by M. C. Beaton
Although she had damned him as a rake and libertine, she had to admit to herself she had found him attractive, but had dismissed that attraction as some inherited flaw from her father which made a man of low morals seem appealing. It came as a shock to see these tonnish matrons found him attractive as well. They were beginning to compete quite nastily with each other for his attention, and Esther heaved a sigh of relief when a cleaned and restored Joseph arrived to announce the start of Rainbird’s performance.
The children were sitting in rows on the floor, looking chastened and sulky. Lord Guy had cleverly recognised a bully in Bartholomew and knew the unlovely boy would enjoy making them work while doing none of it himself.
The curtains were drawn, and Rainbird stood behind a table at the end of the room with only one oil lamp for illumination.
Chairs for the ladies and Lord Guy were lined up behind the children.
Peter and Amy edged back until they were sitting with their backs to Esther’s skirts. “Why did you have to find such awful children?” whispered Peter fiercely, who had not enjoyed being bossed about in his own home by Bartholomew.
Esther quelled him with a frown and glanced covertly at the little gold watch pinned to her bosom. Not long to go and then she could get rid of them all.
Rainbird began his show. The bored audience became a mildly appreciative one and finally a rapturous one as Rainbird produced coloured balls from ears, a rabbit out of a three-cornered hat, a pigeon from his coat-tails, and then a string of bright handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. While Rainbird proceeded to juggle two plates, one candlestick, and three balls, Joseph left the room and came back with six pine torches. The lamp was put out, the torches were lit, and Rainbird juggled them until they looked like a ring of fire about him. Even Joseph, who had seen Rainbird perform this trick before in the servants’ hall at Clarges Street during the long winter evenings, began to cheer and applaud.
Lord Guy watched bemused. What a very strange butler, he thought. Perhaps all servants are amazingly gifted and we never find out because we look on them as necessary appendages to the household, nothing more.
Rainbird’s final trick was to take his three-cornered hat and produce gifts for each child out of it, toy soldiers for the boys, and beautifully carved farm animals for the girls.
Nannies and governesses, who had been summoned by their harassed mistresses during the height of the trouble, but had arrived shortly after Lord Guy to find the battle over, stood waiting in the hall, their faces stern. They knew once they got their charges back to the nursery that their rule would once more be absolute. Parents, they thought, were a necessary evil who hardly saw their offspring from one year’s end to another and yet, when they did, spoiled them so badly it took several weeks to bring them to heel again.
The children’s mothers departed with many protestations of affection for their “dear Miss Jones.”
Rainbird, with Joseph’s help, was rapidly bundling up his tricks and would soon leave. Peter and Amy had been taken up to the nursery. Esther knew she was going to be left alone with Lord Guy unless she did something about it quickly. Even the usually attentive Miss Fipps had murmured something about needing to lie down after all the excitement and had drifted off.
“It was all a joke,” she said nervously. “Driving … us … I mean.”
“On the contrary,” he said, “fetch your bonnet and come with me. It will do your social consequence no harm, Miss Jones.”
“It is not that I am not grateful to you,” said Esther. “I am. Very. How is it you really happened to arrive at such an opportune moment?”
“I happened to be passing and heard the noise. There is no need to thank me. All you have to do is come driving with me.”
“Very well,” mumbled Esther ungraciously, thinking that a drive would not take very long, and obviously the easiest way to get rid of him was by consenting to go.
An amused smile curling his lips, Lord Guy watched her ascending the stairs. Then he went outside the house and looked about.
Manuel was standing on the pavement.
“My carriage,” said Lord Guy. “If Mr. Roger has taken it, find it and get it back. I want my curricle, not the closed carriage.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Lord Guy went back inside and settled himself to wait.
After half an hour, Esther came downstairs again, wearing a new carriage dress of sapphire-blue merino edged with velvet. She had a jaunty little shako perched on her pomaded red curls.
Lord Guy bowed. “You look magnificent,” he said quietly.
