by Don Jacobson
Chapter VII
The crowded front steps offered Henry little opportunity to catch his breath. If he was not rushing down the steps to carefully guide ladies sporting outrageous attire from their carriages to the entryway, he was dragooned by Mrs. Hastings to adjust furniture in the public areas throughout the first floor. Eventually he could feel his linen shirt sticking to his ribs as he perspired in spite of the freshness of the October evening.
Arrivals began to thin out around 10 o’clock. The orchestra had already been playing for about an hour. At that point, Mr. Hastings stepped out front and began to order most of the men inside to finalize the setting of the dining room for supper.
“Wilson, you, Johnson, and Hogan go inside and find my wife in the dining room,” he said. Then he continued, “Winters…Winters? Where is that man? Wilson, have you seen Winters?”
Henry scanned the area around the front of the house. He had assured Winters that he would cover for him while he left to take a natural break. But, he had been gone a lot longer than what that job demanded.
Takes him as long as the old Colonel, God rest his soul. But Winters is barely twenty, way too young for old man’s stream.
He would stall for a moment. No sense in getting a man in trouble because he had a full bladder.
“Winters told me he had to see a man about a horse, if you know what I mean. Think he went around back in the mews to use the stable privy. Do you want me to track him down?” Wilson queried.
Hastings ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Yes. Chase him back here. I want him to work the stairs to greet any late-comers.”
Wilson jogged down the steps and headed around the corner of Cecil House. Slowing, he made his footfalls silent through years of habit sneaking up on guard posts, British and French alike. The first would lament being foggy-minded…the second rarely lived to regret it.
Approaching the wide cobbled area between the kitchen and the stables, he observed Winters illuminated by one of the torches mounted on the back of the house. In that flickering orange glow he could see that the footman was talking with someone. However, that someone was just outside the pool of light, and that someone was wrapped in a black cloak.
Too large to be a woman. Wide-brimmed hat hides his face, too. What is Winters up to?
Making a sly decision, Wilson called out Winters’ name using his street patois.
“Oi…Winters. Mr. ‘astings needs you out front right now.”
The cloaked figure spun away to flee at a fast walk, however the lower corner of the obscuring garment flared into the light cone revealing a brilliant red satin lining. His footsteps scrunched down the grit-covered cobbles and away from Winters and Wilson.
He came up to Winters and chided him, “Took you long enough to take a piss, man. Think you had a stone or sumthin’. Hastings has a burr under his saddle and wants you to man the front door. Who wuz that you wuz talkin’ too?”
Winters sharply looked at him and snarled, “Nob’dy what’s impor’nt ta you. One o’ th' coachmen, like.” Then he broke away and headed back around the house toward the front door.
Henry had neither the inclination nor the energy to interrogate him further. He shrugged and climbed the three short steps into the kitchen and headed toward the dining rooms to assist Mrs. Hastings.
The past four weeks had resulted in an unspoken agreement, a sort of equilibrium, between Annie and Henry. The two servants had found themselves thrown together on a regular basis. Wilson had become the regular escort for Miss Bennet and Miss Margaret. As a result, Henry was frequently up in the family corridor waiting for them to exit. He would then join in as Annie walked her mistresses to the front door. Henry would stand off to the side watching the maid firmly button the little miss into her cloak and ensure that her bonnet’s ribbons were firmly tied. She would then run her eyes up and down Wilson’s muscular frame looking for any sartorial imperfections. She never found any, but learned that his wry smile at her inspection left her with a fluttering feeling deep in her abdomen and made her afternoon move a little quicker.
They tended to take their tea in the servants’ hall together. Conversation revolved around the goings on in the capitol and the house. His spell was never mentioned, and Henry felt that she did not judge him unlike some of the others. Yet, he did have his worries.
She does not know that I have had these fits in daylight as well. What would happen if I had one while I was in her company? I could hurt her with all my flailing around.
Annie caught sight of Wilson as he closed the door leading from the back stairs and stepped into the hall by the rooms set for dinner. He nodded at her and made to move past. She reached out and touched his arm, halting him.
