Back in Society (The Poor Relation series)

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Oh, yes, and a very sensible idea it is, too.’

  ‘I fear you overestimate my looks. Perhaps we should just begin to be friends and then see what happens when the Season begins.’

  Frances opened her brown eyes to their widest. ‘Fiddle! We must seize the moment, Jane. We must hunt down Mr Ferguson before the Season begins. Mama is even beginning to mark down a Mr Thompson as a suitable beau, and he is only nineteen and has pimples.’

  ‘And how can two young ladies hunt down a gentleman? We cannot go to a coffee house or yet to his club.’

  ‘I’ve found out where he lives. He has lodgings in Curzon Street. We could drive out, so respectably, don’t you see, and alight to look at the shops. If we see him, I will faint, and you will call to him for assistance.’

  ‘Frances, that is very bold. I should feel very embarrassed.’

  ‘Would you? But will you drive out with me tomorrow at three just the same?’

  ‘Yes, I would like that. Unless Her Grace has other plans for me, of course.’

  ‘That was useful,’ said Harriet as they drove home. ‘You will be invited by Mrs Haggard to her daughter’s come-out, and two of the other ladies will send cards to various functions.’

  ‘I do not think Mrs Haggard likes me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Harriet. ‘Nor did the others, not with daughters to bring out. How could they? You will put the other young misses in the shade. I told them roundly that to exclude a beauty who could be guaranteed to draw the gentlemen was sheer folly, and so they finally agreed with me.’

  ‘How ruthless all this is,’ said Jane wistfully. ‘Not at all like books.’

  ‘But you would not like life to be like books, or rather, romances. Were it so, you would spend your time being frightened by headless spectres and carried off to ruined Italian castles by foreign counts. You appear to have formed a friendship with Frances Haggard.’

  ‘I like her.’ Jane debated whether to tell Harriet about Frances’s mad ideas of pursuit, but then said instead, ‘Frances wishes me to go out with her tomorrow at three.’

  ‘I have no plans for you. Do you wish the carriage?’

  ‘No, I thank you; as we left, Frances said she would call on me.’

  ‘Then you may send one of the footmen, when we get home, with a note to tell her that you may go. I myself will call on my friends at the Poor Relation. They are so tranquil now. No plots or plans or upsets. Such a relief!’

  At the hotel Mr Davy, whose job apart from debt-collecting was to oversee the running of the coffee room, was rarely at his post these days. An excellent manager called Jobson, hired by Sir Philip, saw to everything. He had therefore decided to spend a pleasant afternoon taking Miss Tonks out on a drive. And so it was Sir Philip who was told the news that Jobson had requested the day off to go to his aunt’s funeral.

  ‘Send for Davy,’ he told Jack, the footman, who had brought him the news.

  ‘Mr Davy, sir, has gone on a drive with Miss Tonks.’

  ‘Mountebank,’ snarled Sir Philip. ‘Oh, well, I may as well see to it myself.’

  He went down to the coffee room in a bad temper. Now if there was one thing Sir Philip loathed, it was a Bond Street lounger, that breed of man who drawled at the top of his voice, insulted the waiters, stared at the ladies and complained about everything. Sir Philip was not only angry, he was tired. He had been up half the night drinking at Limmer’s, and his head throbbed and his old eyes burned.

  He went into the coffee room. John, one of the waiters, took him aside. ‘We have a gentleman, sir, who is ogling the ladies and behaving in an offensive manner. He is with, I believe, a foreign gentleman.’

  ‘Walk outside with me a little,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I will deal with them presently.’

  When they were outside in the hall under the great chandelier, which Sir Philip had blackmailed his nephew into giving him, he said testily, ‘Has Davy shown his nose in the coffee room today at all?’

  ‘No, Sir Philip,’ said John. ‘But Mr Jobson is usually always at his post. Today is the first time he has been absent.’

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ said Sir Philip. ‘It’s Mr Davy’s duty to see that all is well before he goes jauntering off around the Town like the gentleman he isn’t. I suppose I had better go and get rid of the rats myself.’

  ‘I must go down to the kitchens and bring up some more cakes,’ said the waiter, and made his escape.

  But in the brief time during which Sir Philip had been talking to the waiter, neither of them had noticed the gentlemen who had been creating the fuss in the coffee room leaving, and that Mr Jamie Ferguson and his friend, the Comte de Mornay, had taken their place.

