by M. C. Beaton
“Oh, yes, very kind. He would read me the scriptures and make me pray to God to bear the burden of my ugliness.”
“My dear girl, you’re beautiful.”
“You are the only person who thinks so, and it is very kind of you to lie.”
“I’m not lying,” howled Mr. Sinclair. He lowered his voice. “Jamie didn’t … well … touch you in any way?”
“Yes.”
“Michty me! Worse than I thought.”
“He would sometimes stroke my hair and call me his poor child.”
“And that’s all?”
“Of course. Did you mean anything else?”
Mr. Sinclair pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, noticed with vague surprise that it was clean, and mopped his forehead. “No, no,” he said.
His eye fell on the copy of The Morning Post that had been left on the tavern table by the two advocates. He idly turned the pages, remembering vaguely what they had said about the London Season.
His mouth fell open as an idea hit him. He looked at Fiona and back at the paper, and then back at Fiona again. How wonderful it would be if Jamie, looking down from heaven, or more probably up from hell, could see that his bequest had turned into a fortune after all!
There was no doubt that a girl of such exquisite beauty as Fiona could take London by storm. Mr. Sinclair began to perspire, and thoughts, hopes, and ambitions crowded into his head.
But no one on earth, that is, no one worth knowing, would call on a girl who lived in some cheap part of town. He turned the paper over and over, abstractedly reading the advertisements, only half taking in what he read. And then, all at once, one advertisement seemed to leap up out of the page.
A HOUSE FOR THE SEASON
Gentleman’s residence, 67,
Clarges Street, Mayfair.
Furnished town house. Trained
servants. Rent: £80 sterling.
Apply, Mr. Palmer, 25, Holborn.
Mr. Sinclair had visited London several times when he was a young man. He knew Clarges Street and knew that the rent, although it might seem enormous to some, was in fact ridiculously cheap for a town house in Mayfair. If he sold his own apartment, say, and everything in it, he could raise just enough to take Fiona to London for a Season. Then, if nothing came of it, he would hang himself.
He looked at Fiona. She sat there, vague, calm, and extraordinarily beautiful. He realised with alarm that this treasure was being exposed to the vulgar gaze of what seemed like the half of Edinburgh, since more and more men had crowded into the tavern to stare at Fiona.
“Come along,” he said, leaving a bottle of wine unfinished for the first time in his life.
The gentlemen of the tavern fell back as if before royalty as he led Fiona out. He could feel notes being thrust into his pockets, and knew they would all be from men begging permission to call on him. But his Fiona should go to the highest bidder. Why waste such sweetness on some mere shopkeeper or advocate? Any Scotchman with real money went to London for the Season.
Followed by an admiring throng, Mr. Sinclair led Fiona back home, doing mathematical sums in his head. Then he became aware that several of the gentlemen had broken out of their stupefied trance and were pressing forward, thrusting flowers and notes on Fiona. Mr. Sinclair scowled horribly. He was desperate now to send an express letter to this man Palmer. The coach only took forty-five and a half hours to reach London, the Royal Mails being so fast some people would not journey on them for fear of a seizure caused by travelling at fifteen miles per hour.
“Put your hood up,” he ordered sharply, as more admirers pressed around.
Fiona obeyed. “I told you I was ugly,” she said.
A blackbird flew down the chimney of Number 67 Clarges Street and batted the walls with its sooty wings, looking for a way out. Before MacGregor could slaughter the bird, Lizzie seized it up, ran to the kitchen door, and let it out. It flew straight up to the roof of the house opposite, and, after a few moments, shook out its sooty wings and began to sing.
Lizzie stood with her hands clasped until MacGregor told her sharply to scrub down the walls as a punishment for her folly. Lizzie turned a radiant face up to the cook. “It’s an omen,” she breathed. “This house has been let. I feel it.”
“Havers,” said the cook sourly. But some old superstitious fear stirred in his Highland blood, and he kept clear of little Lizzie for the rest of the day.
Hectic weeks followed for Mr. Sinclair. Some drunken Highland laird with more money than sense paid him handsomely for his apartment in which said Highland laird meant to house his new mistress.