“Henry, where have you been? Mrs. Hastings needs you in the main dining room right now. As usual, there are more guests than invitations. She is trying to squeeze in another table which means that every other table has to be shifted.”
Henry looked down at her slight but pleasing form, his eyes sparkling in an otherwise impassive face. “Mr. Hastings sent me off to find Winters. As usual, he was turning a five-minute job into a 30-minute kip. Found him out back in the mews chin-wagging with a stranger.”
Sketching a wry smile, the young woman shook her head. “Seems he does not care if he gets turned out without a character. Winters must be convinced he is safe. However just because he is still here after staff has come into Town from Larchmont does not mean that he will be kept over when we return after the Season.”
Henry made to move past her, but Annie halted him with a small touch on his arm. He turned and raised an eyebrow at her forwardness. She blushed and dropped her hand and lowered her eyes, saying quickly, “Before you go in, take another minute to run to your room and pull on a clean shirt, your best livery top coat and a fresh pair of gloves. Your excuse will hold for that much longer.
“Mrs. H will be looking for second footmen to spell the firsts in the dining room passing drinks to the ladies and gents. She is bound to pick those turned out best. Then you will probably be tasked to serve champagne when the dancing resumes after dinner.”
Wilson smiled knowing that she had probably just saved him from running trays up from the kitchen to the buffet table. Sweeping a bow that would have served well in the Court of St. James, he gallantly replied, “Ah, Miss Reynolds, you remind me of one of my Corporals. Sprat always knew the angles. I thank you and will take your advice.”
Annie flashed an impertinent glance his way and styled a quick curtsey before dashing off down the hall onto her next task.
Chapter VIII
The end of the war with France had opened the mercantile floodgates, and French luxuries, legal now although still highly taxed, flowed like water across the Channel. The guests at Cecil House that night guzzled their way through nearly 400 bottles of the good Abbot’s finest champagne. The demand for fresh drinks kept several footmen in constant motion throughout the ballroom servicing the needs of the costumed masses.
Wilson stationed himself near where Miss Bennet would stop and rest when she was not dancing. From her heightened color and happy looks, he could tell that Miss Bennet was thoroughly enjoying herself. She rarely wanted for partners as one of the Cecil gentlemen always made a point of seeking her hand. Even the young Duke of Wilton was shooed over by his wife, the former Lady Emily Cecil, to invite her old friend to take a turn on the floor. The only time her countenance drooped was when one of the men of the ton, attracted by her blonde hair and shining china blue eyes, would discover she was the Cecil governess and abruptly turn on his heel without another word.
Henry was not sure of the reason why he placed himself near Miss Bennet. There was his soldier’s sense of loyalty to his charge. His job during the daytime was to make sure that Miss Bennet and Miss Margaret were safe—not that the governess was in any danger at the ball—although he had an uneasy feeling which had been nagging at him for the past few hours. Perhaps he wanted to be
nearby in case she required him to run an errand, one that would necessitate his seeking out Miss Reynolds for Miss Bennet’s shawl. Whatever the case, Henry Wilson positioned himself about five feet behind her and to her left.
His eyes scanned the crowd of post-midnight revelers. Only a few of the more elderly had departed for their townhomes. The noise level had increased as the younger gentility began to feel the exuberance of a carefree existence that only uncountable wealth could bring. More people crowded onto the dance floor, leaving those on the sidelines conspicuous in their immobility.
Miss Bennet glanced back over her left shoulder at Henry, and with a smile to him, indicated that she wished a glass of champagne from his tray. He stepped forward and bowed slightly so that she could take her drink. Looking past, he saw a tall, slender red headed woman making a beeline for Miss Bennet from across the room.
To Wilson’s eye, this woman was at least five and more likely ten years older than Miss Bennet. As she neared her quarry, he could see that her complexion was well rouged and powdered, probably in an effort to restore the luster of a youth that had fled some time before. More likely, all she accomplished was to hide some of the more obvious ravages of time. She was dressed as good Queen Bess, but the ridiculously accurate high collar coupled with her already long frame left an impression of a carnival actor navigating the room on stilts. Henry could see a steely glint in her hazel green eyes. Whoever she was, she bore not friendship, but rather disdain, for Miss Bennet.
