by M C Beaton
They walked out of the hotel and then paused outside the door leading to the apartment which the hoteliers shared. A dusty wind blew down Bond Street, redolent of that London smell of patchouli, bad drains, horse manure, beer, and boiled mutton. Frederica’s thin muslin gown flew about her body.
“Thank you for escorting me, sir,” she said, holding out her hand.
He hesitated, her hand in his. “We… we talk well together, Miss Frederica, do we not?”
“Why, yes.”
“So… so surely it would not be too unconventional to meet in some public place for a chat?”
The common-sense side of Frederica’s brain told her that this was a very unconventional idea. But then her whole life these days was unconventional. She nodded.
“Then when are you free? Do you have an afternoon or evening off?”
Frederica gave a gurgle of laughter. “I am spoilt. They make work for me not to make me feel useless.” Her eyes sparkled. “Tomorrow?”
He felt a surge of gladness. “Where?”
“You forget. You know London. I do not.”
“I will take you up in my carriage tomorrow at two just outside the Green Park at the Piccadilly lodge.”
She smiled up at him and said, “Until then.”
“Until then,” he echoed softly.
He bent and kissed her hand. She dropped a curtsy and then turned and vanished into the dark stairway behind.
Chapter Nine
So if I dream I have you, I have you.
For, all our joys are but fantastical.
—JOHN DONNE
Sir Philip sat fully dressed and awake, counting the hours and the half-hours. He was trying very hard not to panic, but the thought of that invitation going to Bow Street the following day made him sweat with fear. There was no honour among criminals, and he knew Johnny would shop him to save his own skin. But would the Runners—so his agonized thoughts ran—know of Johnny’s existence?
There was only one thing to do. Wait until Lady Fortescue was asleep, creep into her room, and take that wretched invitation out of her reticule. When the watch called “Two in the morning and a wet night,” he decided the time had come. In his stockinged feet, he crept out of his room and along the narrow sloping corridor to Lady Fortescue’s bedchamber. Houses creak and shift at night, and he started guiltily at every sound.
He gently turned the doorknob, relieved to find the door was not locked. The room was in pitch-darkness. He took a stub of candle from his pocket and then retreated back to the corridor and after several attempts lit it with his tinder-box. Back in he went, holding the candle high. The curtains were drawn around the bed and there, over on the toilet-table, lay that reticule. He darted across the room, lit the candle on the toilet-table with his own, blew out his own candle, and put the stub back in his pocket. Then he drew the strings of the reticule and, with a sigh of satisfaction, pulled out that invitation.
Then, just at that moment, the bed curtains were pulled back and there was a great burst of laughter and there, sitting fully clothed on Lady Fortescue’s bed, were the lady herself, the colonel, Miss Tonks, and Mr. Davy.
Sir Philip stared at them in horror. Their laughing faces swam before his eyes and then he collapsed unconscious on the floor, clutching his heart.
“He’s bamming,” said the colonel. “The old rogue cannot bear the fact that we found him out.”
But Miss Tonks was already crouching down on the floor beside Sir Philip. “More lights,” she called. “I think he really is ill.”
Candles were lit. Sir Philip’s face was a nasty colour.
“Get him to his room and rouse Jack and send him for the physician,” said Lady Fortescue, alarmed.
Sir Philip was tenderly borne off to his bedchamber. They all retired to the apartment sitting-room. Frederica joined them, having been awakened by the commotion, and exclaimed in dismay when she heard the sad outcome of the joke played on Sir Philip. They all waited anxiously for the arrival of the doctor, talking occasionally in low voices, one of them rising from time to time to go to see if Sir Philip’s condition had improved.
After what seemed an age, the doctor arrived. Then there was another agonizing wait to hear his diagnosis. At last the doctor joined them, shaking his head. “He is an old man and has had a seizure,” he said, each word falling like a stone in the still silence of the room.
“Will he live?” asked Miss Tonks in a trembling voice.
