by M. C. Beaton
On seeing the earl again, Mr. Sinclair thought afresh that his poor Fiona had certainly no hope in that quarter. The earl looked hard and handsome and austere. He seemed almost relieved to learn that Fiona was gone from home, merely saying with chilly civility that he had come to present his compliments to the Sinclairs and make sure there had been no further assaults.
Mr. Sinclair assured him there had not, and then, to the earl’s extreme irritation, added with surprise, “Gossip certainly travels fast in London. How did you come to learn of the attack on Fiona so soon?”
“I was there,” said Lord Harrington frostily. “In fact, I pursued the assailant and subsequently entertained Miss Sinclair to refreshments in my home.”
“She didnae say a word to me,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Ah, weel, it probably slipped her wee mind.”
Not knowing Mr. Sinclair became more Scottish in accent and bluff of manner when he was embarrassed or distressed, Lord Harrington began to feel that his rank and fortune were as of little consequence to Mr. Sinclair as they were to his daughter. He asked Mr. Sinclair many polite questions about his London experiences and began to form a picture of a lonely old man who was longing to return to Scotland as soon as possible.
The refreshments offered him were surprising in view of Mr. Sinclair’s reputation as a miser. The wine was of the best, and the cakes were as light as thistledown.
“Shall I see Miss Sinclair at Almack’s?” he asked, rising at last to take his leave.
“I should not think she would get vouchers,” said Mr. Sinclair. “I have only just applied, but I do not know any of the patronesses of the assembly rooms and the Season has already started.”
“Perhaps I might be able to do something to help,” said the earl lightly, and then cursed himself as soon as the words were out because he was sure he had no wish to know the Sinclairs further. He was just making his way out of the door when he remembered what Fiona had said that had so tantalised him.
“What orphanage?” asked the earl abruptly.
The effect of his words on Mr. Sinclair was startling. The old man clutched at his heart and turned a muddy colour.
“My dear Sinclair,” exclaimed the earl, helping him into an armchair. “Whatever has happened?”
“Naethin,” gasped Mr. Sinclair. “My heart is weak. You had best go, my lord.”
“Let me at least ring for a servant.”
“No, no!” cried Mr. Sinclair so desperately that Lord Harrington felt the old man would have a seizure if he did not take his leave.
There was a mystery about the Sinclairs, thought the earl, as he made his way out of Clarges Street and across Piccadilly to Green Park. Lord Harrington had property in East Lothian in Scotland. He decided to write to his lawyers in Edinburgh and ask them to find out all they could about a certain Mr. Roderick Sinclair and his daughter, Fiona.
He was bound to find out something unsavoury about their background and discover the girl was quite unsuitable. Unsuitable for what? jeered a voice in his head. He walked more quickly as if to escape it. He was glad Fiona had been out. He was sure he was glad. The weather had turned brassy and hot. Most unusual in England. That must be the reason he was feeling so flat.
When Fiona returned, Mr. Sinclair, who had meant to chide her for not having told him about her visit to Lord Harrington, who had meant to demand why the earl had asked about an orphanage, was completely thrown by the sight of the amount of money Fiona pulled out of her reticule.
“You’ll get us both killed,” he gasped. “You’ve been gambling again.”
“And so I have. And how exhausted I am,” Fiona replied, sighing. “It’s no use looking cross, Papa. I cannot help it if it is the fashion to invite me to tea and then almost force me to play cards. Ugh! What leathery ladies! They were quite furious with me for winning so much. I cannot understand it. The ones who were not playing with me lost thousands anyway.”
“Were you cheating again?”
“Oh, no,” said Fiona, opening her eyes very wide. “Cheating is sinful.”
“There’s enough here, more than enough to keep us,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Don’t play anymore. I feel it is dangerous. Look here, gambling isn’t natural in women. It turns them vicious.”
“I will give Mr. Rainbird some more money for the staff,” said Fiona. “Poor things. They have so little.”
“You haven’t been spoiling them?” asked Mr. Sinclair.
