by M. C. Beaton
“Oh, weel,” said MacGregor cheerfully, “seeing as how you don’t want him ony mair …”
He nodded to Rainbird, and together they threw Sir Edward back through the window and into the pond.
“You are brave and courageous servants,” said the earl. “Toby! I did not see you. You shall attend our wedding.”
“And all the servants,” said Fiona. “They must never go back to work for that awful Palmer again.”
“As to that,” beamed Rainbird, “I, too, have a surprise. With the money you gave us, I am going to buy a little inn at Highgate village. We will all work together to make a success of it. We will all be one family.”
Lizzie burst into tears of joy as the rest, with the exception of Joseph, cheered. Joseph could not envisage living anywhere else but in the West End of London.
“Maybe Alice won’t want to come, Mr. Rainbird,” said Mrs. Middleton, “her being so keen on young Luke.”
“I ain’t keen no more,” said Alice in her slow, country voice. “He hurt little Lizzie. Just think what he would do to a wife!”
“Yes,” murmured Miss Fiona Sinclair, looking up at the earl under her lashes. “Those brutal men are so untrustworthy.”
Two days later, Mr. Percival Pardon looked about the room at his guests. They were all so sour, so down in the mouth, that he longed to see their faces lighting up when he made his announcement.
At last, he could wait no longer and held up his hands for silence. “Listen!” he cried. “Great news. Fiona Sinclair has fallen mercy to the wiles of Sir Edward Kirby. See, I have his letter. Let me read it to you.”
Bessie Plumtree burst into angry tears and Harriet Giles-Denton stared at him with contempt. Lady Disher walked forward and plucked the letter from Mr. Pardon’s hands. “You utter fool,” she said. “Did you not read your newspaper? It was in the social column this morning. Fiona Sinclair is to wed the Earl of Harrington and rumour has it that Sir Edward has left the country a broken man. We all knew. We thought you knew and were trying to make up for your ineptitude by entertaining us. Faith, Pardon, you always were a weak and useless fop!”
And so the Earl of Harrington and Miss Fiona Sinclair were married and all the Clarges Street servants were guests. Only Mr. Sinclair was absent, being confined to bed with what was diagnosed as Flying Gout.
Joseph had become reconciled to the idea of being a publican. It had been a wonderfully lazy life for them all the few weeks before Miss Fiona’s wedding. Although they were put up in the servants’ wing at Lord Harrington’s friends’ mansion, they were not expected to work.
Joseph, bored at first, had discovered a very sympathetic listener in Lizzie and he often went for long walks with her, bragging of what he meant to do in the future while Lizzie looked up into his face, her eyes like stars.
But even as she stood at last in the church and watched Miss Fiona being married, Lizzie still had that same nagging fear at the back of her mind.
Before she left with her new husband, Fiona sent for Rainbird, looking affectionately at the butler with his acrobat’s figure and comedian’s face.
“Well, my Rainbird,” she said softly, “all’s well that ends well. Are you sure everything will go smoothly with you now? My lord and I are going to be travelling abroad for some time after we have left Mr. Sinclair in Kent, where he can be cared for by a competent physician. I do not wish to leave the country if I feel you still need my help.”
“No, my lady,” said Rainbird. “Thanks to you, we shall all do very well.”
“Then hug me, Mr. Rainbird, as you have done when I was upset and miserable. Hug me, now that I am glad.”
Rainbird opened his arms, and Fiona threw herself into them.
“What is this?” demanded a voice from the doorway. The Earl of Harrington stood surveying the scene, his arms folded.
“I was only saying goodbye to Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona.
The earl looked at Rainbird and jerked his head in dismissal.
“Never let me see you with your arms around another man again,” Rainbird heard the earl say as he went down the stairs. “Do you want to kill me with jealousy?”
Rainbird began to whistle.
He, Rainbird, had made an earl jealous.
