by M C Beaton
She cried harder at the thought of Sir Giles.
“My dear lady, I cannot bear it,” came a masculine voice from somewhere above her head and a woman’s voice answered, “I tell you, she’s too young. Probably lost her pet poodle. Come away.”
Mrs. Eliza Budley looked up through a mist of tears and saw a blurred picture of two tall elderly people staring down at her.
The gentleman raised his hat and said gently, “Colonel Sandhurst at your service, ma’am. You are in sore distress.”
“No one can help me,” said Mrs. Budley wildly. “No one. I am ruined.”
Some sort of silent agreement passed between the elderly pair and they sat down on either side of her. “Why don’t you tell us about it,” said Colonel Sandhurst. “This is Lady Fortescue, a highly intelligent and reliable prop.”
Lady Fortescue suppressed a snort of laughter at being called a reliable prop and then it dawned on her with surprise that in the few days she had known the colonel, she always seemed to be laughing at something. This made her more charitable towards the pretty little thing next to her, and so she pressed Mrs. Budley’s mittened hand and begged her to unburden herself.
And so, between sobs, Mrs. Budley did, ending up with the tale of Sir Giles.
“You are not quite what we were looking for,” said Lady Fortescue. “You are fashionably gowned and well fed.” She explained how she and Colonel Sandhurst had joined forces. “You see,” she explained, “I live in a large gloomy house and we share our food with my servants. A young lady as pretty as yourself will soon marry again …”
“I am thirty,” said Mrs. Budley, “and have no dowry.”
Lady Fortescue looked down at her curiously. “Do you think you would like to live with an old pair such as myself and Colonel Sandhurst? No balls or parties or theatres. Just cards of an evening. We live simply and share everything, but we owe nothing.”
“I would love that,” said Mrs. Budley. “But how can I get away from the duns?”
“Do you own your house?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, but it is mortgaged to the hilt!”
“Do you own the furniture?”
“Yes, although I have sold all my jewellery.”
“Then it is quite simple,” said the colonel. “Lady Fortescue’s servant will hire a cart. You will need to sell a piece of furniture or some gowns or something to pay for the hire, Mrs. Budley. Then at nightfall, Lady Fortescue’s servant will take the cart to your house, where we will load it with the furniture and your belongings. The duns can fight over the ownership of the house in the morning.”
Mrs. Budley’s tears dried as if by magic. “Do you mean I will be safe from them?”
“Oh, yes. But as you have no servants and Lady Fortescue’s John is quite old, I am afraid you must demean yourself to help carry some of the lighter items. In fact, you must return and try to find something to sell so that along with the cart we can hire two strong men.”
Mrs. Budley’s face fell ludicrously. “Apart from furniture, I do not know if I have anything left to sell. And it will be very hard for me to carry anything out with the duns on the doorstep.”
“We will come with you,” said Lady Fortescue firmly. “I have been a long time poor and it will amaze you what can be sold.”
Mrs. Budley’s house was in Clarence Square. She led the way in through the back garden and opened the kitchen door.
Lady Fortescue went from cellar to attic, feeling stronger and more cheerful than she had done in ages. The house was fully furnished. It would take several cartloads. The kitchen was full of pots and crockery and the larder full of stores. What a haul! And she had thought the colonel an old fool when he had first suggested approaching Mrs. Budley.
But the thing to do was to find something easily portable to sell to pay for the removal.
It was the colonel who found a silver snuff-box at the back of a drawer in the late Mr. Budley’s bedroom.
By dawn the next day, Mrs. Budley’s furniture was spread throughout the rooms of the house in Bond Street and the contents of her kitchen were delighting Betty and John. The colonel and Lady Fortescue were exhausted but triumphant when they finally crawled off to bed.
Mrs. Budley went to her own bed, which had been brought on the cart along with all the other furniture, put her hand under her cheek, and fell into a dreamless sleep, her last waking thought that it was wonderful to be taken care of.
