The Daring Debutantes Bundle

by M C Beaton

  Miss Jones came scurrying into the room carrying a depressing felt hat of the style known as “pudding basin.” The countess raised a fat finger to indicate that Lucy was to put it on and then turned to her daughter. “Off you go. But first, give mumsie a kiss, petty-pooh.”

  “Don’t slobber so,” said her daughter calmly. “Come, Lucy.”

  Lucy peered out at the sunny world from under the low brim of her borrowed hat. She was very disappointed. She had hoped to cut a dash in front of her old school chums but now she doubted if they would even recognize her.

  The sun shone bravely as they climbed into a brougham, but to Lucy, it seemed as if a black thundercloud hung above their heads all day.

  Angela was not cruel throughout that long day although she worked Lucy hard.

  Lucy could somehow have borne cruelty. What was unbearable was to be treated with total indifference as if she were merely a useful piece of machinery.

  Few people in the town recognized her as she walked like a black shadow a few paces behind her mistress. But by the end of the long weary day, Lucy had not given up hope. Proximity would make the heart grow fonder.

  The rest of the week was to prove her wrong. She traveled to Edinburgh and Glasgow with her young mistress; she was constantly in her company. Once, on arriving in Edinburgh, she had cried out in delight at the sight of the huge castle perched on its rock and Lady Angela had turned and given her a look of cold distaste. Apart from that one look, she never showed that she considered Lucy to be a human being.

  On the first night of the house party she realized that the past week had been a holiday compared to the work to come. The great dinner party was over and the kitchens were cleared, but the privileged upper servants had to wait in the Pug’s Parlor until their masters and mistresses deigned to go to bed. And that, as MacGregor gloomily informed Lucy, could well be four in the morning. The small parlor was stuffy and crowded, their ranks having been swollen by the visiting servants.

  Lucy sat putting tiny stitches into a froth of lace and cambric as she listened to the hum of conversation. What a lot of affairs and liaisons seemed to go on under the cold facade presented to the world by their masters. The servants were naturally involved, many of them having to make sure that their lords and ladies found the right bedrooms for their nightly assignations.

  MacGregor occasionally roused himself to put in a “Now, now. You should not be talking like that,” while all the while his whiskey-bright eyes gleamed with amusement.

  At last he stretched and looked at the clock. “It’s two in the morning,” he said. “Time to take in the whiskies and sandwiches.”

  “And then can we go to bed?” asked Lucy, trying to focus her weary eyes on her stitching.

  “Not tonight,” said MacGregor. “They’re going to be late. They’re playing baccarat.”

  Lucy looked up, surprised. “I thought that game was against the law!”

  “Well, it is,” said MacGregor, “but they play it just the same. Tell you what, Lucy, I’ll teach you to play once I’ve seen that they’ve all had their late supper.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to protest but MacGregor had already left. There was so much sewing to be done. Her arms and her eyes ached. Perhaps playing cards would keep her awake.

  MacGregor had not forgotten his offer and, when he returned, he started rummaging in a drawer until he found a pack of playing cards. He signaled to Lucy to join him at the table.

  He explained that it was all very simple. The banker—who would be himself—dealt one to the player and one to himself, then another to the player and then another to himself. The one who had nine points, or the nearest to nine, was the winner. Ten, jack, queen, and king all counted as zero. If the two cards added up to, say, fifteen, that would become five, eleven would become one, and so on. If one had two cards which added up to less than nine, say three or four, one could choose a third card but never more than three cards in all.

  Lucy’s head was beginning to ache. A broken gas mantle on the bracket over the fireplace hissed maddeningly. The windows were tightly closed and the air was stuffy and close. “Then I suppose I have won,” she said indifferently, throwing a five and a four down on the table.

  “Well, now, that’s beginner’s luck if effer wass,” said MacGregor, his accent becoming more Highland in his excitement. “Let’s play another game.”

  Lucy nodded wearily and again picked up her two cards. She yawned. “This is a very boring game, Mr. MacGregor,” she said, and threw down a six and a three in front of the butler’s astonished eyes.

