by M C Beaton
Chapter Five
Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The duke’s offer to make her his mistress should have given Harriet a disgust of him—as it had, she fiercely told herself. The heavy, languorous feeling she had when she thought about him she put down to dismay that she should socially have sunk so low. She worked away in the evenings on her old ball gown, trimming it with bows of green silk and making herself a green silk mask, but thinking as she stitched that it was folly to go to the ball. She had been so grateful to Lady Fortescue for having ended her dreary days of isolation. But this ball might bring back all the old misery and discontent.
When Lady Darkwood sent for her on the day before the ball, she appeared flurried and upset. “Darkwood is being an old pig,” she burst out. “I told him I was taking you to the ball and he said it was the outside of enough and I was shaming the Darkwood name, just as if his father hadn’t been an ironmaster and bought his title!”
Now was the opportunity for Harriet to say it was all right, that she did not really want to go anyway, to deny that each stitch set among the green silk bows had carried a memory of that waltz with the duke, but instead she said lightly, “Then you must tell Darkwood I am not going, Susan. He will be none the wiser when I do go.”
Susan clapped her hands. “Wicked puss! We shall both go and be wicked together, for my husband will not be here when we do leave. Everyone is desperate to see if Rowcester pays court to Lady Stanton.”
“Why?” asked Harriet.
“She has been telling all that will listen she means to make him her own and she has the edge on the young misses, for she plans to get him to bed if she cannot get him to the altar.”
“How very forward,” said Harriet primly. “I am sure the Duke of Rowcester who, ‘tis said, hardly ever attends the Season, is come this time to find a wife. He will not be interested in elderly widows.”
Susan cackled with laughter. “You obviously have not seen her. She is our age and quite stupendously beautiful, not like the dewy Miss Simms, mark you, but in a full-blown, bold way. And she breaks hearts.”
Once again a voice in Harriet’s head urged her not to go, but she said nothing. That evening, Miss Tonks and Mrs. Budley wistfully admired the finished gown. “Have a dance for each of us,” said Mrs. Budley. “We shall never have the chance to go into society again.”
“You shall if this hotel is a success,” said Sir Philip. “Enough money for us all to retire and then relaunch ourselves.”
Miss Tonks brightened and then her face fell. “There are six of us. Once the money is divided up, none of us will be rich enough for society to forgive us.”
“Hark at you,” sneered Sir Philip. “Remembering those days when you were belle of the ball?”
Miss Tonks remembered vividly days when she had been a wallflower and burst into tears.
“I have a good mind to call you out,” snarled the colonel.
“Why don’t you look in your own glass,” said Lady Fortescue, “and see what an ugly little satyr you are become.”
To everyone’s amazement, Sir Philip burst into tears as well. He had never cared for anyone’s opinion of him before, but Lady Fortescue’s remarks had cut him to the bone.
Mrs. Budley, who was gently sentimental, began to cry quietly as well.
“I thought we were all friends,” exclaimed Harriet. “Friends do not insult and wound each other.”
“There, now,” said Sir Philip, after blowing his nose, “I should not tease you, Miss Tonks, and I am heartily sorry.”
“And I only said that to wound you, Sir Philip,” said Lady Fortescue. “As a matter of fact, you have become quite the peacock these days.”
Sir Philip, dried his eyes on a grubby handkerchief, preened and adjusted his enormous cravat.
“Now that is going too far,” murmured the colonel, sotto voce, to Lady Fortescue.
“Oh, he’s quite a game little cock,” whispered Lady Fortescue. “He had the temerity to kiss me.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed the colonel angrily and glared at Sir Philip fiercely.
The duke, returning from his club, had been unfortunate enough to have heard the gossip about Lady Stanton’s ambitions. He wondered whether he should cancel his acceptance. As he approached the hotel on foot, he could see the carriages outside and hear the hum of conversation from inside.
