The Wicked Godmother: A Novel of Regency England - Being the Third Volume of A House for the Season

by M. C. Beaton

  The marquess treated his servants with the same detached courtesy as he treated most members of the ton. So on the journey back, he encouraged Lizzie to talk about herself and pointed out various notables to her just as if he were entertaining a young debutante.

  That carriage drive meant very little to the marquess, but it meant all the world to Lizzie. She spent most of her life below ground, although Rainbird was very generous about letting her go out for walks, and she felt she had been transported to another world. The air was warm and sweet. The lamps on Westminster Bridge flickered in their glass shields. For the first time in her life, Lizzie began to wonder whether she would always be a scullery maid, or whether there was not some road up for her—some road which would lead to carriage rides and bring her into a world where she would be treated with the gentle, thoughtful courtesy she was experiencing at that moment.

  “I do not know why Joseph and Luke should want to take me and the dog out in a gig,” she said timidly.

  “My dear young lady,” said the marquess, “when two young men show a sudden desire to rush a dog over to the Surrey side, it usually means they plan to enter that dog in a fight.”

  “They would never do that,” gasped Lizzie.

  “There is a lot of money to be gained. Do not be too hard on them.”

  Lizzie digested this in silence. Joseph had always seemed to Lizzie the epitome of everything that was gentlemanly, even though he did do such dreadful things. But here she was with a real gentleman, and he did not jeer at her or find her silly. When he swung off the bridge, she swayed towards him and without taking his eyes from the road, he put out a hand to support her. Joseph would have thrust her away.

  “I do not suppose your mistress will be returned home,” said the marquess.

  “No, my lord,” said Lizzie. “I shall take the dog down to the kitchen and … and … make as little fuss as possible.” She looked at him anxiously.

  “Yes, my child,” he said, “you may rest assured that I shall leave all the talking to you. You are wondering what lies you will have to tell in order to support the footman’s story.”

  This was exactly what Lizzie had been wondering, and she looked at him in awe.

  But alas for Joseph. He was already in deep trouble before Lizzie arrived at Number 67. Rainbird had been horrified when Joseph had returned alone. In vain had the footman blustered and tried to make light of it. Rainbird had heard of the departure in the gig. Why rent a gig when the purpose of the outing had been to walk with Lizzie? And what had Luke to do with it?

  At last, backed up against the kitchen wall, faced by a furious butler and cook, Joseph blurted out the truth.

  “You heartless man,” cried Jenny. “Poor little Lizzie. She thought you were doing it all for her. Oh, what will the mistress say?”

  “Nothing. For all of us must go and find that dog as well as Lizzie if it takes all night,” said Rainbird. “Mrs. Middleton, you had best stay with Dave to mind the house while the rest of us go out.”

  The searchers were just emerging from the basement when a high-perched phaeton rolled to a stop in front of the house, and they stood open-mouthed as the Marquess of Huntingdon jumped down and helped Lizzie to alight. Then the marquess picked up Beauty from the floor of the carriage. It was then they all turned and saw Harriet Metcalf standing on the step.

  There had been a riot at the play, a not infrequent occurrence these days, because the managers of the playhouse had raised the price of the seats and the public had once again taken their nightly revenge.

  Lord Vere had been at the play and had been wonderful in extricating the ladies from the riot and bearing them home. When he had left, Annabelle and Sarah had said they were going to bed to have an early night, and Harriet had been sitting in the front parlour reading a book when she had heard the noise of the marquess’s arrival.

  Now she stood, the light evening breeze lifting the errant strands of her fair hair, which always escaped from their moorings no matter how expert the hairdressing, and saw the marquess with Beauty lying in his arms.

  She thought Beauty was dead. And on top of that shattering thought came the realisation that she must not cry or make a scene in front of the servants over the death of a mongrel. Amazed at the steadiness of her own voice, she said, “Is he dead?”

  “Dead drunk,” said the marquess.

