‘I got it from your book and . . . and Mrs Middleton.’
‘My dearest love, I should think Mrs Middleton is really a miss and a virgin as well. As far as my book is concerned, that was written by a bitter man with a very narrow view of life. You have made me grow up, Emily. Ladies are passionate, real ladies, ladies such as yourself of warmth and generosity.’
Emily took her hands down from her face.
‘So I will not give you a disgust of me, Fleetwood – I mean, Peter – if I respond to you?’
‘You will give me a disgust of you if you do not!’
Emily buried her face on his chest. ‘I was becoming jealous of Clarissa, too,’ she mumbled.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you said she was witty and beautiful and fascinating and—’
‘And as cold as charity. All she craved was attention and the power it gave her. I was very green when I married her. Oh, Emily, kiss me. You and only you can take me to heaven and back . . .’
‘I heard my lady scream!’ cried Mrs Middleton, starting to her feet.
‘What is wrong?’ cried Lizzie.
But the men laughed and Alice and Jenny blushed and even little Dave turned as red as fire and buried his nose in his glass.
‘Terrible the way you can hear everything in this house,’ said Rainbird, drooping one eyelid in a wink. ‘Play us something, Joseph, and let’s serenade the happy couple.’ Lizzie and Mrs Middleton sat down together, united in their bewilderment. ‘There are some things I do not understand about men and women,’ whispered Mrs Middleton, taking Lizzie’s little work-roughened hand in her own.
‘Me neither,’ said Lizzie. ‘But none of the others seems to be worrying, so we may as well enjoy the party.’
EPILOGUE
Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the
fowler; the snare is broken, and we are delivered.
THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER
Surely bad luck had finally left Number 67, thought Lizzie.
She and the other servants were seated at the end of the long table that had been hired for the day to fit down the length of the front and back parlours to seat the wedding guests.
True to his promise, the earl had summoned his own servants to wait on his guests and the staff of Number 67. Lizzie thought they all looked as grand as the guests. Joseph was resplendent in the finest livery he had ever owned and his voice had become so refined, he was practically unintelligible. Dave kept looking down at the blue velvet of his new suit of clothes and stroking his sleeve with one little hand when he thought no one was looking. Mrs Middleton was very stately in white-and-scarlet merino and with three feathers in her hair. Jenny and Alice were wearing India Muslin gowns, Jenny in pale pink and Alice in celestial blue. Rainbird looked dapper in a claret-coloured coat and green-and-gold-striped waistcoat, and Angus MacGregor had risen to the sartorial heights of intricately starched and tied cravat and a coat of corbeau Bath superfine.
Lizzie glanced down complacently at her own gown. What scullery maid had ever been allowed to wear India muslin before? It was of a leaf-green colour with little white dots, and each dot was embroidered onto the material, not stamped, a luxury that had sent Lizzie quite faint with delight when she had first seen it.
The house had not really been unlucky, thought Lizzie, not for the servants. Everything always came out well for them.
She glanced at Joseph and then looked away. Joseph was getting a bit above himself, the honour of being served at the same table as the quality having gone to his head. The week before the wedding, Joseph had taken Lizzie out walking. As usual, he had talked a lot about himself, but he also talked about how they would get married as soon as they had their freedom. This declaration of intent would once have sent Lizzie into the seventh heaven, but instead it had now left her feeling strangely anxious and depressed. She could not forget Mr Gendreau, the French valet who had walked her home from the church. And yet what did she know of him other than a pleasant face, not very clearly seen in the weak light of the parish lamps? He had not talked much himself, but he had listened very sympathetically, and Lizzie was not used to anyone listening to her for any length of time – certainly not Joseph.
Lizzie had not had any free time to go back to St Patrick’s. She looked at her gown again and wondered if Paul Gendreau would like it. But there was little point in seeking him out. Loyalty chained her to Joseph as surely as her servant status chained her to Number 67. She had never realized before that Joseph, along with the other servants, had come to take it for granted she would marry him. So even when she got her freedom, she would find herself in another sort of cage.
Her pleasure in her new dress was marred by her worries, by her odd feeling that she no longer belonged with the others.
Rainbird was worried about money, for Emily had agreed to leave Clarges Street that very day, right after the wedding breakfast, and travel with her lord to his country estate. That would mean the house would probably stand empty for the rest of the Season. And he could not expect tips from these grand wedding guests, for Giles and the staff of the house in Park Lane would pick up any tips that were going.
All the other servants were in high spirits, and Angus, the cook, enlivened with champagne, was even flirting mildly with Mrs Middleton, who was turning quite pink with gratification.
The wedding breakfast was over at last and they all stood out on the street to say goodbye to the earl and countess. Mr Goodenough was to travel with them.
Emily shook hands with them all and thanked them warmly, begging Rainbird to let her know when they had their pub so that she might be one of their first customers. The earl also thanked Rainbird and the others and then handed Rainbird a wash-leather bag. Fitz asked for permission to kiss the bride and begged Emily to find him a lady as pretty as herself. Mrs Otterley gave Emily two fingers to shake, saw her brother’s furious face, and offered Emily her whole hand instead.