“That I cannot say. I have bled him. His great age is against him.” Lady Fortescue felt death himself had walked into the room, for were not she and the colonel of an age with Sir Philip? She searched for the colonel’s hand for comfort.
Miss Tonks was weeping quietly. Frederica put an arm about her and whispered, “You were not to know the outcome. Sir Philip brought it upon himself by his spite.”
But Miss Tonks would not be comforted.
The following morning, despite having been awake most of the night, Frederica was on duty in the kitchens to help with the baking of cakes for the Prince Regent.
But to her disappointment the normally indulgent Despard would have none of it. Such an occasion was too great to risk involving an amateur. So, instead, Frederica was given writing-paper and told to make an inventory of the items in the kitchen, items that the perpetually nervous chef was always sure were being thieved.
Frederica moved about the kitchens making notes. What a lot of tiresome things there seemed to be: rolling-pins, baking-tins, cake hoops, earthenware pans, bowls, knives, forks, graters, coffee-mills, pestle and mortar, whisks, slotted spoons, mashers, syringes for icing or making biscuits or fritters, cabbage nets, pastry brush and jagging iron (marker), skimmer, salamander, fish-kettle, lemon-squeezer, pudding-cloths, weighing scales, spice- and pepper-mills, pattypans, mustard bullet, jugs, dredgers, sugar-cutters, baking-spittle, toasting-forks, dripping pans, lark-spits, and preserving pots.
Occasionally she would pause to watch Despard at his work. He and his assistant, Rossignole, were making the royal coat of arms. They rolled out pastry in the shape of a large shield. That was baked separately and then the different quarterings were baked and filled with coloured jams to make the design. The prince was notoriously fond of seed-cake, so that came next. The best seed-cake was supposed to be beaten for two hours. The heat in the kitchen rose higher, and by the time Frederica had completed only some of her list she realized she was hot and sticky and very tired and had left herself with very little time to prepare for her outing with Captain Manners.
Muttering an excuse, she sped off. As there was no hope of ever marrying the captain, she had somehow thought that by reporting for work that morning she would be doing some sort of penance to appease the gods, who might not look favourably on the behaviour of one seventeen-year-old girl. She washed and changed very quickly and it was only when she was scampering along in the direction of Piccadilly that she realized to her dismay that she was wearing one of her servant’s print frocks under her cloak.
Lord Bewley was waiting in his carriage on Piccadilly near the lodge at the gates of the Green Park for Mary Jones. He saw that other servant girl from the hotel arriving and being taken up by that fellow Manners. He smiled to himself. At least he wasn’t stooping to consort with a servant. He still believed Mary Jones to be Frederica, and for the first time in his life his lordship was deeply in love. Mary had been avoiding him of late because she did not want an affair. She had decided she wanted nothing less than marriage and that she was worth it.
***
“I am sorry I am wearing one of my working gowns,” Frederica was saying. “I went to the kitchens this morning to help Despard and ended up having to make a dreary list of everything.”
“You look delightful,” said the captain with a smile that made Frederica’s heart sing.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I thought you might like to see the Tower of London,” he said. “It has the merit that no one fashionable goes th
ere.” And Frederica’s heart plummeted again as she realized that of course he could not be seen anywhere fashionable with such as herself.
So by the time they arrived at the Tower and inspected the dusty animals in the menagerie and then leaned over a parapet and looked down at the river, there was a constraint between them. Frederica had decided sadly that it had been a mistake to come. They were making polite and stilted conversation, like strangers. The sun had gone in and the earlier rain was threatening to come back. At last she said in a little voice, “I would like to return, if you please.”
In that moment, he felt mad with frustration. His dreams of kissing her had lately changed to dreams of having all of her, of tumbling her beneath him. He felt lost in the grip of a powerful obsession, and yet here she was beside him and he could not even take her in his arms.
She felt every inch of the journey back was pure misery. “Pray do not get down,” she said when they were back in Piccadilly. He stopped his carriage and she leaped down nimbly and with a breathless little “Goodbye” was off and running through the crowds.
