by M C Beaton
“Yes,” echoed Lucy dismally. “What fun.”
Social London awoke the next morning to find the Balfour-MacGregors gone.
The first caller on the doorstep at Cheyney Street was Andrew Harvey, who stared at Jobbons as if he could not believe his ears. Already the great house had the deserted air of a stage set when the actors have left.
“Miss Lucy left a letter for you, my lord,” said Jobbons, handing over a thick envelope and schooling his features into the correct impassive mold, although he was burning with curiosity.
Andrew quietly took the letter and walked with it into the morning room. Jobbons tactfully withdrew and Andrew sat down at a small Chippendale table near the window and slowly opened it.
“Andrew,” he read. No “dear” or “darling,” he thought with a sinking heart. Just “Andrew.”
Lady Angela spoke the truth last night. My name is Lucy Balfour and I was her lady’s maid. My ‘father’ is Hamish MacGregor, who was butler at Castle Inver.
I know you will find this almost impossible to understand, Andrew, but please try. There are two kinds of servants. There are those of the majority, represented by my maid, Brothers, and my mother and father, who firmly believe that they were put on this earth to serve their betters. Then there is a small rebel force, represented by Mr. MacGregor and myself, who find the work humiliating—the work of upper servants at any rate. A house-maid and a scullery maid can put in a very hard day’s work without ever having to endure the whims of their masters. This is not so with the lady’s maid and the butler. Their whole lives and personalities have to be submerged so that they may serve their masters better.
So, you may wonder, why do we not find other jobs more in keeping with our Bolshevist tendencies?
Andrew, who had been thinking just that, read on grimly.
Jobs, in Scotland in particular, are very scarce. It is very, very rare—almost impossible—to break out of one’s class, particularly if one has been born in a small West Highland village.
One night Mr. MacGregor found out that I possessed uncanny luck at baccarat. He suggested that we travel to France and put this luck to work for us at the casinos.
I held out because, at the time, I was still proud of having obtained the post of lady’s maid—no little achievement for the daughter of lower servants. But the house party at Castle Inver—do you remember?—changed my views.
I had to slave long hours, fetching and carrying, cleaning and dusting, stitching and sewing with never a word of thanks or appreciation. I felt I could not endure one other day. I was too young and too new at my job to search for a kinder mistress. Sounds as though I was a dog, doesn’t it?
I watched you and Lady Angela dancing at the ball. I found I was watching a world to which I could belong. I agreed to go to the Continent with MacGregor. Once I had left Marysburgh, there was no going back.
I have not enjoyed tricking you, Andrew. My deception has cost me endless sleepless nights. I am sorry our engagement must end.
As for the love you said you had for me—if there is a little bit of it left—please do not send a notice to the papers immediately, terminating our engagement. Society might guess that Lady Angela had spoken the truth and then the people who aided me in my deception would be hurt, particularly my mother and father who would lose their jobs as Castle Inver.
I suggested to my mother that she might like to retire, and my father too, now that I have the money to support them, but she refuses to touch a penny of it.
Good-bye, Andrew. Try not to think too badly of me.
Lucy
Andrew slowly put down the letter. He had never been so angry in all his life. Had she mentioned one word of love, he would gladly have forgiven her. But now he felt he saw it all. The lady’s maid and the butler had not needed his money. They had wanted his name, one of the oldest in England. All this ridiculous whining about work! Good God! They were being paid to do it. Bolshevist tendencies was right! But he would not rest until he found her again; until he had confronted the pair of them and told them exactly what he thought of them. He rang the bell.
Jobbons glided silently into the room.
“Where have they gone?” asked Andrew abruptly.
Jobbons thought he would die from curiosity. So miss hadn’t even told her fiancé! But he said in his usual colorless voice, “I regret to say, my lord, I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of Mister and Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
Jobbons recoiled slightly before the blaze of anger in the blue eyes but held his ground. He was getting old and his dreams of retiring to a nice little country pub were getting closer. He could see it in his mind’s eye. He would call it The Prince of Wales Feathers. It would have a rustic garden at the back and he would serve the beer in pewter tankards to add to the old world charm.
