Wicked Godmother

by Beaton, M. C.

  Joseph had become convinced last October that Prime ’Un would win at Newmarket races and had talked everyone but Rainbird and Mrs Middleton into letting him put most of their savings on the wonderful horse. But the horse had fallen on its nose halfway down the course, and so the furious butler and housekeeper had had to use up their savings on keeping the rest of the ashamed and destitute staff warm and fed.

  Rain trickled down the windowpanes as Jenny and Alice dusted and polished. ‘It is cold in here,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘I shall fetch Joseph to make up the fire and wind the clocks. You know Mr Palmer expects us to be prepared to receive people at all times.’

  Soon a fire was crackling on the hearth, and the clocks were busily ticking away, bringing with their chatter and chimes a feeling of expectancy. Time had returned to Number 67 Clarges Street. All that was now needed was a tenant.

  Jonas Palmer arrived an hour early, hoping to catch them unprepared, but Rainbird was used to the agent’s ways and had made sure everyone was ready at least three hours before his expected arrival.

  ‘Where’s Alice?’ demanded Palmer, glaring with his bulging eyes at Jenny, who was setting the tea tray on a table in the front parlour.

  ‘Alice is out on an errand,’ said Rainbird. The butler did not like the way the agent always leered at the beautiful Alice and undressed her with his eyes, and so he had told the housemaid to stay belowstairs. Jenny left the room, and Rainbird looked expectantly at the agent.

  ‘Do well for yourself, you lot,’ said Palmer grumpily, stretching his thick legs out towards the fire and glancing around the well-kept parlour. Rainbird waited patiently. It was useless to argue with Palmer.

  Palmer slurped his tea noisily. It was amazing, reflected Rainbird, how the agent could manage to drink a cup of tea with the spoon still sticking in it and not jab himself in the eye.

  ‘I spoke to his grace t’other day,’ said Palmer, ‘and he said to me, he says, them servants at Sixty-seven are too highly paid.’

  Rainbird looked at Palmer, his grey eyes suddenly sharp with suspicion. ‘Does the Duke of Pelham actually know what we are being paid?’

  ‘’Course he does. Don’t I take the books to him regular?’

  ‘And how was it in the Peninsula?’ asked Rainbird sweetly. ‘Hot?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Duke of Pelham has been in Portugal since last summer, so if you were speaking to him, I assume you plodded over the high mountains in order to achieve that end.’

  ‘Don’t take that hoity-toity tone with me,’ growled Palmer, turning red. ‘You’re nothing but a womanizer who wouldn’t have no pay at all if it weren’t for me.’

  Rainbird had been dismissed from Lord Trumpington’s household for having been found between the sheets with a very naked Lady Trumpington. The fact that my lady had practically dragged him into bed was not taken into account. Rainbird was dismissed in disgrace and, had it not been for Palmer, would have found it very hard to get another post, as Lord Trumpington had called him a mad rapist to anyone who would listen.

  Servants were always wrong. It was the custom for a man of society to take his footman along when he dined from home. The footman’s job was to pick his master up from under the table at the end of the meal and manage to get him home without occasioning any Methodist remarks about drunkenness. But should the master behave so badly that his far-gone inebriated state was impossible to conceal, as in the case of a certain lord who insisted on performing entrechats in the middle of the dining table, then it was the footman who was accused of drunkenness and dismissed.

  Rainbird remained silent. He felt sure if he managed to wait quietly long enough then the agent would get around to talking about the real purpose of his visit.

  And so it was. After trying unsuccessfully to bait Rainbird, Palmer heaved a disappointed sigh and said, ‘A tenant is arriving next month. Parcel of women, by the looks of it. Saw the lawyer concerned. Seems this knight, Sir Benjamin Hayner, died and left his two daughters in the care of a twenty-five-year-old miss called Metcalf. This Miss Metcalf will be arriving with the two girls. Again, there is going to be the question of accommodation for their lady’s maid.’

  Rainbird winced, and Palmer looked at him curiously. Rainbird had fallen in love with the French lady’s maid who had been resident the last Season.

  ‘Last year,’ said Rainbird, carefully controlling his expression, ‘Mrs Middleton had to give up her parlour on the backstairs. I trust this won’t be necessary again.’