Colonel Sandhurst had just visited Sir Philip to find out from Miss Tonks, who was sitting at his bedside, that the old man’s condition was unchanged. He was walking along the corridor when he heard the sound of weeping coming from the room which Frederica shared with Miss Tonks. He pushed open the door and went in.
Frederica was lying face down on the bed, crying her eyes out.
“Now, then,” said the colonel, alarmed. He went and sat on the bed and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. “Has that fool Despard been upsetting you?”
Frederica turned a face up to his that was blotched with tears. “It is Captain M-Manners,” she sobbed.
“What’s he been up to?”
“He took me on an expedition to the Tower because… because no f-fashionable people go there.”
“This afternoon?”
Frederica nodded.
“I have to ask you this, m’dear. Did he molest you in any way?”
“Oh, no, anything but. But he was so withdrawn, almost angry with me.”
“You are in a difficult situation,” mourned the colonel, “and it is all my fault.”
“No, no. You rescued me!”
I did it for the money, thought the colonel. Aloud he said, “Dry your eyes and put on a pretty frock and go to our sitting-room in the hotel. Lady Fortescue has just had the delivery of some new novels from the bookshop. A quiet time reading will soothe you. Now you must excuse me. I have work to do.”
The colonel went round to the hotel and straight up to Captain Manners’s room. The captain was in his undress, wrapped in a splendid dressing-gown while his man brewed coffee on a spirit-stove.
“I would have a word with you in private, sir,” said the colonel.
“Leave us,” the captain commanded his servant.
“Now,” he said when they were alone, “what is the reason for your call, Colonel Sandhurst?”
“Miss Frederica does not have her parents here to protect her,” said the colonel. “May I ask what you were about, to take her to the Tower of London today without even a chaperone? Do I have to remind you that you are betrothed to Miss Devenham?”
“I behaved badly,” said the captain quietly. “I wanted a little more of her company while I could. It was a bad mistake. But as to the conventions, the carriage was an open one and no one fashionable goes to the Tower.”
“As you pointed out to Miss Frederica, and so underlined the sad difficulty of her position.”
“Sir, I would gladly change her position to that of my wife if I were free, but I am not.”
The colonel felt a feeling of relief. “Come, Captain,” he said in his best military tones. “Where is your courage? Where your fighting spirit? Look on it as a military campaign. I am sure you can give Miss Devenham a disgust of you if you put your mind to it.”
The captain looked at him in surprise and then began to laugh. “What an odd lot you are at this hotel,” he said. “I will go about it directly.”
***
Sir Philip had, in fact, only swooned. He had been conscious the whole time the doctor had been bleeding him but had suffered it all without a murmur. He knew he had frightened his friends, Miss Tonks in particular, and he wanted them to go on being frightened for having made such a fool of him. But he was getting very hungry. Miss Tonks always seemed to be at his bedside. Did the wretched woman never need to go to the privy?
By the middle of the day, he felt the farce had gone on long enough. He opened his eyes a little and peered through the slits. Yes, there was Miss Tonks, her eyes red with weeping.
“Letitia,” he said in a faint whisper.
“Philip!” Miss Tonks burst into tears. “We th-thought w-we h-had killed you.”
“I may not last much longer,” he said in a dry whisper. “You must promise me something.”
“Anything,” said the distressed Miss Tonks, wiping her eyes.
“You must promise me that if we sell the hotel, you will come and share my declining years.”
“Oh, Philip.”
He produced what he hoped sounded like a death rattle and clutched her hand hard. “Promise,” he urged.
“Oh, I promise,” said Miss Tonks, quite overset. “Only don’t die.”
“Thank you. I have another last request.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I am a condemned man and would like one decent meal of Despard’s before I part this life.”
“I—I will go directly.” And Miss Tonks fled to spread the news that Sir Philip had come to his senses but did not have long to live.
