by M. C. Beaton
“Better return to the dining room,” said Lord Tregarthan. “What did you say to distress little Miss Jane?”
“She distressed me,” snapped Mr. Bullfinch. “A private matter.”
“Come along, Tregarthan,” said Captain Hart.
Upstairs, the guests had fallen silent. Alice and Jenny passed round the dishes. Mrs. Hart was shaken. It was decidedly bad ton to have only female servants waiting at table. Where was Rainbird? And Joseph?
At last Rainbird appeared and, leaning over Mrs. Hart, said, “Captain Hart presents his compliments and says MacGregor is not to be either chastised or dismissed.”
Mrs. Hart seethed inwardly. What had happened to the husband who used to obey her every whim?
Soon Mr. Bullfinch returned and took his place beside Jane. Jane was suffering agonies of remorse. Where was Lord Tregarthan? Why did he not return? Summoning up her courage, she turned to Mr. Bullfinch. “Mr. Bullfinch, I must explain what happened about … about the letters.”
“Yes?” said Mr. Bullfinch, pushing away his plate. “Go on.”
In a faltering voice, Jane described how she had become interested in the death of Clara, how the letters had been found by accident, and how she had read them to make sure they were not just old letters left in the desk by someone long ago.
“So having become convinced that I murdered my fiancée,” said Mr. Bullfinch dryly, “you quoted from one of my letters hoping to see me turn white with guilt.”
Jane hung her head.
“Return the letters to me and we shall say no more about the matter,” said Mr. Bullfinch. “I should never have accepted your mother’s invitation, but a longing to be inside this house again, where I spent so many happy times with Clara, was too strong for me. It was a mistake.”
“But … but are you not curious as to how she died?” ventured Jane timidly.
“Can you not realise my agony on learning of her death, or how I closely questioned both doctor and coroner? And mine,” he went on bitterly, “was not the idle curiosity of a spoilt child, but of a bereaved lover.”
Jane was being made to feel smaller and grubbier by the minute.
“I shall return your letters after dinner,” she said.
“And you will leave the matter alone?”
“Yes,” said Jane miserably.
Lord Tregarthan entered the room and, murmuring an apology to his hostess, took his place at table.
The dining room door opened and Dave, the pot boy, popped his head round and signalled to Rainbird.
Rainbird left, only to return a few minutes later to call Joseph.
Mrs. Hart set her lips. There had been enough fuss and scandal for one evening. She would not ask what was going on.
Conversation died. The sound of masculine voices came from outside the dining room, and then a grunting and panting and footsteps. Someone was carrying a heavy load past the door.
The guests had given up any pretence of making conversation. Everyone was listening to what was going on outside the room.
The street door banged and there was the rumble of carriage wheels outside.
Unable to bear it any longer, Mrs. Hart rose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains.
Rainbird and Joseph were strapping her husband’s large sea trunk on to the back of a hackney.
The captain himself climbed into the carriage and said something to Rainbird. The hackney moved off.
“What is it, mama?” asked Euphemia.
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Hart, letting the curtain fall. “Nothing at all.”
Afterwards, in the drawing room, Lord Tregarthan noticed Jane slipping quietly from the room.
She returned a few minutes later with a package of letters, which she passed to Mr. Bullfinch, who seized them and thrust them into his pocket.
Lord Tregarthan wanted to speak to Jane to find out what had happened, but Mrs. Hart commanded her to entertain the guests.
He joined her at the pianoforte and turned the music for her. She played indifferently, her fingers stumbling over the keys. At last, he covered one of her hands with his own and said quietly, “Enough. You must tell me what is distressing you.”
Jane looked around quickly. Her mother was chatting to her guests, breaking off only to say good night to Mr. Bullfinch. Euphemia was talking in a low tone to the Marquess of Berry.
Hanging her head, Jane mumbled her folly in bating Mr. Bullfinch with the contents of the letters.
“I shall speak to him,” said Lord Tregarthan. “Do not look so distressed. We are become so absorbed in the mystery, we have forgot we are dealing with human beings with feelings. I am to blame as much as you. Come, smile at me, Jane. Mr. Bullfinch will forgive you.”
