by M C Beaton
One thing about Sir Philip, thought Mrs. Budley, was that despite his waspishness, he was always ready to cope with whatever came up. Because of his reputation, the staff were saved from the usual humiliating behaviour meted out to the staff at other hotels.
Sir Philip went down to the kitchen. Despard was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine.
“You were out tonight,” said Sir Philip. “Where did you go?”
“Where I go in my free time is my business,” said the cook.
“I wonder. Remember, if I find you are thinking of running away from us, I will turn you over to the authorities. I would never have got you out of the Old Bailey had I told them that you were actually an escaped French prisoner from the hulks. What is in that bag?”
“My business.”
Sir Philip seized the bag and opened the string and shook it upside down. A large hare fell out on the table. “Friend gave it to me,” said Despard laconically.
Sir Philip felt rather silly. Despard was the same old Despard.
He nodded and went out. Despard grinned. He had heard the light patter of feet on the steps as Mrs. Budley had made her retreat and had hidden the gold from the bag and popped the dead hare into it.
“Nothing in that bag but a dead hare,” said Sir Philip, walking into the office. “It’s lack of sleep. It’s giving you fancies.”
“Possibly,” said Mrs. Budley reluctantly. And yet, would Despard have sat there looking at a bag containing a dead hare with such elation? And it had been an expensive wash-leather bag, not the kind of article a cook would sully with dead game.
“My duties in the hotel are light at present,” she went on. “I have always longed to be able to cook well. I must think of my future. Should anything happen to you or Lady Fortescue or the colonel, it would be pleasant to think I was qualified to earn my living doing something. I think I shall ask Despard to train me in his art.”
“Despard allow you near his precious cooking pots? Think again.”
But the very next day, Mrs. Budley approached Despard with her request. He looked at her sourly. “I have no time to train amateurs,” he snapped, “especially women.”
“I write a fair hand,” wheedled Mrs. Budley. “Would you not like to publish your recipes one day? Cannot you see your name on the title page?”
Despard paused stirring sauce and eyed her speculatively. He thought he would like to leave some record of his success in England. Besides, with him gone, they would need to find a new cook. He owed them all something for his freedom. The new cook would be helped if his recipes were written down.
“Very well,” he said.
Mrs. Budley opened a dimity bag she had brought with her and took out a cap and apron.
“I’ll begin now.”
Chapter Seven
Thou art a traitor:
Off with his head!
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
MRS. BUDLEY’S suspicions grew in the next few days as she worked busily in the kitchen. There was an air of suppressed excitement emanating from Despard, and occasionally he slipped out, and peering up through the window, she could see that he was talking to someone in the street outside, although all she saw of that someone was a pair of stocky legs ending in square-toed buckled shoes. But she kept her suspicions to herself, something she was shortly to regret.
She had been going to have another talk with Sir Philip about the cook, but something happened which drove it out of her mind. She had sent the recipes to the marquess and that had given her an almost comfortable feeling of finality, a feeling that had enabled her to concentrate on cooking in the sweaty heat of the kitchen and forget about her appearance. She was bending over a sauce-pot, conscious of Despard’s jealous eyes on her, when Miss Tonks appeared in the kitchen, looking flustered.
“Lord Peterhouse is called,” she said. “He wishes to see you. I explained it was not very convenient but he only smiled and said he would wait.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Budley stupidly. Despard took the wooden spoon from her and edged in front of her. Mrs. Budley looked wildly down at her old gown and then raised her hands to her tousled fluffy hair under the white skull-cap.
“Go up the area steps and run next door and change,” urged Miss Tonks.
“Where is he?”
“In the office.”
Mrs. Budley shook her head. “He knows I work here. There is no need to change.” And with Miss Tonks exclaiming and twittering in distress, she made her way up the back stairs to the hall. By appearing in front of him in her work clothes, she wanted to kill all her hopes, all her nonsensical hopes of romance.
“Leave me, Letitia,” she said, and walked into the office.