  “Well, I neffer did!” gasped the butler as the other servants crowded around.

  The next game Lucy produced a one and an eight, too tired to register the excitement her phenomenal luck was creating. They all pressed her to try again. This time it was a six and a two but she still beat MacGregor who had only five. One after the other, they began to play against her. Lucy won every time. Miss Jones rapidly crossed herself and twitched as hard as she had ever done.

  At last the jangling bells broke up the party and all fled to their posts. MacGregor caught Lucy by the arm. “Come to the kitchens after Lady Angela’s in bed. I’d have a wee word with you.”

  Too tired to remonstrate, Lucy fled up the stairs in time to assist Lady Angela to bed. Everything seemed to dance in front of her eyes. After Angela had settled herself primly in the middle of the bed and closed her eyes with the smooth movement of a china doll, Lucy turned down the gas and leaned her head wearily against the wall. Damn MacGregor! She would not go. But MacGregor was her boss and not to go would be an act of disobedience. She slowly made her way back to the kitchens, hoping against hope as she pushed open the green-baize door that he would have forgotten all about it.

  But the elderly butler was already there, his eyes shining with excitement. “Come in, come in, and sit yourself down,” he said, fussing over her and pulling a chair up to the table.

  She sat down and put her head in her hands.

  “Now, then,” he said, drawing her hands away from her face. “I know you’re dead tired. We all are. But your troubles will soon be over. Do you realize, girl, that you’ve got a fortune at your fingertips? Do you realize we could escape from this drudgery?

  “See here,” he inched his chair closer. “My plan is this. You and I could go to France or Germany and you could play the casinos. We could win a fortune, change our identities, and set ourselves up in London and be the lord and lady for a change. Think of it, Lucy! No more ‘yes, my lord’ and ‘no, my lady.’ I could pose as your father and even launch you on a Season. Present you at court.”

  MacGregor got to his feet and began to pace up and down. “D’ye want to spend your life pandering to that wax image upstairs? D’ye want to die stitching her drawers? What d’ye say, Lucy?”

  Lucy looked at him in tired dismay. “I think it’s wicked,” she gasped. “Downright wicked.”

  She got to her feet and faced the butler. “I am proud of my job here, Mr. MacGregor. We will forget you ever suggested such a thing.” She moved toward the door.

  MacGregor gave a harsh laugh. “Wait till the end of this house party, Miss Balfour, and then we’ll see whether you’re singing the same tune or not!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The house party rioted its way from morning till night as the guests played and danced and the servants grew more moody and fatigued. Hollows were beginning to show in Lucy’s cheeks, her thick hair was losing its luster, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep and constant sewing.

  But never in her weakest moment did she consider MacGregor’s offer. She refused to touch the cards again despite all the pleadings of MacGregor and the other servants. She celebrated her eighteenth birthday in a miasma of lace undergarments and fatigue.

  On the last Friday of the house party, Lady Angela began to show signs of unusual animation. She failed to don her white cotton gloves and hunt for dust. With tired, heavy arms, Lucy assisted her into a tea gown of
blond lace, delicate as a cobweb. The long lunch was over and Lucy planned to deliver her mistress to the drawing room door and then escape to the Pug’s Parlor to snatch a few moments of much-needed sleep. But that day, Lady Angela had other plans.

  “I am taking my embroidery to the drawing room. You will accompany me and hand me my silks as I need them,” said Lady Angela, her beautiful face slightly flushed.

  With aching legs, Lucy followed her mistress down the main staircase and into the drawing room. MacGregor was fiddling with decanters and glasses in the corner and various guests were sprawled in a state of after-luncheon somnolence. The sun shone through the latticed windows, slicing the heavy, musty air of the room into diamonds of light. Lucy sat dutifully down on a small sofa beside Lady Angela. One of the guests yawned and the clock ticked relentlessly on. “I’m tired,” said the grandfather clock and the little French clock replied with its hurried message, “Tired, tired, tired …” Lucy felt her eyes beginning to close and jerked them open.

