Paying Guests

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Well, that is settled then,’ Silas said with a full return of his usual good humour. ‘Now, we must settle ourselves to enjoying the rest of our drive, for I would not dare to be late for Eliza’s cooked luncheon!’

  Eliza, thought Tilly. Oh, Eliza, what am I to do for you? There is much more to think out still, but I think I have a better view of what to do than I had when we set out. When we return, I shall tell her.

  ‘Why, there are Duff and Sophie!’ Silas said, and lifted his whip to indicate. ‘There, do you see? Coming this way. We must make sure they see us.’

  She lifted her chin to look and indeed there they were, riding so closely side by side that their stirrups almost touched and their horses tossed their heads close together, as though they were set between the shafts of the same carriage. Both riders were leaning towards each other too, although it was Duff who was almost sliding out of his saddle in his eagerness. Sophie was sitting more erect on her side saddle, the skirt of her riding habit well thrown back to display her ankles in their well-fitting riding boots, but her head was inclined towards Duff in a most confiding sort of manner.

  She looked splendid. Her waist was very small and neat in the habit which fitted like a second skin and the veil that held her hat in place invested her face with a wistful softness that was very appealing. Many people turned to look at them as they rode by, clearly admiring them, and Tilly had to admit that they made a handsome couple.

  And also that there was no doubt that Duff was thoroughly besotted with his companion. At home, when other people were about, he was a little more circumspect. He talked to her and was always there at her side when she played the piano and sang, and often sang duets with her; he handed her to her place at table at dinner time, and played spillikins and so forth with her and the others whenever he was asked. But he was sensible too. He was polite to Mademoiselle Salinas and all the other guests and behaved impeccably carefully with them. But here in the park when he thought himself unseen by people who knew him, he let his heart out to show itself off. He did not take his eyes from Sophie’s face, did not notice any other person or sight around him, and was totally absorbed in her, his face positively alight with adoration.

  Tilly took a deep breath of sheer relief. She had been right after all to seek out Sophie. She had turned Duff’s attention away from Patrick Paton; she, Tilly, had fretted needlessly and thought ill of her boy, and should be ashamed of herself. And she smiled delightedly as Silas beside her pulled on the reins of the phaeton to bring it nearer to Duff and Sophie’s horses so that he could hail them.

  It was not until the phaeton and two riders were side by side that Tilly looked at anyone apart from Duff, but then as Silas called cheerfully to them and she saw Duff’s face change as he looked at Silas, she too turned to look at his companion’s face. And was startled to see the oddly triumphant expression that was there, as Sophie lifted her chin and said softly, ‘Why, Mr Geddes! Imagine seeing you here! Have you been following me? Fie on you!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE JOURNEY BACK to Brompton was not an easy one. They agreed without precisely discussing the matter that they would return together, with the two horses following the phaeton, and that Sophie and Tilly would be delivered to the house, while the men took the animals and equipage back to the livery stable.

  ‘I dare say you require more time to change out of riding clothes than I,’ Silas said cheerfully to Sophie when they arrived and he turned to help her down, after seeing Tilly safely to the pavement level. He reached her side faster than Duff could, for his horse needed a moment of gentling after he dismounted, and by the time he came round to take care of his companion, Silas had done the honours, much to Duff’s obvious chagrin. It was clearly getting more and more difficult for him to disguise his feelings. Ever since they had met in the park, while they had paraded side-by-side with the phaeton along Rotten Row, Silas had monopolized Sophie’s conversation – or perhaps she had monopolized him. It was hard to tell for certain which. But whoever had been the prime mover in the conversation between Sophie and Silas, it was clear that Duff was unhappy about it. Now, as she stood on the pavement watching Silas, it seemed to Tilly that she knew as vividly as if she had the thoughts for herself why he was so put out. He had looked forward all through the ride to the moment when he would take Sophie’s hand in his and then set an arm about her waist to help her down. The physical contact had been something he yearned for, and Silas had robbed him of it.

