by M. C. Beaton
In their enthusiasm, in their crowding around the window, the members of the ton, lushy to a man with the effects of Rainbird’s concoction, knocked over the tables and chairs, broke a pane of glass opening the window, and were now laying bets on the length of the cravat as the young man was lowered to the street outside amid cheers and yells. The betting fever rose and the two men holding onto the length of material, which once was an intricately tied cravat, forgot what they were doing while contesting the odds, and let go. There was a crash from the street outside and a scream of pain. After a short, startled silence the betting started up again as to whether he had broken one leg, two legs or his neck. Anyone going down to check, looking out the window, or going to help would be automatically disqualified.
Euphemia, jostled and forgotten in the wave of gambling fever shared by men and women alike, pouted and sulked. She pouted and sulked even more when the handsome Lord Tregarthan accosted her mother for the sole purpose of asking permission to take Jane driving. It was all Felice’s fault, thought Euphemia, raging inwardly. She had turned Jane into a Cyprian with that low-cut gown.
Lord Tregarthan collected his friend Mr. Nevill, and the two gentlemen made their way out past the young man of the cravat, who was painfully crawling back in on his hands and knees.
“How did you fare?” asked Tregarthan. “Hope you didn’t drink any of that negus.”
“Didn’t have the time,” said Mr. Nevill. “I say, you will never guess who Mr. Hart is!”
“No, who?”
“Why, he is none other than Captain James Hart of the
Adventure.”
There was a certain stillness about Lord Tregarthan and the blue gaze he turned on his friend was suddenly sharp and inquisitive. “You are sure?”
“Course I am. I recognised the man the minute I saw him. There he was, one of the heroes of England, jammed in a corner and looking like a funeral. To think that brave man with his little frigate of fourteen small guns and a crew of fifty-four men on board took that Spanish Frigate, Infanta, with her crew of three hundred.
“Nelson once said Captain Hart had more dash and flair than any man in the service.”
“Why does our hero mope in London with a war to be fought?” asked Lord Tregarthan curiously.
“Women!” said Mr. Nevill in tones of deepest contempt. “He did not say so and I did not ask, but it was all too evident that pushing, vulgar wife of his made him sell out. I shall call on them again, but only when I can be assured of meeting Captain Hart.”
“What of the beautiful Euphemia?”
“She should drink less,” said Mr. Nevill roundly. “She went from bold to brash to sulky to petulant, all in the space of half an hour.”
“Perhaps our beauty is not to be blamed. That so-called negus was evil stuff.”
“And what of you?” asked Mr. Nevill. “You caused no end of a buzz—the great Beau Tregarthan paying court to a plain schoolgirl.”
“Is she plain?” asked Lord Tregarthan, stifling a yawn. “I confess I had not noticed. Let us talk of other things …”
Chapter
Five
Poising evermore the eye-glass
In the light sarcastic eye,
Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid
Pass, without a tribute, by.
—C.S. Calverley, Hic Vir, Hic Est
It is a sad fact that no heroine is as sweet and virtuous in real life as she is in, say, a Grimms’ Fairy Tale, and Jane, who had escaped early to bed and therefore evaded Euphemia’s reprisals, awoke the next day with a mild, pleasurable, gloating feeling.
She would be swept off by Beau Tregarthan in his carriage while Euphemia, pale and wan, chastened and jealous, stood at the window to watch her go. Felice would become her devoted slave, cultivating the approval of the younger sister to counteract the mean temper of the elder.
And so it was with something closely approaching pique that Jane, descending late to the dining room, found Euphemia and the lady’s maid on the best of terms. They had their heads together and were laughing over an illustration in a magazine when Jane entered.
The clever Felice had met all Euphemia’s recriminations with amazed surprise. How could such a beauty suggest that a few stitches had transformed a little schoolgirl into a rival? The compliments and blandishments went on and on until Euphemia almost purred.
