“She believes….?” The Faun, his eyes wild, seemed about to leap for the door.
“Hold hard, lad,” said Mr. Benjamin, “you can’t go rampaging up to the Manor to see your girl.”
“I have to see her,” said Elwy, looking about him desperately as if in search of some means of escape.
“You can’t see her,” said Harriet, firmly. “But I will tell her - explain what happened.”
“But will she believe me?” the Faun’s lips were white.
“Have you ever given her reason not to believe you?” asked Harriet.
The Faun shook his mane of hair. “No, Ma’am.”
“Then I expect she will believe you,” said Harriet.
“I expect she will be longing to believe you,” smiled Effie. “Don’t worry, we will explain everything to her. She will be overjoyed, I expect…don’t you have a ring?…A token to give her…lovers always exchange tokens when they have to be apart, and then, years later, when they are grown quite old, they suddenly recognise each other…in some quite different part of the world…and realise…”
“That they have wasted the best part of their lives,” said Harriet. “No, no, we can contrive better than that - do not look so downhearted Elwin. My sister and I will sort everything out, don’t worry.”
The Faun looked a little bewildered. “You will sort everything out?” he said doubtfully, obviously wondering what two middle aged maiden ladies could do in a case of murder and scandal and mistaken identity.
“Everything!” said Harriet, decidedly. “Come, Effie, we must arrange to see Grace as soon as possible.”
“Oh yes,” said Effie, “she will be so anxious to hear what Elwin has to say!”
“And I,” replied Harriet, “am very anxious to hear what Peter the footman has to say.”
* * *
As they took tea that evening, in their little green sitting room, made even more green by the last rays of the sun filtering through the leaves of the geranium, Effie sighed.
“What is it, dear? Are you thinking of your Faun?”
Effie smiled sadly at her sister, “No, at that moment I was thinking of the poor little baby. Millie’s baby.”
Harriet nodded.
“I have to say that Millie does not sound as if she would have made an ideal mother,” continued Effie, “but, oh, Harry dear, I do wish we had had a baby, a dear little baby!”
Harriet looked at her sister, who was dabbing at her eyes, with a softened expression. “Yes dear, it would have been the greatest joy - but we should always remember that we have so much that others lack - we have each other, we have good health and we have our own home.”
“Indeed we do, not that it is exactly our own home, as we rent the rooms from Mrs. Postlethwaite, but we do have our own front door!”
“And our own hearth,” said Harriet, looking fondly at the small, black-leaded stove in the grate and the shiny copper kettle steaming gently away on top.
Miss Effie beamed at her. “Our own front door and our own hearth! If you were a man, Harry, you could vote!”
Miss Harriet sighed. “If I were a man I confess I would have very little idea as to whom I would give my vote.”
“Mr Disraeli wears very nice waistcoats,” said Effie diffidently.
“What do you know of Mr. Disraeli’s waistcoats?”
“They always look very splendid in the cartoons by Mr. Tenniel.”
“I do not think, Effie, that Mr. Tenniel’s cartoons are quite the sort of reading matter that our dear Papa would have approved of.”
“No, indeed… but they are very funny! Although not perhaps very kind.”
“I do not think Mr. Tenniel is paid for his spirit of kindness. The publishers of broadsheets are not, I believe, philanthropic men. But nor do I think that dear Papa would have approved of Mr. Disraeli. He is not quite… one of us, after all.”
“Oh no, Harry, I am sure dear Papa would not have liked Mr. Disraeli at all. He seems far too clever for Papa’s taste. Papa always said he admired a man he could rely on, so I think he would have preferred Mr. Gladstone, but then Mr. Gladstone is a Whig!”
Harriet sighed. “Yes, Mr. Gladstone is a Whig. And even worse than a Whig, for Mr. Gladstone began his political career as a Tory, and if there was one thing dear Papa abhorred - and to speak the truth, there were many things that dear Papa abhorred - it was someone who changed their mind.”