He knew his very presence was attracting customers. He should leave. He had visited the kitchen, hoping he might be welcomed by a grateful Harriet, but had found instead a sinister-looking French chef. He had seen Harriet only briefly, once as she was crossing the hall to go down to the kitchens, and once as she was darting lightly up the stairs.
Although he persuaded himself that the reason he was staying on was to talk Lady Fortescue into accepting his generous offer, he felt in his heart of hearts that she would never accept. He had offered to buy all of them out, but Lady Fortescue had thanked him warmly and said she was now interested in the hotel and would rather wait to see what happened, begging him not to mention his offer to any of the others.
Stubborn old harridan, he thought. And the rest of them were disgraceful in the way they were trying to dislodge him; nothing overt, just a sort of dumb insolence all round, even from that faded spinster, Tonks, who kept telling him ad nauseam that he would be more comfortable in his own home.
And yet, despite Sir Philip’s tricks with the china and furniture, the hotel was very well run, and a haven for ton families who would have shunned the other, more masculine hotels. That French chef, whoever he might be, was superb, and his dinners were beginning to be the talk of London. The Prince of Wales’s friends had dined there the other night, and rumour had it that Prinny himself might drop in.
After dinner, the duke went back to his club and spent a leisurely hour or two gambling, withdrawing only when he considered the stakes were becoming ridiculously high. He had no wish to see all his hard work on the estates vanishing over the gaming tables of White’s.
He strolled back to Bond Street, his sword-stick always at the ready, for despite diligent patrolling by the militia, there was no telling when the mob might erupt into the West End. There was the mob who favoured the war in the Peninsula and would break the windows of any house not showing candles after a victory. Then there was the anti-war mob who might do the same thing to any house visibly celebrating a victory and were apt to take their rage out on any well-dressed man walking the streets. The duke showed his cuffs, a brave thing to do in an age when most men had their sleeves cut long to hide their linen, for somehow it was that band of white, that band which separated gentleman from commoner, that drove the mob to more fury than any show of jewels.
The hotel was hushed and quiet, with only one porter sleeping on a chair by the door. Society was still out at its pleasures.
He saw Harriet at the back of the hall. She gave him a veiled look and then slipped through the door that led down to the kitchen.
He restrained an urge to follow her. He had bought the stove which, after all, had not benefited her but some villainous Frenchman. To the devil with her, he thought, suddenly angry. He went up to his room.
Down in the kitchen, Harriet swung a large pot of water onto the new stove and stirred up the fire. When she had announced to Mrs. Budley and Miss Tonks her intention of going down to the kitchen to wash all over, they had exclaimed in dismay, and with more dismay when they learned she meant to wash her hair as well. Rice powder brushed through the hair, they said, was sufficient to clean it, and washing all over was necessary only when one had had the fever. Miss Tonks said proudly that she had taken a bath in March and would think about one again the next September, for she was “notoriously clean.”
But Miss Tonks, thought Harriet, was not going to a ball, nor had she been sweating in the kitchen for weeks before the chef arrived.
The members of soc
iety simply poured on more scent, the ranker they became, and although Lady Fortescue and the colonel managed to keep fairly sweet-smelling, Harriet found her nostrils were becoming increasingly offended by not only the smells of others but by the smell of herself.
She unhitched a tin hip bath-from the back door and placed it in front of the fire and, when the water was boiling, tipped it in and then filled it up with cold water until she had reached the desired temperature.
She had no fear of being disturbed, for the partners and servants had strict instructions not to go near the kitchen for an hour and the chef had gone to his lodgings.
Harriet sprinkled rose-water into the bath, and then stripped off all her clothes and laid them over a chair before lowering herself into the water. Miss Tonks had presented her with a bar of Joppa soap. Harriet soaped herself all over and then poured a jug of water over her hair from several jugs of water she had placed beside the bath to rinse herself and washed her long black tresses thoroughly.
Then she stood up and leaned down and picked up another jug of water and let the contents cascade over her hair and down her body—just as the duke opened the door and walked in.
