by M. C. Beaton
Rainbird saw the tears spilling over onto Harriet’s cheeks and jerked his head at the other servants. “Out!” he said.
They retreated and closed the door.
“I am only a servant, ma’am,” said Rainbird, “but there is no one else here, and I cannot help you unless I know what troubles you.”
In an instant, the class barriers were down. Harriet threw herself against his chest and sobbed her heart out.
Beauty threw back his head and began to howl, and the sound of her pet’s distress had the effect of forcing Harriet to pull herself together. She stood back and surveyed the butler with sorrowful eyes. “I am being destroyed by malicious gossip, Mr. Rainbird.”
“I know,” said Rainbird gravely, “and I know who has been gossiping.”
Harriet sat down abruptly and stared at him.
“It’s that lady’s maid, Emily. She told all to Luke and then swore him to silence. But he told his butler, Blenkinsop, as I am sure she must have known he would do. Blenkinsop loves a gossip and tattled to the upper servants at The Running Footman. I will say one thing for Luke,” said Rainbird, studying his bruised knuckles, “he was very loyal to Emily and I had to … er … drag the source of his information out of him.”
“But I have never done her any harm!” cried Harriet.
“I think you will find, Miss Metcalf,” said Rainbird, studying the cornice, “that she was instructed to spread malice by the Misses Hayner.”
“That I shall never believe,” said Harriet.
Rainbird cocked his head to one side and listened as a carriage came to a stop outside.
“Prove us all wrong then, ma’am,” he said. “Come with me and hide outside Miss Sarah’s room when they have gone in, and listen.”
“No!”
“If they are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
Harriet took a deep breath. “Very well.”
Rainbird bowed. “I shall tell them you have retired to bed and are not to be disturbed.”
He went out and closed the door. Harriet twisted her handkerchief in her hands and listened to the murmur of voices coming from the hall. Then she heard the girls mounting the stairs.
Rainbird slipped back into the front parlour. “Now, Miss Metcalf,” he said.
Harriet followed him noiselessly upstairs. He signalled to her to press her ear against Sarah’s door.
“Well, what a to-do!” came Sarah’s voice. “I cannot understand it.”
“It must be Emily,” said Annabelle. “Or some of that gossip we had spread about Upper Marcham has finally come to Town.”
“I wish you would not persist in calling it gossip,” said Sarah testily. “We only spoke the truth and it was only our way of letting people know the truth.”
Harriet shrank back from the door. “I have had a bad shock,” she whispered. “I shall retire.”
“Not yet,” said Rainbird. “You did not listen long enough.”
With a sick heart, Harriet put her ear to the door again.
“I thought you had come to like her,” Annabelle was saying.
“I did … almost … when I thought she had our interests at heart. Then I did think she might be sincere. But on calm reflection, I once more think she is a scheming jade. I hope she is so badly disgraced that no one will look at her again. Faugh! Harriet and her milkmaid manners and her lack of ton. She must be a schemer or the gentlemen would not look at her twice with us around. I do not like her one little bit. I never liked her. I never even liked her when we were children and before Papa showed any doting preference for her….”
“Enough,” said Harriet, backing away from the door.
“You must come to the servants’ hall,” said Rainbird gravely. “There is much work to be done.”
Chapter
Eleven
Fair virgins blushed upon him;
wedded dames Bloomed also in less transitory hues;
For both commodities dwelt by the Thames,
The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse,
Against his heart preferred their usual claims,
Such as no gentleman can quite refuse;
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.
—Lord Bryon
Too shocked and dazed to do other than obey the butler, Harriet followed him down the backstairs and into the servants’ hall.
The illogical thought did cross her mind that her poor mother would have been shocked could she have seen her daughter confiding in servants. And yet, for all her faults, for all her snobbery, the late Mrs. Metcalf had maintained that only upstarts and counter-jumpers treated their servants uncivilly.
