Back in Society (The Poor Relation series)

by Beaton, M. C.

‘You’re welcome. Good night,’ said Sir Philip, who had followed the colonel. He slammed the door in their faces.

  ‘You impossible little toad,’ raged Lady Fortescue. ‘Now we shall have to invite them in before that comte decides to call you out for such an insult.’ She opened the door. ‘My apologies, gentlemen. Such a draught of wind. Pray do join us in a dish of tea.’

  To Sir Philip’s fury, both came in. Mr Davy had crossed to the piano. Miss Tonks followed him saying, ‘If you intend to play, then I will turn the music for you.’ That left the place on the small sofa next to Jane empty, and so, with an expert flick of his long coat-tails, the comte sat down next to her. To Sir Philip’s further fury, the comte handed his hat, cane and gloves to the poor relations’ servant, John, a signal that he had every intention of staying longer than the usual ten minutes a formal call was supposed to take.

  Lady Fortescue poured tea for the visitors and then turned to Mr Davy. ‘Are you going to entertain us, Mr Davy?’

  He smiled. ‘Miss Tonks and I went to the Wells the other night to see Grimaldi. I was going to sing you one of his comic songs, but then I did not expect us to have such distinguished visitors.’

  ‘Pray do not let us stop you,’ said Jamie. ‘Grimaldi is the greatest clown ever.’

  ‘Alas, I will have to sing unaccompanied,’ said Mr Davy.

  ‘I’ll accompany you,’ said Sir Philip, startling everyone with his sudden change from bad temper to amiability. He gleefully thought that Davy had gone mad, and a rendition of a vulgar comic song was just the thing to give this comte a disgust of the company. He assumed Jamie was encouraging Mr Davy out of politeness. ‘Hum the refrain,’ said Sir Philip, rippling his small, well-manicured hands expertly over the keys.

  Mr Davy hummed a jaunty refrain. Sir Philip went through it a couple of times and then Mr Davy began to sing.

  The comte looked at him in surprise. The man was an actor, he thought, not knowing that until recently that had been Mr Davy’s profession. The song was a simple one, about a man complaining about his bullying wife, but Mr Davy almost became Grimaldi as he sang, complete with funny expressions. There came an odd sound from next to the comte. He glanced in surprise at Jane. She had her handkerchief up to her mouth. He realized she was trying not to laugh. Ladies were supposed to emit tinkling chimes or show classical smiles. They were not supposed to laugh out loud. Society, he thought, has taken every natural expression away from us, from walking to laughing to how we eat. And then Jane gave way. She lowered the handkerchief and laughed out loud, and Lady Fortescue, usually rigid when it came to social behaviour, relaxed and laughed as well, half in amusement at Mr Davy’s antics, half in delight at Jane’s mirth.

  By the time Mr Davy had finished, they were all, with the exception of a surprised and disgruntled Sir Philip, helpless with laughter. Mr Davy bowed before the applause and then said cheerfully, ‘Now I will sing you a ballad. “The Minstrel Boy.”’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ said Sir Philip, scuttling away from the piano.

  ‘You do, too,’ complained Miss Tonks.

  ‘I will sing unaccompanied,’ said Mr Davy.

  The words of Thomas More’s lovely song sounded round the room in a clear tenor voice.

  ‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

  In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

  His father’s sword he has girded on,

  And his wild harp slung behind him.’

  There was a little respectful silence when he had finished and then applause. Jamie, who was sitting opposite Jane, noticed with a sort of wonder that she had thawed out, as he described it to himself. Her large eyes were sparkling and there was a delicate pink bloom on her cheeks.

  She heard the comte say, ‘You ought to be on the stage, sir,’ and then Mr Davy’s reply, ‘But I was until recently,’ and that struck her as funny as well and she laughed helplessly while the comte looked down at her in sudden affection and wanted to take her in his arms.