  Harriet ran forward and pried up one of Beauty’s eyes. He gave a faint snore and stirred in the marquess’s arms. “Thank the Lord,” said Harriet under her breath. Then she saw Lizzie.

  “Please tell me what happened?” she said.

  The marquess nodded his head towards Lizzie as a signal that the scullery maid was to give the explanation. Lizzie looked at Joseph, and Joseph threw her a pleading look.

  “I am afraid your dog ran away, Miss Metcalf. I should have waited for Joseph to come with me, but I chased after the dog and found him eventually in Vauxhall Gardens. His lordship was kind enough to take me home.”

  Harriet became aware of all the faces at the windows along the street.

  “It is most good of you, my lord,” she said. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  The marquess’s intelligence prompted him to refuse. His emotions screamed to him to accept. His emotions won.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps one of your servants could look after my horses?”

  He followed Harriet into the house, still carrying Beauty.

  “May I put this dog down somewhere, ma’am?” he asked plaintively. “I don’t know how that little servant girl of yours managed even to try to lift him. He’s deuced heavy.”

  “Certainly,” said Harriet. “Place him in front of the fire. Sit down, my lord, and tell me how my poor Beauty comes to be drunk.”

  The marquess placed Beauty down on the carpet and then sat down in a chair facing Harriet. Harriet blushed slightly and would not meet his eyes. She was already regretting her invitation. For, at the playhouse, before the riot started, she had been overcome with such physical longing for him that she had felt haunted and then had thought miserably that London must be turning her mind to carnal thoughts and herself into a strumpet.

  “I was at Vauxhall,” said the marquess, “at supper, when suddenly I looked round and there was your dog, sitting at table, with a knife and fork in his paws, demolishing wafers of ham.”

  “What really happened?” asked Harriet. “Thank you, Rainbird. Put the tray down there and we shall serve ourselves.”

  “He did help himself to a plate of ham, Miss Metcalf, and then Lizzie came rushing up and nearly fainted, by which time Beauty had had his snout in the punch bowl and had passed out.”

  Harriet poured a glass of wine for him and then one for herself.

  “My poor Beauty,” said Harriet. “I am afraid he is not a very well-disciplined dog.”

  The marquess thought that was putting it mildly, but he politely said nothing and studied her instead. A branch of candles on the mantelpiece was gilding her hair. Her gown was of a soft blue material, the low neck being edged with a fall of lace.

  “I must reward Lizzie in some way,” said Harriet. “It was brave of her to go looking for Beauty alone.”

  “Perhaps braver than you realise, ma’am. Vauxhall Gardens is no place for an unattended young lady. Imagine it. Her searching in the dark, going out of her wits with worry. She is a thoroughly nice child.”

  “Perhaps money …” ventured Harriet.

  “Money is not the answer to everything,” said the marquess. “If you give her money, she will no doubt share it with the other servants. You have a basement full of Jacobites. One has only to see them altogether for even a second to realise they have formed themselves into some democratic sort of clan. I felt I was meeting Lizzie’s family when I returned, rather than her superiors.”

  “Not much of a family when they allow the child to sleep on a damp mattress on the scullery floor,” said Harriet.

  “It must be a hard life for them,” mused
the marquess. “They appear to be servants only for each Season, rather than attached to some great household where they are employed all the year round. I do not suppose they are paid very much when the Season is over. It would explain their indifference to Lizzie’s sleeping quarters. Only people like us who are well-fed can afford the luxury of sentimental feelings for waifs … or dogs.”

  “I have no money,” retorted Harriet defensively, “but Beauty, at one time, was the only friend I had and I was glad to share my food with him.”

  “To return to the subject of little Lizzie. Education for such as she is more valuable than gold. With a little training and learning she could aspire to be a housemaid and then perhaps a lady’s maid.”

  “That is a very good idea,” said Harriet warmly. “I shall teach her myself.”

  He smiled at her suddenly, liking her earnestness for Lizzie’s welfare, liking the fall of her gown and the soft sweetness of her voice.

