‘What!’ screeched Joseph, red with outrage. ‘Here’s me bin starvin’ for years in that slum in Clarges Street on the worst wages a footman could have, and all because I thought no one knew about the bishop’s wife’s stealing.’
‘You ain’t done too bad,’ said Blenkinsop, cynically regarding the footman’s expensive livery.
‘Well, we was lucky with the tenants,’ admitted Joseph reluctantly. ‘That why we’s all going to buy this pub.’ Then he went red as fire again, and pleaded, ‘I shouldn’t have told you. Don’t tell Mr Rainbird or he’ll thrash me.’
‘It’s my opinion,’ said Blenkinsop, ‘that a man like John Rainbird don’t appreciate the delicate feelings of a chap like yourself.’
‘That’s true. Very true,’ said Joseph.
‘But if you’re all going to be independent and buy pubs, well, there’s no point in offering you a job.’
‘It’s very tempting,’ said Joseph. ‘I would like to be a first footman.’
Blenkinsop leaned back in his chair and watched the battle going on behind Joseph’s wide blue eyes. He had no intention of telling Joseph that he, Joseph, had caught the wandering eye of that raddled old harridan, Lady Charteris, and it was my lady who had suggested Joseph should be engaged as first footman.
Unlike the others, Joseph had not come to be discontented with his life as a servant, only with the fact he did not have any proper status in that democratic servants’ hall in Clarges Street. But in a house such as Lord Charteris’s he would have all the respect due to his position from the other servants. He would be waited on by the lower servants. Lord and Lady Charteris went about in society, and Lady Charteris liked to have the most senior footman always in attendance. Damn the pub, thought Joseph. He would need to ruin his hands and suffer that affectionate, contemptuous look in Rainbird’s eyes and see Lizzie drifting farther away from him – pulled away from him by a long chain of books. Like many of his betters, Joseph was inclined to think that education for the lower orders was a dangerous thing.
‘If only I could,’ he said.
‘What’s the arrangement with this pub, then?’ asked Blenkinsop.
‘Well, we’re all equal partners,’ said Joseph.
‘That’s very fair of John Rainbird.’
‘I s’pose,’ said Joseph reluctantly. ‘But I hates the country, and this pub is in Highgate,’ he said as if Highgate were in Outer Mongolia.
‘You’re like me, lad.’ Blenkinsop sighed. ‘I like a London life. We remove to the country in the winter, mind. But we’re treated well and we’re never expected to poke our noses outdoors. They’ve got plenty of outdoor staff. Besides, I’ll be retiring soon and that’ll leave my job vacant. It would be fine to be able to train my successor.’
Joseph’s round eyes grew rounder.
‘See here,’ said Blenkinsop. ‘You could always let them have your share of the money. Tell ’em, if the pub succeeds, to put a little bit by for you. Look on it as an investment. They don’t need you. There’s plenty o’ them to run it as it is.’
Mrs Middleton walked sedately along by the Serpentine with the cook, Angus MacGregor. Although all this idea of a pub of their own was very exciting, it left one great black hole in the housekeeper’s ambitions. The ‘Mrs’ was a courtesy title. Daughter of an impoverished country curate, Mrs Middleton was a spinster who had long dreamt of being married to Mr John Rainbird when they all had their independence. But Mr Rainbird, she realized with a sigh, showed no signs of wanting to be married to her, or indeed anyone. Not these days. Not since he had made a fool of himself over some useless French lady’s maid who had not wanted him.
‘Weel, we’ll soon be free,’ she realized Angus MacGregor was saying.
‘Yes, it seems strange,’ she said. ‘I once read of a man who had spent years in a debtor’s prison, and when friends finally raised the money to get him out, he was so bewildered and lost in the world outside that he gambled and gambled until he was back in prison again. I wonder whether I shall feel like that.’
‘I wouldnae want to be married to a lady who craved to remain a servant all her days,’ said the cook severely.
‘What!’ screamed Mrs Middleton, shocked into rudeness.
‘I have a terrible temper,’ said the cook mournfully, ‘and I’m aye doing things the wrong way. But let me see if I can get this right.’
