Mrs. Budley Falls from Grace

by M C Beaton

  “I?” Sir Philip looked the picture of innocence. “My dear lady, your word is my command.”

  At that moment, the door of their private sitting-room opened and Mrs. Budley entered.

  “Where have you been, Eliza?” demanded Miss Tonks.

  Sir Philip, who was standing, moved behind Lady Fortescue’s chair and winked horribly. “I have been out walking,” said Mrs. Budley, deciding not to betray Sir Philip, for she felt his interference in her life had proved beneficial. Seeing the marquess again had put an end to her silly dreams.

  “We had a most peculiar fire.” Lady Fortescue twisted her head. “What are you doing back there, Sir Philip? Come round where I can see you. Yes, a most peculiar fire. Black smoke started coming from the kitchen range. Despard threw buckets of water in it to put it out. We sent for the sweep and he is busy cleaning the chimney, although it was swept only two months ago. Despard is having to manage his sauces and concoctions on a spirit stove and you can imagine is none too pleased. Still, the drama is over. Your walk must have done you good, Mrs. Budley. You are looking more relaxed in spirit than you have been this age.”

  Mrs. Budley nodded quietly and sat down next to Miss Tonks.

  “Now,” went on Lady Fortescue, “in the middle of all this fuss, we nonetheless have some excellent news. Have any of you heard of Mr. Hitchcock?”

  “Of course.” Sir Philip looked contemptuous. “Who has not?”

  “I have not,” said Miss Tonks, tossing her head so that the streamers on her cap swung from side to side.

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Hitchcock is the rich nabob who is recently arrived back from India and plans to star at the Season. He—fortunately for us—married a rather pushy and vulgar lady, the sort who don’t take at the Season here and so are shipped out to India in the hope that some homesick fool will fall for them. Mrs. Hitchcock plans to throw money at the ton to ingratiate herself and so they are holding a ball one week before the Season begins. They have leased the Earl of Dunster’s town house in Grosvenor Square.”

  “So how does this concern us?” demanded Miss Tonks.

  “Mrs. Hitchcock has heard of the glories of our cuisine. So we are to prepare the supper for the opening ball and she wishes us to be there as servants.”

  “But we have maids and waiters we can supply,” protested Miss Tonks.

  “We are the lure, and for our distinguished presence behind the food, Hitchcock, urged on by his wife, is prepared to pay a fortune.”

  “But who will take charge here that evening?” asked Mrs. Budley.

  “Nearly all our guests will be present at the ball, and the underchef can cope with those who are not.”

  “It will be,” said Mrs. Budley slowly, “rather humiliating.”

  “But the colonel and I wait table here,” pointed out Lady Fortescue.

  “That is different.” Mrs. Budley wrinkled her brow. “This is our business here, and society regards it as an amusingly well-run folly. I know some even believe we are only doing it for our amusement. But to appear as servants in someone’s house …”

  “Pooh! Pooh!” jeered Sir Philip. “How nice! How too terribly nice, Mrs. Budley. Believe me, considering what the Hitchcocks are paying, I would serve stark-naked if that were required.”

  Everyone’s eyes promptly slid away from Sir Philip, as if a mental picture of that elderly gentleman unclothed was just too hard to bear.

  “I appreciate your sensitivities,” said Lady Fortescue, “but we suffered much, dear Mrs. Budley, after we had sent such an innocent as yourself off on a thieving raid. We have decided that in future all money that we gain will be come by honestly.”

  “In that case,” said Mrs. Budley, “would it not be a good idea to send Lord Peterhouse his money?”

  “Tish, child! That was a present.”

  While the others discussed the coming event at the Hitchcocks’s, Mrs. Budley wondered whether they would have to wear livery of some sort, and whether the marquess would be there. She was over that nonsense, and yet … For him to actually see her performing such a menial office!

  She shook her head angrily. What did it matter if he did see her? He knew what she did. But then, why could she not help hoping that the others might decide to leave her behind to run the hotel?

