Rainbird's Revenge

by Beaton, M. C.

But there was still time to cover his traces. The duke had said in his letter he planned to stay in London for the rest of the Season. Then he would probably follow the Prince Regent to Brighton like the rest of the aristocrats.

  It was unfortunate for the servants of Number 67 Clarges Street that the day of the duke’s arrival in Town should prove to be so perfect. They had waited and waited for him to come, rooms gleaming, fresh linen on the beds, liveries and gowns brushed and pressed, their behaviour stiff and formal, their manner that of the most correct of London servants. But as the days passed and the duke did not come, they began to become bored with waiting. That morning had dawned sunny and beautiful. The pall of smoke that usually hung over London had rolled away. A warm breeze danced along the London streets, and dust motes swam in the great shafts of sunlight that cut down through the spaces between the tall buildings.

  All the windows of Number 67 were open to let in the warm, fresh air. Unknown to Palmer, the servants were nearing the end of their servitude. Season after Season, they had tucked away their tips, saving and saving, until they had now amassed enough to buy a pub. The only reason they were still servants was because of the arrival of the duke. They planned to impress the duke with their manner and behaviour, win his trust, and then tell him how little Palmer was paying them, having guessed correctly that Palmer was probably pocketing the difference between their low wages and the ones he claimed to be paying them. They knew that if they taxed the duke with this on his arrival, he would probably not believe them. A duke’s agent was a very powerful man, and the duke would believe Palmer and accuse them of lying. They would never get the revenge on Palmer they craved.

  Because Rainbird, the butler, and Joseph, the footman, had been dismissed in disgrace from previous employment – although innocent of the charges – Palmer had kept them bound to the house in Clarges Street with threats to ruin their characters should they try to work as servants anywhere else. The others had stayed out of loyalty to their butler and because, without a good reference, they, too, could not hope to find other work. Now, all that no longer mattered. Freedom lay ahead at the end of this very last Season.

  It was Joseph who started all the trouble that beautiful day – silly, fair-haired, effeminate Joseph. He wore shoes two sizes too small for him – small feet being considered aristocratic – and the heat of the day had already begun to make his tortured feet swell. His cravat, crisply starched, jabbed into his chin. This duke would not come, grumbled Joseph to himself, and one of the most beautiful days of the year would be spent sweltering indoors.

  Then there was that magnificent boat.

  Angus, the Highland cook, had created a beautiful model of Nelson’s flagship, the Victory, complete with cannon and sails. It fascinated Joseph. He wanted to see it sail and had begged the cook to let them take it to the reservoir in the Green Park, just along the road. Angus had refused, but only because this duke was about to descend on them.

  There would never be another such perfect day for sailing that boat, thought Joseph pettishly. It was folly of Rainbird to keep them kicking their heels as servants when there was no need for it. He went moodily upstairs. Mrs Middleton was singing in a thin, reedy voice as she arranged fresh flowers in the vases in the front parlour. Alice and Jenny were polishing and dusting rooms that surely did not need any more polishing and dusting, and Lizzie, the scullery maid who also acted as between-stairs maid, was polishing the banister with beeswax.

  Rainbird was down in his pantry, sampling some claret that had arrived from the wine merchant. Angus was cooking up delicacies in the kitchen, and Dave, the pot boy – the one servant of whose existence Palmer remained unaware, Rainbird having rescued the boy from a cruel master of a chimney-sweep – was helping him.

  ‘Lizzie!’ called Joseph. Lizzie stopped polishing the banister and looked down at the footman. Joseph was an elegant and handsome creature, but the sight of him no longer made little Lizzie’s heart beat any faster. On the contrary, she surveyed him with a mixture of misery and guilt, for Joseph and the others fully expected Lizzie to marry the footman as soon as their days of servitude were over, and poor Lizzie had not the courage to tell the footman she did not want to be wed to him.

  ‘Eh wish you would not look at me lahk thet,’ said Joseph in his mincing and affected voice. ‘I h’ain’t responsible for the fect we’re all indoors on the bestest day this year. Lizzie, why don’t you esk Rainbird to let us go to the perk and sail Angus’s boat?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘You know we’re all waiting for the duke.’