Although Lady Fortescue pointed out they could live on the little widow’s possessions for some time, she said that her conscience would not allow her to take advantage of such a feckless little creature who was far too trusting and simple for her own good. The colonel agreed. So after several pleasant days of dinners served once more in a dining-room which had possessed only one long table and two chairs and now was augmented by Mrs. Budley’s dining chairs, and several nights of quiet sleep, Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst set out once more to Hyde Park.
The weather was still fine and the colonel walked with a spring in his step. The money he had got from the sale of the snuff-box had not only paid for the furniture removal but had left him with quite a comfortable little sum of money. He longed for a new pair of boots but instead he duly entered the money in a new accounts book supplied by Lady Fortescue. Every penny must be divided up, but not until they felt more secure.
They started hopefully enough, but by the end of the afternoon were beginning to feel dejected and weary. They had approached various people who were obviously in a state of genteel poverty and had been rebuffed haughtily by them all.
“Let ‘em rot,” said Lady Fortescue with sudden venom. “There’s roast beef for dinner tonight and a bottle of damn good claret from Mrs. Budley’s cellar.”
“Look over there!” said the colonel. “That female by the water. Looks as if she might jump in.”
“Probably some madwoman,” said Lady Fortescue. “Very well. We’ll try her, but no more this day!”
Miss Tonks walked along by the waters of the Serpentine and wondered if she could find the courage to throw herself in. A dead dog surfaced and floated past pathetically, its feet in the air, and she recoiled with a little cry.
She was so very hungry and yet the pains inside her were caused by grief. She was a vague, indeterminate woman of forty who had been dealt the first severe blow of her life five years ago, when her beloved parents had died and left everything to her elder sister. Crushed, hardly able to believe that her parents had not left her anything, Miss Tonks was forced to live in a small room and live on a pittance, supplied to her quarterly by her sister. Her sister often invited Miss Tonks to stay and Miss Tonks went, for it meant food and warmth and elegance, although her sister, Honoria, always seemed to find humiliating little tasks for her to do, like mending stockings. And when guests were invited for dinner, Miss Tonks was expected to eat her meals on a tray in her room.
Then, only a short time ago, her bleak existence had been lit up by pure romance. A handsome young man of twenty-five began to court her. She was dazzled, she was charmed, she spent what she had of her allowance on buying him trinkets. The romance flared across the dreary skies of her life like a comet. And then he had told her he had a gambling debt he could not meet and asked her for five hundred pounds. Amazed that he had not guessed her circumstances, she told him how little she had and after that, she had never seen him again.
Now she was broken-hearted and hungry.
She threw her arms up to the sky in a tragiccomic gesture of despair and cried aloud, “I am one of life’s worms.”
“And why do you say that?” asked a calm voice behind her.
Miss Tonks swung round, blushing. An elderly couple were standing, watching her steadily.
“I w-was rehearsing for … for amateur dramatics,” she stammered.
The lady looked at her coldly. The gentleman bowed. The lady said, “I am sorry. We are only interested in people in trouble.”
Miss Tonks would have remained silent ha
d not the colonel removed his hat and said gently, “We know what it is to be poor. We were wondering if we could be of help to you.”
Convention warred with a desire for help in Miss Tonks’s flat bosom. One did not speak of money, one kept up appearances, a lady never, on any occasion …
“Oh, help me,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Come and sit down with us on that bench over there,” said Lady Fortescue. “I am Lady Fortescue and this is Colonel Sandhurst, and you are …?”
“Miss Letitia Tonks, my lady.”
Again the conventions nearly sealed Miss Tonks’s thin lips for good, but the Park appeared deserted and there was only this odd couple. She began to speak, slowly at first, and then the words came tumbling out.
“Dear me,” said Lady Fortescue when she had finished, “men were deceivers ever … apart from Colonel Sandhurst, that is. I will explain why we are here.” She told the amazed Miss Tonks of how they had planned to find other “poor relations” so that they might all band together and share their resources.
“But I have nothing to offer,” wailed Miss Tonks. “I have already spent my allowance.”
