Jane and the Sins of Society

by Sarah Waldock

  It was opened by a scowling cook in the apron which showed his profession.

  “What do you want?” he growled. “It ain’t a message or you’d of gone to the front door.”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. John Radcliffe with regards to a position; I wasn’t sure I should go to the front door,” said Fowler, twisting the chapeau-bras he carried, as though nervous. It would be all over the house that he was a new man if the kitchen servants knew it.

  “I’ll take you up,” said a footman, sitting over a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Fowler regarded the tea with a raised eyebrow.

  Mrs. Jane, Lady Armitage, bought tea for the servants’ hall, and Mrs. Ketch and Ella and he all had keys to the caddy. Mrs. Jane, and bless her, she preferred that to formality, was an indulgent mistress, and the servants were well aware of it. Without such indulgence, the only ways a servant would legitimately get that socially elevated beverage would be to pool some of their wages to buy their own, not unknown; or dry and re-use the leaves already used above stairs by the lady of the house. Some housekeepers kept their own supply, having better wages than most servants, and used the sharing of it as a form of control, in the giving or withholding of favours.

  The footman flushed.

  “It ain’t stolen,” he blurted. “The old man gives a tea allowance, and if we wants more we pays out of our salaries.”

  “Most generous of him,” said Fowler. It was a measure of the master to find that he made such an allowance. Fowler felt happier about protecting an old man who was moderately generous.

  “’E ain’t a bad master,” said the footman. “Demanding, mind, very demanding, but generous too, if you puts yourself out. If he have you hopping up and down all day, there’s always a bonus in it, and often a golden one.”

  “Reckon I might be in the right place then,” said Fowler.

  “The grandson ain’t as free with his gelt,” warned the footman. “But then, ‘e’s allus skint. ‘E tortures wounded oliphants too.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “’E plays the trumpet, badly. When it ain’t a wounded oliphant, it’s a pig, farting.”

  “How, er, unfortunate,” said Fowler. “I understood the job was with his grandfather, but I might have misunderstood.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll find out,” said the footman, shrugging. “Wait here, and I’ll tell him you’ve arrived. What name shall I say?”

  “Johan Sebastien Fowler,” said Fowler, humorously.

  The footman did not appear to find this amusing, and Fowler sighed. An ignorant lot, the servants here.

  Chapter 18

  Toby limped upstairs on three legs, the splinted one carried high and stuck out in front of him. Little mistress was up here somewhere.

  The door had a handle he could open. Jane could have told Toby that Frank had insisted on brass lever handles, an unnecessary conceit, in Jane’s opinion, since the pretentious brass needed to be polished daily to look nice, whereas good cast iron took care of itself. Fortunately for the servants, it was only on the four doors on this main reception floor, and on the front door. Jane personally thought that iron door furniture looked stronger, and more intimidating to burglars than brass on an outer door, but had not bothered to have it changed back. It meant she could charge a higher rent to those who usually hired her house for the season, far beyond the cost of the brasswork, for the cachet. Jane might disapprove, but she was still going to exploit those stupid enough to pay the price she asked.

  Toby did not know this, and would not have cared, if he had. But he did care that if he stood on his one good back paw, using the splint as a balance as he leaned on the door frame, he could reach the handle with his front paws and pull it down to release it.

  The door of the parlour swung open, and Cecily cried,

  “Toby! You clever boy!”

  Toby half fell in the door, his tongue lolling out. ‘Clever’ was a word he knew and it usually went with sausages. He sat and begged, wishing that the splint did not get in his way.

  “You may feed him a few titbits cut up on a plate on the floor,” said Jane. “One cannot do anything but reward a dog with such determination and cleverness. However, he will only eat at the table if he can manage a knife and fork.”

  Cecily giggled.

  “He can’t hold them.”

  “Precisely,” said Jane. “I dare say we shall have the misbegotten cur sitting under the table taking treats from those he can cozen them out of.”

  “He is not a misbegotten cur, he is ... just a bit of a mix.”