  Some devil prompted Harriet to say, “I trust your companion at Vauxhall was not too overset by the behaviour of my vulgar dog?”

  “Yes,” said the marquess, his face going a polite blank, “she was.”

  Harriet should have realised the marquess would naturally not be attending Vauxhall on his own. But she had hoped he had been there with a gentleman friend. Only because, she told herself severely, she wished the best for Sarah.

  But a shadow crossed her face, and she finished her glass of wine very quickly and looked pointedly at the clock.

  The marquess put down his glass and rose to his feet. Harriet rose as well and dropped him a curtsy by way of underlining the fact she expected him to take his leave.

  He raised her hand to his lips and smiled down into her eyes.

  Harriet snatched her hand away and buried it in the folds of her skirt.

  His face flamed at the insult.

  “You are so … practised in the art of flirtation, my lord,” said Harriet, “and I am not.”

  “No,” agreed the marquess. “No one could accuse you of even trying to practise the art of being polite. Good evening.”

  Sadly, Harriet watched him go and then listened until the last rumble of his carriage wheels had faded on the night. Lord Vere did not prompt such bad behaviour in her. She sat down on the floor beside Beauty and stroked his rough, shaggy fur. “What is happening to me, Beauty?” she asked.

  But Beauty’s only answer was a drunken snore.

  Chapter

  Seven

  Do you know, Carter, that I can actually write my

  name in the dust on the table?

  Faith, Mum, that’s more than I can do. Sure,

  there’s nothing like education, after all.

  —Punch

  Rainbird descended to the servants’ hall the next day with the news that Lizzie was to be taught her letters by Miss Metcalf. Miss Metcalf intended to begin on the morrow by giving Lizzie half an hour of her time at ten-thirty in the morning.

  “Reckon she deserves it,” said Alice in her slow way. “I ain’t much good when it comes to education, not me.”

  “Me neither,” said Dave. “Why Liz?”

  “ ‘Cos she’s a brave girl, that’s why,” said Jenny, shooting a venomous look at Joseph. “See here, Lizzie, when we get that pub we’re set on, you can keep the books and sit there like a lady.”

  “I could hae taught her,” growled Angus MacGregor, the cook.

  “Well, she probably wouldn’t have larned much o’ you,” said Joseph. “You’d hehve shouted at her and hit her with the roasting spit if she hedn’t hehve done what you said.”

  “We Scots are no’ like you Sassenachs,” said the cook. “There’s hardly a bairn in the length and breadth of the country that doesn’t know his letters.”

  “Don’t be getting above yourself, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Middleton.

  “And pass on to us what she teaches you,” said Alice. “We could have a school down here in the winter.”

  Education fever set in, and Rainbird promised to buy some secondhand primers for all of them.

  Only Joseph sat a little apart, smarting both physically and mentally. He had had a hiding from Rainbird the evening before, but it was Lizzie’s new attitude towards him that hurt the most.

  Joseph had not realised how much he had come to take the little scullery maid’s devotion for granted. Lizzie now barely looked at him.

  Abovestairs, Harriet was breakfasting with Sarah and Annabelle, giving them a carefully edited version of the previous night’s happenings. Caution prompted her not to say she had entertained the marquess. Although she was sure dear Sarah would understand, the girl might be upset nonetheless at missing a chance of spending further time in his company.

  If only there were two Lord Veres, thought Harriet.

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. Lord Vere called and chatted to Sarah and Annabelle for quite half an hour. Then they went out to the opera, where he had secured them a box. There was no sign of the Marquess of Huntingdon.

  Harriet took her charges during the following week to balls and routs and parties. The Season was rushing upon them; the pace becoming hectic. The marquess did not put in an appearance at any of the events. Sarah began to show signs of turning petulant and kept asking Harriet sweetly if she had said something to offend the handsome lord.

  Harriet was just beginning to wonder whether to admit to Sarah that she had in fact been very rude indeed to Lord Huntingdon when Lord Vere brought him back into their lives.

