by Jean Burnett
I considered this for a moment. If Prinny could not find anyone more resolute to undertake his missions than this heap of jelly before me, then the outlook for the country was a poor one. He would have done better to employ Jerry Sartain, or even Adelaide. I almost giggled at the thought. Then I remembered the dead man and the laugh died in my throat. I also recalled that Getheridge was a banker. I had no doubt that the prince’s debts were at the bottom of this matter.
‘This is what you must do,’ I said firmly. ‘Go at once and arrange lodgings for me that are not connected to you in any way. Adelaide will pack my things and I will repair to the inn where my friends are staying. I cannot remain alone in this house. You must then seek protection from the royal household. Surely the prince will provide you with a bodyguard?’ He nodded miserably.
‘Yes, I must see His Royal Highness urgently. We had been invited to the soirée at the Pavilion this evening but I cannot wait until then. I will arrange lodgings for you and send a messenger to the inn.’ I brightened considerably at the mention of an assembly. As he scurried out of the door, hastily kissing my hand en route, I remembered something else.
‘Who was the man who was murdered?’ I asked in a casual manner. Getheridge hesitated; ‘His name was Adam Von Mecks.’ The name meant nothing to me but it sounded decidedly foreign which made the whole affair more sinister.
After giving instructions to Adelaide regarding the packing of my belongings I crossed the street to the inn where I found my friends endeavouring to obtain coffee and rolls from the distracted innkeeper. Several maidservants were still suffering from the vapours after finding the body and a large number of determined looking men were swarming over the place. Several of them wore the livery of the Royal Pavilion.
‘Thank goodness you are here,’ exclaimed Selena, ‘now we can walk into town and find a more convivial place to have breakfast.’ We walked along the Steyne in a chilly wind to the Castle Hotel where, as we warmed ourselves with hot coffee, she told me what had occurred at the inn. Miles contented himself with an occasional painful nod of corroboration. The effects of the previous night’s drinking had rendered him incapacitated.
‘The strangest things happened last night,’ Selena remarked. ‘We were longing for a quiet night’s sleep after our, um, exertions,’ she lowered her voice, ‘but we were kept awake for hours by mysterious noises, thumps and bangs and smothered laughter. It all came from the basement area. I cannot think what was happening down there. This morning when I asked one of the staff to explain, he gave me a strange look and said it often happened and I should ignore it.’
I did not think I could cope with any more mysteries for the moment. I gave them an account of my conversation with Mr Getheridge.
‘I shall be removing to more salubrious accommodation,’ I assured them. ‘It might be possible for you to join me.’
Selena looked relieved but declared that she would like to get to the bottom of the mystery before they left. At this point Miles stirred into life. With some effort he indicated the far corner of the room near the door to the street.
‘That fellow has been staring at you, dear Lydia. Confounded impudence! I would deal with him but I am feeling a little, ah, fragile at the moment.’ He subsided with a groan and I turned to see a man leaving the room, caped and with a hat pulled down over his eyes. For a moment he raised the hat a fraction and looked into my eyes. It was Jerry Sartain.
I looked down at my dish of steaming coffee, at a loss for words. I cleared my throat. ‘I need your advice about my dress for this evening, Selena dear.’ Even to myself I sounded false. My friend regarded me with narrowed eyes.
‘Are you acquainted with that person, Lydia? He looked a trifle sinister to me.’
‘Oh, no,’ I replied in a strange, falsetto voice. ‘I cannot think why he looked at me; most impudent, really.’
‘Brighton is full of scoundrels,’ announced Miles raising his head from its resting place on the table.
‘We have certainly found that to be true,’ sighed his wife. ‘I hope they will have removed the body from the inn before we are forced to spend another night there.’ Mention of the elegant deceased reminded me of something. ‘I know the identity of the poor fellow,’ I told them. ‘His name is – was – Adam Von Mecks. A foreigner I think.’
