In the next room, Joseph lay awake also, flexing his tortured feet under the bedclothes. The servants had been driving single-mindedly towards freedom, and now they were on the threshold. Joseph had always carried in his mind a rosy dream of standing at the entrance to the inn dressed in the latest thing in a buckram-wadded coat, receiving the nobility. He would bow low and hear my lady murmur to her lord, ‘What an elegant young man.’
But now Rainbird was going off to secure the inn – an inn that would require a great deal of manual labour to set it to rights. It was clear that Rainbird meant all of them to help. Joseph raised his hands in front of him and studied their whiteness in the flickering glow of the rushlight. He would not be allowed to wear white gloves or velvet livery. There would be no jaunts to The Running Footman – the pub round the corner where all the upper London servants met to exchange gossip. Highgate was in the country. For the first time Joseph realized his bones were made of pavement. He detested the country, all smells and flies and bumpkins. Of course, Lizzie would be a comfort. But would she? Joseph frowned. Ever since she had become lettered, Lizzie had shown a distressing independence of mind and no longer hung on his every word.
On his pallet under the kitchen table, little Dave settled down to indulge in his favourite fantasy, which was of touring the fairgrounds and taking round the hat after Mr Rainbird had finished his performance. But the dream no longer comforted him. For the future was right there, and the future was that pub they had all schemed and worked hard to get. ‘Blow the pub,’ muttered Dave sulkily. ‘I hopes we don’t get it. I wish Lizzie would do something stupid again.’ For Lizzie had, earlier that year, become enamoured of the first footman, Luke, who worked for Lord Charteris next door. Luke had persuaded Lizzie to give him all the savings to put on a horse and had promptly run off with the money. But their recent tenant had refunded that money, so there was nothing to stop the buying of the pub now.
Palmer was lucky. The duke had breakfasted well and was in a mellow mood. Angus’s coffee, grilled kidneys, and thin slices of toast had been a miracle of cuisine. The day outside was sunny and glorious, and the narrow town house sparkled with cleanliness and comfort. Not by a flicker had any of the servants betrayed anything of the odd events of the night before. The duke had feared they might become cheeky and bold after he had honoured their revels with his august presence.
So Palmer’s arrival with the books found the duke singularly uncritical. Rainbird, listening with his ear to the dining-room door, gloomily heard the duke say, ‘Everything appears to be in order, Palmer, although I still maintain the servants here are paid too low a wage.’
‘They are well content with what they get,’ Rainbird heard Palmer reply gruffly.
So that was that, thought Rainbird, unaware that the duke had been looking at a list of wages that were much higher than the pittance Palmer actually gave them. Rainbird assumed Palmer had therefore not fiddled the books, and so they had no way of getting even with him. Better to see about that pub and then hand in their notices.
When Palmer had left, the duke summoned Rainbird and told him that he would spend the afternoon with friends who lived at Primrose Hill, have dinner with them, and return in the evening to change for the Denbys’ musicale. Still feeling happy, the duke grandly told Rainbird the servants might enjoy some free time, provided they were on hand in the evening to attend to his needs.
Fergus, who was to accompany his master, went down to the servants’ hall to say goodbye. He felt envious of the servants, who were eagerly making plans for the day. Rainbird alone did not voice his plans. How lovely it would be, thought Fergus wistfully, to be able to invite the glorious Alice to go out walking in the parks.
Lizzie had planned to go to St Patrick’s Church in Soho Square, trying to persuade herself she had been sadly lacking in her religious duties, but hoping all the while for a glimpse of Mr Gendreau. Alice and Jenny were going to look at the shops, Angus and Mrs Middleton were to take a walk by the Serpentine, Joseph was going to The Running Footman for a gossip, and Dave announced firmly he was going with Rainbird.
They all waited eagerly until they heard the duke and Fergus leave, and then they set about preparing to enjoy the day.
Rainbird hired a post-chaise, took the strong-box with their money, and, accompanied by Dave, set out for Highgate. The day was so fine and so sparkling that Rainbird wished they could have afforded to hire an open carriage instead of being confined inside a stuffy, smelly post-chaise.
