Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8)

by M C Beaton

  “Say a prayer for My Soul. I meant well. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, Meg Jones.”

  Mr. Carpenter carefully slipped the letter into his pocket. No one must see it. By coincidence, he had already made plans to return to England in two years’ time. Meg had waited this long. She could wait a little longer for his help—if, of course, the old lady were still alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Earl of Meresly had suffered from an apoplexy from which he had recovered. But it had left him slow and vague, roused only occasionally to shrewdness and awareness of matters about him. It was during one of those bouts of normality when he had ordered his wife to dismiss her lover, Bertram Pargeter—although the earl believed the young man to have been a fashionable lover; that is, in name only.

  The morning after the marquess of Canonby’s party, the earl remembered the appearance of the prostitute in the cage, for anything coming out of Mother Blanchard’s stable must be a whore. And yet the girl had reminded him vividly of how Lydia had looked when they were first married. Possibly there was some family connection. One of Lydia’s brothers’ bastards, no doubt. His own features were stamped on various children around his estates in Norfolk, but at least none of them had surfaced in London to plague him.

  He sipped his chocolate and flipped through the morning’s letters. One from his caretaker at Meresly caused him to start up against the pillow and let out an exclamation of rage. He had recently written to the caretaker, Harry Sellen, to warn him to expect the arrival of an architect. His recent visit had roused in the earl an affection for Meresly Manor and he planned to make additions and restorations. Deciphering with difficulty the ungrammatical scrawl, the earl was able to make out nonetheless that Sellen had taken inventory of the furniture and belongings at Meresly Manor prior to the architect’s visit. Missing were a pair of silver candlesticks, a china figurine, and a gold snuffbox. The earl rang the bell beside his bed and ordered his secretary to attend him immediately. When his secretary, an intense young man called Paul Jenner, arrived, he showed him the letter and commanded Mr. Jenner to travel to Upper Batchett immediately and take matters up with the parish constable. The earl had enough remnants of shrewdness left to know that his caretaker would not risk a comfortable post by stealing, and the fact that one of the peasantry must have had the gall to risk a hanging was almost beyond bearing. If the parish constable could provide no clues, then the Bow Street Horse Patrol must be brought in.

  Mr. Barks at that same moment was gloomily trying to remove last night’s fur coat from his tongue with a tongue scraper. Mr. Caldicott, who was seated at the end of his friend’s bed, turned slightly green at the spectacle presented by Mr. Barks and quickly averted his eyes.

  “That Blanchard woman ain’t getting the rest of her money,” growled Mr. Barks, throwing the tongue scraper at his soft-footed valet, who fielded it expertly.

  “You mean you didn’t pay her?”

  “I paid her some, but I said she would get the rest the day after the goods was delivered. Had to make sure the goods arrived in one piece. And they did! I mean, she did, that whore Polly Jones. No wonder Canonby was so sour. ‘Have no influence at court.’ Ya! ’Course he has, and ’course he’d have used it like a shot if that strumpet had not up and run off. There’s gratitude for you! Didn’t she have the best gown, the best tete? Pah! Pooh!”

  “Well, it’s no use pahing and poohing,” said Mr. Caldicott, stretching out one silk-stockinged leg to admire the height of the red heels on his shoes. “How do we go about getting her back?”

  “Getting her back?”

  “Yes, my dear parrot. You are not going to let some jade from the hedgerows outwit you?”

  “Friend of my bosom, we can hardly run to the law and say we want our strumpet back!”

  “No, but we have help at hand. Think what a rage Ma Blanchard will be in. No Polly Jones, no money. Rouse yourself and we will go and see her and make sure she sets her henchman on the trail.”

  Mrs. Blanchard was not cursed with much sensitivity, but she had enough of it to have been touched on the raw by Polly. Polly’s open disgust and contempt, not to mention the way she appeared to have gained the admiration and affection of Jake and Barney, had annoyed Mrs. Blanchard intensely. Her prostitutes and staff went in fear of her; her customers treated her with all the respect due to a brothel keeper who supplied high-quality goods. She was not used to being treated with contempt.

  She had stayed up late the night before, following Polly’s adventures in her mind, seeing her deflowered, crushed and weeping.

  When she heard that Polly had run off, her rage and venom knew no bounds. She forced herself to reassure Mr. Barks and Mr. Caldicott that, yes, she would get Polly back.

  “And then we’ll sell her ourselves, mother,” said Mr. Caldicott, “and when we sell her, then you’ll get your money.”

  Five minutes after they had left, Jake and Barney suffered the lash of their mistress’s tongue. They were ordered to search the town in every pawn and second-hand clothes shop for that gown, for Polly surely would have sold it to give her enough money to survive.

  Later that day, the cause of all this concern stood before Mrs. Gander, the merchant’s wife, head meekly bowed.