Andrew took out his wallet and extracted a five pound note. It was a new one and the thin white paper crackled in his long fingers.
“Come now, Jobbons,” he said. “Think again.”
Jobbons thought furiously, while his little boot-button eyes stared at the five pound note. The pub sign creaked in the gentle breezes of his imagination and white ducks swam lazily in the village pond. “What’ll it be, squire?” I will ask genially, he mused. “Your usual, sir?”
“I believe they have gone to France, my lord.”
Andrew held the note slightly toward the butler.
“Dinard, I believe, my lord. A Mister Jones.”
“Ah, the plumbing expert,” said Andrew. The note changed hands. “Thank you, Jobbons.”
With many bows, Jobbons saw his lordship off the premises and was just heading for his pantry when the doorbell rang again.
Lady Hester swept past him and went straight into the morning room, just vacated by Andrew. She had heard the tale of Lady Angela’s accusations. Society had put it down to Angela’s jealousy. Hadn’t the Blair sisters been running around all morning saying they had nothing to do with “howwid” Angela and that she had been like a madwoman with jealousy? But shrewd Hester had remembered the mysterious “other” daughter and had felt the time ripe for a little blackmail. Since her return from Andrew’s parents’ home, Lucy had been unaccountably unavailable. Hester judged that she would now be recovering from the ball and hoped to catch her at home.
Master and miss were not at home, Jobbons informed her coldly, and then held open the door of the morning room, patiently waiting for Hester to leave.
“What do you mean ‘not at home’?” said Hester. “Do you mean they don’t want to see anyone?”
“No, my lady,” said Jobbons. “They are not in residence.”
“Then where the deuce are they?”
“I am not at liberty to say, my lady.”
Hester looked at Jobbons and Jobbons looked impassively back at Hester. She slowly opened her reticule and extracted two five pound notes and held them against her cheek.
“You are sure you don’t know?”
Jobbons sighed. In his mind, the squire had just taken up his pint and was turning to welcome a newcomer. “Sir Reginald!” the squire cried. “So you’ve found this charming little spot as well. Best bitter in all England. Jobbons, you’re a marvel!”
Jobbons sighed again.
“Dinard, my lady, now that I come to think of it. A Mister Jones.”
The money changed hands.
After Lady Hester had gone, Jobbons did not head for his pantry but stayed expectantly beside the front door.
He had not long to wait.
The bell jangled merrily.
“Good morning, Mister Brent, sir,” said Jobbons gleefully, leading the way into the morning room.
“Miss Balfour-MacGregor at home, Jobbons?”
“No, sir. Neither Miss Balfour-MacGregor nor Mister Balfour-MacGregor are in residence.”
Jeremy bit his lip. He had heard the news of the ball and his brain had started to work feverishly. He was desperately in need of cash. If he could get to Lucy and swear to keep qu
iet about the mysterious sister in return for Lucy’s system at baccarat, then surely he could repair his fortunes.
“Where are they?” he asked Jobbons.
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Jeremy drew out one five pound note. Jobbons’s face did not change. Jeremy was desperate. He drew out two more.
“Fine looking gel you’ve got there, Jobbons,” said the squire. He would have a serving wench, of course, with one of those Elizabethan costumes with a laced bodice showing lots of … er … neck.
“Dinard, sir. A Mister Jones.”
Jeremy walked slowly down the front steps, turning plots and plans over in his mind. He heard a strange sound from behind the closed door of the Balfour-MacGregor residence. It sounded as if someone was doing a mad dance in the hall. Couldn’t be. He shook his head and walked off down the street.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was the height of August but the wind whipped up the sea horses on the English Channel and sent them racing with all the fury of the mad March days.
It was cold and MacGregor pulled his inverness cape closer around him. He wondered why he was not enjoying himself. Mr. Jones was the best of hosts and had almost been childishly glad of their company.