  ‘It’s all up to this Metcalf. Leave it to her. She should be something new in your experience, Rainbird. According to this lawyer, she’s the biggest saint in the length and breadth of England.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rainbird. ‘A saintly tenant would care for the welfare of the servants. In fact, any lady cares for her servants. It is only those who are neither ladies nor gentlemen who treat servants badly.’

  ‘Meaning me,’ said Palmer, a dangerous colour mounting up his face.

  Rainbird studied him with the curiosity of a jackdaw, as if hoping the terrible Palmer might have an apoplexy and leave this world a better place, but Palmer soon recovered and demanded to see the housekeeping accounts.

  At long last the ordeal was over. Mrs Middleton took the books back to her parlour and comforted herself with a good cry, for Palmer’s rude and brutal manner always made her feel as if she had been assaulted. She dried her eyes and looked up as Rainbird entered the room.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rainbird,’ she said, fluttering to her feet. ‘I am afraid I have been crying, and my eyes are so red and . . .

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Rainbird. ‘I brought a little brandy to comfort both of us. I know we should share it with the others, but then, they are not so much in need of comfort at the moment as we. How that wretched man does rile me! Also, we did not lose our well-earned money on some useless horse.’

  ‘I suppose they cannot be blamed all the same,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Joseph made the bet sound so tempting – and I would have certainly given him my money if you had not been so much against it, Mr Rainbird. We cannot all be as clever as you.’ She sighed and gazed at him adoringly, but the butler was busy pouring the brandy and did not notice her doting expression.

  ‘Now, Mrs Middleton,’ said Rainbird, settling down in a battered armchair opposite the housekeeper, ‘things look quite hopeful for the coming Season. Palmer said a Miss Metcalf is the new tenant. She is quite young, but she is to chaperone two young misses during their debut. According to the new tenant’s lawyer, this Miss Metcalf is a sort of saint. I shall ask her to raise our wages for the term of the rental, only to the level we should be getting paid. They are bringing a lady’s maid . . .’

  Mrs Middleton looked miserable again. The last lady’s maid had not only taken up residence in the housekeeper’s parlour but had stolen Rainbird’s heart. ‘As far as I can gather,’ went on Rainbird gently, ‘this lady’s maid might be well-content to share a room with Alice and Jenny.’

  ‘Well, it will be nice,’ said Mrs Middleton cautiously, ‘to have only ladies in the house. They are so much easier to look after than the gentlemen, saving your presence, Mr Rainbird. Yes, young ladies will be a pleasant change.’

  Miss Josephine Spencer stood in the rain with a large silk umbrella over her head, watching the Misses Hayner and Harriet preparing to leave Chorley House. She herself had conveyed Harriet, Beauty, and Harriet’s shabby trunks by her own gig from the village.

  She had had some conversation with the twins before they had left the house and was relieved to find their manner towards Harriet affectionate. Nothing to worry about there.

  But it appeared as if the girls had suddenly discovered that Beauty was also going to London.

  ‘You cannot possibly take that mongrel into society,’ giggled Sarah. ‘Give the cur to Miss Spencer. I am sure she will look after him for you.’

  Harriet looked embarrassed. ‘I am sorry, Sarah, but I must insist he comes. I shall keep him
away from you. He is such a good watchdog.’

  ‘Stoopid,’ said Annabelle. ‘You do not understand, dear Harriet. The dog stays behind.’

  ‘I must insist,’ said Harriet, who had fed Beauty a large meal so that the animal might look more placid and approachable than usual.

  ‘Then, if you insist, it may go in the baggage coach with Emily.’ Emily was the twins’ lady’s maid. Miss Spencer looked curiously at Emily. She thought Emily looked like a fox with her reddish-brown hair and eyes of a peculiar shade of yellow. Emily gave her mistresses a sidelong look, and then her thin mouth curled in a faint grimace.

  ‘I do not think that a very good idea,’ said Harriet. ‘I—’

  Beauty suddenly bared his teeth and gave the twins a sinister canine sneer. He growled far back in his throat, a threatening rumble.

