by M C Beaton
“Then I suggest you return to the good vicar.”
“He and his daughter have gone to Bath.”
“What about the Duchess of Hadshire?”
Annabelle hung her head.
“Wouldn’t see you, hey? Stand up!”
Annabelle got shakily to her feet, hanging onto the chair back for support. He walked around her.
“Yes, very fetching,” he said. He put a hand to his head and groaned.
“What is the matter?” asked Annabelle. “Are you ill?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “No, no. Sit down again. Drink your negus, and let me think.”
He slumped down in a chair by the fire. Of course she might be a murderess, but he could not bring himself to think so. Perhaps Guy had deliberately brought about his own death. The earl could offer her money, but he had a strong feeling she would not take charity. He could pretend to take her on, set her up in a house, put a chaperon in, and then when he was feeling better, talk some sense into her. The obvious solution was for her to marry again. He would give her enough of a dowry to puff her off. He had discovered that the Manor possessed two good tenant farms, and the land was in excellent condition. With supervision and new farming methods, it would yield much more than it had ever done. Despite the ruin of the house, he had made a profitable investment. No use handing it back to her. She would not have enough money to bring the estate into shape. Best get rid of her as soon as possible.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll take your offer. I don’t want you to stay here. I do not normally keep my ladies in my home.”
Annabelle winced.
“I’ll set you up in a place and get you staff. You’d better let me find some respectable female to live with you. I do not like to broadcast my amors about the town. You had better let me escort you to some genteel hotel until I can make arrangements. Now I think that is all, Mrs. Carruthers. Stay here and finish your wine while I dress.” He rose to his feet and smiled at her. “I think we shall deal together extremely well.”
A look of surprise crossed his face followed by bewilderment. He put out his hand to find something with which to support himself, gave a choked exclamation, and fell like a stone to the floor.
Annabelle ran and knelt beside him and then jumped to her feet and rang the bell. Barnstable came hurrying in.
“Your master,” whispered Annabelle. “is he dead? Please God, do not let him be dead.”
Barnstable knelt down beside the earl, his wrinkled face against his master’s chest, and then felt his forehead.
“Thought so,” he said. “His lordship’s got the fever again, mortal bad. Just leave him to me, ma’am, I’ve dealt with it many times afore.”
Annabelle took a deep breath. She had burnt her boats. She was now the earl’s mistress.
“I am staying here,” she said firmly. “Summon the footmen to help your master to bed, and then the physician and I shall nurse him.”
“We never has ladies here,” said Barnstable mulishly.
“We cannot stand here arguing,” said Annabelle. “Cannot you see how ill his lordship is? Do as you are told.”
“Very well,” said Barnstable, rising and ringing the bell. “But he didn’t want no one knowing about you here, so you just tell the doctor you’re his married cousin, see, and tell the other servants the same!”
“Oh, anything,” said Annabelle.
Two footmen came in, and they and the butler carried the earl out. Annabelle followed them, but Barnstable turned in the doorway after the earl had been laid on his bed.
“You’d best be off while we strips him,” he said. “The room along there has your traps in it. Stay and I’ll call you when he’s settled.”
Annabelle walked off to where he had pointed and pushed open the door of a bedroom. It was dark and old-fashioned with a great four-poster bed. There was no fire, and it smelled of damp and disuse. She took off her bonnet and pelisse and then rang the bell. After about ten minutes, a housemaid scratched at the door and walked in. She was a cheeky elfin creature with an unruly mop of red hair showing under a grimy cap.
“I am Mrs. Carruthers,” said Annabelle firmly. “His lordship’s cousin. I shall be staying here to nurse him. I want this room cleaned and aired now and a fire lit. What is your name?”
“Margaret, mum.”
“Very well, Margaret, go and get help or I shall come looking for you.”
Margaret soon returned with two other equally slatternly-looking maids. Annabelle stood over them, making sure every inch of the room was dusted, a fire lit in the grate, and clean sheets spread before the fire to warm.