  A burly young man with a military air stood rocking back and forth on his heels in front of the empty fireplace. “Gawd! Forgot to tell you,” he roared. “Know what happened to young Cartwright? No? Well, I’ll tell you. Damned bad show, what!”

  The other guests showed a marked lack of interest. The countess pushed a crochet needle down the front of her dress and gave herself a vigorous scratch, her eyes closing into slits of pleasure.

  The military man pushed on regardless. “Well, it was like this. He was out on maneuvers with the yeomanry and he had this splendid idea of disguising himself as a stag. You know, the full army bit. Blacked his face and stuck a great pair of antlers on his head. Brilliant man, Cartwright.”

  There was a long bored silence broken only by the ticking of the clocks and the steady scratching of the countess. The earl politely surfaced from behind his newspaper and asked, “What happened?”

  “Well, Cartwright’s disguise was so good that some damned chappie took him for a real stag.”

  “So?” queried the earl, clutching the edge of his paper and preparing to submerge.

  “He shot him. Dead. Lifeless. Dead as a doornail. Damned shame.”

  There was a stifled sound from the corner of the room. Lucy saw MacGregor’s shoulders shaking and realized with horror that he was laughing. Terrible old man!

  “There’s a lot of that about,” said the earl vaguely.

  “Lot of what?” said the military man, ruffled because his story had not even made a ripple in the pool of boredom.

  “I dunno,” said the earl, looking trapped. “Shooting people … er … shootin’ ‘em dead all over the place, what.”

  “Gaw,” said the countess, removing her crochet hook and examining it with interest.

  “Exactly, my dear,” said the earl and plunged down into his newspaper.

  Despite her fatigue, Lucy began to notice that Lady Angela was becoming increasingly nervous. Her large eyes kept flicking toward the doorway and her embroidery stitches were becoming increasingly crooked.

  There were faint sounds of carriage wheels crunching on the gravel drive and Lady Angela dropped her embroidery frame. Lucy dutifully bent to pick it up. Fatigue roared and pounded in her ears like the sea and she had a longing to keel over onto the carpet and sleep and sleep and sleep. She had missed the announcement of the latest guest.

  When she raised her head, she found herself looking up at Andrew Harvey. She stared, mesmerized, as he bowed and chatted to Lady Angela. She remembered him vividly. How he had looked as he had stood at the bend of the road with the sights and smells of autumn whirling around him.

  “You see, I managed to arrive anyway, Angela,” he was saying in a light, teasing voice. “Sorry I missed the rest of your house party.”

  Lady Angela’s face was suffused with a delicate pink and her eyes sparkled. “Sit beside me, Andrew. You may go, Lucy.”

  Andrew Harvey stood aside to let Lucy pass. His eyes brushed across her with complete indifference. He did not recognize her.

  Lucy fled to the Pug’s Parlor with her heart pounding.

  She looked in the old greenish mirror over the fireplace. A pale, wan, pinched face stared back at her.

  No wonder he had not known her. “Who notices a maid anyway?” whispered some little devil in her ear.

  How could she ever have thought him too old, she mused. He was dressed in a biscuit-colored coat and trousers, tailored to perfection. He looked grander and more remote than the man of the hacking jacket and jodhpurs. And he seemed infinitely more handsome than she had remembered. She realized the reason for Angela’s agitation and felt a spasm of pure jealousy twist through her.

  “Aye, he’s a fine looking man, is Viscount Harvey,” said MacGregor’s voice from the doorway.

  “Really?” said Lucy breathlessly. “I had not noticed.”

  “Aye, is that a fact?” said the butler cynically. “It’s just as well,” he added cruelly, “seeing as how there’s nothing a little lady’s maid can do about it when her mistress is setting her cap at the man.”

  MacGregor inched closer. “Mind you, he’ll make a good master. The Lady Angela’s got no competition, ye might say, so after they’re wed, you’ll be able to see him most days.”

  The butler absentmindedly picked up a pack of cards and began to flick them back and forth in his long bony fingers. “Ye’re still happy in your position?” he queried softly.

