by M C Beaton
Harriet had had permission from the others to stay in bed on the following day, a bed she shared with Miss Tonks and Mrs. Budley, accommodation in the attics being cramped.
She felt, rather than saw, them rise, heard the quiet murmur of their voices and the splashing of water from the wash-stand. Then the door opened and closed and she was left alone. She stretched out and tried to go back to sleep, but the sound of the bells would not let her. She was often amazed to hear people talk about the genteel quietness of the West End.
From outside came the usual daily cacophony of bells: bells sounded by hawkers of cheap penknives, ribbons and hot pies; by strolling players, the Punch and Judy man, the ballad singers; by the milkmen and milkmaids, the butcher, the baker, the grocer; by the vendors of fresh spring water, quack medicines and charms; by the beadle, the town crier, the scavenger pushing his cart—all jangled bells of various hideousness. Then there were the bells from the street markets, which rang at seven in the morning, when they opened, and then for half an hour in the evening, when they closed. The church-bell ringers practised peals at all hours. There had been many letters in the newspapers demanding that the government should do something to abate the hellish noise.
Sleep would not come and Harriet was almost glad when Miss Tonks crept back in and whispered that Lady Darkwood wished to speak to her.
Harriet was surprised that Susan should rise any time before two in the afternoon, as she glanced at the clock and saw it was only eight-thirty in the morning. She washed and dressed and made her way down to Susan’s rooms.
The reason for Susan’s being awake was explained by the fact she was still in her ballgown and had obviously not been to bed.
She drew Harriet into the sitting-room. “Talk quietly,” whispered Susan, “for Darkwood is still asleep next door and does not know how late I returned.”
“Then it would be wise to change into your night-rail and pretend I had roused you should he awake,” said Harriet practically.
“How clever you are!” exclaimed Susan. “But, then, you are so well-versed in the ways of affairs, and I am not!” And before Harriet could think of any reply to that, she had vanished into the bedroom.
After a short time, she reappeared in a night-gown and wrapper, her eyes dancing. “Such larks,” she cried. “When Rowcester returned to the ball, La Stanton all but fell on his neck, demanding to know the name of his fair inamorata. Quick as a flash, Rowcester says in a freezing voice that the lady was his cousin, and Lady Stanton is suddenly all pretty apologies. You must have hatched it up between you. My dear Harriet, I should have guessed that Rowcester was your … er hum … for he was not going to go to the ball until he heard you were to be there. And Lady Stanton would never have become so suspicious had you not decided to take supper with him.”
“Susan,” said Harriet sternly, “there is no ‘er hum’ or whatever you like to call it between Rowcester and myself. He was quick-witted enough to rescue me and you from an embarrassing disclosure. If he was so enamoured of me, I wager he would not have returned me home and gone back immediately. I am sure he then proceeded to flirt with Lady Stanton.”
“Yes, he did,” said Susan, surprised. “That is exactly what he did and she looked like the cat with the cream bowl.”
“Philanderer! Rake!” cried outraged voices in Harriet’s head. That he should have seen her naked, that he should have kissed her, and that she should have responded—all that was disgraceful.
“But it was quite a jolly affair, although Captain Jenners trod on the hem of my gown,” Susan rattled on. “He apologized so prettily and begged leave to call on me today. So delightful that Darkwood has to go to the House, for he would sit about and huff and puff and spread gloom all over the place.”
“Where are your children?” asked Harriet. “Asleep?”
“I sent them off to the country with their nursemaid,” said Susan. “One never sees them at home, you know, but in the rather cramped quarters of this hotel, they are apt to get underfoot. Silly little things, they cried dreadfully. The country will seem very flat after London.”
“Perhaps they were crying because they were leaving you,” Harriet pointed out.
Susan looked surprised. “They are very well brought up,” she said severely, “and not given to any excess of sentimentality, I assure you. Now I must get some sleep so that I will look my best for Captain Jenners.”