Mr. Sinclair had not attended his brother’s funeral. The fact was noted in a report in an Edinburgh newspaper. It seemed appalling that such a great philanthropist as Mr. Jamie Sinclair should go to his grave unmourned by his only brother.
During all the bustle of preparation, Mr. Sinclair had not really time to find out what went on behind Fiona’s placid brow. She had accepted the decision to move to London with the same tranquillity as she accepted everything. Mr. Sinclair, when he thought of her at all, decided she was somewhat touched in her upperworks, but none the worse for that, since it was well known that the aristocracy did not favour clever women.
By the time he had paid for two inside seats on the Mail and had sent a deposit of £25 to Mr. Palmer—dispatching the latter without even waiting for Mr. Palmer’s letter of acceptance—Mr. Sinclair calculated that he had £800 left. Gamblers in London, he knew, could lose as much as £800 or more on the throw of a die. It would not go very far. He would need to rack his brains for a plan to launch Fiona without actually putting his hand in his pocket. He had the right address. All he needed was a scheme.
Beautiful as Fiona was, without stability, riches, or family in her background, she might either be offered the post of someone’s mistress or have to marry the first man who asked her. Mr. Sinclair felt he owed her more than that. She would have to marry to justify the expense, but he wanted the girl to have a choice.
He had never had much luck with the cards, but, in the hope that he might improve his performance, he practised nightly with Fiona, teaching her how to play piquet, silver loo, whist, hazard dice, and faro. But he came to the conclusion that the idea of gambling was hopeless because Fiona—who, anyone could see, had little brain—managed to beat him every time. He decided to shelve the problem until they were on the road. He had found in the past that the swaying motion of the coach activated his mind wonderfully.
“Who has called?” asked Lizzie, opening the kitchen window to let in the first breath of spring air.
“It’s Mr. Palmer, and get on with your work,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Middleton.
“God rot his black heart,” muttered MacGregor.
“Mr. Rainbird is with him upstairs,” said Mrs. Middleton fussily. “Alice, take that tray up to the drawing room. Have we no cakes or biscuits?”
“No,” growled the cook, “and if we had, I wouldnae be wastin’ them on Palmer.”
Alice straightened the cap on her blond hair and went out carrying the tray with maddening slowness. Everything the stately Alice did was slow and studied. When she came back, Mrs. Middleton looked at her anxiously. “How are things?”
Alice shrugged, a long, slow sort of shrug that seemed to go on forever. “Mr. Palmer is reminding Mr. Rainbird that he is tied to this house forever,” she said.
“Oh, dear, poor Mr. Rainbird,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Now he’ll be in such a temper. Has Jenny done the bedrooms?”
“What is there to be done?” asked Alice. “It’s hard cleaning and dusting when there ain’t nobody to clean and dust for.”
“Isn’t anybody,” corrected Mrs. Middleton primly.
Alice gave her a slow look of surprise. “Now didn’t I just say that?”
Mrs. Middleton went to take down the canister of Bohea; the little Hysop tea there was being saved for high days and holidays. She felt sure Mr. Rainbird would be in the need of somet
hing sustaining. Mr. Palmer had no doubt called only to enjoy the excercising of his power.
Half an hour passed before they heard Rainbird’s step on the stairs. He burst into the kitchen, his eyes sparkling. “The house is let,” he cried. He seized Mrs. Middleton and began to dance about the kitchen with her.
“Let!” gasped Mrs. Middleton, clutching her cap.
MacGregor dropped a pot.
“What’s to do?” demanded Joseph languidly, appearing at the kitchen door.
“The house has been let, let, let!” sang Rainbird.
Jenny burst into the kitchen, the streamers of her cap flying. “Did you say let?”
Rainbird nodded. The staff fell on each other, hugging and kissing. Lizzie tried to hug Joseph, but he pushed her away.
“Who to?” they all demanded.
“A Scotchman and his ward,” said Rainbird. “A Mr. Sinclair. Oh, the parties and routs, the food, the guineas. Mayhap we’ll all get new clothes should he prove generous.”
