Mrs. Budley Falls From Grace (The Poor Relation Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  Mr. Pym went into Limmer’s to comfort his soul with gin punch. He recognized practically everyone in the room, most society members knowing each other, if only by sight. He saw Mr. Jason Brackley and went to join him.

  “Didn’t see you at the Hitchcocks’s,” remarked Mr. Brackley by way of greeting.

  “Was invited,” said Mr. Pym, “but folks were saying it was an unfashionable affair.”

  “Wasn’t,” said Mr. Brackley, equally elliptic. “Well done. Food a poem. Had to leave early. I squired Lady Stanton and she became ill. Heard some gossip about that cousin of yours, though.”

  “Who? Peterhouse?”

  “The same.”

  “What’s he been up to?”

  “Caught kissing a serving wench.”

  “So? We’ve all done that.”

  “No ordinary serving wench. One of the owners of the Poor Relation Hotel.”

  “Same thing. She’s in trade, ain’t she?”

  “Don’t know about that. Tell you a story. My fickle love was enamoured of the Duke of Rowcester.”

  “Who is your fickle love?”

  “Lady Stanton.”

  Mr. Pym gave a mock sigh. “Rapture. A divine lady.”

  “Exactly. But she lost Rowcester, if you but recall. He married that hotel cook, Harriet James.”

  “Oh, I remember that,” said Mr. Pym. “But everyone knew Harriet James. Good family.”

  “Quite. Well, the lady he was kissing was Mrs. Eliza Budley, widow of Jack, formerly Eliza Tremaine, and the Tremaines are as aristocratic as you or I.”

  Mr. Pym’s face darkened. “Don’t want anyone like her in the family,” he sneered.

  Mr. Brackley’s eyes crinkled up with malice.

  “If you take my advice, dear fellow, you’ll start getting used to the idea.”

  Jack, the second footman, stood before his mistress with his head bowed.

  “So,” she said coldly, “you allowed yourself to be gulled like the veriest flat. The hotel page must have taken that bottle from you and replaced it with one with harmless contents. I have no room in my household for useless servants.”

  Jack sank to one knee. “Pray order me to do anything, my lady. But do not send me away.”

  She turned away from him and strode up and down the room. “I must have revenge.”

  “I-I h-heard something, my 1-lady, which might be useful,” stammered Jack.

  She stopped and glared down at her still kneeling footman. “Out with it!”

  “If you please, my lady, I heard that Lord Ager has employed the hotel to do the catering for his daughter’s come-out.”

  “So?”

  “At the Hitchcocks’s, he sent a note down to the kitchen to the hotel cook, Despard, a Frenchman, offering him a fortune to join his household. Despard refused. I was there in the kitchen at the time. One of the scullions muttered something about Despard being an escaped French convict from the hulks and he could not leave the hotel or Sir Philip would betray him.”

  She stood studying the footman and then a slow smile curved her lips. “Get to your feet. I still have a use for you.”

  He rose and looked at her with hope in his eyes.

  “Take away that cook of theirs,” she said half to herself, “and you take away most of their cachet. So he is bound to Sir Philip. You must sound him out, find if he wishes to escape back to France, and if he does, we will pay him handsomely to run away. Can you do that?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.”

  “Then set to it!”

  The following day was fine and sunny. The full quota of maids and waiters and footmen was on duty, and so Lady Fortescue suggested that Mrs. Budley should go out for a walk and get some fresh air. Normally Mrs. Budley would have asked Miss Tonks to go with her and they would certainly have taken one of the footmen with them, but a longing to be on her own and think about the marquess kept her silent. It showed the change that had taken place in Mrs. Budley that she should even contemplate facing the streets of London. Certainly, when the poor relations had first found her, she had been alone in Hyde Park but in such a state of misery that she had not noticed the broad comments, the leers and winks from passing bucks. But now that she had been used to a certain amount of protection, it was unusual that she should decide to forgo it.

