Bad Miss Bennet

by Jean Burnett

  ‘I do not know how these people became a great trading nation. Nowadays they cannot rouse themselves to do anything. First Napoleon had them by the throat and now the Austrians.’

  I could see he was getting into his stride for a long, political speech. I made an excuse that I needed to collect letters from the poste restante. Adelaide would accompany me. The captain looked nonplussed and finally left us.

  As we walked along Adelaide cast nervous glances over her shoulder.

  ‘Are you sad about the baker?’ I asked. She sighed.

  ‘There’s no use in wanting someone you can’t ’ave.’ Perhaps this girl had more sense than her mistress.

  ‘Have you had many romantic entanglements, Adelaide?’ I was curious about my maid’s past in Cheapside. She looked coy and hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Well, I did ’ave a beau when I lived at ’ome. He was my pa’s apprentice and his name was Jack Perry. I called him Jacko or Jackie. We might ’ave tied the knot and lived ’appily ever after, but pa didn’t approve. You see, Jacko was a foundling. My parents took ’im in. They thought I could do better for myself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘In the end Jacko left and joined the army. I went into service. I couldn’t bear to stay at ’ome. I don’t go back often.’

  ‘And what about the footman?’ She gave me a reproachful look.

  ‘There was no future there either, what with us moving about so much. Leastways, I’m a-gettin’ to see the world.’

  We were threading our way through the myriad arcades of the Frezzeria as we spoke. I recollected that I also could not wait to leave my home and I had had much leisure in which to repent my decision. We stopped to admire the famous doll in a shop window, the Poupée de France who was always dressed in the latest Paris fashion. Venetian ladies were able to follow the trends by copying la poupée’s ensembles.

  All kinds of materials were on display, brocaded fabrics with gold thread, striped satins and Pekin silk. We feasted our eyes before returning to the apartment where Mrs Makepeace complained of the lack of visitors. I was obliged to read another chapter of Glenarvon to her greatly against my inclinations.

  Mrs Makepeace had been invited to a masked ball at one of the palazzos and I accompanied her. Gaming was always a feature of these events and this would be an opportunity to replenish my personal coffers. I could not hope to become an independent woman on the meagre allowance I received from Mr Darcy and the modest one from my employer. I was surprised that my brother-in-law had not reduced the amount now that I was employed. No doubt I owed that to Lizzie’s intervention.

  Now that carnival was under way there were balls and entertainments every night. In truth this differed little from normal life. It appeared to be carnival every day here. The Venetians coped with their loss of status in the world by throwing one long continuous rout which ceased only during Lent. Indeed, poor Getheridge should have set up his business here where his banking methods would not have been considered unusual.

  As we were preparing for the ball a surprising thing happened. When I had dressed in a new silver gauze gown trimmed with red roses I presented myself to my employer who produced a velvet covered box which I had never seen before. I was familiar with her everyday jewellery – unremarkable pieces in heavy, old-fashioned settings – but when she opened the box I was astonished to discover it contained several rows of lustrous, milk white pearls of the finest quality and a necklace of diamond and sapphire links with matching earrings. I exclaimed over these beauties while my employer nodded approvingly.

  ‘These are my finest pieces. I seldom have occasion to wear them now. The pearls were my mother’s and the sapphires were a gift from my husband.’

  Along with the bountiful wine cellar, of course. Then Mrs Makepeace produced an exquisite letter M in diamonds attached to a black velvet ribbon. ‘It was given to me by the queen – M for Marie Antoinette. She singled me out, as you know. I have always treasured it.’ She wiped away a tear and replaced it in the box. ‘Tonight I shall wear the sapphires. It is fitting that I should wear them once more before I die.’

  Adelaide and I exchanged glances. Mrs Makepeace was given to making these mordant comments of late although her health and spirits had improved greatly since we left England, except for the rheumatics. Her maid dressed her in a gown of grey silk and velvet, added the sapphires and a blonde wig, a cape and a clown mask, and we set off. She had offered to loan me some of the pearls for the night but I had decided to wear the prince’s necklace again. It would not cause comment in this city. The Venetians cared nothing for the niceties of English society.