“I knew my prayers would be answered,” said Lizzie.
“Yes,” said Rainbird slowly. “Yes … that’s right, Lizzie.”
A silence fell on the group while they looked at Lizzie with something approaching awe.
* * *
Mr. Sinclair was glad to note there were no susceptible young men in the mail coach. The other two inside occupants were a thin spinster lady and a tired-looking middle-aged lawyer’s clerk. The passengers on the roof were sedate and middle-aged.
The coachman cracked his whip, and the black and maroon Royal Mail coach moved off. Mr. Sinclair had never travelled by the mail coach before, and he was awed and exhilarated by the speed.
So elated was Mr. Sinclair, in fact, that he found it hard to think. The gentle rocking of the slow regular coach he had taken in the past had made thought easy. But it was hard to worry about anything as they dashed through the countryside and one triumphant blast of the horn sent a cheeky goodbye flying back to the looming black tenements of Edinburgh.
After several hours and several changes of horses, he became accustomed to the speed, but instead of thinking, he fell fast asleep. It was the slowing of the hectic pace that awoke him. He assumed they must be approaching another inn. But by the light of the carriage lamps, he could see they were now going through a white world.
“Snow,” he thought, cursing under his breath. If they had to spend the night at an inn, he did not feel like breaking into his precious hoard of money in order to pay for two bedchambers. He leaned sideways and whispered to Fiona. “If we have to rack up for the night somewhere, would you mind sleeping on a chair?”
“No,” said Fiona placidly. “I can sleep anywhere.”
Mr. Sinclair experienced a sudden rush of affection for her. Through all the hurly-burly of the leaving arrangements, she had remained as calm and as beautiful as ever. She was travelling in the same clothes she had worn when she had first arrived on his doorstep. He had been appalled to learn that she had very little else, her sole wardrobe being made up of two wool gowns and two cotton gowns, all made sometime in the last century, along with carefully darned shifts and stockings and one pair of shoes. Jamie had obviously found her clothes among the donations to some of his charities. But Mr. Sinclair had told her she must make do with what she had until they reached London, as the latest thing the Edinburgh shops had to offer might prove to be sadly provincial.
The coach fumbled its way on through the blizzard. “I am paying good money to get to London,” said the sharp-faced spinster. “I was told the Royal Mail could travel in any weather.”
“We are still travelling, madam,” said the lawyer’s clerk wearily. “Those poor people on the roof must be frozen.”
“This is a weird spring.” Mr. Sinclair shivered.
The coach creaked to a halt and then dipped and swayed as the coachman climbed down from the box. He wrenched open the door, and the spinster let out a shriek of protest when a small snowstorm whirled into the interior of the carriage.
“Can’t go any further,” said the coachman. “There’s gates up ahead. Gentleman’s residence, most like. See if they’ll take us in. It’s fifteen mile to the nearest inn, and we’ll never make it in this.”
“Where are we?” asked Mr. Sinclair.
“Liddle bit north of the border, I reckon.” The coachman slammed the door just as the spinster was about to protest.
“Well, reelly!” she bridled. “I shall put in a strong complaint.”
Fiona rubbed the misted glass with her sleeve and looked out at the swirling whiteness in delighted wonder. Mr. Sinclair realised again that he knew very little about her and had not even bothered to ask. Did she know her parents? She had been given the name Sinclair by Jamie. What had been her family name?
The coach swayed and dipped and lurched as it swung off the road. “I hope this will work,” said Mr. Sinclair. “If it’s a grand mansion, we might be sent to the rightabout.”
“I am a lady,” said the spinster, flashing a malicious look at Fiona, “although others may not be.”
“That is quite enough of that,” said the lawyer’s clerk in the quavering voice of a timid man determined to assert himself.
The spinster sniffed, but relapsed into silence.
The coach finally stopped in front of a large mansion. A lamp was hanging over the entrance portico. The coachman climbed down and rang the bell.