“Oh yes, dear Papa would have called it shilly shallying, or even worse! I remember his saying, when Mr. Prestcott changed his mind over the repeal of the Corn Laws, that a man should stick to his beliefs, and not go turning his coat with every change in the wind that blew. He quite fell out with poor Mr. Prescott over that, although I am sure he was not terribly to blame.. not that I ever understood what the argument was all about, since I have no head for politics, and indeed no woman can truly understand… that was Papa’s view anyway, although I have sometimes thought, that if one really put one’s mind to it, that it would not be impossible… someone like you, dear Harry, could certainly master the subject - or mistress it, should it be? There, you see? even the language is against one when one is a female, for how can one expect to get on in anything if one has to change one’s sex in order to succeed in it?”
“Quite right, Effie, but then, when the choice is between a turncoat Whig and an over-clever man with a flamboyant taste in waistcoats, there is really no-one that one feels one could give one’s vote to.”
CHAPTER 8
The return of the Prodigal Son
“There goes the manor coach,” said Effie the next morning, peering through the geranium leaves, “but I can’t see her ladyship inside. Indeed I can’t see anyone inside.” She continued to watch, craning her neck to get a further view. “It isn’t stopping at Masterson’s…or at Mrs. Becket’s so it can’t be a new summer dress, not that Lady Weston uses dear Mrs. Becket for her own dresses…not these days, if indeed she ever…not to say that Mrs. Becket isn’t an excellent dressmaker, for we always found her…and dear mama in her day used to - and that was many years ago now, although the stitching still excellent as we know - I was going to say 'to our cost', for Mama’s old green brocade was really quite a job to unpick when we wanted to make use of…and no-one ever recognised it when it was new made-up, or if they did they were too polite to mention…dear me, the carriage has gone quite out of sight now; I wonder if it could be going to pick up a parcel at the station, although one would have thought the gig would be more…or even the governess’s dogcart…Goodness! Do you think it could be young Master Gervais coming home? I can’t remember if her ladyship ever said when she expected him…but I wouldn’t have thought he would, so soon…but perhaps she has called him home…to put a bold face on it, or…might he know something, do you think, Harry?”
“I think we will have to wait for the carriage’s return, dear,” said Harriet, “but if it is Gervais Weston then I confidently expect that Lady Weston will be parading him through the village at the first opportunity.”
“Putting a bold face,” repeated Effie. A thought struck her. “Oh, Harry, do you think she will bring him here?”
“Surely not straight away,” replied her sister. “I think we may count on a day’s grace at least, and if we keep our bonnets and capes to hand we may quite easily be on the point of leaving the house if her ladyship calls. Not but what…”
“It would be interesting to hear what he has to say about it all, isn’t that what you were going to say, Harry?”
“Yes my dear, it would. Perhaps it would be worth the expense of a pot of tea.”
“And the room is still looking very nice after all the effort we put into it.” Effie gazed complacently around the room, which certainly did look nice, all the copper and brass shining, brightening up the dark corners, and the lace doilies on the dark oak tables laden with their cargoes of small cut glass vases and delicate china figures, some of genuine Bow including a charming
pair of musicians, the lady playing a sort of lap harp, or perhaps a psaltery, she believed it was called, and the gentleman a drum. Such a lovely couple, and such beautiful large roses as the gentleman had painted on his hinder garments, really it was a shame that one never saw such a fashion in real life, it would be a great improvement, she thought, over the dress of all the gentlemen of their acquaintance, drably smart in black and the faintest of pinstripes. Effie sighed for the loss of Dandyism, unaware that it was due to that most famous of all dandies - George Bryan Brummell - that gentlemen desisted from flowers and exotic birds on their garments and took to wearing severe black and white.
There was a scurrying on the stair and Becky burst into the room, “Master Gervais is back!” she cried and only then stopped to catch her breath.
“Goodness, Becky, how on earth did you find out so quickly? I only saw the carriage go past five minutes ago!”
