasped and tried to scream, but the icy water shocked her into terrified silence. Her arms flailed, and then strong arms gripped under her armpits, and Mr Bateman pulled her from the icy water.

  Without a care for her dignity, he flung her over his shoulder and moved swiftly across the ice, with Isabel bouncing against his hard shoulder. She spotted George hurrying along beside them, as the ground rose and fell beneath her eyes. They were jostled by other people also desperately trying to escape the cracking ice. Finally, they were off the river and back on solid ground, and Mr Bateman set her gently on her feet.

  Stripping off his greatcoat, he wrapped it around her, while searching urgently up and down the street. “Where is your carriage, Cherny?”

  George pointed down the street, and Mr Bateman picked her up once again, and carried her towards the coach. Isabel wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder as she started to shiver.

  The coachman opened the carriage door, and Mr Bateman placed Isabel on the seat, and then he and George climbed in beside her. She shivered uncontrollably now, and her breathing was shallow and rapid.

  “I – I’m so cold,” she muttered through chattering teeth.

  “We’ll be home shortly.” Mr Bateman wrapped his arms about her, and she gave in to temptation and rested her head on his shoulder again. Her eyelids drifted closed.

  “Stay awake, Isabel. Don’t go to sleep,” he said urgently.

  She blinked, and stared up at him. He was so beautiful.

  The coach moved along at a brisk pace now, picking up speed the further they moved away from the crowds of the fair, and Isabel wriggled uncomfortably. Her wet clothes clung to her body, weighting her down. So much weight. She really did need a nap.

  Mr Bateman would not allow her to drop off, though. Every time her eyelids fluttered closed, he patted her cheeks, or shook her shoulders, until she grew quite irritated with him. “Just let me go to sleep!”

  “I cannot do that, my love.” He smoothed the wet hair off her forehead.

  And then they were home, and George was carrying her upstairs to her bedchamber. She was aware of her mother’s agitated voice, and Simmonds issuing instructions in the background, and then her maid stripped the wet clothes off her. Simmonds wrapped her in a multitude of blankets, and then her mother was back at her side, applying a warm compress alternatively to her neck, chest and stomach.

  “What is that, Mama?” Isabel whispered. “Where is Mr Bateman?”

  “A hot brick, my love, wrapped in a cloth. Now hush, dear, and drink some tea. Mr Bateman is downstairs with George.” She set the hot brick down and brought a cup of steaming tea to the bed where Isabel lay.

  Propped up against her cushions, Isabel sipped the hot, sweet beverage. The heat suffused her, radiating outward to warm her from the inside out. She stopped shivering, and although she still felt lig
ht-headed, she was no longer as disorientated as she had been.

  “Come and sit in front of the fire, my love.” Her mother and Simmonds helped her off the bed and to an armchair pulled up before the hearth. “When you’ve warmed up sufficiently, we must get you into the bathtub.”

  Isabel sat in front of the blazing fire, and then moved to lie down on the chaise-longue in her dressing room, while the footmen carried a tub into her bedchamber. She heard the bustling activity next door as the servants prepared her bath, and then her mother came to fetch her. The tub had been placed in front of the hearth, and a housemaid was arranging a screen around it.

  Once the room emptied of people, and only Simmonds and her mother remained to watch over her, Isabel slipped into the bath. Though she felt almost her usual self again, the water that enveloped her body didn’t feel warm at first. It felt burningly cold and her skin tingled alarmingly. She grimaced in pain, but after a while the prickles eased and she was able to lie back against the edge of the bathtub in comfort. Her mother had mixed rose-water into the warm water, and Isabel breathed in the delicate scent and allowed her aching body to relax.

  Her mother rounded the screen to stand beside the bath.

  “Is – is Mr Bateman still downstairs, Mama?”

  Her mother’s brow creased. “He is, poor man. He looks as white as a sheet. So does George, for that matter. They are both drinking brandy. I should never have consented for you to go to the Frost Fair. But with reports of so many people on the ice, I believed it to be safe…”

  “It was my fault, Mama. I shouldn’t have begged George to go.”

  “You’ve been looking so woebegone, my love, that we didn’t want to disappoint you. You must rest now. I will inform Mr Bateman that you are recovered, but that you are unable to see him today. He arrived shortly after you and George had left the house. He told me he has been out of town for the last month, and he was desperate to see you, so when I told him you’d gone to the Frost Fair he set out straight away to look for you.” Her mother bit her lip, consternation furrowing her brow. “He suspected that a thaw was about to set in, and he was right.”

  Her mother helped her out the bath then, and Isabel ate the light meal which had been brought up for her on a tray, before she got into bed and lay back against her pillows. She was exhausted, and could barely keep her eyes open.

  But before she fell asleep, her thoughts flew to Marcus. He had called her his love… he had called her his love.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Isabel woke feeling none the worse for wear the next morning. She had slept the entire night through, and when she opened her eyes, she immediately had a sense of vague expectation. Then the events of the previous day flooded her mind. The mists of sleep vanished entirely and she sat bolt upright. Marcus had returned! He was back in London. And he hadn’t been ignoring her for a month – he had been out of town the whole time.

  She hugged her arms around her middle and took a deep, calming breath, and pulled the bell to summon a maid. The door opened ten minutes later, and a housemaid entered the room, carrying a tray of tea. She placed the tray on the bedside table.

  “Good morning, my lady. Must I open the curtains?”

  “Good morning, Ellen. Yes, please do, and then send Simmonds up here immediately.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Isabel sipped the hot tea after Ellen had left the room and waited impatiently for her maid to arrive. She wanted to make an effort with her appearance this morning. Perhaps her new cambric jaconet muslin…

  Simmonds entered the room five minutes later, and she said, “Are you ill, my lady? I was ever so concerned when Ellen told me that you wished to see me urgently.”

