by M. C. Beaton
But the earl’s next words drove all thoughts of her own predicament out of her head.
“Harry killed Clarissa,” said the earl flatly.
Emily looked at him in wonder. “I fear I cannot have heard you aright.
Did you say …?
“Yes. My brother killed my wife.”
“But why?”
He sighed. “How can I even begin to describe Clarissa to you? Clarissa was very beautiful, very witty, very amusing. I was head over heels in love with her. But that love lasted only a few months after our marriage. She was a flirt. She demanded, not only all the attention, but was never happy unless she had some man desperately in love with her, ready to die for her. She had that power. Only I seemed to know her for what she was, callous and vain and greedy.
“She tormented one man and then another. In an attempt to remedy matters, I took her out of society, took her to my country estate, and told her she would never see London again until she learned to behave herself. I did not entertain. I knew the marriage was a failure and should have put an end to it, but my wretched pride kept telling me that I had made my marriage vows and must not break them. Then Harry came on a visit. He had to rusticate, he said, for the duns were after him. Harry was wild and heedless. But he was my brother and I thought even Clarissa would leave my brother alone.
“For a time, that appeared to be the case. They did not even seem to like each other. Harry began to become haggard and ill. I suggested we call a physician because I was becoming alarmed about him. He said I should not trouble my head over him because he was such a wastrel, he was not worth anyone’s concern.
“I had ceased to have marital relations with my wife. I did not know, therefore, that she had been having an affair with my brother. They were so discreet, so circumspect, that even those gossipy servants of mine did not find out.
“But Clarissa began to tire of him, as she tired of all men once she had them firmly under her spell. She met him in the wood near my home and there told him she was finished with him. He refused to believe it. She had been promising to run off with him. She taunted him, saying he was only half a man and not good enough to keep such as herself amused. He raised the handle of his riding crop and threatened her. He was drunk, for guilt had made him come to drink too hard and too deep. He said he would strike her. She laughed and laughed and dared him to even try. He was mad with rage and grief and he struck her and struck her.”
The earl fell silent. “And then?” prompted Emily shakily.
“I did not know any of this at the time. I thought she had been having an affair with one of the gamekeepers or one of the servants. At other times, I thought some vagrant had been wandering on the estate and had murdered her for her jewellery and had then panicked and fled without taking the jewels she wore.
“The day before her funeral Harry left without even waiting to say goodbye. I began to have an uneasy feeling about him, about his leaving so abruptly. I learned he had bought a captaincy in a regiment. That was odd because Harry always swore that men who went to fight were fools. He never wrote to me, but I heard of him from time to time, and last year one of his brother officers, home on leave, told me he had set sail for Portugal with Wellington’s troops.”
“How did you find out he committed the murder?” whispered Emily.
“The idiot left a sealed letter for me to be opened after his death. It is a miracle his commanding officer did not read it. I told my sister this day of what Harry had done. Now I have told you. I felt there should be no secrets between us.”
“Oh, Fleetwood, you must be feeling wretched!”
“No, not really,” said the earl with a sudden smile. “You see, I think I had come to know Harry had killed Clarissa. And Harry and I had grown very estranged, even before Clarissa’s death. He was always in trouble. I must tell you the truth, and the truth is that the news of my brother’s death has come as a blessed relief. Can you understand that?”
“I think so,” said Emily.
“I must observe a certain period of mourning, nonetheless, but there is no reason for this tragedy to cast a shadow over our marriage.”
Emily, head bowed, fiddled with her glass. “Now what have you to tell me?” he asked gently. “It can be nothing like as horrible as what I have just told you.”
Emily looked up. She was almost inclined to lie so that she might make love with him, just one more night.
That autocratic, handsome face of his had become infinitely dear. But she knew if she did not tell him that evening, she might never find the courage again.
“I am being blackmailed,” she said in a thin little voice.
“The deuce you are! Whom by? And why?”
