by M C Beaton
Then Joseph ran downstairs and joined the others. Like a little army on the move, they all crept up the area steps, Beauty silenced by a large bone between his jaws, and made their way silently off into the night.
“My lord!” exclaimed Harriet when she saw the marquess was alone. “Pray be seated while I fetch Miss Spencer.”
Harriet rang the bell beside the fireplace. Rainbird had cut the bell wires in the kitchen so that there would be no jangling noises to make Miss Spencer suspicious.
“She will be here presently,” said Harriet, chiding herself for being so nervous. After all, the house was full of servants.
“I came,” said the marquess, standing up again and beginning to pace up and down, “because I received this odd letter supposed to come from you.”
He turned and held it out.
Harriet read it carefully. “No,” she said. “I never wrote it.”
He felt quite flat and miserable.
“Nonetheless, Miss Metcalf, I am here, and it is the first time I have seen you alone and so I wish to apologise, most sincerely and with all my heart for having attacked you so brutally. Although I did not write that letter, it expresses—rather badly—my own sentiments. I could not bear to see you go without saying farewell.”
“I had forgiven you a long time ago,” said Harriet, twisting her hands in her thin muslin gown. She had little blue flowers twined in her hair and looked so virginal and at the same time so very seductive that he realised he must leave quickly before he forgot himself.
“Miss Metcalf,” he said, “I once proposed to you. I found you … attractive … more attractive than any lady I have ever known. But I was merely grabbing at you like a spoilt child will grab at sweets. Have no fear that I will press my unwelcome attentions on you again. You are honesty and purity itself, and you are too good to be tied to the likes of me.”
“You do yourself an injustice, sir,” said Harriet.
“It is you, and you alone, who makes me feel like a slavering monster.”
Harriet’s kind heart was touched.
“I do not think you a monster,” she said gently. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, moved by a mixture of longing and compassion. But as she made to kiss his cheek, he twisted his head in surprise, and the kiss landed full on his mouth. He desperately tried to control himself, but his arms went around her like steel bands, and he buried his mouth deep in hers, kissing her desperately, pulling that soft pliant body tight against his own. Caught up in his own dizzying and roaring passion, he was unaware that the once chaste lips under his own were parting, that the body against his was pulsating and throbbing.
With a sudden cry he broke free. “Forgive me!” he cried and strode to the door.
“Huntingdon!” shrieked Harriet, catching at his sleeve. “You cannot leave me. Kiss me again.”
He picked her up in his arms. His face swam before her own before his mouth came down on hers again and one long hand came round to close over her breast.
“Harriet!” Miss Spencer jumped to her feet. “I heard Harriet cry out.”
“It was someone in the street, my little love,” said Rainbird.
Miss Spencer stood and looked at him open-mouthed, wondering whether she had heard the endearment or had just imagined it. Rainbird sent up a prayer to the god of love to give him courage. All he needed was the strength to last the next half hour. Surely by that time the couple upstairs would have got around to resolving something.
“I am a humble servant, Miss Spencer. I am married,” lied Rainbird. “My poor wife lives in the country, and although I do not love her, I cannot desert her.”
“But servants cannot marry,” said Miss Spencer.
“I married very young, before I came into service,” Rainbird went on. “I knew you were leaving soon and … and … I wished a little of your company. If you are disgusted by my presumption, please leave.”
“Oh, Rainbird.” Miss Spencer sighed, moving towards him, her arms outstretched. “How could I leave you now?”
“I can never leave you, Harriet,” the marquess was saying. “I do not wish to frighten you with my lovemaking, but you must marry me.”
Harriet buried her face in his chest and said shyly, “Oh, Huntingdon, the force of my feelings for you frightens me!”
The besotted marquess kissed her again, and again, and again.
Somehow, they descended to the floor, their mouths still locked. And then after kissing her practically senseless, the marquess rose on one elbow to gaze down fondly on his beloved’s face, and that was when Harriet felt a gentle breeze from the window moving across her bared breast.