  ‘We’ve waited and waited,’ said Joseph crossly. ‘Eh’m sick and tired of waiting.’

  ‘What’s to do?’ asked Rainbird, the butler, emerging from the back stairs.

  ‘Eh want to go to the perk and sail Angus’s boat,’ said Joseph sulkily. ‘This here duke ain’t going to come,’ he added, his refined accents slipping. ‘We’ve waited every day and still he don’t come. We won’t get another day like this one, not for a long time.’

  Lizzie waited for Rainbird to curtly order the footman to go about his duties, but instead the butler looked wistfully up at the sunlight sparkling through the fanlight over the door.

  ‘I wish we could go, Joseph,’ said Rainbird. ‘But we must impress the Duke of Pelham with our honesty, diligence, and good character, and we are not going to do that by being absent when he arrives.’

  ‘If he ever arrives,’ said Joseph crossly.

  Rainbird stood lost in thought. He was a well-set-up man in his forties, with an acrobat’s body and a comedian’s face. Even when he was sad, he seemed to be laughing at some private joke.

  ‘We could,’ said the butler slowly, ‘always send Dave round to Palmer’s office to ask if the duke is arriving today. Palmer doesn’t know Dave, so he’ll think he’s just a messenger boy. Then, if Palmer happens to know by now the exact time of his grace’s arrival – and if it’s not today – then we can go.’

  ‘Huzza!’ cried Joseph, capering with delight, and then letting out a shriek as his tortured feet protested.

  Dave ran all the way to Holborn. Palmer studied the note from Rainbird. Then he smiled. It was obvious the duke had not gone straight to Clarges Street, and with any luck, he might catch the servants leaving. He pulled forward a sheet of paper, scribbled a note to the effect that the Duke of Pelham was not expected in London for two more days, sanded it, and handed it to Dave.

  A bare two streets away, the duke browsed in the cool depths of a bookshop. He had meant to go directly to Clarges Street, but a display of all the latest books had drawn him down from his carriage.

  Dave’s news was greeted at 67 Clarges Street with cries of delight. Rainbird and Joseph thankfully changed out of their hot livery, Angus prepared a cold picnic lunch, and then all of them – looking for all the world like a family – set out along Clarges Street, crossed Piccadilly, and plunged into the cool shade of the Green Park.

  * * *

  Miss Jenny Sutherland sat in the bumping, swaying travelling carriage that was conveying her to London and hoped she would not be sick. Once Lady Letitia had made up her mind to go to Town, she had bustled about at an enormous rate. Jenny did not know that what had finally driven Lady Letitia into frenzied action was her, Jenny’s, highly coloured account of what she had said to the Duke of Pelham. Lady Letitia was now afraid she had brought up a girl with neither breeding nor manners. Town bronze was what Jenny desperately needed. It was a godless age, so there was no one to advise Lady Letitia that her charge needed bronzing inside rather than out, and a lecture on humility from the vicar might have done a better job.

  They were to stay with a friend of Lady Letitia’s mother – ‘Goodness, can anyone that old be still alive?’ Jenny had marvelled. Mrs Freemantle was their London hostess’s name. Lady Letitia explained that Mrs Freemantle had never ceased from pestering her to go on a visit, and so she had sent that lady an express heralding their arrival. There was no need to waste time waiting for a
reply.

  Unknown to them, they nearly met the Duke of Pelham on the road. The duke had broken his journey to stay with an army friend outside London and was just setting out again on the London road as Lady Letitia’s carriage bowled past. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the occupants, and Lady Letitia and Jenny were both asleep and so did not mark him either.

  As Jenny already possessed a very modish wardrobe, there had been nothing to delay the ladies from setting out.

  Jenny became more and more excited as London drew nearer. She thought often of the horrible Duke of Pelham. She dreamt of being an outstanding success at what was left of the Season, she dreamt of the duke falling in love with her, and her best fantasy was the one where he got down on his knees in front of her to beg her hand in marriage, and she coldly spurned him.

  Her heart as yet untouched, Jenny saw marriage only as an ambitious project. One looked for the best and the richest, and that was what one married. To be the envy of every other female in London was surely the sole goal in life. Armoured in beauty, Jenny longed to taste success, for the duke’s snub still rankled.