  ‘Oh, very well, Harriet,’ said Sarah. ‘But it is most odd of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harriet with a sunny smile. A footman was holding open the carriage door. Harriet urged Beauty in and then climbed in after the dog.

  It was then that Miss Spencer saw Sarah turn to Annabelle and roll her eyes heavenwards in mock resignation. Then she went through the mime of wringing someone’s neck. Annabelle laughed hysterically, and then they both got into the coach after Harriet.

  Miss Spencer shook her head as if to clear it. It was natural that anyone would be annoyed with Harriet for insisting the dog went along as well. The animal was quite horrible. On the other hand, she knew the girls had for the moment forgotten her presence, and the air of contempt and dislike exuding from the two of them had been almost tangible.

  Miss Spencer walked to the carriage window. Harriet was sitting with her back to the horses and Beauty was lying at her feet.

  ‘Good-bye, Harriet,’ said Miss Spencer. ‘If you are in need of help, write to me and I shall come to London directly.’

  ‘Good-bye, Josephine,’ said Harriet, looking at her friend through a blur of tears. ‘I am sure I shall not be in need of help, but, of course, I shall write to you just the same.’

  ‘Good-bye, Miss Spencer,’ chorused the twins, looking the very pattern cards of propriety.

  Miss Spencer stood back, her fears put to rest. The twins were very pleasant little girls. She had been imagining things.

  The coachman cracked his whip; the carriage began to roll off down the drive. Harriet’s lace handkerchief fluttered briefly at the window. The coach passed the lodge gates and swung out onto the London road.

  Miss Spencer climbed into her own gig and picked up the reins. Life seemed empty and flat. Miss Spencer began to run through in her mind the names and addresses of all her friends and relatives in London. Perhaps she might go on a visit, just to see Harriet’s coming out.

  For it was Harriet’s debut as much as it was the twins’.

  THREE

  There pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned;

  My conscience! how one’s cabman charges!

  But never mind, so I’m returned

  Safe to my native street of Clarges.

  H.D. TRAILL

  At first it seemed as if Number 67 was all set for one of the most tranquil periods the town house had known since it was first built early in the previous century.

  From Rainbird down to Dave, the staff vowed they had never known such sweet and charming ladies.

  Miss Metcalf, on being appealed to by Rainbird shortly after her arrival for an increase in the staff’s wages, had said she would write to the lawyer, Mr Gladstone, asking his permission. Mr Gladstone had replied that since the servants appeared to be asking only a reasonable amount, he would allow Harriet to pay the increase, but added that he had written to Mr Palmer, complaining that servants should be paid so little in this year of Our Lord, 1809.

  At first Harriet was at a loss as to how to begin finding suitable social company for her charges, but Rainbird had stepped in with a list of the correct people to cultivate. Joseph was sent to the pub patronized by the upper servants, The Running Footman, to spread the gossip that the Hayner girls were very rich, and soon a few invitation cards began to arrive.

  London was still thin of company, but Harriet was anxious to give Sarah and Annabelle a head start on the other hopeful debutantes.

  Much of the day was taken up being pinned and fitted by the dressmaker. Sarah and Annabelle were furious when it transpired that Harriet was to have a new wardrobe as well, but they concealed their rage, writing instead to Mr Gladstone, demanding such extravagance on the part of their godmother be stopped. Mr Gladstone replied that it was only right that Harriet should be decked out in a style that befitted her station and it would shame the Misses Hayner in the eyes of the ton were they to appear with a poorly dressed chaperone.

  To do them justice, the twins had become firmly convinced some time ago that Harriet had stolen away their father’s affection. But the sad fact was that Sir Benjamin had come to despise and dislike his vindictive wife during her lifetime. After seeing too many of her nastier traits in his own daughters, which no teaching by several excellent governesses could appear to eradicate, Sir Benjamin had come to the conclusion that both his daughters were sly and devious. But he was a careless and jovial man, not given to much deep thought on any subject. He was rarely at home, and, when he was, he always summoned Harriet to dinner – a practise that his daughters had hoped would end with the death of Harriet’s parents. Up until then, they had thought Papa merely amused at the foibles of the shabby-genteel Metcalfs, and it was only after the death of Mr and Mrs Metcalf that his real affection for Harriet began to shine through. They had always concealed their envy and dislike of Harriet very well, and Sir Benjamin would never have saddled Harriet Metcalf with his daughters’ debut had he guessed the extent of their jealousy.

