by M C Beaton
“As far as I am concerned, he is finished,” shouted Sir Philip and stormed out of the room.
The colonel cleared his throat. “I can well understand his wrath. To sully your name in such a way, dear lady…”
“If I thought for a moment any of that ridiculous gossip would stick, I should be very upset,” said Lady Fortescue mildly. “But by tomorrow night, if I am again faced with bent heads, whispers, and avid looks in the dining-room, I shall be very much surprised!”
***
Sir Philip went along to Limmer’s and sulked in the coffee room for almost two hours. At last he left, but instead of returning to the hotel he walked along that narrow bit called the Bond Street Straits, rather unsteadily, as he had drunk two bottles of wine. It was when he turned aimlessly into Stafford Street, which was lit only by one flickering parish lamp that, too late, he became aware of danger. It was the way the man was approaching him, a dark figure, black against the surrounding gloom, that warned him. He could see the head turning this way and that, making sure there were no witnesses. Sir Philip felt for his sword-stick and realized with dismay that he had left it behind. The man, seeing there was no one else in the street but himself and Sir Philip, advanced holding a long, wicked-looking knife. “Hand over your money,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “or it will be the worse for you.”
Sir Philip felt quite faint. He had been given the day’s takings from the guests, the dining-room, and the coffee room by the colonel, and he had forgotten to lock it all in the safe. He had discovered the money still on him when he had paid his shot at Limmer’s.
“I haven’t any money,” he said feebly.
The man seized him by the cravat with the hand that was not holding the knife. “You old varmint,” he said. “Give it ’ere.”
The moon high above pitiless London slipped out from behind a cloud. The man was shaking Sir Philip as a dog shakes a rat and he could feel his senses going. And then suddenly there was a loud thwack. Sir Philip, his cravat suddenly freed, lurched and swayed, and then felt himself caught and held by a strong arm. He thought he was being attacked again and choked out a “help” which sounded like a bleat.
“Steady, Sommerville,” said a voice in his ear. “It is I, Davy.”
Gasping, Sir Philip twisted himself away from that arm. His assailant lay stretched on the ground and Mr. Davy was holding a stout cudgel.
When he recovered his wits and stood there while Mr. Davy shouted at the top of his voice for the watch, Sir Philip’s first feeling was one of pure rage that this actor, whom he had hoped to get rid of, should have rescued him. The rattle of the watch sounded at the end of the street and soon the watch himself, followed by the parish constable, came up to hear Mr. Davy’s report. The assailant had recovered consciousness and was dragged off.
Sir Philip managed to choke out his thanks. “Let’s go to Limmer’s and have some gin punch to sustain us,” said Mr. Davy. “But you have not told me yet what you were doing wandering about the streets at this hour on your own.”
“Thinking,” said Sir Philip curtly. “Tell you about it when we sit down.”
They made their way silently back to Limmer’s, Sir Philip still staggering slightly but refusing help from Mr. Davy. It was when they were seated over a bottle of wine and Mr. Davy looked expectantly at Sir Philip, that Sir Philip decided to get even with Miss Tonks. For was it not the besotted Miss Tonks who was responsible for introducing this lower-class body into their exclusive hotel? Besides, Sir Philip had marked Miss Tonks down as his own. Not for love, not for any sexual reasons—Heaven forbid!—but because he was an old man and would need someone to look after his comforts when he retired. He would need someone to run his house and deal with the servants and wait on him hand and foot. Miss Tonks would have been only too pleased to promise to do all of that in exchange for the coveted title of “Lady” only a short time ago, a time before she had ever heard of Jason Davy.
“I was walking because I was upset and worried,” said Sir Philip.
“Anything wrong at the hotel?”
“Not that. It is Miss Tonks.”
“Letitia? She is not ill, is she?”
His familiar use of Miss Tonks’s first name hardened Sir Philip’s resolve. The hissing sounds from behind him, where a group of Corinthians were spitting into the fire, passing the late hour in a spitting competition accompanied by loud beefy laughs, jangled Sir Philip’s nerves, and he ignored the voice of conscience in his head, which was screaming at him that he was about to make a cake of himself.