  ‘So this is the famous Poor Relation,’ said the comte, looking around. ‘It is kind of you to entertain me, Jamie. I do not know why I have not visited here before. They call it the marriage market and joke that any gentleman daring to enter its portals will shortly find himself engaged to be married to one of the servants.’

  ‘There are no dazzlers here,’ said Jamie, looking around. ‘Only matrons. And there is a dreadful-looking old gentleman in an impossible wig and with his false teeth bared approaching us.’

  Sir Philip stopped at their table.

  ‘I must ask you to leave,’ he said.

  The comte leaned back in his chair and stared at Sir Philip.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The ladies present find your manner offensive as do I.’

  ‘Look here, madman,’ said the comte in a gentle voice, ‘get you back to Bedlam before I get someone responsible in this hotel to throw you out.’

  ‘I,’ said Sir Philip wrathfully, ‘am Sir Philip Sommerville, owner of this hotel. Get out.’

  The comte smiled lazily. ‘Shan’t.’

  ‘Shall!’ shouted Sir Philip. ‘I am weary of clods like you, sir. We do not allow boorish manners here.’

  ‘But you do. You do,’ said the comte gleefully, ‘because you’ve got plenty of them yourself.’

  Beside himself with rage, Sir Philip spat at the table and his false teeth flew out and lay between the bemused comte and Jamie, winking in the light.

  Sir Philip snatched them up and stuffed them in his mouth and ran out. ‘Help! Help!’ he shouted in the hall. The servants came running. John, the waiter, appeared up from the kitchens carrying a tray laden with cakes.

  Lady Fortescue and the colonel emerged from the office. ‘Sir Philip, what is the matter?’

  He began an incoherent rant in which the perfidy of Mr Davy and the sheer evil of the pair in the coffee room were mixed up, ending with a shriek of ‘Call the watch! Call the militia!’

  But John, who had placed his tray of cakes on a side-table just inside the door of the coffee room, took a quick glance around and came back crying, ‘They have gone!’

  Sir Philip strode to the door of the coffee room and glared inside. ‘They’re still there!’

  ‘Not them, sir. An uncouth lout of a gentleman and his German companion.’

  Sir Philip clutched his wig and groaned.

  ‘You had best go away,’ said Lady Fortescue, ‘and leave this to myself and the colonel. You have obviously made a stupid mistake. Just go away. Lie down. You look terrible.’

  ‘Now what?’ asked the comte, as he saw the stately figure of Lady Fortescue approaching on the arm of Colonel Sandhurst. ‘It looks as if the old boy has summoned an equally geriatric couple to abuse us.’

  Lady Fortescue curtsied and the colonel bowed. ‘We apologize on behalf of our partner, Sir Philip Sommerville,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘I am Lady Fortescue. This is Colonel Sandhurst.’

  Both Jamie and the comte rose to their feet and bowed.

  ‘Pray be seated, gentlemen,’ said Lady Fortescue. The colonel drew out a chair for her and she sat down opposite them. The colonel joined her.

  The comte introduced himself and Jamie, which involved everyone standing up again, the gentlemen bowing and Lady Fortescue curtsying.

 
‘Now, Monsieur le Comte,’ began Lady Fortescue, ‘you and Mr Ferguson here have been victims of a sad misunderstanding. We are often plagued with uncouth Bond Street loungers. Sir Philip was told there was such a one in the coffee room, accompanied by a foreign gentleman. By the time Sir Philip entered to evict the nuisances, they had gone and you had arrived. We can only offer you our deepest apologies and assure you that such a mistake will not happen again.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ said the comte. ‘May I say, Lady Fortescue, that perhaps in future you should be sent to deal with any trouble, for the dignity of your presence and the stateliness of your mien would trounce even the most hardened lout.’

  Lady Fortescue bowed and for a moment the ghost of the beautiful flirtatious girl she had once been showed behind the mask of paint and wrinkles on her face. Jamie noticed the way the colonel caught that look and the way he scowled.

  Lady Fortescue turned and nodded to the waiter, who came hurrying up. ‘Coffee and cakes for these gentlemen, John,’ she said majestically. ‘Do not present them with the bill. Their entertainment is our pleasure.’

