Between her duties, she returned to the note, painfully deciphering each word until by evening she had it all. It said simply, ‘To tie up your hair. F. Sinclair.’
A warm comfortable glow spread through Lizzie’s thin frame. Even when MacGregor dumped a plate of raw vegetables down in front of her and gave a cackling, jeering laugh, she still continued to glow. The others ate roast beef while abovestairs Mr Sinclair and Fiona fought with a leathery and athletic piece of venison.
But Mr Sinclair was well pleased. They had had many callers including a certain Lady Disher, who had been most gracious to Fiona and had invited her to tea on the following day. ‘Not you, Mr Sinclair,’ Lady Disher had teased. ‘Ladies only.’
And Mr Sinclair, flattered that Fiona’s newfound friend should be a lady of quality, eagerly pressed her to accept the invitation.
FIVE
What have I done, so very wicked, that I may not ever again behold him? I will wait at his door, every night that I ascertain he is from home, and, the first time he happens to return on foot, I cannot fail to see him; and one word he must say to me, if it is but to order me home. Something like the man who boasted of having been addressed by the Emperor Bonaparte; What did he say to you? somebody asked. Va t’en, coquin, answered this true Christian.
HARRIETTE WILSON’S MEMOIRS
The Earl of Harrington pulled his shirt on after a bout in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. John ‘Gentleman’ Jackson was English boxing champion from 1795 to 1803, although such was his enormous strength that he needed to appear in the ring only three times.
The earl’s friend, Mr Toby Masters, looked wistfully at Harrington’s powerful chest and slim waist and then ruefully down at his own corpulence. Mr Masters loved eating and drinking, preferably to excess. He was uncomfortably aware of the heat of the room and the itching of his skin beneath his tight corset.
‘Have you heard about the latest beauty?’ he asked.
‘Hear of all sorts of beauties,’ said the earl, shrugging his broad shoulders into his coat. ‘Who is the latest fair charmer?’
‘A Miss Fiona Sinclair.’
The earl stood very still, his coat half up over his shoulders. ‘I have met a Miss Fiona Sinclair,’ he said slowly.
‘Lucky dog,’ said Mr Masters. ‘Have you called on her already?’
‘No, not I,’ said the earl, settling his coat and straightening his lapels. ‘I met her when she was travelling south. She and her father were journeying by the mail that was stopped by a storm. The same storm drove me to take refuge with Pardon, who also took in the passengers from the mail. Only a storm would force me to throw myself on that creature’s hospitality. He was much struck by Miss Fiona’s beauty and begged her father to join the guests at his dinner table.’
‘Pardon’s good ton,’ said Mr Masters.
‘He raped a servant girl last year. A great scandal, ineffectively hushed up in the north. I was staying with the Chalfonts in Dumfriess when I heard about it.’
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Mr Masters. ‘He is too weak and foppish a fellow to be a threat to any female.’
‘He was saved from prosecution only after the girl hanged herself and the father was paid a considerable sum to keep his mouth shut. But to return to Miss Fiona. She was seated beside me at dinner. An odd girl. Rather shabby.’
‘Can’t be the same one,’ said Mr Masters. ‘This one’s divinely fair and dresses like a fashion plate. Father’s a miser with a weak heart and plans to leave the moneybags to the daughter. They’re all around her like wasps around a honeypot.’
‘I shall not be of their number,’ said the earl.
‘Don’t understand it,’ said Mr Masters. ‘If I had your figure, fortune, and looks, I’d be on Miss Fiona’s doorstep with a proposal of marriage. Don’t you like the ladies?’
‘Toby, you know very well that I have enjoyed the favours of several ladies. I am not a monk. However, I do not want to marry one of them until I have decided I should produce an heir. There is not one of them that does not grow tiresome, demanding, and clinging after a time. A grand passion lasts only eighteen months, and, after that, what have you? Usually a lady with whom you have nothing in common. Passion is a cheat. I prefer to use it rather than have it use me.’
‘But Miss Fiona is so very beautiful. I saw her in the park.’
‘Beauty fades. Also great beauties are tiresome creatures. They are so used to their looks getting them all the attention that they have never studied how to please or amuse. Nothing, my dear Toby, could possibly persuade me to call on Miss Fiona. Nothing!’