  He set himself to please, and entertained the company with various anecdotes about the follies of society while Sir Philip glowered and Harriet studied Jane’s glowing face and worried about her. This comte was too frivolous, too unstable. All at once, Harriet longed for her husband, who would know exactly what to do. He would surely have reached Milan by now. But how long would it take for a letter to arrive? And what kind of letter? Why had she been so selfishly cold to him? But for the moment she must concentrate on Jane’s safety. When the comte and Jamie at last took their leave, Harriet drew Sir Philip aside, waspish Sir Philip who nonetheless had proved so clever in the past at getting them out of scrapes.

  ‘I am anxious about this comte,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘And so you should be,’ pointed out Sir Philip. ‘His visit tonight was no accident. He is pursuing Lady Fremney.’

  ‘Miss North,’ corrected Harriet. ‘It is better if we use her new name at all times. I think I need your help, Sir Philip. The comte is highly unsuitable. I am delighted to see Jane has recovered her spirits, but I am determined to find her a suitable beau and the comte is not my idea of a correct and stable gentleman.’

  ‘I’ll think o’ something. In fact, I’ll start now,’ said Sir Philip, his pale eyes gleaming as he saw a way to get even with the comte. ‘Leave her to me.’

  He slid over and jerked his head at Miss Tonks, who was sitting beside Jane on the sofa. She rose after throwing him a suspicious look and went to talk to Mr Davy.

  ‘Good to see you in high spirits,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘Mr Davy is so very clever,’ said Jane. ‘I wish I had seen him on the stage.’

  ‘Tol rol,’ remarked Sir Philip dismissively. ‘All these actors can do is perform. But nothing out of the common way. Sort of thing that amuses that French comte. We’ll be the talk of London tomorrow.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, he is such a gossip. He will rattle on about his unfashionable evening, listening to vulgar songs in an hotel sitting room and make a mock of all of us.’

  Jane’s eyes widened. ‘He is not like that, surely. There is a lightness of character about him, I admit. But he seems a gentleman.’

  ‘Not where the ladies are concerned. That fellow has had more mistresses – you forgive me speaking so plain? – than I have had hot dinners. He is the despair of the Season. Rich and handsome, I will allow. He occasionally flirts with some gullible young miss, breaks her heart and then goes off to pay court to a flighty matron anxious for an amour.’

  Jane thought of the little scene in the tea-gardens. Who had the lady been? A discarded mistress? What a wicked, dismal world it all was. She felt as depressed as she had recently been elated.

  ‘Sir Philip!’ Lady Fortescue’s voice was sharp. ‘What are you saying to Miss North?’

  ‘Just tittle-tattle,’ said Sir Philip quickly.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ said Harriet on the road home, ‘that this comte’s attentions cannot do you harm. Despite his reputation, he is accounted a great catch. Perhaps, should he ask again, I will give you permission to go driving with him.’

  ‘I do not want to encourage the attentions of such a man,’ said Jane in a low voice.

  ‘As you will. But why?’

  ‘Sir Philip told me of his mistresses, of his reputation.’

  Harriet looked at her in dismay. ‘I am afraid that was my fault. Seeing you so happy and animated, I thought . . . Well, in any case, I told Sir Philip to warn you off. I had forgot the sheer crudity of his methods. Oh, dear, I forgot, too, about his resentments. Because he mistook the comte for a yahoo and got himself in disgrace with Lady Fortescue and the colonel, he will now want to get even with this comte. I am sorry, Jane.’

  ‘In any case,’ said Jane, striving for a lighter tone, ‘I am sure there are safer, more charming gentlemen around. Have you heard from the duke?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Harriet sadly. ‘I wonder where he is.’

  At that moment, the Duke of Rowcester
and his servants were sheltering in a grimy tavern some miles from Milan. They had been forced to take shelter from a violent storm. The duke was seated in a dark corner, drinking a glass of the bitter local wine and thinking about his wife. He tried to remember how cold and distant to him she had been of late but could only remember the vibrant loveliness of her before the tragedy of their daughter’s death. In and out of his thoughts came the sounds of rapid French from a couple of men, shielded from his view by the back of a high settle. The duke’s French was excellent and he suddenly realized the two men were discussing possible ways to free Napoleon from his prison on Elba. He listened, half irritated, half amused, for Europe seemed to be full of Napoleonic plotters hoping to free their hero. What did another pair matter? And then he heard one say, ‘You could go to Elba as a tourist after you have silenced that comte for us.’

