by M C Beaton
“I wish I could believe that Miss James only imagined the door to be locked,” said the colonel.
“It isn’t very likely,” said Sir Philip. “Unless, of course, the wood had swollen in the heat and she thought it was locked.”
“That could well be it,” said the duke, his face clearing. “Was there an oil-lamp on the landing outside the attics?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t lit until after dinner,” pointed out Sir Philip. “Had it not been for Miss James’s story, I could well believe some rival hotel set fire to the place to put us out of business, but then any arsonist would start a fire downstairs, not go up to the attics and risk discovery.”
“We’ll wait until the builders get the scaffolding up,” said the duke, “and then, although the door will have been burnt away, we might find what is left of the lock and see if the key was turned in it. Now, you all need a good night’s sleep.” He turned to John, who stood patiently on the stairs, holding the oil-lamp. “John, tell the servants when they arrive in the morning that they are to keep their jobs. I will pay their wages.”
“Very good, your grace,” said John woodenly. “Is Lady Fortescue well?”
“Yes, she has survived the shock remarkably.”
John smiled broadly, the first time either the colonel or Sir Philip had seen him smile or express any emotions whatsoever.
Sir Philip trotted downstairs, vowing to be good in the future, to be economical, and above all to insure the hotel. His great fear had been that the others would have nothing more to do with him.
And the others, as they settled down for the night, thanked God for their fortune in their different ways and resolved to be better people in future.
The colonel was to say afterwards that living in a duke’s residence had gone to all their heads and made them spend like profligates. The duke’s generosity seemed endless. The ladies ordered new gowns from the best dressmakers and the gentlemen kept the tailors, hatters and bootmakers busy. Harriet’s wedding gown was the prime focus of interest. She was to be married in the duke’s home.
The day after the announcement appeared in the newspapers, Harriet received express letters of congratulations from more relatives than she ever knew she had. And then, as she was sitting in the morning-room, looking through a book of fashions, a footman announced the arrival of the Dowager Duchess of Rowcester.
“Oh, dear,” said Harriet, flustered, “is his grace at home?”
“No, miss, his grace is supervising the repairs to the hotel.”
“Then I must see her.” Harriet stood nervously by the window.
“Where is she?” came a high, shrill voice. “In here? I shall announce myself.”
The door opened and the dowager duchess swept in. Harriet tried not to stare at her. She was wearing a near-transparent dress damped to a scrawny body. On her head was a red wig. Her wrinkled face was rouged and painted with blanc. Behind her came two young men, tittuping on the very high heels of their boots, waving scented handkerchiefs, their faces as painted as that of the dowager duchess.
“Let me look at you,” cried the duchess. “La, such skin and eyes. I could eat you up. What do you think, my darlings?”
To Harriet’s great embarrassment, the two young men circled round her and then gave out chirruping cries of “Ravishing! Quite divine.”
“Of course the Stanton woman is going about telling all who will listen that you are a serving wench, which is not the case, for I checked your pedigree, my dear. Blood is important, but looks more so. Faith, had you come from the kennel, I would have given you my blessing. Let me see your teeth. Ah, perfect. Have you a neat ankle?”
“I believe so,” said Harriet, backing away as the old lady showed every sign of being about to lift her skirts with her cane.
“Good, good, and here is the chilled champagne. Just the thing for the early hours of the day.”
Harriet watched as one young man snatched a bottle from the tray, opened it and poured the duchess a glass, which she drained in one gulp and then held out to be refilled. The rapid swallowing and refilling went on until she had finished the bottle.
“Now I am quite myself again,” said the dowager. “I shall attend your wedding. So will every other relative of Rowcester’ s, if I am not mistaken. Such a rushed affair. Are you with child?”
“Your grace! You shock me!”
The duchess looked so highly pleased that Harriet guessed the old lady’s mission in life was to shock as many people as possible.
“There now. I am sure you will breed as soon as possible. You are a bit narrow in the hips but you look strong. Now I must fly. Darlings, your arms.”
They all swept out and Harriet sank down in a chair and sighed with relief. How missish the duke must have thought her when she had been so bitterly ashamed of his having seen her naked, considering his own mother obviously paraded about London with next to nothing on.
But no sooner had Harriet begun to relax than Susan arrived, her large eyes gleaming with excitement and lips parted over white teeth. “Do you like them?” she said, tapping her teeth with the end of her fan. “They’re real.”
“Not your own, Susan?”
“No, my own were such a dreadful colour that I had them all pulled out and got this lovely, lovely set.”
“Oh, Susan, do you never think where they came from?”
Susan wrinkled her brow. “No, where do they come from?”
“Never mind,” said Harriet, deciding not to spoil Susan’s pleasure in her new teeth by pointing out that they came from dead soldiers on the battlefields of Europe, pulled out by ghouls who took the teeth, when they had robbed everything else they could from the bodies, and sold them to London dentists.