  London might seem a dirty, noisy place to some after the lush green coolness of the summer country, but as their carriage entered the busy streets, Jenny already loved everything about it: the noise, the tumult, the light carriages darting here and there like so many dragonflies skimming the choppy waters of society, the haughty ladies dressed in the bare minimum, and the strutting gentlemen with their absurdly nipped-in waists and painted faces.

  ‘Where does Mrs Freemantle reside?’ she asked her aunt.

  ‘Clarges Street,’ said Lady Letitia. ‘Number Seventy-one.’

  ‘And is she a pleasant lady?’

  ‘Very. Although I have not seen her this age. Mind your manners, Jenny.’

  ‘I am always polite, Aunt Letitia.’

  ‘You have a distressing way of not listening or paying attention to anyone,’ said Lady Letitia sharply. ‘You are too wrapped up in your own appearance. There are many beautiful women in London. You will need to try to charm and please for the first time in your life. Looks are not enough on their own.’

  To Lady Letitia’s extreme irritation, Jenny merely gave a self-satisfied little smile, as if not believing a word of it.

  The carriage rumbled along Piccadilly and then was slowly reduced to a crawl in the press of traffic. The day was hot and sunny. Jenny let down the glass and leaned out.

  ‘It all looks so carefree,’ she said over her shoulder to her aunt. ‘Oh, look, there is a family sailing the most wonderful boat on the reservoir in the park. Are they allowed to do that? Is it not drinking water?’

  ‘The water in London is so filthy, I do not suppose one boat will make much difference,’ said Lady Letitia. ‘That reservoir had a dead dog floating in it the last time I was in Town.’

  ‘They do seem to be enjoying themselves,’ said Jenny wistfully. She noticed the women of the party, with the exception of one stout older one, were in their bare feet. A tall young man had taken off his shoes and stockings and waded into the reservoir to rescue the boat, which had sailed out of reach. As she watched, he slipped and fell with an almighty splash. A park warden was hurrying towards the group, shouting in outrage. With a jerk, the carriage moved on and turned into Clarges Street, and the little tableau was lost to view.

  Jenny looked down at the cool folds of her exquisitely frilled and flounced muslin gown. She had never gone barefoot or run about the fields. She did not even know what it was like to get her feet wet – outside of the bathtub, that is. She reminded herself sternly that beauties such as herself owed it to the world to protect and maintain an immaculate appearance. ‘Those women will probably be dreadfully sunburnt,’ she said, half to herself.

  ‘We are arrived,’ said Lady Letitia. ‘Remember, now, Jenny. Best manners and best behaviour!’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jenny crossly.

  The carriage rolled to a stop. Lady Letitia’s groom let down the carriage steps and Jenny alighted after her aunt.

  What an odd-looking housekeeper! was Jenny’s first thought when she saw the fantastic figure on the steps. It was that of a tall, thin woman, dressed in rusty black and with a limp muslin cap drooping over her long, horselike features. She had a great bunch of keys hanging from a chain at her waist and her muslin apron was spotted with egg stains.

  ‘Letitia,’ cried this odd creature who, to Jenny’s horror, ran down the steps and enfolded Lady Letitia in a warm embrace.

  ‘Agnes, how well you look!’ exclaimed Lady Letitia. ‘Jenny, make your curtsy. This is Mrs Freemantle. Agnes, my niece, Jenny.’

  Mrs Freemantle smiled at Jenny, baring a row of strong yellow teeth.

  ‘Ain’t you the prettiest creature that ever was!’ boomed Mrs Freemantle in a deep bass voice. ‘Quite like a fairy. Come in out of the heat. Tea! You must have tea.’

  Jenny followed her aunt and Mrs Freemantle into the house.

  The front parlour with its windows over the street was like a museum. Everything seemed to be in glass cases: stuffed animals, glass flowers, gilt clocks, figurines – all entombed in glittering glass. A vase of dusty peacock’s feathers filled the cold fireplace, and lying about on a very fine Persian carpet were chunks of masonry – bases of antique pillars and headless busts. The very finding of a seat was like an obstacle race, thought Jenny, picking her way around and over objects.

  How shall I ever meet any ton people, thought Jenny dismally, with such a patroness?

