by M C Beaton
Polly entered the saloon and went straight to the fireplace. She did not fear discovery. She had quickly learned that neither the earl nor his countess looked at the features of their servants, any more than a farmer would study the faces of his oxen. And, in any case, she had been masked at Vauxhall. Polly did not know Lady Lydia had been at Tyburn nor at the marquess’s when her cage was unveiled.
The day had turned dark and the candles had been lit. Polly was lighting a taper from one of the candles preparatory to lighting the fire when Lady Lydia said, “I see Canonby’s decided to favor us with his presence.” Her voice sharpened. “What is that footman doing standing there as if he wants to set the house on fire?”
Polly blushed and knelt down in front of the hearth and applied the lighted taper to the kindling.
She was aware of the people in the room behind her—Lady Lydia, the earl and their two daughters. “I think Canonby is devastatingly handsome,” said Lady Josephine. “But ’tis said he plans to marry at last.”
Polly carefully picked up a log and placed it on the now-blazing fire.
“Oh? Who is the clever lady who has thus entrapped him?” asked Lady Lydia.
“Miss Caroline Ponsonby. She is quite old, mama. ’Tis said she is twenty-seven!”
“Twenty-seven is hardly old,” said Lady Lydia harshly. “You there, footman, do you plan to kneel on the hearth all day?”
Polly jumped to her feet and bowed and left the room.
Canonby! But he wouldn’t recognize her. He would never think of studying the features of any servant. This Miss Ponsonby was welcome to him. At twenty-seven, she would be glad of anyone, thought Polly, slamming the door of the servants’ hall behind her with unnecessary force.
Mr. Caldicott was ushered into his friend’s bedchamber. He stopped short on the threshold at the picture of agony that was Mr. Barks. His chest, his arms and the backs of his hands were covered with wax, which his valet was ripping off in shreds. The sounds of ripping hair mingled with the sharp yelps of Mr. Barks.
“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Caldicott, putting up his glass. “Whatever is happening?”
“I am getting my hair removed,” snapped Mr. Barks, and yelped again as a long strip of wax was torn from his chest.
“’Twould be easier to have your man shave you,” said Mr. Caldicott sympathetically. “Why all this prettifying? Wife coming to Town?”
“Threatens to be here in a month,” said Mr. Barks.
“Then why the agony?” pursued Mr. Caldicott.
“Fashion,” groaned Mr. Barks.
Mr. Caldicott sighed sympathetically. It certainly was unfashionable to be hirsute, hairiness being considered next to yokelness. But men usually went in for these agonies only if there were some woman involved.
“But the lady …?” questioned Mr. Caldicott with a delicate cough.
“No lady. Went to the hummuns,” said Mr. Barks, meaning the Turkish baths, “and they was talking about depilatories, for some had been to Bath, and you bathe there with the ladies, you know, and men who are hairy are considered to be of low origin. One must suffer.” As if to illustrate this farther, he stretched out his bound feet. It was aristocratic to have small feet with high arches and so Mr. Barks’s were bound like those of a Chinese woman.
Mr. Caldicott took a seat, averting his eyes from the spectacle of ripping wax. “Canonby’s going to be there tonight,” he said. “Pargeter’s sure that Polly female will be among the guests. He says if we see her, we’ll hustle her off. She can’t complain because she’ll have sneaked in under a false name. Mrs. Blanchard says she’ll keep her locked up until we decide what to do with her. Canonby mustn’t see us lest he intervene. She must be handed over to him like a parcel when we feel like it.”
“I hope Pargeter’s eyes are sharper than mine,” grumbled Mr. Barks. “For with paint and powder, it’s hard to tell one female from another.”
Polly stood in the supper room behind a long table. Her duties were to serve negus to the ladies. The mixture of wine and hot water in its silver bowl would be brought in just before supper was due to be served and would be kept warm by a small spirit stove underneath. She had worked so well and so diligently that, although she did not know it, this job had been given to her as a reward by the butler. It was regarded as one of the easiest. But Polly felt trapped. She would have no excuse to move about among the guests.
Through the open door of the supper room, two couples were performing the opening minuet. Polly studied their steps. Drusilla had tried to teach her the steps in the prison yard, although it had been hard to achieve any elegance with leg manacles impeding every movement. Dear Drusilla. In her heart, Polly wished her well.
So clear was the picture of Drusilla Gentle in Polly’s inner eye that at first she thought the small, plain, drooping figure standing outside the supper room was her imagination at work. She blinked rapidly, but Drusilla was still there. She was standing a little behind a highly painted lady. Must be Lady Comfrey, thought Polly. What a fright! Poor Drusilla.
Polly had no fear that Drusilla might recognize her. As far as Drusilla was concerned, Polly Jones was dead. But the sight of the timid companion roused Polly’s spirits. There were good and kind people in the world, and although she could not approach or speak to Drusilla, Polly felt warmed just by looking at her.
They moved away from the doorway.
