‘But you said—’
‘I said, I said,’ cried Sarah. ‘Do not let us discuss the matter further until we have had that champagne.’
* * *
After Emily had left the servants’ hall that night, the others sat in a stunned silence and discussed what the lady’s maid had just told them about Miss Metcalf. ‘Emily was sore distressed, but I cannot credit it,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘That sweet Miss Metcalf should have been the mistress of Sir Benjamin Hayner, that she should be salting away the girls’ fortune to feather her own nest!’
‘Emily was certainly convincing,’ said Rainbird gloomily. ‘She practically choked it out in bits and pieces, and we had to drag most of it out of her.’
‘Them fair ones are always the most sly,’ said Joseph, who obscurely blamed Miss Metcalf for Lizzie’s new coldness.
‘I think that’s awful rude of you, Joseph,’ said Alice, ‘seeing as how I’m fair meself.’
‘I hate Emily,’ burst out Lizzie, startling them all. ‘I’ve hated and distrusted her from the minute she arrived. She’s the one what’s sly. And if Miss Metcalf is such a low, selfish, and cunning woman, why then does she bother about a scullery maid’s health or trouble to teach her her letters?’
‘That’s right,’ said Rainbird, ‘and I’ll tell you something more. Seems to me as if Lord Vere and Lord Huntingdon was calling on Miss Metcalf, not on the Hayner girls and what’s more got sent off. Now . . . let me think, Joseph, and I can’t if you keep on strumming that mandolin . . . What if the misses became jealous and told Emily to . . . ? Oh, it’s nonsense. They would never do a thing like that.’
‘But we know her, we’ve spent a whole day with her,’ said Lizzie passionately. ‘Are we going to believe the evidence of our own minds and eyes and ears, or are we going to listen to that Emily?’
‘The lassie’s got the right o’ it,’ said Angus MacGregor. ‘See here, it’s no’ Miss Metcalf that’s done any wrong, and it’s no’ the Hayner girls, it’s probably just that Emily is wanderin’ in her head. We’ll just be kind tae her an’ no let on we dinnae believe her.’
‘And no repeating any of this to Luke or talking to the others at The Running Footman,’ said Rainbird sternly. ‘Emily’s probably had one of these queer turns that take women sometimes. She’ll be all right tomorrow.’
Perhaps if Emily’s gossip had found root in the servants’ hall and had spread throughout the ton, Sarah and Annabelle might have been comforted by Harriet’s humiliation. But as Harriet’s popularity appeared to increase rather than decrease, so did their jealousy increase, and they disliked Harriet more than ever.
They dissembled well. Outside, they appeared much the same – giggling and laughing and flirting at balls and parties.
Sarah’s anger was further fueled by two pieces of gossip. The Marquess of Huntingdon had gone back to his estates in the country and showed no signs of returning. Lord Vere had indicated in a drunken farewell to his friends that his heart was broken and had left to re-enlist in the army.
But lying in bed at night, Sarah often worried and wondered why Huntingdon could have preferred Harriet to herself. She was more modish than her godmother and certainly more beautiful.
But although the twins’ vanity regarding their personal appearance was intact, they were still beginning to feel defeated. Each longed for a sphere where they could shine without the dampening presence of Harriet Metcalf.
NINE
When the Hymalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster who will often turn aside,
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
KIPLING
Miss Spencer was a great comfort to Harriet. She was often on hand to cheer her up and banish any guilt Harriet might feel because the two lords had proposed to her and not her god-daughters.
But as the marquess was still noticeably absent from ball or rout or opera or even from the opening dance of the Season at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, Harriet’s spirits began to droop again. She could not confide the reason to Josephine, for she was not very sure of the reason herself. It was only that Lord Huntingdon seemed like a sickness in her blood. She saw a tall man with chestnut hair at a ball, and her heart began to hammer against her ribs, but he turned round and revealed a raddled, aged, painted face.
But Miss Spencer, confident that all was well with Harriet and that her charges were behaving nicely, took herself off to the country for a few days, promising to make sure Harriet’s cottage was aired.