  “He’s a mongrel, Cecily, like me,” said Caleb. “And he has nicer manners than many a lap dog bred to be pampered, and don’t you go spoiling him like some pugs get spoilt.”

  “As if I didn’t see you slipping bits of bacon to Nat under the table, Papa,” said Cecily.

  “Who, me?” Caleb tried to look innocent.

  “Papa slips small bits to Nat, so he feels indulged, but he does not have too many scraps, and is not allowed to get fat,” said Jane. “Poor Nat, he’s used to long walks in the country, the best we have managed is to take him to the park twice a week and send him out into the garden otherwise, with a muffler wrapped around him, for he dislikes the cold.”

  “I will make him a jacket, and one for Toby as well, because Toby is used to have a jacket on, and he must feel naked and cold without one,” said Cecily.

  “So long as you don’t make the poor creature a fool ruff,” said Jane. “I agree, a jacket would help both of them in inclement weather, you are able to sew?”

  “If I weren’t able to sew, I would’n’ hardly ‘ave kep’ body and soul together,” said Cecily. “When I weren’t priggin’ purses, I took in sewing, an’ said I was fetchin’ it for me ma, so nobody di’n’t think I done it.”

  “Clever,” said Jane. “You may use part of an old blanket in my rag bag, and if you want to embroider it, or add patches to make a gay patchwork banyan of a jacket, you shall do as you please. Remember, dogs cannot put their front legs out to the side, so you must take that into account when you make the jackets.”

  “I ‘ad ... had ... a good look at the one he was wearing,” said Cecily. “I was thinking abaht ... about ... copying it.”

  “Good, clever girl,” said Jane.

  “Smart and observant,” added Caleb. “You and Simon will make a good partnership!”

  “Can we take the dogs out for a walk?” asked Cecily.

  “Nat, yes, but Toby won’t be able to walk,” said Jane.

  “There is a hand-cart in the nursery, I have been wheeling Joseph and Frances about in it, Annie said Susanna is too small. He would like the air, he is used to being free on the street, I expect he is stifled in here,” said Cecily.

  Jane put an arm around her.

  “And are you also feeling stifled?”

  Cecily went red, and nodded.

  “I ain’t used to bein’ a swell gentry mort,” she said.

  “Of course you are not,” said Jane. “We shall take the dogs for a walk, and later you may put on your old clothes and go to see if Fowler has any errands for you. Mrs. Ketch has seen to laundering them, and ironing the seams to kill any lice.”

  “Cor, she knows that trick?”

  “We have a wide range of associates,” said Jane. “Go and fetch the handcart, and one of the cradle blankets from the press; Toby will need to be kept warm. Nat will wear a muffler as usual, as any gentleman might.”

  Daniel was to do the duty of a footman, following Jane and Cecily and their dogs. Jane had Nat on a leash, and Cecily pushed Toby, the dog taking every interest in his surroundings, and his tail escaping from the blanket to wag, vigorously.

  Jane sighed to see Rosalind, Lady Liddel, out in her carriage, with another lady beside her. Rosalind almost managed to make a mockery of half-mourning, being clad in as bright a lilac pelisse as it was possible for it to be, with silver frogs to fasten it, and the feathers on her bonnet dyed from almost black, throug
h lilac to almost white. There were at least five plumes, which bobbed like a rather dissipated bird on her head.

  “Why, Jane, dear, how nice to see you,” said Lady Liddel. “Who is this?”

  “This is Cecily, my stepdaughter,” said Jane. Cecily managed a fair curtsey.

  “I thought you had a stepson?” said Lady Liddel.

  “I do,” said Jane. “I don’t believe anything states that a man may only remarry if he has but one child, you know.”

  “I had not heard of the girl.”

  Jane smiled, sweetly.

  “Perhaps Lady Lieven did not mention her to you,” she said.

  “I do not move in those kinds of circles,” ground out Rosalind Liddel.

  “Well, you can hardly blame me for that,” shrugged Jane. “Blame the traitor whose capture made my husband a royal favourite, doubtless a temporary position, but one which currently dictates the society in which we move. You have not introduced your companion, in your curiosity.” The companion was dressed expensively but more conventionally in a black pelisse of superfine. The trim was tasteful and understated, in paduasoy.