“You are going to despise me, Fleetwood, but listen to me patiently and try to understand.” Unable to look at him any longer, Emily addressed her wineglass.
In a tired, flat voice she told him everything, from her days as a chambermaid to her ambition to be a countess, from Rainbird’s forgery to Percival Pardon’s blackmail.
The earl looked as if a shutter had come down over his face. He watched her grimly as she fiddled with her glass and thought he could cheerfully kill her as poor Harry had killed Clarissa.
“I would have told you anyway,” sighed Emily. “Even if I had not fallen so deeply in love with you, I would have told you, Fleetwood. That silly scullery maid was duped into stealing because she thought it would be a grand thing to marry a first footman. But at least she wasn’t in love with him—or I am sure she was not. I will see lawyers and have you released from this marriage. I will—”
“Did you say you loved me?” interrupted the earl.
“Oh, yes, Fleetwood,” said Emily miserably. “Very much.”
“And you were a chambermaid?”
“Yes. And today I looked at your papers and came across a draft of that book, the one about the chambermaid, Emilia. Even if Pardon had not tried to blackmail me, that book alone would have forced me to tell you the truth. I know you despise servants.”
“My darling,” he said. “Do please look at me.”
Emily raised her eyes.
He was regarding her with a mixture of tenderness, love, and exasperation.
“I could have strangled you when you said you wanted to be a countess. When you said you loved me, the sun shone once more on the dull landscape of my life.”
“But I was a servant!” cried Emily.
“And now you are a countess,” he said, beginning to laugh. “You wretched little liar, come and kiss me.”
He stood up to meet her as she flew round the table and caught her up in his arms.
He bent his mouth to hers, but before he could kiss her, a terrified scream of “Help!” came up from the bowels of the house like the voice of a soul crying out in hell.
“Curst servants,” said the earl heartlessly, forgetting for the moment that he held an ex-member of that class in his arms.
“What a terrible cry,” said Emily. “Oh, please find out what is going on.”
“We will both descend to the lower regions, find out, and then go to bed,” he said.
Putting his arm round his wife’s waist, he led her down the back stairs.
As they approached the door to the servants’ hall, they could not hear a sound. “Perhaps we imagined it,” said Emily hopefully.
“Our hearts may beat as one, but not our imaginations,” he said.
He pushed open the door. Emily peered over his arm.
Mr. Percival Pardon was bound to a chair. He was in an abject state of terror. The servants were standing round him. Mr. Pardon rolled frightened eyes in the earl’s direction. “Fleetwood! Thank God. You must remember me. Pardon. Percival Pardon. We met some years ago at the Dunsters,” he said. “They are going to torture me. The red-haired one has gone to heat the poker on the kitchen fire.”
“What an excellent idea,” said the earl. “Come, my dear, and leave these good servants to their evening’s fun and games.”
“Do not trouble,” said the earl airily. “I am sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“Help me,” bleated Mr. Pardon, tears standing out in his eyes.
“Fleetwood,” said Emily desperately. “You must do something.”
“Very well,” said the earl, folding his arms. “You may proceed with your explanation, Rainbird.”
Rainbird looked anxiously at Emily.
“He knows, Rainbird,” said Emily.
“We weren’t really going to torture him,” said Rainbird. “Mr. Pardon here was blackmailing my lady and Mr. Goodenough to the tune of ten thousand pounds. He threatened to tell you my lady had once been a servant.”
“And is this true, Pardon?”
“It is! It is!” cried Mr. Pardon. “But it was only my fun. I did not mean any harm. Let me go, Fleetwood, and I will never say a word.”
“No, you won’t,” said the earl, “or your miserable life will not be worth living. Untie him, Rainbird.”
Angus came in at that moment brandishing the poker, which looked as cold as indeed it was, the cook not having the heart actually to wave a red-hot poker over his victim in case he inadvertently burnt him.