  The night air was chilly but full of magic as we glided along the Grand Canal. The windows of the palaces were ablaze with candlelight that gilded the black waters beneath and picked out the bobbing red lanterns in the gondolas of the ladies of pleasure which flickered like dozens of fireflies. Tito joined other gondoliers in song as mandolins played in the distance.

  The palazzo was vast and after I had deposited my employer on a seat where she could watch the dancing, I went in search of the gaming tables. When I settled myself at a table I saw Captain Marshfield sitting nearby with a plate of delicacies at his side. By this time I would have been surprised if he had been absent.

  After a prolonged game of bassetto, a Venetian version of faro, I had made few gains and I decided to stop before my luck ran out completely. I noticed that the captain had been losing steadily. Evidently his sleuthing skills were superior to his gaming abilities. Nevertheless he carried on regardless with a glittering, manic expression in his eyes that I had seen many times before when people were losing at the tables. Wickham often wore such a look.

  Marshfield was offering his possessions as surety – a ring and a gold watch chain. I began to be alarmed for him. Although the man was a confounded nuisance I felt a degree of responsibility for him. After all, he was my personal shadow. I walked around the table and stood behind him seizing his wrist as he made to take another card.

  ‘No, captain, I cannot let you ruin yourself in this manner,’ I declaimed in my most dramatic manner. ‘You are not a Venetian, you are a servant of His Majesty’s Government.’ He looked up at me, bewildered, and the manic light left his eyes. For a moment I had a glimpse of the small boy he must once have been. He allowed me to lead him away, helping himself to champagne cup as a consolation. This concoction, mixed with the rum punch habitually served here at their soirées rather than the barley water we were accustomed to in England, can be lethal. Slurring his words slightly, Marshfield produced a pack of cards and challenged me to another game.

  ‘What are the stakes, sir?’ I asked, trying to humour him.

  ‘I am the prize, madam.’ He staggered a little. ‘If I lose I become your liege lord of life and limb. Do with me what you will!’

  ‘And if I lose?’

  ‘Then I will be your consolation prize!’ I surveyed him with alarm. The captain was undergoing a personality change before my eyes.

  ‘A widow in want of a fortune has no need of a penniless officer even if he comes free with a wager.’

  He bowed, swaying dangerously. ‘I take your point, madam. I could not have put it more elegantly myself. Nevertheless I am yours if you will have me.’ He found this statement so amusing that he scattered the cards on the floor at my feet, sniggering uncontrollably.

  When I attempted to lead him away to a nearby seat he seized me around the waist breathing rum fumes into my face. ‘I find myself attracted to you like a moth to a flame, Mrs Wickham. May I call you Lydia? You have a delightful farouche quality, fey and fiery at the same time.’ I pushed him away indignantly. I was not sure what the word farouche meant – I have neglected my French studies of late – and I did not trust the captain’s interpretation.

  ‘You forget yourself, sir! Is this the reason why you have stalked me across the continent?’

  ‘No, indeed, there is quite another reason for that, but I try to combine business
with pleasure – a subsidiary dissipation, as it were.’ He was growing more familiar by the minute but I felt no amorous darts entering my bosom. As he seized me about the waist a second time he attempted to whisper in my ear but missed his way and nuzzled my neck instead. ‘Are you a good kisser, Lydia?’ he enquired. ‘Venetian women are very good kissers.’

  I was saved from this embarrassing situation by Mrs Makepeace who had sent a servant to find me. Evidently she had imbibed too much rum punch and needed to return to the hotel. I tore myself from the captain’s clutches just as I might have discovered something important. I found my employer prostrate on a chaise longue.