  Duff had also to stand impotently on the kerb watching Silas hand his mother and Sophie up the steps to the front door, for someone had to hold the horses’ heads – both were restless, well aware of the hot mash that awaited them at the stables – and it was obvious Silas had no intention of doing so. Tilly looked back over her shoulder as she went into the house and saw Duff’s blank expression, the one he always used to hide his real feelings, and some of her delight in his renewed affection for his childhood playmate evaporated. Was he going to break his heart again over her, because she preferred someone else? ‘And someone you find interesting too,’ her treacherous inner voice whispered in her ear, but she ignored it.

  Eliza was waiting in the hall as they came in and Tilly smiled at her and asked her to send one of the maids up with hot water for Miss Oliver as well as herself, and Eliza nodded, but before she turned to go frowned as she looked again at Tilly.

  ‘Where’s your bonnet, Mum?’ she demanded.

  ‘Blown away!’ Tilly said, trying to make it sound gay and amusing, but Eliza was not fooled.

  ‘Just blown away? Or somethin’ more? It’s not like you to let your bonnet go untied, all messy, like.’

  Sophie had reached halfway up the stairs by now and stopped to look down on them. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘I hadn’t noticed that you had no bonnet – How absurd of me.’

  Tilly looked up and managed a smile. ‘Well, you were so deep in conversation that I am sure you had no thoughts for such unimportant matters as a missing bonnet,’ she said. ‘It was good to see you both so interested.’

  ‘Interested?’ Sophie said. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so –’ and then went on her way. Her voice had been cool and her glance a little sharp, Tilly thought, as Sophie’s light footsteps receded; is she suggesting she was not particularly interested in Duff’s earlier conversation? Or in Silas’s after they had arrived. Because –

  ‘Shall I help you change, Mum?’ Eliza broke into her thoughts. ‘It’s getting very close to time for luncheon.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tilly said absently. ‘The men have to return yet, and change out of their riding clothes.’ She stopped then and nodded. ‘But yes, it will be an opportunity to talk. If you can spare the time from the kitchen.’

  ‘Rosie will manage well enough,’ Eliza said. ‘I’ll send up Lucy with the hot water then and come up myself directly.’

  By the time she came to Tilly’s room, Tilly had climbed out of her gown and into a wrapper and was brushing her hair, ready to pin it up. Generally she wouldn’t disturb her hair once it had been dressed in the morning until it was time to prepare for dinner, but the wind had made a sorry tangle of it, and she had to brush it hard to tame it again.

  Eliza came and wordlessly took the brush from her hand and she let her, grateful for the assistance. It had been a difficult morning, both physically and emotionally and she was more tired than she might have expected.

  She watched Eliza’s absorbed face in her mirror for a while and then sighed. There were lines she had never noticed before, a droop to the usually cheerful mouth that was saddening, and she knew she could not let her go on being so unhappy.

  ‘Eliza,’ she said abruptly. ‘I must tell you what happened in the park this morning.’ And tell her she did, leaving out no detail of the ragged, dirty children, and her encounter with them, and Eliza listened, absorbed, while her fingers busily dealt with Tilly’s hair, and said not a word to interrupt.

  ‘So there it is.’ Tilly got to her feet and went acro
ss the room to her washstand and poured the hot water which Eliza had brought with her after dispatching Lucy to Sophie’s room, and began to wash her face and hands. ‘I shall ask Mr Cumming for news of what has happened to those children when he returns tonight, and in the future, when the need arises, and we find a baby from – in such a situation, we will make a home for him. Or her – here.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Eliza said after a long pause. ‘Oh, Mum, dear Mum!’ And she came across the room and took Tilly’s wet hands in hers and held them to her cheeks and kissed them. Tilly, deeply embarrassed, tried to pull her hands away but Eliza held on, weeping now, and Tilly felt her own eyes prickle in sympathy. But she managed not to cry and at length also managed to extricate her hands.

  ‘Please don’t distress yourself, Eliza,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be good for you or your baby.’