He sat the bewildered housekeeper down on a park bench next to the shining water, took out a clean handkerchief, dropped it on the ground, and knelt down on one knee in front of her.
‘Mistress Middleton,’ said Angus MacGregor, ‘will you marry me?’
Mrs Middleton blinked and looked over his head at the shining water. All the colours of the day seemed sharp and incredibly bright, and from somewhere above the clouds drifted down the triumphant fanfare of trumpets.
‘Oh, yes, Angus,’ she said.
‘That’s all right then,’ said the cook, jumping to his feet. ‘Now, we’re engaged, ye may take ma arm.’
Mrs Middleton rose and shook out her skirts and allowed Angus to tuck her arm in his. She felt very young and weak and feminine. She looked shyly up at the cook, her face radiant, her frightened lines and wrinkles for the moment erased.
Angus squeezed her arm. ‘Ah’m telling you,’ he said, ‘we’ll run the best pub wi’ the best food in the whole of England.’
‘Yes, we will, won’t we?’ said Mrs Middleton, quite breathless with happiness.
Lizzie had said her prayers. She had tried to concentrate and keep her mind above worldly things. But she still felt miserable. Why she had expected Paul Gendreau to be standing in the same church on the very day she had decided to visit it, she did not know. But the fact that the French valet was not there had left her feeling sick with disappointment.
She was about to leave when she realized that if God saw everything, he must surely know the thoughts in one little scullery maid’s head. There could be no harm in asking. So Lizzie, down on her knees again, trustingly asked God to let her see Paul Gendreau again, if it should be His will.
She left the church feeling a little comforted. She was wearing a pretty leaf-green muslin gown that had been bought for her by a previous tenant. Her brown hair was washed and brushed and confined by a cherry-red silk ribbon, the first present she had ever received. She stood blinking in the sunlight after the darkness of the church, reluctant to go straight back to Clarges Street. Then she remembered that the French emigrés who had managed to smuggle out enough wealth to maintain a position had set up a sort of Faubourg St Honoré in and around Manchester Square. It was a pleasant day for a walk. And there would be no harm in just going for a look . . .
Soon she was turning off Oxford Street and into Duke Street, which led to Manchester Square. She began to hear the sound of French voices all about her. Feeling quite bold, now she had ventured this far, she stopped first one and then the other when she reached Manchester Square, asking for the direction of the Comte St Bertin. But the servants she stopped spoke no English; French servants, like their masters, often despising their host country and refusing to speak English if by chance they knew any. At last, she hit upon an English coachman who was just climbing down from the box of his carriage.
‘The Comte lived over there, miss,’ said the coach-man. ‘But if you was wanting to see him, you’re too late.’
He pointed with his whip to a tall house that had a hatchment over the door and a mute wailing on the steps.
Lizzie looked at the shuttered windows and her heart sank.
Despite herself, she walked slowly round the square until she was standing in front of the house. Perhaps she would not have been able to recognize Mr Gendreau, even if she had seen him again, she thought. The night she had met him had been dark and rainy and she had only caught glimpses of his face in the weak light of the parish lamps in Clarges Street.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ said a voice at her ear. ‘But I have this odd feeling we have met before.’
&nb
sp; Lizzie started and turned about. She recognized Paul Gendreau immediately, although he was more richly dressed than she had remembered, and his eyes were sharper and bolder.
‘You walked me home from the church one evening,’ said Lizzie timidly.
‘Ah, yes, Clarges Street. The little scullery maid. I remember.’
Lizzie dropped her eyes. Somehow that phrase ‘little scullery maid’ had dashed all her dreams.
She rallied. ‘I am sorry your master is dead.’
Mr Gendreau spread his hands and gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘He was very old, and it was expected. There is sadness in your eyes. Why? Not for me, I trust. Milord has left me a tidy sum in his will. Voilà! Before you now stands Paul Gendreau, gentleman.’
‘I am happy for you,’ said Lizzie quietly. She started to walk away. This ebullient and confident Mr Gendreau was not the quiet, attentive valet she remembered. He fell into step beside her.
‘And why are you at liberty this free day, Miss O’ Brien?’