  ‘I am unwell, Lydia,’ she moaned, ‘help me into the gondola.’ Indeed her face was livid and beads of perspiration covered her forehead. As we tossed gently on the waters she was forced to lean over the side and void the contents of her stomach while I attempted to prevent her from falling overboard. Back at the palazzo I found Adelaide in a fury. The dog Wellington had procured a titbit that violently disagreed with him. Like his mistress he had been very ill and had managed to bite Adelaide when she was forced to attend to him.

  My employer remained indisposed for several days, unable to take nourishment. I wondered if she had caught the fever that besets this unhealthy spot. The consul sent a doctor who prescribed purgatives and presented a large bill. Mrs Makepeace refused his advice. It was well known that Italian doctors were the worst in all Europe.

  She grew querulous as she recovered demanding that I write to London for supplies of red tooth powder and other necessities of life unobtainable here. I was scarcely able to leave the apartment for several days except to collect mail from England. Among the letters I was overjoyed to find one addressed to me in a familiar hand. It was from Selena. How had she discovered my whereabouts?

  I paused in the covered archways of the Frezzeria to tear open the letter, unable to wait until I reached the palazzo. It was dated several weeks earlier.

  Dearest Lydia,

  News has reached us that you are in Paris and I am therefore sending this, poste restante, to that city. I do not have your present address but doubtless it will reach you in due course.

  The letter went on at great length to describe how they were forced to leave Portman Square to escape their creditors. Not even rent free accommodation could prevent financial catastrophe. I wondered if Miles had been buying more etchings. Selena had written to me at Pemberley several times but had received no replies.

  I deduced that your family, particularly your disagreeable brother-in-law, must have been withholding them. It followed that he had discovered your plans to leave with the Count. We were concerned for your welfare, dear Lydia – with visions of incarceration and worse. It was a long time before Miles discovered through his military connections that you had been seen in Paris. Does this mean that you are reunited with the Count?

  For some time we have been staying in the country with a cousin of mine – a dull, dreary existence you may be sure. But here is our exciting news: we have decided to move to the continent, ‘as all paupers do’ (Miles). We will leave very soon and we hope to see you again in Paris, dear Lydia. I trust that you are in good health. We are well, if a little chastened by recent events. We will leave our new address, poste restante, in due course.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Selena Caruthers

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I positively skipped along the Zattere with a spring in my step, although there was little evidence of springtime around me. Venice in winter was cold, often grey, with a penetrating dampness.

  As I burst into the palazzo I found Captain Marshfield waiting patiently in an anteroom where Adelaide was plying him with grappa and coffee. We had not met since the evening at the ball when he made his absurd declaration. I regarded him uneasily. This time he appeared clear-eyed, polished of boot and generally spruce. No mention was made of our previous encounter. He greeted me with the words,

  ‘Catalani is singing tonight, Mrs Wickham. I am determined that you should hear her.’ He produced the tickets to clinch the matter.

  ‘I cannot leave Mrs Makepeace unattended. She is unwell and I am in her employ, you know.’

  ‘Do not worry on that account. I will explain the situation to her.’

  In vain I protested that Mrs Makepeace was not receiving visitors. Of course, she was delighted to see him and readily gave permission for me to visit the theatre. Indeed, my employer has always been kindness itself and I am greatly indebted to her, but on this occasion I wished for her to be firmer and more ill-natured. I was not greatly enamoured of opera and still less inclined for the captain’s company.

  ‘I will accompany you only on condition that you remain sober and make no advances to me,’ I managed to hiss as he took his leave.

  ‘I’m sure I do not know what you mean, madam.’ The man’s effrontery knew no bounds. ‘Nobody remains sober for long in Venice,’ he continued. ‘It is a floating gin palace, as your poet friend could testify.’

  ‘Have you had sight of his lordship lately?’ I asked, ever hopeful. ‘If you could introduce me to him I would be eternally grateful.’

  The captain’s eyes lit up. ‘How grateful?’ He shrugged and turned away when I glared at him. ‘I cannot think why you have not stumbled across him before now. Where the ladies are concerned he puts it about quite freely.’

