Ruined

by Ann Barker

  ‘No, of course not,’ agreed Mrs Machin in accents of relief. There was a sigh from Mr Hinder who, while the ladies were talking, stood looking like a rather badly executed statue.

  ‘But,’ Jessie went on firmly, ‘unless you tell me what all this is about, I will inform Henry that I am convinced that you are concealing something.’

  Mrs Machin peered over first one shoulder, then the other, as if someone might have sneaked into the room while they had been speaking. She nodded to Mr Hinder, who tiptoed over to the door, flung it open and looked outside. ‘Very well,’ she said in a low tone, after Hinder had nodded to signify that the coast was clear. ‘I have to admit that it will be a relief to tell you. I am writing a novel.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Jessie, startled. ‘What about your husband’s sermons – his life’s work?’

  ‘That was a ruse,’ said Mrs Machin proudly. ‘Hector, I believe that Miss Warburton was getting some brandy from the book-room. Will you fetch it if you please?’

  ‘What do you mean, a ruse? Are there no sermons, then? What will you do when the time comes to take them to a publisher?’

  ‘That will be quite easy,’ answered Mrs Machin. ‘The sermons have always been there, written out neatly in my own hand and tied together in order.’

  ‘You acted as his scribe, then?’ Jessie surmised.

  ‘Oh no. I wrote his sermons,’ Mrs Machin responded with a note of modest pride. ‘Percival was not a very good preacher, I’m afraid. Do you not agree?’ she added in Mr Hinder’s direction as he came back in with the tray.

  ‘I beg pardon, ma’am?’ he replied, as he set the tray down.

  ‘I was telling Miss Warburton that Percival’s sermons were not good.’

  ‘Yes, they were complete nonsense from beginning to end,’ the young man agreed with cheerful disregard for the reputation of the deceased clergyman. ‘Are we all having brandy?’

  Jessie saw that he had put enough glasses on the tray for all of them. She made no objection when he poured brandy into three glasses. She did not normally consume strong drink, but today she felt in need of it.

  ‘How did you come to write your husband’s sermons?’ Jessie asked curiously.

  Mrs Machin took her glass and leaned back comfortably in her chair. It occurred to Jessie that almost for the first time, this lady seemed to be at ease in her presence. ‘It began soon after we were married,’ she said, smiling reminiscently. ‘Until our marriage, I had never heard him preach, you see. My father was a clergyman and always spoke very well, so I was used to a high standard. Then I married Percival.’ She paused. ‘The shock to my system was severe. I knew that if I had to sit listening to him for the rest of our married life, I would either strangle him or expire from boredom.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Jessie, fascinated.

  ‘When we were first married, he used to spend hours and hours in his study writing his sermons. It always astonished me that so much time and energy could be applied to so little effect. Then, a few weeks after our wedding, he became ill, and although he made a good recovery, he had very little energy. In order to help him, I offered to write his sermons. He was very surprised to discover how quickly I could accomplish what had often taken him half a day at least. When he was fully recovered, I encouraged him to use his time in ways that yielded positive fruit, and benefited his health such as fishing and gardening, and with his willing acquiescence I continued to write the sermons myself. They were very well received, if I do say so.’

  ‘How remarkable,’ commented Jessie. ‘Did no one ever suspect?’

  ‘Never. Well, Hector discovered the truth, quite by accident.’

  ‘I come from the same village, you see,’ Hector interrupted eagerly. ‘And we had already found that we enjoyed the same kinds of books. One day I visited the vicarage unexpectedly in order to borrow some poetry and found her in the throes of composition.’

  ‘The problem came when Percival died,’ Henrietta went on. ‘I no longer had an outlet for my creative talents, you see.’

  ‘Was that when you started writing tracts?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Yes; but I got so bored with them,’ complained the other lady with a sigh. ‘I blame it on Henry. He is for ever sending me ideas for new ones. It seems to me that he only has to think of something that is pleasant, and he instantly has to be disapproving of it. Really, he must be a terribly depressing person to live with.’

  It did not seem to occur to her that she was commenting on Jessie’s future. Jessie had no desire to embarrass her by reminding her, so she said quickly, ‘Did I understand Mr Hinder to say that he is writing tracts as well?’