Harriet left, wondering if she herself could be such a cold mother, and yet such detachment was expected of anyone in the ranks of society. She made her way downstairs to the hotel office, hoping to find Lady Fortescue, suddenly feeling in need of some comfort and advice.
Lady Fortescue looked up in relief as Harriet entered. “I cannot make head nor tail of these accounts,” she said. “Do we have to have beeswax candles? Such an expense.”
“I am afraid so.” Harriet sat down next to her at the desk. “Tallow ones do smell so. Oil-lamps are lit at night now for the guests coming home, but we must make sure they are properly trimmed at all times. A smoking oil-lamp can be quite destructive. Do not worry. I awoke early and am now prepared to put the accounts in order.” She hesitated and then said, “Lady Fortescue, I am in need of advice.”
“Something happened at the ball?” Lady Fortescue’s black eyes snapped with curiosity.
“I will try to tell you all without blushing, but I fear it will be hard.” In a halting voice, Harriet told her of the duke’s rescuing her from exposure at the ball, the subsequent kiss and the revelation that he had seen her naked in the kitchen.
“You were naked all over?”
“Yes, Lady Fortescue,” said Harriet drily, “that is how one bathes.”
“No, it is not! If you must adopt modem ideas and wash all over, then wear a shift. Horrifying that any man should see you thus, and almost quite as bad that you should see yourself. Well, the damage is done and a lecture on morals will not help. It is quite clear he is enamoured of you, but in a low kind of way. Let me think.”
She rang the handbell on the desk and when a footman answered its summons, told him to fetch Sir Philip.
“Never say you are going to tell Sir Philip what I have just told you,” cried Harriet.
“No, he is too old, and such revelations would excite the old lecher too much. Nonetheless, he is very worldly, and being a horrible satyr, should know the best way to dampen my nephew’s ardour. Ah, Sir Philip, the benefit of your wisdom, if you will.”
Sir Philip bent over Lady Fortescue’s hand and deposited a moist kiss on the back of it, then leered into her eyes.
“Behave yourself, sir,” said Lady Fortescue, snatching her hand away. “Here is the problem. Rowcester is still in pursuit of Miss James and with the basest of intentions. What do you suggest? Until the end of the Season, we will not have enough to afford to send her away, and besides, no one can make out the accounts as she can.”
“Speaking of accounts,” said Harriet, “I do not see any payments to the Sun Insurance Company entered in the books, and that is your department, Sir Philip. You have paid them, have you not?”
“I have indeed, fair lady. Give me the books and I will enter the payments on the appropriate dates. I have it all here,” he said, taking a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “But you were asking about Rowcester. Let me think. He stays on now, not to ruin us or buy us out, but because of you, Miss James. All he gets is tantalizingly brief glimpses of you, and so you are neither fish nor fowl, neither servant nor respectable member of society. Since you cannot any longer be a respectable member of society”—Harriet winced—”then you must appear more the servant here to establish your position firmly in his mind. I suggest you begin by waiting table in the dining-room.”
“But then he will see me,” exclaimed Harriet.
“In a menial but respectable position,” pointed out Sir Philip.
Harriet thought about that. It would perhaps be for the best. She could show him by the very formality of her manners t
hat she was indeed nothing more than a servant. In front of the other guests, and Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst, she would be unapproachable.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Colonel Sandhurst came into the office. “Good morning,” he said, looking brightly about. “Problems?”
“I was just asking Sir Philip his advice,” began Lady Fortescue and then wished she had not spoken, for the colonel’s face darkened.
“Oh, you were, were you?” he snapped. “And why was I not consulted?”
Harriet picked up the accounts books and escaped with them up to the schoolroom. Dinner was not served until the new fashionable hour of seven, and so she had plenty of time to go through the accounts.