“We are quite mad,” she said, sitting up and hitching her gown onto her shoulders again.
“Josephine will be here any moment.”
“We will be married soon?” he said.
“Yes,” said Harriet. “Very soon.”
He stood up and lifted her to her feet and tenderly helped her to straighten her ruffled hair.
“Then we shall be respectable till then,” he said. He listened to the abnormal silence of the house, and then he laughed.
“I know who wrote that letter, my sweeting. You have the best servants in the world.”
“Perhaps Josephine—Miss Spencer … ?”
“No, she disapproves of men such as I, and she would disapprove of you, my sweet, if she could see your abandon!”
The servants of Clarges Street sat out under the stars in the Green Park and wondered how Rainbird was faring and whether their plan had worked. Beauty lay snoring with his head on Lizzie’s lap.
“It has been a lovely Season,” said Lizzie softly. “I feel different. It makes you feel different, being educated. I can read most of the newspaper now.”
“You’ll be going off and leaving us,” said Joseph. “And who cares? Not me anyhow.”
Lizzie smiled a little smile and leaned forward and put her hand over Joseph’s. He covered her hand with his other hand and glared up at the stars. He looked very angry, but he did not release her hand.
“D’ye think we’ll ever get our freedom?” sighed Alice. “Me and Jenny had ever such a nice pair of fellers interested in us at Brighton. But they was soldiers with no money, nohow, so how’s they going to keep us? Not that they even mentioned marriage. Still, it would be rare to be able to walk out with a handsome chap, don’t you reckon, Jenny?”
“Well, one of yis can marry me when we get our pub,” said Angus MacGregor, and that sent them all into gales of laughter, particularly when Angus said he would settle for any of them.
“Mr. Rainbird says another Season like this ‘un, and we’ll be well on the way to getting that pub,” said Dave. “What’ll we call it?”
They all settled down to their favourite discussion—naming the pub—while back at Number 67, Rainbird strove manfully to keep Miss Spencer occupied, and the Marquess of Huntingdon kept trying to tell himself he could leave after one more kiss … and another … and another.
The end of the Season. Miss Spencer was the first to leave. Harriet was leaving later in the day to stay with the marquess’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Parveter.
Harriet and the servants stood outside on the step to wave good-bye to Miss Spencer.
Miss Spencer gave Harriet a hug, then she shook hands with the servants in a mannish way, and then she turned to the butler.
“Good-bye, Rainbird,” she said. Her eyes had a warm glow, and her leathery face softened as she looked at him. “Thank you … oh, thank you for everything.”
Rainbird looked at her, turned a little away from the other servants, and to her amazement, Harriet saw one of his eyelids droop in a wink.
Then in the afternoon it was Harriet’s turn to go. She had tried to take Lizzie with her, promising her the post of lady’s maid, but with many tears Lizzie had refused. She knew the others would stay together, and she wanted to be with them when they all managed to gain their freedom.
They were flattered a
nd delighted to receive not only a purse of sovereigns from the marquess but a warm handshake all round. Harriet was handed into the carriage with Beauty, who was chewing up shreds of silk after having torn off the ribbon Harriet had placed about his neck. The marquess stood with one foot on the steps, looking at the servants all lined up. His eyes moved from one face to another and then came to rest on that of Mrs. Middleton.
“An excellent letter, Mrs. Middleton,” he said. “You certainly put your heart into it.”
Mrs. Middleton let out a surprisingly girlish giggle and buried her face in her hands.
The carriage turned the corner into Piccadilly. They waved until it had completely disappeared and then trailed into the house, feeling let down and dejectd.
There were beds to be aired and covers to be brought out and furniture to be shrouded.
And then there were the old prayers to be said, the ones they said at the end of every Season.
“Thank you, Lord, for this Season’s tenant. Please send us a tenant for the next.”
