by M C Beaton
“You lost your wits?” demanded Joseph furiously.
“Naw, that there h’animal’s money, sacks and sacks of it.”
“Garn,” said Joseph, who had given up trying to be genteel in Luke’s company.
“Streuth, swelp me if it ain’t,” said Luke. “This here dog is a fighter and there’s a dog-fight over on the Surrey side. Champion Killer takes all-comers.”
“What’s in it for us?”
“A purse of fifty pound, not to mention what we could pick up on side bets. This dog don’t look like much. But see the teeth on him!”
Joseph bent down to inspect Beauty’s teeth, and Beauty snarled horribly and backed away.
“It’s difficult,” said Joseph, straightening up. “Fact is, that animal’s taken agin me. It’d savage me before we got it over Westminster Bridge.”
“Joseph!” called a female voice.
“Lizzie,” said Joseph gloomily. “Always following me around.”
But the change in Beauty was instant. He wagged his tail furiously and strained at the leash.
Luke stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There’s one person he likes,” he said. “Let him off the leash.”
Once more Joseph slipped the leash, and Beauty bounded towards Lizzie, uttering ecstatic yips, and then leapt up and down trying to lick her face.
“Good dog,” said Lizzie. “Now, lie down.”
Beauty immediately lay down on the grass and stared up at her with adoring eyes.
“Mr. Rainbird sent me out to get some fresh air, Mr. Joseph,” said Lizzie shyly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Luke.”
She dropped the other footman a curtsy.
“I’ve got something private to say to Joseph,” said Luke. “Could you please take the dog for a little walk, Lizzie? He seems to like you.”
Lizzie nodded and took the leash from Joseph and set off down the park with Beauty prancing at her heels.
“Now, if we could get Lizzie to come along with us,” said Luke, “we’d see some famous sport.”
“She’d never take mistress’s pet to a dog fight,” exclaimed Joseph.
“She wouldn’t know till we got there,” said Luke impatiently, “and then she would be part of the plot and she’d have to keep her trap shut.”
“But how can I get the evening off … let alone take Lizzie with me? How can you get off?”
“I’ll spin Blenkinsop some yarn or other. Now, look here, you told me they fuss a lot over that scullery maid and that she’s been ill and caused a fuss what with getting her cordials and a new bed and all.”
“Yes, I told you that.”
“Why not tell Rainbird we’re taking her out for a little walk and we may as well take the dog. It’s only the other side of the bridge. One ten-minute round and we’ll run home.”
“I dunno,” said Joseph, looking worried.
“Fifty pounds, ‘member, not to mention the bets.”
Joseph made up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “But I don’t like tricking Lizzie.”
“You spoony about her?”
“A scullery maid? Me?” demanded Joseph with awful hauteur. “I wouldn’t lower meself.”
Luke saw Lizzie standing a little way off, eyeing them wistfully. He called her over.
“Look, Lizzie,” said Luke. “I’ve been hearing as how you’ve been ill.”
Lizzie flushed with pleasure to think her adored Joseph had actually talked about her to his best friend.
“Well, see here,” Luke went on heartily, “Joseph and I were thinking of taking a little stroll just over Westminster Bridge tonight and wondered if you would like to take the air with us. May as well take that dog along. It’s one way of making sure the mistress and Mr. Rainbird give Joseph permission.”
“Oh, I would love to go,” said Lizzie, beginning to tremble with excitement. “D’ye think Mrs. Middleton will let me go, Joseph?”
Joseph frowned, thinking Lizzie was getting above herself. He liked her to call him “Mr. Joseph” in front of Luke.
“Matters will be arranged,” said Joseph loftily. He moved off with Luke, and Lizzie followed behind, leading Beauty.
Miss Metcalf was delighted when Rainbird appeared before her to request permission that Lizzie and Joseph should be allowed time off that evening to take the air and to walk Beauty. Harriet had secured tickets for the playhouse for herself and the girls. She always felt guilty about having a pet such as Beauty and could only be glad that these town servants appeared to have accepted the dog’s existence without question. Much as she longed to take Beauty for walks herself, she did not want to bring the censure of the ton down upon her head and therefore spoil Annabelle’s and Sarah’s chances of a successful Season.