“Where is the housekeeper?” she demanded.
“Begging your parding, mum,” said Margaret pertly. “We don’t have none, the last one having been taken by the gin.”
Annabelle looked at her thoughtfully. A servants’ hall without rank or privilege was an unhappy, sloppy place. Barnstable appeared in the doorway. “Got his lordship to bed now, mum,” he said. “The leech is on his way.”
Instructing the maids to keep on working and polish what they had dusted, Annabelle followed Barnstable to the earl’s bedroom.
“Oh, Barnstable,” she sighed. “This is no way for a sickroom to be. Fetch the maids along here, and set them to work.”
She drew a chair up to the side of the bed and felt the earl’s forehead. It was burning hot. He tossed and mumbled. “Get me cologne or rose water,” ordered Annabelle. “Also a basin of clean water and washing cloths.”
The maids worked diligently as Annabelle gently bathed and washed the earl’s fevered face. She was just giving Barnstable instructions to lay straw down on the street outside to muffle the sound of passing carriages when the doctor was ushered in. She retired to a corner of the room while the doctor unpacked cupping glasses and got to work to bleed the patient.
Annabelle felt uneasy. She did not like the practice of bleeding, feeling it often weakened a sick patient too much, but did not like to say so.
When the doctor was finished, he drew her outside. “This is a bottle of mercury,” he said. “Give him some drops of it mixed with brandy every four hours.”
Annabelle took the mercury. The doctor said he would call in the morning. After he had gone, Annabelle slipped the mercury into her reticule and when Barnstable, who had followed her from the room to listen to the doctor’s instructions, came in with a decanter of brandy, she waited until he had gone and drank a glass of it herself. She had read an article in a ladies’ magazine that claimed that the taking of mercury was dangerous. Something in her told her the magazine article was right.
The earl shouted something incoherent, and she soaked a cloth in warm scented water, wrung it out, and placed it on his forehead. His eyes opened, and he looked at her wildly. His nose twitched, and he said quite clearly, “Brandy. Are you going to murder me as well?” Then he relapsed into unconsciousness again.
Annabelle frowned. What had he meant? He was delirious, of course. He must have smelled the brandy on her breath. But did he think she had murdered Guy? Brandy. Guy’s clothes had been soaked in brandy. Her hand bathing his forehead trembled. Poor Guy. Had the loss of the Manor been the final straw? Had he poured brandy over himself like that mad squire she had read about and set himself alight?
But what she had learned through Guy and his gambling friends was that they seemed driven to lose, not to win, so losses, however great, did not matter so long as they could find some money somewhere, somehow, to continue. And where had Guy found the money? He must have been given that hundred pounds after the card room was closed. Temple. When she was finally settled somewhere, she would need to seek out Mr. Temple and ask him a few questions.
She remained by the earl’s bed throughout the night unaware that by doing so she had made Barnstable a devoted admirer. The grizzled butler at last coaxed her to go and lie down. “I shall call you if he gets worse, mum,” he said. “Reckon you’d nurse him better if you had a little sleep
.”
“Thank you, Barnstable, you are most kind. Tell me, why is it that this house is so badly run? His lordship’s home in the country was in perfect order.”
“He hasn’t lived here, not for a long time,” said Barnstable. “Brought me back from the wars to be his butler but I ain’t a good hand with the maids. Can’t tell good from bad, and the housekeeper that was in residence here let everything go to rack and ruin.”
“I do not want to take too much on myself,” said Annabelle, “but I feel it would be better for his lordship’s health were we to engage a good housekeeper as soon as possible. It was kind of you to bring me supper, but the food was disgracefully bad. Who is the cook?”
“Well, there ain’t one as yet,” said Barnstable. “Mayhap when you’ve rested, mum, we could try to get one. Meanwhile, the maids will do their best.”