He immediately started to poke the fire in the servants’ hall, as if that was what he had meant to do all along.
As Mr. Pardon was untied and helped to his feet, the earl said, “I do not think I want to see your face in London for some time, Pardon. Make sure you leave Town by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Mr. Pardon babbled his thanks and stumbled out into the night by way of the area steps.
The earl walked forward and sat down at the servants’ table, drew out a chair beside him, and motioned Emily to join him.
“Tell me, Rainbird,” said the earl, “did you not think to ask me for help?”
“No, my lord,” said the butler. “I could hardly do that. It was my lady’s place to tell you if she wished. Besides, your lordship’s dislike of servants is well known.”
“You are all rapidly changing my views. Your loyalty to my wife is commendable. I see now why she is become so attached to you all. You may all enter my staff, if you wish. I am a good employer and your wages will be of the best.”
He looked curiously at their startled faces. What an odd lot they were, thought the earl, so different and yet so like a family. They seemed almost able to communicate with each other without opening their mouths.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Rainbird, after looking around at the other servants. “But you forget. We are like to become independent by next year. We are going to buy a pub.”
“Ah, that pub. Would you not all be tempted to continue in service? Perhaps your business might fail.”
“We must take that chance,” said Rainbird. “The girls must be free to marry, and we would all like to be our own masters.”
“Then we shall patronise your pub when you are settled. Now, Rainbird, I gather you forged my wife’s birth certificate. I will not feel at ease until we have formally been married again, although I am sure we have done nothing against the law as far as the actual marriage service is concerned. You are all invited, of course.”
To his surprise, none of the servants looked in the least gratified. “It is a lot of work, Fleetwood,” said Emily quietly, “not only to attend the wedding but once more to have to prepare the wedding breakfast. And we will have many more guests the next time, I should imagine.”
“We will hire Gunter,” said the earl expansively, meaning the caterers in Berkeley Square, “and my own servants will do the work. And you may order new liveries.”
“Cen I have red plush with gold lacing?” asked Joseph eagerly.
“Anything you want,” said the earl.
“And me, milor’,” said Dave, his wizened little cockney face bobbing up at the earl’s elbow. “Kin I be a page and carry my lady’s train? Blue velvet would be orful nice.”
“You’ll look like an organ grinder’s monkey,” said the cook.
Dave’s face fell, and Emily said quickly, “I should like you to carry my train and I think you would look handsome in blue.”
Then Emily saw Lizzie looking at her hopefully, and added, “And new dresses for the girls, and Mrs. Middleton will need something very fine if she is to be maid of honour again.”
The earl was about to protest, to say that the days when his wife needed a mere housekeeper as a lady-in-waiting had gone, but the sheer joy and gratification on Mrs. Middleton’s face made him stay silent.
Rainbird had gone out to his pantry, and he came in bearing two bottles of wine and glasses.
“We would be honoured, my lord,” he said, “if you and my lady would join us in a glass of wine.”
“We would love to,” said Emily, answering for her husband, who frowned a little, for he was anxious to have his bride all to himself.
“Play us a tune, Joseph,” said Rainbird.
Joseph got his mandolin. “Perhaps it would not be suitable to have music,” said Emily. “My lord has just received news of his brother’s death.”
“You may play, Joseph,” said the earl, deciding to humour his wife’s desire for the company of these rented servants.
They all sat down round the table as Joseph began to play.
Rainbird stood up and made a short witty speech and then proposed a toast to the happy couple. Then Angus sang a mournful Scottish ballad, and Joseph followed that with a popular song. Rainbird did one of his juggling acts and the servants cheered.
The Earl of Fleetwood leaned back in his chair, all at once happy and relaxed.
Blenkinsop, the Charterises’ butler, was making his way home to Number 65 next door after a convivial hour at The Running Footman. He heard the sounds of merriment from Number 67 and leaned over the area railing so as to get a look through the high barred window of the servants’ hall.