Jane smiled at him tremulously. He caught his breath, amazed at his sudden desire to protect her, to kiss the distress from her eyes.
“I cannot take you driving tomorrow,” he said quietly. “We must talk further, but the conventions forbid me seeing you alone anywhere outside a carriage drive in the middle of the afternoon.”
Jane thought quickly. Mr. Bullfinch’s remarks still hurt. She longed for more reassurance.
“I shall be gone for two weeks at the very least,” he went on.
“I could meet you in the servants’ hall when the guests have gone,” said Jane. “Rainbird will not mind. He does not like my mother.”
“And neither does your father,” thought Lord Tregarthan, but he said aloud, “When we all leave, count two hours from that time, and I shall come down by the area steps. Are you sure the servants will not talk?”
Jane shook her head. “Rainbird will tell them not to.”
The guests had recovered their spirits. There was so much delicious gossip to pass on to the rest of society the following day—about Mrs. Hart’s scene with her cook, and her husband’s mysterious disappearance in the middle of dinner. Lord Tregarthan waited until the end without talking to Jane again.
Downstairs, Rainbird relaxed in the kitchen with the other weary servants. A bottle of Mr. Hart’s best port went the rounds, and even Lizzie was told to leave the dishes and come and join them.
“Where is Felice?” demanded Rainbird suddenly.
“She said she was tired and was going to lie down until Mrs. Hart needed her,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Oh, my! Madam is going to be in such a taking about the captain leaving. Did he say where he was going?”
Rainbird shook his head. “Said if he didn’t tell us, then we could truthfully say we did not know. Mrs. Hart should have realised you can’t bully a man like that forever. Most likely he’s gone back to join the navy.”
“You was awfully lucky, Angus,” said Alice. “A guinea instead of a whipping.”
“Mrs. Hart’s loss was our gain,” grinned Jenny. “Never had such a magnificent supper.”
“I couldnae think o’ leaving,” said MacGregor sadly. “It was grand o’ Lord Tregarthan to offer me a post.”
“I know you love us, Angus,” said Mrs. Middleton, her eyes filling with sentimental tears.
“It wisnae that,” said the cook grumpily. “Lord Tregarthan had a Frenchie in charge o’ the kitchen and thon Abraham says he throws the pots around something terrible. If there’s one thing I cannae stand, it’s a man in the kitchen who does not know how to keep his temper.”
They all burst out laughing, except Joseph.
“You deserved a whipping, you great hairy thing,” he sneered.
“Which you would ha’ taken for me,” grinned MacGregor. “Aye, Joseph, you’re no’ the mamby-pamby I thought.”
“Mr. Rainbird!”
They all rose to their feet as Jane walked in. How companionable they all were, she thought with a pang of envy. More like a real family than her own.
“I wish to speak to you, Mr. Rainbird.”
Rainbird led the way into the servants’ hall and inclined his head as Jane said she wished to be private with Lord Tregarthan.
“You may see him alone on one con
dition,” said Rainbird. “The door to the servants’ hall will be left open and I shall be on the other side of it, in the kitchen. But why on earth does his lordship wish to meet you here?”
“We wish to be private to talk for a little, that is all. Please, Mr. Rainbird, I am too tired to go into long explanations.”
“Very well, miss,” said Rainbird. “Don’t keep me up too late.”
“Where is papa?”
“I do not know, Miss Jane,” said Rainbird. “He left with his sea chest.”
“Does mama know?”
“Yes, but not where he has gone.”
“Is he very angry with mama?”
“That is not for me to say, Miss Jane.”
“Meaning, he is. Oh, dear. And where is Felice? I nearly forgot. Mama wants her to go upstairs and help prepare Euphemia for bed.”
“I shall call her. When is your assignation with Lord Tregarthan?”
“In two hours’ time.”
“I shall be there, Miss Jane. How will he arrive?”
“By the kitchen door.”