And Beauty was a peculiar-looking pet. The aristocracy kept monkeys, parrots, or pugs as pets, for in these harsh times only the very rich could afford the luxury of being sentimental about animals. Dogs such as Beauty were meant to earn their keep by either ratting or turning a spit. Not wanting to be damned as eccentric, Harriet tried most of the time to hide her real love for the animal.
Lizzie dressed in her best gown and brushed her hair until she had nearly restored it to its usual shiny lustre. She tied up her tresses with one much-prized scarlet silk ribbon and polished the tin buckles on her shoes. But so great was her excitement that a hectic colour rose in her cheeks and she nearly burst into tears when Alice, Jenny, and Mrs. Middleton started to debate the wisdom of her going out at all.
But soon the magic moment actually arrived and she was out in Clarges Street flanked by Luke and Joseph, surely, thought Lizzie proudly, two of the most handsome men in London.
To her surprise, Luke led the way down to the mews at the bottom of Clarges Street. He said Joseph had suggested they hire a gig for an hour, as Lizzie might find a walk too much in her frail condition, and Lizzie looked up at Joseph with eyes like stars, amazed that her hero should go to so much trouble to look after her.
No sooner were they in Lambeth Mews than Beauty took exception to the horse when it was being harnessed to the gig and tried to savage it. Luke cried to Joseph to hold Beauty, and, whipping out a piece of thin rope, bound up the dog’s jaws.
“Must you do that?” cried Lizzie. “He looks so distressed.” Lizzie did not care much for animals one way or another. She petted the kitchen cat because it was Joseph’s, but fondness for animals was a sophisticated luxury she could not afford. The Moocher earned his keep by being a mouser par excellence. A dog such as Beauty, who lolled around doing nothing, was a disgrace. But Lizzie adored the gentle and sweet Miss Metcalf, and there was something almost human about the panic in Beauty’s wildly rolling little eyes.
Beauty was thrown on the floor of the gig. Lizzie sat beside Joseph and Luke sat in front, holding the reins.
Lizzie began to feel a twinge of unease. Both Luke and Joseph smelled strongly of spirits and had a strung-up air about them. They appeared to have forgotten that the outing was in her honour, and when Luke swung the gig round into Piccadilly and Lizzie was thrown against Joseph’s shoulder, the footman pushed her roughly away.
When they got out onto Westminster Bridge, it was to find it crammed with traffic. Everyone appeared to be going to Vauxhall Gardens. Down on the floor, Beauty let out a low whine of distress. He was feeling sick with the stop, start, and stop-again movement of the gig, and Luke had bound the rope about his jaws very tightly.
“Please may I unmuzzle Beauty?” said Lizzie. “He is very quiet now.”
“Suppose we’d better keep him in plump currant,” said Luke, turning round and winking at Joseph. “He can’t do anything, not now we’re in the carridge.”
Lizzie untied the rope from about Beauty’s mouth. Beauty shifted restlessly and growled.
“Quiet,” said Joseph. Beauty looked up at Joseph with hate in his eyes. He blamed Joseph for his own discomfort, and the footman smelled faintly of cat. Beauty bared his teeth.
Joseph leaned down to cuff the dog, and Beauty seize
d his black velvet sleeve and tore savagely. Joseph let out a scream of outrage.
Beauty leapt from the slowly moving gig and vanished into the crowd, his leash trailing behind him.
Luke swore and swung the gig across the traffic to try to follow the dog. There was a sickening scratching sound as the gig slid along the side of an aristocratic carriage, leaving a long score in the varnish.
“Oh, Gawdstreuth!” swore Luke, who recognised not only the carriage but also the choleric face glaring out of the open window at him.
It was his master, Lord Charteris.
“What are you doing here?” screamed his lordship. “No, don’t answer. Bound to be a lie. Tell Blenkinsop to take the money out of your wages to pay for the revarnishing of my carriage and present yourself before me tomorrow in my study at two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Before Luke could say anything, Lord Charteris slammed up the glass and rapped on the roof with his cane as a signal to his coachman to drive on.
“Well, that’s that,” said Luke, swinging the carriage round. “I told old Blenkinsop I was going to see my granny in Euston what’s supposed to be dying.”