“You have taken her affections away from me,” said Sir Philip.
Mr. Davy looked at the elderly gentleman facing him and thought uncharitably that Sir Philip looked exactly in that moment like an evil old tortoise. But he fought down his feeling of repugnance and said quietly, “Go on.”
“We are all old and cannot go on in this hotel business forever,” said Sir Philip. “Naturally, as you are not one of us, you do not know of our plans for the future. Colonel Sandhurst and Lady Fortescue plan to marry and retire to the country.” Again that pang of conscience, for was not he himself attracted to Lady Fortescue? But Miss Tonks deserved to be taught a lesson. “Miss Tonks and I have a certain understanding that we too will join forces and spend our declining years together.”
There was a long silence and then Mr. Davy said, “Miss Tonks is considerably younger than you, sir.”
“Oh, she’s a lot older than she looks,” said Sir Philip, maliciously hammering another nail into Miss Tonks’s coffin.
“I have not done anything to take Miss Tonks’s affections away from you,” said Mr. Davy firmly. “Miss Tonks and I are good friends, that is all.”
“But you’re taking them away by being with us,” howled Sir Philip. The spitting behind him stopped. He turned round and said waspishly, “Oh, pray do not let me keep you from your intellectual amusements,” and the spitting started again.
“You wish me to leave?” asked Mr. Davy. Sir Philip studied him but the actor’s face registered nothing stronger than polite interest.
“Only for the sake of Miss Tonks’s well-being and to bring happiness to an old man.” Sir Philip took out a large handkerchief and dabbed his dry eyes. “Besides, that lie you told about Lady Fortescue being Prinny’s paramour did not go down very well.”
“How did she find out?”
“Someone felt it their duty to tell her,” said Sir Philip piously.
That someone being you, thought Mr. Davy.
“Is Lady Fortescue very angry?” he asked.
“Very,” said Sir Philip with relish. “It would be better for your dignity for you to leave quietly before you are ordered to leave.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Mr. Davy poured them both another glass of wine. “How are you feeling now after your adventure?”
“Tolerable,” said Sir Philip. “Thank’ee,” he added gruffly. He remembered the money still reposing in a bag in one of his capacious pockets and tossed back his wine with one gulp. “Had better go. Do you come, too?”
“I will stay here for a while. The Poor Relation is only a step away. I doubt if anyone will attack you in the middle of Bond Street.”
By the time Sir Philip climbed into bed he had talked his conscience down. It was all for the best. They had all lowered themselves enough in life by engaging in trade. Miss Tonks should be spared becoming involved with a man well beneath her in social station.
***
Sir Philip, exhausted by his adventure and the amount he had drunk, slept late into the following afternoon. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Davy did not. Nor was it in Mr. Davy’s nature to slink away.
He first of all sought an audience with Lady Fortescue. She inclined her head as she listened to his apology and then said, “Do not do such a thing again, Mr. Davy. If you are to collect debts for this hotel, then you must go about it in a less convoluted way. As it so happens, your fiction frightened the rest of our debtors into paying. But there is much t
o do here. We are often plagued with Bond Street loungers in the coffee room and the waiters are unable to cope with them. Until we decide what to do with you, we will put you in charge of the coffee room.”
“Am I expected to wear livery?” asked Mr. Davy.
“No, you are expected to dress in your finest and look and behave like one of us. People come to this hotel to be served by us who are often in many respects their betters.” This last was said without a trace of humour.
“I will go about my duties,” he said, “but first I would like to speak to Miss Tonks about something.”
“She and Frederica are next door. A rather plain ball gown was purchased for Frederica, and they are both set on embellishing it. They are probably using the sitting-room.”
The apartment next door had a small sitting-room, not much used because they all preferred to use the one in the hotel, but it was there that Mr. Davy found Miss Tonks alone, studying fashion-plates, her work-basket open beside her.
“Where is Miss Frederica?” he asked.
“In the kitchens. She has but left. Did you want to speak to her?”
“No. To you.”