“In any case,” said Susan, sinking down in a flurry of taffeta skirts, “tell me all. You have caught Rowcester, and society is set by the ears. For they cannot cut a duke, you see, and Lady Stanton’s revelations about me encouraging you and being your friend are falling on deaf ears, for everyone is now giving me the credit for having secured the duke for you. I am terribly in demand and Darkwood is quite fawned on in the House and is preening himself no end and saying he always thought you a sterling lady when, in fact, he privately thought you a slut.”
And Susan laughed merrily while Harriet wondered in an exasperated way whether she ought to slap her or go and slap her husband. But Susan was rattling on.
“I know it is to be a small wedding, for Rowcester told me so, but he said that naturally I should be there. Can I be your bridesmaid?”
“I am afraid that honour goes to Miss Tonks and Mrs. Budley.”
“How quaint and ungrateful of you, Harriet. But I forgive you. You must visit me often and we will both have plenty of beaux.”
“I will want no other beau but my husband,” said Harriet quietly.
“Never say you are in love with the man!”
“Very much, Susan.”
“Well, it is too bad of you to have so much, considering you are not a very deserving lady; I mean, working as a skivvy and all. Tch! What are the gods about, to pour favours in your lap and neglect me? Never mind. I cannot remain cross. Too fatiguing. Darkwood is sending you a gift. I do not like it at all. It is a large cage full of birds. But you will tell him it is pretty, will you not? Else he will sink into one of his dark moods.”
After Susan had left, Darkwood’s gift arrived, which, to Harriet’s relief, was not live birds but a great clockwork toy, a gilt cage full of mechanical singing birds.
In fact, presents started to pour in, and Mrs. Budley and Miss Tonks volunteered to write all the letters of thanks.
“The wedding is rushing upon us,” said Harriet worriedly.
“I never see Rowcester these days. I hope he has not changed his mind. I thought …” She bit her lip and fell silent. She had thought they might have a quiet courtship, but marriage to a duke seemed to be a great business affair, with visits from lawyers, settlements to be signed, wills to be made; and then
there was all the fuss of the wedding arrangements, and so many fittings to undergo that Harriet vowed that after her marriage, it would be years until she ordered a new gown again.
In fact the whole of the duke’s house appeared to have been turned into a vast dressmaking and tailoring establishment as the poor relations as well as Harriet were constantly being pinned and fitted.
Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst had taken it upon themselves to be Harriet’s chaperones, Lady Fortescue saying sternly that any man who had his way with a maid was apt to call off the wedding. And so the duke, who longed to hold Harriet in his arms and kiss her, was constantly being thwarted in his ambitions.
Harriet grew more tense and nervous as the great day approached, seeing in the duke’s set face a coldness which she feared might mean he was regretting the whole thing.
He had told her that he had not been able to find any evidence that the fire had been deliberately set, nor could he find the missing lock to her door amongst the rubble.
On the eve of her wedding, Harriet, Miss Tonks, and Mrs. Budley drove down to Bond Street to see what was being done. Scaffolding was erected outside and workmen were swarming everywhere. Servants were scrubbing away at the blackened walls. Soon the decorators would move in.
“Why, it will take no time at all to be finished,” said Mrs. Budley, fingering the soft folds of her new muslin gown. “It has been a holiday staying with the duke, but we are all agreed that after your marriage, Miss James, we must return here and take up residence.” She sighed. “I had been imagining myself a society lady again.”
Harriet walked about, taking a last look around. She would return, of course, to see them all, but she would no longer be part of this odd family of poor relations. She only hoped the duke still wanted to marry her.
On the morning of her wedding, she felt heavy-eyed from lack of sleep. Maids fussed about her, with Mrs. Budley, Miss Tonks, and Lady Fortescue giving advice as the white gown of Brussels lace was put on her. An emerald-and-diamond tiara, presented by the duke, was ready to be placed on her head.
“I always thought emeralds were unlucky,” said Lady Fortescue, “but Rowcester said they were to match your eyes. So romantic!”
Harriet shifted uneasily under the ministrations of her helpers. She hoped the duke still felt romantic.
At last she was ready, a beautiful figure in the soft white gown and with the jewels blazing in her dark hair.
“I wish to have a word in private with Miss James,” said Lady Fortescue.
She held open the door and waited sternly until they all went out.
“Sit down, Miss James, but carefully, so you do not crush your gown,” ordered Lady Fortescue. “Alas, your dear mother is not with you on this important day—well, not in the flesh, although she is looking down from heaven. It therefore falls to me to advise you on the intimacies of marriage.”
“I am not a young miss any longer,” said Harriet.
“But you are a virgin, yes?”
“Of course, Lady Fortescue.”
“Then you will find your first night with your husband a painful business. But gentlemen do like to think one is enjoying oneself. So you must smile and sigh despite your pain and think of the boy in the Bible with the fox gnawing at his vitals.”
“As bad as that?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. But children will be a great comfort.”
“What of romance, Lady Fortescue?”
“Unfortunately that comes before marriage, and you have not had much of the before bit. But you will be a duchess, and that must be a great delight to you. I am glad I was able to give you these words of reassurance.”
Lady Fortescue patted Harriet’s hand and rose and left, leaving her feeling half bewildered, half frightened.