“No. Grateful servants can be so useful.”
“You having been used to servants all your life,” sneered Mr. Sinclair.
Fiona yawned and did not reply.
“Harrington was here,” said Mr. Sinclair. Fiona showed no interest.
“He nearly gave me the apoplexy. He turned as he was leaving and asked, ‘What orphanage?’ ”
“And what explanation did he give for having asked such an odd question?”
“None. I was that upset. What were you saying to him, lassie?”
Fiona wrinkled her brow. “I was merely wondering why no one in society discussed anything of importance with me—like politics or the war or anything.”
“Here! Don’t start getting clever. There’s nothing your tonnish fellow dislikes more than a clever female.”
Fiona laughed. “You are always calling me addlepated. Stupidity does not seem to please you.”
“Never mind about me. The gentlemen consider it a fine thing in a woman. Harrington is no exception. I have heard it said he detests clever women,” said Mr. Sinclair, who had heard nothing of the sort, but was sure Fiona would dim her hopes of marriage if she suddenly decided to pretend to be intelligent.
Fiona went quite still. Her eyes narrowed a fraction. Then she said, “I feel sure you will find Lord Harrington did not say anything about an orphanage. We are both so worried about being found out that it is only natural we should sometimes hear the wrong thing.”
“Aye, but—” began Mr. Sinclair.
“Have you dined?” interrupted Fiona.
“I was waiting for you.”
“Alas. I have eaten so many cakes and biscuits and sandwiches, I cannot eat any more.”
“That Highland cook has been banging the pots and sweating all day, or so Rainbird tells me. For pity’s sake, try to eat something.”
“Very well,” said Fiona. “I do not like to waste food.”
Dinner proved to be a work of art. The first course consisted of fish with oyster sauce, soup and fowls, roast beef and vegetables; the second of Ragôut à la Française, celery, game, cauliflower, macaroni, pastry, and cream; the dessert of walnuts, apples, raisins, almonds, pears, oranges, and cakes.
A waistcoat button popped from the front of Mr. Sinclair’s stomach and shot across the room like a bullet as he slowly digested the last bit of cake.
“You have done justice to an excellent dinner, Papa,” said Fiona. “I hope my lack of appetite will go unnoticed.”
“That MacGregor is a genius.” Mr. Sinclair sighed. “We had best invite some people and show off his skill.”
“You will lose your reputation of being a miser. Besides, perhaps I will not marry—and what will we live on when we return to Scotland?” said Fiona.
“You will marry all right,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Our first social engagement is in a few days’ time. The Bascombes’ rout. Keep silly ideas about Harrington out of your cockloft and we will do very well.”
Mr. Sinclair began to prose on, trying to give Fiona the benefit of his wisdom. He had culled as much gossip as he could from the callers about who was important and who was not. “Keep clear of that Brummell,” he cautioned. “He can be dangerous if he takes you in dislike.” His voice went on and on, and it was some time before he realised to his annoyance that Fiona had fallen fast asleep in her chair. He shook her awake and ordered her off to bed.
“And what will you do?” yawned Fiona.
“I’ll take a bit of a walk in the park,” said Mr. Sinclair. “I haven’t been out of the house all day.�
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Fiona went up to her room and sat by the window until she heard the street door slam and saw the foreshortened figure of Mr. Sinclair trudging down the street.
Then she rang the bell.
A loud yawn outside heralded the arrival of Jenny, the chambermaid. Like Fiona, the servants were all suffering from an unaccustomed surfeit of food.
“Miss?” queried Jenny, stifling another massive yawn.
“Fetch Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona. Her usually gentle voice was almost curt.
Jenny scurried off, wondering what had upset the normally placid Miss Fiona. After a few moments, Rainbird appeared in the doorway.
“Come in, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona, “and sit down. Close the door behind you.”
Rainbird did as he was bid and then sat down on a chair beside the empty hearth while Fiona took the one opposite. Both of them wriggled a bit on the hard, lumpy upholstery to get comfortable. The servants of Number 67 Clarges Street had, in the past, tried to augment their small income by removing the stuffing from the beds and furniture upholstery and selling it. Every chair and bed in the house now had an oddly depleted appearance.