  A few days later the marquess was back in his castle among a smell of paint and decorating. He thought briefly of Mrs. Budley. It would have been fun to have her with him, to advise and choose colours. But that duty would soon be taken over by a wife. He did not look forward to the choosing of one with much enthusiasm. An aristocratic marriage was a business partnership. He needed someone of wealth and manners who would share his interests.

  And yet Mrs. Budley kept creeping back into his mind. He visited the Appletons when he was out round his estates and Mrs. Appleton, the farmer’s wife, had no sooner served him with a glass of elderberry wine that she asked him if he had seen Mrs. Budley.

  “I took tea with her in London,” said the marquess. And how dainty and pretty she had seemed, ran his thoughts. How dare that Carley female cut her!

  “I would like a recipe for seed-cake from her, my lord,” said Mrs. Appleton. “I wonder if I might prevail on you to ask her for it when you are next in Town. Mrs. Budley said she resided in London.”

  “Yes, I will,” he said almost absent-mindedly, thinking of the way she had said she would not see him again. Still, there could be no harm in calling in at that hotel.

  “And Mrs. Batty over at Tamen said that when she was poorly and Mrs. Budley called with your lordship, Mrs. Budley was gracious enough to brew up a posset which did wonders. Could your lordship by any chance …?”

  “Certainly.” And so it went on. Everywhere on his land, there seemed to be some tenant who remembered Mrs. Budley for her kindness and interest. He realized with surprise that although he had entertained a few visitors since then, the latest being Charles Manderley, that he had taken none of them on the rounds, nor had any of them shown any desire to meet any of the cottagers or farmers.

  He frowned slightly. His wife, when he found her, would need to possess some of that warmth and charity which came so naturally to Mrs. Budley.

  He dreamt of her that night. She was running away from him through the shadowy rooms of the castle and he could not seem to catch her.

  Mrs. Budley awoke with a cry. The marquess had been chasing her along one of the corridors of the hotel and she had been weeping and crying in her dream that it was no good, his catching her, because he would not know what to do with her.

  Miss Tonks’s voice came from the next pillow. “What ails you, Eliza? Can’t you sleep?”

  “I saw him,” said Mrs. Budley, overcome with a longing to speak about him.

  “The marquess? When? Where?”

  “I was going out on my walk,” said Mrs. Budley, still determined not to betray Sir Philip, “when I met him and he took me to tea at Gunter’s.”

  “How romantic!”

  “Not romantic at all. It was as well I did meet him again. I realized how silly my dreams were.”

  Miss Tonks gave a little sigh. “Because of my sad lack of looks, Eliza, I am constrained to be sensible. But I have often thought in your case that you have every right to dream. He thought so highly of your company that he enjoyed your staying with him and then gave you that munificent draft.”

  “Letitia, he is to attend the Season to find a bride and it could not be made more clear that that bride is not I.”

  “He has not come to his senses, that is all,” said Miss Tonks loyally. “He is a mature and intelligent man.”

  “Mature and intelligent men want silly, fluffy little ladies, not widows.”

  “But you are silly and fluffy and I envy you for it,” cried Miss Tonks and then bit her lip as Mrs. Budley said in a stifled voice, “If you please, Letitia, I wish to sleep.”

  The next day Lady Stanton summoned her most faithful beau, Mr. Jasper Brackley. She had no interest in
marrying him. He did not have a title, and he was only moderately rich, but he was useful when she needed an escort.

  “The dreadful Hitchcocks are giving this massive ball before the beginning of the Season,” she said. “Everyone is going.”

  “Everyone, I assume, means Charles Manderley as well,” he remarked sourly, being well aware of Lady Stanton’s latest interest.

  “Yes,” she said airily, not wishing to tell him that she had wanted to ask Charles to escort her but he had gone into Warwickshire to stay with Peterhouse. “At least, I assume he has been invited along with everyone else who is anyone. You will be my escort, of course.”

  “Of course,” he echoed in a hollow voice, wishing he had the courage to tell her to go to the devil. “I heard an interesting piece of gossip. You know that the Hitchcocks have engaged Neil Gow’s band?”

  Lady Stanton looked at him contemptuously. Everyone, including Almack’s, engaged Neil Gow’s band.

  “But there is more. The Poor Relation is to do the catering.”