A powdered, liveried footman came out on the step. He retreated and was replaced by an imposing-looking butler. The butler shook his head. The coachman waved his arms. Inside the coach, they could not hear what was being said, but no one wanted to open the window and risk losing the little warmth they had.
The butler retired and then reappeared with a tall gentleman beside him. The gentleman had a weak, dissipated face that was rouged and painted. He was exquisitely dressed, and his fair hair was teased into a miraculous array of tangled and artistically disarrayed curls. He listened with a listless, bored air to the coachman’s tale and then said something to the butler.
The coachman came back towards the carriage, rubbing his hands. He pulled open the door and said cheerfully, “We can spend the night in the kitchens, so we’ll have food and warmth.”
“Whose place is it?” asked Mr. Sinclair.
“Gentleman by the name of Pardon.”
Pardon. Mr. Sinclair frowned. There was something about that name, something unsavoury connected with it. He looked uneasily at Fiona’s innocent face and felt inadequate for the first time. He felt he should never have brought such a ewe lamb out into the cold world.
Huddled together, the inside and outside passengers trooped into the entrance hall, clutching their belongings. The hall was wood-panelled and hung with portraits. A fire burned in a marble fireplace, and the air was scented with rose water.
“This way,” said the butler, leading the way to the back of the hall so that he could conduct these plebian guests down to the kitchens.
Mr. Pardon stood in front of the fireplace, warming his bottom, the tails of his evening coat hitched up. “Serve dinner, Johnson,” he called to his butler. “My guests are sharp set.”
“Very good, sir,” said the butler. “I will usher these persons belowstairs first.”
The passengers shuffled through the hall, gazing about them in awe, all except Fiona, who seemed unaware of her surroundings. She drew back the hood of her cloak and shook out her hair.
“By George,” muttered Mr. Pardon. Something made Mr. Sinclair take Fiona’s arm and draw it protectively through his own.
His languid pose completely gone, Mr. Pardon glided forward and intercepted Mr. Sinclair and Fiona. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “I was not aware a gentleman was of the party. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pardon, Percival Pardon.”
“Roderick Sinclair,” said Mr. Sinclair, executing a clumsy bow.
“And this … ?” asked Mr. Pardon, smiling at Fiona.
Before Mr. Sinclair could speak
, Fiona said, “I am Fiona Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair’s daughter.”
Chapter
Three
… his legs were so beautiful … his skin so clear and transparent … Really all these things, and thirty thousand a year besides, were enough to melt a heart of stone.
—Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs
Mr. Sinclair blinked, wondering why she had not said she was his ward, but quickly decided Fiona was being simple-minded as usual.
“Charming,” said Mr. Pardon. His pale eyes studied Fiona’s face and figure in a way that Mr. Sinclair did not like. “Of course you must join me for dinner.” Mr. Pardon snapped his fingers. “James,” he said to a tall footman, “tell Mrs. Anderson to have … let me see … the Yellow Room and the Blue Room made ready for Mr. and Miss Sinclair and set dinner back by half an hour.”
“We are honoured, sir,” said Mr. Sinclair, still holding tightly on to Fiona. “But I fear we are putting you to too much trouble.”
“Nonsense, my dear Sinclair. You will not be my only unexpected guests. The Earl of Harrington has also thrown himself on my … er … mercy, having been travelling south when the storm struck.”
Mr. Sinclair had a longing to say he would be quite happy in the kitchens with the other passengers, but the housekeeper had appeared and was obviously waiting to conduct them upstairs. All he could do was to bow and thank Mr. Pardon, resolve to caution Fiona, and hope she might grasp at least a tenth of what he was saying.
The house was richly carpeted. Ornaments and statues gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps. Fiona was given the Yellow Room. The Blue Room was next door. A footman put their scanty luggage on the floor and said he would send a maid to see to their unpacking.
“No need,” said Mr. Sinclair hastily. He turned to the housekeeper. “If you will excuse us, mistress, I wish to have a word with my wa—daughter.”
The housekeeper and footman left.
“Sit down, Fiona,” said Mr. Sinclair. “It’s time we had a talk.”