“And he swallowed that?” exclaimed Joseph. “You told Blenkinsop last year when we went to Ascot that you was at your gran’s funeral.”
“Stow it,” muttered Luke miserably.
“We can’t go away and leave Beauty,” cried Lizzie.
“Oh, yes we can,” said Joseph savagely. “You’ll never catch him now. Me, I don’t care if he’s drownded.”
Lizzie leapt from the gig, stumbling slightly as she regained her balance on the road, and then ran off into the crowd.
“Let her go,” said Luke. “She won’t find the dog, and it ain’t too far for her to get back.”
Joseph felt he ought to get down and go after Lizzie. But Joseph considered small feet aristocratic and was wearing his best shoes, which were two sizes too small for him. His toes throbbed and ached. He would have to tell some lies when he got back. But Lizzie would not let him down. She never did.
Lizzie ran to one of the bays on the bridge and looked across to Stangate on the south side of the River Thames. Sure enough, there was Beauty. Two youths caught at his leash and began to drag him away. With a cry of alarm, Lizzie set off running again. She ran down along Stangate, along Fore Street, until, in the fading light, she saw Beauty ahead, still being dragged along by the youths.
Beauty had had enough. He had just recovered from the shock of having found himself dragged roughly along. Enough was enough. He turned about and sank his teeth into the ankle of one of the youths, who let out a scream of pain and dropped Beauty’s leash. Beauty smelled trees and flowers and grass, all the scents of the country, all the scents of home. He scampered off as fast as he could, straight past the turnstile at the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens, and ran into the trees and lay down, luxuriating in his freedom.
Lizzie, who had seen him disappear into the gardens, decided there was nothing else for it but to follow him in.
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens did not normally open up until May, but they had been opened early for this one night to celebrate the retiral of that famous ballad singer, Mrs. Carlise.
The Gardens were a quadrangular grove of approximately twelve acres of closely planted trees. Four principal alleys, bisected formally by lesser roads at right angles, ran through the trees. In the clearances, there were Grecian columns, alcoves, theatres, temples, an orchestra, and an area for dancing. The Gardens were unusual in that they cut across class lines, being frequented by the ordinary people as well as the aristocracy.
Lizzie felt through the slit in the side of her gown to the pocket in her petticoat and extracted a shilling Rainbird had given her. Once inside, she discovered all the disadvantages of being an unescorted female. Every time she strayed from the path to search in the trees for Beauty, she was pursued by some boozy buck and had to fight and claw her way to safety. She tried calling “Beauty,” but a chorus of bloods sent up such a mocking chorus that she decided to search in silence. She was beginning to feel dizzy and faint. Fear for Harriet’s pet combined with the light comfort of her new shoes had, up till that moment, leant her feet wings, but now her legs trembled and she blundered about in the darkness, thinking every moving shape was the lost dog.
Beauty had gone exploring. Some Cit had stolen his leash and he was now enjoying the comfort of being able to run about without it becoming caught on the bushes. His stomach gave a rumble. He sniffed the air. Floating towards him came the delicious aroma of Westphalia ham. He followed his nose until he came out in a clearing.
In front of him was a semi-circle of boxes filled with ladies and gentleman seated at table, enjoying an a1 fresco supper.
Then Beauty’s beady eyes focused on a couple in one of the lower boxes. He recognised the gentleman. Sure of his welcome as only a thoroughly spoilt animal can be, Beauty bounded forward with a glad little yip of delight.
The Marquess of Huntingdon was feeling jaded and weary. He began to think he might be destined to lead the life of a monk. Beside him, at a table in a box at Vauxhall, sat Belinda Romney. Her hair was pomaded to a high shine, and her eyes gleamed as green as the emeralds about her neck. Her shoulders were magnificent. The marquess looked at her with revulsion. He could never lie with her again. How many such full-blown roses had he gathered? He suddenly remembered, when he was still in petticoats, having stolen and eaten too many chocolates. His mother, unaware of his sin, had presented him with a chocolate, and he had turned green and rushed from the drawing room. He felt rather like that small boy now when he looked at Belinda.