‘Von Mecks?’ Selena exclaimed. ‘The Von Mecks family is an aristocratic Russo-Prussian one, courtiers to the Tsar and friends of the Prince Regent. There will surely be an almighty fuss about his death.’ We all paused to recall uneasily how we had dumped this scion of a noble house in a coal hole. I do not know how Selena acquired this information. Her knowledge was quite fatiguing at times. Miles muttered that the man must have fought at Waterloo.
‘Probably gave a good account of himself, poor devil.’ He added that he knew the man was someone of consequence because of his boots. I recalled that those boots were still in my closet.
When we left the hotel one of Mr Getheridge’s grooms appeared with a note from my patron stating that he had taken a house for me on Old Steyne, No. 26, known as Halfcrown House. We repaired at once to this address.
The façade of the building was elegantly decorated with two classical pillars set into the wall. A servant answered our knock and showed us around a set of very well appointed rooms. I deduced that Mr Getheridge’s conscience was pricking him in a satisfactory manner. There would be plenty of room for all of us. Miles and Selena could occupy the suite of rooms on the third floor. My patron would not like this but he was in no position to argue. The servant assured us that the house was only rented to people of the highest quality. Her lips twitched very slightly as she said this. The neighbours, she added, were charming.
Anxious to escape from the prospect of the grey sea and the equally dull sky we walked back to our lodgings past the Royal Pavilion, observing it in all its peculiar glory. Selena and I believed that the prince drew inspiration for the building from William Beckford’s Arabian fantasy Vathek which we have both devoured eagerly. I whiled away many a dull afternoon in Newcastle reading this work while Mr Wickham was away who knew where.
At the inn I found Adelaide installed with all our belongings. She had already pressed my yellow gown and arranged everything for this evening’s toilette, as well as preparing a glass of Madeira and some seed cake, ‘to keep out the morning chill’. Truly the girl was a remarkable find. We would stay for this night at the inn and move into Halfcrown House tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
I spent a half hour sending notes to my various relatives assuring them of my safe arrival in Brighton where I was staying with the Caruthers. This was absolutely true and would, I was sure, set their minds at rest. While I was resting in preparation for the soirée which would commence at six in the evening, a note was sent up to my room from the innkeeper stating that there was a gentlemen waiting downstairs who was anxious to see me.
I knew that the gentleman could only be Jerry Sartain and I did not trust myself to meet him at that time. I sent Adelaide to tell him that I was indisposed and he could give her a note if he wished. My maid returned with a knowing look on her face and a folded missive. It reminded me that I had promised to provide him with a sum of money from my winnings at the card tables. He trusted that I would make good that promise at the Royal Pavilion this very night, otherwise our association was at an end.
You will think me very foolish, dear reader, for allowing myself to be blackmailed in this manner. I knew that I should hand Sartain over to the authorities at once, but my tormentor knew how much I wished to see him again. Indeed, if the truth were known I wished for far more of his company than was decent or respectable and a few guineas at cards were a small price to pay for this pleasure.
I knew card playing was an important part of the festivities at the Royal Pavilion. I was convinced that I could make a profit out of the evening but I wondered uneasily how large an amount Sartain was expecting. At that moment I noticed that Adelaide was trying to attract
my attention. Her face had turned quite pink and she was twisting her features alarmingly.
‘Is something wrong,’ I enquired. ‘Are you unwell, Adelaide?’
‘No, ma’am, but I ’ave some bad news … that is, sort of bad news if you see what I’m a-drivin’ at.’ She swallowed hard and stared at her boots.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, out with it girl. What have you done?’ An injured expression replaced the gurning on my maid’s face.
‘I ’aven’t done nothing wrong, ma’am. It’s just that there is something you ought to know. I thought as I was doing you a favour, like.’
‘For God’s sake, Adelaide, will you tell me what it is that is so important before I crack you over the head with the smoothing iron? My patience is wearing thin.’
For answer, she ran to the bed and held up the yellow gown.
‘This, ma’am. I have found out that yellow is completely out of fashion in Brighton. Pink is all the rage this season.’ To add insult to injury she added that Mr Sartain had informed her of this fact. ‘He told me earlier today but I was too bedoozled by the murder and everything to mention it to you.’