“I am afraid I cannot claim to be intelligent in matters of dress,” said Esther. “I have just recently hired a companion, a Miss Fipps, who is extraordinarily clever in choosing modes. Did you meet Miss Fipps today?”
“Ah, I think I hear my carriage now,” said Lord Guy, ignoring the question.
Lord Guy, once they were outside, sent his coachman away, saying he would drive himself. Manuel remained on the backstrap.
“No, Manuel,” said Lord Guy. “I do not need you either. Go and help Rainbird carry his things back to Clarges Street.”
While Lord Guy helped Esther into his racing curricle and then climbed in and took the reins, two small faces were pressed against the glass of the nursery window, high above them.
“He’s taller than she is,” said Amy. “That’s very important.”
“You’re always dreaming of carrying Esther’s train at her wedding,” scoffed Peter. “Look at that servant! He is sinister. I swear he is a spy. If only we could unmask him!”
“Mr. Rainbird could unmask him,” said Amy. “Mr. Rainbird is a magician.”
“We’ll go and talk to him if he has not left,” said Peter. Then his face fell. “But I heard Lord Guy tell Manuel to go into the house and help Rainbird.
“Wait!” hissed Peter. “He is not yet going. He is looking after Esther and Lord Guy with a nasty look on his face.”
“Stoopid. How can you see his face from here? I can only see the top of his head.”
“The top of his head has a nasty look,” said Peter stubbornly. “See! He is not going to help Rainbird. He is walking away. Let’s go, Amy, and catch Rainbird before he leaves!”
Rainbird, Joseph, and Angus were gathered in the saloon. “I still think you’re trying to take my job,” said Esther’s butler gloomily. “Miss Jones is always sending for you. ’T ain’t natural for a lady to entertain a butler to tea.”
“I don’t want your stupid job,” said Rainbird, who was tired. It had taken a stupendous effort of will to let the children rampage about until Lord Guy’s arrival. His livery and Joseph’s were stained with cream and jam. They had sponged their clothes as best they could, but they both knew it would take an evening’s hard work to get the mess out completely.
“Naebody seems tae appreciate my art,” mourned Angus. “Fancy making confections and jellies just for a lot o’ bairns to throw about. Michty me! Would ye look at that.”
He pointed to the picture of the famous evangelist above the fireplace. Some child had painted a moustache on him and also drawn bullets coming out of the end of his pointing finger so that he looked as if he were in the act of shooting himself in the ear.
“All in a good cause,” said Rainbird. He turned and saw Peter and Amy standing at the door, hand in hand.
“The only good children in London,” said Rainbird with a smile.
“We cannot understand,” said Peter, “why you let them go on so, Mr. Rainbird?”
“Yes, why didn’t you turn them all into frogs?” asked Amy.
“It wasn’t my day for turning people into frogs,” said Rainbird. “Joseph, take the other end of this box, and Angus …”
“Oh, please, Mr. Rainbird,” said Peter, rolling an anguished eye in Graves’ direction, “may we help you as well?”
“Esther won’t mind,” pleaded Amy. “It’s only around the corner.”
From their rolling eyes and grimaces, Rai
nbird gathered the children wanted to talk to him alone. It would do no harm to take them along.
“Here,” he said, “you can carry this bag of balls, Master Peter. But only as far as Clarges Street, mind! Then one of the maids will take you back.”
“And who is this?” asked Mrs. Middleton, when Peter and Amy appeared in the servants’ hall.
“May I present Master Peter and Miss Amy Jones,” said Rainbird. “I am sure they would like some lemonade.”
When the children were seated at the table, Rainbird said, “I have a feeling you want to talk to me about something, Master Peter. What is it?”
“Where is that foreign servant?” asked Peter.
“Gone out, and good riddance,” said Jenny.
“Amy and I think he is a spy,” said Peter solemnly.
“Indeed,” said Rainbird politely. “And what makes you think that?”
