by M. C. Beaton
Joseph closed his eyes.
Miraculously the grip on his arms slackened and there were cries of alarm and a female voice screaming, “Help! Murder! Get the watch.”
Joseph opened his eyes. Jane Hart was jumping up and down and thumping Joseph’s would-be assailant on the head with her parasol.
“The Quality. It’s a gentry mort,” yelled the leader. They took to their heels down the Park in the direction of Buckingham House. Past Jane, in full pursuit, thundered Lord Tregarthan. While Jane clutched Joseph, they both saw Lord Tregarthan catch up with the ruffians and Joseph screamed with glee as bodies started to fly.
“Lord Tregarthan will be hurt,” said Jane, making to run to him.
“Not he,” crowed Joseph. “He’s done wiff ’em already.”
They waited while Lord Tregarthan strolled back towards them, ruefully examining a split in his driving glove. He did not seem either ruffled or out of breath.
“Splendid, my lord,” said Joseph. “Oh, how splendid.” Then he sat down on the grass and began to cry. Lord Tregarthan looked on in a mixture of amusement and exasperation as Jane, oblivious of the gathering crowd, sank down onto one knee and peered anxiously into Joseph’s tear-soaked face.
“Are you hurt, dear Joseph?” she pleaded. “Do stop crying and tell me what I can do. Oh, here’s a cat. Shooo!”
“No,” said Joseph. “’S my cat.”
He scrubbed his eyes with his shirt sleeve and leaned down and stroked the cat. It rubbed itself against his knee and purred.
“The kitchen cat, Joseph?” asked Jane.
“Yes, yes,” gabbled Joseph. “Kitchen cat. Champion wiff rats, ’e is. Take ’im ’ome.” He rose to his feet, gathering the great brown-and-gold cat into his arms as he did so. It lay in his arms and regarded Jane with an insolent golden stare.
“Now, young fellow,” said Lord Tregarthan severely. “An explanation, if you please. My curricle is blocking the traffic in Piccadilly right at this moment and Miss Jane is distressed.” He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the circle of people about them. “If the vulgarly curious would please leave, unless anyone likes a taste of my fists, I might be able to hear you.”
Nervously, the crowd began to edge away. Still rattled by the occasional dry sob, Joseph told his tale, omitting, however, to say he had never seen the cat before.
“Highly commendable,” said Lord Tregarthan dryly. “Take that animal away. And do not forget your coat.”
Jane handed Joseph his coat and, still clutching the cat, he went off, carrying his coat over one arm.
“What very odd servants you have, to be sure,” said the beau. “Come, Miss Jane, and I will take you home.”
After he had returned Jane to her mother with smooth apologies for having kept her so late, he begged permission to call on Mr. Hart in the morning and took his leave.
It was only as he was driving along Curzon Street that a sudden horrible thought struck Lord Tregarthan. At the same time, he heard himself being hailed from the pavement and saw his friend, Mr. Nevill, who sprang lightly up beside him. “Why so glum?” he asked.
“Tell me, Peter,” said Lord Tregarthan in a neutral sort of voice, “if you told a young lady you intended to call on her papa on the morrow, what would she think?”
“Why—that you had marriage in mind.”
The beau drove on in silence.
“I say,” said Mr. Nevill, “never tell me you’ve asked leave to pay your addresses to the Hart chit!”
“No. I desired to see Captain Hart with a view to discussing a purely masculine matter.”
“Which is?”
“Entirely my affair. If anything comes of it, I will let you know. However, I fear I may have given both Jane and Mrs. Hart the wrong impression.”
“Did you make love to the girl?”
“No, of course not. She is much too young.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I tell you, Peter, there is something about that little waif that makes me behave in the oddest fashion. She did not want to go to the Park, but requested a drive about London. Then, when we were on Westminster Bridge, the wretched Cully challenged me to a race from Streatham to Croydon, and before I knew what I was about, there I was, enjoying myself immensely, going like the devil, with Jane Hart cheering me on.”