Rainbird could hardly wait for her to leave so that he could go and see Felice. Since their night together at the play, they had not been alone. He ushered Jane out and, after telling the others of the secret meeting, went up the stairs and stopped on the landing outside Felice’s door.
He scratched the panels. Then he called. There was no reply. She must have fallen asleep.
He gently opened the door and went in. A shaft of moonlight cut across the darkness of the room. Although the narrow bed in the corner was in darkness, he instinctively knew no one was in it.
There was a desolate, cold, abandoned air about the little room.
The fire was dying in the grate. He thrust a spill between the bars and lit a candle.
The bed was neatly made. A letter and a white packet lay on the pillow.
He felt a cold weight in his stomach as he put the candle down on a small table and picked up the letter and packet. The letter was addressed to himself, the packet to Joseph.
Downstairs, Joseph was playing the mandolin and the jaunty twanging music filtered up into the silence of the room.
Rainbird sat slowly down at the table and opened the letter. “Dear John,” he read. “I am gone to deal with a certain business which is my own concern. Thank you for all your kindness. Felice.”
And that was all.
Captain Hart, thought Rainbird, in sudden rage and fury. She had run off with Captain Hart. It must have happened when the captain spoke to her after the play. They must have arranged it then. And Felice with her gentle smile saying the captain had only required some translation of her!
Captain Hart. Old enough to be her father. It was disgusting!
Forgetting that Captain Hart was only a few years older than himself, Rainbird sat for a long time, his face a mask of tragedy.
Then he picked up the packet for Joseph and went downstairs.
Mrs. Middleton looked up as he came in. Joseph saw the expression on the butler’s face and his hands on the mandolin stilled.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Middleton.
“Felice,” said Rainbird. “She’s gone.”
He threw the packet in front of Joseph. “She left that for you.” He hooked out a chair and slumped into it.
Joseph opened the packet and drew out a cambric handkerchief edged with the finest lace.
The Moocher jumped onto his lap and he patted him absent-mindedly. It was the most beautiful handkerchief Joseph had ever seen, but he would cheerfully have thrown it on the fire if he thought that action would manage to wipe some of the pain from Rainbird’s face.
Lizzie voiced what they were all thinking. “Did she run off with Mr. Hart?”
“I don’t know,” said Rainbird. “Oh, God. Alice, answer that bell and tell Mrs. Hart that Felice is unwell. I cannot bear any more scenes this evening.”
One by one they tried to cheer the butler up.
That was the French for you, sniffed Mrs. Middleton. Fickle to the last woman.
Never could abide her, said Jenny, pouring a glass of port for Rainbird. But nothing seemed to help, and one by one they left, until Rainbird was alone, sitting at the table, nursing his heartache.
He sat there a long time until a knocking at the kitchen door reminded him of Lord Tregarthan’s meeting with Jane.
Jane arrived by the back stairs at the same time, and Rainbird led them into the servants’ hall and left them alone.
He felt wretched and bone weary. He did not care if Lord Tregarthan seduced Jane Hart on the table. With dragging steps he took himself off to bed, unaware that little Lizzie was lying awake on her pallet on the scullery floor, hugging the large cat and crying over the butler’s pain.
Chapter
Ten
… riding round those vegetable puncheons
Call’d “Parks,” where there is neither fruit
nor flower,
Enough to gratify a bee’s slight munchings;
But, after all, it is the only “bower”
(In Moore’s phrase) where the fashionable fair
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.
—Lord Byron, Don Juan
“I came to say goodbye,” said Lord Tregarthan.
Jane’s first thought was that he was abandoning her because of her disgraceful behaviour over the letters. He had appeared to understand, but gentlemen had such a rigid code of morals and mama always said they stuck together in the end. He had had time to consider her folly and had found her wanting in grace and manners. His sympathies were all with Mr. Bullfinch.
“Goodbye,” said Jane, now wishing he would go away so that she might relieve some of the pain at her heart with a hearty burst of tears.
“So very prim,” he teased. “Sit down, Jane, I have something to say to you. While I am gone you are to proceed no further with your investigations into Miss Clara Vere-Baxton’s death.”
