Rake's Progress: HFTS4

by M C Beaton

  He strolled out, presenting a view of impertinent, muscled buttocks to the embarrassed servants, with his Spanish shadow at his heels.

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear,” mourned Rainbird. “What a Season this is going to be. Joseph, you’d best come and help me with Mr. Roger. Angus, bring lots of coffee.”

  By dint of walking Mr. Roger up and down for about an hour and pouring scalding black coffee down his throat from time to time, they managed to get him upstairs to his bedroom. Lord Guy had taken the large bedroom behind the dining room, so they propelled him into the front bedroom on the floor above.

  Rainbird signalled to Joseph to remove Mr. Roger’s boots.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Mr. Roger truculently.

  “We will help you dress,” explained Rainbird.

  “Don’t need to dress. Am dressed. Oh, my aching head.” Mr. Roger lurched across the room and was sick in the fireplace. Joseph turned green and clutched his heaving stomach.

  “Are you ready, Jolly Roger?” came Lord Guy’s cheerful voice.

  Mr. Roger rallied amazingly. “Coming,” he roared.

  “Feeling better?” called his lordship.

  “Lots. I just cascaded in the fireplace.”

  “That’s the ticket. Come along.”

  Rainbird and Joseph mutely followed Mr. Roger out. On the first landing, Lord Guy was waiting with an amused smile on his rakish face. He was dressed in impeccable evening clothes—black coat, fawn silk breeches, and pumps—and he carried a flat bicorne under his arm.

  He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed Mr. Roger. “Demne,” he said, “here comes the wreck of the regiment.”

  “Shall you wish to dine later, my lord?” asked Rainbird.

  “Think we’ll eat somewhere outside,” said Lord Guy.

  He linked arms with Mr. Roger, and the pair of them went down the stairs and out the front door into the street.

  It took Jenny an hour with Alice’s help to clean Lord Guy’s bedroom, which was a mess of discarded clothes, wet towels, and empty glasses, while Rainbird and Joseph drew off the water in cans and carried the bath downstairs. Rainbird remarked gloomily the water was as clean as it had been when they had filled the bath, which all went to show my lord was going to be an eccentric washer.

  “The newspapers say his commander-in-chief has a cold bath every morning,” he said.

  Joseph let out an alarmed squawk. “What! Cerry thet beth up them stairs every day!”

  “Maybe he’ll go to the hummums,” said Rainbird, meaning the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street.

  “Eh hope he falls in and gets drownded,” said Joseph pettishly. “Where’s that servant of his? He should have cleaned some of that mess.”

  “Gone with his master.”

  “Good riddance.”

  Meanwhile, the two friends, shadowed by Manuel, set out to carouse at every well-known establishment in town from the hells of Jermyn Street to the Royal Saloon in Piccadilly, shopping for females as they went. Every time Lord Guy or Mr. Roger saw a particularly pretty female of the Fashionable Impure, they handed over cards and solemnly invited her to a party at 67 Clarges Street the following night. After sampling some of the wares, they settled down to a night of heavy drinking and gambling and ended up reeling through Berkeley Square as a red sun rose over frosty London. The weather had turned cold again.

  Mr. Roger keeled over in the grass in the middle of Berkeley Square and fell asleep. Lord Guy, feeling tired and jaded, called over his shoulder for Manuel to go back to the mews and fetch the carriage to take Mr. Roger home.

  Lord Guy was strolling past the houses on the west side of the square, when, through an open doorway, he saw a lady standing at the top of the staircase inside the house.

  She was in her undress. She wore a flowing nightgown and a pretty negligee. She had glorious red hair brushed down on her shoulders. There was an oil lamp on a table on the landing where she stood, and it illuminated her calm face and splendid Junoesque figure. The butler, who had left the door open while he got a breath of air, was on the other side of the square and did not notice Lord Guy.

  Lord Guy walked straight into the house and up the stairs. “You, madam,” he said in an awed voice, “are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  Her eyes, he noticed dreamily, were a peculiar mixture of blue and green and gold. He had never seen eyes like these before. Very drunk and walking in a dream-world, Lord Guy advanced on the goddess, holding out his arms.

  She never said a word. She raised one beautifully arched foot in its beaded slipper and kicked out with all her force. The blow caught him right at the waistline. He tumbled backwards, down the stairs.

  As he was very drunk, he had not tensed any of his muscles, and so, when he sat up at the foot of the stairs, he was unhurt.

  From a long way off, he could hear bells ringing and feet running. Before the lady’s servants picked him up to throw him out, he caught a glimpse of himself in a long looking-glass in the hall.

  At first he did not recognise the dissipated drunk who stared back at him. When he did, the shock was so great, he let the servants bundle him out into the street without a murmur of protest.

  He reeled home and fell headlong into bed without removing his clothes.

  Rainbird, hearing Mr. Roger return, roused Joseph and said wearily they might as well see if they could be of any help. They dressed slowly, neither of them anxious to face their master so soon. When they looked into Mr. Roger’s room, he was already sleeping peacefully, having been undressed by Manuel.