Epilogue
The November wind whistled down Clarges Street, a biting bone-chilling wind. It rushed down the area steps of Number 67 and moaned under the kitchen door.
“Faith, ‘tis cold,” said Rainbird gloomily. “What’s for supper, MacGregor?”
“Naethin’ but bread and cheese,” snapped the cook.
“I kent stend it,” wailed Joseph. “We’re all cold and miserable and hungry again. Next time anyone wants meh help, they can whistle for it.”
“I will never regret helping Miss Fiona,” said Rainbird severely. “Never.”
“I know Palmer took the money,” said Jenny fiercely. “Mr. Blenkinsop told Mr. Rainbird Palmer knew the house had been left open. Besides, Mr. Sinclair’s money wasn’t touched.”
“We can’t prove it,” said Rainbird with a pessimistic shrug. “He was seen going in. He said he discovered the robbery and called the watch, which there is proof he did.”
“It’s as if we’re taking care of ghosts,” said Alice with a shiver. “Every day we take down the shutters and clean and scrub the rooms, but there’s no one there.”
“I still keep thinking of that dear little inn,” mourned Mrs. Middleton, who had been sure Rainbird would propose to her once they had thrown off their servants’ shackles, hope springing eternal in the spinster breast.
“Can’t yer write to Miss Fiona—I mean ’er ladyship and ask ’er to ’elp?” said Dave.
“We don’t know where she is,” said Rainbird. “I waited too long, thinking Mr. Sinclair would have told her all about it, but evidently he did not. He was so ill at the time, he probably thought it all part of a dream.”
“We’re all together,” said Lizzie stoutly. “That’s very important. If you love people, it’s more important than money.”
Joseph sniffed and looked away. He felt he had paid too much attention to Lizzie while they were in the country and had given her ideas.
“P’raps,” said Alice slowly, “somewhere there’s another tenant, looking at the advertisement. Give us a tune, Joseph. Ain’t no use bein’ miserable as I can see. Waste o’ time.”
Joseph brightened and went to fetch his mandolin.
Lizzie was right, thought Rainbird. They would survive, just so long as they all kept together.
Mr. Sinclair climbed stiffly down from the mail coach outside the post office at the west end of the North Bridge in Edinburgh. He was feeling much fitter than he had done for many years.
Fiona had frightened him with a lengthy lecture on the perils of drinking too much. After the happy couple had left for abroad, Mr. Sinclair had stayed on at the earl’s home in Kent until he had felt strong enough to make the long journey home.
His determination to remain teetotal had been further strengthened by the shocking death of his old friend, Sir Andrew Strathkeith.
He breathed in a great gulp of sharp, sooty Edinburgh air, then left his trunks at the post office and decided to amble forth in search of accommodation.
His steps bore him across the bridge to the towering black tenements of the Old Town. His eyes filled with sentimental tears. The Royal Mile, with its bustle and filth, its dangers of being hit with the contents of refuse pails or chamberpots thrown from above, might make the genteel Londoner shrink, but it was like heaven to the returning Mr. Roderick Sinclair.
In front of St. Giles Church were the rows of sheds called lucken booths where the traders sold everything imaginable. The air rang with their cries, resounding with Scottish voices.
And then sweet and clear above his head rang out the “meridian.”
His steps led him to John Dowie’s tavern. All good resolutions were forgotten. But he paused with his handle on the door. He suddenly thought the whole epis
ode of going to London had all been a dream. Had he really met the top ten thousand on an equal footing? Had Fiona really existed? Had he really been called the Miser of Mayfair?
Then he heard Fiona’s voice inside his head, saying, “Do you want to die? Your death is in each bottle. Oh, it may not kill you. But what of the insanity of trying to hang yourself?”
“How did ye ken ah was going to hang myself,” said Mr. Sinclair sulkily. A passerby looked at him nervously.
Mr. Sinclair turned and walked rapidly away from the tavern door, and the further away he walked, the lighter he felt.
There were a good few years left to him.
And, after all, he was home.