Then bouquets and poems had begun to arrive, all for Euphemia. The fact was that Mrs. Hart’s drunken rout had made her and her elder daughter social successes. A rout was not a fashionable rout unless it left you with something to talk about, and never before had there been such a rout as the Harts’! Two tonnish ladies of impeccable breeding, inebriated by Rainbird’s “negus,” had tried to scratch each other’s eyes out. The young man who had been dropped from the window had sprained both his ankles, although some thought he must have broken his neck, because from that day forth he went about in a cravat made of yards and yards of the strongest linen in case anyone should try to lower him from a great height and he indeed looked like the victim of a carriage accident.
Everyone had behaved so wonderfully disgracefully that Euphemia’s bad manners were quite forgotten and only the image of her great beauty remained in the fevered brains of the gentlemen of the ton the following day as they struggled to quench their raging thirsts with bumpers of hock and seltzer.
Society wagged heads, gossipped, and laughed over the dreadful happenings at Mrs. Hart’s rout and declared her to be an Original. At one point during the evening, Mrs. Hart, a trifle disguised, had broadcast to all and sundry the size of Euphemia’s dowry. The necessary gilt-edge was added to Euphemia’s beauty.
Now, dizzy with success, Mrs. Hart appeared in the dining room, announcing that little Jane must have some new gowns, and disappointed Jane noticed that that pronouncement did not raise even one gleam of jealousy in her sister’s eye. For it transpired that the great and powerful Marquess of Berry was to call to take Euphemia driving. What was a mere lord like Tregarthan compared to a marquess?
Besides, Mrs. Hart, although pleased and surprised at what she termed “Jane’s little success,” assumed that Tregarthan was merely amusing himself by entertaining such a young miss. Several ladies had been at great pains to point out to Mrs. Hart that Tregarthan was a high stickler and that all his many mistresses had been divine beauties.
Euphemia, who had had this gossip of her mother, no longer considered Jane a rival and laughed and glowed while Jane sulkily helped herself to toast and tea and felt smaller and plainer by the minute. But her normally sunny disposition soon asserted itself and she slipped off to the kitchens to pump Rainbird about the late Miss Clara and so to have a fund of gossip to pour into the ears of Lord Tregarthan.
Jane had naively supposed that the servants would be delighted to have a visitor from upstairs, but the servants were irritated by her presence, and Mrs. Middleton looked openly shocked that this young member of the gentry should not know her place—which was abovestairs.
Undaunted, Jane looked curiously at the members of the household staff she had not seen before—at the cook, MacGregor, at Lizzie, the scullery maid, and at Dave, the pot boy.
She averted her eyes from Lizzie, however, after that first look. There was something about the small scullery maid that reminded Jane painfully of herself. It was so much easier to imagine that one had undiscovered mysterious facets of attraction when one was not being faced with a near mirror-image. Like Jane’s, Lizzie’s hair was dark brown, and she had the same waif-like appearance and short figure. But where Jane’s skin was golden-brown, Lizzie’s was pale, and Lizzie’s eyes were pansy-brown where Jane’s were hazel.
“What can we do for you, Miss Jane?” asked Rainbird. He was feeling very tired. He and the others had been up most of the night, moving the furniture back into place and clearing up the mess. Although Mrs. Hart did not get to bed until three in the morning—the bed that had to be carried back upstairs by Rainbird and Joseph—that sturdy
matron had risen with the lark and had started to ring for attention and service instead of sleeping until two in the afternoon like any other respectable member of the ton.
“I wanted to find out a bit more about Miss Clara,” said Jane, feeling awkward under Mrs. Middleton’s openly disapproving eye.
“Come through to the servants’ hall,” said Rainbird tolerantly. The dining-room bell began to jangle.
“Answer that, Joseph,” said Rainbird over his shoulder as he led Jane out of the kitchen.
“Meh feet,” moaned Joseph. He wore shoes two sizes two small for him because he considered small hands and feet aristocratic. Now his tortured toes looked like globe artichokes. He longed to escape to The Running Footman for a comfortable coze with Luke, the footman from next door. Never before had Joseph had such fascinating gossip to relate. Never before had he seen so many top members of the ton gathered under one roof and all of them behaving badly.