  She had entered her marriage with the firm belief that men were the stronger sex and knew better about everything and anything, a very common view in an age when the streets were so violent that men had to know how to protect themselves, when practically all the money-earning jobs were given to men. Even the corset-makers were men. Women were expected to be pretty, silly dolls, and before, Mrs. Budley had not questioned that view. But she had had much to endure over her longings for the marquess and she felt she was coping with it quite well. Also, daily contact with Sir Philip Sommerville was enough to make the weakest and most feminine lady learn to stand up for herself.

  So she carefully dressed in a very plain drab walking dress and a hat with a veil and escaped out into Bond Street, feeling the warm sun strike through her veil, feeling spring in the air, drinking in that heady devil-may-care feeling emanating from the shifting, busy, fashionable crowd.

  The marquess saw her. Despite the veil and the plain dress, he recognized her and quickened his step until he caught up with her.

  “Mrs. Budley!”

  She stopped, her heart racing, and looked up at him, realizing in that instant that this was just what she had been hoping for, not time to be by herself and think, but to be alone in the hope that he would come across her. She put back her veil, vaguely proud of the fact that her hands did not tremble.

  “Where are you going? May I escort you? You should not be out unescorted.”

  “I am not going anywhere in particular,” she said. “Lady Fortescue suggested I get some fresh air.”

  “Then let us be very unfashionable and walk to the Green Park. I wish to talk to you.”

  He took her arm and they walked along. She wished she had lowered her veil as he nodded and said “Good day” to various people.

  He talked easily of the ball and what a success it had been. Mrs. Budley replied by saying that his neighbour, Lord Ager, had engaged their services for his daughter’s ball and the marquess remarked with an edge in his voice that he could not understand her equanimity at a further prospect of appearing in the public eye as a servant, to which Mrs. Budley said sadly, “Ah, but you have never been poor.”

  When they reached the park behind its high brick walls and were walking along by the reservoir, he remembered Mrs. Appleton’s request and asked her for the recipes. “I will write them out and send you copies,” she said, to which he replied, “Thank you,” and she immediately felt depressed because he had not offered to call and see her and collect them in person.

  They both came to a stop and stared down into the waters of the reservoir, their reflections blurred and distorted by a flurry of breeze. “I am glad of this opportunity to talk to you, Mrs. Budley,” he said. “I must apologize for my behaviour at the ball.”

  How she had dreamt of that kiss, memorized the feel of it, how he had looked! And he was apologizing for the most enchanting thing that had happened to her in the whole of her life. She felt a lump rising in her throat but she said gamely if stiffly, “Your apology is accepted.”

  “It will not happen again,” he said, adding insult to injury. “I feel I took advantage of your position.”

  She had once gone with the others to see the illuminations at the Spanish Embassy and they had stayed and watched the spectacle and then had watched the lamps being extinguished one by one until the whole building was in blackness. That was what this felt like: all her little lamps of hope and romance were being snuffed out one by one as the full import of his words sank into her. He had kissed her as he would a pretty serving wench in a tavern. She looked around in a bewildered way, as if wondering why the day was still so normal and sunny. A dowager made her stately way past like a galle
on, with her footman walking a pace behind carrying her pug-dog. A child ran with an iron hoop. Two guardsmen talked loudly of the money they had lost the night before.

  She raised her hands and lowered her veil. How bravely and determinedly she had left him after Gunter’s, saying she would not see him again. Why had she ventured out on this stupid walk? If Letitia had been with her, they would have exchanged a few pleasantries with him and gone on their way.

  She shivered a little despite the warmth of the day. “I must return,” she said. “I have my duties to attend to.”

  He held out his arm but she suddenly could not face walking back with him, enduring those curious stares. Better to get away from him as soon as possible.

  “Please do not trouble,” she said. “I am late.” She picked up her skirts and ran away from him towards the lodge on Piccadilly. He made a half-step to follow her and then decided against it.