He stood stock-still. She had her naked back to him. Her beautiful body was lit with a pinkish glow from the red embers in the fire shining out of the open stove door. Rivulets of soap ran down her body.
He was seized with such a wave of longing, such a desire to cross the floor and hold that naked wet body against his own that his hands began to tremble. And yet, in the same instant, he knew that if she turned round and saw him, she would never forgive him.
Somehow, he managed to leave softly and quietly, closing the door so gently behind him that she was never aware that anyone had been there.
He gained the hall and stood for a moment, blinking in the light of the chandelier, which seemed to be the focus of an infuriated lady’s attention. “That’s our chandelier,” she hissed. “That old wretch tricked you out of it. Where is Sir Philip?”
The duke walked up the stairs, wondering which of Sir Philip’s infuriated relatives the lady and gentleman would prove to be. That image of naked Harriet seemed to be burned into his brain, so much so that he nearly collided with Susan, Lady Darkwood.
“La, your grace!” exclaimed Susan. “It must be love, you are so abstracted.”
“Not I,” said the duke gallantly. “I was merely stunned by your beauty.”
“Naughty man! But you must promise to dance with me at Lady Stanton’s ball tomorrow night.”
“Alas, I cannot. I have quite decided to cancel my invitation.”
“Everything is going wrong,” she said pettishly. “I have a mind not to go myself, for Darkwood raised such a dust when I said I was taking Miss James. ‘Going out in society with a cook,’ he sneered. But Miss James cleverly pointed out that I should say she was not going and that way he would be comfortable and we could have such a good time. I quite dote on Miss James, although she has become a trifle severe and sad in manner and not like her old self, but that is probably caused by slaving over the pots and pans. So vulgar! Perhaps Darkwood has the right of it. But it is to be masked, you know, and no one would recognize her and if one did not recognize her, one would never take her for a cook. Still …”
“I was teasing you,” said the duke, interrupting this flow. “I shall be there. You may have your dance.”
“But how will you know me? I shall be masked like everyone else.”
“Dear Lady Darkwood—your figure, your grace, your charm, your style, how could I make a mistake?”
“Wicked, wicked man,” laughed Susan, highly delighted, not knowing that he was cruelly adding in his mind, “and your brown teeth, and your silly laugh.”
“But you must not tell Miss James that I am to be there,” he said, “for it might upset her to know that a guest from this hotel was to be present and might recognize her.”
“I shall not breathe a word,” said Susan. “In fact, I shall tell her you are not going.”
“Splendid,” he said, bowed, and moved on past her up to his room.
But Susan, as she went downstairs, thought it odd that he should be so anxious to reassure Harriet that he would not be there because he was a guest at the hotel, considering that most of the other hotel guests would be there. Still, it would be wonderful to make Lady Stanton jealous when she had that dance. So she would tell Harriet he was not going.
She did not, however, remember to tell Harriet this news until Harriet had joined her in her rooms, preparatory to leaving for the ball.
Harriet’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. She had paraded in her ballgown for the others, and all, even Sir Philip—although he was still smarting under the insults cast at him by Mrs. Tommy Brickhampton, who had only been persuaded to depart after a promise to pay for the wretched chandelier—had said she looked beautiful. The gown of white muslin over a pale green underdress of silk was embellished with a green silk sash and little green silk bows like butterflies on her shoulders. Miss Tonks, who was clever at such things, had fashioned a coronet of green silk roses from a piece of material she had “put by,” and Harriet did not know the sad tears Miss Tonks had shed as the shears had plunged into that lovely silk which she had been treasuring for her own ballgown. With the first cut, she had known she was cutting all her hopes of romance finally out of her life.
“Oh, you are prettier than I,” complained Susan, “and that is not at all the thing, seeing as how I am risking my social reputation by taking you. I wish I had worn green instead of blue. I did not realize touches of green could be so very fetching. It’s just not fair!”