  ‘De Mornay has exposed plot after plot,’ said the other voice. ‘But never fear. He is in London and I shall make sure his death looks accidental.’

  At that moment, the duke’s valet arrived to say that a bedchamber had been prepared. The duke was conscious of two black figures disappearing out of the inn. He wondered who the plotters were but he was exhausted, and what did two more plotters matter? There had already been attempt after attempt to free the emperor, but all had failed.

  It was only as he was falling asleep that he recalled the voices and with a little shock realized that the man speaking fluent French, the one who was going to London, had in fact probably been English. There had been something in the intonation and accent. And only an English tourist could go to Elba, and one of high rank. He decided to write to the authorities in Horse Guards in the morning about what he had overheard. But before that, he would write to his wife.

  FIVE

  It is impossible, in our condition of Society, not to be sometimes a Snob.

  WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

  A month had passed and the Season was about to begin. There was a hectic air about society, rather like that of actors before an opening night. Only Jane felt strangely unmoved. It still seemed to her an odd dream in which she was living, and yet the only road to freedom lay through marriage. Often she wished she had money of her own so that she might buy a partnership in the hotel. Her visits to the hotel had ceased, Lady Fortescue saying that although the hotel owners were bon ton, some slight taint of trade might stick to Jane were she to be seen socializing with them too often.

  Frances, Jane knew, was disappointed because Mr Jamie Ferguson had not come to call. For her part, she was glad she had not seen the comte again. He made her feel . . . uncomfortable. Or rather that was the only way she could explain her feelings about him to herself.

  Jane found Frances an agreeable companion because Harriet was often withdrawn and seemed to live for the arrival of the post. And then, on the eve of the Season, Harriet received a letter from her husband. Jane did not know what it contained, only that Harriet looked transformed, radiant. The duke had not bothered to mention overhearing the conspirators. That news he had sent in a separate letter to Horse Guards.

  Frances called that afternoon to discuss her coming out with Jane at a ball at Lady Farley’s the following evening. Frances was unusually subdued. She had not told Jane that although she had gone to Curzon Street several times during the last month with her maid in the hopes of one glimpse of Mr Jamie Ferguson, she had been unlucky. She was plagued with dreams of this beautiful Scotchwoman, Lady Dunwilde. She had learned that she was in London but had not found anyone to describe her looks to her.

  ‘Do you think Mr Ferguson will be at the ball?’ she asked again.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Jane. ‘Harriet has had a letter from her husband which has put her in alt. I could ask her to question Lady Farley as to whether Mr Ferguson has been invited.’

  But Frances did not want that. For she suddenly knew if she found out before that ball that he was not going, then she would not look forward to the event at all. She had hoped that he would have called on her to discuss her plan of making Fiona a confidante, but only friends of her mother came to call, anxious matrons determined that their daughters should succeed in the marriage market.

  ‘I think, dear Jane, that I should just wait and see. But you must remember to attract the gentlemen to your side and flirt with Mr Ferguson and then go off and dance with someone else so that he will be obliged to ask me.’

  ‘You rate my looks too highly,’ said Jane ruefully.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Frances shook her frizzy hair. ‘Don’t you dream of some gentleman walking towards you across the ballroom, Jane, and of you looking up and knowing this is your future?’

  Jane gave a little sigh. She could not tell Frances that at the back of her mind was always the dread that she would see her father walking towards her, followed by Miss Stamp. Romance did not seem to play any part in this London of the early-nineteenth century. The heaths around London were decorated with corpses hanging from gibbets, the town was patrolled by window-smashing mobs, and gentlemen had to know how to defend themselves with stick or dress-sword. London was rich in brothels called bagnios, and in gin-shops where it was possible to get drunk for a penny and dead drunk for twopence. Unlike Frances, Jane read a great number of newspapers and magazines and was more aware of the violent life just outside the carefully protected world in which she lived. Because of her brutish father and his equally brutish friends, she saw the studied tenderness to the ladies of society by the gentlemen as a charade, as mannered as dancing. She thought of the Poor Relation Hotel and had a longing to visit the owners who knew her real name, to talk to them about her fears, the fears she did not want to burden Harriet with because Harriet was still in mourning for her dead child.