After the opening at Almack’s, Harriet’s spirits sank even lower. She had a nagging pain at her temples and when, two days later, Annabelle and Sarah requested the carriage to make calls, she begged them to go alone and take Joseph to guard them.
It had been a blustery and chilly day. Harriet, lighting the candles in the back parlour, became aware of the time. It was getting on for seven o’clock, and the girls had not returned.
Then she heard the rumble of a carriage outside and ran through to the front parlour and looked out of the window. Her sigh of relief was cut short, for although Annabelle and Sarah descended, they looked up and saw her at the window and the unguarded look of dislike on both faces before they resumed their social masks made Harriet feel near to tears.
She did not go out to meet them. She could only be relieved when they went straight upstairs, calling for Emily. Harriet sat down wearily. The Season was turning out a disaster. She bitterly blamed Sir Benjamin. Now, looking back, she had to confess that he had been over-affectionate towards her compared to the cool way he treated his own daughters.
Joseph, who had been out with the twins, entered and handed her a note. ‘Someone must have pushed it through the letter box,’ he said. ‘It was lying on the hall floor as I came in.’
‘Thank you, Joseph,’ said Harriet. ‘It is no doubt some last-minute invitation.’ She carried the letter through to the back parlour and sat down to read it.
At first she could not believe her eyes. It was written in pencil in block letters.
‘Miss Metcalf,’ she read, ‘if you do not want the Hayner ladies’ reputation to be ruined, I suggest you see me this evening. I shall show you Proof that they are not the Legitimate Daughters of Sir Benjamin. Unless you wish me to broadcast this Proof, bring jewels with you and come to 10 Carrier Street, St Giles. Do not tell anyone. I watch you and will know if you have.’ It was unsigned.
Harriet looked about her frantically. Her one thought was to get to the address. If the note turned out to be a farrago of lies, then she would be able to return and go to sleep. If it were true, then she must save the girls at all costs. For the first time, Harriet really began to wonder if she herself had unwittingly done Sarah and Annabelle a great deal of harm. The proposals she had received from Huntingdon and Lord Vere worried her conscience. Then she remembered she had heard that Sir Benjamin’s wife had been vicious and flighty. All at once, it seemed to explain his preference for her company rather than that of his daughters. If they were not his own daughters, but he had honourably given them his name, it would explain everything. Harriet became terribly sure that the writer of the anonymous letter spoke nothing but the truth. She rang the bell.
Rainbird answered its summons. ‘Tell me,’ said Harriet, forcing herself to speak in a calm and steady voice, ‘where is St Giles? I think I have heard tell of it.’
‘St Giles is an evil place nicknamed by some The Rookery. It is the sink of London, a haunt of prostitutes and thieves.’
Harriet took a deep breath. ‘But whereabouts is it? Oh, do not look so anxious. I am not going there. Say, for example, one left here on foot . . .’
‘It is simple enough. One goes up to Oxford Street, along Oxford Street until it becomes High Street, along High Street to Broad Street, and The Rookery is a maze of nasty streets on the left of Broad Street.’
‘Thank you,
’ said Harriet faintly. ‘That will be all, Rainbird. You may take the rest of the evening off.’ Rainbird looked at her curiously, but the room was lit by only a few candles and her face was in the shadows.
He left and went down to the servants’ hall and told Mrs Middleton he was stepping round to The Running Footman. Rainbird was just turning the corner of Clarges Street when he saw Emily on the other side of Curzon Street, arm in arm with Luke. They were laughing and did not notice him. He thought no more about it at the time.
Back in the servants’ hall, Lizzie was pleading to be allowed to go to church. Mrs Middleton demurred. Lizzie was a Roman Catholic and went to St Patrick’s in Soho Square. The housekeeper did not like the idea of the young maid being out in the London streets unescorted, even though Lizzie had gone before and had come to no harm. At last, the housekeeper gave in, and Lizzie pulled her shawl about her head and shoulders and ran up the area steps.
Lizzie ran along Oxford Street because it was the best lit of all the roads she could take to Soho. The parish lamps had been fitted with new reflectors, and their flickering lights were magnified to give a little stronger light than their usual feeble gleam.