  John hurried off and Lady Fortescue smiled at the comte. ‘Furthermore, you may have heard our cuisine is excellent. You may dine in our hotel any evening you want, as our guests, of course.’

  ‘Too kind,’ said Jamie. ‘It is the talk of London, Lady Fortescue, of how you and your companions have made a success of business.’

  ‘We have been fortunate,’ said the colonel. He gave a little sigh. ‘After this Season, we can sell and return to our rightful places in society.’ He took Lady Fortescue’s hand in his own. ‘Lady Fortescue and I plan to settle down.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir.’ The comte was touched at this sight of elderly devotion, but it appeared that Lady Fortescue was not amused. She drew her hand away and said sharply, ‘We have not yet made up our minds what we plan to do.’

  The colonel looked like a sad old dog. The comte said quickly, ‘You are very kind, and Mr Ferguson and I would be delighted to be your guests one evening.’

  Lady Fortescue parted her thin rouged lips in a smile. ‘Here is your coffee. We shall leave you. Again, our apologies.’

  The comte and Jamie rose again and bowed. ‘Think no more of it, dear lady,’ said Jamie. ‘All is forgiven.’

  But Sir Philip Sommerville, watching sourly from the door of the coffee room, had no intention of ever forgiving this comte for his insolence.

  The following day Frances and Jane drove out, accompanied by a footman. The day was fine and Jane was enjoying Frances’s company as they were set down at various shops in Pall Mall and then Oxford Street to examine the wares. Jane was just beginning to hope that Frances had given up any mad ideas of running this Mr Ferguson to earth when to her dismay she found their carriage turning into Curzon Street.

  ‘There is a very good perfumer’s here,’ said Frances lightly. ‘I have a mind to buy a bottle of scent.’ She called to the coachman to set them down.

  As they were about to enter the shop, everything seemed to happen at once. Frances looked along the street and spied Jamie and the comte walking along arm in arm. Sir Philip at that moment emerged from the perfumer’s and stood watching.

  ‘Here he comes,’ he heard Frances whisper. Sir Philip immediately recognized Jane. He saw her companion put her hand to her brow and begin to sway. Sir Philip recognized the well-known signs of a lady about to pretend to faint so that the gentleman she had her eye on would run and catch her in his arms.

  He would have let the comedy proceed had he not recognized the comte and Jamie.

  He quickly stepped forward, just before both gentlemen came up to the ladies. Frances was swaying artistically. With a look of unholy glee on his face, Sir Philip darted forward and caught her in his arms.

  ‘Sir Philip!’ cried Jane, blushing with embarrassment.

  ‘Can we be of assistance?’ asked the comte.

  Frances opened her eyes and looked up into the tortoise-like features of Sir Philip Sommerville, gasped and tried to struggle free, but Sir Philip had her in a surprisingly strong grip.

  ‘There is nothing you can do, gentlemen,’ said Sir Philip. ‘This poor young lady has the vapours and should be taken home immediately. Hey, sirrah!’ – to the footman. ‘Help me get your mistress to her carriage.’

  Fuming inwardly, Frances submitted to being bundled into the carriage. Sir Philip leered up at her. ‘You should stay at home if you’re poorly. If I had not been on the scene, you might have found yourself in the arms of some mountebank or counter-jumper.’

  ‘Dreadful old man,’ said the comte. ‘Come along, Jamie.’

  Both men strolled off. Jane sharply ordered the coachman to drive on. Sir Philip swept off his hat and gave them a mocking bow.

  ‘Who,’ demanded Frances, fanning herself vigorously, ‘was that old toad? He appeared to know you.’

  ‘He is one of the owners of the Poor Relation and a friend of the Duchess of Rowcester.’

  ‘Why did he have to be there at that moment?’ demanded Frances.

  ‘Well, Frances, my dear, perhaps it was just as well. I remember a lady at an assembly ball at home saying that London gentlemen were well used to ladies turning their ankles outside their houses or fainting in order to get attention.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me!’

  ‘I just remembered,’ said Jane ruefully. ‘Frances, it would be better to wait until the Season, when you will have a chance of meeting him properly.’

  ‘By that time he will have eyes only for that Scotch lady he is reported to be so enamoured of. I am in need of a comforting ice at Gunter’s. Coachman. Berkeley Square, if you please.’