“We saw him in the park,” said Peter. “He was writing stuff in a book and watching the troops. We crept up on him to see what he was writing but he caught us and shook us and shouted at us. Lord Guy came up then and demanded to see the book. Manuel gave it to him, and Lord Guy glanced at it and then said it seemed to be all right, but it was the wrong book! It was a black book, similar to the one he had been writing in, but the one he gave Lord Guy was shiny and new, and the one he had been writing in was worn.”
“But he has only to read the newspapers for descriptions of numbers and regiments,” said Rainbird.
“That’s what Lord Guy said,” said Peter, disappointed.
“That’s funny,” said Lizzie shyly. “I did not tell you, Mr. Rainbird, but the first time I met Miss Jones when she was in Kensington Gardens with the children, I saw Manuel, just as I was leaving. He was watching the troops and writing in a book.”
“I said he was a spy then,” said Peter gloomily, “but Esther also said he could just read the newspapers.”
“Aye, well, maybe that’s why there was a hole cut out of the newspaper the other day,” put in Angus.
They all looked at him in surprise.
“I’m sure we are imagining things, Master Peter,” said Rainbird. He cocked his head to one side and then slid away from the table, walked quietly to the door and flung it open.
Manuel was standing outside.
“Were you listening to us?” demanded Rainbird furiously.
“Me,” said the servant contemptuously. “Why should I wish to listen to you?”
He turned and walked away, leaving the servants looking at each other.
Lord Guy was disappointed in his companion. He had pointed out various notables, he had talked of the theatre, he had talked about the success of her party, and all she had answered was curt monosyllables—yes, no, and oh.
He wanted to shrug off the whole idea of courting Miss Jones, but the physical attraction she held for him grew stronger by the minute, and as his impatience with her grew in strength, so did the intense longing to hold her in his arms.
Then a squadron of volunteers who were drilling in the park raised their rifles and fired a volley. His horses shied and he reined in, jumped down, and spoke to them soothingly until he had quietened them. He climbed back in and took up the reins. “Are you all right?” he asked Esther, and then two things happened at once.
For Lord Guy, Hyde Park receded, to be replaced with a battlefield. Cannon roared, horses screamed, and once again that little drummer boy, Jimmy Watson, barely eleven years of age, stared up at him with pleading, tortured eyes, crying “Shoot me, my lord. I cannot bear the pain.” Lord Guy’s face turned chalk-white, and he covered his face with his hands.
At the same moment, Esther was looking appalled at a little carriage that had stopped alongside. It was pulled by a pretty milk-white mare and was in charge of a richly dressed brunette. The horse had reared and, like Lord Guy, the brunette had stopped. But the minute her horse was quiet, she started lashing along its flanks with her whip until a long, savage scarlet weal showed where she had cut open its hide.
Esther did not pause to think. She leapt down, marched over, seized the whip out of the girl’s hand, and threw it into the bushes.
“You are a monster!” she cried.
The girl looked at her haughtily. “I am Lady Penworthy. Who are you?”
“I am Miss Esther Jones, and I take leave to tell you, you are a cruel and unfeeling girl. How dare you treat that inoffensive animal in such a way?”
“John,” called Lady Penworthy to her footman on the backstrap. “Fetch my whip.”
The footman jumped down. “If you raise that whip again,” said Esther, “I shall take it from you and whip you.”
The brunette cowered before the fiery blaze in Esther’s eyes. “It’s a stupid horse,” she said sulkily.
“Then you have no further use for it,” said Esther. She tugged open her reticule and drew out a large sheaf of banknotes. “You will find a hundred pounds here,” said Esther coldly. “I will buy your horse.”
Lady Penworthy looked at her in amazement. The horse had cost fifteen guineas. A look of greed shone in her eyes. Jones! Of course, this must be the rich Miss Jones of whom everyone was talking.
The footman came up with the whip.
Esther wrenched it from him and stood like an Amazon. “Well, Lady Penworthy?” she asked.
“Oh, very well,” said Lady Penworthy cheerfully. She jumped down lightly and snatched the money. Esther turned to the footman. “Take the mare out of the poles and tie it behind my carriage.”
A curious crowd was beginning to gather.
