by M C Beaton
“Why!” he exclaimed. “It’s beginning to snow. How cosy.”
But Miss Priscilla Wheatcroft only let out a faint moan. Things were not going the way she had planned during her long journey to town from the country. Things were certainly not going her way one little bit.
As Frederica’s carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, she was just in time to see her husband’s smart yellow curricle bowling out of the other end. She gave a little sigh. It was just as well. Confrontations were painful. When they met, he treated her with a chilling formality. He was absent most nights, not returning till the small hours. Frederica often heard him enter as she tossed and turned on her pillow, unable to sleep until she knew he was home. A fine, light snow was beginning to fall from the leaden sky. She was bone weary from the hectic round of social engagements, always hoping by some miracle that her husband would attend one of them and smile on her. But when he did attend, he afforded her no more than a common bow and promptly retired to the card room. Frederica did not know how bitterly he loathed her crowd of gallants and how desperately he wished he could snatch her from them.
She felt immeasurably weary in body and spirit as she walked into the hall. Worthing, the butler, presented her with a note folded in the shape of a cocked hat.
“This arrived for you this morning, Your Grace,” he said.
Frederica removed her bonnet and cloak and handed them to Worthing and then opened the note. The writing seemed to leap out of the page at her.
“If you wish to know where your husband spends his evenings—and with whom—pay a visit tonight to Mrs. O’Brien’s gambling house, 128 Cork Street.”
It was unsigned. Frederica rounded on Worthing. “Who brought this?”
“A footman, Your Grace. He was in plain livery and I do not know from which household he came.”
“Very good, Worthing,” said Frederica faintly. “That will be all.”
She crumpled the note in her hand and stared into space. She would not go. She would not be confronted by her husband’s latest lightskirt.
But then the thought of this agonizing marriage dragging its painful weary way on through the winter’s days was too much. She had to know the worst. Confronted by her in such a place, he must surely come to a decision—divorce… or rearrange the marriage to more comfortable terms.
The weary day dragged on as the steadily falling snow transformed London into a black and white etching, dancing, twirling, and falling in the pale flickering light of the parish lamps.
Frederica dined alone in her rooms and then rang for her maid. Dressed in a gown of white merino with silver stripes and a red velvet cloak lined with ermine, she trailed slowly down the stairs to come face to face with her husband who was also dressed in evening clothes.
“May I escort you somewhere, my lady?” he asked in a thin cold voice.
“N-no,” stammered Frederica. “I mean do not trouble. I am going to Emily’s and I am sure that it is out of your way.”
The Duke regarded his little wife speculatively. “I had forgotten, of course, that you prefer other escorts. Go on your way, madame.” He turned on his heel and walked off into his study and left her standing alone in the large hall.
Frederica half turned and made as though to run after him. But the study door shut behind him with a loud bang.
As she climbed into her carriage, a little of the fear began to leave her. Of course, it was all a hum! How could he be going to a gambling hell when she had left him at home. She would pay a call on Emily after all, and then just look in at Mrs. O’Brien’s.
She had taken the precaution of ordering the services of two burly footmen to accompany her. There would be no danger of a reenactment of the Barnet episode.
There was still enough of the child in Frederica to enjoy the sparkling snow despite her apprehension. And Emily always gave her a warm welcome.
Mrs. O’Brien’s indeed! He would probably go to his club.
Chapter Twelve
The gambling hell did not present a very sinister appearance from the outside. A neat brick fronted, three-storied building with white painted window sashes and a glossy white door with a well-polished knocker, it did not seem to Frederica to be the type of mansion she had associated with the demi-monde.
But telling the two footmen to accompany her, she picked her way up the steps, which had been freshly cleared of snow.
Mrs. O’Brien put one large eye to the crack in the curtain and swivelled it round to follow Frederica’s slight figure as she mounted the steps outside followed by her footmen.
“A crest, no less,” she murmured, surveying the coach. “Some lord has sent his mistress along in fine style.”