Mrs. Hackett, too, had done her best to supply them with a round of entertainments from afternoon teas—red was now the predominant color—and musical evenings.
The trouble, he decided, was Lucy. She was moping. There was no other word for it. MacGregor shook his head. He would have thought Andrew Harvey man enough to have pursued his fiancée. Lucy had said she had written him a letter.
MacGregor suddenly stopped. What kind of letter had she written? Lucy had a lot of pride. What if she had simply written him a cold note releasing him from the engagement?
A band was playing somewhere, one of those rumpty-tumpty French military tunes and snatches of it reached his ears, blown on the gusty wind.
Where on earth was Andrew Harvey now? And what was he doing?
Andrew Harvey was at that moment supervising the unpacking of his trunks in a small cell-like bedroom in his aunt’s villa, quite close at hand. His first impulse had been to run straight from the vedette to Jones’s house but he had decided on caution. He must plan, if Lucy and MacGregor were to suffer as much as they deserved.
When he saw the last of his clothes relegated to the closets, he made his way down the narrow stairs to the garden room where Madame de Bercy, his aunt, was presiding over the teapot. Madame de Bercy was a widow. She was English and her husband, a French general, had died many years ago leaving her the villa and a comfortable allowance. She spoke dreadful French and Andrew often wondered how the general—who was reported to have spoken no English—had managed to understand her. She managed to look like a Frenchwoman, however. She had sallow skin and quick, darting black eyes. Her still-girlish figure showed her Parisian gowns to perfection.
She rose as Andrew entered the room and went to peck his cheek.
“I hope you don’t mind if we have our tea in here, dear boy,” she said. “I am so tired of looking at the sea and prefer to take my tea and look at my English garden. So like home,” she said smiling mistily, as if home were thousands of miles away instead of just across the Channel.
Madame de Bercy turned to her lady’s maid. “You may go, Marie. But be sure that that work is finished by this evening!”
A buxom Breton girl got to her feet, dropped an awkward curtsy, and left the room, carrying a large workbasket.
“How much do you pay her?” said Andrew abruptly.
Madame de Bercy looked at him in surprise.
“You land on me in the middle of the summer without so much as a by-your-leave and the first thing you ask me is how much I pay my maid? I pay her in francs, the equivalent of fifteen pounds sterling per year.”
“Isn’t that very little?”
“Pooh. Marie is just a local girl.”
“How long does she work? I mean, what are her hours?”
“Really, Andrew!” Madame de Bercy poured him a cup of Earl Grey and the slightly scented aroma of the tea mingled with the heavy smell of roses, stocks, honeysuckle, and gillyflower from the garden. “You exasperate me. You have not taken up social reform, by any chance? No. Well, Marie works from seven in the morning until I care to go to bed. Does that answer your question?”
“Not quite. Does she like the work?”
“Like the work? I neither know nor care. I will have you to know, Andrew Harvey, that I am considered something of a grande dame in this town and it is a privilege to work for me.”
She eyed her nephew’s high, arrogant profile with sudden amusement. “Who is she, Andrew? Never say that you’ve become enamored of a servant!”
“And if I have?” replied Andrew wearily, staring down into the pale-gold depths of his untouched tea.
“It would matter a great deal,” said his aunt sharply. “Your wife will hold a high social position. She must know what to say, the—the order of rank—how—how to entertain duchesses. Oh, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
Andrew looked at her with sudden cynical amusement. “And who better to know the ins and outs of society than a lady’s maid?”
His aunt put down her cup with a sharp click. "Well, let us say better than a Gaiety Girl and they seem to be marrying into the peerage like mad. Who is she? Tell me about it.”
So Andrew told his story as the light began to fade and the smells of the dew-laden flowers crept in from the garden, mingling with the Gallic smells of cooking, wine and herbs and garlic.
There was a little silence when he had finished. He could not see his aunt’s expression in the failing light. When she did speak, she surprised him.