  They went down another floor and walked into Lord Guy’s room and stopped short on the threshold. The door had been open, so the Spaniard had not heard them coming. He was standing by the bed, looking down at his master, his face twisted into a mask of hate.

  “Can we help you?” asked Rainbird.

  Manuel’s face once more resumed its smooth, supercilious expression.

  “No, I thank you,” he said disdainfully. “Close the door behind you when you go.”

  Chapter

  Two

  When I loved you, I can’t but allow

  I had many an exquisite minute;

  But the scorn that I feel for you now

  Hath even more luxury in it.

  Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,

  Some witchery seems to await you;

  To love you was pleasant enough,

  And, oh! ’tis delicious to hate you!

  —THOMAS MOORE

  It was a typical spring day—that is, a wind all the way from Siberia was cutting around the buildings and sooty flakes of snow were beginning to cover the ground.

  Miss Esther Jones of 120 Berkeley Square shivered as she looked out of the window. It would be much too cold to take the children walking.

  She brushed her rich red tresses and wound them into a severe knot on the top of her head, rather like a doorknob. Only fools wore muslin or silk in such weather, according to the sensible Miss Jones, so she put on a warm wool gown of a depressing mud-coloured hue.

  She wondered idly who that drunk man had been who had walked so calmly into her home, and then dismissed the matter from her mind. London was full of crass drunks. One learned quickly how to deal with them—and with careless butlers who strolled out and left the door open.

  By the time she had finished dressing, Miss Jones looked more like a governess than the very rich lady she actually was.

  But circumstances had done much to change her from the carefree girl she had once been. Her father, Squire Hugh Jones, had led a disgraceful sort of life at his country home, causing all sorts of scandals in the neighbourhood before falling into an apoplexy and departing this world. His timid and ailing wife, Miss Jones’ mother, had survived him by only one year. That had left Miss Jones his sole heir. It also left her in charge of her young brother, nine-year-old Peter, and his twin sister Amy, the late Mrs. Jones having been blessed with two more children when she least expected to have any.
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  Esther Jones had found herself very rich indeed. The squire had been a successful gambler on ’Change, and the fortune he left turned out to be immense.

  Esther now detested the country and country people. She thought the country was undisciplined and disorderly, all those messy trees and flowers. She had bought the mansion in Berkeley Square, packed up, and moved to Town. She had taken over the education of the twins herself. She had first taken herself in hand, ruthlessly eradicating all her father’s character defects she might have inherited—bar one, if it could be called a defect. Esther had taken over her father’s speculations where he had left off and had proceeded to make herself into one of the richest women in England.

  Since she did not cultivate the friendship of society or aspire to rise to the aristocracy, little was known about her and nobody came to call.

  The house was richly furnished. From Pembroke table to sabre-legged chair, everything glowed and shone. Everything was also rather dark and gloomy. Light colours dirtied easily, so the curtains and bed hangings and carpets were all of a serviceable dark red colour.

  She not only instructed her little brother and sister, but her servants as well. They were expected to assemble in the drawing room every morning for prayers, and then at various appointed times during the week to attend classes. The men were taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, and the women, fine sewing, reading, and how to keep household accounts.

  She paid good wages but found it strangely hard to keep servants. She did not know they were bored to death and longed for employment in a more free and easy establishment.

  As a young girl—Esther was now twenty-six—she had been shamed and embarrassed by her father’s drunken behaviour. Day after day, she worked to make sure those days were gone forever and that everyone surrounding her remained staid and respectable.

  She was glad the weather was bad because sunshine would have meant the children would have pressed her to take them to one of the parks, and parks reminded Esther of the country. Also, there were soldiers drilling in the parks and she thought young Peter was much too fascinated with uniforms and guns for his own good. Peter was being brought up to be fit to take over the business reins when he reached twenty-one. Esther detested all army men, damning them as uncouth louts, although she was not alone in this. The British had always detested their army and it seemed they always would. Quite a number of taverns had signs posted outside saying “No redcoats.”

  As usual, she conducted prayers, ate a hearty breakfast, read a chapter of the Bible to the twins, and then prepared to take them upstairs to the schoolroom for their lessons.

  It was then that Peter noticed the snow had stopped and pale sunlight was flooding the square outside.

  “Do take us out, Esther,” he begged. “We are always inside. It is so stuffy.”

  “No, it is very cold,” said Esther. “You will catch an inflammation.”

  “If we do not get fresh air,” said little Amy primly, “mayhap we will both go into a decline. Peter is very white.”

  Esther bit her lip in vexation. Amy bowed her red head and meekly studied her hands. She was beginning to learn how to manipulate her elder sister.

  Peter did look white, thought Esther with a pang. There were blue shadows under his eyes.

  “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “Tell John to attend us.” John was the first footman.

  The children scampered upstairs to get dressed. “You’d better scrub that blanc off your face, Peter,” said Amy. “If you keep it on, she’ll notice it when we get outside into the daylight.”

  “Righto!” said Peter, scrubbing his face and leaving smears of blanc on the towel. “Good idea of yours, Amy.”