“That, dear Mrs. O’Brien, is no mistress. That is none other than the Duchess of Westerland.”
“Lud!” Mrs. O’Brien swung her massive figure round and surveyed Jack Ferrand over her several chins. “What does Her Grace want frequenting a place like this?”
“You underrate the charms of your establishment,” he said smoothly. “Do not be put off by the Duchess’s youthful appearance and innocent air. She is a dedicated gambler.”
“So? There are fancy establishments enough in Mayfair to cater to the likes of her.”
“The Duchess,” Jack Ferrand went on, “has a certain little-known penchant for wild young men. Her husband is very strict so she cannot satisfy her… er… needs in her immediate circle. She is also exceedingly wealthy!”
“Oho! Then since she knows what she’s about, it’s up to me to supply such a plump little chicken with what she desires.”
Mrs. O’Brien moved rapidly among the tables, stopping here and there to speak with certain young men. With a snap of her fingers, a new table was set up just as Frederica made her entrance.
Mrs. O’Brien cruised majestically forward, enveloping Frederica in an air of false bonhommie.
Jack Ferrand had disappeared from view. Mrs. O’Brien sank into a low curtsy and then wheezed to her feet with great difficulty. “A great honor, Your Grace,” she panted. “Please come this way.”
Frederica decided against mentioning her husband. He was obviously not in the room. She would play one game and then make her departure.
As she followed Mrs. O’Brien, she looked around nervously. Everyone seemed to have stopped playing in order to stare at her. Many of the women wore necklines so low that the tops of their nipples showed and their transparent dresses had been damped to show as much of their form as they indecently could.
“Here we are,” said Mrs. O’Brien jovially pulling out a chair for Frederica. There were five young bucks at the table, all the worse for wine, and all sprawled at their ease.
“I do not care to join this company,” Frederica started to say when things began to move very quickly.
One of the young bucks pulled Frederica down onto his knee and she sprawled across him while his friends roared and cheered. Mrs. O’Brien knew from the look on Frederica’s face that a dreadful mistake had been made. She made a move to help Frederica but a commotion in the doorway made her swing round.
The Duke of Westerland stood there, his grey eyes like flat pieces of slate in his white face. The whole room froze. Mrs. O’Brien had one hand stretched towards Frederica and the other towards the Duke. Frederica’s skirt was rucked up as far as her garters and the Duke was to remember long afterwards that the thing that made his temper snap was the fact that this was the first time he had so much as seen his wife’s legs and it had to be in the middle of a gambling hell under the painted eyelids of half the demi-monde.
He bounded forward and delivered a smashing left straight into the face of the buck who was holding Frederica. Then with one arm he jerked her to her feet like a rag doll.
To Frederica, it was like a nightmare. She opened her mouth but no sound came. She was unceremoniously dragged from the room and bundled into her cloak, then dragged again out into the snow.
That little scene was burned into Frederica’s mind like a br
and for long afterwards—the Duke with his white face and glittering eyes, Mrs. O’Brien’s great bosoms spilling over the window ledge of the club as she stared at them, the smell of whale oil from the parish lamp above her head mixing with the smells of wine, cigars and patchouli emanating from the club, and finally, the feel of the feathery snow on her face and the feel of the damp snow underfoot seeping through her thin slippers. The Duke said: “You will be removed from London to Chartsay immediately until I present suitable grounds for divorce. The servants at Chartsay will be informed that you are not to leave the grounds for any reason whatever. I wish I had never married you, madame. I most certainly never want to set eyes on you again.”
Frederica found her voice too late. With an imperious wave of his hand, he hailed a passing hackney cabriolet and disappeared into the snow.
Frederica knew that it was useless to plead with the servants. Her husband was lord and master. They would not listen to a word that she said.