The inn called The Holly Bush was on the far side of Highgate, on the north road out of that village. It was owned, among other run-down properties, by a certain Squire James, who lived in the village. He was a gross, slovenly man, who showed alarming signs of wishing to show them about in person, swearing the place was double the money. But Rainbird said firmly they would judge matters better on their own and would return shortly and let him know their decision.
Having dismissed the post-chaise, they walked out to The Holly Bush. It was a Tudor pub with a thatched roof. To Rainbird’s surprise, the thatch was in good repair and the glass in all the windows was unbroken. But inside, the tap was a squalid, disgusting mess. It looked as if there had been an almighty brawl on its last night, and no one had bothered to clean it up. There were four bedrooms upstairs. There was a weedy garden at the back with a muddy pond choked with reeds. But to Rainbird’s surprise, the fabric of the building was sound, and the floors were good and solid. The pond could be cleaned, and tables and chairs could be arranged in the garden. Short of cleaning and scrubbing inside, there would be remarkably little to be done to get it ready.
Much cheered, Rainbird and Dave made their way back to the squire’s. Squire James was smelling strongly of freshly taken brandy when they went in. Rainbird, with a long and solemn face, immediately began to run down the pub and complain about the mess. The squire protested furiously and told them to go. Rainbird hummed and hawed and said he might consider buying it if the squire would take hard cash and dispense with the formality of lawyers, who were a useless and expensive breed, a sentiment with which the squire heartily agreed.
Rainbird sat down with the squire and an hour of haggling ensued, until Rainbird clinched the deal by producing bags of guineas from the strong-box and letting them spill out on the table. As he saw the squire’s eyes light up greedily at the sight of the gold, Rainbird was glad he had changed all their notes into guineas. Paper money never inspired the same greed in men as did the sight of gold. And so the squire eagerly sold the pub for a lesser sum that he had first demanded. The papers and documents were handed over and all the spare keys.
Rainbird walked away with a light heart. Down below them swam London in a soft golden haze, like a magic city in a dream.
‘A good day’s work, Dave,’ said Rainbird cheerfully, ‘and money still in hand. Come, my lad, and we will have food and drink somewhere pleasant.’
They settled for a pub called The Grenadier, soon to be their rival, and had a meal of cold roast beef and porter out in the inn garden under the cool shade of a chestnut tree.
‘Will you entertain the customers, Mr Rainbird?’ asked Dave wistfully.
‘No, I shall be a pompous landlord, mine host to the life.’ Rainbird leapt to his feet and strutted up and down the grass, pushing out an imaginary paunch.
Dave crowed with laughter. ‘There’s no one but us in the garden, Mr Rainbird,’ he pleaded. ‘Do some of your tricks.’
Rainbird shrugged and smiled. He picked some walnuts from a bowl on the table and began to juggle them. ‘Can you imagine the Duke of Pelham behaving thus?’ Rainbird laughed. He fixed Dave with a haughty, glacial eye and then glared at the circle of juggled walnuts with horror, as if wondering how they had got into his hands. He mimed a pompous aristocrat desperately trying to get rid of the offending things while little Dave wiped his tears of laughter away on his sleeve.
Rainbird tossed the walnuts back in the bowl and then cartwheeled round the garden, finishing
upside down on the table-top, legs straight up in the air, propped up on one hand.
The sound of applause from the doorway leading to the garden made Rainbird jump back into his seat and assume the expression of a man who had absolutely nothing to do with the antics he had just performed.
‘My dear sir,’ said a fat, florid, and jolly man who had been applauding. ‘You could rival Grimaldi.’ Grimaldi was the famous clown of the Regency patnomime.
‘With your permission?’ Without waiting for a reply, the man sat down at the table. ‘I am stage manager of the Spa Theatre in Islington. I am also the owner. We are sadly in need of a harlequin for our pantomime. If you would consider joining our band of players, I would pay you well.’
Rainbird smiled and shook his head. Harlequins were at the bottom of the theatrical scale. He had read in the newspapers recently that Grimaldi himself could only earn four pounds a week.
‘You are kind, Mr—?’
‘Frank.’