“But you will have it soon again,” pointed out Lady Fortescue. “I suggest you repair to my home in Bond Street with us and partake of a dish of roast beef.”
Harriet James watched them go. She herself had seen that odd woman pacing up and down by the water and had wondered whether to approach her or not. Then that elderly couple had gone up to her. As they had passed her, the gentleman had said gently, “A good slice of roast beef is the best medicine I know,” and the tall elderly lady had laughed, a clear, bell-like sound.
Roast beef, thought Harriet wistfully, as her stomach gave an unmaidenly-like rumble. Then she went home to a supper of bread and cheese.
Chapter Two
O world! how apt the poor are to be proud.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The following day, Harriet James decided to call on her friend, Mrs. Budley. She had met Mrs. Budley by chance a month ago while walking in the Park. They had talked of this and that and Mrs. Budley had invited Harriet back to her home for tea. They were unable to go in by the front door because of the duns. Mrs. Budley had been blushing and embarrassed as she had led Harriet round the back. But she did not refer to the duns hammering at the door, nor to the surliness of her servants. Harriet saw nothing wrong in this. Ladies always kept up appearances and did not talk of money or the lack of it.
She had called a couple of times after that only to be told that Mrs. Budley was “not at home.” This could well be interpreted as “Mrs. Budley does not want to see you,” but after calm reflection, Harriet decided that Mrs. Budley, under pressure from the duns, had simply told her servants to tell all that she was “not at home.”
To her dismay, the house had the shutters up. She inquired at the neighbouring house and was told by the butler that Mrs. Budley had run away from her debts, taking all her belongings during the night, and leaving the house to the duns.
Depressed, Harriet turned her steps towards the Park. Oh, Hyde Park! Glittering show-place for the carriage classes and refuge for the genteel poor!
Life had once been infinitely better for Harriet. Her parents had rented a town house with a view to launching Harriet on the London Season. Although they were neither fashionable nor rich, they were sure that Harriet’s startling beauty would soon secure a wealthy husband.
Her very first ball was an amazing success. Had not London’s most-sought-after bachelor, the Duke of Rowcester, asked her for two whole dances? They had danced a waltz. Somehow, on balmy days like this, Harriet could still hear the lilting music in her head and see his handsome hard profile and the caressing warmth in his grey eyes as he had looked down at her.
But in the early hours of the following morning, her father had suffered an apolexy. Her mother had decided the only thing to do was to remove him back to the pure air of the country and his own doctor. And so they had left. Mr. James had only lived another month and his grieving widow followed him to the grave a year later.
It was then that Harriet found out the extent of the family debts. With the help of the family lawyer, she had sold the house and estate and paid everyone off. There was very little left.
She returned to London and found rented accommodation in Bayswater. Occasionally she wrote to one of her relatives and often secured an invitation to stay, but such visits were humiliating. She was neither fish nor fowl, neither guest nor servant. In despair, she tried to find a post as a governess, but her beauty apparently made her unemployable. Hyde Park became a sort of second home. She knew all the regulars by sight, that is, the people on foot like herself.
She entered by the lodge and set out over the grass, wearing a serviceable black gown and hat. Most of her frivolous ballgowns and fashionable dresses had been sold, leaving her with only a basic wardrobe.
And then she saw, walking sedately along one of the walks, like a family party, the tall white-haired military-looking man, the severe elderly lady on his arm. Behind them walked Mrs. Budley, and with her was that odd spinster creature who had so recently looked as if she were about to plunge into the waters of the Serpentine.
Harriet hailed Mrs. Budley and curtsied to the party. “I called at your address,” said Harriet to Mrs. Budley, “but you had left.”
“I am now residing in Bond Street,” said Mrs. Budley. “Lady Fortescue, may I present Miss James. Miss James, Lady Fortescue, Miss Tonks and Colonel Sandhurst.”
Harriet curtsied again and looked at them curiously.
Then Harriet noticed the colonel nudge Lady Fortescue and Lady Fortescue give a little shake of her head.
