‘Lady Sylvester and Miss Frederica to you,’ snarled the vicar. ‘Women! You’re all a poxy lot.’
‘Oooh!’ Sarah drew back her plump fist and gave him such a resounding box on the ear that his hat sailed off and fell in the pond.
She marched off down the road, her curls bouncing.
‘Jade!’ the vicar yelled after her.
A drake was nibbling at his hat and he cursed it roundly. Sometimes the vicar thought the whole of nature was in a plot to conspire against him. There was the old dog fox which had led him such a merry chase over the past few years. He often thought the animal was laughing at him. And now there was that there drake, nibbling at his hat and fixing him with one insolent golden eye.
He heard a step behind him and swung round. Mr Pettifor, his over-worked curate, was standing behind him, open-mouthed.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ said the vicar. ‘Get my hat.’
Mr Pettifor hitched up his cassock and looked nervously at the water. Growing tired of the hat, the drake bobbed his sleek head under the water and the resultant little wave sent the hat slowly spinning towards the shore.
Mr Pettifor leaned forward a long arm and fished it out. ‘Lord Sylvester says he only intends to stay for one night,’ said Mr Pettifor conversationally, handing the vicar his hat.
‘What! Comfrey here? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ said Mr Pettifor plaintively. ‘Besides, I thought you knew.’
Seizing his sopping hat, the vicar strode off down the road.
He crashed into the vicarage parlour and surveyed his elegant son-in-law. ‘How’s Merva?’ he asked, handing Rose, the parlourmaid, his wrecked hat. ‘Fetch us some brandy, Rose.’
‘Minerva is not in the best of health,’ said Lord Sylvester, fastidiously removing a dog hair from his impeccable pantaloons. ‘I wrote to you informing you of the birth of our daughter. Minerva is still weak and needs rest.’
‘Unlike you to leave her,’ said the vicar, seizing the brandy bottle, pouring two glasses, and tossing off his own before Lord Sylvester had time even to raise his to his mouth.
‘No,’ said Lord Sylvester equably, ‘only another Armitage crisis would drive me from her side.’
‘No crisis that I know of,’ said the vicar, beginning to relax as the brandy warmed his stomach.
‘It seems you have precipitated one. I am not in the habit of reading my wife’s post, but I read this one from Frederica because, for some reason, I felt there might be trouble from that quarter.’
He handed over the letter, which the vicar read with increasing wrath and dismay.
He shot his son-in-law a furtive, angry look. The vicar felt trapped. He did not spare much thought to his youngest daughter. He was sure Frederica was merely trying to frighten him. But that she should have told Minerva about Sarah! He had been extremely grateful to Sarah for her favours. But he was gradually becoming accustomed to being single again. Not that the late Mrs Armitage had taken up much of his time, but she had been his wife, and very much what the vicar considered a wife should be … genteel, ailing and perpetually complaining. The fact that his handsome daughters did not fit this picture did not alter the vicar’s opinion of married women. His daughters were his daughters, and he had never really quite grasped the fact that they were married, even with one of his sons-in-law sitting facing him.
‘Is Sarah the one who brought the brandy?’ asked Lord Sylvester, remembering vaguely that the Sarah of Frederica’s letter was a servant at the vicarage.
‘Not her,’ said the vicar with some pride. ‘Sarah’s the pretty one.’
‘Worse than I thought,’ drawled Lord Sylvester, stretching one booted foot out to the fire.
‘And what does that mean?’ growled the vicar.
‘Simply, the pretty ones are harder to get rid of. They know their worth.’
‘Who said anything about gettin’ rid o’ Sarah?’
‘Then you are going to marry her?’
‘Of course,’ said the vicar stoutly.
Lord Sylvester straightened up. ‘Then may I suggest you allow the girl to come and reside with one of us until the wedding? You cannot have an affair with a servant girl in a country vicarage and you a vicar. It’s a wonder no one from the church, your bishop or archdeacon, has been hammering on the door to excommunicate you.’
‘Who said I’d bedded her,’ said the vicar sulkily.
