Upstairs, Mr Sinclair sadly pulled his waistcoat out of the strong box where he had stuffed it before putting his guineas on top to make it look like a miser’s hoard. He only hoped Rainbird would gossip to the neighbouring servants.
It would be quite dreadful if he did not!
But it was Joseph who started the gossip, Joseph who was so bitter and put down by that Luke next door who strutted up and down in his new pink livery with the gold lace.
Luke noticed with satisfaction Joseph’s envious glare and said, ‘Looking’s all you’re going to get, my fine buck. Your master couldn’t even afford one of my shoulder knots.’
‘My master,’ said Joseph passionately, ‘could buy and sell yours.’
‘Garn!’
‘’S the truth. He has a box with thousands and thousands of golden guineas. ‘E’s a miser, that’s what ’e is.’
To Joseph’s gratification, Luke’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. ‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ called Luke to his own butler who was just emerging from Number 65. ‘Come here, Mr Blenkinsop, please sir. You never did in all your born.’
Mr Blenkinsop made his stately approach and inclined his head gravely to hear the tale of misers and guineas.
‘Terrible, terrible,’ he said ponderously. ‘Be so good, Joseph, as to step indoors and ask Mr Rainbird if he would care to join me at The Running Footman for a tankard.’
And so Rainbird joined Mr Blenkinsop, and, warmed by the fascinated interest of an appreciative audience in The Running Footman, which was the upper servants’ pub, he told the tale of the miser of Mayfair. So the gossip, like a stone dropped in a pond, spread out in ripples through the ranks of the servants from Grosvenor Square to St James’s Square, and the servants talked to their masters and mistresses, who talked to each other.
The next day was a day to remember. Mr Sinclair announced his intention of taking his ‘daughter’ for a walk in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.
At first the cynical servants, who had been told to expect Mr Sinclair and his ward, were inclined to think that Fiona might be his chère-amie. But her vague air of innocence combined with Mr Sinclair’s gruff treatment of her soon put that scandalous idea to rest.
Mr Sinclair waited in the front parlour for Fiona, who had told him that she had completed her first ensemble and planned to wear it. He hoped she would not look like a country dowd. He wished now he had pressed her to take the advice of a fashionable couturier. But he had been so disappointed at their previous lack of success that he had jumped at the idea of saving money. Also, dim-witted though she was, Fiona at least appeared to be skilled in all the arts of housewifery. Mr Sinclair had grown up in Edinburgh in the town’s heyday when it was called the Athens of the North and ladies were judged on their knowledge of metaphysics rather than their gowns. He believed that dressmaking and cooking came naturally to even the most feeble-minded.
Nonetheless, he looked at her in awe when she entered. She was wearing a pink crêpe dress, high-waisted and puff-sleeved and cut low enough at the neck to show she had an excellent bosom. A Circassian straw hat with the brim pinned up at one side to show her glossy black curls and slouched down at the other gave her a dashing and sophisticated appearance. She wore long gloves of a deeper rose pink, and a bunch of pink roses ornamented the crown of her hat.
‘You dasher,’ breathed Mr Sinclair.
‘Let us hope I do not scare the birds from the trees,’ said Fiona primly.
They entered the park, arm in arm, at the fashionable hour.
Fiona was a sensation.
Drivers reined in their carriages while their occupants stood up to get a better look. Fiona floated gracefully at Mr Sinclair’s side. It was the first fine day. Fleecy clouds puffed across the blue sky above, and everything was green and fresh after the recent rain. There was something about Fiona’s beauty and innocence that made even the most hardened rake think of enchanted princesses in ivory towers.
In vain did the ladies try to point out Fiona’s faults. One said she was too bold, but that was such an obvious untruth that she blushed as she said it.
To Mr Sinclair’s surprise, Fiona appeared to be more awake than usual. Her grey eyes scanned the carriages with interest. It was almost as if she was looking for someone.
Mr Sinclair waited until he was sure they were the centre of attention, and then he dramatically clutched his heart and made odd gargling noises.
‘Papa!’ cried Fiona loudly, her Scottish voice with its lilting accent carrying clearly to the surrounding spectators. ‘What’s amiss?’
Mr Sinclair made several choking noises, wrenched desperately at his cravat, and to all intents and purposes collapsed in a dead faint. Gentlemen rushed to give their assistance. Fiona, now kneeling in the grass beside the fallen Mr Sinclair, looked more like a romantic heroine than ever.