“Sit down, Miss Jane,” said Rainbird, pulling out a chair at the table in the servants’ hall. Jane sat down, and Rainbird, after some hesitation, decided he was too weary to observe the conventions and sat down as well.
“The most marvellous thing has happened, Mr. Rainbird,” said Jane, wide-eyed. “Lord Tregarthan is to take me driving this very afternoon and he has agreed to help me find out what happened to Miss Clara.”
“It was not anything sinister or mysterious as I havealready told you,” said Rainbird. “If Mr. Gillespie, her physician, could find nothing the matter, then her death must have been caused by some rare disease. These rare diseases come and go. In my youth there was a plague of something the doctors called Whirligigitis, but you never hear of that these days. Besides, the crowner passed a verdict of accidental death.”
Jane frowned. “Did she have a beau?”
“Her parents wanted her to marry a Mr. Bullfinch. Mr. Bullfinch is extremely rich.”
“Did she love him?”
“I never considered the matter,” said Rainbird. “Ladies do not often make marriages of affection. It was considered a fine match by her parents.”
“After her death, did Mr. Bullfinch marry anyone else?”
“No. He was grief-stricken.”
“He could have been tortured by a guilty conscience?”
“Mr. Bullfinch is a very respectable gentleman,” said Rainbird repressively. “I have heard he is in London for the first time since Miss Clara’s death. No doubt you will meet him.”
“Is he handsome?”
“Miss Jane,” said Rainbird with a sweet smile, “you should not be belowstairs. You will get me in bad odour with Mrs. Hart.”
“Meaning you want me to go away.” Jane stood up with a sigh. “Wicked Mr. Rainbird. You should be in bad odour with mama because you made all her guests tipsy.”
“I?” Rainbird opened his eyes to their fullest. He took five oranges from a bowl on the table and started to juggle them. Jane laughed and clapped as Rainbird stood up, and, still juggling, led the way out.
Jane ran lightly up the stairs to her room. The very idea of going out in London was exciting, particularly as she had not seen very much of the city since her arrival.
Her bedroom overlooked the street, Euphemia preferring the larger, quieter room at the back. A noise from the street below drew her to the window. A group of acrobats was performing in the street outside. There were two men in soiled pink tights and a girl in a tawdry spangled dress. Jane watched them idly while her mind drifted back to that bright, brave image of Beau Tregarthan, which was fading fast to be replaced by the all too plain reality of a sleepy lazy lord with the dress of a Corinthian and the mind of a fop.
“You should not encourage that child, Mr. Rainbird,” said Mrs. Middleton after Jane had left.
“She’s a taking little thing,” said Rainbird indifferently. “I doubt very much if such a great man as Lord Tregarthan will encourage her in her funny ideas. Miss Jane told me that Lord Tregarthan had promised to help her find out who killed Miss Clara.”
“Then he should know better than to make fun of the girl,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Murdered indeed! If murder had been done, then Mr. Gillespie would have discovered it. Who is Miss Jane to doubt the word of a gentleman who has attended no less a personage than King George himself?”
“I thought Miss Clara was ever so sweet and pretty,” said Alice dreamily. “Lovely hair she had, masses and masses of it. A sort o’ chestnut. Too good she was for the likes of Mr. Bullfinch.”
“I never knew whether Miss Clara was as sweet and kind as she chose to appear,” said Rainbird. “I always thought there was something sly about her.”
“Not her,” said chambermaid Jenny stoutly. “Ever so kind to us, she was.”
Joseph swanned into the kitchen. “There’s talk again that the Prince of Wales might be made regent.”
“Such a thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Middleton. “Poor King George has come about before this. His madness is only temporary.”
“Some say,” said Joseph, who loved a gossip, “thet the losing of the British colonies in America fair turned his brain.”
“And some think,” said Rainbird with a malicious twinkle in his eye, “that we lost the colonies because of His Majesty’s madness.”