  Rosalind looked daggers; it was most impolite of her to have given in to vulgar curiosity and a desire to put Jane down, rather than to introduce her own companion. She had lost the encounter with Jane, and shown herself up to be uncultured.

  “Maria, this is Lady Armitage. Jane, this is Mrs. Maria Devlin, wife of the honourable Mr. William Devlin.”

  Jane bowed to Mrs. Devlin.

  “Delighted,” she said. “Forgive me, I do not know to which title your husband is heir.”

  “Oh, he isn’t an heir to any title,” said Mrs. Devlin, her voice holding traces of Yorkshire in it.

  “Ah? Probably more comfortable for that,” said Jane. Rosalind seethed. She had done it wrong. She had introduced Jane to Mrs. Devlin first, because it was so insufferable to consider that Jane was equal to herself in rank, and socially outranked her companion. And Jane had called her on it in so clever a way.

  Cecily frowned, not understanding, but Rosalind burned red, thinking the chit to be frowning in censure.

  “And what kind of dog do you call that?” she asked, going on the offensive. “Isn’t your stepdaughter a little old to pretend a dog is a doll?”

  “He has a broken leg; an encounter with a carriage,” said Jane. “He is a Medleyan Retriever, and I believe he is the only one in the country. The Russian Embassy appreciated a small service we were able to tender.”

  “Oh.” Rosalind was almost abashed.

  The Russian Embassy had appreciated the small service of finding out all about Mrs. Fielding. Before they had left to go walking, to the consternation of both Jane and Caleb, a package had been delivered, containing a gold watch for Caleb, inscribed ‘with thanks, and in replacement for the one damaged’ and a gold-mounted musical box for Jane, playing a Russian air, with a tiny pair of dancing dolls, in brightly enamelled and bejewelled national dress, who danced to it when it was wound. There was also a substantial bank draft, which Jane was not about to refuse, and a book of Russian recipes.

  Jane smiled brightly at Rosalind; she had not lied, she had just presented information in a way that Rosalind was bound to take it out of context.

  They moved on.

  “A Medleyan Retriever?” demanded Cecily.

  “Well, he retrieves medleys when they are played, and dances to them, anyway,” said Jane. “I do not like that woman; we were at school together, and she took every opportunity to belittle me, and some of my friends. I did not want her belittling you and your pet.”

  “Thank you,” said Cecily. “Why was she so angry about you asking if the lady’s husband was an heir?”

  “Because she should have said, ‘Lady Armitage, this is Mrs. Maria Devlin’, instead of introducing me to her friend,” said Jane. “The correct way to introduce someone is to name the person of higher rank, addressing them formally, and then introduce the person of lower rank. And she did not, and I was able to censure her.”

  “I didn’t like her,” said Cecily. “I think Mr. Devlin beats his wife.”

  “You do?” asked Jane.

  Cecily nodded.

  “She moves like she’s bruised, and her cap lappets were awfully wide for someone who isn’t old, but they hide any bruises on the side of the face.”

  “You are a good, quick observer,” said Jane. “I doubt there is much we can do; if she has any children, it is a rare mother who will leave her children to the mercy of an abusive father. And all children belong to the father, you know.”

  “Unless a swell mort prigs them,” said Cecily.

  “I could probably use influence to sever your father’s ties with you if he was alive, yes,” said Jane. “As it is, Caleb had him declared dead in order to adopt you. It won’t affect his pay, the Navy keep their own records, but it satisfied the Parish. And yes, I know it’s abuse of power, but I don’t actually care.”

  “Good. I likes being your daughter,” said Cecily.

  Fowler was shown into a study, to meet Mr. John Radcliffe. Fowler’s valet’s eye appraised Mr. Radcliffe, and judged him a gentleman in his dress, without the excesses of either dandy or Corinthian, but managing to maintain an air of fashion, neverlethless. Doubtless his lack of money came from paying his tailor, whom Fowler suspected to be Weston. Good clothes were an investment, however. Maybe Mr. Radcliffe had too much of a good thing, and invested in more coats than were strictly necessary.