  ‘They’re going into Gunter’s,’ remarked Jamie. ‘Why did you suddenly decide to follow them?’

  ‘I want to meet that beauty,’ said the comte.

  Because of the press of traffic, they had been able to stroll after the carriage.

  ‘Take my advice,’ said Jamie earnestly, ‘and wait for the Season. Informal meetings do not work. Besides, that minx with your beauty staged that faint. Perhaps Sir Philip has charms for the young that we do not possess.’

  ‘Perhaps the target was us,’ pointed out the comte.

  ‘Could hardly be us. They don’t know us.’

  ‘Still, I am suddenly determined to go to Gunter’s,’ said the comte. ‘En avant!’

  FOUR

  It is under the trees, it is out of the sun,

  In the corner where GUNTER retails a plum bun.

  Her footman goes once, and her footman goes twice,

  Ay, and each time returning he brings her an ice.

  ANONYMOUS

  Gunter’s was set up in 1757 by the Italian pastry-cook Dominicus Negri, who later took Gunter into partnership ‘making and selling all sorts of English, French and Italian wet and dry sweetmeats, Cedrati and Bergamet Chips, and Naples Divolini, at the sign of the Pot and Pineapple in Berkeley Square.’ The shop was at number seven on the east side of the square, four doors away from Horace Walpole’s house. Gunter’s ices were famous, made from a secret recipe. In hot summer weather, it was the custom for ladies to recline in their carriages on the opposite side of Berkeley Square from Gunter’s while waiters scurried back and forth across the square with trays of ices. It was also the only place in London before the advent of the Poor Relation’s coffee room where a gentleman could be seen alone with a lady in the afternoon.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Jamie. ‘We cannot very well stroll in after them and sit at the same table.’

  ‘It is she,’ said the comte dreamily. ‘The lady I saw in the Chelsea gardens.’

  ‘Beautiful, I grant you, but somewhat masklike,’ said Jamie. ‘Very well. But let’s hope Sir Philip does not appear again.’

  Frances was just urging Jane to try a white-currant ice when she saw Jane staring beyond her and turned round, blushed and turned back.

  ‘Do not be too forward, Frances,’ counselled Jane, who
was trying to save herself from embarrassment. The waiter arrived and they gave an order for two white-currant ices.

  Then, to Jane’s dismay, she found the comte at her side, making an excellent bow. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but I feel we have met. I am the Comte de Mornay and this is my friend, Mr James Ferguson.’

  ‘I am afraid that we have not met or ever been introduced,’ said Jane.

  ‘But I have heard of you, Mr Ferguson,’ said Frances, sparkling up at him.

  Jamie laughed. ‘Nothing bad, I trust. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?’

  ‘I am Miss Frances Haggard.’ Frances held out her hand, which Jamie gallantly kissed. ‘And this is my friend, Miss Jane North.’

  Both gentlemen bowed. ‘May we join you?’ asked the comte. ‘We are both much concerned about your health, Miss Haggard. We saw you faint in Curzon Street.’

  ‘I am really quite delicate,’ said Frances, looking the picture of robust health. ‘But by all means, join us.’

  Jane flashed her a worried look. Perhaps the ways of ladies in London were more free and easy than those of the provinces, but she felt that Frances was being too bold.

  The gentlemen sat down. The waiter returned with the ices. The comte and Jamie ordered sorbets.

  ‘I saw you in the Chelsea tea-gardens with Sir Philip Sommerville,’ began the comte, turning to Jane. ‘Is he some relative?’

  ‘No, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Jane. ‘He and the owners of the Poor Relation Hotel are friends of my hostess, the Duchess of Rowcester. I am new to London and he was entertaining me.’

  She addressed the table as she spoke, feeling uncomfortable, not wanting to meet his blue gaze.

  ‘Let me tell you about Sir Philip,’ said Jamie gaily. He began to tell the story about their experience in the hotel coffee room while Frances laughed – immoderately, Jane thought, picking at her ice and fretting about what on earth to do.

  The comte studied her beautiful face and wondered why there was such an air of sadness about her. He had a desire to make her smile. He told several of his best anecdotes and Frances and Jamie laughed appreciatively, but still that beautiful face showed not the slightest trace of animation.