The marquess, who had been sitting behind the desk, rose at her entrance. Immediately she saw him, she wished with all her heart she had followed Letitia’s advice and changed. The marquess looked very tall, very grand, very remote. His coat of blue superfine would have made Sir Philip swoon with envy, his cravat was a sculptured work of starch and muslin, his leather breeches moulded his strong thighs like a second skin, and his top-boots shone like black glass. He swept off his hat and bowed.
His hooded, veiled eyes showed nothing of what he was thinking, which was just as well for Mrs. Budley. The marquess was angry with her, angry that she should dare to present herself to him in a shabby dress, apron, messy hair and servant’s skull-cap.
But he said politely enough, “I came in person to thank you for the recipes.”
“You are most welcome, my lord.”
His odd eyes suddenly flashed with temper. “Do you have to look like a scullion?”
She put her hands up to her suddenly hot cheeks. “I work here,” she said defiantly.
“I was received by Lady Fortescue, who was wearing a very fine morning gown. Miss Tonks, in lilac silk, was sent to fetch you. I heard Lady Fortescue remark to Colonel Sandhurst that Sir Philip had gone to Weston’s to see how his new coat was coming along. Are you determined to martyr yourself?”
“You do not understand,” she cried. “Our reputation now largely lies in the hands of our French cook. Were he to quit, we could lose everything.”
“This hotel,” he said contemptuously, “obsesses you all. I have friends who turn their lives and their every waking thought over to their country homes. That is more understandable since such homes have been part of their families for centuries. But this shoddy place, which depends on the whims of society, is another thing.”
All her life, Mrs. Budley had meekly thought that men knew better and had bowed her head before their judgements. But now her eyes sparkled and she said defiantly, “I am proud to be a part of this concern. How could such as you understand? What do you know of the indignities of being a poor relation? What do you know of being despised and pitied and humiliated?”
The others would not have recognized their dainty and feminine Mrs. Budley in the lady with heightened colour and flashing eyes. In a milder tone of voice, she went on. “I am sure you have much to do, my lord, and as you can see, I am very busy.” She opened the door of the office and walked out into the hall.
Mr. George Pym, who had been about to enter the hotel, shrank back into the shadow of the entrance and watched avidly.
The marquess looked down at Mrs. Budley and his anger melted. He no longer saw the shabby gown or noticed her fly-away hair. He saw her glowing skin and large eyes and the swell of her bosom under her apron.
He raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call on you again,” he said, “if I may.”
“As you will, my lord,” said Mrs. Budley weakly, feeling the pressure of those lips against her hand.
Mr. Pym walked away without entering the hotel. Something must be done about this. He could hardly put a spoke in the marquess’s wheel if the man were courting a respectable miss at her first Season. But surely it should be easy to nip such a budding relationship.
Charles Manderley was the best bet, he thought suddenly. For all his easy ma
nners, the man was a high stickler.
Mr. Pym tried the coffee-houses and clubs, finally running his quarry to earth in the middle of St. James’s.
“Got something very important to tell you,” said Mr. Pym. “It concerns Rupert.”
Charles looked at him haughtily. He was not in the best of moods. He had expected to bed Lady Stanton and she had proved elusive. When he did see her, she was always chaperoned by some elderly Scottish female and her conversation, if that is what it could be called, consisted of plying him with questions about his friend Peterhouse.
“If you consider yourself a friend of his,” continued Mr. Pym, “you’ll listen to what I have to say.”
“Step into White’s with me,” said Mr. Manderley impatiently. “I hope you are not wasting my time.”
He entered the club, nodding a greeting to the dandies in the bay window before leading the way to a table in the corner of the coffee-room.
“Out with it,” he said.
“Rupert is courting a servant,” said Mr. Pym.
“My friend’s affairs are no concern of mine.”
“I think Rupert may have marriage in mind.”
Charles looked amused. “We do not marry servants,” he said, speaking for the whole of the ruling class.