Supper would not be served for another two hours. Polly longed to be able to sit down. She glanced idly out at the brightly lit section of ballroom revealed by the open door of the supper room and watched the dancers, trying to take her mind off her aching feet. Then she saw the Mereslys, the earl and countess and their daughters. The full force of the sheer silliness of her masquerade struck Polly. It was an excellent way to steal expensive trinkets but hopeless when it came to finding out anything about the Mereslys or Meg. Of course she could stay on; when she had more leisure time once the ball was over, she would be able to question the servants further. Mr. Sloane, the under butler, had indicated she could take a permanent post.
And then she stiffened. The marquess of Canonby came into view. He was wearing a long emerald-green coat heavily embroidered with gold. His shoes had emerald buckles and a huge emerald blazed with green fire from the cascade of lace at his throat. As she watched, a lady and gentleman and their daughter approached him. The marquess looked down at the daughter and smiled, a slow, caressing smile. Polly felt sick and depressed. Was this Miss Ponsonby? And if it were, why had such a beauty managed to remain unwed at the great age of twenty-seven? Her skin was white and fair. Her powdered hair was dressed in one of the latest styles. Her white and generous bosom was exposed by the low square neckline of a dull-gold silk gown. There was a fine sapphire necklace about her neck, its blue light complimenting the vivid blue of her eyes. She was as pretty and fragile and dainty as the china shepherdess Polly had stolen from the Mereslys.
Polly felt alone and unloved. Self-pity was a new and horrible emotion. She stood with a lump in her throat and tears glittering in her eyes until the marquess and his company moved out of sight.
In the ballroom, Mr. Barks and Mr. Caldicott surveyed the scene through their long-handled quizzing glasses. Mr. Pargeter looked across at them and gave an infinitesimal shrug. No Polly Jones.
“Going to dance?” asked Mr. Caldicott gloomily, but did not appear surprised when Mr. Barks shook his head. Corsetted, powdered and pomaded as he was and with his feet crammed into tiny shoes with high heels, Mr. Barks knew he could never manage to last a whole dance. His smooth skin under his clothes felt odd and strange and itchy. He could almost feel the hair growing back in again and miserably slipped his hand inside his waistcoat to scratch himself.
“I think I shall leave after supper,” said Mr. Caldicott. “Flat evening.”
“Yaas,” drawled Mr. Barks. “No one of interest here,” he added, dismissing the cream of London society.
Bertram Pargeter was in a vicious mood. Lady Lydia was
flirting with every man in sight, the earl being in one of his unnoticing and forgetful moods. All the wiles which had so entranced him, which still entranced him, were being used on other men.
By the time supper was announced, Bertram did not feel quite sane.
Polly began to serve negus from the bowl in front of her. As it was the other footmen who came to her with the orders, she felt more at ease. She had taken herself to task before the guests came into the supper room, berating herself for her weakness.
The marquess of Canonby was seated well away from Polly. He was entertaining Miss Ponsonby and her parents—if that is who they were. The noise in the supper room was tremendous, a roar of voices, clattering of plates and glasses, and popping of corks.
“I would like another glass of negus,” Lady Comfrey said to Drusilla. Drusilla looked about her for a footman.
“Don’t sit there with your nose twitching like a rabbit,” said Lady Comfrey. “Have you lost the use of your legs? Go and fetch it yourself.”
Drusilla stood up and made her way to the end of the long serving table behind which Polly stood.
“Negus, please,” said Drusilla.
Polly filled a glass with the hot liquid and handed it to Drusilla. She wanted to say something to this prison friend, but dared not. She looked up, thinking that Drusilla had left, but Drusilla was still standing there, gazing at Polly as if she could not believe her eyes.
Polly quickly looked down again, wishing someone else would come up.
“Forgive me,” she heard Drusilla say quietly, “but you bear a striking resemblance to someone I once knew, a Miss Polly Jones. Are you a relative, by chance?”
“No, ma’am,” said Polly gruffly, keeping her eyes lowered.
From across the room Lady Comfrey’s voice came like a clarion call. “Come along, Drusilla, and stop making sheep’s eyes at that pretty boy.”
Drusilla gasped and turned away.
The marquess, who was sitting near Lady Comfrey, felt sorry for the faded companion who was making her way back through a chorus of jeers and teasing.
“Who is that awful harridan who so humiliates her companion?” he asked Miss Ponsonby.
“La, ’tis Lady Comfrey,” said Miss Ponsonby. “She treats poor Drusilla like a slave. And worse! Do you know, she once had the poor thing incarcerated in Newgate!”
“But she has taken her back.”
“Oh, yes, Drusilla Gentle’s breeding is necessary to the scandalous Lady Comfrey. She claimed she had made a mistake and said she had subsequently found the brooch Miss Gentle was accused of stealing.”
“When was this?”
“About the time of that famous hanging—you know, the one where you snatched that body away for a wager.”
“Indeed!” The marquess’s eyes blazed as green as his emeralds, and he looked across the room to where the footman was standing behind the bowl of negus. He let out a stifled exclamation, and stood up and pushed his chair back. “Excuse me,” he said.
He made his way to where Polly stood. She saw him coming, half turned to flee, and then stood her ground.
“What are you doing here and dressed in those ridiculous clothes?” he demanded in a savage whisper.