  But he felt quite lost and hurt, almost as if she had slapped his face.

  Jack, the second footman, waited impatiently for Sunday to arrive, guessing that was the only day when Despard would have any free time. He himself had been given all the free time from his duties that he wanted in order to secure the disappearance of the French chef, and he had spent most of it out of livery, hanging about Bond Street, watching the comings and goings from the area of the hotel, hoping to see the cook perhaps come up to take the air.

  By Sunday morning, he was feeling desperate and heaved a sigh of relief when he recognized Despard’s white and twisted face under a broad-brimmed black hat surfacing from the basement.

  He fell into step behind him, determined to see where he went and start up a conversation with him. The cook walked as far as Soho Square and turned in at the door of the Catholic church. Jack hovered helplessly outside. His family were Non-comformists and he felt if he stepped inside a Catholic church, the devil would get his soul. He waited for a long time, beginning to wonder whether the church had a back entrance or not. To his infinite relief, he at last saw the figure of the cook emerge. He fell into step behind him again, hoping he would not return to the hotel but go first to some chop-house where there would be a better chance of starting a conversation.

  But when the chef began to head straight for Bond Street, Jack plucked up his courage. He dare not return to his mistress again with any tale of failure. He quickened his step and said tentatively, “Monsoor Despard?”

  The cook did not slacken his pace. On the contrary, he walked faster than ever.

  “Monsoor!” called Jack desperately. “I am a friend. I can get you money. I can get you back to France.”

  Despard stopped. He turned slowly round and looked the tall footman up and down.

  “Speak,” he commanded.

  “Not here,” said Jack urgently. “Let us find a quiet coffeehouse or tavern.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “The Running Footman,” said Jack eagerly. “We knock at the back door on a Sunday.”

  “Very well. But make it quick.”

  Jack led the way and soon they were being let in through the back door of the Running Footman and into the shadowy tap where other servants were cheerfully breaking the laws of the Sabbath. Jack called for a bottle of the best burgundy, mindful of the generous expenses he was being allowed. Despard eyed the footman narrowly. He recognized him now. This was Lady Stanton’s servant, he who had tried to doctor the turtle soup. Sir Philip had said that if he was spotted slipping anything into the tureen, to look the other way.

  “What are you plotting now?” asked Despard, whose English had improved in leaps and bounds since Sir Philip had rescued him from the dock of the Old Bailey, his accent a mixture of French and Cockney.

  “What do you mean, ‘plotting’? I am here to help you.”

  “You put something in the soup at the Hitchcocks’s, but Sir Philip was wise to your game. What now? Don’t pretend you mean to help me in any way, mon brave. That mistress of yours wants revenge.”

  Jack looked at him gloomily. He had not expected Despard to be wise to his mistress’s schemes. Complete honesty now was the only hope.

  He shrugged in what he hoped was a worldly way. “No use trying to pull the wool over your eyes. All right. Here’s the score. Lady Stanton knows that the reputation of the hotel is now based on your cooking and not on the fact that a bunch of genteel paupers have turned to trade. To that end, she wants you out of the hotel and on your road to France before Lord Ager’s ball. She’s prepared to pay you enough to set you up for life in a restaurant of your own.”

  “Very fine,” sneered Despard. “All she has to do is give me the money, I get false papers, she reports me to the authorities and she gets what she wants, her money back, and me in prison, as well as Sir Philip and the others being disgraced.”

  Adoration for his mistress had quickened Jack’s normally slow brains. “I could get her to sign something,” he said, “which implicates her, which would be your guarantee of safety.”

  “You are serious about this,” Despard said. He sipped his wine and half closed his eyes. He could smell France, where the sun seemed to shine more than it did in this grey and foggy country. He would be free of the hated English. He would be his own man. “How much?” he asked finally.

  Jack named a sum which made Despard’s eyes blink rapidly. With money like that he would have no more worries. He could start his own restaurant. Through the network of French immigrants, some not loyal to the English, he knew where he could get false papers—at a price.