  “A musical name, Johan Sebastien Fowler,” said he.

  “If music be the food of love, play on, as that gager in Twelfth Night said,” said Fowler. “I’m from the Armitages; I can turn my hands to most things, for dissembling while I guard your grandsire.”

  “I was thinking that you might be his nurse. He is not ill, but he does have need of medicine in the night at times, and as medicine is so easy to doctor, I thought I would give you keys to a tea caddy in which to keep it.”

  Fowler nodded.

  “A good thought, though of course it don’t give you the perfect alibi the cove who does this tries to provide,” he said. “Medicine can be interfered with over a wider time period than holding a pillow down on an old woman’s face, or drowning a little boy.”

  “You’re talking about other real wagers, aren’t you?” said Radcliffe, paling. “Are ... are you a gentleman?”

  “No, but my gentleman trusts me more than anyone else bar his lady,” said Fowler. “Is your grandfather aware of what is going on?”

  John Radcliffe paled again, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “Yes, I made a clean breast of it to him,” he said. “He bawled me out royally, as well he might, and when I explained about you, he said at least I had the sense to try to put things right. It would be hard for you to be his nurse if he did not know; he has always strenuously refused one, expecting his valet to wake in the night to give him medicine. His valet, Henderson, is half glad, half resentful. Probably more glad, so long as you call him ‘Mr. Henderson,’ and don’t try to usurp his place.”

  “Understood, sir. I’m relieved the old man knows about me.”

  “He said he’d put up with you so long as you didn’t try to actually nurse him and stayed out of sight,” said Radcliffe, half apologetically.

  “Well, sir, to be fair, having a stranger in mauling him wouldn’t be much fun,” said Fowler.

  The younger Radcliffe led Fowler upstairs. A tall, sallow, austere man sat in an antechamber, which also had a truckle bed behind a screen, which Fowler’s sharp eyes picked out, and had two doors out of it. A knock and a muffled bark of greeting led them into a comfortable and warm sitting room. A door off this went to the room which the antechamber also communicated with, presumably the old man’s bedroom.

  The old man was a straight, positive figure, sat at a desk. He was an older version of his grandson, but without the flesh of youth, he could almost be described as hatcher-faced. There were enough laughter lines around his
eyes, however, that Fowler judged his stern looks to be superficial and at least partly due to pain. He fixed Fowler with a steely gaze.

  “So you’re the bodyguard, eh? How good are you?”

  “Well, sir, my man is still alive despite many villains trying to silence him,” said Fowler. “I believe that record speaks for itself, though I do not discount that he’s lucky as well.”

  “Luck plays its part. What will you do if someone attacks me?”

  “That will entirely depend on who, how, when, where and a number of other imponderables, sir,” said Fowler. “If, however, you want to know my aims for the outcome, then that would be primarily keeping you alive, and secondarily capturing your assailant alive. I won’t compromise your safety to keep him alive, if that’s what you are concerned about.”

  “Cocky, ain’t you?”

  “Realistic, sir,” said Fowler. “I know my limits, but I also know my abilities. This killer is used to dealing with older men and women or children. Plenty have been hale, but few in the prime of life. So far, he has not failed. I am anticipating that he may have become a little careless, because nothing has gone wrong, because it has been easy. Now, a certain news report might make him think twice, but we are hoping it will rattle him and make him careless in order to get in and out quicker.”

  “And what news report is that?”

  “The ‘Morning Post’, and other newspapers, will carry the news that Bow Street have still not uncovered the murderer of Lady J – D, who was murdered by smothering with a pillow, though a clumsy attempt had been made to make it appear that she had choked on a fish bone. It’s all quite true, and my master hopes her nephew, who had the killing arranged, will do something stupid. However, there is a chance it will also rattle the killers for hire. It’s a risk, but then, life is a risk.”

  “Hmmph. Well, my idiot nephew will not tell me who makes these outrageous bets, which to my mind makes the fellow no gentleman so no finer feelings of honour towards him need be preserved, but young people are so stubborn.”