“Don’t know what you mean, my lord,” growled Polly, dropping her voice several registers.
“Look at me when you speak to me!”
Polly kept her eyes lowered.
“Look at me … or I shall call Meresly.”
Polly looked up and he drew in his breath. “Polly Jones. It is you! Thieving again? For that must be why you are masquerading as a servant. Leave here immediately or I shall unmask you.”
At that moment Bertram Pargeter looked across the room and saw the confrontation. He could see the marquess’s hard-set profile, he could see the blanched face of the pretty footman. It couldn’t be … Or could it!
He made his way quickly to where they were standing. As he approached, he mentally stripped Polly of her livery and dressed her in an apple-green gown and fichu, such as she had worn on the scaffold. Jealousy sharpens the mind wonderfully, and Bertram, crazy with jealousy, knew in an instant that for some mad reason Polly Jones was masquerading as a footman.
He turned quickly. Lady Lydia was seated quite near, flirting with a young man, while the earl sat slumped in a chair on her other side, his eyes glazed with wine.
“Listen!” cried Bertram, his voice falsetto with excitement. “Hear me! The robber Polly Jones stands there. She is alive. She is that footman there. She …”
Polly kicked off her shoes and ran for the long windows of the supper room which overlooked the square. She twisted and turned, avoiding grasping hands. She ran out onto the balcony and leaned over it, but only for a second. She knew that if she jumped she would break both legs. Instead, she nimbly climbed over the side of the balcony, seized the drainpipe and slid down to the ground. The door of the earl of Meresly’s mansion burst open and guests and servants hurtled out in pursuit.
Sobbing with fear, Polly flung herself at the brick wall which blocked off Hanover Square from the Oxford Road. She managed to swing one leg over the top and look down at the swirling mass of avid faces in the flaring light of the torches carried by the servants. That slight hesitation was her undoing. With one massive leap, Bertram sprang and seized her other foot and pulled hard, and Polly toppled back down among the guests.
Rough hands grabbed her and held her. Smiling with satisfaction, Bertram edged back into the crowd and put his arm about Lady Lydia’s waist. “I thought she was dead,” Lady Lydia was moaning softly. “She must be dead. She cannot live.”
“Stand!” cried a loud voice. The marquess of Canonby placed himself in front of where Polly stood, held by two footmen. “Before you all run mad and bear this wretch, who has escaped the gallows once, back to Newgate, tell me her crime. She has played a trick on you by working as a footman, but is that so very wrong?”
Lady Lydia dragged herself away from Bertram. He tried to follow her, but at that moment Mr. Barks seized his arm, saying, “The girl is mine. I paid for her.” Bertram swore and pushed him so hard that he fell, then shouldered his way in pursuit of Lady Lydia.
“Well?” the marquess was demanding. “Has she stolen anything?” Rough hands were plunged into Polly’s pockets and inside her clothing. “Nothing, my lord,” said one of the footmen.
“What is that at her feet?” cried Lady Lydia suddenly. “I’ faith, it is my etui.”
The marquess stooped and picked up the embroidered purse and looked sadly at the cut strings.
“I didn’t …” babbled Polly. “You must believe me. Please believe me.”
The marquess stood looking at the purse, his face set and rigid, as two constables came to take Polly away.
“Evidence, my lord,” said one of the constables. The marquess handed him the etui.
The earl of Meresly shook his large head as if recovering from a stupor. “Hey,” he called, “is my ball to be ruined by one pretty thief? Back inside. Music! Wine! The night is young.” Laughing and chattering, the guests began to make their way back to the house.
Lady Lydia found Bertram at her side. “I saw you,” he whispered. “You cut the strings yourself and threw your etui at her feet. I saw you. You want her dead.”
Lady Lydia clutched his arm, her beautiful eyes dilated. “You will not betray me?”
“Not if you are kind. When can I come to you?”
“Tonight. After Meresly is asleep. Tonight. He has drunk much.”
Bertram gave a slow smile. Power and satisfaction flooded his body.
Lady Lydia saw her two daughters watching her round-eyed, and snapped, “You two have had enough excitement for one night. To your rooms.”
“But mama,” wailed Josephine, “we have not had our supper.”
“Now!” shouted Lady Lydia, her voice breaking.
The constables escorting Polly were just about to thrust her into a closed carriage when a soft voice said, “I
pray you, sirs, these belong to the prisoner.”
Polly found herself looking at Drusilla Gentle, who was holding out the shoes which Polly had kicked off in the supper room.
One constable said, “Don’t see she deserves any comfort, but put them on the ground, ma’am, and she can step into them. But go careful. We have a vicious criminal here.”
Drusilla bent and put the shoes down at Polly’s feet. Then she straightened up and said quietly, “May God bless and protect you, Polly Jones.” And then she turned and walked away.
Bertram, no longer mad with jealousy but mad with elation, brushed aside the complaints of Mr. Barks and Mr. Caldicott. His eyes burned as he watched the earl of Meresly drink deep. He danced and gossiped, but all the time he watched and watched until he saw the earl’s heavy body slump to the floor to be picked up by two footmen and carried off.