  Eliza began to laugh at that, twisting her tear-streaked face into quite another grimace and Tilly said sharply, ‘Now, Eliza, just you sit down and take a deep breath and be still. I will not have you going off into hysterics. Not so near luncheon, certainly. It would be most inconvenient.’

  Eliza laughed again, shakily, but this time there was no hysteria in it. Just real amusement and a deep relief. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all so easy now – you’ll see. People’ll know as the baby’s yours on account of you’ve adopted it, and that’ll make ‘em treat the child just as a child should be.’

  ‘I am not certain yet about adoption, Eliza,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘Now, don’t look so worried. There will be no problem, I do assure you. It will be clear to all that I am taking an interest in babies without families, and no one will think it at all odd when we have yours here, because by that time I shall have been seen to be very busy about such children. After today it is my intention to take an active interest in the welfare of beggar children. It is not enough just to send that poor little family to St George’s Hospital. There must be more I can do. By the end of the next six or seven months people will be very used to seeing children here. For I tell you, it is my intention to seek out those children we met today, and fetch them here and feed them up and see if good care can’t be arranged for them. I’m determined to do something – I can’t just spend all my time and energy on the work of Quentin’s.’

  Eliza lifted her chin. ‘Mum, you do whatever you think’s best. I dare say when the time comes you’ll see the sense of taking my baby to be your own adopted one – but if you wants to bring poor children to my kitchen in the meantime, why, I’ll be there to help you! I think it’s as good a thought as any you’ve ever had and you’ve had your share of them. I do my best to run an economical larder and kitchen but with the best will in the world it isn’t always possible to use up every scrap of food I prepare. There has to be more than the guests can eat at every meal, or otherwise they’ll think themselves on short commons, won’t they? So to have a child or two about the place to clean up the plates, well, it’ll suit me fine. I’ve the experience after all.’ She looked wistful for a moment. ‘I’ve never been anythin’ but happy in your service, Mum, but I won’t deny there’s been times I’ve thought about my sisters and brothers at ‘ome and wondered over ‘em.’

  ‘I told you many times to go and visit them, Eliza,’ Tilly began, but Eliza interrupted her.

  ‘No, Mum, not after what happened with that Mrs Leander and my ma – I swore then I’d never go back and never will I. But I missed the little ones and I won’t deny it. So havin’ some beggar children here’ll be a pleasure, Mum. Until our own arrives.’

  She smiled suddenly, a great wide gleaming grin that lit up her face and made her look as though a dozen years had fallen from her.

  ‘Oh, Mum, ‘n’t it wonderful? I know ’e was a bad man, that Octo-’orrible-avius Reagan, and treated me disgraceful, but oh, Mum, ‘n’t it wonderful to be carryin’ a baby? I never felt so good, Mum, as I do at this moment and it’s all thanks to you. Oh, Mum, I do –’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Eliza,’ Tilly said loudly and very firmly, knowing that Eliza was about to do something she had done once before, when she was very young, and declare an undying love for her, something which she, Tilly, would find impossible to deal with. ‘I am happy that you feel better, and happy to know that you will assist me in my determination to do something for those children we saw. Now, I think I will dress myself quite easily. You go and see to it that the table is all ready and that the men are back. I think I heard them on the stairs a little while ago – and call everyone to luncheon. We really mustn’t be late.’

  Luncheon was an agreeable meal. Few of the guests were there; just the Graylings who, of course, never missed any meals at all, and Sophie, Duff and Silas as well as herself, for everyone else took their luncheon at their place of work, or were, like the Salinas family, much too occupied with their sightseeing to return to Brompton in the middle of the day.

  At first the conversation was general, in an attempt to include the Graylings, but Mr Grayling, uncharacteristically, was feeling a little unwell and in consequence spoke less than usual and the pair retired to their own room immediately after eating the excellent milk pudding Eliza had sent up, leaving the four of them together.