“Very well,” said Annabelle, rising wearily to her feet. “I think a good plain cook to begin with, someone expert in the preparation of invalid dishes. I am quite a good cook myself. I shall inspect the kitchens later.”
“On your own head be it,” said the butler gloomily.
Annabelle was to find out the reason for his gloom after she had had a few refreshing hours sleep and made her way downstairs. The kitchen was appalling, a mess of grease and dirty dishes and an old open fireplace with blackened pots hanging over it.
She retreated upstairs and put on one of her old gowns and an apron and cap and descended again, prepared to do battle. She sent Barnstable out to search the employment agencies for temporary servants to help with the initial cleaning and also to find a cook and a housekeeper. Then when she had finally seen the army of newly hired servants scrubbing and cleaning, she interviewed a long line of prospective cooks and housekeepers, finally settling on two sensible middle-aged women from the country.
Then she lined up the resident staff and gave them a scalding lecture on the benefits of personal cleanliness. New print dresses and white aprons and caps were to be ordered for the maids and new clean linen for the footmen and for Barnstable. She created new ranks for the servants, first footman, second footman, under butler, housemaids, chambermaids, between-stair maids, and scullery maids. Any maid of low rank showing herself to be hardworking and diligent would quickly rise in the ranks, said Annabelle, and then retired to the sickroom to look after her patient.
She had two footmen carry the earl to a temporary daybed while she stripped his bed and had clean lavender-scented, aired sheets placed on it. The earl’s bedroom was now spotlessly clean, she noticed with satisfaction.
Annabelle was grateful for the nursing and the reorganization of the earl’s household. It gave her little time to think of herself or her predicament.
The earl’s fever broke in the middle of the night, and Annabelle sent up a grateful prayer of thanks. It was only when Barnstable relieved her at the bedside and she made her way to her own bedroom that she realized her own troubles were soon about to begin. As the earl’s supposed married cousin, she was respected by the servants. Soon they would know that she was nothing more than his mistress, and she was sure they would, with the exception of Barnstable, treat her with insolence.
When she arose again, she entered his room carrying the daily newspapers. He was lying propped against the pillows, and his green eyes were clear and bright and full of intelligence.
“I am come to read to you,” said Annabelle calmly. She sat down beside the bed.
“Before you begin,” said the earl, “you must realize, Mrs. Carruthers, that I have but a vague memory of your arrival here. Was it a fevered dream or did you offer to become my mistress?”
“Yes,” said Annabelle calmly.
“The deuce. I must have been mad. Never mind. I shall find you somewhere to live. What a confounded bore it all is.”
“Hardly loverlike,” commented Annabelle.
“Love is one thing, mistresses another,” he said testily.
Annabelle flushed. But she was used to insults and sneers from Guy and did not expect men to behave any better. Knights on white chargers were for dreams and novels. In real life, thought Annabelle, men were little better than petulant children.
She reminded herself sternly that he was still ill and settled herself to read to him.
He lay back in bed and listened to her quiet even voice and felt a strange peace steal over him. His bed was cool and fresh, and there was a scent of flowers in the air. He opened his eyes. Beyond Annabelle on a small table was a vase of spring flowers.
A footman entered with a tray. The earl struggled up against the pillows. “If I eat anything out of that kitchen of mine,” he said crossly, “I shall have a relapse.”
“I took it upon myself to hire a cook,” said Annabelle, “and a housekeeper and some temporary servants to put the kitchen in order. I hope you do not mind. Barnstable will present you with the accounts when you are feeling better.”
“No,” said the earl dryly, “it is a new experience for me to have my money spent on practical things rather than gowns and jewelry.”
He drank some excellent chicken broth while Annabelle continued to read, but with part of her mind racing. He was used to mistresses; women whose whole role in life was to be frivolous and charming. How on earth could she even begin to match up?
After his light meal, he said, “Put away the newspapers, and ring for Barnstable.”