  “I am quite well, thank you. I am just tired of lying abed and I want to get dressed.”

  Simmonds eyed her narrowly, and then gave a brief nod of her head.

  “I want to wear my new gown.” Isabel flung off the silk counterpane, and climbed out of bed.

  “Indeed, my lady. I was thinking the very same thing.”

  Her maid brought the morning dress out, and Isabel smiled happily. It was perfect. The white gown was fastened down the front with cotton ball tassels, and a flounce of lace decorated the hem, appliqued with a narrow border of embroidery. It had long full sleeves, confined at the hand with intricate needle-work, and a falling collar, trimmed with blond lace.

  Simmonds slipped it on over Isabel’s petticoat, and tugged so that it settled correctly, before placing a cap, composed of white satin and blond lace, and decorated with a wreath of flowers, on Isabel’s hair. She tied its celestial blue riband under Isabel’s chin, and stepped back to admire the effect.

  Isabel opened her rosewood jewellery box, and took out her pearl cross on its gold chain, and fastened it around her neck, before putting on her blue kid slippers and twirling in front of her maid. “What do you think, Simmonds?”

  “You look beautiful, my lady – and so very happy.” Her eyes were suspiciously bright.

  A few hours later, Isabel sat reading in the drawing room, when the door opened and Marcus entered. Her mother and Cousin Maria had gone out on a morning call, and for once her mother had raised no objection when Isabel had told her she preferred to stay at home.

  “Of course, my dear,” she had said, taking Isabel’s hands in hers and pressing them briefly, before giving Cousin Maria a speaking look, and hurrying off.

  Isabel rose awkwardly as Marcus drew closer. A sudden shyness overwhelmed her, and she didn’t know what to say to him. He reached her side and took her hands in his.

  “You are recovered?” he asked, carefully examining her face.

  “I am very well, thank you. I had a good night’s sleep and am much restored. I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble yesterday.”

  “That is a unique way of putting it. Why did you run away from me, Isabel?”

  She sighed, and waved a hand towards the sofa. “Please be seated, Mr Bateman.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?” he asked, as they both sat down.

  His face was grave, his gaze steady, and Isabel looked away. How could she best explain? “Well, the thing is, I hadn’t heard from you in over a month, and I thought you had decided that you – um – that you…”

  “No longer desired a connexion with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe my feelings run so shallow that they would dissipate over the course of a month? What do you take me for, Isabel? I told you I was going out of town.”

  She sat up straighter. “You didn’t say you were going for a whole month! When day after day passed with no word from you, naturally I started to think the worst.”

  “I seem to have developed a habit of rescuing you from dangerous situations,” he said pensively. “We will have to do something about that… but first, there are a few matters we need to discuss.” He paused, and then said in a quiet voice, “I have a part of my life that I have not shared with you due to its secret nature.”

  “I have started to suspect as much.”

  He nodded. “I work for the Foreign Office, and have been investigating illegal slave trading. Captain Wetherby and his son have been under our investigation for some time, which is why George invited them to his house party – so that I could become acquainted with them, and earn their trust in order to find out more about their illicit dealings.”

  Isabel stared at him. “So that is why you were so friendly with them! I have always wondered.” A crease formed between her brows. “Those papers that were hidden in my trunk – they were something to do with the slave trade?”

  “Indeed. My man told me Wetherby’s valet was planning to leave his service shortly. I spoke to him at Chernock Hall, and asked him to search his master’s room for any documents. He was eager to assist me – for remuneration. He must have taken the papers, and hidden them in your trunk in the box room. It is a pity he didn’t hand them over to me before he absconded.”

  “He
probably ran away because Mr Wetherby kicked up such a fuss. What – what has happened to Mr Wetherby?”

  “After I found you on the road, I took him to the authorities in Whitehall, before setting out in his coach to Bristol. Those papers are damning, and could assist us in getting a conviction in a court of law. I pretended to be Wetherby’s man of business when we arrived in Bristol in order to gather more evidence on his associates.”

  “Mr Wetherby’s coachman didn’t make any objection when you took the coach?”

  He shrugged. “His coachman was quite happy to assist me when I offered him a job, after informing him that his master was in trouble with the authorities. I believe Wetherby to be a harsh master. He does not inspire loyalty in his servants.”

  “How are the Wetherbys linked to the illegal slave trade?”

  “Captain Wetherby has been deeply involved for a number of years. He used to fit out slave ships in Bristol prior to the trade becoming illegal in 1807. However, we have suspected for some time that he has been evading the restrictions. He still owns slaving vessels, and although he cannot fully equip them in British ports any longer, he has been fitting the ships out in Bristol and loading the slaving gear – the shackles and so forth – just beyond British waters.”

  He sighed harshly and stared ahead. “Thousands of Africans are still being exported as slaves, and the ships which transport them are frequently British ships, flying under a Spanish or Portuguese flag, with fraudulent registration certificates. As Spain and Portugal have not yet outlawed the slave trade, the British slave traders get away with it.”

  “So those papers in my trunk were fraudulent registration papers for an illegal slave ship?”

  He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, and faced her. “Yes. Captain Wetherby makes a tidy sum fitting out slave ships, not just for Antigua and Jamaica, but for the French slave trade too. His ships pick up slaves in Africa for the French slaving colonies, as the French trade has been severely disrupted by the war. That is why the Foreign Secretary urged me to intervene. Parliament has banned British ships from carrying slaves to the French colonies. It is treason to assist France in this manner while we are at war with Napoleon.”