Miss Tonks looked at him as shyly as a young girl. “I am at your service, sir.”
“Have you seen Sir Philip today?”
“No, but the snores coming from his room are quite dreadful.”
“I met Sir Philip by chance last night. I rescued him from a footpad in Stratford Street.”
Miss Tonks clasped her hands, her eyes shining. “How very brave of you, sir. Pray, tell me all about it.”
“Later, perhaps. But what happened was this. Sir Philip and I repaired to Limmer’s and Sir Philip said it would be better for you if I left the hotel.”
“For me? Why on earth? I was the one who brought you here.”
“Sir Philip is understandably jealous of me. He has some mad idea that you might transfer your affections from him to me.”
“But… b-but… b-b-but…,” stammered poor Miss Tonks, “Sir Philip has no hold on my affections. No, that is not true. I am fond of Sir Philip despite his waspish ways, as I am fond of Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst. That is all. I will be honest with you. There was a time after my friend, Mrs. Budley, was married that I felt alone in the world. Working here, I have become used to company, and I dread being alone again. On the road home from the wedding in Warwickshire, Sir Philip was very friendly and companionable. I began to think that when Lady Fortescue and the colonel retired and set up house together, perhaps I could marry Sir Philip, not for any reason other than not to be left alone. But on our return Sir Philip fell in love with that common gross woman, Mrs. Budge, whom you were hired first of all to dislodge. I realized I could never tolerate Sir Philip as a husband.” She flushed delicately. “With Mrs. Budge, he betrayed certain coarse appetites which I… oh, dear me, this is so embarrassing… I had expected would have disappeared with age. Ahem.” Poor Miss Tonks shuffled her narrow feet and looked miserable. “What I am trying to say, Mr. Davy, is that there is no reason to leave on my behalf, and furthermore”—she gave a little gulp—“I value our friendship.”
“Then let it continue,” he said gaily. “I have been put in charge of the coffee room and must go about my duties.” He bowed and kissed the back of her hand, smiled at her and left.
Miss Tonks sat for a long time with the hand he had just kissed held against her cheek.
***
Frederica was alone in the kitchens. Despard, his assistant, and the rest of the kitchen staff had gone down to Oxford Street to watch the guards marching past. She was beating white of egg to make meringues and wondering if the mixture would ever become stiff enough. She was enjoying her work, however, not quite realizing that the two doting chefs made sure she never did anything too strenuous.
She heard footsteps coming down the narrow area steps outside and then heard a knock at the door. She went to answer it, expecting to open the door to a tradesman, but found herself staring up into the handsome face of Captain Manners. He was clutching a bunch of flowers.
“For you,” he said, holding them out.
Frederica took the flowers and dropped a curtsy. “How very kind of you, sir,” she said. “Would you care to step inside? I can give you a glass of wine… or tea… or something.”
He followed her in. She poured him a glass of wine from a bottle which Despard had opened earlier. “I shall go on with my work,” said Frederica, “for the others will be back presently. They are gone to watch the guards parade along Oxford Street.”
He sipped his wine and studied her as she beat the meringue mixture. Her face was flushed, for the kitchen was very hot, her nose was shining, damp tendrils of hair were escaping from under the mob-cap she wore, and he thought she looked prettier than ever.
“Let me do that,” he said, getting up. “You look as if you need some help.”
Frederica sat down with a little sigh. “Despard beats eggs like a machine and his whites become stiff in no time at all, but it seems to take me ages.”
He glanced at her small white hands. “You are a puzzle, Miss Frederica.”
“How so?”
“You have the dress and manners of a lady. Your hands are fine and white and you have never done kitchen work before.”
“How do you know that?”
“Simple. The servants who work in these kitchen basements have complexions like clay and red, work-worn hands.”
Frederica knew she should keep her secret to herself, but even while beating eggs he looked tall and aristocratic. She did not want him to think she was a mere servant.
“If I tell you, sir, will you promise not to betray me?”
“On my heart.”