Even Worthing was meticulously correct as to the arranging and dispatching of her trunks. Only her maid, the stern Benson, broke down and cried as she shared her mistress’s disgrace. Frederica was not even going to be allowed to wait for morning. As soon as she had changed into her travelling dress, the coach was waiting outside with her trunks corded on the back and the horses of the outriders stamping and snuffling in the snow.
The coach rumbled off. She thought of Lawton, the Groom of the Chambers at Chartsay, and a picture of his fat white face seemed to swim in front of her eyes and she shuddered.
Pride had stopped her from writing an explanation to her husband. He had not trusted her. And in any case, she could not have produced the letter that had lured her to the club because, when she had searched in her reticule for it, it was gone.
A livid dawn spread over snow-covered London as Mrs. O’Brien waddled round the now-empty gaming room snuffing out the candles. She stood on tiptoe, reaching up with the brass snuffer to the last and tallest of the candles without success. She looked round for a chair to stand on and saw a piece of crumpled paper on the floor. Wheezing for breath she bent over to pick it up.
Never leave a piece of payer lying, she thought—it might always be an I.O.U. She smoothed out the parchment with her swollen and mottled fingers and then carried it over to the light of the one remaining candle. She read “If you wish to know where your husband spends his evenings—and with whom—pay a visit tonight to Mrs. O’Brien’s gambling house, 128 Cork Street.”
She shook her turbaned head over it. It must have something to do with the Duchess for the note had been lying by her chair. And why had Jack Ferrand misled her? Somewhere and somehow the two were connected and somewhere and somehow there might be money in it for Mrs. O’Brien. But she was too old and too weary to cope with the problem at that moment. Standing on a chair, she snuffed the last wavering candle and waddled off to bed as the pale dawn changed to blood red, turning the snow colored streets to crimson. For a few brief moments, the glare illuminated the empty gambling room with a hellish glow, fading to grey and then black as the snow began to fall and the dreary clang-clang of the watchman’s bell sounded down the early morning streets.
The same brief crimson glow awoke Frederica from a fitful sleep. She was chilled and cramped. The carriage swung into the long drive leading to Chartsay and as they approached the great house, the red glow faded, leaving the towers and battlements silhouetted against the heavy black sky.
Lawton, complete with cane, emerged onto the entrance steps to meet the carriage. He made Frederica a low bow and pasted a smile on his unlovely features. One of the footmen who had travelled with Frederica presented Lawton with a letter with the instructions that he was to read it immediately.
Frederica moved slowly across the great chilly hall towards her apartments. “Have tea brought to my rooms, Lawton,” she called over her shoulder.
Something in the quality of the silence made her turn round. Lawton was looking straight at her. He had just finished reading the letter with the Duke’s instructions and his face was twisted with malevolent glee. “I am afraid that will not be possible, Your Grace,” he said with a mock bow. “The servants are still abed.”
Frederica was too fatigued to argue. She turned her back on him and went to her rooms.
She slept heavily for three hours and awoke hungry despite her misery. She rang the bell and waited… and waited. Growing impatient, she sent Benson to see what was up with the servants. Benson bustled back after quarter of an hour, her mouth in a thin furious line.
“That fat slug, Lawton,” she cried. “He says the staff are all too busy to attend to your needs. I told him that the Duke would hear of his behavior and he said… he said…” here Benson burst into tears. “Oh, ma’am,” she sobbed, “he says the Duke won’t care what becomes of you.” Frederica’s face was as white as the powdery snow drifting and eddying on the terrace outside.
“He means to starve us,” said Frederica in a flat voice. “The steward, Benjamin Dubble, where is he?”
“In London seeing the Duke,” faltered Benson. “Oh what on earth are we to do?”
Frederica suddenly gritted her teeth. She was not going to spend the rest of her life being bullied. Mrs. Sayers had been enough. She got to her feet. “You’ll see, Benson. You’ll see!”