  Her beautiful eyes narrowed. She well remembered that hotel and the staff who had so humiliated her when she was chasing the Duke of Rowcester. “The cooking only, I assume,” she said. “Never say that the great Lady Fortescue has agreed to appear outside her own domain in the role of servant.”

  “All of them,” he said, satisfied he had her interest.

  “Then I must certainly be there.” Her lips curled in a smile. “It is time society saw that lot in their true colours—a group of nasty little tradespeople.”

  * * *

  Although, thanks to their success, the owners of the Poor Relation were used to their hotel being full the year round, each Season, with its sudden burst of frenetic activity, always came as a surprise. In fact, the rush and fuss started at least three weeks before the Season actually began. The guests were grander and more demanding. It was during and just before each Season that Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst felt the weight of their years. The colonel had pains in his legs and Lady Fortescue found that she craved sleep, even in the middle of the day, and would sometimes sit down on a chair in the little office off the hall and fall neatly and quietly asleep, sitting bolt upright. Sir Philip, by virtue of having led a totally dissipated life, was used to feeling mildly ill and would have wondered what was the matter had he risen one morning feeling a whole man. It was during the Season that Miss Tonks felt herself returning to her former timid and faded image. When the maids and waiters could not cope with the demands, she flew from room to room herself, well aware that most of the distinguished guests, despite her silk dress and crisp muslin cap, saw her as just another servant. Only Mrs. Budley was glad of the work to keep thought at bay. For that evening at the Hitchcocks’s loomed on the horizon of her mind like a great dark cloud. Despard could hardly cope with the day-to-day meals, so great was his ambition to shine at the Hitchcocks’s. He spent hours rehearsing for the great event by producing elaborate dishes, pronouncing himself dissatisfied with the results and refusing to serve them in the dining-room until Sir Philip was sent down to read him a lecture on extravagance.

  It was some small comfort to Mrs. Budley to learn that they were to go dressed in their best, as if they were the guests and not the servants. In the little spare time they had, she and Miss Tonks pored over fashion-plates and stitched and sewed to try to produce gowns of suitable magnificence. Sir Philip had persuaded the famous jeweller, Hamlet, that the poor relations would be an excellent show-case for his wares, on the understanding that two armed footmen would guard them at all times.

  Sir Philip’s suggestion that he should get some crooked jeweller to produce excellent paste imitations of the gems was turned down by the others. Any further crimes were out of the question. From now on what money they received would be through their own hard work.

  Lady Fortescue was blossoming out in full colour for the evening instead of wearing her usual half-mourning. She was to wear a gown of violet lutestring with a long train and embellished on the bodice with pearl embroidery. Ostrich feathers on a diamond-and-gold circlet were to decorate her hair, and a fine borrowed necklace, an unusual combination of pearls and diamonds, her neck.

  Miss Tonks was shivering with excitement at the prospect of appearing in gold silk and a real diamond tiara. Mrs. Budley had fashioned a pretty gown of figured jaconet with puffed sleeves and a low-cut neckline. From the jeweller’s selection, she chose a garnet necklace and had made dark-crimson silk flowers for her hair.

  Sir Philip was to sport an even more extraordinary wig than usual, having talked the wig-maker into lending him one for the evening. It was dead-black and made him look quite sinister. Despite the iniquitous flour tax, the colonel was to wear his thick hair powdered, deaf to the gibes of Sir Philip, who said that as the colonel’s hair was white anyway, powdering it was a waste of time.

  Rumours about the lavishness of the ball spread about the West End of London. There was to be a fountain spouting champagne, there were to be rich presents for each guest. The walls were to be draped with the finest silk. The dishes were of solid gold. Some members of society who had refused invitations began to change their minds and send acceptances instead, saying that their maids or secretaries had sent refusals by mistake.

  Staff had to be left to run the hotel, but other servants were hired to assist the poor relations in their duties at the Hitchcocks’s. The Hitchcocks were paying so much that they could afford that luxury.