“Did she?” Mr. Nevill looked at his large friend in awe. “A Trojan of a girl.”
“Not only that,” said the beau, “she then involved me in a fight in the Green Park because her footman was under attack.”
“You know, you had better watch,” said Mr. Nevill. “I have never known you behave in such an unconventional manner. Are you sure there is not a certain something about Jane Hart which … ?”
“Do look,” interrupted Lord Tregarthan. “Isn’t that fellow a veritable quiz? His cravat is so high, he has to stare at the sky as he walks along.”
Mr. Nevill began to laugh and the subject of Jane Hart’s attractions was soon forgotten.
Although Lord Tregarthan was quite sure Jane herself would not expect a proposal of marriage, her mother was another matter. He decided to send a note round that very evening to Mrs. Hart explaining that the matter he wished to discuss with Mr. Hart was one of business. He called his butler and handed him the note, his butler handed it to the first footman, who handed it to the second footman, Abraham, and Abraham set off in the direction of Clarges Street.
He was a young man who had but lately joined Lord Tregarthan’s establishment. He was tall and good-looking but still naive and countrified and rather overpowered by the tonnish ways of the London servants.
He met Rainbird, who was standing on the steps of Number 67 taking the air. Perhaps if he had stated his business immediately the note would have been delivered, but, feeling at ease under Rainbird’s benign look, he said he was from Lord Tregarthan’s household and that he had but lately come to Town. One thing led to another and soon Abraham was confiding his fears of grand society and Rainbird was giving him various tips as to how to go on.
Then there came the sounds of a noisy altercation from the kitchen below, and Rainbird invited the young footman down the area steps, saying he would settle the matter in a trice. The cause of all the row turned out to be Joseph’s cat. MacGregor was threatening to behead it, Jenny and Alice were screaming it had a nasty look and, as sure as eggs were eggs, the animal had fleas, Joseph was clutching the cat to his bosom, Mrs. Middleton was bleating in dismay, and Dave was joyfully taking one side and then the other. Lizzie was standing a little away from the argument, wondering what best she could do to aid Joseph.
The noisy freedom and interchange of views amazed Abraham, who was used to the stiff formality of Lord Tregarthan’s servants’ hall. He thought Alice was the most beautiful maidservant he had ever seen and if she did not want the cat then the cat should go. Abraham cheerfully joined in the argument.
Lizzie quietly fetched a saucer of milk and some scraps of beef. She gently took the cat away from Joseph and carried it to a corner of the kitchen, crouching protectively down beside it while it fed. Lizzie thought it was a strange-looking cat, more like a wild animal than a pet, but if Joseph loved it, then she would love it too.
Soon the bells began to ring. Mrs. Hart, amazed and bewildered and overjoyed by Lord Tregarthan’s request, had listened to Jane’s tale of how the beau had suggested she patronise Leonie and had gone to see that person immediately, dragging Jane, Euphemia, and Felice along with her.
Now she was back, and, not finding Rainbird on hand to open the door or Joseph to carry in parcels, she was ringing the bells in the front and back parlours, striding from one room to the other, jerking the bell cords so hard that the bells up on the kitchen wall were fairly jumping on their wires. The cat was forgotten as the servants sprang to their posts.
Abraham cheerfully said goodbye and promised to call again. He walked back through the dusk, congratulating himself on having found new friends. London did not seem such a hostile and foreign place any longer.
It was only when he reached his own servants’ hall and was asked sharply whether he had delivered the note that he realised it was still in the pocket of his tails. Fear of losing his employ made him say, “Yes.” He would find some way of slipping out later and delivering it.
But he was put to clean the silver, then he had to trim the lamps, then he had to carry coal, for the evening had turned chilly, then my lord arrived home for a late supper and he had to scramble into his best livery and powder his hair and take up his stance in the dining room.
After all that, the house was locked up for the night and all hope of taking the note round to Clarges Street had gone.
Chapter
Seven
I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the suppression of the emotions in each.