‘Mr Frank. I have just bought a pub. I am a gentleman of independent means, and harlequins earn too little to tempt me.’
‘Nonsense, Mr—?’
‘Rainbird. John Rainbird.’
‘You will make your name. You can earn generous sums of money touring the provinces, as much as fourteen hundred pounds in four weeks and one hundred pounds on benefit nights. If you joined our troupe, you could count on a percentage of the takings as well.’
‘It seems a great sum for a few tricks.’
‘Few have the ability to make others laugh. You have what I want, what I need, Mr John Rainbird. What! Slave in a pub and never hear the roar of the audience in your ears?’
‘Oh, Mr Rainbird,’ breathed Dave. ‘There’s enough o’ the others to run the pub.’
Rainbird shook his head. ‘I have duty to my friends to consider,’ he said. ‘Besides, I might prove a failure.’
Mr Frank hitched his chair closer. ‘Just one night,’ he wheedled. ‘You could try one night. It’s not as if there are any lines to rehearse.’
The theatrical performances of the Regency were very long, about five or six hours, and the play was always followed by a harlequinade in which Harlequin danced in pursuit of Columbine, was opposed by Pantaloon, but finally, with the aid of his wooden sword or bat, defeated his enemies and won the girl. There was always a comic chase, and Harlequin was expected to entertain the audience with tricks and juggling and songs and a running patter on the events of the day.
Rainbird looked around the sunny garden. It would be wonderful to perform in a theatre before he settled down. Just once.
‘I am at the moment butler to the Duke of Pelham. My time is his. It would be very hard to escape for the evening. Which evening had you in mind?’
‘Sooner the better. You pick your evening. The harlequin we have is old and drunk. You turn up and we’ll take him off for the night.’
Rainbird bit his knuckles in sudden agitation. ‘But to walk onto a stage in front of all these people with a cast who do not even know me!’
‘You make ’em laugh, and they won’t care what you do. The audience, I mean. You make ’em laugh, and the cast will just have to try to follow you.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Rainbird. Dave looked at him anxiously. The butler had turned quite white and his hands shook.
‘Do that, Mr Rainbird. Here is my card. What have you to lose? If you are a success, the world lies before you. If you fail, then you go to your pub and forget about it.’
He clapped Rainbird on the shoulder and ambled off.
Rainbird stared down at the card. ‘Oh dear,’ he whispered to Dave. ‘Whatever shall I do? You never think a dream will ever become reality. To dream about going on the stage is one thing, but to actually have that dream here in my grasp, and not to be able to hold it, is very hard. I wish we had never met Mr Frank. I shall make a very discontented landlord.’
Dave put a grubby hand on Rainbird’s sleeve. ‘Please, Mr Rainbird,’ he said, ‘try just one night. I’ll come along ’o you. Dave’ll be there. Please, Mr Rainbird. Like the man said, you can try the one evening. One evening’s not much.’
Joseph, in black-and-gold livery and with his hair powdered, strolled in the direction of The Running Footman. He walked with his constricted feet pointing outwards like a fencing master. In one white-gloved hand he carried a lace-edged handkerchief. His blue eyes surveyed the world with pleasure. He rounded the corner of Clarges Street and nearly bumped into Miss Jenny Sutherland, who was returning home from a shopping expedition accompanied by her maid, Cooper.
Joseph bowed slightly and would have walked past, not wanting to embarrass Miss Sutherland, but to his surprise Jenny stopped dead and hailed him with a cheerful ‘Good day, Joseph. How goes it?’
‘Very well,’ said Joseph, noticing the startled look on the maid’s face.
‘Take my packages home, Cooper,’ said Jenny. ‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. I shall follow you directly.’
When the maid had reluctantly walked away, Jenny said, ‘Last night your master appeared to be quite a different gentleman from the one I first met. Not at all proud.’
Rainbird would have told Miss Sutherland firmly that she was in danger of disgracing herself by standing talking to servants in the street, but Joseph had such a high opinion of himself that he saw nothing wrong in it, although all the glory of chatting with a supremely beautiful lady of fashion went right to his head.