‘If the whole village is not saying so by now, it’s a miracle. And what of your other servants? How does Mrs Hammer feel – giving orders to a maid she knows will shortly be her mistress?’
‘Well, she don’t know, do she?’
‘Worse and worse. You will need to make an honest woman of Sarah as soon as possible.’
‘Who do you think you are?’ raged the vicar who was secretly afraid of his elegant son-in-law, and like most people, usually hid his fright behind a barrier of anger.
‘I am your daughter’s husband. I am damned if Minerva is going to be upset by scandal. Now Frederica has threatened to run away. I suggest we both travel to the seminary. If she is still – God willing – there, which I am sure she must be.
‘Frederica is given to occasional flights of fancy, but she is much too timid to run away. I will take her back to London with me and turn her over to Minerva. Minerva and her sisters are determined to find Frederica a husband this Season.’
‘Very well,’ said the vicar, getting to his feet.
‘But before we go,’ said Lord Sylvester silkily, ‘I think it would be polite to introduce me to your future bride.’
‘She ain’t here,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘I left her in the village.’
The slamming of the outside door heralded Sarah’s angry arrival home. She erupted into the parlour, and stopped short at the sight of Lord Sylvester Comfrey.
‘This here’s Sarah,’ mumbled the vicar, ‘so now, let’s be off. Look here, Sarah, seems Miss Frederica is worried ’bout something so me and Comfrey’s going over to the seminary.’
Lord Sylvester had risen to his feet at Sarah’s entrance. He eyed the short figure of the vicar with cynical amusement. ‘You have not formally introduced me to your fiancée, Mr Armitage.’
At that interesting moment, Rose opened the parlour door. ‘Mr Radford,’ she announced, ushering in the squire. Squire Radford was a small, slight, elderly man, wearing an old-fashioned bag-wig and knee breeches. The vicar often thought gloomily that his Maker had put the squire in Hopeworth village to act as his, the vicar’s, conscience.
He was determined the squire should not find out about Sarah.
‘You’ve caught us at a bad moment, Jimmy,’ said the vicar with a shifty look. ‘Fetch my hat, Rose. Frederica’s pining a bit, and Comfrey and me’s going to see her. So …’
‘But first, Mr Armitage was just about to introduce me to his fiancée,’ said Lord Sylvester.
‘My dear Charles!’ exclaimed the squire. ‘You are a dark horse. I had no idea. Who is the lucky lady? Mrs Petworth over in Hopeminster? Mrs Jones in Berley?’ The squire racked his brains for the names of eligible widows. ‘Mrs …
‘No, it’s me,’ said Sarah crossly.
The squire sat down suddenly.
Lord Sylvester made Sarah his best bow. ‘My felicitations to you both, Miss …
‘Millet,’ beamed Sarah, sinking into a low curtsy.
‘Oh, dear,’ said the squire.
‘Spare me,’ groaned the Reverend Charles Armitage.
‘I am honoured to meet the future Mrs Armitage,’ said Lord Sylvester.
‘Lawks!’ screamed Rose, the parlourmaid, standing open-mouthed in the doorway, holding the vicar’s still sodden hat.
‘What’s to do?’ came the voice of Mrs Hammer behind Rose.
‘Oh, Mrs Hammer,’ wailed Rose. ‘Master is going to marry Sarah.’
‘Nooo!’ shrieked Mrs Hammer. ‘’Tain’t so.’
‘I’m off,’ yelled the vicar, s
eizing his sopping hat from Rose’s nerveless fingers and cramming it about his ears.
Sarah Millet looked around her with bold, triumphant eyes. She would move into the best bedroom that very night. And the next day she would send a card over to the Wentwater mansion and she would ask that handsome Mr Wentwater to tea.
* * *
Frederica found her life at Hatton Abbey quite pleasant. The chambermaid, Mary, with whom she worked was a cheerful country girl. She had a squashed sort of face as if someone had pressed down hard on the top of her head when she was a baby. Her mouth was very long and large and she had unruly masses of coarse brown hair. The other servants were efficient and hard-working. It was a whole separate world belowstairs with a rigid class system all of its own. Lowly female servants such as chambermaids were only allowed in the housekeeper’s parlour on the day of their arrival or the day of their dismissal.