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Rodney Stone
Euphemia was every bit as jealous as Jane had ever wanted her to be, and Jane found herself not enjoying it one whit.
The elder sister made a point of visiting Jane in her bedchamber before she went to sleep to pour into her unwilling ears all the rakish exploits of Beau Tregarthan that Euphemia had managed to pick up from the Marquess of Berry. The marquess had failed to tell Euphemia that the beau had recently returned from the wars and so Jane was left with the picture of a Corinthian who pursued brutal sports as enthusiastically as he pursued every high flyer in Town.
“I pity you, Jane,” said Euphemia sweetly as she made for the door.
“No, you don’t,” said Jane stoutly. “You’re jealous because your beau is old and looks like a wasp and my Lord Tregarthan is an Adonis.”
But the damage had been done. Jane lay awake, terrified. Were she to become engaged to Lord Tregarthan, then she would be expected to allow him to kiss and cuddle her. But what would that be like? Men had such brutal lusts—everyone knew that.
Her governess had once given her a talk on such matters, shortly before her services were no longer considered necessary. She had said that there were several things a lady must endure in order to present her husband with an heir. No lady enjoyed such things. One must close one’s eyes tightly and think of one’s country.
Euphemia seemed to accept this, but Jane had burst out in protest. What were all the love poems and romances about if it were all so unpleasant?
Love poems and romances were about courtship, the governess had said severely. That was the real and only honeymoon for a lady. The getting of babies was a different matter entirely.
So Jane tossed and turned, all her pleasure in being taken to a dashing dressmaker, all her joy in her new fashionable crop quite gone. She heartily wished Lord Tregarthan would cry off, forgetting he had not even proposed.
Then she heard a scream coming from away down in the bowels of the house. With nervous fingers, she lit her bed candle, and, shielding the flame, went to the door of her room and opened it.
The scream came again, louder this time.
A door crashed open in the attics and Rainbird came down the stairs, clad only in his nightshirt.
“It’s Lizzie,” he said. “The scullery maid. Go back to bed, Miss Jane.”
There was the sound of thumping from the attics as the other male servants got up.
Too awake and curious to go back to bed, Jane followed Rainbird down the stairs.
She entered the kitchen door at his heels.
Lizzie was standing on the kitchen table in her shift. Her eyes were wide and dilated. When she saw Rainbird, she pointed with a shaking finger to the floor.
Rainbird held his candle high.
In front of the hearth, neatly laid out, were three dead rats, five mice, and a large pile of dead black beetles.
Standing beside them, its tail swishing backwards and forwards, was Joseph’s cat.
Rainbird began to laugh.
“Come down, Lizzie,” he said, putting down his candle and lifting the shaking girl down from the table. “The livestock is all dead.”
Joseph and MacGregor burst into the kitchen and stared in amazement at the kill made by Joseph’s cat.
“Weel, that settles that,” said MacGregor. “That animal stays.”
“I knew he’d be a good ’un,” crowed Joseph who had left his genteel accent behind him on his pillow. “Think on’t, Lizzie, they’re better dead than running about all night.”
A gentle snore from under the table made them all laugh. Dave, the pot boy, was sleeping through all the commotion. The cat stalked forward and pushed MacGregor’s leg with one paw.
“D’ye see that?” cried MacGregor. “Was ever an animal so intelligent! Come along, Moocher, and I’ll gie ye some gizzards.”
“Not Moocher,” wailed Joseph. “I wanted somethink more h’elegant.”
“Now, Miss Jane,” said Rainbird severely, “back to bed. The excitement is over.” He looked at her narrowly. “You look troubled, miss. Is anything the matter?”
“No,” said Jane bleakly. “Nothing at all.”
After they had all left, Lizzie settled down on her bed, which was a straw mattress on the scullery floor. She cringed as she felt the cat pressing against her. But Lizzie had long been afraid of the rats and beetles that came out when the other servants had gone to bed. It was the noise the hunting cat had made that had frightened her, not to mention the pile of dead creatures she had found on the hearth. She now realised if she encouraged the Moocher to sleep with her, she would no longer have anything to fear. And it was Joseph’s cat.