The terrified and sobbing maid followed close behind her young mistress who stalked out into the hall and up to the first landing of the grand staircase. Frederica seized the rope of the fire alarm and gave it a mighty pull. The clang-clang-clanging echoed through the great house and soon there were loud cries of fire and figures scurrying to and fro in the hallway. One by one, as they looked up to see who had been ringing the fire bell, they saw the small figure of the Duchess, standing on the landing, clutching the balustrade and looking down into the hall. One by one they fell silent. One by one they stopped. Frederica waited until she guessed that practically all the servants were gathered in the hall. Lawton looked insolently amused, some of the footmen sniggered, but the rest waited in silence.
Frederica’s voice was as chill and cold as the musty air in the hall.
“You have all, as far as I know,” she began, “been guilty of the most insolent and disloyal behavior. Whatever the situation between myself and my husband may be I think you should know him well enough to know that he would not tolerate such treatment of his wife.”
Lawton merely grinned and gave a fat wink to his sister who smiled back.
“I am sure however that there are some amongst you who realize the enormity of your behavior. If there are any among you who would serve me as befits my rank and as the Duke would wish… stand to one side. I would know my friends.”
There was a long silence. Benson thought that no one was going to move. Then amid jeers and cat calls, the small knife boy walked to one side of the hall and stood with his hands behind his back looking up at Frederica. Then the under butler, a man named Bond, moved to join him. He was slowly followed by several housemaids and six of the footmen. The smile began to leave Lawton’s face. The still-room maid suddenly scampered to join Frederica’s side. A pretty, mischievous-looking girl with a mop of fair curls, she seemed a general favorite.
Several more followed after her, including the two footmen from the Grosvenor Square household who had travelled down with Frederica.
When the ranks were divided and no more moved to Frederica’s side of the hall, she spoke again. “All those loyal to me will be rewarded. The rest of you will lose your jobs as soon as my husband hears of this affair. Furthermore…”
She broke off as the great doors burst open and the rector and his wife stood on the threshold. Mrs. Witherspoon ran forward and then stopped in amazement at the rows of divided servants, the grinning Lawton, and the small stern figure of the Duchess.
“My dear Duchess, what is the meaning of this?” cried Mrs. Witherspoon.
“Mutiny in the ranks,” shouted Frederica with a grin of relief.
Mrs. Wit
herspoon wheeled about, “This is all your doing, Lawton, you great fat useless man.” And before Lawton realized her intent, Mrs. Witherspoon had set about him with her red silk umbrella, beating him resoundingly about the head and shoulders until she was pulled away by her startled husband.
While the rector was explaining that they had heard the sound of the bell and rushed to help, Mrs. Witherspoon rounded on the rest of the servants.
“Leave and go about your duties, all of you,” shouted Mrs. Witherspoon. One by one they sheepishly filed out, those that had elected to be loyal to Lawton feeling as if they had just made a dreadful mistake.
Frederica ran lightly down the stairs and fell half weeping, half laughing into Mrs. Witherspoon’s motherly arms.
When breakfast had finally been served by the under butler, Frederica found herself pouring out all her troubles into Mrs. Witherspoon’s sympathetic ear. It was such a relief to talk to someone that she felt she would never stop. The rector had tactfully taken himself off to the library. When Frederica finally finished, Mrs. Witherspoon leaned back in her chair and surveyed her with amazement. “Marriage of convenience, be damned,” she cried and then was glad her husband was not around to hear her lapse. “It seems to me as if you two ninnyhammers are head over heels in love and don’t know it. And pride, my dear. Such pride! Not to tell your husband of your terrible experience in Barnet and to think poor Henry had anything to do with it is beyond belief.”
Frederica sighed, “You make it all sound so simple. But it was not like that at the time. If the Comte were to be believed then someone was trying to harm me and still is. And… and I believe Henry is still in love with Clarissa.”
“Pooh!” said Mrs. Witherspoon. “He does not look at Clarissa the way he looks at you.”
“Me?” faltered Frederica.
“Yes, you, I think his eyes were opened to Clarissa a long time ago. I think you will find that he only suffers her company because she is your sister.”