* * *
‘Are you sure that dress didn’t cost a fortune?’ asked Mr Sinclair suspiciously as Fiona drew on her gloves preparatory to leaving for Lady Disher’s.
‘No, I made it,’ said Fiona equably.
Mr Sinclair studied her thoughtfully. Even to his untutored eye the stitching and line of her gown were exquisite. It was of fresh sprigged muslin. Over it, she was wearing a short spencer with a stand-up collar that framed her face. The brim of her straw hat was decorated with silk roses of old gold, which matched the gold sprigged embroidery of her gown.
‘That’s a new bonnet,’ said Mr Sinclair at last.
‘It is the bonnet I wore to the park,’ said Fiona. ‘I straightened the brim and refurbished it.’
‘I’m sure I didn’t give you enough money to pay for the silk for all them roses.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Fiona gave a delicate yawn and peered into her reticule, which was also of gold silk.
‘Then where did you get it?’ demanded Mr Sinclair impatiently.
A small crease marred the perfection of Fiona’s brow. ‘I have decided to marry the Earl of Harrington,’ she said.
‘You’re all about in your upper chambers, girl,’ snapped Mr Sinclair, forgetting the roses in his amazement. His nerves were frayed. He felt odd and alien in London. He missed Scotland and the taverns of Edinburgh. He missed soft Scottish voices and Scottish ale. He didn’t like the English. He never had, he realized. You never knew where you were with them. If a Scotchman liked you, well, he liked you for life. An Englishman was quite prepared to like you just so long as you had something he wanted – be it money, position, or title.
He took a deep breath. ‘I have heard about Harrington. He’s in his thirties, has never married, and is quite open about the fact he does not intend to marry until he finds a female of equal rank who will bear him stout sons. He has oft been heard saying it is shameful that men should put so much time and effort into blood lines in breeding dogs and horses and yet neglect their own nursery. He was not in the slightest interested in you at Pardon’s. So he’ll find himself an iron-faced aristocrat with broad child-bearing hips and a good fortune. Get some member of the gentry to fall so madly in love with you that he won’t mind learning you have no money after all. And be quick about it. We had 800 guineas before we left Edinburgh, enough to have kept us in a simple way in Scotland for a goodly time. But here! Demme, they’ll stake more than that on whether one goose will cross the road before the other.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Fiona demurely. ‘But I would really rather have the earl.’
‘Well, you can’t. Why do you want him anyway? You have so far shown not the slightest interest in any man you have met.’
‘I like his eyes,’ said Fiona dreamily. ‘He has eyes like a peregrine falcon.’
‘God grant me patience!’ Mr Sinclair’s face softened as he looked at the beautiful bewilderment in Fiona’s eyes. ‘You’re just a simple Edinburgh lass,’ he said, ‘and must be guided by me. Now, let’s hear no more of Harrington. I learned all about him from some of our new friends. He’s not for you. You may be lacking in wit, but you’re a fine needlewoman. Did they teach you at the orphanage?’
‘Oh, no. Mr Jamie hired a seamstress to teach me. And a governess.’
‘That’s not like him. He must ha’ had something devious in mind.’
‘I do not thi
nk so,’ said Fiona, all pretty puzzlement. ‘He said there were many ways in which I could reward him when he made a lady of me.’
‘I’ve nae doot,’ said Mr Sinclair dryly. ‘Off wi’ ye and take Joseph. That jackanapes is to wait at Lady Disher’s and bring you home.’
Joseph was delighted to oblige. Now that Miss Sinclair was no longer muffled in a cloak, he knew they would be the centre of attention.
Mr Sinclair crossed to the window to watch them walk off down the street. A hesitant cough from the doorway made him turn round. Rainbird stood there with Jenny, the chambermaid, behind him.
‘What is it?’ demanded Mr Sinclair.
‘A pair of gold silk curtains is missing from Miss Sinclair’s bedchamber,’ said Rainbird. ‘I am naturally anxious that no blame is put on Jenny here.’
Mr Sinclair turned back to the window. Fiona and Joseph had disappeared from view. He pushed past the startled Rainbird and rushed out into the street. Fiona was just turning the corner into Curzon Street with Joseph two paces behind.