  Polly was dressed in a demure chintz gown under a black-laced bodice. Her luxuriant tresses were hidden under a mob cap. She felt tired after a night’s fitful sleep in the chair in front of the fire and a hectic morning selling and buying.

  Mr. Gander had made his money by importing silks, jade, and ivory from the East. The latest demand for chinoiserie had made him a fortune. Like quite a lot of men with a capacity for making money, he lacked brains in every other direction. But his life was trade and he was content with that. Not so Mrs. Gander. Risen from humble beginnings, she craved the status of a great lady, and unfortunately aped the current fashion in the West End of dressing like a miss in her teens. Her gown of apple-blossom satin was cut very low, exposing a bosom the color and texture of stretched leather. She had great masses of iron-gray hair, powdered lavender. She had a moustache which she assiduously bleached, convinced that the resultant orange color would not show, and covered her face with a thick layer of white enamel through which the orange moustache nonetheless showed like a wintry dawn. She had servants enough but was convinced that the road to gentility lay in having too many.

  “Your references, girl,” she demanded. Polly produced a paper and handed it over. She had bought one sheet of paper and had lied to Silas that she meant to write home, not having told Silas anything about her background, only her adventures since she had come to London. She had forged a reference from a Mrs. Rendell of Hackminster, saying that one Polly Jones had been an excellent chambermaid, clever, willing and honest. Mrs. Gander had no reason to be suspicious of the reference. Girls of Polly’s status were usually as illiterate as Mrs. Gander was herself. She could not read a word Polly had written, but made a great show of pretending to do so.

  After humming and hawing, Mrs. Gander said, “I have room for a girl in the kitchen. Our French chef is extremely exacting and you must not upset him. My housekeeper will show you your quarters. Where is your baggage?”

  “It will be sent on, mem,” said Polly, dropping a curtsy and lowering her eyes. She had only taken enough for the clothes she stood up in and for that one sheet of paper. The rest she had given to Silas.

  While they both waited for the arrival of the housekeeper, Polly glanced about her. The drawing room in which she found herself was on the first floor and the steady roar from the traffic came up from Cheapside below. Although she had only a muddled recollection of the marquess’s town house, she did remember the impression she had had of light and color, comfort and beauty. Here all was overfurnished, dark and cold. A small fire of sea coal struggled ineffectually with the icy air of the room. A black marble clock in the shape of a temple rapped out the seconds and minutes. The floor was sanded and uncarpeted. Outside, a great wind appeared to rise out of nowhere a
nd howled down Cheapside, sending miniature whirlwinds of debris up into the air. Polly looked out of the new sashed windows—the mullioned ones had been removed the year before—at the bits of straw and paper dancing in the high wind and felt a longing to be just as free and mindless.

  The door opened and a woman who looked just like Mrs. Gander, except that she was dressed in black bombazine and had bunches of keys dangling from her waist, came in.

  “This is Polly Jones, Mrs. Fritt. Show her where she sleeps and then take her to the kitchens, where she will start work immediately as a maid.”

  Polly looked at Mrs. Fritt and felt laughter beginning to well up inside her. The country people said frit when they meant fright, and the housekeeper seemed to have an appropriate name. Polly’s large eyes glistened with tears as she tried to stifle her laughter.

  “Don’t snivel, girl,” snapped Mrs. Fritt. “Come with me.”

  Polly curtsied to Mrs. Gander and followed the housekeeper from the room. She was led upstairs, higher and higher, until at last the housekeeper pushed open an attic door. “That’s yours, over in the corner,” she said. The room was small and very dark. Polly could dimly make out a pallet of straw in the corner indicated. So much for the grand life of London servants, she thought dismally.

  “Now, come down to the kitchens, girl,” said Mrs. Fritt.

  “My name is Polly,” said Polly sharply.

  The housekeeper stared at her for a long time until Polly’s eyes dropped. “You will be called what we think you ought to be called. Follow me.”

  Polly’s new master—the chef, Monsieur Petit, called by one and all Monsoor Petty—was a tall, thin, neurotic man in a long apron and skull cap. He was, in fact, not French at all, and had been christened Josiah Biggs. But the Ganders had advertised for a French chef and so French he decided to be. The strain of keeping up a fake foreign accent combined with his frequent resorts to the gin bottle kept him in a constant state of suppressed rage. He would have been a good plain English cook, but he knew the French were famous for sauces and so he served everything in a sauce, including the roast beef.

  From the start, he seemed determined to take all his frustrations out on Polly. He ordered her hither and thither, shouting out orders and then countermanding them. Every sauce he made was liberally laced with spirits, and Polly reflected that she had never known before that it was possible to get drunk on a dish of roast beef. Her lot was only just better than that of the scullery maid and knife boy. A birch rod stood by the huge open kitchen fire and evidently Monsoor Petty delighted in using it, as Polly found out when he gave the poor little knife boy a lashing.