The grocery bill was still too high. She went down to the kitchen to see Despard, glad that she had been taught sufficient French in the past to be able to communicate with the man. Patiently she explained again that they had to be careful. Although the fashionable grocers, fishmongers and butchers were prepared to allow unlimited credit at the moment, their prices were higher than that of the markets. For economy’s sake, it was necessary to spend some hard cash from time to time. She herself would take him round the markets on the following morning and he would see for himself that it was cheaper and better to buy goods there. He listened politely, his twisted face impassive, but Harriet had the feeling she had had before that he did not like her, did not like any of them. Sir Philip for some reason had assumed that Despard, having been pressed into the French army, did not sympathize with Napoleon, Sir Philip having a rare genius for believing what suited his own ends. The only thing that seemed to rouse the French chef to any sort of animation was the new closed stove, which he insisted on cleaning and blackleading himself. Harriet firmly repeated her offer to take him to the markets, saying she would hire a carriage for the purpose and meet him outside the hotel at six in the morning.
She was kept busy that day, for Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst had decided to settle their differences by going for a walk in the Park, Sir Phlip had disappeared off to wherever he usually disappeared, and Miss Tonks and Mrs. Budley had gone to look at the shops. Harriet thought impatiently that the poor relations had got into the way of talking about how hard they worked, while leaving most of it to the hotel servants.
Viscount Chiswick and his lady, guests at the hotel, summoned Harriet to their sitting-room. They said they had a serious complaint. There was little in the dining-room that they could eat.
“But our cooking is said to be the finest in London,” protested Harriet. Lady Chiswick, a faded woman in her thirties with a querulous voice, pointed out earnestly that neither of them could eat anything with sugar in it, nor could they drink tea, coffee or chocolate.
“Why?” asked Harriet patiently.
“Because such items are the result of slave labour,” said Lady Chiswick. “If everyone in England refused to touch such items, then this dreadful trade might diminish.”
Harriet gave a little sigh. It was hard to disagree with such humanitarian motives, but a perpetual effort to balance the books was apt to make one selfish. She took out a notebook she always carried with her. “Let me see. I could go to the herbalist and get some dandelion root and make coffee from that and use honey to sweeten it.”
“Excellent,” said Lady Chiswick. “But the food is spiced and spices come from the West Indies, and so …”
“Special dishes will be made for you without spices,” said Harriet, “but,” she added, “commendable as your motives are, I must charge you extra for the preparation of these dishes.”
“Nothing is too great an expense where my wife’s principles are concerned,” said the viscount.
Harriet went down to the kitchen to tell Despard that he must now prepare special dishes for the Chiswicks, making sure no product of slave labour tainted them.
His face looked more twisted than ever. “We got rid of such effete parasites in France,” he remarked caustically in French.
“We do not yet have the guillotine here,” snapped Harriet and went back upstairs to get dressed and walk to the City to buy dandelion root.
The day seemed to rush past and on her return she had only just time to change into the formal black silk gown and white apron and cap that Lady Fortescue considered correct apparel for waiting table.
Harriet found it less of an ordeal than she had expected. The duke was not present, and after a few curious looks thrown in her direction by the diners they settled down to treating her like any other servant, that is, they ignored her completely, most of them only noticing the white-gloved hands which deftly slid the dishes under their noses.
But the Chiswicks spoke to her on leaving the dining-room, praising the efforts made on their behalf, which all went to show, thought Harriet, that high-principled people appeared to have charming manners as well.
* * *
Lady Stanton had a few beaux which she kept dancing attendance on her. One of them, Mr. Jasper Blackley, was selected to find her something amusing the following evening when she found the only choice was a programme of German lieder at the home of old Lady Rumbelow.
Mr. Blackley was only too anxious to please. “There is that new hotel everyone is talking about—The Poor Relation.”
Lady Stanton smiled at him. “How clever of you. That is where Rowcester is living at the moment, is it not?”
“I had forgot that,” said Mr. Blackley gloomily. “There is always the opera.”
“Perhaps later. I have a mind to dine at this new hotel.”
“I believe it is very difficult to get a table,” commented Mr. Blackley, and then shrank a little before the impatient gleam in Lady Stanton’s eyes.