“We must be on our way, Miss James,” said Lady Fortescue.
Harriet looked at Mrs. Budley. “May I call on you?”
Lady Fortescue frowned and Mrs. Budley said with a little gasp, “It is not very convenient at the moment, Miss James.”
Feeling depressed, Harriet made to move on past them. A shaft of sunlight struck through the trees and highlighted a neat darn on Harriet’s gown. “And no maid either,” said Lady Fortescue. “Stay a moment, Miss James. Your beauty blinded me to the condition of your clothes.”
“I beg your pardonl” exclaimed Harriet.
“Oh, do listen,” said Mrs. Budley, clapping her hands. “The veriest thing! They are going to ask you too.”
In the clear autocratic tones of the old aristocracy, Lady Fortescue outlined the workings of what she bluntly called the Poor Relations Club.
Harriet listened intently. Here were her own kind. What a simply wonderful idea! What was it made the life of the genteel poor so miserable? Why, false pride.
“Do let me come with you,” Harriet found herself begging. “I do not have much to offer, but I could keep the accounts for you. I am clever with figures.”
“Very well,” said Lady Fortescue. “Do you have a house to sell?”
“No, my lady. I rent a room and the furniture is also rented. What I have can be carried.”
“We will repair to Bond Street and you may give my John your address and then go with him. We also must sit down and discuss the matter of my servants.” Her hand went to her bosom to look at her fob-watch and then as usual she remembered she had pawned it. “I feel it must be about time for tea. We have tea, Miss James, thanks to Mrs. Budley’s kitchen supplies. My Betty was not trained as a cook, but she does good plain meals and has promised scones and we even have butter. Dear me, I have not tasted fresh butter this age.”
She and the colonel moved forward, and with an odd feeling of being back at school, Harriet fell into line behind them with Mrs. Budley and Miss Tonks. “It is all very odd,” she whispered. “Is it comfortable? Does it work?”
“We are like a family,” said Mrs. Budley. “And so safe! My servants walked out on me, Miss James, and you know how awful it is to walk out in public unescorted. The gentlemen do plague one so.”
Miss Tonk
s looked wistful. That was one of the few indignities she had not had to suffer.
As they approached Bond Street, Harriet reflected that it was a street she would never have walked down on her own. The gentlemen regarded it as their own preserve, rather like St. James’s Street.
The hall when they entered was now furnished with a handsome side-table, courtesy of Mrs. Budley. “I shall tell Betty to bring the tea to the dining-room, for we must have a discussion,” said Lady Fortescue.
Soon they were all in the dining-room, drinking tea and eating hot buttered scones, Harriet trying very hard not to gulp hers down.
“Now,” said Lady Fortescue, adjusting a frivolous lace cap on her snowy hair, “Betty and John, take seats at the end of the table. This concerns you.” She looked around at the others. “Betty and John here have served me well and still do. They are old, although John is still very strong,” she went on in that way the aristocracy had of discussing servants as if they were blind and deaf. “The fact is that this is a large house and there are now five of us. It is as well that Mrs. Budley generously contributed her furniture, for there will be a bed and linen for you, Miss James. But my servants must not spend their declining years in waiting on all of us. I regret to say that we must all help out. I have a few suggestions. We should each keep our rooms clean and neat and carry down our own slops. Betty has told me that, again thanks to Mrs. Budley, the drawing-room is once more in use. We may retire there this evening, for John has been able to obtain more timber and we may have a fire but only if the evening should prove chilly. Miss James, you said you were good with figures. On the road home, the colonel agreed that you should take over the handling of our accounts. Everything is to be shared equally. If we look like we’re running low on supplies, before we start to sell off anything else, perhaps we should each write to our relatives and suggest we are invited on a visit. We each take a large trunk with us and bring back what food or coals we can. Make sure you are not caught taking anything. I have had a recent distressing experience I do not wish to relate at the moment. I assure you I have no intention of suggesting we undergo the indignity of visits to our relations unless we have to.”