  Silas and Duff sat on each side of Sophie on one side of the table leaving Tilly in slightly isolated splendour at the top of the table. She could join in the conversation, but it was not entirely natural to do so, since there were spaces between herself and Silas, so she contented herself mainly with listening and, above all, observing.

  The conversation was light and frivolous. Sophie was speaking teasingly about something Duff had said regarding the news in the Morning Post and Silas joined in with his banter too. It was clear that Duff did not particularly like what Silas said, for his face became a little wooden again and Tilly looked at him and wanted to deflect Silas, and then thought – but if I do, then Sophie will think the less of Duff. He must be free to behave the man, and if I meddle, then how can he? To me he is but a boy but he wants to play the man in Sophie’s eyes and I mustn’t make it harder for him. And she held her tongue.

  And was glad that she had, for Duff found his feet again. He said something sharp that made Sophie laugh a great deal and now it was Silas’s turn to look put out and that pleased Tilly. She watched him now, rather than Duff, and when he looked up and caught her eye and smiled broadly at her, a wave of warmth filled her. What a very good person he was, she told herself. He can’t be flirting with this girl at all; he said himself he’s too old for her, though I have to admit there have been many matches with such an age difference. But he thinks himself too old, so surely he can’t be in any sense Duff’s rival? See how kindly he changed the subject a moment ago and gave Duff a chance to say something clever?

  ‘Did your mother tell you of our adventure in the park, Duff, before we met you?’ Silas said and Duff looked up and then at Tilly. There was a small frown between his eyes.

  ‘Adventure?’ he said carefully, seeming anxious. ‘Not a disagreeable one, I hope.’

  Tilly smiled. ‘No need to look so put about, my dear boy! It was a small matter. No need to make a fuss.’ And she threw a warning glance at Silas, but he ignored it and launched himself into a lively account of their drive to the park and the beggar children’s encounter with them.

  ‘How horrid!’ Sophie cried. ‘It really is too bad that such children should be allowed into the park at all! I believe the authorities should clear them out. I have heard it said, and fully believe it to be true, that many of them are sent out by unscrupulous parents or masters to beg in a professional manner. They make vast amounts of money that way – it is quite disgraceful! It is dreadful in some parts of London, you know. You can’t move for beggars dogging your footsteps, and very nasty and abusive some of them are. Throwing themselves at one’s carriage to overset it is the least of it. Why, I have seen them in Covent Garden hanging on to the shafts, driving the horses nearly mad till their eyes roll and they slaver like crazy things, just to
persuade the driver to give them money to get off! They are a menace – and giving money to them just encourages them.’

  ‘They are poor,’ Tilly said. ‘If they have no food nor money to get any, how else are they to survive but by begging?’

  ‘I am sure they can find work of some sort,’ Sophie said. Her eyes were glittering with energy; she looked interested in a way Tilly had rarely seen her before. ‘It is always possible for people to find some means of keeping themselves without resorting to such behaviour as these beggars do! They revolt me and terrify me. You must not go out in the park, ever again, dear Aunt Tilly! I should worry dreadfully if I thought you were –’

  ‘You are kind to be so worried,’ Tilly said a little tartly. ‘But there is no need. I can’t see these children as dangerous. Only as pitiable. I intend to do whatever I can to make their lives more tolerable.’

  ‘Oh,’ Silas lifted his head and so did Duff. ‘What is that, Tilly?’

  ‘Why, I am not yet quite sure!’ Tilly said lightly. ‘I shall wait until I have had the opportunity to talk tonight to Mr Cumming and we will see after that. Perhaps they may find a home here, below stairs, of course. But we must wait and see. Would anyone care for more coffee? I have ample here.’

  They refused coffee with a shake of their heads and Duff said, ‘You mean to become a philanthropist, Mamma?’

  ‘I told you,’ Tilly said, ‘I’m not precisely sure what I shall do. I know only that I cannot rest until more has been done to take care of these children. I can’t bear to think of them living in such a dreadful sort of way.’