“Puss, puss,” she murmured sleepily. The large cat butted her in the side with its head, then it curled up and lay against her, warm and comforting. Lizzie felt in her bosom for Joseph’s handkerchief and smiled to herself as she fell asleep.
When Jane awoke the next morning all her fears had gone. What a fool she had been to listen to Euphemia! She rushed to the looking glass and admired her new crop of pomaded curls. She was only eighteen and had not even been out and yet she was to receive a proposal of marriage.
Although the ballgown had been ordered for the ball on Thursday, there had been no time to buy Jane a new gown for the proposal. Felice had worked over one of Euphemia’s new ones and was soon on hand to help Jane into it.
Jane was to stay in her room until Lord Tregarthan had seen her father. Then she would be summoned to the drawing room and left alone with her beau. She had risen very early and was waiting at the window a full hour before Lord Tregarthan’s curricle drew up outside the house.
To her surprise, although he had a liveried tiger in attendance, he was in carriage, rather than morning, dress: blue coat with brass buttons and leather breeches with top boots.
She waited and waited. The little clock on the mantel ticked away busily. Jane wondered what her father was saying. How terrible not to even know what one’s own father would say. He could not turn down the offer—mama would not let him. But still …
What did her father ever think about behind that wooden expression of his? And for that matter, what did Lord Tregarthan think? What sort of man was he?
Tick, tick, tick went the busy seconds. Jane shivered in white muslin. The day was cold and blustery but a fire had not yet been lit in her room.
And then she heard voices below in the street and opened the window and leaned out.
Beau Tregarthan and her father had emerged from the house together. They seemed on the best of terms. In fact, Jane had never heard her father sound so animated. His voice floated up to her. “… miss it all,” he said, “standing in the cockpit in an inferno of noise and powder smoke and yelling men with the rumble of the huge guns leaping at their ropes as they recoil, and the gunners shouting, ‘Steady! Stand steady!’ as the crews run the worm down the reeking barrels to remove smouldering tinder, and then, ‘Run her out! Steady! Stand steady! Give fire!’ and, oh, my goodness, the batteries going off like an awful clap of thunder …”
His
voice dropped as he walked around the far side of Lord Tregarthan’s curricle to examine it. He patted the horses. Captain Hart looked much younger than Jane could ever remember him looking. To her surprise, the beau and Captain Hart got into the curricle and drove off.
Jane closed the window and sat down, feeling bewildered. Surely any man who had just asked for someone’s hand in marriage would want to see that someone immediately. A frown of worry creased her brow and she cocked her head. The house seemed very silent.
Gathering up her courage, she made her way downstairs. Faint voices came from the back parlour. She found her mother and Euphemia inside. They both looked up as she entered. Mrs. Hart’s look was hard and disapproving. But Euphemia! The thing that made Jane’s heart sink was the look of genuine pity in Euphemia’s beautiful eyes.
“He did not propose,” whispered Jane.
“Of course not,” snapped Mrs. Hart. “What a man of Tregarthan’s character and reputation is doing by misleading us so is beyond me. You should have known better, Jane. Now, look at the money I have wasted on an expensive ballgown for you, not to mention the horrendous expense of paying for it to be ready by next Thursday. At least, both my daughters are not disasters. Berry is coming to take Euphemia driving again.”
Jane tried to say defiantly that she did not care, that she would not have married Lord Tregarthan anyway, but a lump the size of a cricket ball seemed stuck in her throat.
“Mr. Hart has gone to Fladong’s in Oxford Street with Lord Tregarthan,” said Mrs. Hart with a disapproving sniff. Fladong’s was the hotel frequented by naval officers in the way that Slaughter’s Hotel was for the army and Ibbetson’s for the Church of England.
“He wished to go before, but I put my foot down. Of what use hankering over navy battles when those days are finished. But I could not very well say anything in front of Tregarthan.”