“I am sure you can find a table if you really put your mind to it,” said Lady Stanton in a caressing voice, which nonetheless held the required amount of threat.
So Mr. Blackley contrived to get a table by dint of bribing Sir Philip Sommerville, who was acting as maître d’hôtel and had already made a comfortable sum out of such bribes which he did not trouble to put into the general kitty. Sir Philip seemed to have an instinct that told him at precisely what time some hopeful diner would appear at the hotel demanding a table, for although often absent earlier in the day, he was always there later on to handle any bookings.
When Harriet saw Lady Stanton walk in, her heart sank and yet she was glad that Rowcester had obviously chosen to be absent from the dining-room that evening as well.
Lady Stanton looked about her, amused to notice Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst, of whom she had heard, creaking round the tables with the dishes. Clever of them, too, to have such a pretty waitress. But there was something familiar about that waitress. That black hair and those green eyes. She could almost be that masked charmer at her ball, but could not, of course, be, for had not Rowcester said she was his cousin?
To her delight, the duke himself walked in. Wishing Mr. Blackley at the devil, Lady Stanton smiled at the duke. He stooped to kiss her hand and them seemed to freeze. Startled, Lady Stanton looked up at him and noticed he was staring beyond her.
She tried to twist round to see who or what it was that had caught his attention, but he held fast to her hand and said, “How wonderful to see you again.”
“You did not call on me after the ball to pay your respects,” chided Lady Stanton.
“I sent my servant.”
“Not at all the same thing, as well you know. Do join us, Rowcester.”
“I would not interfere in your tête-à-tête for the world.”
“Do not let Mr. Blackley worry you. He is merely an old friend of the family. You want Rowcester to join us, do you not, Jasper?”
“If you wish,” said Mr. Blackley sulkily.
“Alas,” said the duke, “I see my own table is ready for me.”
He bowed and left. Lady Stanton made a disappointed grimace.
Harriet was pleased to notice that her hands were quite steady as she ladled out a bowl of white soup mad
e from veal and ground almonds and placed it in front of the duke.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he demanded angrily.
“On the contrary, your grace,” said Harriet smoothly, “you will find the soup excellent.”
Lady Stanton with narrowed eyes noticed the exchange, although she could not hear what was being said.
And then Susan came in on the arm of her husband. “Why, Harriet, what are you doing here?” she demanded in a loud voice.
“I work here,” said Harriet.
“Don’t speak in that familiar way to the servants,” said her husband with a scowl.
“But it isn’t a servant, light of my life,” pouted Susan. “It’s Harriet.”
“Would you hail a member of the demi-monde as a servant?” demanded Lord Darkwood loudly. “No! You wouldn’t. And any lady of quality who sinks to waiting on table is worse than a trollop on the streets, mark my words.”
“Evening, Darkwood,” said the duke, “I heard your speech in the House of Lords.”
“What did you think, hey? Blistering stuff.”
“On the contrary,” said the duke evenly, “it was the most dreadful, boring fustian I have ever listened to in my life.”
“You forget yourself. I have a good mind to call you out.”
“Do that,” said the duke with a sweet smile.
“You there!” Lady Stanton summoned Harriet with an imperious wave. “This soup is cold.”
“Demme, of course it’s cold,” snarled Mr. Blackley, who was out of charity with her. “You’ve been sitting over it this age.”
Lady Fortescue caught Harriet’s arm as she was about to go to Lady Stanton. “Get Sir Philip,” she whispered.
Harriet found Sir Philip asleep in the office, a bottle of burgundy in front of him. She shook the old man awake and explained rapidly that Lady Stanton was being “difficult.”
Sir Philip headed rapidly for the dining-room with his odd crablike scuttle.
Lady Fortescue was standing over Lady Stanton, who was saying, “You may be playing by pretending to run a hotel, but with the prices you charge, you should at least try to make sure the soup is hot.”