She was just about to turn down Charles Street, which led from Oxford Street to Soho Square, when she saw Miss Metcalf looking out of the window of a passing hack. There was something so agonized, so frightened about that face that Lizzie, without hardly a thought, turned and started to run after the hack.
When it entered Broad Street, Lizzie began to become worried. It was no place for a lady, no place for even such as herself.
The hack stopped at the corner of Broad Street and Diot Street. ‘You’ll find Carrier Street up there, miss,’ called the jehu. ‘I ain’t goin’ farder and neither should you and that’ll be h’extra for the dog.’
Lizzie came running up just as Harriet was paying the fare. ‘Miss Metcalf!’ she called.
Harriet turned a chalk-white face to Lizzie and hissed. ‘Go! Leave me this instant. You must not be seen with me. I command you to go.’
Only a very old family retainer would have the courage to question her better’s judgement. Lizzie bobbed a curtsy and turned and walked away. Beauty gave a disappointed whine.
Shoulders drooping, steps lagging, Lizzie looked around to see if she could see a respectable face, to see if she could see someone she could ask for advice. For surely Miss Metcalf would never come out of The Rookery alive.
And then she saw him, the Marquess of Huntingdon, driving his own travelling carriage, sitting up on the box. He was going slowly as if either his horses were tired or as if he had things on his mind.
Lizzie did not believe in coincidence. What other people might call a coincidence, Lizzie only saw as the hand of God. God had placed the marquess in the middle of Broad Street in front of her eyes. It was a Sign.
So Lizzie ran out into the road, calling shrilly, ‘My lord! My lord!’
The marquess looked down and saw Lizzie and stared at her in amazement and reined in his horses. ‘What are you doing here, girl?’ he called down.
‘Oh, please, my lord,’ called Lizzie, standing on tiptoe because he seemed so very far away up on the box, ‘it’s the mistress. She’s gone into The Rookery.’
‘The deuce!’ The marquess threw the reins to the coachman, who was sitting next to him, and jumped lightly down.
‘What is she doing there?’ he demanded. ‘Which way has she gone?’
‘I heard the driver direct her to Carrier Street.’
‘Give me the pistols, John,’ called the marquess to his coachman. Seizing the guns, he said to Lizzie, ‘You had better go home, young Lizzie.’
‘Let me come, sir, my lord,’ said Lizzie. ‘Miss Metcalf . . . Miss Metcalf is . . . has . . .’ Poor Lizzie could not quite put into words what Harriet had done for her by considering her important enough to educate.
The marquess gave an impatient shrug and set off with long strides. It was uncanny, he kept thinking. He had been plagued by stronger and stronger thoughts of Harriet Metcalf the nearer he got to London. He had vowed he would never think of her again, she who had spurned his offer and driven poor Gilbert back to his regiment. And yet this waif had cropped up under his carriage wheels in the middle of the worst area of London to tell him that Harriet Metcalf had apparently lost her wits and gone into The Rookery. The Rookery was the camp of the lowest kind of vagrant and petty thief, the home of the wretch, male or female, who had sunk too low to be fit for ordinary loose company. They filled the old houses from garret to cellar, six or seven to a room. The streets, into which the sun could barely penetrate by day, reeked and fumed. All the streets twisted and turned and broke into little alleys, which again curled into each other in not one but a series of labyrinths. Strangers seldom ventured into them. Without knowledge, one could not find a way out, and to ask a direction was only to be sent farther in and, perhaps in some locked courtyard, to be seized by a group of hags and robbed.
The backyards of the tall old houses were piled high with litter, with stolen goods, and with all manner of offal. Sanitation existed only in the form of kennel and cesspool. At every corner was a gin shop. Some of the houses held schools for the training of young ‘prigs’. Both girls and boys were trained as pickpockets and sent out to work the crowds.
As Lizzie and the marquess hurried along, above the nightly racket of The Rookery could be heard the screams of the children who had come home empty-handed receiving a whipping.