Annabelle did as she was bid. When the butler arrived, the earl said, “Get my London agent here, Struthers, at the double. I have arrangements to make. And get me pen and ink and paper. I want a footman to take a letter to my aunt, Miss Davenant.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Barnstable. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, you old rogue.”
“You have Mrs. Carruthers here to thank for that,” said Barnstable. “Regular Trojan, her were, nigh killing herself sitting up all night; not to mention getting the servants in order.”
“I am deeply grateful to you,” said the earl to Annabelle. “You may retire now and rest. But do not leave the house. No one must see you here.”
Annabelle rose and curtsied and left.
“Well,” demanded the earl. “What are you doing hanging about, Barnstable? I gave you orders.”
“I just wanted for to say,” said Barnstable stiffly, “that Mrs. Carruthers has made this a real home and in such a short space of time. Will she be staying?”
“No, she will most definitely not be staying and would not be here had I not fallen ill with the fever. Go about your duties.”
“You ought to get married, so you ought,” said the butler and closed the door quickly before the astonished earl could reply.
And that, thought the earl cynically, was probably what Mrs. Carruthers was about. He was used to being pursued. Ambitious mothers and their daughters had even pursued him as far as Spain. Mistress, indeed! Still, he should not be too hard on her. What else could she do in life except try to marry again?
When his agent arrived, he told that gentleman to find a house for a certain Mrs. Carruthers. “No,” he snapped to the agent’s unspoken question, “I am not setting up another lightskirt. This is an indigent relative, so make it a respectable address suitable for two ladies.”
“Sir Alexander Baxter has a property to rent. Was let down. Thought he had rented it for the Season. Nice little place in Burton Street, right near the Green Park. Can get it cheaper than he was originally asking.”
“Sounds all right. Try to secure it today, and return to me as soon as you have the keys.”
The earl’s next visitor was his aunt. Miss Davenant was a faded spinster. The earl had never really thought about her much. She turned up at various family reunions, always the forgotten relative. She was tall with an amiable, indeterminate face. Her clothes looked as if they had been thrown on her by an angry lady’s maid. She was all bits. Bits of jewelry, threads hanging from her skirts, and covered in a multitude of little colored scarves. She was in her fifties and had a face
like that of a rather intense sheep. Her white hair was tightly curled and of the texture of wool. Among the paraphernalia dangling from her wrist—parasol, fan, smelling bottle on a leather strap, was a chintz workbag from which strands of pale wool hung down.
After the greetings were over, the earl said, “I want you to help me and to be discreet about it. How would you like to earn some money?”
Miss Davenant blinked. No one asked gently-bred females if they would like to earn money. Poor relations such as herself were expected to starve between family visits.
“Earn money?” she echoed faintly.
“Yes, I am in an awkward situation. A Mrs. Carruthers, who lived at the Manor, which adjoins Delaney, has fallen on hard times and came to me for help. I was stricken of the fever before I could make arrangements. She is here in this house.”
Miss Davenant looked at him with her mouth open. Then she said faintly, “But that is most improper. Her reputation is ruined.”
“Not if we all keep quiet, it isn’t. Now I plan to take a house for her. She is very pretty and will soon marry again. She is in mourning, husband died recently, so she won’t want to go jauntering about. I will pay you generously to be a companion to her until she gets on her feet. You need money, don’t you?”
“You always were a blunt boy,” said Miss Davenant. She felt she should reproach him for offering a gentlewoman money—and to look after some female who was obviously no better than she should be! But she thought of her tiny, cramped apartment where the sun never seemed to penetrate, of the loneliness of her days, of all the years of trying to make ends meet and keep up appearances, while the earl studied her curiously. He had never really known her, he thought, this faded aunt who sat so quietly in the corner of family drawing rooms as if she hoped to pass unobserved. He should have done something about her finances before, he thought ruefully. One always assumed that someone else was doing something about it.
“Before you speak,” he said, “I would like to make you an allowance on a permanent footing. Meet this Mrs. Carruthers first. If you do not wish to be her companion, rest assured, you will still be provided for.”