  But the early days, while the girls prepared for the Season, passed pleasantly enough. By rigorous dieting, Annabelle had managed to lose a few pounds of weight, and by eating regular meals, Sarah had gained the same amount of weight her sister had lost. They came to look very alike, although Sarah was still nervous and intense and Annabelle sluggish and lazy.

  Both agreed privately that Harriet should be treated with courtesy until she had created the groundwork for their social success. That she worked so hard at achieving this end did nothing to soften the feeling of either towards her.

  Perhaps the only person in the house who was not very happy was Lizzie, the scullery maid. Try as she would, she could not like Emily, the lady’s maid. Emily had not ousted Mrs Middleton from her parlour, but appeared content to share an attic with Jenny and Alice. Nor had Emily caught Joseph’s eye, something that really would have annoyed Lizzie, who was hopelessly in love with the vain footman. It was that Lizzie sensed a cruelty in Emily which the others did not seem to notice. She had a secretive way of looking at people out of the corners of those odd yellow eyes of hers, as if she was privately laughing at some particularly nasty joke.

  And Lizzie was, moreover, not feeling very well. The rain still poured down, day after day, which meant muddied floors and floods in the kitchen to clean up. There were also fires to be made up in all the rooms and fenders to be polished.

  All the servants had eyed Beauty askance, particularly Joseph, who was not only frightened it would savage his pet – the kitchen cat called the Moocher, a tawny, disreputable miniature lion of an animal – but was also dismayed to learn he was expected to take the beast out for walks.

  But Beauty created no problems. He trudged miserably at Joseph’s heels outdoors and slept in front of the fire indoors. Harriet thought her pet was adapting well to city life, mainly because she had not very much time to worry about his oddly chastened mood. But the truth of the matter was that Beauty had cankers in his ears and was in perpetual pain and discomfort. His coat grew shabby and dull, and he barely touched his food.

  An end came to the dog’s misery one day when Joseph was walking him along Curzon Street. A light carriage had overturned, spilling its occupants in
to the kennel. Joseph stopped to watch the drama. Then he found he was being addressed by a tall, elegant gentleman.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ asked the gentleman. Joseph looked up – it was not often that Joseph, who was tall, had to look up at anyone – and saw a strong, handsome face shadowed by the brim of a beaver hat.

  ‘No,’ said Joseph, who was ashamed of Beauty’s mangy looks. ‘Belongs to my mistress.’

  ‘It looks ill,’ said the tall gentleman. He bent down to where Beauty sat shivering in the rain at the side of the pavement, looked at the dog’s teeth, and then flipped back Beauty’s floppy ears, one after the other.

  He straightened up. ‘The dog has cankers in both ears. Give me your direction, and I shall leave a solution with your mistress that will cure the animal of his discomfort in a few days.’

  Joseph, who had already taken in the richness of the gentleman’s clothes, said promptly, ‘Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street. Miss Metcalf.’

  ‘Here is my card,’ said the gentleman.

  Joseph took it and read the name, THE MARQUESS OF HUNTINGDON. His eyes widened. Joseph knew all the gossip there was to know about his betters. The marquess, he remembered, had been abroad for a long time in America, where he owned a tobacco plantation in Virginia. He was reputed to be one of the richest men in England, and the most handsome.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, bowing so low he almost touched noses with Beauty. The marquess nodded and strolled off along Curzon Street with his friend, Lord Vere.

  ‘Why on earth did you waste your time over that brute of a dog?’ said Lord Vere. ‘There’s nothing up with it that a good bullet straight between the eyes wouldn’t mend.’

  ‘I noticed it looked sick,’ said the marquess mildly. ‘But you are quite right. I should curb these charitable impulses. Now I have to call on some old spinster called Metcalf at Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street and give her medicine for the brute. But it’s good stuff. I’ve used it on my own hounds, and if it can put one more animal out of misery, then why not?’