‘Do not be ridiculous. What can that man possibly know about fashion?’
Adelaide looked mutinous as she clutched the yellow gown to her breast. ‘He told me that he had it on good authority that pink was the colour among the ladies at court and he hoped as how you would be wearing a pink gown tonight. He said it would suit you admirably.’ I felt my cheeks turning pink in sympathy as my maid endeavoured to suppress a smirk.
I sank into a chair and closed my eyes. To be cursed with such ill luck! First I choose a worthless husband, then I become a beggar at my brother-in-law’s table, then I fall in with a criminal, acquire a hairy patron whose meddling causes a corpse to be deposited on my sofa – and now this. I am fated to be a laughing stock in front of the highest in the land.
Adelaide patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t take on, ma’am, I’ve sorted it out. You will get the right gown within the next hour.’
I looked up at her in amazement.
‘What do you mean? What have you done?’ My maid’s smug expression grew ever more smug. ‘I knew as there wasn’t much time, ma’am, so I run down to Madame Renée’s emporium in Ship Street and found the perfect outfit for you. It was the only suitable gown in the shop and I persuaded her to deliver it here with all the accessories.’ She stumbled a little over that last word.
‘And what did you use for money?’ Adelaide smiled triumphantly.
‘I took Mr Getheridge’s card and told Madame Rénee to charge it to ’is account. Everyone knows him ’ere so it was no problem. I found the card on the mantel where ’e left it.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘That Madame Renée is no more a Frenchy than what I am.’
Once again I was awestruck. I would never let Adelaide go from my service even if I had to chain her to the wall. ‘You are most resourceful, Adelaide,’ I said, fanning myself feebly with a lace handkerchief. ‘What would I do without you?’
She grinned. ‘I try my best to satisfy, ma’am.’
Half an hour later a young man arrived bearing various parcels and packages. Adelaide opened them and laid them out on the bed. The gown was delightful, of pink gauze over a white satin underskirt, with blonde lace trim and fichu. Pearl beads trimmed the underskirt and a pair of pink satin slippers with silver rosettes completed the ensemble. I would carry an ivory fan with my gloves and Madame Renée had provided an elaborate headdress of pink feathers and pearls.
The next problem was what to wear as jewellery. I knew that only diamonds were worn for evening in the highest society. I had the remaining diamond and amethyst bracelet but it could not be worn with pink. Adelaide assured me that pink topaz was all the rage for day wear, and then she produced her trump card. In a small box lay a delicate necklace of diamond links with matching earrings.
‘They’re fakes, just paste, ma’am. Madame Renée loaned them to you for the evening to be of service. I said as ’ow you would be a good customer in the future.’
Indeed I would; I intended to haunt that establishment during my every waking hour. My sartorial reputation, at least, had been saved. I was so grateful I immediately gave the yellow gown to Adelaide although I do not know in what circumstances she will wear it.
I was dressed in my new-found splendour in good time while Adelaide arranged my hair and assured me that striped, gauze ribbons were no longer in favour and only plain or brocaded ones would serve. She spends so much time with her ear to the ground that I am surprised she can walk upright.
I was alarmed to find a small blemish on my right cheek despite the fact that I use only Pears soap on my skin. We contrived to cover it with a beauty patch just as Mr Getheridge arrived. He was wearing knee breeches as the occasion demanded but they did his figure no favours. Of course, he noticed my necklace immediately and demanded to know in the frostiest tone who had given it to me.
I told him the whole story of the near disaster with my ensemble and how Adelaide’s quick thinking had saved the day. My maid further endeared herself to me by emphasising that Madame Renée had loaned the fake diamonds to me because I had none of my own.
My patron was so overcome by this account that he gave her a half crown on the spot which she received politely while contriving to give the impression that it was no more than her due.