Five hundred guests almost managed to cram themselves into the ballroom of the duke’s house, the rest spilling out into the other rooms, most of them uninvited, but when members of society sent expensive presents, they did not seem to think they would be turned away.
The weather was still very hot and Harriet hoped she would not faint during the long wedding ceremony performed by the Bishop of London. Behind her, Miss Tonks and Mrs. Budley cried softly, overcome with a combination of sentimental emotion and delight in a gift from the duke of a pearl necklace for each of them.
At last they were man and wife and stood by the door leading to the chain of saloons where the wedding breakfast was to be served. Faces passed Harriet’s dazed eyes as she stood by her husband and received the guests. The wedding breakfast lasted five hours and was a rowdy affair, as everyone was crammed shoulder to shoulder and drinking far too much. The dowager duchess started to make a speech and then fell under the table. The colonel made a kind speech and Sir Philip a vulgar one.
And then at last it was all over and carriages lined the street to take the fuddled guests away.
The duke drew Harriet’s arm through his and led her up the stairs.
The poor relations stood at the bottom and watched them go.
“Let’s all go for a walk in the Park,” said Sir Philip. “I don’t want to stay here and think about what they’re up to. I have too vivid an imagination.”
Harriet lay stretched out in the large four-poster bed feeling like a sacrifice. Her new lady’s-maid had undressed her, brushed out her hair and put her in a lacy night-gown and tied a small lace nightcap on her head. Behind the closed curtains and shutters, the sun was still shining and Harriet felt it was downright indecent to go to bed at this hour.
On a stand beside the bed, a branch of candles burnt brightly, but she did not have the courage to extinguish them.
The duke came in through a door that communicated with his room clad only in a dressing-gown, which he took off and hung on one of the bedposts. Harriet took one frightened look at his naked body and closed her eyes tightly.
She felt the covers being pulled back and then felt the weight of his body next to her in the bed. Despite the heat of the day, her hands and feet were as cold as ice.
She waited for the onslaught.
But he raised himself on one elbow, and looking down at her, he began to tell her how very much he loved her, making love to her with words rather than actions until her eyes slowly opened and the cold left her body, and then, all of her own volition, she raised her hands gently to his shoulders.
The poor relations walked slowly along by the Serpentine. “Here we are again,” sighed Lady Fortescue. “This is where we all met.”
“I rather dread having to start up again,” said the colonel. “In fact, I dread to think how little we might have left. Despite the duke’s generosity, I fear we have been dipping into our funds. Perhaps we should not have bought Miss James such extravagant presents.”
“We could chisel some more out of Rowcester,” suggested Sir Philip.
“No, we cannot do that,” exclaimed Lady Fortescue. “We must hit on some way of raising a little money, not as much as we needed last time, but enough to get us started and continue with the servants’ wages.” She looked at Sir Philip.
“Ho, not me this time,” said Sir Philip. “You’re all so grateful to me when it suits you, but I’m a thief and a liar when it don’t. Time one of the rest of you dirtied your hands.”
“I cannot find the courage,” said Lady Fortescue. “After my last experience …”
“I suppose one of us should do something,” ventured Miss Tonks timidly.
Sir Philip barked with laughter. “Oh, we don’t expect you, Miss Milksop, to do anything. You’re so frightened of that sister of yours, the very idea of her throws you into a fit of the vapours.”
Emboldened by all the champagne she had drunk, Miss Tonks rounded on him. “Oh, is that so, my friend? Well, let me tell you: I shall go on a visit to Honoria and I shall take something to keep us above water. So there!”
“Bravo!” cried Mrs. Budley.
“You’re a Trojan,” said the colonel.
Oh, dear, thought Miss Ton
ks, as all her Dutch courage ebbed away. What have I done?
“Like what?” asked the duke, lying languidly half across his wife’s naked body.
“Lady Fortescue told me to remember the boy with the fox gnawing at his vitals.”
“Oh, Harriet.” He turned and kissed her breast. “As bad as that?”
“Wickedly bad.”
“It gets easier.” He moved his mouth up from her breast to her lips.
“My love,” said Harriet when she could, “what is your name?”
He began to laugh. “It’s Richard, you abandoned hussy. Do you mean you did not even know my name? I’ll make you shout it to the skies.”
“How?”
“Like this, my sweet. Like this …”
The poor relations sat on a bench and watched their shadows growing longer in the setting sun. Somehow the old fears of what would become of them and whether they would continue to survive assailed all of them.
A reaction to the wedding and to all the luxury they had recently enjoyed was setting in.
Children’s voices blown on a light breeze reached Lady Fortescue’s ears and she thought of her dead children and unconsciously took the colonel’s hand for comfort.
Sir Philip scowled and took Lady Fortescue’s other hand in his. Miss Tonks, suddenly frightened by the temerity of what she had promised, took the colonel’s hand, the one not holding Lady Fortescue’s, for reassurance, and Mrs. Budley’s hand stole into Miss Tonks’s.
And so they sat like that for a long time, hand in hand, until the sun went down and candles began to twinkle in the windows of the houses across the Park.