‘You remember my name?’ exclaimed Lizzie.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The owner of the house where I work, the Duke of Pelham, is in residence. He has given us the day off.’
‘An unusual aristocrat. Usually they like to think of us slaving while they take their pleasures.’
‘Was your master like that?’
‘Very. He was a French aristocrat of the old school. Me, I am a royalist, but sometimes I used to look at him and say to myself, “Now I see why there was a revolution in France.”’
They had reached the corner of Manchester Square. Lizzie curtsied again. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gendreau,’ she said politely. ‘I have enjoyed meeting you again.’
‘Goodbye!’ he echoed. ‘Here we are on a beautiful day, both free. Nonsense. We shall proceed to Gunter’s and have ices.’
‘Gunter’s!’ squeaked Lizzie. ‘Only ladies and gentlemen go to Gunter’s.’ Gunter’s was the famous confectioner in Berkeley Square.
‘But you are wearing a modish gown, and me, I am dressed like a gentleman. I have saved and saved for years, and now I do not need my savings, for milord has left me plenty of money. Come, Miss O’Brien.’
He tried to cajole Lizzie into speech as they walked across Oxford Street, but Lizzie was sure that as soon as they entered Gunter’s, they would be asked to leave. But they were ushered with all courtesy to a table and the amused Paul Gendreau, seeing Lizzie was too frightened to open her mouth, ordered a strawberry ice cream for her and one for himself.
‘Now, Miss Lizzie,’ he said, ‘no one is going to chase us away. No one is looking at us. Tell me why you look so sad.’
His clever eyes were warm and sympathetic. Lizzie began in bits and pieces to tell him about the pub and how the prospect of freedom was making her afraid, that she often wondered whether the others would treat her like one of the owners of the pub, or forget, and continue to treat her as a scullery maid. At times she fell silent, but, prompted by his questions, she proceeded to tell him all about Palmer, about the previous tenants, about how she was expected to marry Joseph, and how she did not love Joseph any more. At last she stopped in confusion, having never in her life before talked so much about herself.
‘You must marry whom you please,’ he said gently. ‘We servants are not allowed to marry, and when we get our freedom we should have the luxury of marrying whom we please.’
‘But they all expect me to marry Joseph!’
‘When you think of marriage,’ he asked, ‘how do you picture it?’
‘I suppose it may seem silly to you,’ said Lizzie slowly, looking at his neat worldly features and clever eyes, ‘but I always wanted a little place in the country and a garden and some land. I’ve always wanted some gentleman to care for, someone who would also care for me.’
Lizzie heaved a great sigh and a large tear rolled down her cheek and plopped into the melting remains of the strawberry ice on her plate. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed her wet cheek.
‘It is not silly,’ he said. ‘Not right in the country, of course, but near enough to some town to have the pleasures of both. I like Bath. There are many pretty villages quite near so that one may have the pleasures of concerts and coffee rooms and bookshops, and yet enjoy the clean air of the country. I saw such a house once. He pulled out a notebook and lead pencil. ‘See, it looked like this.’ He sketched rapidly. ‘Two storeys and a good tiled roof. I do not like the thatch. Insanitary. Plenty of windows for light, but not too many or the window tax would cripple me. A square of garden at the front, like so. And shaded by some fine elms. And roses! Red and white, over the door . . . here. And at the back, a good vegetable garden. And beyond the hedge here . . .’ He looked up impatiently at a hovering waiter. ‘No, my good man, we are not finished. Bring us tea and a selection of cakes and take yourself off. Where was I? Ah yes, and beyond the hedge, a pasture where one could keep, say, two cows, a horse, and perhaps a pig.’
‘And inside? What was it like inside?’ asked Lizzie.
‘I never saw the inside. But I would have it so.’ He turned to a clean page of the notebook.
‘A dining room here on this side and a living room on the other side of the hall. A big kitchen. Probably the present one would have to be extended. Four bedrooms above, and two small ones in the attics. And if there were space enough, I would put in a room with a bath with running water. They have them now with a machine at the head of the bathtub which can supply hot water.’
‘It would be quite a lot to keep clean,’ said Lizzie.