“My name is really Frederica Gray. I am the only daughter of Sir Randolph and Lady Gray. They ran up a large bill here and did not pay it. Colonel Sandhurst was sent to collect the money. He arrived in our grounds on the night I was running away from home. You see, my father had arranged a marriage for me to Lord Bewley and… and… I could not go through with it. Colonel Sandhurst did not collect his debt. He decided instead to offer me shelter here until my father came to his senses.”
“I do not think these hoteliers are very good protectors,” commented the captain. “Lord Bewley is resident at this hotel and you are condemned to work in the kitchens.”
“As to that, Lord Bewley has never met me and does not know where I am. And I only work a few hours here each day and Monsieur Despard, the chef, is very kind to me. It is,” she added with quaint seriousness, “very important for a lady to know how to cook.”
“It is very unconventional behaviour,” he said with a touch of severity.
Frederica gave him a candid look. “Have you considered your own behaviour, Captain Manners? I am grateful for the flowers, but surely a gentleman does not present flowers to a scullery maid unless his intentions are of the worst.”
“Had I believed for a moment you were really a scullery maid… there, the mixture is perfect… I would not have dreamt of such a thing. I do not seduce servants.”
“But you are engaged to be married.” She removed her hideous mob-cap and her hair gleamed gold in the dim light from the barred window above her head.
“I am well aware of it. It amused me to find out more about you.”
“Now you have”—Frederica’s voice held an edge—“you may take yourself off, for my companions in labour will soon be here and I must be careful of my reputation.”
For one moment, a sort of baffled anger flashed in his blue eyes, to be replaced by his normal amused and slightly mocking look.
He bowed. “Your servant, Miss Gray. No doubt we shall not meet again.”
“Now that would be correct and conventional,” said Frederica. Her eyes danced and he felt pompous and stuffy.
But when he had left, the laughter died in Frederica’s eyes and she sat slowly down at the table again and clutched her cap in her small hands. She felt she had had a brief glimpse of
freedom before sinking back into the person she had always been at home, crushed and small and somehow always in the wrong. She should have behaved like any well-bred miss despite her odd circumstances. She had been taught how to simper and flatter. She had even been taught how to laugh by a music teacher. A fashionable laugh was supposed to tinkle melodiously down the scale. He would think her a hurly-burly hoyden.
***
Captain Manners met his friend, Mr. Jack Warren, in Bond Street and they walked together towards the Bond Street Straits. Jack was talking lightly of the latest scandal when the captain suddenly said abruptly, “Dammit, she’s adorable.”
Jack stopped in mid-sentence and stared at his friend. “Miss Belinda Devenham?”
Captain Manners collected his wits.
“Who else?” he asked lightly.
Chapter Six
It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots in which one could arrange one’s cravat? They lived strange lives, these men, and they died strange deaths—some by their own hands, some as beggars, some in a debtor’s gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in a foreign land.
—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
To Sir Philip’s dismay, not only did Mr. Davy appear more entrenched in the hotel life than he had ever been before, but Lady Fortescue had been proved right. He had heard the gossip and it was all against Lord Braby, about how he had been gulled by some false aristocrat into paying his shot at the Poor Relation. Lord Braby himself had arrived in great wrath at the hotel, only to be met by an icy Lady Fortescue who pointed out that he was making an even greater fool of himself by cursing about a debt which he was supposed to have paid anyway. If, she said, some unknown friend had taken it upon himself to trick his lordship into paying up, then he had only himself to blame.
Having dealt with Lord Braby to her satisfaction, Lady Fortescue realized she had almost forgotten about the problem of Mary Jones, the chambermaid. She sent for Miss Tonks and asked if Mary had been getting into trouble with any of the male guests. “I have kept an eye on her,” said Miss Tonks, “and to be fair, she is behaving impeccably. Her manner, which appeared a trifle saucy and bold when she came here, has changed and she is modest and well-behaved and, despite her looks, that appears enough to quell any advances. I worked with her the other morning. It is amazing how many of our gentlemen do contrive to be awake when she walks into the room, but she goes quickly and quietly about her duties. I thought Lord Bewley was a trifle bold in his remarks to her and he seemed quite angry when I followed her into his room, but she appeared not to notice.”