‘Speak to me, Papa,’ she urged, and even Mr Brummell, that arbiter of fashion and renowned cynic, was to say later that her silvery voice pierced him like an arrow.
Mr Sinclair opened his eyes and said faintly, ‘My heart. Alas, Fiona, you know I have not long to live. Miser that I am, I have been a bad father to you. But when I die, all my gold will be yours.’
The listening company looked as if they had been galvinized by one of the new electric machines. Eager hands tenderly lifted Mr Sinclair into the famous Lord Alvanley’s carriage while Mr Brummell, Alvanley’s closest friend, mopped the old man’s brow with his handkerchief.
A procession followed the carriage back to Clarges Street. Apparently recovered, Mr Sinclair fulsomely thanked his rescuers and urged them indoors for cakes and wine. The distracted Rainbird did his best. The wine was thin and sour and watered. The cakes were stale, bought at half price from a local bakery. Society gamely ate and drank, saving up each evidence of miserliness to relate at the dinner tables, routs, and parties later that evening.
‘We barely noticed,’ said Lord Petersham later. ‘We were all too busy feasting our eyes on Miss Fiona’s beauty.’
Downstairs that evening Rainbird carefully put all the tips he had collected from the aristocratic guests into a pot. He had faithfully promised his fellow servants that all vails would be equally shared. Mrs Middleton and Joseph had protested, claiming that Rainbird should get the main part, then Mrs Middleton herself, then the cook, then Joseph, and so on down the line. But Rainbird said they had suffered together and they may as well benefit together.
‘I don’t know if they’ll be any more pickings,’ he said gloomily, ‘so let’s make this last. No wasting your share on candles, Lizzie.’
‘Oh, Mr Rainbird,’ said Lizzie, ‘I do wish you would let me pray again.’
‘Enough of that, my girl,’ said Rainbird. ‘Pray by your bed if you must, but there’s enough work here without you running off to waste your money on candles.’
‘Seems to me you’re touched in your upperworks, Lizzie,’ tittered Joseph, and then quailed as Rainbird rounded on him fiercely. ‘Now, you leave our Lizzie alone, you jackanapes,’ he growled. He smiled at Lizzie, that charming smile of his that lit up his comedian’s face and usually made Lizzie want to laugh. But Lizzie adored Joseph, and his remark had cut her to the quick.
‘Before that Jessamy goes a-buying scent for to anoint his useless body,’ said the cook, MacGregor, ‘I waud suggest we could hae a wee bit o’ meat for supper tomorrow. Roast beef,’ he said, his eyes gleaming. ‘Roast beef and gravy and lots of potatoes and we’ll give them upstairs that old bit o’ venison I got cheap from the butcher ’cause he dropped it in the sawdust and I saw him do it.’
‘Roast beef it is then,’ said Rainbird dreamily. He loosened his cravat and put his feet up on the table. It was a sign that they were all equal in hardship again and the others took their places at the table, each sitting in the nearest chair without carefully noticing rank and precedence as they had done since Mr Sinclair’s arrival.
‘Give us a bit of a tune, Joseph,’ said Rainbird. ‘This is the best day we’ve had
for a while.’
Joseph took out his mandolin and with a wicked side-long look at Mrs Middleton began to play the opening chords of a rather bawdy ballad, but his aim of shocking the housekeeper was defeated by MacGregor, who began to make up words, all of them ridiculous, to go along with the tune. Jenny and Alice began to giggle helplessly, and little Lizzie put her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh in case she offended Joseph.
‘Tol rol diddle dol,’ carolled MacGregor happily. Then his voice trailed away, and there was a sudden shocked silence. For the door had quietly opened, and Miss Fiona Sinclair stood surveying the scene.
Miss Harriet Giles-Denton and Miss Bessie Plumtree had been enjoying their evening at Mr Pardon’s town house until the name of Fiona Sinclair cropped up. Their respective parents, who had brought them to London for yet another Season, had graciously allowed both of them to attend a musicale at Mr Pardon’s under the stern chaperonage of a maiden aunt of Miss Plumtree, who had been engaged for the Season by the Plumtrees and Giles-Dentons to keep a watchful eye on their daughters.