The only servant Frederica did not like was Mr Smiles. He was a fat, pompous man, very proud of his livery and his tall staff of office.
He would appear in the rooms where Frederica and Mary were working, don a pair of white kid gloves, and run his fingers carefully along the ledges, looking for dust.
‘At least he can’t find anything to complain about,’ said Frederica to Mary. ‘The rooms are spotless.’
‘It’ll be different when the guests arrive,’ said Mary. ‘I hear tell there’ll be so much work, it’s nigh impossible to do it proper. The beds are supposed to be aired in the morning, but how can you air them when the ladies won’t get up until the afternoon? Mr Anderson says as how that Lady James what’s coming is always picking on us.’
‘Who is Lady James?’ asked Frederica. She had given up trying to talk like a servant. Now that she was very much part of the staff nobody seemed to notice.
‘She’s his grace’s fancy piece.’
‘Oh.’ Frederica was deeply shocked and tried hard not to show it. She had almost begun to think of herself as belonging to the servant class and cheerfully listened to all the gossip about her ‘betters’, but so far no gossip had touched the magnificent and sinister duke who seemed to be held in awe by everyone, including Mr Smiles.
‘Of course, we all thought that was over,’ said Mary, pummelling a pillow energetically. ‘And good riddance. Mr Anderson says as how he’d rather have old Lady Godolphin any day for all her weird ways.’
‘Lady Godolphin,’ gasped Frederica. ‘Lady Godolphin does not come here, does she?’
‘Evidently she came once a long time ago and his grace said “never again”.’
Frederica heaved a sigh of relief.
‘But for some reason he’s asked her back. This is to be her room.’
‘But his grace cannot … I mean, Lady Godolphin is quite old.’
‘So you know her?’
‘She was a friend of my late mistress,’ said Frederica, bending over the fireplace and buffing up the grate to hide the tell-tale blush on her cheeks.
‘Well, of course, the duke don’t fancy Lady Godolphin. He likes high-flyers like Lady James.’
‘But surely only common women … I mean, Lady James has a title.’
‘Don’t make her respectable, do it? Her late husband was only a “sir”. I tell you, I seen quality ladies with no more manners ’n’ a pig.’
Frederica thought furiously. Lady Godolphin would recognize her. She had seen her only a month before at Diana’s wedding. But there were ways of hiding without actually disappearing. And Lady Godolphin would not be expecting to see her. When she did, Frederica would merely be another anonymous servant, opening the shutters. But there was Lady Godolphin’s lady’s maid. Wait a bit. Something had been said at Diana’s wedding about Lady Godolphin having a new maid. Yes, that was it! Someone had complimented Lady Godolphin on her looks and she had said her new maid was a paragroin.
‘I thought people called his grace the Wicked Duke because he had been wild in his youth,’ said Frederica.
‘Oh, he was,’ said Mary. ‘Mr Anderson said the parties he used to have! Cyprians and lightskirts running screaming through the rooms and every rake-helly gentleman from London after them. But then, his grace settled down amazing. He has mistresses, but one after the other, and he don’t keep any of them long.’
‘That sounds very wicked to me,’ said Frederica sadly.
‘You’re not sweet on his grace yourself?’ Mary laughed.
Frederica shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Mary. He’s much too old.’
‘He’s a man in his prime. The way you talk, you’d think him sixty instead o’ thirty. Here, give me a hand with this bed. There was a chambermaid here last year and she was nutty about him, ever so spoony she was. Moped around the passages, hoping he’d notice her.’
‘And what happened to her?’
‘Well, she wasn’t doing her work so Mr Smiles sent her packing.’
Frederica felt a pang of sympathy for the lovelorn maid. She had begun to discover how very lucky she had been to find work so quickly.