  Esther had to admit to herself as they walked through Hyde Park and into Kensington Gardens that she was glad they had decided to go out. The snow was melting rapidly, the sun was warm, and there was a feeling of anticipation in the air. Her hair, screwed up under a repellent hat like a coal-scuttle, felt heavy and uncomfortable. Two young misses and their mother passed in a carriage. The girls were wearing little straw hats. Underneath, their hair had been cut in one of the latest crops.

  How sensible, thought the old Esther wistfully. Fustian, the new stern Esther told herself. Only see how everyone is staring at them. I have had enough of vulgar curiosity in my life.

  She sat down on an iron bench and arranged her skirts and took a book out of her reticule, which was an enormous dull red brocade affair made out of left-over upholstery material, because, Esther believed, economies must be practised no matter how rich one was. Mortification was good for the soul.

  “I will now read to you,” said Esther. Peter emitted something very much like a groan. Esther looked at him sharply, but he smiled sweetly back at her, showing his dimples.

  The footman wandered off and stood watching the troops.

  Esther cleared her throat and began to read. “This poem is entitled ‘The School,’” she said. Peter sat up and paid attention. He longed to go to school and play with other boys.

  “There was a little girl so proud,

  She talked so fast and laughed so loud,

  That those who came with her to play

  Were always glad to go away.

  In bracelets, necklace she did shine;

  Her clothes were always very fine.

  Her frocks through carelessness were soiled;

  In truth she was already spoiled.

  Her mother died; she went to school,

  And there obliged to live by rule,

  Though oft before the time for bed,

  A cap and bells disgraced her head.”

  Peter’s attention began to wander. He twisted round. There was a little servant girl standing behind the bench on which they were sitting, listening to Esther’s reading.

  “When false indulgence warps the mind,

  The discipline of school we find

  Most efficacious to correct

  The ills arising from neglect.

  “Now what did you think of that?” asked Esther brightly.

  “It’s about girls,” said Peter, “and girls have an awful time at school anyway. Boys don’t.”

  “You are a very lucky little boy,” said Esther severely. “You would find school quite horrible and you would be tormented by great louts of boys. Listen, I shall read you the story of little Henry. That is about a boy.”

  She fished in her capacious reticule and brought out another book entitled A Cup of Sweets that can never Cloy; or Delightful Tales for Good Children, by a London Lady, and began to read.

  Even Esther began to think the tale of little Henry was quite depressing. He was a boy who insisted on having his own way the whole time. When he was told, say, not to jump down three stairs at a time or he might hurt himself, he always replied angrily that he was a not a baby and knew how to take care of himself.

  One day, an aunt gave Henry a seven-shilling piece. But instead of consulting his dear parents and asking them what to do with it, he bought a large quantity of gunpow-der, blew up the nursery, lost an eye, killed his little sister, but was a very good boy from that day forth.

  “I should think he would be,” said Amy, putting her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “That girl’s listening to you,” said Peter, pointing to the servant girl behind the seat.

  The girl made to move away, but Esther smiled at her and said, “Come here. You may listen to me read, if you wish.”

  “I can read myself, ma’am,” said the girl proudly.

  “Indeed! What is your name?”

  “Lizzie O’Brien, ma’am.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “Sixty-seven Clarges Street, an’ it please you, ma’am. I’m a scullery maid.”

  “I am Miss Jones … my brother and sister, Master Peter and Miss Amy. Who taught you to read, Lizzie?”

  “Our butler set up a school in the servants’ hall, but it’s the Scotch cook what teaches us.”


  “Who teaches us,” corrected Esther. “This is amazing. I, too, teach my servants, but they do not thank me for my pains. I would like to speak to this butler of yours.”

  “Mr. Rainbird, ma’am.”

  Esther fished out a card. “Be so good as to tell Mr. Rainbird to call on me during his free time. I am nearly always at home.”

  Lizzie, who had come round the front of the bench, took the card and dropped a curtsy. She turned to go away and then stopped in surprise.

  “What is it?” asked Esther.

  “It’s that little man over there,” said Lizzie. “He’s that foreign servant what ’as just come to stay.”

  Esther looked across the park. A sallow, foreign-looking servant in pink-and-black livery was standing under a tree, writing busily in a notebook.

  “He’s watching the troops!” cried Peter, jumping up and down. “He might be a French spy.”

  “He’s Spanish,” said Lizzie.

  “Besides,” said Esther, “he only has to read the newspapers, which give the exact numbers of the volunteers.”

  “Maybe he didn’t think of that,” said Peter.

  Esther turned her attention to Lizzie. Such a pleasant clean girl, she thought. “Goodbye, Miss O’Brien,” she said.

  Lizzie flushed to the roots of her hair with pleasure at the great compliment. Very few of her fellow servants could even remember her second name.

  Esther was immensely reassured by the meeting. At 67 Clarges Street was a house where the desire for cleanliness and education was as great as in her own. But this Rainbird appeared to have willing pupils. She was anxious to find out how he had managed to achieve it.

  Lizzie came bursting into the servants’ hall to tell them all her news. Rainbird was intrigued with the idea of making a social call on a lady in Berkeley Square, but the others were inclined to think Miss Jones one of those nosey, interfering reformers. Disappointed by the reception of her story, she forgot to tell them about Manuel.