Soon they all came into his bedroom as he was tucking into one of Despard’s meat pies, gravy running down his chin.
“You look remarkably well,” said Lady Fortescue suspiciously.
“When dear Letitia here promised to be a companion to me in my declining years when we sold the hotel,” said Sir Philip, “I felt my spirits rally.”
Mr. Davy looked curiously at Miss Tonks, who lowered her eyes and stared at the floor.
“And one thing I know,” went on Sir Philip, “is that when Miss Tonks gives her promise, she will never go back on it.”
He tricked that promise out of her, thought Mr. Davy with a spasm of rage.
“I am sorry you had a seizure,” said Lady Fortescue, “but it was all your own fault. You had no right to try to trick us with a forged invitation.”
Sir Philip, having finished the meat pie, handed the tray to the servant, Betty, and then lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “What invitation?” he said weakly. For when he had come to his senses when they were carrying him to his room, he had felt the pasteboard of that card clutched between his fingers. He had clung on to it like grim death, and when the doctor had left to tell the others of his condition, he had nipped out of bed and thrust it into the fire.
“The one you took from my reticule,” snapped Lady Fortescue.
“Please leave,” whispered Sir Philip. “I am nigh to death.”
“Oh, leave him,” said the colonel in disgust. “You, too, Miss Tonks.”
When they had gone, Sir Philip tugged a copy of Sporting Life out from under his pillow and settled back to read, a little smile on his face.
He would not have been so happy could he have heard the conversation that was taking place between Mr. Davy and Miss Tonks.
Mr. Davy drew Miss Tonks aside as they left the bedchamber. “Come with me to the coffee room,” he said. “There is something I want to discuss with you.”
Miss Tonks silently allowed him to lead her next door to the hotel. She felt stunned. She did not want to think Sir Philip had tricked her.
“Now tell me what happened,” said Mr. Davy when they were seated at a table and a waiter had poured coffee. So Miss Tonks recounted the affecting scene between herself and Sir Philip.
“The main question,” said Mr. Davy when he had heard her out, “is whether you wish to be ti
ed to Sir Philip.”
She gave a little sigh and then said, “No. But I have given my word.”
“A promise that has been tricked out of you is not binding,” he said.
“He could not have done that,” cried Miss Tonks, “Why should he?”
“Because he regards me as his rival.”
“That is ridiculous. You have no interest in me whatsoever,” said Miss Tonks bitterly.
“Miss Tonks, I owe you a great deal. I think you are a lady of great courage. I value your friendship. Sir Philip knows that.”
“Mr. Davy, I unfortunately overheard you talking to Sir Philip. You said you had no intention of encouraging my attentions.”
He flushed slightly. “You should know that things partly overheard can be dangerous and misleading. I wished to put an end to Sir Philip’s rude remarks, that is all. What do you plan to do this evening?”
“Nurse Sir Philip. In fact, I must return to his bedside.”
“Lady Fortescue’s old servants can do that. In fact, I will speak to them about it myself. Go and get some sleep and we will go out together this evening, just you and me, to some comfortable but not fashionable chop-house, and then we will take a stroll and look at all the things in the shops that we could buy were we extremely rich.”
Love is a great transformer. Miss Tonks raised her face to his. The blotches caused by weeping had gone and she looked at him in shy delight.
Then her face fell. “But my promise…”
“Trust me. Sir Philip is far from dying. Take a leaf out of the old man’s book. If he reminds you of it, you must be terribly sympathetic and say he said no such thing, that he was rambling and that his dire illness must have given him fantasies.”
“You mean I should lie.”
Mr. Davy’s eyes sparkled. “Why not?”
Miss Tonks clasped her long thin hands together. On the one side was a vision of sitting that evening beside Sir Philip’s bed. On the other, she saw herself sitting in a chop-house with Mr. Davy—the blue silk, and perhaps it was not too late in the year to wear that little straw hat with the blue silk flowers—and chatting easily.