‘The duke’s a good master,’ said Mary. ‘Oh, you must remember, Sarah, that some of the ladies brings their own linen, and if it don’t have a monogram on it, it’s easy lost, so we embroider a little sort of sign for each lady. As I was saying about the duke, he takes care of everyone. There’s new folk at an inn called The Magpie a bit away from here but still on the duke’s land. Well, he often goes down there to eat so’s to encourage trade for the new landlord. That’s finished. Come along. We’d best get as much sleep as we can tonight because the guests arrive tomorrow and, after that, there’ll be precious little rest.’
But that night Frederica found, she could not sleep. She wished she had brought some of her precious books with her. She tossed and turned on the bed she shared with Mary. Mary moaned and grumbled in her sleep and then turned on her back and began to snore.
The duke had gone visiting and was not expected back until the small hours. Frederica decided to creep down from her attic and borrow a book from the library.
The great house was still and silent as she made her way downstairs, shielding her candle in its flat stick.
Painted eyes stared down at her from portraits on the walls. A jade Buddha seemed to leap at her out of a corner. Frederica wished herself back in bed. The ghost of a man in black was said to haunt the Long Gallery. But she was still enjoying the novelty of being Brave Frederica, and she knew that she would never forgive herself if she turned about and went back to bed.
A gleaming white statue looked as if it were coyly beckoning from a landing. Her candle flame threw weird shadows up to the painted ceiling as she reached the hall. Mrs Bradley had taken her on a tour of the house so that she would know where all the rooms were in case she had to double as a housemaid when the guests arrived.
She quietly opened the door of the library and went inside. Row upon row of books climbed up to the ceiling behind their glass doors.
Frederica let out a squeak of terror as she saw a ghostly face staring at her from the bookshelves, and, after an agonizing moment, realised she was looking at her own reflection, the white of her nightgown, wrapper and night-cap making her seem like a ghost.
Holding her candle high, Frederica saw a pile of books lying on a console table. Quickly, she looked through them. There was Fanny Burney’s Evelina in two slim volumes. She picked up the first volume and tucked it under her arm.
There was a crash from the great hall outside as the entrance door to the Abbey opened and closed.
Frederica looked wildly about. There was a high-backed chair beside the fire. She blew out her candle, darted behind it, and crouched down.
To her horror, the library door opened and she heard the duke’s voice. ‘No, Anderson. I am quite capable of looking after myself. Go back to bed.’
The duke walked into the library. Frederica clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering.
There was the scratching of a tinder box and then the sound of crackling sticks. The duke had lit th
e fire. Then a soft golden glow spread over the room. He had lit two oil lamps which stood on tables on both sides of the fire. A clink of decanter against glass. Oh, dear, he was pouring himself a glass of wine. He would be here for hours!
‘Whoever it is crouching behind my chair,’ said the duke, ‘may as well come out now. I can see you reflected in the glass of the bookcases.’
‘Woooo,’ wailed Frederica. ‘Woooo. Woooo. Woooooo! ’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the duke. ‘I do not believe in ghosts.’
Miserably, Frederica got to her feet.
‘That’s better. Now come round here where I can see you.’
Frederica shuffled round to stand in front of him.
He was attired in severe black evening dress. His face looked hard and wicked above the foaming white cascade of his cravat. One large emerald winked and gleamed among its snowy folds. He was wearing knee breeches and his long muscular legs were encased in white silk stockings with gold clocks.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Sarah Millet, chambermaid to your grace,’ said Frederica miserably.
‘And what are you doing in my library, Sarah Millet, chambermaid?’
‘I thought I saw a cobweb on the table over there,’ said Frederica wildly, ‘so I came to clear it away.’
‘Were you going to wipe it off with that book which you are so ineffectually trying to hide under your wrapper?’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Frederica. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Give me the book.’ He held out his hand. Frederica handed it over.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘The excellent Miss Burney, or Mrs D’Arblay as she is now. I met her once. She was enchanting.’
‘May I go now, your grace?’ asked Frederica.
‘No, you may not. You bear a remarkable resemblance to a seminary miss I met a few days ago. Not only that, your speech is refined and that night attire is of the finest India muslin.’
‘I was very lucky in my last post,’ said Frederica, coarsening her vowels. ‘Missus gave me ever so many things.’
Frederica in Fashion Page 4