  ‘You have gone all sad again,’ said Frances. ‘There is always a sadness about you, Jane, and you never talk of your family. Do they come to London?’

  ‘No,’ said Jane briefly. ‘They are in the north. Let us change the subject. Is your gown very pretty, Frances?’

  ‘I will sketch it for you,’ said Frances, seizing her drawing-book. Her pencil moved rapidly over the paper. ‘It is white muslin, of course, very suitable. Do you not wish we could wear scarlet or something like that? It has quite a low neckline, like so, and little puffed sleeves, but it has a gauze overdress with silver-and-sapphire clasps and three flounces at the hem. I am to wear a Juliet cap embroidered with pearls and sequins. My gloves are white kid but do not cover my elbows, which is a pity, for although I treat them nightly with lemon juice and goose grease, they are a trifle rough. And little slippers of white kid with rosettes of white silk.’

  ‘Very fine,’ said Jane.

  ‘So what is yours like?’

  ‘Come with me and I will show you.’ Jane led the way to her bedroom where her gown was displayed on a dummy by the window. Like Frances’s evening gown, it was of white muslin but decorated with a little green sprig and ornamented with a wide green silk sash. ‘I have green gloves and green shoes to go with it,’ said Jane, ‘and green silk flowers for my hair. Do you not think the neckline a trifle low?’

  Frances put her head on one side like an inquiring bird and studied the gown with interest. ‘I do not think so. Low necklines are all the thing. I do wish these fashions which put the waist under the armpits would be exploded. My one claim to beauty is my tiny waist, but no one ever sees it.’ She looked out of the window and down to the street below. ‘Do you think it will rain? Oh, my heart. There is my Mr Ferguson walking below with that comte. Is he coming here?’

  Jane joined her and looked down. The comte and Jamie were strolling arm in arm. As they came abreast of the duchess’s house, Jamie said something to the comte as he looked up, and then both laughed.

  About to turn away, because Jane felt that both men were probably joking about the bold misses who tried to accost gentlemen in Curzon Street, she suddenly stiffened and stared down. In a closed carriage on the other side of the street, she could make out the burning eyes of some ma
n. His hat was pulled down over the top part of his face and a scarf up over the lower part. A ray of sunlight flashed on something metal and Jane realized with horror that he was holding a pistol and that that pistol was levelled at the two men walking below. She threw up the window and shrieked, ‘Look out!’

  The man in the carriage shouted something to his driver, who promptly whipped up his horses and the carriage bowled off.

  The comte and Jamie looked up in surprise and then swept off their hats and made low bows. ‘What is the matter, Jane?’ cried Frances.

  ‘I must tell them.’ Jane was quite white. ‘Some man was going to shoot them.’

  ‘Capital!’ cried Frances, clapping her hands. ‘What a ruse!’

  But Jane was already out of the room and running headlong down the stairs. A footman leaped to open the front door as she ran across the hall.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ cried Jane. ‘Monsieur le Comte! You must listen.’

  They had begun to move on, but at the sound of her voice they both turned about and hurried back to her.

  ‘What is wrong, Miss North?’ asked the comte.

  Some fashionables passing by were turning to stare. Jane blushed, aware of how unconventional her behaviour must seem. ‘Pray step inside,’ she urged, ‘and I will explain.’

  ‘Delighted to oblige,’ said the comte, his blue eyes sparkling.

  Admiring what she considered Jane’s unexpected boldness and improvisation, Frances came down the stairs as they entered the hall.

  Jane led them into a rather gloomy saloon on the ground floor which was used for receiving the duke’s business callers, such as his agent and his tailor. ‘We should be chaperoned, Frances,’ said Jane in dismay.

  ‘Leave the door standing open,’ said the comte, ‘so that we will all be in full view of any servants. Or summon your maid, Miss North.’

  ‘I will leave the door open,’ said Jane, wondering whether she had imagined the whole thing. ‘I was looking down from the window a moment before and I saw a man with his face mostly covered in a closed carriage opposite. He . . . he was levelling a pistol at you.’