“Sedition, Mr. Rainbird,” cried Mrs. Middleton in alarm. “What if someone should hear you!” She looked anxiously up at the area window as if expecting to see a listening soldier.
Felice came into the kitchen to ask for hot water to make a pomade for Euphemia’s hair.
Mrs. Middleton bustled about. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said. “What else will you need?”
“A pennyworth of borax and half a pint of olive oil to go with a pint of water,” said Felice.
“Ah’ll get it for ye,” said MacGregor eagerly.
“Sit down, Felice,” said Rainbird, drawing out a chair.
Felice sat down and opened the small workbasket she always carried with her and took out a half-finished piece of lace.
“Do you make lace?” asked Joseph, looking greedily at the delicate white froth in Felice’s fingers.
“Yes. I was taught in France.”
“That would be before the Terror when you was a young woman,” said Jenny maliciously—meaning the French Revolution of 1789.
“No,” said Felice equably. “I was only a child then.”
“Of course you were,” said Rainbird, giving Jenny a hard look.
“That lace would look lovely on a handkerchief,” said Joseph longingly.
Rainbird looked around for Lizzie and then remembered to his relief that she was out on an errand. He knew how much that present of Joseph’s meant to the little scullery maid.
“Ta, ta, ta,” laughed Felice. “Do not edge so close, Joseph. I will make a handkerchief for you.”
“Thank you,” said Joseph. “When?”
“Joseph!” admonished Rainbird.
“Very soon,” said Felice with that small curved smile of hers. Joseph smiled at her dreamily. He could see himself producing that handkerchief in The Running Footman and flicking it under Luke, the next door footman’s, envious nose.
“Mrs. Hart is in high alt,” said Rainbird. “Madam has seen fit to tell me that the Harts have been invited to a ball at Barcombe House in Berkeley Square next Thursday. If Dave will stay to guard the house, it means we can all take an evening off. I received many vails from our drunken guests last night. In fact, Lord Petersham was generous enough to give me something towards paying for the broken glass although I did not tell Mrs. Hart that. So I suggest we stick to our old policy of dividing the money equally.”
“Tiens! How strange,” said Felice. “Surely the upper servants should receive the largest amount.”
“Not in this house they don’t,” snapped Jenny. “We’re one family, ain’t we, Mr. Rainbird? Or we were afore you come,” she added under her breath.
“What will you do with your free evening, Mr. Rainbird?” asked Mrs. Middleton, suddenly shy. A
lthough Rainbird had never given her any encouragement, Mrs. Middleton nourished a dream that the butler would one day propose to her when they both had a chance of retiring.
“As to that,” said Rainbird casually, “I have a mind to go to the playhouse—if Miss Felice will do me the honour of accompanying me.”
Alice, the housemaid, looked slowly and wonderingly at the butler. The servants, in her innocent mind, had always been like brothers and sisters. Rainbird was head of this kitchen family. The thought that the butler could have warm feelings towards a woman had not entered her mind.
Mrs. Middleton looked ready to cry. Jenny muttered something and went out of the kitchen. Joseph, face flushed, was staring at the floor.
“Well?” asked Rainbird softly. His eyes were warm and caressing as they looked at the lady’s maid.
Felice raised her black eyes from her sewing. “Thank you, Mr. Rainbird,” she said. “I would like to see the play, I think.”
“John,” said Rainbird. “My name is John.”
It was Jane who stood at the upstairs window to watch Euphemia leave, as the elder sister was to go driving first. At first Jane only had envious eyes for her sister’s ensemble. Euphemia looked like a fashion plate. She was wearing an apron-fronted dress of white muslin, the skirt ties of which passed right round the body to form a bow under the bust. The neckline was edged with the frill of her chemisette. The gown had short, full sleeves, and a skirt with a short train and tucked hem. Over it, she wore a mantle with a frilled edge. Her little pointed shoes had ribbon ties and very low heels. Her hair was dressed à la Titus, that style which consisted of tousled curls confined by a bandeau, which went round the head and under the chin as well.