Lizzie was sitting at the far end of the table, teaching Dave the little she had already learned from Harriet. Mrs. Middleton was nodding over a piece of sewing by the fire. Jenny and Alice had workbaskets full of linen to mend. Angus MacGregor was standing on one foot, studying a much battered book of recipes; the book was held well out in front of him, for his eyes were bad and only vanity stopped him from buying a pair of spectacles. Joseph was manicuring his nails, and the Moocher was curled up on his knee. Candlelight shed a golden glow over the group around the table, shadowing the stained walls and making it look like an idealised painting of a country kitchen at the end of the day.
All rose to their feet as they saw Harriet behind Rainbird. Rainbird pulled out a chair at the head of the table and begged Harriet to sit down, and then nodded to the others to resume their places.
Mrs. Middleton was fully awake now, her mild eyes darting this way and that with a frightened look, for Mrs. Middleton, in her heart of hearts, really believed there was a curse on the house and wondered if Miss Metcalf had descended to these unfashionable lower regions to tell them of murder or rape.
Succinctly, Rainbird outlined the scurrilous gossip about Harriet that was spreading throughout the West End. He told them he now believed the twins had tricked Miss Metcalf into going into The Rookery. When all the exclamations of shock and dismay had died down, he turned to Harriet.
Harriet wanted to cry out that she did not believe the twins could have done such a thing, but Rainbird was asking her a question.
“Tell me, Miss Metcalf,” said Rainbird, “I understand that Lord Vere and Lord Huntingdon both called on you some time ago and both gentlemen left looking distressed. Could it be that both proposed marriage to you?”
“Yes,” said Harriet miserably. “I believed, you see, that Lord Vere wished to propose to Annabelle, and Sarah would receive a proposal from Lord Huntingdon. But they asked me instead.”
“And you refused, obviously,” cried Rainbird. “Did not Lord Vere talk of joining his old regiment because of a broken heart? But he never named the lady, and speculation was rife. And Huntingdon. Ah, there’s a prize! Before he went to America, every society family wanted him for one of their daughters, and there were many married ladies who threw themselves at his head as well. But he never played any respectable lady false for all his reputation.”
“Belinda Romney is his mistress,” said Harriet. “ ‘Tis said she needed money badly after the death of her husband. He must have taken advantage of her.”
“Not he,” said Joseph. “She hehd two lovers afore him.”
“You see,” said Rainbird eagerly, “the only way to combat a nasty piece of gossip is to provide society with a bigger and better chunk. We shall spread out over the West End before morning and tell the world of the Hayner girls’ jealousy and spite.”
“It will ruin them,” said Harriet miserably. “And their father trusted me.”
“Sir Benjamin trusted you, Miss Metcalf, to see they remained ladies of good character. If they go unpunished, then they will remain malicious and go on to ruin someone else’s life. Emily shall be sent packing first thing in the morning. I shall see her off on the stage myself. Now, what happened between you and Lord Huntingdon?”
“He spoke to me like the harlot h
e believed me to be,” said Harriet.
“Well, it stands to reason he might be in a passion seeing that he obviously loves you very much.”
“Loves me? The man is a rake!”
“Miss Metcalf,” said Rainbird severely, “when a man as wealthy and handsome as the Marquess of Huntingdon proposes marriage, you must understand that man is deeply in love. His late wife played him false, you know, and he was very badly hurt by her.”
Harriet looked at the butler with wide eyes. “Are we all talked about by London servants? Is there no part of our lives which is not taken apart?”
“Oh, yes,” said Rainbird blithely. “But if we did not listen to gossip, how could we know all these things to tell you—to help you?”
“But no one will marry Sarah and Annabelle after you talk.”
“Yes, they will,” chipped in Jenny fiercely. “They’ve got large dowries. There’s fellows would marry an ape, supposing it were wealthy.”
“And by the look o’ some o’ the dowagers,” chirped Dave, “it’s obvious they did.”
“No,” said Harriet with a shake of her head. “I cannot believe the girls tried to get me to go to The Rookery. I cannot allow any gossip against them without proof.”
“What more proof do we need?” asked Alice.
“I know,” said Rainbird. “Jenny, fetch Emily down here. She’s the one who’s been spreading the gossip. I’ll make her tell us why. I’m sorry, Miss Metcalf, but I am sure she will say she was under orders.”