Fiona handed Rainbird a pile of notes and coin. He took the money, but protested as he looked at the large amount he held in his hands.
“You have been more than generous, miss,” he said. “I do not need all this.”
“You will find the money very useful,” said Fiona, looking half asleep.
“Yes, it will help to pay for new curtains,” said Rainbird with a twinkle in his eye. The servants had managed to detect where the curtains had gone.
“Yes, indeed,” said Fiona. “And it will also serve to buy back the stuffing for the chairs and beds.”
Rainbird had the grace to blush.
“Now, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona, leaning forward. “Before I tell you what I really want you to do for me, I must insist that no more lavish meals be served in this house. You forget that Mr. Sinclair is a miser, and I do not wish him upset by signs of overindulgence.”
“MacGregor will be in sore distress,” said Rainbird. “He was beginning to enjoy using all his skills again.”
“Then he may practise them in the servants’ hall,” said Fiona. “I do not care what you spend on food so long as none of it appears upstairs. One course of an evening followed by fruit will be enough for Mr. Sinclair and myself. Do not pamper the guests with good wine and those delicious cakes. The cheapest you can find will do for them. Why do you stay on here on such miserable wages?”
Rainbird avoided her candid gaze. He could tell her that Palmer had refused to give the girls references, but he did not want to tell her the scandal about Joseph and himself. He felt she would not understand.
“We have become used to working together,” he said, after a pause. “We are like a family.”
She nodded, but there was something in her manner that made Rainbird feel uncomfortable. It was hard to realise it was only pretty Miss Fiona sitting in front of him. The air crackled about him as if he were trapped in the room with an outsized, dominating personality with a will of iron.
“You wish me to perform some service for you?” asked Rainbird to divert her mind from the subject of their wages.
“Yes,” said Fiona. “I want you to get Lord Harrington for me.”
Rainbird’s normally mobile face became devoid of expression. Thoughts of Salome demanding the head of John the Baptist flitted through his brain. Then he thought he knew the reason for his own feeling of unease. Fiona was mad.
“And how would you like his lordship?” said Rainbird, determined to humour her. Trussed, boiled, drawn and quartered? he added to himself.
“I would like him at the altar as my husband.”
Rainbird said very carefully, “You wish to marry the Earl of Harrington?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish me to kidnap him?” Kidnapping was a word that had originally applied to the stealing of children or apprentices from their parents and masters and shipping them to the colonies. It had just lately come to mean the abduction of someone, usually for ransom.
“Oh, no!” Fiona looked shocked. “You must make him fall in love with me.”
“And how am I to do that?” asked Rainbird gently, as if frightened that a raised voice or any evidence of surprise would cause Miss Fiona to fall down in a fit.
“By manufacturing incidents to throw us together.”
“Such as?”
“I do not know.” Fiona gave him a blinding smile. “But I am sure you will think of something.” She stood up as a sign that the interview was over.
To Rainbird’s surprise, the other servants took the matter of getting the earl for Miss Fiona very seriously. They heard him out, and then Joseph said, “We’ve got to do our best, reelly we have. You’ve ordered my new livery. Black and gold it is. Wait till Luke sees it. What if she takes it away suppose we don’t ’elp her?”
“Miss Fiona would not do anything so petty as that,” said Jenny stoutly. “Besides, it’s only natural a young lady whose father treats her like dirt should turn to an intelligent man like Mr. Rainbird for help.”
“Did she like her dinner?” asked the cook, who, of all of them, proved to be the most indifferent to the plans of his young mistress.
“As to that,” said Rainbird, “Miss Fiona said an odd thing. If I have the right of it, you are to practise your art on us, Angus. She only wants one course served for dinner and the guests are to have the worst of everything. Do you think Mr. Sinclair is not a miser at all? Do you think Miss Fiona wishes her father to appear to be a miser?”