Becky nodded vehemently, her breast heaving, “John Coachman,” she managed, “Clara from Mrs. Alworthy’s stopped him and asked where he was going.”
“And he told her?” asked Harriet in surprise.
Becky nodded again. “Clara can always get John Coachman to pass the time of day, well, if her ladyship’s not in the carriage she can. And even if she is, he still tips his hat to Clara with his whip handle. Seen him do it myself.”
“Do you think they have an Understanding,” said Effie eagerly, her eyes lighting up.
“Not much chance of it with Mrs. Alworthy and Lady Weston poking their noses.”
“Now Becky, you know very well that servants are not normally allowed followers.”
Becky sniffed. “There’s a lot that servants aint allowed but they still get.”
“That is only too true,” sighed Effie, “only look at poor Millie Budge!”
“Now, now, Effie dear. So what is it that Clara is after at the moment, may I ask, Becky?”
Becky squinted at her mistress. “I s’pose you could say she’s after a new 'at.”
“A new hat, Becky?”
“Yes, she was standing outside Masterson’s when I first saw her, staring in at the window, and then she heard the carriage wheels I s’pose 'cos she turned round and saw John Coachman a-driving up, so she steps out and looks up at him with that look she has, you know, Miss Effie.”
“Oh yes, I know,” sighed Effie. “I remember a friend of mine when i was still quite young, only a girl, really, although I would have been old enough to go to the Assemblies if only dear Mama…not that I am meaning to question dear Mama’s decision, please do not think that, I am sure she only did what she thought right, and, after all, when one sees…and really one does see so very much of it these days…and it could have happened to me, to us, dear Harry, well, perhaps not to you because you have always been so…so firm of purpose, I suppose I would say…but…where was I?”
“Young Clara looking at John Coachman, I believe, my dear.”
“Oh, that’s right, how it brings it all back. Her name was Hermione, I remember…and she used to look in just the same way as Clara…she had blonde hair…almost blonde…in little curls around her forehead…curl papers, probably, every night…do you remember Mama doing up our hair in curl papers, Harry? Such a soothing bedtime routine, although sometimes a little too tight.” Effie sighed. “She became Mrs. Price in the end, rather a come down, I always thought, Mr. Price being…not quite…if you know what I mean…just not quite, although perfectly respectable, which, we have to admit, Hermione herself was not…but I expect that has all changed now, and a cluster of golden haired children at her knee!” She sighed again.
“But about this hat, Becky, do you say that Clara is looking for John Coachman to buy it for her, because I really do not think that very likely.”
“Oh no, M’m. well, certinly not likely, although it might be as Clara is a-hoping, but no, she was just looking at it. Well, I have to say it was pretty, I saw it meself when Clara was telling me what John Coachman said about going to pick up Master Gervais, although of course,” with a dismissive nod of her head, “I wouldn’t waste my time gazing at hats in windows, I’ve got better things to do - aye, and more of them too I wouldn’t wonder.” Becky gave her ladies a look of conscious virtue.
Harriet smiled, “It is true, Becky, you are an excellent servant to Miss Effie and myself and we would not willingly do without you.” She held up a finger, “and if it should be within our power - and I do not see why it should not be - we will see about a new hat for your birthday next month.”
Becky lost all her air of slightly injured superiority and became enthusiastic. “Would you reelly, M’m? Oh M’m that would be nice, and then I could go to chapel in it and wave its feathers about under the noses of all those overdressed Cooper girls.”
“Now, now, Becky,” said Harriet repressively, and Effie, looking alarmed, cried “Feathers? Oh, I really don’t think feathers would be…”
“Quite the thing,” inserted Harriet.
“Far too expensive,” said Effie. “Possibly some roses…”
“Silk roses,” breathed Becky.
“Cotton,” said Effie.
“Perhaps one silk,” said Harriet kindly.