‘But I should have servants, of course. No butler, no footmen, vous voyez, but a cook-housekeeper and two stout maids, and a man to do the rough outside work. Then nothing grand in the way of a carriage, but a gig and horse to take me into Bath.’
Tea and cakes were placed in front of them. Lizzie poured tea correctly as she had seen the fine ladies do, and treasured every moment of her outing.
‘The pub Mr Rainbird has chosen for us is in Highgate,’ said Lizzie. ‘But if you are going to Bath, it is unlikely you will journey that far.’
‘When will you be free?’ he asked abruptly.
‘When Mr Rainbird says so,’ said Lizzie. ‘Not very long now. The end of the Season at the latest.’
‘That is not very far away.’
‘No,’ said Lizzie sadly. She put one of Gunter’s finest cakes, half-eaten, down on her plate and wondered why it suddenly tasted like dust.
He put his elbows on the table and studied her. ‘I have never before met a lady quite like yourself, Miss Lizzie,’ he said. ‘Such prettiness – such humility.’
Lizzie looked up quickly to see if he were laughing at her, but his eyes were serious.
‘Go on about your house,’ said Lizzie. ‘I like hearing about it.’
He opened the notebook again, and then said slowly, ‘What kind of furniture shall we have in the living room?’
‘We, Mr Gendreau?’
‘Yes, we. There is that between us which is already very precious. When I talk about my dream house, I see you there, and you see yourself there, is that not so?’
Lizzie went very still. ‘I am a good Catholic, Mr Gendreau, and I could not countenance . . .’
‘Anything other than marriage. Of course not. I should not be proposing to you if I thought you were the sort of lady who would settle for anything less. Stop staring at me like that, cherie, and let us get down to the practicals. Now, me, I do not like this fashion for backless sofas . . .’
‘There’s one life for some Jennys and one life for the others,’ said Jenny, the chambermaid, suddenly, stopping dead in the middle of the Strand.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked Alice.
‘Never mind,’ said fierce little Jenny.
The object of her envy, Miss Jenny Sutherland, sat in front of her glass that evening with her eyes tightly closed as Cooper dressed her hair.
Would it not be wonderful, thought Jenny, to break into Palmer’s office and fi
nd those books? That would prove to herself and everyone else that she was not selfish. She must find out where Palmer’s office was.
‘Why ever has you got your eyes closed?’ asked Cooper, twirling the curling tongs.
‘Because things look better that way,’ said Miss Jenny Sutherland.
FIVE
If all the good people were clever,
And all clever people were good,
The world would be nicer than ever
We thought that it possibly could.
But somehow, ’tis seldom or never
The two hit it off as they should;
The good are so harsh to the clever,
The clever so rude to the good!
ELIZABETH WORDSWORTH
‘Everything all right belowstairs?’ asked the Duke of Pelham, as he dressed that evening.
‘Yes, your grace,’ said Fergus. ‘Have the servants been annoying your grace?’
‘No, as correct as ever. But the atmosphere of this house has changed. It is very hard to explain. There is a restless, unhappy feeling.’
Fergus looked about uneasily. ‘Perhaps it is the spirit of the late duke.’
‘It feels more like the spirit of present and living unhappiness. Rainbird, that normally confident butler, appears uneasy, restless, and abstracted; the beauty of a blonde maid – what is her name . . . ?’
‘Alice.’
‘Yes, Alice. She looks sad. The little chambermaid has eyes red from recent weeping and performs her duties in a state of suppressed rage. The effeminate Joseph is correct to a fault and goes about his business with an air, but he occasionally flashes sidelong looks of dislike at his butler – a butler who, only yesterday, I could have sworn, was regarded in the light of father of this household.’
‘They were all up late last night,’ said Fergus. ‘They are probably tired. And then they have all been out all day.’
‘Perhaps it was wrong of me to give them a day off. My friends, the Chesters at Primrose Hill, were quite shocked when I happened to mention the matter. Servants, they told me, are allowed two days off a year. Any other arrangement leads to laziness and deceit. But I cannot see the wisdom of keeping servants belowstairs in this beautiful weather when I do not need them. Unhealthy servants, like unhealthy troops, are of no use to me whatsoever. Was I too lenient? Are they discontented?’
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