‘He’s proud enough to keep us et stervation level,’ said the gossipy Joseph, enjoying the startled look of curiosity in Jenny’s eyes. Jenny’s stopping to talk to Joseph was part of her new plan to take an interest in others, no matter who they might be.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Are your wages so very low?’
Joseph outlined how little they all got. ‘But that is shocking . . . shocking,’ said Jenny.
‘Mind you,’ said Joseph, ‘Mr Rainbird says es how he thinks thet Palmer, the duke’s agent, is cheating his mester. He thinks thet Palmer gives us one set of wages, marks higher ones in the duke’s books, and pockets the difference.’ Rainbird had not told the others about what he had heard going on between Palmer and the duke, for he had temporarily forgotten about it in the excitement of setting out with Dave to see the pub.
‘I shall speak to the duke,’ said Jenny firmly.
‘No, don’t do thet, miss,’ said Joseph, alarmed. ‘See ’ere, it’s like this,’ he said, forgetting his genteel accent. ‘If we could find a way of getting proof on paper of what he was actually paying us, and have a look at them books, or somethink like that, then we could tell the duke about Palmer. But what if it’s really the duke hisself who is paying them low wages?’
‘You must break into this Palmer’s office and steal his books!’ cried Jenny.
‘Naw!’ squawked Joseph. ‘I wasn’t supposed to talk about it. You won’t tell anyone, miss?’
‘Oh, fiddle, there’s Cooper coming for me.’ Jenny hurried off down the street.
Joseph looked after her, feeling awkward and uneasy. Then he reassured himself with the hope that Miss Sutherland would forget about the whole thing.
By the time he pushed open the door of The Running Footman – pausing on the threshold so that the upper servants in the tap should behold the full glory of lace handkerchief, shining pumps, and white silk stockings – Joseph had forgotten about his encounter with Miss Sutherland.
‘Over here, Joseph,’ called a familiar voice. Joseph preened. Mr Blenkinsop, Lord Charteris’s butler from next door, was waving to him. Casting a covert look round to make sure the other footmen in the pub knew he was being invited by a butler, Joseph minced up to where Blenkinsop was sitting, and slid gracefully into the chair opposite.
Mr Blenkinsop was more what Joseph considered a butler should be – fat and portly and not very clever. Rainbird had often too sharp a tongue for Joseph’s comfort.
‘What will you have, Joseph?’ asked Mr Blenkinsop expansively.
> ‘A pint of shrub, an’ it please you, Mr Blenkinsop,’ said Joseph, much gratified, for butlers like Blenkinsop usually expected the lower orders to pay for their drinks.
When Joseph had been served, Mr Blenkinsop said, ‘We never heard no more word o’ that rascal, Luke.’
Joseph’s face darkened. ‘Running off wiff all o’ our money like that,’ he said furiously. ‘’E deserves to be ’anged.’
The footman then blushed. He could never understand why his genteel accents, so carefully cultivated, should suddenly run away and leave him with a cockney whine.
‘He’ll come to a bad end, never fear,’ said Mr Blenkinsop, burying his nose in his pewter mug of light ale. His weak eyes then peered craftily over the top of the mug at Joseph. ‘We ain’t got a first footman,’ he added.
‘I thought the next-in-line would have got the job,’ said Joseph.
Mr Blenkinsop put down his mug and prodded Joseph in the region of the waistcoat with a fat finger. ‘None of them have got it,’ he said. ‘I need a first footman with a certain jenny-say-quite.’
‘Exactly,’ said Joseph.
‘A chap like yourself, for example, would fit the post.’
‘Lord Charteris would never let you take me on,’ said Joseph. ‘I may as well tell you, Mr Blenkinsop, as I know how you can keep a secret, that Palmer, the duke’s agent, says as how he would give me a bad reference and tell any employer how it was me what stole from the Bishop of Burnham. But it wasn’t,’ said Joseph passionately. ‘It was that wife o’ his.’
Blenkinsop laughed, a fat, chuckling laugh. ‘Don’t everyone know about her?’ he said. ‘Why, only t’ other week she had a snuff-box off a Lord Charteris. He knows she steals.’
Rainbird's Revenge Page 7