Ever since the faithlessness of his late wife had proved to him that seeming purity and innocence could cover the heart of a harlot, he had preferred to take his pleasures with the Fashionable Impure. Among them, one was safe from disillusion.
He realised he would need to terminate his affair with Belinda. It would be costly—but only financially, not emotionally.
“Belinda, we have enjoyed a good liaison—” he began.
“And would it enjoy it better,” said Belinda, “if perhaps we could eat. Are you going to carve that ham, or is it solely for ornament?”
“My apologies.” The marquess rose and went to the tiny carving table and picked up the long sharp knife and carving fork. He had just sliced several wafers of ham and was arranging them on a plate, when all at once he felt Harriet Metcalf’s arms about his neck and Harriet’s lips against his own. The fantasy was so real that he felt a surge of sweetness coursing through his veins.
He was unaware of what was going on, oblivious to the fact that Belinda was cringing back with a scream as Beauty leapt into the marquess’s recently vacated chair and leered amiably at the laughing crowd below.
The marquess absentmindedly slid the plate of ham in front of Beauty.
The vision of Harriet faded.
He blinked. Belinda was making gargling noises and pointing at Beauty, who was tucking into the plate of ham.
The marquess recognised Beauty. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Do you expect the dog to reply?” demanded Belinda shrilly. “That is the animal that attacked me in the Park.”
“It’s Harriet Metcalf’s dog,” said the marquess, hanging over the edge of the box, his eyes raking the crowd.
“Indeed!” Belinda’s eyes narrowed into slits. She had found out Harriet’s name at the Phillips’ ball, being anxious to discover the identity of the fair charmer who appeared to be seducing her lover away from her.
“Huntingdon,” said Belinda sharply, “get rid of that animal.”
“In a minute,” he said, his eyes still searching the crowd. “I’m looking for Miss Metcalf.”
“Oooh!” In a flaming temper, Belinda brought her fan down hard on Beauty’s narrow head. Beauty seized the fan and crunched up the tortoiseshell sticks and spat the wreckage on the table.
Belinda spied one of her admirers in the watching, jeering, laughin
g crowd below. “Huntingdon,” she said, “an you do not do something about that cur, I shall leave you.”
The marquess did not reply, for he had just spied Lizzie.
“Why, there’s that scullery maid. What is her name? Ah. Lizzie … Lizzie!” he called loudly.
Lizzie looked up and saw not only the marquess but Beauty, who was standing on the table, lapping up the contents of a bowl of rack punch.
As Lizzie reached the box, Beauty slowly keeled over and fell down in a drunken stupor on the table and began to snore.
“I shall take him,” said Lizzie eagerly. “I am so sorry, my lord, but I searched and searched …” She picked up the dog’s heavy, inert body and then stood swaying, her face as white as paper.
The marquess caught her about the waist and called to Belinda. “Help me with her. I cannot hold both dog and girl.”
Belinda, with a look of jealous rage, said, “Then I suggest you send for Miss Metcalf.” She tripped lightly from the box and disappeared on the arm of her admirer, a Mr. Lacey, who, seeing her fury with the marquess, had been waiting hopefully below the box.
The marquess heaved Lizzie into a chair, picked Beauty up by his collar and threw him under the table, soaked his handkerchief in iced water, and applied it to the maid’s temples. Lizzy tried to struggle up, but he held her down with a firm hand.
“Where is your mistress?” he asked.
“Miss Metcalf is at the play, my lord. You see, it all started when I met our footman, Joseph, in the Green Park….”
The marquess listened until she had finished her story. Then he said, “You are fortunate, young Lizzie, in that I am on the point of returning to the West End, so you may travel in my carriage as far as Clarges Street.”
He tried to revive Beauty, without success, so he threw the inebriated dog around his neck like some horrible sort of tippet and led the way to his carriage. Many of the notables stared to see the great Marquess of Huntingdon handing what was obviously a servant of the lowest sort into his carriage and wearing what looked like a dead dog about his neck.
The marquess treated his servants with the same detached courtesy as he treated most members of the ton. So on the journey back, he encouraged Lizzie to talk about herself and pointed out various notables to her just as if he were entertaining a young debutante.