  Lady Letitia was rattling along at a great rate about people Jenny did not know or had never heard about – mainly because she had never listened to anything Lady Letitia had said in the past that did not directly concern herself.

  An elderly butler came in, bowed under the weight of a great silver tray holding teapot, hot water, milk, sugar loaves, thin bread and butter, and plum cake.

  ‘Any gossip, Giles?’ asked Mrs Freemantle.

  Giles drew himself upright, a slow creaking motion, as if he were jerking loose a series of nuts and bolts. ‘Yes, madam,’ he said. ‘Those strange servants from Number Sixty-seven took a boat to the park to sail it, just as if they were children. The Duke of Pelham arrived some moments ago and was in a high rage to find no one to answer the door. He has gone to his agent to get the house keys, saying loudly he meant to horse-whip every servant personally when he found them.’

  ‘Isn’t Giles marvellous?’ shouted Mrs Freemantle in her loud voice. ‘Much better than the social columns any day. That will be all, Giles.’

  Jenny was shaken. Lady Letitia had picked up the thread of the conversation from where she had left off and made no mention of having met the duke, that odious pompous man. She thought with wonder of that ‘family’ she had seen in the park. They were servants! So happy and carefree, and so soon to be whipped by that monster.

  ‘I would like to go to my room, Mrs Freemantle, and bathe my face,’ said Jenny suddenly.

  ‘Of course, my child,’ shouted Mrs Freemantle. ‘Come back and join us when you are freshened.’ She rang the bell beside her chair, an enormous brass handbell, and when Giles answered its summons, told the butler to take Miss Jenny upstairs. Jenny began to wonder if Mrs Freemantle had any other servants.

  Giles led the way up a dark narrow staircase to the second floor and creaked open a door. Jenny’s bedroom was at the back. She took a shocked look around the cluttered, musty room with its great four-poster bed that hardly left room for anything else, thanked Giles faintly, and waited until he had left.

  As soon as he had gone, she softly opened the door and began to creep quietly down the stairs. Why Jenny, for the first time in her selfish life, should suddenly concern herself about the welfare of others would have been a mystery to her if she had paused for thought. But she did not.

  She gained the hall without meeting any servants. From behind the front parlour door came the enthusiastic roar of her hostess’s voice. Quietly, she inched open the front door
and let herself out into the sunny street. Casting a nervous glance over her shoulder in case she should see the monstrous Duke of Pelham watching her, Jenny ran swiftly in the direction of the Green Park – a novelty in itself, for Jenny normally moved slowly and gracefully everywhere.

  The servants of Number 67 were spread about the grass at the edge of the reservoir eating a cold lunch. Jenny instinctively picked out Rainbird as the senior member, although he was not wearing livery.

  ‘Hurry!’ she cried. ‘Your master, the Duke of Pelham, is returned. He has gone to the agent’s to get the house keys and is threatening to horse-whip all of you.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Rainbird. ‘Quickly, everyone. Move!’

  Jenny had an odd longing to stay and help. But the enormity of what she had done burst over her head. She, the about-to-be toast of London, standing in the Green Park with a parcel of servants!

  She picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could back to Mrs Freemantle’s, pausing only to catch her breath outside the parlour door, before smoothing down her skirts and making a decorous entrance.

  She sat quietly drinking tea, and fighting down a longing to go out on the front steps and see if she could find out what was happening.

  ‘I tell you, Fergus,’ the duke was saying, as once more his carriage turned into Clarges Street, ‘these servants shall be sent packing! I have never heard of such insolence.’

  ‘Do not be too hasty, my lord,’ murmured Fergus. ‘There might have been some emergency.’

  ‘And what emergency,’ said the Duke of Pelham awfully, ‘could overshadow my return?’

  Fergus stifled a sigh. He often felt the duke’s overriding arrogance kept the kinder, pleasanter people and things of the world at bay.

  Number 67 was a typical London town house of the eighteenth century. It was tall, thin, and black. Two iron dogs were chained on the steps in front, normally the only ornament in the whole of its very correct façade – except for this day.

  A banner had been hung from the windows of the first floor. WELCOME HOME, YOUR GRACE, it read. The front door stood open and a trim butler in black-and-gold livery stood on the steps.