To the servants’ extreme annoyance, Giles and his staff took themselves off to follow the earl and the countess to the country, leaving the Clarges Street staff with all the mess to clean up. As they returned to the servants’ hall for a rest and gossip before changing back into their working clothes, Rainbird tipped out the contents of the bag that the earl had given him. Two hundred golden guineas spilled across the table.
‘We’re free!’ said Rainbird in an awed voice. ‘Free at last. We can buy a pub and give Palmer his quittance.’ They all cheered, but when the cheering had died away, Lizzie said quietly, ‘There’s someone knocking on the door.’
Rainbird darted up the stairs.
He swung open the door, prepared to see one of the wedding guests who had left something behind, and found himself confronting Jonas Palmer, the Duke of Pelham’s agent.
‘I want to see the tenants,’ growled Palmer.
‘You’re too late,’ said Rainbird. ‘You must be the only man in London not to have heard the news. Miss Emily married the Earl of Fleetwood and she and Mr Goodenough have just left for the country. Still, that shouldn’t worry you, as she paid in advance. And now I have something to tell you . . .’
‘And I have something to tell you,’ said Jonas Palmer, pushing past Rainbird and walking into the front parlour, where the remains of the wedding breakfast were spread out. He seized a decanter and poured himself a glass of port and drained it in one gulp. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘Was there ever such a coil? You’ve got another tenant.’
‘We don’t need another tenant,’ said Rainbird.
But Palmer was not listening to him.
‘The Duke of Pelham has returned from the wars and is getting his town house in Grosvenor Square redecorated and he’s coming to live here for the rest of the Season. It’s a mercy that harpy, Goodenough, has left, although I would ha’ liked the pleasure of turning her out. But don’t you go mentioning anything about your wages to Pelham, see!’
‘Why not?’ demanded Rainbird. ‘We are disgracefully paid
.’
‘Because if you so much as tell him what you are getting, I shall tell him how you was dismissed from Lord Trumpington’s household for seducing Lady Trumpington, and I shall tell him how that bishop caught that Joseph fellow stealing.’
‘I have told you and told you,’ said Rainbird grimly, ‘that we were both innocent of the crimes we were accused of.’
‘But the duke will listen to me, not you, and I’ll go and get Trumpington to add his word.’
Rainbird opened his mouth to tell Palmer that not one of them needed to stay at Number 67 a moment longer, and then the thought struck him that the Duke of Pelham knew nothing of their miserable wages. Palmer had probably been charging him higher ones and pocketing the difference. What a marvellous farewell to servitude it would be if Palmer could be exposed as a bully, cheat, and liar. They had the money for their pub; they would only need to wait another two months for their freedom.
‘When can we expect his grace?’ he asked smoothly.
‘Next week,’ said Palmer curtly. ‘You’re looking very fine for a rented butler.’
‘The Earl of Fleetwood invited us all as guests to his wedding.’
Palmer thrust his beefy face towards Rainbird. ‘Don’t you go getting ideas above your station,’ he snarled. ‘Remember, you’re only servants and I hold you all here.’ He clenched his fist.
‘If you have quite finished,’ said Rainbird icily, ‘I suggest you leave us to go about our duties.’
Palmer eyed the remains of the meal greedily. But he was worried to death the duke might demand to see the estate books immediately, and Palmer wanted to go over them again to make sure there were no mistakes. He had not seen the duke for many years, having received all communications from him by letter. He remembered him as a slim, rather pretty youth. Should be no trouble there, but it would be as well to make sure.
He took himself off and Rainbird returned to the servants’ hall with the news. Angus, Joseph, and even Dave were delighted at the thought of a possibility of unmasking Palmer. But the women were afraid. What could they, as mere servants, do to unseat the all-powerful Palmer? A duke’s agent held more sway over the underlings than a country squire.
But as they talked and planned, even they began to brighten. They turned over their past successes, and comforted themselves with the thought that Palmer could really do nothing to them now. A servant with a bad reputation that was broadcast over London by a duke’s agent could never hope to find another job; ladies and gentlemen of property, such as they were about to become, could not be harmed.
At last Rainbird reminded them, they were, for the time being, still servants. They changed back into their working clothes and set about their duties, each one of them wondering what the Duke of Pelham would be like.
A few days later, the Countess of Fleetwood stretched lazily in bed and rested her head on her husband’s naked shoulder.
‘I fear you are not a very conscientious landowner, Peter,’ she murmured. ‘We seem to spend most of our time in bed.’
‘Best place in the world,’ he said sleepily. ‘You are wonderful, my love, a real countess. One would think you had been born to the position.’
‘Did you expect me to behave like a servant?’
‘No. But I am pleased the way you have taken over the running of my household without depending on your private army.’
‘What army?’
‘Those Clarges Street servants.’
Emily laughed. ‘At least they changed your attitude towards the class of servants.’
‘Not quite. They are not proper servants. Perhaps there is something odd about that house after all. Perhaps the house has turned them into a small, highly intelligent force.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Emily with a yawn. ‘I, my love, am going to set you a good example by getting up.’ She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The earl sat up, reached over, and put his hands on her naked breasts and began to kiss the back of her neck.
‘Oh, Peter,’ sighed Emily, leaning luxuriously back against him. ‘I fear, in some respects, I am not a lady at all!’
Adventuress Page 15