“This is no ordinary servant. She is Mrs. Budley, widow of Jack, one of the Tremaines. She is part-owner of the Poor Relation.”
“Then she has put herself beyond marriage. Rupert is setting up a flirt.”
“He was seen kissing her passionately at the Hitchcocks’s ball and only today I saw him taking leave of her at the hotel. She was dressed like a kitchen girl in cap and apron and yet he bowed before her and kissed her hand. The man is in love. You must stop him from making a fool of himself.”
“Sounds like a hum to me,” said Charles with an easiness he did not feel. “I’ll speak to Rupert, but, mark you, he’ll laugh in my face!”
Charles Manderley was unable to find the marquess that day and he found himself later in Lady Stanton’s drawing-room. As usual, she led the conversation round to the marquess and Charles snapped, “Peterhouse is romancing Mrs. Budley, one of the owners of the Poor Relation.”
Lady Stanton kept an expression of polite interest on her face as she said blandly, “My friends were making a great fuss because Peterhouse was caught kissing this creature at the Hitchcocks’s ball, but whenever did us ladies trouble our heads over kisses given to a servant?”
“No ordinary servant,” he said darkly. “I’ve been trying to find Peterhouse to put him wise. He cannot disgrace his family name.”
“Exactly,” agreed Lady Stanton. “A brief affair would be one thing, but marriage with such as she is out of the question. I pity the poor thing, for I should not like to be in such a predicament myself.”
And Charles, who thought that marriage with such as Lady Stanton was out of the question and saw his hopes of an affair finally dashed, left for the opera later that evening in a thoroughly bad temper.
He was fortunate in finding the marquess. He joined him in his box. The marquess was entertaining a certain Sir Roger Arnold, his wife and his very pretty daughter. Something of his temper eased as Charles looked into the fair if foolish features of Belinda Arnold. In his eyes, she was just the sort of lady his friend should marry. He settled down to enjoy the company and put all thoughts of interfering in his friend’s life out of his head. That was until the opera ball. Having found no lady himself to spark his fancy, he could not help noticing that the marquess was looking increasingly bored with the fair Belinda and several times did not even seem to hear what she said to him.
So after the Arnolds had been escorted home, he suggested to the marquess that they go to Watier’s at the corner of Bolton Street and play a rubber of whist.
“Stakes are crazily high there,” said the marquess. “But I’ll share a bottle of wine with you to end the evening.”
After they had drunk almost the whole bottle and had chatted easily on various topics, Charles said casually, “What is all this I am hearing about you romancing a certain Mrs. Budley?”
The marquess’s black eyes frosted over. In cold, chilly, autocratic accents, he said, “I do not discuss Mrs. Budley with you or anyone else, Charles. Now, shall we broach another bottle, or do you wish to play? Do not expect me to join you at the tables, however. I am become prudent in my old age.”
Charles now felt thoroughly alarmed. The marquess had blocked any mention of Mrs. Budley in the haughty way a gentleman refused to discuss any lady whom he regarded highly.
He talked away easily, he said he might play after all, and the marquess took his leave. Charles Manderley made up his mind. He would need to speak to Mrs. Budley and warn that little adventuress off. Like most Lotharios, he did not have much respect or indeed liking for women. The fact that the couple might be falling in love did not cross his mind. The sexes fell into two categories, hunter and hunted. Rupert in this case was the hunted and it had to stop.
* * *
It was the hotel page who told Mrs. Budley the next day that there was a gentleman to see her. This time, she decided, she would be properly dressed. Confident that her caller was the marquess and elated that he should want to see her again so soon, she told the page to put him in the office and serve him with wine and then ran next door to the room she shared with Miss Tonks and scrambled into a pretty muslin gown and pelisse, and brushed and dressed her hair.
Despard thought the gods were taking care of him as he watched her go. He rapped out orders to the kitchen staff as to what had to be done, said he was stepping out for a few moments, put on his coat and hat and picked up a stout corded trunk, which he had placed beside the area door that morning, and made his escape. The Dover coach did not leave for another two hours, plenty of time to get to the City and make sure that Lady Stanton had sent the letter he needed to the coaching inn.