“Do you think I am in danger?” asked Jane, wide-eyed.
“I think you are in danger of making yourself ridiculous in the eyes of society. With luck, I found Mr. Bullfinch at Brook’s after dinner, nursing his woes, and was able to persuade him to forgive you. He sends you his apologies for any hard words he may have said to you. He said he was not quite himself, and visiting this house had opened old wounds. I gained the impression that Clara, despite Mr. Bullfinch’s worship of her memory, was not the innocent miss we had believed. From what Mr. Bullfinch let drop unwittingly, it seemed the fair Clara delighted in tormenting him.”
Jane was about to say she had gathered as much from his letters, but decided it would be better not to remind Lord Tregarthan that she had read them. “Are you going away?” she asked instead. “Where are you going?”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said lightly, “South.”
“Why?”
“I wish to visit a weaver who is supposed to have some very fine cloth. I shall look so dashing and handsome when I return, you will not recognise me.”
“Is that all you care for?” asked Jane. “Your tailor? Your clothes? The Season?”
“I care for you, Jane,” said Lord Tregarthan, to his own surprise. “I really do care for you.”
Jane’s feelings shot from misery to exaltation at such a rate that she had to hang on to the table for support. She tried to remember Felice’s teaching, which had included instructions on how gracefully to accept compliments from a gentleman you wished to encourage as well as how to repel unwelcome advances, but her mind was a blank. She hung her head and blushed.
She longed to look up at him, to discover whether he cared for her as a woman or whether he considered her a wayward schoolgirl, likely to land in trouble.
“I must go now,” he said gently. “We should not be meeting in such an irregular way.”
“Yes,” said Jane politely, holding out her hand, while inside her a voice cried, “I love you, please love me in return.”
He took
her hand and raised it to her lips. She was still wearing her dinner gown and her head was bowed so that he could see only the roses in her hair. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. Jane’s large hazel eyes met his with such a blaze of love that he gave a muttered exclamation and pulled her tight into his arms and bent his mouth to hers.
All in an instant, Jane crossed the threshold into womanhood on a wave of searing passion. As his lips moved against her own, as his arms tightened even more about her, the churning mixture of sweetness and pain, longing and passion inside her made her utter a stifled cry.
Lizzie, lying awake on her pallet, heard the choked sound. She knew that Miss Jane and Lord Tregarthan were alone together in the servants’ hall. She also knew that for some unaccountable reason Rainbird had left them un-chaperoned. Lizzie tried to tell herself it was all none of her business, but even down in the kitchens she had heard of Lord Tregarthan’s rakish reputation, and Miss Jane was so very young.
Lizzie decided that if she could get the Moocher to rush into the servants’ hall, then she could race after it and break up whatever was going on. She gave the cat lying against her side an impatient push, but the Moocher had dined well, as well as the servants, on all the rich concoctions MacGregor had prepared and Mrs. Hart had refused, and he growled impatiently and snuggled closer to Lizzie.
“No, you should not, my lord!” cried Jane suddenly and loudly as Lord Tregarthan’s experienced fingers closed around one breast. Then she murmured huskily, “Perhaps you should,” before turning her mouth up to his again.
Lizzie gritted her teeth. Her duty lay plain before her. She rose and pulled on a cotton wrapper over her shift and made her way into the servants’ hall, coughing loudly and bumping into things to make as much noise as possible. When she opened the door, the couple were standing a little apart. Jane’s mouth looked slightly swollen. Lord Tregarthan looked as unruffled as usual. “I thought I heard a noise,” said Lizzie, dropping a curtsey.
“It is only us, as you see,” smiled Lord Tregarthan.
“Yes, my lord,” said Lizzie and stood her ground, which she felt was very brave of her. Lizzie had rarely seen any members of the Quality face to face. Usually she got an oddly angled view of them either looking up the area steps or looking down from Alice’s and Jenny’s room in the attic, as it was part of Lizzie’s duties to clean the maid’s room. There was something so terrifyingly magnificent about this handsome lord with the guinea-gold hair and the impeccable evening dress.