Harriet’s assurances that Susan’s blue gown and sapphire tiara would make Lady Stanton die of jealousy restored Susan’s mercurial spirits. “I had quite forgot. Rowcester will not be there, so he must have heard all the rumours about La Stanton’s intentions of setting her cap at him.”
Well, he was not going after all, thought Harriet. And she had really always thought he would not go. The depression that assailed her was because of the strain of the past weeks.
“That is a lovely scent you are wearing,” said Susan. “What is it?”
“Soap. I had a bath last night.”
“Are you ill?”
“I had a desire to be clean.”
“My maid rubs me down with a flannel,” said Susan. “Quite sufficient, I assure you. Now come along. Martha”—to her maid—“our cloaks, please, and carry our fans and reticules out to the carriage.”
I once took all this for granted, thought Harriet, as a footman helped her into the Darkwood’s well-sprung carriage. She tried to forget her present life and imagine that she was once more the adored daughter of doting parents. But the thought of her dead parents made her feel sad, so, with a little sigh, she turned her attention to Susan’s gossip.
“You see, I have been thinking a lot about you,” said Susan. “When the Season is over, if I cannot beg Darkwood to take me to Brighton, back we go to the country, back to dreary Sussex and that great barn of a place to yawn my head off day in and day out, and everyone for miles around seems to be in their dotage. Something to do with the climate. It keeps people alive for much too long. Consider Lady Fortescue, for instance. She should have been decently tucked up in her coffin this age, although I do not believe she hails from Sussex originally. I think the Fortescues were Kent. So what I was thinking is this. Why not come with me as companion and leave this sordid hotel trade? What larks we would have! I tell you, they are not all tottering on the edge of the grave in Sussex. In fact, there is a delicious young man visits from time to time, a Mr. Courtney. Such legs, my dear. Like balustrades, I assure you. Every time I see those legs, my heart goes pit-a-pat.”
“Did not your heart go pit-a-pat for Darkwood?” asked Harriet.
“Stoopid. One does not love one’s husband. One takes lovers after marriage, which is the benefit of marriage and about the only one I can think of, because all husbands do, when they ar
e not in the House or at their club or on the hunting field, is expect one to breed. So tiresome, don’t you think? Yes, you shall come with me, Harriet, and we shall set Sussex by the heels.”
“It is very kind of you, very kind indeed,” said Harriet awkwardly. “But, indeed, I am tied to Lady Fortescue.”
“Never say you are a bonded servant!” squeaked Susan.
“I was thinking of the ties of loyalty and gratitude.”
“Oh, those. Put them quite out of your head.”
“May I consider your proposal?” asked Harriet, more to stem the flow than from any determination even to consider being a companion to this rattle-pate.
“By all means. But I have no doubt you will come about. The hotel is great fun as a novelty, but you would not like it to go on for years, now would you? Look, we are arrived. Is my mask straight?”
“Yes, Susan.”
“And what do I look like?”
“Wickedly alluring.”
Susan giggled appreciatively.
I should be her companion, thought Harriet. I lie so well.
They descended from the carriage and through a double row of footmen into the entrance hall. “Did you mark those footmen?” whispered Susan. “All matched in height.”
Harriet’s spirits, which had been low, lifted to the sound of the music filtering down from the ballroom upstairs. They went into a dressing-room off the hall and Susan’s correct maid helped them out of their mantles.
“I forgot,” hissed Susan urgently, “you cannot be announced as Miss James. Here, what shall we call you?” She fumbled in her reticule and took out her card case and a silver pencil. “See, I shall write Miss Something-or-other under my own name. I have it! Miss Venus, how is that?”
“Sounds like an actress or an opera dancer,” said Harriet reprovingly. “I know; Mama’s maiden name was Ward. Miss Ward will do.”
“How dull, but Miss Ward it is. Now you must not dance off and abandon me or I shall be cross!”