  “I have done very well for a girl of my age and class,” said Lucy stiffly.

  But a rebellious voice inside her was already running over the past three weeks of endless work and lack of sleep. She had nightmares about those white cotton gloves, flicking along the ledges of the rooms of her dreams. Disembodied gloves accusingly pointing their soiled fingers. High, whining, disembodied accusing voices sighing, “Lucy, what a tiresome maid you are. You must pay attention to details.”

  MacGregor’s voice echoed quietly around the room. “Gentlemen like the viscount never notice maids. Many a girl of Lady Angela’s sort has tried to catch him before. It’s said he’s planning to settle down so he might fix his interest on her.

  “But if a certain stubborn lady’s maid were to be groomed and dressed like a lady, ah, then … there’s no saying what would happen. Och, don’t look at me like that. I was just dreaming to pass the time.”

  The cards in his hands turned over and over.

  “My parents would never forgive me,” whispered Lucy.

  “Oh, they’d forgive you all right … if you married a viscount. And think of all the money you could send them.”

  Lucy found she was gripping the marble of the mantelpiece until her knuckles showed white.

  “Oh, leave me alone,” she suddenly wailed and ran away to her room as fast as she could.

  But the much-needed sleep would not come. At that moment Andrew Harvey was talking to Angela, flirting with Angela, while the clocks raced and ticked, marking off the minutes to his marriage. In one part of her mind a fair-haired man stood at the bend of the road, smiling back at her, and, in the other, MacGregor’s hands turned the cards over and over to catch the afternoon light.

  The end of the house party was to be marked by a grand ball to which all the local county had been invited. All the flowers from the hothouses seemed to have been moved indoors. The ladies of the party whispered and giggled and discussed beaux and dresses and the servants roused themselves for the final effort.

  Lady Angela turned in the doorway of her bedroom before leaving for the ball. She looked magnificent in a white tulle ball gown with fringes of iridescent pearls. The same pearls had been intricately woven into her heavy blond hair. She was like a beautiful statue come to life. Despite her fatigue, Lucy’s heart suddenly warmed to the girl.

  Then Angela’s high, whining voice broke the spell. “Dear me, Lucy. I have been letting you get lazy with all my fun and parties taking up my time. In the morning I shall check the rooms to make sure you have been dusting them properly, and
bring me your workbasket after breakfast and I will examine your stitching. You girls need a firm hand, you know.”

  With that she left, leaving Lucy in the worst temper of her life. Angela had shown no signs of deliberate cruelty—more the indifference of the slave master. Lucy suddenly felt she had to talk to her mother.

  Mrs. Balfour was sitting in the servants’ hall drinking tea. Her rosy, wrinkled face showed no signs of fatigue. Lucy had not been home since she had started to work at the castle, as it was assumed that the servants did not expect any time of their own during a house party. She and her mother had never conversed much and Lucy wondered where to begin. At last she blurted out, “I don’t think I can stand it here much longer, Ma. It’s not just the work. It’s being treated like some sort of animal that I cannae thole.”

  “Cannot stand,” corrected Mrs. Balfour automatically. “I got Mrs. Johnstone to teach you good English as well as French. A good lady’s maid should not have a dialect. And what do you expect? Don’t you realize the privilege that has been granted you?”

  Lucy sighed and sat down next to her. “But it’s just a job,” she pleaded.

  “It’s more than that,” said her mother severely. “I have done my best for you. If you want to go and throw it all away, that’s your business. But you’ll have no home with me.”

  Lucy’s temper rose again. “Do you mean to say that if I cease to work for that cold-blooded, slave-driving mannequin, my own mother will refuse me a home?”

  “Aye, just so,” said her mother grimly, her lips folding into an even tighter line.

  Lucy looked at her with baffled hurt. “I don’t think I know you at all, Ma.”

  “What’s got into ye?” snapped Mrs. Balfour. “Know me? Your own mother? Don’t be daft. You’re put on this earth by the good God to respect your parents—and your betters—without question. Who’s been putting these radical notions into your head?”