“It’s Miss Fiona who sees we have money while Mr. Sinclair turned down your request for more wages,” pointed out Alice. “There’s nothing odd about Miss Fiona wanting a bit of help with her love-life. Course, I don’t see as how she’ll need any help what with her face and figure.”
“But what can we do?” asked Rainbird. “We’re only servants. It’s not as if we can hold a rout and invite him.”
“Perhaps we could send him a love letter supposed to have come from her,” sighed Mrs. Middleton. “ ‘My dearest heart’ … something like that.”
“Ugh,” said Dave, turning red about the ears.
“When Joseph was attacked,” said Lizzie timidly, “that brought Lord Harrington and Miss Fiona together. Why don’t one of us attack her ourselves and let Lord Harrington save her?”
“You were told that washin’ your hair would make the demp go into your brain,” sneered Joseph.
But Rainbird held up his hand. “Save her from peril,” he mused. “It might work, Lizzie. Let me think.”
“If you are going to listen to the maunderings of a scullery maid, I’m off to The Running Footman,” said Joseph.
“Know your place, young man,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Don’t ever let me catch you speaking to Mr. Rainbird like that, ever again.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Joseph, eyeing Rainbird nervously, but the butler was sunk deep in thought.
“I’m off unless anyone needs me,” said Joseph, but only Lizzie looked up, Lizzie who had large tears in her pansy-brown eyes.
“I hope your feelings get hurt, Mr. Joseph,” said Lizzie, “same as you’ve hurt mine.”
Joseph muttered something and slammed out. He began to whistle jauntily and defiantly as he went up the area steps. Luke, the neighbour’s footman, was out taking the air.
“No work to do?” asked Joseph.
“Naw,” said Luke. “They’ve all taken themselves off to Almack’s with Lord Brampton and gone in his carridge with his footmen, so that’s given me some time off. And about time, too.”
“Come along o’ me to The Running Footman,” said Joseph expansively. Money jingled in his pocket. It was amazing how easy it was to love the world when you had money, thought Joseph. Also, Joseph, like many servants of the ton, was even more rigid in matters of rank and precedence than any patroness of Almack’s. Luke held the rank of first footman in a no
ble household. He, Joseph, was the only footman. Therefore by appearing with Luke he could underline that he was a member of the upper hierarchy of servant.
“You buying?” asked Luke suspiciously.
“All you want.” Joseph grinned.
“Right ho, then,” said Luke, linking his arm through Joseph’s. The two tall, powdered footmen sauntered down the street together.
It was a magic evening for Joseph. Although his tongue was loosened with drink and he bragged openly about the generosity of London’s latest beauty, he did not tell of the strange request to help Miss Fiona marry the Earl of Harrington.
That piece of gossip would go round London like wildfire, and Joseph knew that the astute Rainbird would trace it back to the proper source and use his fists to bring Joseph back to a nice understanding of what happened to indiscreet footmen.
He listened sympathetically as Luke talked about the glories of the Brewers’ lady’s maid at Number 63. A footman hoping to attract the attention of a lady’s maid—even a first footman—was flying high, but Joseph was in favour of his friend turning his attentions upward rather than downward. Joseph himself was saved from many of the pangs of love that tortured other young male servants—for servants were not allowed to marry. It was not that he was indifferent to the sight of a well-turned ankle or a roguish eye, but rather he was too effeminate, self-absorbed, and lazy to waste much time anguishing over the opposite sex. Joseph secretly considered himself on a level with Rainbird. He was unaffected by Jenny and Alice because he considered a housemaid and a chambermaid far beneath him.
After an hour and a half, Luke sighed and said he had to be getting back to prepare the dining room for a late supper. Lurching slightly, Joseph clutched at Luke’s arm on the road back to Clarges Street for he had been drinking gin and hot, and, although the mixture had given him a pleasant feeling of euphoria, it also seemed to have taken the marrow out of his bones.
The heat of the day had gone and the air smelled of that London spring mixture of horse manure, bad drains, blossom, new leaves, patchouli, and wine.