  When Polly at last had a quiet moment as she stirred pudding mix in a basin, she thought about the marquess of Canonby. She thought about all the delicious trifles she could have stolen. But Silas and his family had touched a chord of decency in Polly’s soul. For their sake, she would work honestly and well.

  A housemaid appeared at her elbow. “Your basket’s arrived, Polly,” she said. “You kin take it upstairs when you go.”

  Basket? What basket? Polly wondered.

  But she was not to be allowed a rest from her duties until nine in the evening. Wearily, she climbed up the stairs. There were three other girls in the attic room: a fat, beefy housemaid called Betty; a thin, acid-tongued parlor maid called Mary; and another kitchen maid, little more than a child, called Joan.

  “Can’t we light a candle?” pleaded Polly, feeling her way in the dark.

  “We got a rushlight,” said Mary, striking a tinder. “But it’s got to be put out in ten minutes’ time. Mistress often comes looking.”

  By the feeble light of the rushlight in its pierced cannister Polly was able to make out a wicker basket on her “bed.” She opened it up. There was a little pile of clean linen, and a small worn copy of the Bible. On a torn scrap of paper was written, “Bless You, Silas Brewer.”

  Polly felt the tears hurt her throat. Silas could read but he could not write. He must have gone to the trouble to pay someone to write that little message. No time for crying, she told herself. She carefully removed her clothes and lay down in her shift under the thin blanket, clasping her hands behind her head.

  She wrinkled her nose. Her sense of smell had not yet been dulled by the city. The room reeked of unwashed bodies. She herself had been bathed before being sent to the marquess of Canonby. In the country, she had simply stripped off and scrubbed herself under the pump whenever she felt like it. Meg had said that frequent washing was a protection against disease and lice. When would she ever have an opportunity to wash again?

  The world is full of people leading lives like this, thought Polly. They do not cheat or steal or lie. If they can bear it, then I must.

  But Polly was quickly to learn another kind of stealing.

  She stole time. She flattered Monsoor Petty so much that he ceased to berate her, saved her the best of the food and left her some time to think and dream. She stole another personality, pretending she was someone quite different, someone sunny and happy and cheerful. She started to sing at her work when the housekeeper was not around. Monsoor Petty began to join in, forgetting to maintain his French accent and roaring out the words in pure Anglo-Saxon. Soon she found that pretending to be happy was a good road to being really happy.

  Winter began to lose its grip and a pale sunlight flooded the cobbles of Cheapside, turning them gold. The first really warm day, she waited until the house was asleep and went out to the pump in the yard at the back and scrubbed herself and washed her hair.

  Then the parlormaid left. She did not give notice, simply disappeared. And Polly Jones was elevated to the position of parlormaid.

  Monsoor Petty was devastated. He was falling madly in love with Polly, and used the close confines of the kitchen quarters as an excuse to lean against her at every opportunity or brush his arm against her generous bosom when handing her bowls of batter to stir.

  Mrs. Gander felt at first she had made a mistake. Her women friends were quick to point out to her the beauty of her parlormaid and say it was dangerous to have such a jewel serving her husband. But Mr. Gander was tickled at the attention and admiration Polly received from his business friends, and commanded she be dressed in prettier and prettier gowns.

  Polly longed for her kitchen job back, away from the hot stares of Mr. Gander’s friends and the cold looks of dislike from his wife and her companions.

  The earl of Meresly quickly forgot about the theft from Meresly Manor, but his assiduous secretary did not. Finding the parish constable too slow and sleepy, Mr. Jenner returned a second time to Upper Batchett with Mr. Tarry of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. Assuring the secretary that matters could now be left in his hands, Mr. Tarry set to work. Unlike his colleagues, who were near-criminals themselves and made most of their arrests through intimate knowledge of the underworld, Mr. Tarry used his intelligence. He was a fat, lazy-looking man with a great purple grog-blossomed face and a huge paunch bulging over his breeches. But inside the fat man lurked a sly, quick, clever one. Mr. Tarry often found his deceptive appearance very useful. He first asked around the village whether anyone who used to live there had gone missing. The villagers closed ranks and said that no one had left. They felt obscurely and in their slow country way that they had been unjust to Polly Jones. She was one of their community and they had no intention of bringing trouble on her.

  Mr. Tarry then took himself off to Meresly Manor. Mr. Harry Sellen, the caretaker, took up a long and weary hour of Mr. Tarry’s time protesting his innocence. Mr. Tarry leaned back and folded his arms over his massive stomach, closed his eyes, and to all appearances went to sleep. At last, as if the fact that Mr. Sellen had finished speaking had penetrated his dreams, he sat up and said, “And you saw no one, no fellow, skulking about?”