‘Hi!’ called Mr Sinclair. ‘Come back here!’
Fiona waved. Her reticule of old gold silk gleamed in the sunlight. Then she turned the corner and was gone.
Mr Sinclair stumped back indoors, sweating heavily. ‘I think you will find,’ he said, avoiding Rainbird’s bright, intelligent stare, ‘that Miss Fiona sent them out to be repaired.’
‘But there was nothing up with them, sir,’ said Jenny.
‘Silence!’ roared Mr Sinclair. ‘If I say they were sent out to be repaired, then that’s what happened to them.’
Startled at his rage, Jenny burst into tears while Rainbird looked at the tenant of 67 Clarges Street reproachfully.
‘Well, don’t hang about,’ snapped Mr Sinclair. ‘Time’s money. My money.’
Rainbird led the still weeping Jenny out while Mr Sinclair sat down and cursed fluently. He now knew where Fiona had found the silk for her roses and her reticule. It was downright dishonest of the girl and would cost him money because he would need to replace the curtains. Damn her!
Was she really simple-minded, or had he perhaps a crook on his hands? Mr Sinclair was, however, now convinced that he had thought up the whole scheme of the miser of Mayfair by himself. He could not bring himself to think there was any cunning in Fiona at all.
Invitations had been arriving by every post. By the end of the following week, he and Fiona could start to eat at someone else’s expense. But Mr Sinclair felt weighed down with guilt over the servants’ predicament. He felt Palmer should pay them more and not depend on the generosity of his tenants, but that was the sad way Britain was going. Waiters in inns were expected to earn their wages out of tips, and you could not quit your room at the end of a stay without being faced with a whole line of servants who had their hands out. Mr Sinclair had been used to spending money freely. Now, he was having to guard every penny like the miser he was supposed to be.
He wanted to go out, but the idea of going out when there was no one congenial to eat or drink with seemed a miserable business. There would be callers, of course, hoping for a glimpse of Fiona. But he did not feel he could bear to sit about, watching them wince over their cheap, watered wine, seeing the thinly veiled contempt in their eyes.
He thought about Fiona again, and it struck him afresh that he really did not know the girl. He was sure Jamie had spent money on her education with a view to marrying her off profitably to one of his friends. Mayhap he wanted her for himself!
Mr Sinclair decided the time had come to sit down with Fiona on her return and try to find out what really went on behind that alabaster brow.
* * *
Down in the kitchen, Dave, the pot boy, was bowing and scraping before Lizzie. ‘Good day to you, madam,’ he was saying. ‘You is so grand a lady, I is frit to touch the ’em o your gown.’
‘Stow it,’ said Rainbird, who had turned the weeping Jenny over to Mrs Middleton. ‘Leave the girl alone.’
‘But look at ’er, Mr Rainbird,’ crowed Dave.
Lizzie tried to hide herself by crouching down and polishing the spit in front of the hearth.
‘Stand up, Lizzie,’ ordered Rainbird.
Lizzie stood up, head bowed, reddened hands twisting a knot in her coarse apron. Her lank greasy hair was now a soft shining brown and was confined at the nape of her neck with a jaunty cherry silk ribbon.
‘Where did you get that ribbon, Lizzie?’ demanded Rainbird.
All in that moment, Lizzie decided to lie. She knew the servants despised the Sinclairs and to say she had had a present from Miss Fiona would be tantamount to saying Napoleon Bonaparte had sent it.
‘It was out in the area, Mr Rainbird, sir,’ whispered Lizzie. ‘It had blown against the railing.’
‘Very well,’ said Rainbird slowly. ‘But your hair looks different.’
‘I washed it under the scullery pump,’ said Lizzie.
‘WHAT!’
All the servants stared at her in horror.
‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Middleton sorrowfully. ‘Don’t ever do anything as silly as that again. Combing the hair regularly and cleaning it from time to time with hair bran or ivory powder is quite sufficient.’