Mrs. Middleton roused herself from her transfixed state. “Brandy for Miss Metcalf, I think, Mr. Rainbird, while we wait for Emily.”
A bottle of the best French brandy was produced. Harriet, feeling drained of emotion and oddly at peace, noticed that the brandy was not given only to her but to all the servants, even little Dave.
“It is now three in the morning,” said Harriet. “You should all have been to bed this age.”
“We always stay up until our betters have retired for the night,” said Rainbird. “Ah, here is Emily.”
The maid, looking furious, sat down at the table and glared at Rainbird. “What’s the reason for sending her to pull me out o’ my bed?” Then Emily saw Harriet, and a look of fear flashed into her eyes.
“Now,” said Rainbird, “we have absolute proof, Emily, that you have been spreading nasty stories about Miss Metcalf. Did Miss Sarah and Miss Annabelle put you up to it?”
“I didn’t spread lies,” said Emily defiantly. “All I told was the truth. I did it all by meself.”
“Do you realise what you are saying?” wondered Rainbird. “Not only will you now be dismissed, but you will never get another job again.”
“Already got one,” said Emily, tossing her head.
“With whom?”
“That’s my business.”
“Is it with that lady you was seen talking to in Shepherd Market?” asked Jenny suddenly. “Mary, the housemaid, what told me, said she had ever such green eyes.”
“It come to me,” said Lizzie excitedly, “the lady Beauty frightened off her horse, her what was with Lord Huntingdon, had green eyes.”
“Belinda Romney,” gasped Harriet.
“See here, young woman,” said Rainbird, looming over Emily, “if Belinda Romney wrote that note to get Miss Metcalf to go to The Rookery, then you’d best tell us. If you won’t talk to us, you’ll talk to the Bow Street Runners.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Emily, turning white. “They’d never listen to the likes o’ me. They’d transport me. All she’d have to say is that she didn’t know nothing about it.”
“Then tell us,” said Rainbird.
Thoroughly frightened now, Emily choked out her story. The girls often sent her out on errands. Mrs. Romney had fallen into conversation with her, asking her if she were the Misses Hayner’s maid. She had seemed to have developed a knack of turning up when Emily was in some shop or bazaar. Emily loved to talk, and it appeared Mrs. Romney loved to listen. Mrs. Romney had said lightly that Harriet had stolen Lord Huntingdon away from her. Emily had poured out her version of Harriet and Sir Benjamin. One confidence led to another. Mrs. Romney had said it would be fun to worry Harriet by sending her a letter saying the twins were illegitimate. If Harriet swallowed such a story and went to The Rookery, she would only get a fright, and even if she did not go, it would worry her to know she had a secret enemy.
“Then when it didn’t work, when it only brought Lord Huntingdon to her rescue,” said Emily, her hands trembling, “Mrs. Romney grew angry with me and said if I had gossiped about her in the country, I could gossip about her in Town. My ladies did not want me to do it.”
Harriet let out a slow breath of relief. Belinda Romney of the uncertain morals and cracked reputation was an enemy she could understand.
“She promised me twenty pound and a job if I did my part well,” said Emily desperately. “Oh, Miss Metcalf, twenty pound is a lot of money for the likes of me.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry in earnest.
“I suggest you return to your home in Upper Marcham immediately,” said Harriet. “I do not want to see you again.”
Rainbird nodded to Jenny, who led the weeping and unresisting maid out.
“Now, let me see,” said Rainbird. “We must move quickly to fight gossip with gossip. London must know of Mrs. Romney’s spite and as soon as possible. Joseph, you will position yourself between White’s and Brooks’s in St. James’s and gossip to the waiting grooms and footmen. Alice, you will go with Jenny; Miss Metcalf will lend you caps and cloaks so that you may both look like lady’s maids. Go to Almack’s in a hack and enquire after Miss Metcalf, affecting not to know she has left. Show shock and alarm. Go into the room where the ladies leave their wraps and gossip to everyone who will listen. MacGregor, you had best go to Boodles. It is, as you know, next door to White’s and Brooks’s, but Joseph will have his hands full. Talk to the coachmen and footmen. Mrs. Middleton, take Lizzie and go to Lady Bellamy’s. Say you are looking for your mistress and find an excuse to gossip. She is having a ball, and some folk may have gone on there from Almack’s. I, myself, shall go around the coffeehouses. Dave, you guard the house while we are all away. We shall all meet back here in an hour.”