The acceptability, or lack of it, of Mr Pardon had been much discussed by both families on their arrival in London, but Mr Giles-Denton had clinched the matter by saying that Pardon was well-regarded by the ton. This was in fact true, because Mr Pardon’s more nefarious deeds had been discreetly performed in or near his mansion on the Scottish borders. Because he entertained lavishly, he was accounted no end of a good fellow.
There was a fair sprinkling of titles in his mansion that evening. There was of course Mrs Leech, but neither Bessie nor Harriet allowed themselves to think about her because to do so might conjure up unladylike feelings.
The musicale was over and the company were strolling about or sitting chatting or striking attitudes when Harriet heard Fiona’s name. It quite spoiled the attitude she had been rehearsing all day, which involved propping her chin on her plump hands and scowling out into space.
Bessie, too, had been striking an attitude when that wretched name had spoiled it all. She was wearing a Turkish turban of bright blue, fringed with gold. Her gown was white-silver lame on gauze, the gauze sleeves revealing her sharp pointed elbows. Bessie’s attitude was to point one finger to the centre of her brow and look dewy-eyed, the dew in her eyes being a liberal application of belladonna.
A certain Lady Disher voiced the dreaded name. ‘Who is this beautiful Fiona Sinclair everyone is raving about?’ she asked languidly. ‘Evidently she caused quite a sensation in the park this afternoon.’
‘Oh, we met her,’ said Harriet. ‘She was travelling by the mail when it broke down or something and she and her father were invited to take dinner by Mr Pardon in his home. She is nothing out of the common way. A marked Scotch accent, very bold, and badly dressed.’
Mr Pardon, who was still smarting over the humiliation of kissing Mr Sinclair, said nothing.
‘But everyone – even Brummell – says she is divine. And all that money, too!’ enthused Lady Disher.
‘What money?’ demanded Mr Pardon sourly. ‘The old man hasn’t a feather to fly with.’
‘But he is a miser. Is it not thrilling? A veritable miser. One of his servants, the butler, I think, came upon him counting bags and bags of gold. He has a weak heart. In fact he had an attack in the park which nigh took him off to his Maker. ‘‘I will leave all my gold to you, Fiona,’’ he was heard to say. Of course, the gentlemen are going wild. Gold, more gold, and the face of an angel. Nothing could be more seductive. They were all – all the people who helped them home, that is – offered sour watered wine and stale cakes. ‘‘Divine,’’ says the great Brummell. ‘‘So good for the tailleur.’’’
Everyone started to show interest in the Sinclairs, although Bessie and Harriet tried every way they could to diminish Fiona’s beauty and reputation.
Lady Disher moved a little away from the nodding, gossiping heads. Mr Pardon followed her. He was suffering from a mixture of fury and humiliation. It was one thing to try to seduce a penniless girl of no particular family, but another to try to ravish an heiress. Sinclair could have taken him to court. He broke out in a light film of sweat at the thought.
‘Pity me,’ he said lightly. ‘I did not know I had a rich heiress under my roof.’
‘Why? Have you a need to marry well?’ laughed Lady Disher.
‘We all have a need to marry well,’ said Mr Pardon, thinking bitterly of the piles of unpaid bills stuffed in the pigeon holes of his bureau.
‘Then propose to her by all means! Mrs Leech is, after all, only the latest mistress on the scene. You have gracefully rid yourself of them before. Would that I were a man! I find myself at low ebb.’
‘What! I thought that gambling hell of yours made a fortune.’
‘Shhhh! My gambling hell, as you call it, is nothing more than a gathering of ladies who play cards. They are invited to one of my little afternoons or evenings and if they feel the urge to play, who am I to deny them?’
‘Perhaps we both might profit,’ said Mr Pardon slowly. ‘Say you were to send Miss Fiona a card – and quickly, before she is warned against you. That way you could shake some money loose from the golden tree. She will need to ask papa for the money, and he will be incensed. I will be on hand to comfort and advise him. I will offer myself as guide and protector – after I have settled your bills with his money, of course.’ He mentally added, And I had better have some splendid excuse to explain what I was doing jumping on him in the middle of the night.
‘I shall call on her tomorrow,’ said Lady Disher. ‘But what if she is shrewd? What if she takes one look around my establishment and takes her leave? What if she brings her father?’