Esther looked at Lord Guy. Why had he not come to her aid? He was sitting very still, his hands over his face. Probably pretending he isn’t here, thought Esther impatiently.
Arrangements were made for the collection of Lady Penworthy’s carriage. Stiffly, Esther, casting a fulminating look in the direction of her silent companion, offered Lady Penworthy a drive home. But, cheerfully waving the sheaf of notes, Lady Penworthy was already heading towards a friend’s carriage. She knew she carried with her, not only one hundred pounds, but the best piece of gossip in London.
Esther climbed in beside Lord Guy. The ton stayed to watch, openly and loudly discussing her charms, the gentlemen saying she looked magnificent, and the ladies tittering in a pitying way and saying all that money must have turned her brain. One hundred pounds for such a little mare!
“Do you want me to drive as well, sir?” said Esther, between her teeth.
Lord Guy, surrounded by the dead and dying, did not hear.
Esther jerked his hands down from his face and then gazed at him in alarm. His face was deathly white and his eyes fixed in a blind stare.
“Oh, my lord,” she cried. “You are ill!” She fished in her reticule, took out a bottle of cologne and a clean handkerchief, and proceeded to bathe his temples. Esther had a very strong maternal instinct. When he shuddered and murmured, “Oh, such death, such suffering. Will it never end?” she knew immediately he was in the grip of a nightmare. Forgetting about the staring, curious crowd, forgetting Lord Guy was a rake and a libertine, she put her arms round him and hugged him as she hugged the children when they had bad dreams and said softly, “Shhh! You are not at war. You are here with Esther. Everything is all right.”
Gradually his eyes focussed on the beautiful face so close to his own. In a dazed way, he saw the tenderness in her eyes, he felt the warmth of her bosom and the pressure of her arms. He did not know where he was and he did not care. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the mouth, more passionately than he had ever kissed a woman in the whole of his life. Esther’s concern for his welfare was so acute that she did not resist for one little first moment, and that moment was her undoing. She felt her body leap into flame, and if the deafening cheer from the onlookers had not brought her to her senses, she might have begun to kiss him back.
She jerked away, her face flaming, and said between her teeth, “You seem determined to make a vulgar spectac
le of me. Drive on!”
Lord Guy looked about him in a startled way, cursed under his breath, and picked up the reins. He was in despair. About every notable in London society appeared to be on the scene. In even more black despair, he saw the florid features of the Prince of Wales, his corpulent figure perched high in a swan-necked phaeton. Lord Guy bowed, and Esther, her face the colour of beetroot, bowed as well.
“What’s going on, heh?” called the Prince.
“Lord Guy Carlton at your service, Your Royal Highness. May you be the first to wish me well. Miss Jones has done me the honour to grant me her hand in marriage.”
“Spring in the air, what!” cried the Prince with a jolly laugh. “It’s the nesting season, heh. I said, the nesting season.”
Everyone about dutifully laughed.
“Invite me to the wedding,” said the prince in high good humour. “Can’t ’member when I was so entertained.”
“We shall be honoured,” said Lord Guy easily, “to welcome Your Highness’s presence at our marriage ceremony.”
“Do not forget,” said the Prince. He moved on, and society clicked and urged their mounts as they followed in line behind him.
Esther and Lord Guy were left alone.
“I could not say anything else,” he said plaintively. “Miss Jones, you can call it off, but we must send a notice of our engagement to the newspapers.”
“Never!” said Esther. “You tricked me. You only pretended to go into a trance to get my sympathy.”
“No,” said Lord Guy sadly. “I would that were true. It was that volley of shots that affected my brain. I am haunted by nightmares, even during the day. I came out of my nightmare to find you in my arms. The transition from hell to heaven was too fast for me. Miss Jones, you must forgive me.”
Esther clutched her head. “Oh, the shame of it all!” she cried. “After all my good intentions—to be tied to a rake!”
“You are not tied,” he pointed out. “We shall be engaged this week, which will immediately make our scandalous behaviour respectable. Then, having satisfied the morals of society, we can be separated the next. I shall soon be going back to the wars.”