It is true that up to that moment the ball on the eve of Waterloo had been the social zenith of my life, but the Prince of Wales’s banquet in the Royal Pavilion would certainly approach it for splendour and cachet. If only my family could see me at this moment. How far I had come from those parochial assemblies in Meryton!
Arrayed in my pink satin splendour with my false jewels gleaming in the half light of the carriage, I muttered under my breath, ‘Wickham, if you could see me now.’
Sadly, my companion was unable to share my joy on this occasion. Apart from patting my knee and telling me that I was ‘As beautiful as an angel’ he appeared to be distracted and upset, offering little conversation and staring morosely at the floor. He had not recovered from the affair of the murdered nobleman which obviously affected him greatly. This subdued creature was most unlike the Getheridge I had come to know. He was usually loquacious to a fault. His tongue was a perpetual clapper.
As the carriage drew up at the Royal Pavilion and footmen hurried forward to assist me, I knew a feeling of sheer triumph. At that moment my companion shocked me by announcing that the banquet was being given in honour of Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia, who was presently visiting England. All the great and the good from our country would be present, as well as many from continental Europe. Thank goodness Adelaide had procured the correct gown for me.
The building was ablaze with lights and the heat in the room was phenomenal, in contrast to the January chill outside. The air was full of heavy oriental perfumes as we joined the long line of people processing through the yellow, green and golden halls with their pink marble columns.
I hoped for a glimpse of Princess Charlotte and her new husband, Prince Leopold. Mr Getheridge did not respond to my nudges and requests as to the identity of the distinguished guests. He remained gloomy and nervous, looking about him guiltily and starting visibly when we were accosted by a lone gentleman.
This man was an astonishing sight. Tall and thin as a beanpole and dressed entirely in white, he looked like a ghost from another age in his tight breeches and court dress. I detected a touch of rouge on his wrinkled cheeks and surely that was a nutty brown wig perched askew on his head, reeking of oil?
I smiled behind my fan at this extraordinary apparition as he made an exaggerated bow and gave my companion a malicious smile.
‘Ah, Getheridge, how good to see you. And who is your delicious companion?’ I was introduced, a trifle unwillingly I thought, to Lord St Just while the strange creature twirled a lace handkerchief and asked solicitously after Gethridge’s household at Hampton Lodge.
I knew this was a referenc
e to my patron’s Brighton mistress Maria Bertram, the fearsome woman Selena had warned me against. At the very mention of Hampton Mr Getheridge blanched even a shade paler and whisked me away with a curt farewell to the beanpole.
We made our way through the throng to the magnificent red and gold dining hall where the tables were already adorned with some of Careme’s magnificent creations. I gazed in awe at a four feet high concoction of almond paste, puff pastry and icing sugar snow.
The prince, the Grand Duke, and the other important guests were seated at a high table, while we lesser mortals were seated at two long tables before them. Mr Getheridge and I were placed far down on the left side. I had a feeling that either bankers were regarded as little more than servants, or the prince did not want to be reminded of the man who controlled his purse strings.
I caught glimpses of the Grand Duke who was a very tall, fair, handsome man with a serious expression and a military bearing. Our Regent, in contrast, was in high spirits. His conversation and witticisms were passed around to all so that we might laugh immoderately at his bon mots. He was speaking of his love for Italian opera which affected him deeply – like drowning in a bath of pure melody. I had heard that brandy had the same effect on the royal personage. His jokes involved a play on words at which my patron pretended to roar with laughter.
‘Why are Lord Palmerston’s dashing pantaloons like two French towns? Because they are Toulon and Toulouse!’
I raised a polite smile.
All of the forty courses on the menu were placed on a central table, with some towering creations the like of which I had never seen before. Alas, the heat and the heady perfumes in the room combined to destroy my appetite. I normally eat little, but I forced myself to sip a little spicy soup. Mr Getheridge’s spirits having revived, he urged me to try one of Carème’s most celebrated inventions – vol-au-vents à la Nesle: large pastry cases containing meat, surrounded by a rich sauce. He transferred some meat balls on to his spoon, holding them aloft in a salute.