  He said the marquess had proposed a carriage ride. Lord Vere had discovered the marquess had been away visiting his country estate, and the marquess had surprised him on his return by suggesting the outing.

  Lord Vere was by now hopelessly in love with Harriet and had decided to propose. He did not want his friend, however, to suspect any of this, for he feared the marquess might steal a march on him.

  Having accepted the invitation, Harriet then began to worry about the wisdom of going along herself. She felt sure something would prompt her to annoy the marquess, he would be furious, and Sarah’s hopes would be dashed. Harriet was just wondering what to do when Miss Josephine Spencer arrived at Number 67. Harriet was delighted to see her. It transpired that Miss Spencer had come to Town to stay with an elderly relative in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Harriet sat down and regaled her friend with all the things that had happened since she had come to London.

  Miss Spencer heard her out in silence and then said, “You are sure that this Lord Vere and Lord Huntingdon are not interested in you, rather than in the twins?”

  “No, of course not,” said Harriet. “I do not have a dowry. But there is something I have not told you, Josephine. I say the most terrible things to Huntingdon and have given him quite a disgust of me, so I am very obviously not the reason for the outing tomorrow. But I am worried I might say something wrong—and Sarah would never forgive me. She is quite taken with the marquess. In fact,” said Harriet with a burst of candour, “any woman would be taken with him. He is devastatingly handsome and … and he has a sweet smile. But he is a rake.”

  “Aren’t they all,” said Miss Spencer cynically.

  “I do wish I had someone to send along tomorrow instead of me.”

  “I’ll go,” said Miss Spencer promptly, “provided you are sure it is not you the gentlemen are after.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Don’t sound surprised. I would have thought … well, never mind. What excuse shall I give them?”

  But before Harriet could reply, Rainbird entered, obviously wishing to speak to her, and then stopped when he saw Miss Spencer, because Joseph had let her in and, thinking she was an old frump of no consequence, had not bothered to tell the butler of her arrival.

  “Yes, Rainbird?” asked Harriet.

  “It is a private matter, ma’am,” said Rainbird.

  “You may speak about it now, if you wish,” said Harriet. “Miss Spencer is an old friend and knows all my affairs.”


  Rainbird took a deep breath and plunged in. He had learned earlier from Harriet of the proposed outing to Richmond, and, since his services would not be required on the morrow, he wished to take a day’s leave to go to Brighton to see “a very old friend.”

  The butler’s heart had been aching for Felice, the French lady’s maid. He had tried to school himself to wait until the end of the Season when he would be free, but he was frantically worried that she might be contemplating marriage to some burgher.

  Miss Metcalf studied him so long in silence that Rainbird began to fear he had offended her. Then she surprised him by saying, “Brighton. I have never seen the sea. Also, I am worried about little Lizzie. Perhaps we all need fresh air. Hire a large travelling carriage, Rainbird, and we shall all go.”

  Rainbird tried to keep his features correctly immobile, but his comedian’s face radiated happiness.

  “Thank you, Miss Metcalf,” he said. “I shall inform the rest of the staff. We have the pot boy, Dave, who can stay to mind the house.”

  “I do not think that would be fair to Dave,” said Harriet. “We will make sure all the shutters are closed and the doors locked and barred.”

  When Rainbird had left, Miss Spencer said thoughtfully, “That is a most attractive man, your butler.”

  “Rainbird?”

  “Yes, Rainbird. He has a clever face and a good body and his legs are all his own. No false calves there.”

  “Wait until you meet the Marquess of Huntingdon.” Harriet laughed. “Baroness Villiers, who is quite a grim old dowager, told me without a smile on her face that Huntingdon’s legs were the ‘talk of Europe.’ “

  Miss Spencer smiled, although her brain was working furiously. She wondered whether Harriet was in love with this marquess.

  Sarah and Annabelle were delighted with the new arrangements. Both were beginning to feel Harriet was much too pretty to have around, and a dragon like Miss Spencer as chaperone would certainly not distract any gentleman from their own charms.