‘You always know how to play your cards,’ said Mr Pardon, fanning himself delicately with a chickenskin fan. ‘She is invited to afternoon tea. Ladies only. Gossip among the cups. Little game of faro, Miss Sinclair? All respectable. You know how it is done. If she fails to take the bait, then I will do my best to lead her back into your web, my divine spider.’
‘Is she clever?’
‘I did not have much conversation with her. She was next to Harrington at dinner.’
‘Harrington? That devil and woman-hater? What did he say of her?’
‘Nothing. You know Harrington. Never gossips.’
‘He will not interfere? Did he seem épris in that direction?’
‘When was Harrington ever épris? Stern, silent misogynist . . . but she did make him laugh at one point.’
‘Aha! I feel the sooner I entrap Miss Fiona the better. I shall call tomorrow, and, if I fail, I will ask your help.’
‘Miss Sinclair!’ said Rainbird, rising to his feet. ‘What a pretty servants’ hall,’ said Fiona vaguely. ‘Is that your dinner?’
A stale loaf and a hunk of cheese stood on the table.
‘Yes, miss,’ said Rainbird with some asperity. ‘It’s all we can afford.’ He thought guiltily of the tips they had received and then comforted himself with the thought that that had been all they could afford since they had received the money after the shops had closed.
‘I know you, Mr Rainbird,’ said Fiona. ‘Now, let me see . . . that’s Alice, and that’s Jenny, but who is this?’ She looked down the table to where Lizzie sat at the end.
‘Lizzie O’Brian,’ said Lizzie, bobbing a clumsy curtsy.
Fiona gazed at Lizzie’s spotted face and lank hair. ‘Vegetables,’ she said suddenly. ‘You must eat vegetables, Lizzie. Lots and lots. They will shine your hair and clear your complexion. Raw vegetables.’
‘Like a rabbit,’ sniggered Dave, the pot boy, and was cuffed into silence by Alice.
MacGregor, who had been seething like a volcano, moved forward towards where Fiona was standing, tufts of red hair sticking out from under his white skull cap. ‘Now, now,’ bleated Mrs Middleton, catching hold of his sleeve.
‘Vegetables is it?’ demanded MacGregor passionately. ‘For a wee scullery maid when us can’t get a bite to eat. Vegetables!’
&nb
sp; ‘Stow your whidds and plant ’em, for the cove of the ken can cant ’em,’ jeered Joseph.
‘Silence, all of you,’ roared Rainbird, appalled at such insubordination. ‘You should be abovestairs, miss.’ He marched to the door and held it open.
‘I do not mind,’ said Fiona, wide-eyed. ‘I know that lack of food causes sharpened tempers. You will have money for food and clothes and warmth just as soon as I can arrange it.’ She went quietly from the room and closed the door behind her.
The servants looked rather shame-faced. All their wrath was directed against Mr Sinclair. They felt Fiona had done nothing to deserve such a display of bad manners.
‘Do you think she meant it?’ asked Lizzie timidly. ‘About us getting money, I mean?’
‘Naw!’ said Joseph. ‘I been out wiff her on her errands.’ Then he shook his head as if giving his slipping accent a shake to get it back into his mouth again. ‘Simple, if you esk me. Wrapped herself ehround with thet cloak of hers, covered from head to foot. Never said a word to me.’
‘I am afraid Miss Fiona is somewhat naive, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘Forget her. Tomorrow we eat beef. Let us plan the menu.’
Lizzie, who slept in a makeshift bed in the scullery, said her prayers that night. Unlike the others, she worshipped Fiona, thinking her a goddess. She began to believe everything Fiona had said about getting them money and clothes and food. She decided to forego her share of the beef and see if MacGregor would allow her some vegetables.
She rose at five in the morning as it was her duty to serve the other servants with their morning tea. There was a little package beside the scullery sink. Lizzie could barely read, but she recognized her own name, neatly printed on the outside of the package. She put her shaking hands to her mouth, thinking the fairies had crept in during the night. At last, she crossed herself and opened the little package.
Inside lay one long cherry-red silk ribbon. Lizzie thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. There was a small slip of paper with it with only one sentence of writing. Something stopped Lizzie from asking Rainbird to read it to her. Something stopped her from telling any of the others about her present. She did not want anyone to laugh at her or possibly take the ribbon away from her.
Miser of Mayfair Page 6