  ‘Not “as well”, but “instead”,’ put in Mr Hinder. ‘That’s why I took lodgings in this very street as soon as any became available.’

  ‘We work together, you see,’ said Mrs Machin.

  ‘Are you just writing a novel, then?’ Jessie asked her hostess.

  ‘My second,’ answered the lady, unable to keep a note of pride out of her voice.

  ‘Your second novel?’ echoed Jessie, amazed.

  ‘Sshh!’ exclaimed Mrs Machin urgently. ‘No one must know. Henry would be so disapproving, and I do not want to upset him, for with all his faults I do love him dearly. He is my brother after all.’

  ‘If you are writing a second, what happened to the first?’ Jessie asked curiously.

  ‘It was published and was something of a success,’ answered Mrs Machin proudly. ‘At least, all the copies of it were sold, so that they had to print some more.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘It was about a corrupt clergyman who used his position in his parish in a most unscrupulous way,’ confided Mrs Machin. ‘If you would like to read it, I can lend you a copy. It is called A Scoundrel in the Church.’

  ‘You cannot have used your own name, surely,’ Jessie exclaimed.

  ‘No indeed. The author is simply stated to be A Gentleman. It was printed by a man in Paternoster Row.’

  ‘And what of the new one? How much have you written?’

  ‘I have written five chapters,’ answered Mrs Machin. ‘The same printer is prepared to publish it, if it is up to the standard of the previous one. It is by no means easy to write a novel, you know.’

  ‘I am sure that it cannot be,’ Jessie assured her. ‘I have to say that I am all admiration for anyone who can succeed in writing a book. Does your new novel have a title yet?’

  ‘It is called Lady Meredith, or, the Female Rake,’ answered Mrs Machin. ‘I have made a perfectly splendid start. My heroine has been cruelly rejected by her betrothed, and she has now decided to remove to London. There, she will punish him, and her family, who promoted the engagement, by dragging her name through the mud.’

  ‘How intriguing,’ murmured Jessie, reflecting that now Mrs Machin’s secret was out, she could hardly stop talking about it. ‘I can quite see, though, that Henry would not approve.’

  ‘No indeed,’ agreed Mr Hinder fervently. ‘That is why it is vital that it must be kept a secret from him – for everybody’s sake.’ His face wore an anxious expression. Jessie could imagine what must be going through his mind. His own reputation, whatever his chosen career might be, would almost certainly suffer if it were known that he was associated with the writer of a scandalous novel.

  ‘You may be sure that I will not tell anyone,’ Jessie promised them. ‘How exciting it must be to create characters and situations for oneself.’

  ‘It has been very exciting so far,’ Mrs Machin agreed, ‘but now I have reached something of a standstill. My heroine has reached London, and is about to begin raking. The thing is, I have no knowledge of how she might go about it, or where, and no idea of how to find the information, either.’ She paused. ‘That is, I had no idea until this morning.’

  Jessie stared at her aghast. ‘You are surely not thinking of asking Lord Ashbourne how he goes about raking?’ she asked in failing accents.

  Mrs Machin had the
grace to blush. ‘It seems to me that a man of his reputation is probably rather proud of his … his misdeeds,’ she replied, trying to sound innocent. ‘He is bound to have the entrée to all kinds of events that are denied to humbler persons. For instance, the Prince of Wales is to be married this very week. It strikes me that Lord Ashbourne is exactly the kind of man with whom the Prince would be intimate. What if his lordship were to be a guest at the ceremony? Think of what descriptions he could give me! I was hoping that I might have the chance to ask him about such matters. After all, he is an old friend of yours.’

  ‘It is true that I have known him for a long time,’ Jessie agreed. ‘However, I would never dream of questioning him about his morals. You are right in saying that he is a man of doubtful reputation.’ She hesitated, feeling disloyal, then reflected that she was not saying anything that Ashbourne’s own sister had not said. ‘In sum, he is a gambler, a drinker and a libertine. He is certainly not the sort of man who should be encouraged into decent female company.’