Charles Manderley looked up in surprise at Mrs. Budley when she entered the office. His first thought was that she was much younger than he had expected. He had seen her at the ball when she had been serving negus, but had not paid very much attention to her. But he could see from the disappointment in her large eyes, quickly veiled, that she had been expecting the marquess.
“I am come,” he began, after introducing himself, “as a friend of Peterhouse.”
How those eyes of hers suddenly lit up!
“There is a silly rumour going around that Peterhouse is enamoured of you.” He gave a light laugh. “Ridiculous, is it not? But I am anxious to see my friend settled in marriage, and such rumours, should they reach the ears of his intended, might do damage.”
Her hand fluttered towards her bosom and then dropped. “Intended?” she echoed.
“Yes, a Miss Belinda Arnold, one of our fairest beauties, all that is suitable. Have pity on Peterhouse, Mrs. Budley. You have chosen to ruin your reputation; do not ruin his chances of a happy marriage by continuing to pursue him.”
“Believe me, Mr. Manderley, I have no intention of doing so,” said Mrs. Budley haughtily, “and I have not been pursuing him.”
The office door opened and Sir Philip walked in. He had sensed trouble.
“Mrs. Budley,” said Sir Philip, “you must not entertain gentlemen in this office with the door closed.”
“Mrs. Budley is safe with me,” snapped Charles.
“You’re Manderley, ain’t you?” said Sir Philip, who remembered him from his first meeting with the marquess. “London’s latest whore-monger.”
“How dare you!” shouted Charles. “Were you not so antique, I would call you out.”
“Were I not so antique, I would throw you out,” countered Sir Philip. “The ladies of this hotel are my concern. What is your business here with Mrs. Budley?”
“He has come to tell me I am ruining the Marquess of Peterhouse’s hopes. The marquess wishes to marry a certain Miss Arnold.”
“And what has our Mrs. Budley got to do with Peterhouse’s hopes or chance
s?” asked Sir Philip.
“Simply that Mrs. Budley’s behaviour has occasioned comment,” said Charles stiffly, wishing he had not come.
“See here,” said Sir Philip, “Mrs. Budley’s behaviour is and always was beyond reproach. Take yourself off, you young pup, and don’t come sniffing round here again.”
“Gladly,” said Charles, and gathering up what Sir Philip had left of his dignity, he marched out.
Mrs. Budley sat down on a high-backed chair and stared bleakly in front of her.
“What’s all this then?” wheedled Sir Philip. “What have you been up to? We all know you got a little bit taken with his lordship when you were in Warwickshire, but we felt sure that was all over. I had hopes for you myself. I even engineered that fire so you could get to talk to him again. But nothing came of it … did it?”
“He kissed me at the Hitchcocks’s ball,” said Mrs. Budley, too miserable to cry.
“Gentlemen will kiss willing ladies. I thought you knew that you were in a position at that ball that might leave you open to insult were you not careful. That gown you had on, for a start …”
“I know, I know,” she said wretchedly. “He called here yesterday to thank me for some recipes. He kissed my hand and said he would call again.”
Sir Philip studied her. It could be that the marquess was interested in her. With Mrs. Budley out of the way, that would leave four. If only he could get rid of Miss Tonks and Colonel Sandhurst, that would leave him blissfully alone with Lady Fortescue. Still, Mrs. Budley would be a start.
“If he is courting someone, he had no right to look at me so … and … and …” Mrs. Budley looked at Sir Philip helplessly.
Sir Philip patted her hand. “It’ll happen if it’s meant to happen. Say your prayers and keep out of that kitchen or you’ll have red hands and smell of grease. No need for it.”
“As to that, I cannot shake off a suspicion that Despard means to cut and run.”
“Take it from me, Despard won’t dare. Leave the cooking pots alone.”