“Miss Bennet. I am quite surprised to come across you here at the Cecil Masque,” the woman fluted between teeth clenched in a rictus that bespoke astonishment, “How did you ever secure such a coveted invitation? I doubt if it was through your connections in Cheapside.”
Miss Bennet’s face soured at the verbal assault, but she politely replied using an epee rather than a saber, “Why Miss Bingley…it is still Miss Bingley, is it not? What a pleasure it is to meet you again. Why it has to be nearly four years since we last saw you before you left Netherfield. I do hope you are faring well. Your note of condolence upon our father’s death was so comforting.”
Wilson stepped back to his earlier position, making sure to keep his face impassive.
I think I am about to see how ladies do battle. These two have no love lost whatsoever. I doubt if this Miss Bingley—how did she ever secure an invitation, I wonder—is aware that Miss Bennet spent the last few years by the side of a Cecil and a future Duchess learning the art of social war!
The faux-Elizabeth arched her eyebrows as she absorbed the slight about her marital status. Then she tried a flanking attack.
“Yes, my brother and sister and I were all so devastated that your father’s death forced dear Jane and Eliza into taking employment. But, I imagine even Mr. Darcy, the height of condescension, felt that this was the best they could expect thanks to your father’s indolent ways. I had heard that your sisters relocated to the hinterlands away from the city. Was it Glasgow? Dublin? I imagine you were so distressed when your Uncle acted like a common tradesman and required them to leave his house in the midst of their grief.”
Wilson ground his teeth as he listened to Miss Bingley pile insults atop insults. He had heard Miss Bennet relate to Annie that her uncle had not demanded that any of his nieces find employment. On the contrary, her two elder sisters could not bear to be a burden on a household with four small children. Another sister—the middle one—had married a sea captain in the Gardiner line. His share of the profits would make the couple quite comfortable.
Miss Bennet maintained her composure and replied evenly, “Oh, Miss Bingley, you are mistaken. Both Jane and Elizabeth decided that their futures would be away from London. Honestly, I think they needed to be absent from Town and the poor memories associated with some areas like Mayfair. My aunt and uncle could not convince them to stay. It is true that my Papa did not plan for our security, but my uncle has more than enough resources to keep his two favorite nieces close at hand. Why he asked after them just last week when he stopped by Cecil House to meet with Lord Tom and his brother.”
Thrust and parry.
Miss Bingley fired another shot, “I can give no credit to your account. I am surprised that Lord Thomas Cecil would be willing to meet with anyone from trade here at Cecil House. Why even my brother, for whom I am still hostess, has the delicacy to conduct those sorts of meetings away from home. And, when I am Mistress of Pemberley, I will force Mr. Darcy to cut any ties with those in trade. His man of business is good enough for that!
“Those in the trade have such inferior manners. But so do many of those in the gentility, especially if they hail from countrified regions like Hertfordshire. I recall how much you and your uncontrollable sister—what was her name—Lily? Lara?—danced like wild hoydens with all the soldiers at that wretched assembly my brother forced us to attend. But I doubt if you have had the opportunity to dance like that tonight…because you are Lord Thomas and Lady Mary’s governess.”
This last vitriolic salvo was delivered with the triumphant sneer so well known by familiars of the daughter of trade. She then sought to push her advantage home. Dropping all pretense of being polite, Miss Bingley reached to grab Miss Bennet’s dance card that was dangling from her left wrist, the same hand in which she held her glass of champagne.
The remaining liquid splashed out onto the floor as Miss Bennet’s hand was yanked forward.
“I imagine that this card is blank, as it should be for an employee overstepping her bounds by presuming to be on the same level as members of the ton.”
Henry stepped forward to Miss Bennet’s side. He had already lifted the napkin draped over his arm and had dropped it atop the golden puddle before it spread to the hem of her dress. Then he gently removed the glass from her hand, still held captive by the silk ribbon stretching from her wrist to Miss Bingley’s hand. He glanced at the governess’ face.