“Poor girl,” she said softly.
“You mean you take her part?” said Andrew angrily.
Madame de Bercy rang the bell. “Marie,” she ordered. “Light the lamps … please. Oh, and Marie …”
The maid turned in the doorway. “When was your last day off?” asked madame.
The girl replied in halting English, “Eet was one month.”
“But you should have told me,” said Madame de Bercy, quite shocked. “I insist you take two days off starting right now.”
“Merci, madame,” said the maid, her face wreathed in smiles. “Mille remerciements,” and she bobbed and curtsied and thanked her way out of the room.
“Now, what did I do that for?” said madame crossly. “I needed her tomorrow.”
She turned briskly to her nephew. “What was I saying? Oh, yes, about Lucy. My dear boy, have you any idea of what that girl must have suffered? It must have been like being on stage every minute of the day. And if she’s as beautiful as you say, she surely could have had her pick of titles, so I can’t see why you say she was trying to annex yours.”
Andrew hesitated. “But when she wrote me that letter,” he said, “she said nothing of love.”
“She can’t think much of your character, then,” said madame briskly. “And she was right. You thought the worst, didn’t you?”
Andrew nodded his head.
“There you are! And you probably thought it was all a joke when you first found out. I’ll wager if she seemed a bit weepy that you thought it was some feminine trick. Ah! I can tell from your blush. Your education has been sadly lacking. We women are capable of just as much, if not more, suffering than men. You can console yourself with some plump little matron at a house party but what can she do … except of course marry someone very quickly.”
“She wouldn’t!” gasped Andrew.
“Oh, yes she would,” said his aunt comfortably. “Human nature is an eternal surprise.”
MacGregor was thinking much the same thing as he leaned back in a cane chair on the terrace of Mr. Jones’s mansion and surveyed the elegant form of his visitor.
“So, if I understand you correctly, Lady Hester, you are blackmailing me for a large sum of money. And if I don’t pay up, you will send a
report about my daughter, Harriet, to all the newspapers.”
“Crudely put,” said Lady Hester, “but correct.”
“And what if I say, like the Duke of Wellington, ‘Publish and be damned’?”
“Then I’ll do just that,” said Hester, enjoying herself. “Just think what Lord Northcliff’s dreadful papers would make of it? I can see the headlines in the Daily Mail: ‘Nun’s last fling. Socialite’s daughter breaks the bank before taking the veil.’ And then of course if it should turn out that there is no such person as Miss Harriet and that Miss Harriet is really Miss Lucy with pillows inside her dress, how much better a story!”
MacGregor looked at her from under his bushy eyebrows. “And what if I were to tell you that my daughter, whichever one it happens to be, absolutely refuses point-blank to go near another casino and that the money you are asking would ruin us and that we should have to find jobs?”
“I would say,” remarked Hester languidly, “that hard work never hurt anyone.”
MacGregor surveyed her insolently from the top of her beautifully coiffed hair to the bottom of her white kid boots. “Were the roles reversed,” he asked curiously, “and I were, in effect, driving you out into the street—would you not plead for mercy?”
“I? Don’t be silly,” said Hester. “I am not such a poor creature.”
MacGregor pulled the antique bell rope vigorously which, in its turn, pulled a small electric switch near the ceiling and sent a very modern brrrrring echoing through the house.
One of Mr. Jones’s bad-tempered footmen promptly appeared. MacGregor addressed the footman, still keeping his eyes fixed on Hester. “Jean, will you go and tell Miss Lucy to come here directly. She may bring Mister Brent with her.”
When the footman had left on his errand, MacGregor noticed cynically that Hester seemed very flustered.
She put a hand to the lace ruffles at her throat. “Jeremy! Here?”
“Exactly,” said MacGregor, “and probably on the same errand as yourself.”
The door opened and Lucy and Jeremy were ushered in. Lucy rushed to MacGregor.
“Jeremy says—Jeremy will—”