  They arrived at the Hitchcocks’s early on the morning of the great day. Lady Fortescue was as stiff as a ramrod, determined not to be humiliated by the vulgar Mrs. Hitchcock. But Mrs. Hitchcock was up and about just as early as they, and her appearance and manner came as a surprise. She was much younger than they had expected, being in her late twenties, and she looked like a country girl: apple cheeks, strong curly hair, strong squat body, small twinkling grey eyes.

  “We shall all have a fortifying dish of bohea,” were her first words, “and then get down to the business of the day.” Mrs. Budley sat down gingerly and looked about her in awe. Everything was so richly appointed, from the modern furniture to the heavy brocade curtains to the painted ceilings and marble statuary. One would think the Hitchcocks had returned from the Grand Tour rather than from India. She was to learn later that the Hitchcocks had placed all the Earl of Dunster’s furniture, hangings and ornaments in storage and then proceeded to buy their own: statuary from impoverished aristocrats eager to sell, along with fine paintings and china. Everything was admittedly a little too studied and formal, but Mrs. Hitchcock—or her adviser’s—taste was excellent.

  The poor relations were wearing what they described as their “working” clothes, by which they meant their oldest, their evening clothes having been brought along in trunks, and the borrowed jewellery to be delivered later, under the guard of the two footmen. Mrs. Budley felt they looked like a bunch of shabby refugees from some war as they sat sipping tea among all the magnificence. She could see Sir Philip’s eyes darting this way and that, coming to rest occasionally on some expensive ornament, and hoped he was not thinking of filling his pockets.

  Mrs. Hitchcock asked Lady Fortescue about the hotel and how she had thought of such an idea, and Lady Fortescue said that she had often wanted to go into business and left it at that. No story of poverty.

  After they had finished drinking tea, Mrs. Hitchcock led them through a huge ballroom at the back of the house to the supper-room adjoining it where men staggered this way and that under the weight of palm-trees and hothouse flowers.

  Mrs. Hitchcock spread out a plan on a table. “Supper will be at midnight. But before then, people will be coming and going for refreshment. There will be one long table along the wall for the food, and on the other wall, a table with the punch-bowl, the lemonade, the negus and the wine. Champagne will be available from that fountain in the middle of the room.” They all looked solemnly at a swathed object.

  “Won’t the champagne lose its fizz in a fountai
n?” asked Sir Philip.

  “A little. But a necessary extravagance, I feel. I am making my social début as a matron and see no reason to spoil things with senseless economies. Place cards on the dining-tables are essential, for there will be gifts for each guest, mostly the same thing, but with the exception of more expensive trifles for the more notable guests.”

  “What are the presents?” asked Sir Philip.

  “An enamel snuff-box for the gentlemen and a painted fan on ivory sticks for the ladies. As you will notice, Lady Fortescue, there is a stair from the back of the supper-room which leads directly to the kitchens. You know your duties? Who will carve?”

  “Colonel Sandhurst here,” said Lady Fortescue. “Apart from that, our servants and yours will help to serve the guests and we ourselves will deliver the plates to the tables. Sir Philip will go around with the wine, as will Miss Tonks.”

  “Very good. Ah, here is my husband.” She introduced them all round and they in turn looked curiously at the nabob.

  He was older than his wife, in his forties, tanned to a mahog any colour, small and spare in stature, and dull of eye, as if uninterested in anything his wife chose to do. He accorded them all a brief bow and then said in a raspy whisper that he thought he might retire again to bed.

  After he had left, his wife made no reference to him. It was as if Mr. Hitchcock did not exist.

  “I am sure you will ascertain that all glasses are of the right shape and do not have a single smear or speck on them,” said Mrs. Hitchcock.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” said Lady Fortescue firmly. “Nothing can go wrong. It is your first social event in London, Mrs. Hitchcock, and it is our first engagement outside our hotel, so we are as interested in success as you are yourself.”

  Mrs. Budley had thought that with such an army of servants there would be little for them all to do except supervise, but the preparations were so lavish that they found they had to work as hard as their servants. Despard was sweating in the kitchens, his white and twisted face hovering over steaming pots like a demon, while Lady Fortescue and the colonel sipped and tasted. “He has excelled himself,” whispered Lady Fortescue to the colonel.