Oh, this Bingley woman has overcharged her musket like a raw recruit. Wonder if she left the ramrod in as well. There is going to be an interesting explosion in a moment. Just look at the arch of Miss Bennet’s eyebrow and the set of her lips!
Caroline snapped open the card. Then her face began to grow pale for the card was filled with names that could only have been improved if one had been the Prince Regent’s! Her eyes widened as she saw monikers that were familiar to her only from the columns in the Times.
Henry dipped to wipe the floor and remove the cloth. As he stepped back, the tableau of Queen Elizabeth facing Marie Antoinette across the centuries stuck in his mind.
Miss Bennet gently tugged her arm backward away from Miss Bingley. Miss Bingley released the dance card from numb fingers. She never moved; her widened eyes locked on Miss Bennet’s face.
Miss Bennet began her final assault.
“So, Miss Bingley, perhaps what you believe is not all that it seems. Perhaps some of the ton are not so insensitive as to ignore a guest forced to sit out a dance because the social sensibilities of others would leave an unaccompanied lady without a partner.
“I happen to recall a particular gentleman from Derbyshire being called out by a young lady from Hertfordshire for exactly that same boorish behavior.
“Yes, it is true that I am governess to Miss Margaret Cecil. And, yes, it is also true that I receive wages for my services. But, Miss Bingley, you must know that I, too, have chosen to relieve the burden of my welfare from my uncle’s shoulders.
“Jane, Lizzy and Mary could have remained in Meryton and lived with Mama, Lydia—yes her name is Lydia—and me off of Mama’s 5,000 pound portion. But can you imagine six women maintaining themselves on 150 pounds a year? My older sisters knew that they had to make their own way in the world. They refused to condemn all of us to poverty; and it would be a poverty not of the genteel kind about which the novelists so happily declaim as some sort of virtue.
“Mrs. Bennet may have been a foolish woman when you knew her, but Papa’s death changed her. With my three older sisters away from
the family, Mama took some of her money to send Lydia and me to seminary.
“I have not heard from my sister these past few months, but I know she is healthy and happy because I feel it here.” At that she laid her gloved hand above her heart. “Just as I know that Lizzy, Jane, Mary and Mama are all well.
“Can you say the same about Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hurst? I imagine not.
“So, I may be a governess, but I was happy this morning. I am happy tonight. And tomorrow I will awake happy because I know that there are people who want me near and those whom I love are they themselves happy.
“And tomorrow morning…what will you be, Miss Bingley?[xvi]
“Oh, you must excuse me. I see my next partner coming. Will yours know where to find you?”
Match to Miss Bennet with first blood. Perhaps Miss Bingley would like a glass of champagne? I think not. Likely she has had enough of that drink for the time being!
Chapter IX
November 5, 1815 Guy Fawkes Day
The morning ritual Annie had come to love repeated itself once again. She helped Miss Bennet with her pelisse, handed over her gloves and a bonnet and surveyed the young lady to be sure that she was put together properly. Then Annie knelt next to the fidgeting child. Miss Margaret was bursting with excitement this morning and could barely contain herself. The child bounced up and down on her heels making it a difficult chore to button her snugly into her woolen cloak.
“Do you know that it is Guy Fawkes Day, Annie? Everybody will be putting the h-u-g-e bonfire together. Do you think we could add some sticks, Miss Bennet? Oh Annie, we need to put together our Guy. Could you find rags and stuffing so it could be the best Guy in all of Grosvenor Square? I want to do better than Georgie Lamb[xvii] this year,” the youngster chattered.
Once her two charges were properly dressed for the brisk November mid-morning, Reynolds cast her critical eye on the footman towering above her. He always wore his French dragoon boots when escorting the ladies through Hyde Park. They were polished to their usual high gloss. And, even though he was togged out in livery, unlike most clothing handed over to servants, every stitch he wore spoke of additional tailoring. His deep burgundy overcoat emblazoned with the Cecil crest richly embroidered on his left chest had been adjusted by an expert tailor. The garment fit his powerful frame like a glove, emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the seductive narrowness of his hips.