“Well, I never!” he exclaimed as he saw Lord and Lady Fleetwood happily drinking with their servants. “Lords and ladies ought to know their places. Now Lord Charteris has never even set foot in our servants’ hall.” And shaking his powdered head with disapproval, he went in next door and down to his dark, gloomy servants’ hall and tried to persuade himself he was lucky not to be a rented butler like poor Rainbird.
Three hours later—for after the servants’ party he had gone to Park Lane to tell Mr. Goodenough his worries were over—the Earl of Fleetwood drew his wife into his arms and began to kiss her unresponsive lips.
“What is the matter, Emily?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at her as she lay in the bed beside him.
“Nothing, Fleetwood,” said Emily miserably.
“I would like you to call me Peter, at least when we are in bed.”
“Nothing, Peter. I am tired, that is all.”
“Then perhaps you would rather sleep?”
“Yes, Peter,” said Emily in a small voice.
He turned his back on her and blew out the candle.
Behind his back came the sound of a small, strangled sob.
He lit the candle again from the rushlight and turned and looked at his wife.
“What on earth is the matter?” he said testily, for frustration was making him furious.
“I w-want to b-behave like a l-lady, but I can’t!” wailed Emily.
“What on earth are you talking about, my widgeon?”
“Ladies are never passionate,” said Emily, covering her face with her hands.
“And where did you come by such a stupid idea?”
“I got it from your book and … and Mrs. Middleton.”
“My, dearest love, I should think Mrs. Middleton is really a miss and a virgin as well. As far as my book is concerned, that was written by a bitter man with a very narrow view of life. You have made me grow up, Emily. Ladies are passionate, real ladies, ladies such as yourself of warmth and generosity.”
Emily took her hands down from her
face.
“So I will not give you a disgust of me, Fleetwood—I mean, Peter—if I respond to you?”
“You will give me a disgust of you if you do not!”
Emily buried her face on his chest. “I was becoming jealous of Clarissa, too,” she mumbled.
“Why?”
“Well, you said she was witty and beautiful and fascinating and—”
“And as cold as charity. All she craved was attention and the power it gave her. I was very green when I married her. Oh, Emily, kiss me. You and only you can take me to heaven and back….”
“I heard my lady scream!” cried Mrs. Middleton, starting to her feet.
“What is wrong?” cried Lizzie.
But the men laughed and Alice and Jenny blushed and even little Dave turned as red as fire and buried his nose in his glass.
“Terrible the way you can hear everything in this house,” said Rainbird, drooping one eyelid in a wink. “Play us something, Joseph, and let’s serenade the happy couple.” Lizzie and Mrs. Middleton sat down together, united in their bewilderment. “There are some things I do not understand about men and women,” whispered Mrs. Middleton, taking Lizzie’s little work-roughened hand in her own.
“Me neither,” said Lizzie. “But none of the others seems to be worrying, so we may as well enjoy the party.”
Epilogue
Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we are delivered.
—The Book of Common Prayer
Surely bad luck had finally left Number 67, thought Lizzie.
She and the other servants were seated at the end of the long table that had been hired for the day to fit down the length of the front and back parlours to seat the wedding guests.
True to his promise, the earl had summoned his own servants to wait on his guests and the staff of Number 67. Lizzie thought they all looked as grand as the guests. Joseph was resplendent in the finest livery he had ever owned and his voice had become so refined, he was practically unintelligible. Dave kept looking down at the blue velvet of his new suit of clothes and stroking his sleeve with one little hand when he thought no one was looking. Mrs. Middleton was very stately in white-and-scarlet merino and with three feathers in her hair. Jenny and Alice were wearing India Muslin gowns, Jenny in pale pink and Alice in celestial blue. Rainbird looked dapper in a claret-coloured coat and green-and-gold-striped waistcoat, and Angus MacGregor had risen to the sartorial heights of intricately starched and tied cravat and a coat of corbeau Bath superfine.