Harriet had found Carrier Street but could not find Number 10, since the houses did not seem to have any numbers at all. She approached a group of women – if such red-eyed bunches of rags could be called women – and asked politely to be directed to Number 10.
‘Yes, my lovely,’ said one who appeared to be the headwoman of the tribe. ‘Come along of us.’
The women bunched around Harriet as their leader led the way down an evil-smelling alley. It was too foul-smelling even for Beauty, whose senses were stunned with all the rank odors. The alley was very dark.
‘Where are we?’ said Harriet nervously.
‘Where you’ll stay,’ whispered an evil voice in her ear. ‘Grab ’er.’
A slimy hand was clamped over Harriet’s mouth, and hands tore at her clothes.
Beauty, forgotten by the hags, leapt into action. In a flurry of teeth, his ruff raised, he snapped and bit. There were cries of alarm, and Harriet, finding her mouth freed, screamed for all she was worth. She clutched tightly onto her reticule that contained some of Sarah’s jewelry. Sarah had been in Annabelle’s room when she had taken it. Harriet had none of her own to bring.
In the dim alley, she could make out the gleam of eyes and hear the frustrated curses of her attackers as Beauty stood foursquare before his mistress and barked loudly – deep baying sounds which carried above the racket of The Rookery.
And then a shot was fired in the air. The eyes watching Harriet blinked and disappeared as the animals of The Rookery crept back into their holes.
‘Miss Metcalf!’
Harriet recognized Lizzie’s voice and shouted, ‘Lizzie! I am here!’
And then Lizzie was there, with a masculine figure looming behind her, a tall figure who drawled, ‘What in all that’s holy are you doing here, Miss Metcalf?’
‘Huntingdon!’ gasped Harriet. ‘Sarah and Annabelle. The most dreadful thing . . .’
‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Come back to Broad Street and into the light before you talk. I have a brace of pistols with me, but in this blackness one of these fiends could creep up behind me and knock me on the head.’
Sobbing with reaction and fright, Harriet allowed herself to be led out through a maze of alleys onto Broad Street. She wondered, despite all her worry and misery, how the marquess had managed to find his way back, not knowing that his sharp eyes had taken careful note of every turning on the way into the maze.
‘Now, Miss Harriet,’ said the marquess.
Pulling that note from her reticule, Harriet
gulped out her tale of the note. Strangely enough, she did not think of hiding its contents from him.
The marquess took the note from her and led her over to his carriage, where he leaned against the side and studied the letter by the light of the carriage lamps.
‘My dear lady,’ he said, ‘you have been gulled. No one in The Rookery can write, or, if they can, not literate English like this. Someone has played a very nasty trick on you. Possibly the Hayner girls themselves. I suggest we return to Clarges Street with all speed.’
In vain did Harriet try to protest that perhaps the grim evidence of their illegitimacy was probably in Carrier Street, and when she showed every sign of turning back and running into The Rookery, the marquess seized her round the waist and lifted her bodily into his carriage.
Harriet sat hunched in the corner, shivering with fear and misery. The flickering carriage lamp inside shone on her white face and large, tired eyes. The marquess, who was travelling inside with Lizzie and Harriet, found himself wondering who could have played such a vicious and dangerous trick.
When he helped Harriet down outside Number 67, he had to put an arm about her to support her, for when she looked up and saw that the only light in the house was coming from the kitchen, she swayed and seemed about to faint.
Lizzie made to go down the area steps, but the marquess said, ‘Come with us. Your mistress may need your help.’
He raised his hand to knock at the door, but Rainbird opened it and stood back to let them past.
‘Bring wine and . . . and something to the drawing room, Rainbird,’ said Harriet. ‘Are the Misses Hayner still awake?’
‘Yes,’ said Rainbird. ‘Shall I tell them to come down?’
‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘Wait for me, my lord. I shall return directly.’ She turned to the scullery maid. ‘Thank you, Lizzie. I have no further need of you. I shall see you, as usual, in the morning.’
‘Oh, mum,’ protested Lizzie, ‘there is no need for that. You’ll be needing a long lie abed.’
Wicked Godmother Page 12