There was an imperative knock at the door. Becky exchanged an agonised look with her mistresses and sped downstairs, her feet thudding on every step. The two sisters listened attentively and heard the rattle of the chain (To be sure, it was the custom of most houses in Rotherford to leave their doors on the latch, but, as Miss Effie was used to say, One Never Knew, and the sisters felt more comfortable with the chain up.), and then the increased sound of the street noises as the door was opened. A burble of voices - surely that was a man’s voice amongst the others, and feet began to ascend the stairs. “I do wish we could afford to carpet the stairs,” said Miss Effie, and her sister nodded, although her concentration was still speculating on the precise number and nature of the invading party. There was a brief pause as the uncomfortable manoeuvre that always had to take place on the tiny landing at the top of the stairs was effected and Becky, who had of course followed the visitors upstairs, inserted herself at the front of the group in order to open the door and announce them, before allowing them to once again precede her into the room - oh, the incompatibility of the niceties of civilised life with the cramped living quarters of a severely reduced income!
“Lady Weston and Mr. Gervais Weston,” said Becky, keeping her voice perfectly flat and bobbing a quick curtsey.
“Lady Weston, such an honour, and dear Mr. Gervais,” said Harriet, threading her way amongst the furniture to greet them at the door.
“Thought we’d just drop in,” said Lady Weston; “thought we could count on finding you at home at this time of day.”
“Oh yes,” said Effie, “indeed at most times of day, once the morning marketing is done…not that we ourselves go shopping…well, only when it is something like a spool of thread…so difficult to match the colour exactly if one does not go oneself. Dear Becky, such a treasure, but when it comes to thread or embroidery silks….”
“Charming to see you again, Miss Fotheringay and Miss Euphemia, and looking so well,” said Gervais Weston, bowing over the Miss Fotheringays' hands and causing a small flutter in Miss Effie’s bosom. Miss Effie generally fluttered when a young man paid her any attention, and now, when it might prove all too possible that Master Gervais had actually been the cause of poor Millie Budge’s condition, well! Was it any surprise that a respectable maiden lady should flutter a little at having the lips that whispered words of love - or at least words of seduction - to a serving maid, now hovering the prescribed three inches above her own hand. And who know what else they might have been doing? thought Effie in horrified fascination.
“I must say that you, too, are looking well, Mr. Weston,” replied Harriet. “Le Touquet must have agreed with you.”
“I should say so,” said Gervais easily, “Charming place, strolls along the promenade, glass of
wine in the sun, all that sort of thing, what?”
“And the food!” Effie clasped her hands and looked to heaven. “How wonderful it must be to sit at a French restaurant and order the waiters to bring all sorts of marvellous delicacies, and all positively swimming in butter and cream, so I hear.”
“And calvados,” laughed Gervais.
“Calvados?”
“Sort of brandy made from apples.”
“How delicious that sounds, don’t you think that sounds delicious, dear Harry? But are you saying that they put it in the food, too?”
“Certainly,” said Gervais.
“Then I wonder you are not returning to us half a stone heavier, my boy,” said his fond Mama.
“Tennis, Mama,” smirked Gervais, “got to keep in shape or the girls wouldn’t like it.”
There was a sudden pause. Was that the very slightest flush creeping up Master Gervais’s neck?, wondered Effie. But Lady Weston was proof against any and all subtleties. “No chance of you losing your charms with the young ladies, dear boy,” she said. “Dear Gervais is so popular at parties,” she smiled widely at Miss Fotheringay.
Now what is the meaning of that remark? thought Harriet. Does she wish us to believe that Gervais is so popular among girls of his own class that he would never bother with a serving maid, or is she merely blind to the implications of his being 'a one for the girls'.
“I’m surprised you could tear yourself away,” she said to Gervais, “or was the party splitting up?”
“Far from it,” said Gervais, “everyone was having a simply splendid time; in fact I thought I could have…but no, when it came to the point of it, seemed like a good idea to come home, y’know. East, west, home’s best, sort of thing. He looked at his mother, who smiled benignly at him.
“Gervais is never really happy away from home,” she claimed, on very little basis of fact.
The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1) Page 7