  ‘You are coarse and soulless, captain!’ I shrieked. ‘Take yourself out of my presence before I lose control.’ He smiled roguishly and whistled for the gondolier, promising to call for me at eight in the evening.

  My employer was much improved in spirits. She enjoyed a good lunch and declared her intention of going out onto the lagoon tomorrow. I was told to inform Tito. I feared the weather was totally unsuitable for a recovering invalid but she insisted.

  Angelica Catalani was the greatest soprano of the age. Her voice covered three octaves while her long face and Roman nose gave her the appearance of a friendly antelope. She was singing the role of Susanna in the Marriage of Figaro and the Fenice Theatre was agog. Lord Byron was not present, I was told he did not care for opera.

  During the intermission I contrived to ask the captain once again why he had followed me across the continent, but he refused to answer. He said only that it would be useful if I could persuade Mrs Makepeace to return to Paris.

  ‘What do you mean by “useful”?’

  ‘Only that we have need of you there, Mrs Wickham.’ I was rendered speechless by this statement, but the captain would not elaborate. As I opened my mouth to protest he hushed me saying that Catalani was about to sing another aria.

  When he escorted me back to the apartment I took advantage of our intimate situation – seated side by side in the felze, the little cabin on the gondola, to press him for information again.

  ‘I will do nothing for anyone – including king and country – unless you tell me why Von Mecks was murdered.’ This sudden remark caused the Captain to start in surprise. I said, ‘The emeralds were recovered, the man had played his part successfully … so why was he killed?’ Marshfield gave me an enigmatic look.

  ‘Your friend Getheridge could answer that.’

  ‘The man is sadly deceased. You must tell me.’ My companion heaved a sigh.

  ‘It was a bungled business, most unfortunate. We believe that he was mistaken for Getheridge by the hired thugs who were ordered to murder the banker. They went to the apartment owned by Getheridge, found Von Mecks there and killed him, probably before he could say a word.’ I had deduced all of that for myself but one mystery remained.

  ‘Why was Von Mecks in the apartment?’

  ‘He was waiting to see Getheridge – perhaps with a message from the royal household. He did not know that you were occupying the place – and neither did the hired assassins, fortunately.’ I shuddered at the remembrance of that event.

  ‘Why was Getheridge targeted – and by whom?’

  The Captain laughed. ‘He was u
p to his neck in all kinds of fraud and financial devilry. There must have been a number of people waiting to have their revenge. We do not know their names in this instance.’

  I remained silent for the rest of the journey listening to the splash of the gondolier’s pole and the far off sound of bells coming from the lagoon. Everything rested on that terrible trip to Brighton. The events of those few days were now determining my fate. I closed my eyes as I recalled the scene with the Prince Regent, the body of poor Jerry lying in the forest, Mrs Fitzherbert’s remarks.

  Suddenly, a thought struck me with great force. ‘How did Von Mecks get into the apartment without a key?’

  Marshfield shrugged. ‘Someone must have let him in. Was your maid there at the time?’

  ‘Yes, but Adelaide would not have let a stranger into the place. Certainly, she would have told me if she had. She is most reliable.’ He shrugged again.

  ‘Then you should question her, if you are concerned.’ Of course I was concerned. The murder might not have happened if he had not gained entry.

  The evening had passed well enough but I stayed awake in my bed long into the night worrying about the meaning of the captain’s words. My first task on waking would be to reply to Selena’s letter, before suggesting to my employer that we should return to Paris. My aim was to meet my friends once more – I was less concerned about obliging the captain and his masters. I noted Marshfield’s explanation in my journal for future reference. Then I needed to question Adelaide.

  Anxiety about Mrs Makepeace’s health would be the best approach, I decided. In truth, if we remained until the spring we risked catching the fevers that swept the city regularly. Yes, a concern for her health, and my own, was the answer. The final card I held would be concern for the wretched Wellington. Venice was no place to keep a dog. A servant was forced to spend hours every day transporting the animal to the Lido for exercise – something loathed by Tito, the servant and the dog. I closed my eyes and drifted away.