  ‘Is that not exactly what I have been saying?’ Mrs Machin insisted. ‘Still, I can understand your reluctance to question him. It would look intolerably inquisitive, after all.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Lusty would be very pleased to hear that you had been in his company either,’ Mr Hinder pointed out.

  ‘No, that is true,’ agreed Mrs Machin, with some regret. ‘And however much one resolves to be discreet, these things always come out. We will just have to do our own investigations, that is all.’

  ‘Our own investigations into what?’ asked Jessie cautiously.

  ‘Our investigations into where a lady rake might go and what she might do,’ Mrs Machin explained patiently. ‘Now where do you think we ought to start?’

  Chapter Eight

  Several days later, Jessie was still congratulating herself on her quick thinking. Upon Mrs Machin’s enquiry as to where to go to conduct her research, she had immediately suggested that they should procure a daily newspaper.

  ‘An excellent suggestion!’ her hostess had declared. Straight away, she had gone about ordering a copy of The Morning Chronicle, which now arrived regularly at the little house in Sloane Street.

  From now on, Jessie and her hostess called one another by their Christian names, (although Jessie did not confess what her full name really was). This was not the only way in which life became more comfortable. Now that Mrs Machin’s secret occupation was revealed, Jessie was no longer banned from the book-room. On the contrary, her presence was welcome, as long as she did not disturb her hostess’s creative flow. She would often sit reading the paper, sewing, or writing letters, whilst Mrs Machin’s pen moved like lightning across the page, with the author occasionally pausing to ask for a spelling, or the exact reference to a quotation from Shakespeare, or consulting her companion concerning the felicity of her choice of some word or phrase. Thankfully, there was no longer any pretence that Mrs Machin was rising to study in her room, for that lady freely admitted that she did not like early rising and often stayed abed until ten. If Henrietta reached a point in her writing where she felt that a change would be beneficial, then the two ladies would often walk into town, sometimes accompanied by Mr Hinder.

  About a week after the secret was out, Henrietta announced that she needed some information. ‘I have decided that Lady Meredith could be rather daring and take snuff,’ she said, ‘but I have no idea what sort she might take. I think that I need to obtain a book about it.’

  ‘Mr Long in Piccadilly was very helpful to me,’ Jessie remarked. She had read the books which Raff had purchased for her, and had found them very interesting. She had also recalled that she had not offered to pay for them. This had caused her a twinge of guilt, but she knew that it would be quite improper for her to seek him out in order to pay him.

  ‘Then let us go at once,’ said Henrietta. A message was sent to Mr Hinder, who appeared with eager alacrity, so much so that Jessie almost expected him to be carrying a lead in his mouth.

  ‘I could always tell you something about snuff, you know,’ said Hinder, as they walked along Sloane Street. ‘I don’t take it myself, but m’father does.’

  ‘That is very good of you, but I have one or two ideas about how I might use this snuff-taking habit in another way and I want to see if it is possible.’

  ‘How do you think you might do that?’ asked Jessie curiously.

  ‘I cannot tell you, I’m afraid,’ Henrietta answered mysteriously. ‘I do not know why it may be, but I find that if I tell too much about what I intend to write, then I lose all desire to set it down on paper.’ Both Jessie and Hinder agreed that this would never do, and began a new topic of conversation.

  As they entered Piccadilly, Jessie remembered how she had met Ashbourne there, and felt her heart beat a little faster at the memory. Immediately she told herself sternly to have more sense. London was a large place. They were very unlikely to encounter him, and even if they did, what was that to her?

  ‘Shall we do a little shopping after we have been to the bookshop?’ suggested Mrs Machin. Mr Hinder groaned audibly. She turned to him, looking severe. ‘Hector, you must be used to shopping with a mama and five sisters!’

  ‘Exactly!’ he replied with feeling. Both the ladies laughed. Their faces were still alight with amusement as they entered Long’s bookshop. Two gentlemen customers were looking at the plates in a book held for them by Mr Long. They turned as the shop bell rang, and it was with very mixed feelings that Jessie saw that one of them was Ashbourne. He was, as always, immaculately dressed in matching dove grey coat and breeches, with a violet and silver striped waistcoat. His companion looked a little older, and was dressed more colourfully, in shades of green and pink, but with less style. He wore a wig rather than his own hair, but the colour of his brows and lashes was sandy. He was much the same height as Raff, perhaps a little shorter, but with a fuller figure.