‘That is true, Lizzie,’ said Rainbird seriously. ‘Frequent bathing of the whole body may be allowed and a little soap may even be added to the water, but washing the head is absolutely forbidden. It is a pernicious practise which brings on headache, earache, toothache, and complaints of the eyes. You see, no matter how hard you try, it is impossible to get hair really dry at the roots. This obviously keeps the brain in a constant state of humidity, and, you can see for yourself, humidity has to escape somewhere, hence watery eyes, running noses, suppurating ears, and frequent swelling of the gums.’
‘How could I afford ivory powder?’ said Lizzie. ‘Miss Fiona cleans her hair by washing it regular.’
Immediately Lizzie wished she had not spoken.
‘Miss Fiona,’ said Rainbird in accents of deepest contempt, ‘is Scotch, and everyone knows they are little better than savages.’
‘Whit!’ roared MacGregor, raising a meat cleaver. It took Rainbird the rest of the day to calm the angry cook down. He felt quite out of charity with Lizzie, whom he blamed for having started the whole thing. He would need to keep an eye on that young girl. She was coming over all independent and bold.
Fiona was rather relieved to find there were no gentlemen present at Lady Disher’s smart house. Gentlemen did stare so.
Tea was served with delicious sandwiches and cakes. The other ladies, who had fashionably professed to have appetites like birds, watched in amazement as Miss Fiona Sinclair calmly demolished plate after plate with a seemingly unimpaired appetite.
Fiona was about the only unmarried miss there. The rest were rather fast young matrons dressed in the extremes of fashion, barely able to walk across the floor because of the tightness of their figure-hugging petticoats, that long tube considered de rigueur for showing the shape under a near-transparent muslin gown.
The footmen were black, something that appeared to engage Miss Sinclair’s interest more than the company. ‘You appear fascinated by my footmen,’ remarked Lady Disher tartly, wondering whether this gorgeous beauty was ever going to stop eating.
‘I have never seen anyone black before,’ said Fiona. ‘It appears to make them look much cleaner than white people and serves to show off the colours of their livery splendidly.’
Lady Disher blinked.
Fiona’s white, graceful hand slid forward to take yet another cake. Lady Disher sensed the restlessness of their guests, and said brightly, ‘Do you play cards, Miss Sinclair?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Fiona sweetly.
‘But we all adore a hand of whist or faro. Surely you would care to join us?’
‘I am sure it will all be too much for my poor brain,’ said Fiona with her blinding smile. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I watched. Also, I have heard that people play for money, and
I have none with me.’
The ladies exchanged covert glances. Mr Sinclair must indeed be a miser. After all, had not La Belle Assemblee just stated in its most recent issue, ‘No lady of fashion appears in public without a reticule – which contains her handkerchief, fan, essence bottle, and card money.’ For a lady to appear at any London function without any money at all was unheard of – or had been until Miss Fiona Sinclair appeared on the scene.
‘As to that,’ said Lady Disher with a light laugh, ‘do not worry. We will accept your vowels.’
‘How very nice of you,’ said Fiona. ‘It is my Scotch accent, you see. I was afraid my vowels would be unacceptable. They are a trifle broad.’
A hard-faced gambler called Mrs Carrington boomed, ‘Lady Disher means that if you owe anyone money, you simply write an I.O.U. – your vowels – saying you promise to pay it.’
‘That is very trusting,’ said Fiona, and smiled again.
‘So you will play?’ asked Lady Disher eagerly.
‘May I take some of these delicious cakes and sandwiches home with me?’ asked Fiona.
There was a shocked silence. But Lady Disher was anxious to get her hands on some of the miser of Mayfair’s gold, and so she said, ‘Certainly,’ in a thin voice. ‘Charles,’ she called to a large black footman, ‘go down to the kitchens and tell them to make up a basket of sandwiches and cakes for Miss Sinclair.’
As the last morsel of cake icing disappeared into Fiona’s mouth, Lady Disher desperately signalled to her other footmen to clear away the tea tables. Fiona looked wistfully after all the remains of the splendid tea as everything was borne away.
Card tables were carried in, and the ladies got down to business. Gossip and chatter died. They were silent and intense, and some of them had even turned their spencers and pelisses inside out for luck.
Lady Disher sat next to Fiona to instruct her in the game. Her plan was to let Fiona win a great deal of money and then begin to fleece her.
Miser of Mayfair Page 7