  “The money would need to be in gold,” he said.

  “Gold it is,” said Jack. “Come with me now to my mistress. You will feel better after you have discussed it with her.”

  “Very well,” said Despard. “But make it quick.”

  * * *

  Jack presented Despard to his mistress with all the flourish of a knight laying a dragon at his lady’s feet.

  Despard eyed Lady Stanton narrowly and began: “I should explain the terms I wish, in case your servant here has been too hasty. The money must be in gold.”

  “Agreed,” said Lady Stanton.

  “And in order to protect myself, as I shall be travelling under false papers, I wish you to sign a document explaining your part in this affair—otherwise you could have me arrested.”

  Lady Stanton glared at Jack. “You agreed to this?”

  “It seemed the only way,” said Jack.

  “I do not wish to be implicated,” she said flatly.

  Despard turned to go.

  “No! Wait!” she cried. “Cannot you take my word I will not betray you?”

  He turned back. “Milady, I am an artist, and you, in order to get revenge, were prepared to make all the guests at that ball ill. Oh, yes, Sir Philip told me your plan. No, I do not trust you. Not without that piece of paper.”

  She bit her lip. “Oh, very well,” she snapped. “But I wish you to leave as soon as possible. How long will it take you to get these papers?”

  “Provided you let me have the gold, four or five days.”

  “Come here after midnight tomorrow and I will have the money for you. But you will have no letter from me until you are actually on the Dover stage.”

  He nodded curtly and left.

  Lady Stanton rounded on her footman. “I should not have sent a country bumpkin like you to arrange such a delicate matter. Someone with more wit and sophistication would never have agreed to my signing any paper. You may go.”

  Smarting with humiliation, Jack slouched out. Love had changed to hate. Somehow, somewhere, he would turn this affair to his advantage.

  * * *

  The next night, Mrs. Budley tossed and turned in bed. In her mind she walked once more in the Green Park with the marquess. Why had she felt so hurt? His apology had been that of a gentleman. Why had she not flirted instead of running away? Worry and sleeplessness were making her hungry, for she had eaten little that day. She sighed and rose and dressed. She would go next door to the hotel
kitchen and find something to eat.

  She picked up the spare key she kept which fitted the servants’ door at the foot of the area steps, and made her way next door. Bond Street was still full of bustle, with fashionables moving from one party to the other. She slipped down the area steps, opened the door and walked through to the kitchen, where the banked-up fire burnt with a dull red glow in the kitchen range. She lit a candle. The clock in the corner chimed one in the morning, one single silvery note. She swung the kettle over the fire. And then she heard the sound of someone coming down the area steps. Despard! And the French cook loathed anyone in his kitchen when he was not there!

  She swung the kettle back, blew out the candle, and moved towards the door which led to the back stairs leading up to the hall. Something made her pause outside the door, leave it open a crack, and look through.

  Despard, a shadowy shape at first, until he lit the candle by thrusting it through the bars of the grate, moved about the kitchen. He was clutching a heavy wash-leather bag which he finally put down on the table. Then he sat down and looked at it steadily, his odd face elated.

  Mrs. Budley went quietly up the stairs. She blinked in the sudden flood of light in the hall from the great chandelier.

  “Why up so late?” demanded Sir Philip, appearing out of the office.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” said Mrs. Budley. “I went down to the kitchen to get something to eat, but I heard Despard coming back and so I ran away. You know what he is like. He hates any of us being in his kitchen. Something made me pause and stand by the door and look in. He placed a heavy wash-leather bag on the table, the kind used to carry money, and he gazed at it and there was a look of elation and triumph on his face. People are getting used to us now. Despard’s cooking is the attraction. He does not like us English and I always fear he will escape.”

  “He can’t very well do that,” said Sir Philip, “but I would like to know what is in that bag. Go into the office and wait there. I was having a bite to eat myself and there is some wine and cold pie on the desk.”