  Jessie saw Raff put up his chin, and lift his quizzing glass, the cynical expression upon his face unchanged. Instinctively, she knew that he would not acknowledge her in front of another for the sake of her reputation.

  He had reckoned without Henrietta Machin. For a woman who had lived in London for a number of years, her naïveté was astonishing, for she stepped forward exclaiming, ‘Lord Ashbourne! How delightful to meet you! You have not called again, as you said you would. Jessie and I are quite disappointed, are we not, Jessie?’

  Raff’s cynical expression was replaced by one of rueful amusement, as he swept them an elegant bow. ‘Ladies,’ he declared, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure. May I present to you Sir Wallace Weary?’

  ‘Good day, ladies,’ responded Sir Wallace in a measured nasal tone.

  ‘Mrs Machin resides in London,’ Ashbourne continued, ‘but Miss Warburton usually resides with my sister. She is here on a visit.’

  ‘And a very welcome visitor she is, too,’ said Mrs Machin warmly.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ murmured Sir Wallace, eyeing Jessie in a decidedly predatory way.

  ‘You have chosen a pleasant day for your expedition,’ said Ashbourne, after Hinder had been introduced. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular? What may I desire Long to find for you?’

  ‘You are very good, my lord,’ responded Mrs Machin, smiling at his lordship as if he were a long lost relative. ‘I am looking for a book about snuff.’

  ‘That is an unusual choice for a lady,’ said Sir Wallace, smirking in a way that Jessie did not like, although she could not have explained exactly why.

  There was, of course, no need for Mrs Machin to feel obliged to offer the baronet any explanation. Instead of simply murmuring perhaps, or yes, isn’t it, she became flustered. ‘Oh! Yes, well it is not exactly for me.’ There was a brief silence, after which she went on, ‘It is for … for …’

  ‘It is for my father,’ said Mr Hinder hastily, coming to the rescue.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Sir Wallace, his brows going up, but failing to recreate the elegant shap
e produced by the same features on Raff’s face. ‘How singular.’

  ‘I am very much in favour of sons bestowing gifts upon their fathers,’ Raff contributed in a rather bored tone. ‘Unfortunately, my son does not seem very inclined to do so.’

  Seeing in this a skilful ploy to divert Sir Wallace away from Henrietta’s clumsiness, Jessie added ‘You forget, my lord, that your son has recently presented you with a charming new daughter-in-law.’

  ‘I stand corrected, Miss Warburton,’ Raff answered with a slight bow. By mutual unspoken consent, they had adopted a more formal mode of address in this company. ‘However, you forget that that gift almost inevitably means that some day soon I shall have the doubtful pleasure of being called Grandpapa.’

  Weary laughed. ‘How you will dislike that to be sure,’ he sneered. ‘But back to Mrs Machin’s purchase. Long, you old rogue, do you have anything that will suit the lady?’

  Mr Long soon produced several volumes from which Henrietta could make her choice. ‘Lord Ashbourne, you must come and advise me,’ she said gaily. As the book was supposedly for Mr Hinder’s father, he was already looking at some of the volumes that the shopkeeper had produced.

  ‘I should be charmed,’ replied the earl. ‘Weary, do you care to assist?’

  ‘And leave Miss Warburton to entertain herself? By no means!’

  Jessie was not sure of the wisdom of going apart with Sir Wallace. By the predatory look in his eye, as much as by the company he kept, she judged that he was probably a rake. There was a limit to the number of people who could crowd around the books that Long was offering, however, so she allowed him to lead her away from the group. After all, there was very little that he could do to harm her in broad daylight inside a shop with four other people present.

  ‘I take it that you reside in London, sir,’ she began, choosing what she thought was an innocuous topic.

  ‘I do. Now why the devil have I not seen a little beauty like you here before?’ He had dropped his voice so that the others could not hear. His expression made her feel rather hot.