Dimly, Harriet felt she should protest, but matters appeared to have been taken out of her hands. Alice and Jenny followed her up to her bedchamber and selected caps and cloaks, giggling with excitement. Rainbird hovered impatiently in the doorway and then ordered Harriet to bed in an abstracted way, as if his temporary mistress were one of the maids.
Harriet lay in bed and heard the shufflings and bangs and bustles as the servants of Number 67 cheerfully set out on their gossiping campaign. How could she face the girls in the morning?
Now she disliked them. That they had gossiped about her to the village of Upper Marcham instead of telling her of their suspicions about her was too much finally to take. And in a way that knowledge hurt where knowledge of Belinda’s spite could not. Harriet had turned down two of the best catches on the Marriage Mart, and all because of Sarah and Annabelle.
Before she fell asleep, Harriet came to the conclusion that Sir Benjamin Hayner had not liked his own daughters simply because they were unlikeable girls.
The Marquess of Huntingdon was engrossed in a quiet game of whist at Boodles. Boodles had a large bay window that commanded a good view of St. James’s Street. Club history had it that a famous duke had enjoyed the prospect because he said he liked sitting “watching damned people get wet.” It was a more soothing club than the politically minded Brooks’s (Whig) and White’s (Tory). It even boasted a “dirty room” where all coins were boiled and scrubbed so that they might not sully the hands of the gamblers.
The marquess glanced idly out of the window. Surely that was one was of the servants from Number 67! There was a large Highland-looking man with a shock of fiery hair, who was talking earnestly to a rapt audience of coachmen and footmen. The last time the marquess had seen him,
MacGregor had been trying to catch Beauty. As he watched, one of the marquess’s friends, Jimmy Fotheringay, drove up in his phaeton. He jumped down and eyed the listening group of servants and strolled over to them. He asked a question. The group parted to leave MacGregor in centre stage. With many wide gesticulations, the cook began to talk.
The marquess turned his attention back to the game. In ten minutes’ time, Jimmy Fotheringay burst into the room, his eyes roaming this way and that until they settled on the marquess.
“Huntingdon!” he cried. “You have never heard such scandal!”
“Go away,” said the marquess. “I have had enough of London scandal to last me until the end of my days.”
“But this concerns the lady you proposed marriage to!”
The marquess’s companions downed their cards and pricked up their ears.
“You forget yourself,” said the marquess in an even voice.
“But she has been made the target of scurrilous gossip. That sweet angel has been pilloried by her two useless goddaughters and nigh killed by Mrs. Romney. You have never heard such villainy.”
One of the card players, Lord Targarth, heaved his large bulk up from his chair. “Go away, Fotheringay,” he said sleepily. “You never proposed to anyone, did you, Huntingdon?”
Had it been anyone less innocent and ingenuous than Jimmy Fotheringay, the marquess might have called them all to order and might have refused point blank to discuss his personal life. But affection for the ebullient Jimmy, combined with sudden sharp curiosity, made him say, “I proposed marriage to a certain Miss Metcalf. She refused me, and that’s an end of it.”
“But no, it isn’t,” cried Jimmy. Words tumbling out, he described the jealousy of the twins, the perfidy of the lady’s maid, and the plot by Belinda Romney to have poor little Miss Metcalf permanently lost in The Rookery.
While more gentlemen crowded around to listen, the marquess sat very still, cursing his late wife for having poisoned his brain so much that he could no longer recognise goodness and virtue when he saw it. He remembered his behaviour and blushed for the first time in his life. He wanted to run from the club to Clarges Street, to rush into her bedroom and beg her forgiveness. Around him, the gossip grew in strength. The ladies left behind by their clubbable loved ones would have been amazed at the amount of gossip the flower of the masculine ton could bandy about.
