by M C Beaton
“Yes, but she has also brought bad news. Our brother Harry is dead. He died fighting bravely. And so comes the end of one of the most miserable chapters in my life.”
He sat down and buried his head in his hands.
Emily looked at him helplessly. She shyly reached out and stroked his hair. He caught her hand and held it.
“I have to go to the War Office, my love,” he said. “This is a grim start to our marriage.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“No. Take the carriage and go to see your uncle. Stay there until I send for you. You will be besieged with callers today and I am sure you will wish to avoid them.”
Outside Number 67, Mr. Percival Pardon waited patiently. He had called to present his compliments to the new countess and had been told, along with the other callers, that neither the earl nor the countess would be receiving guests that day.
But he was anxious to get a look at this beauty who had snared Fleetwood. Ever since he had read the announcement in the newspaper that morning, he had been consumed with curiosity. He was also anxious to ingratiate himself with the new countess. Mr. Pardon liked to be the fashion, and the only way he ever knew how to go about it was to attach himself to London’s newest darling of the ton. Although Bessie and Harriet and their mothers might exclaim over poor Fleetwood having been “trapped” by a Nobody, Mr. Pardon knew the ways of the ton, and knew this countess was already the darling of society, as any woman who had managed to capture the handsome earl must be.
He was soon rewarded by the interesting sight of the earl leaving Number 67. The earl wore a black armband. Mr. Pardon remembered all that gossip about the death of the first Countess of Fleetwood. Surely Fleetwood had not killed his new bride so soon!
Rain smeared the carriage windows, and he rubbed them impatiently with his sleeve. The day was cold and wet. The hot bricks at his feet had lost their warmth and he was just deciding to tell the hired coachman to move on when the door of Number 67 opened again and Emily came out.
Mr. Pardon stared and stared. She was standing on the step, drawing on her gloves and talking to the butler. Despite her fine clothes, he recognised her immediately. There could not be two such beauties in the whole of England. The new Countess of Fleetwood was that little chambermaid who had taken his fancy four years ago. The fact that Emily’s “taking his fancy” had meant the girl had nearly been raped and that the butler who had defended her had suffered an apoplexy did not give Mr. Pardon one qualm.
In his opinion, pretty servant girls were there for the taking. Sometimes their masters and mistresses became all Methodist and ordered him from the house, but mostly they turned a blind eye to his amorous adventures. Unlike prostitutes, servant girls did not cost anything and were more likely to be free of disease.
He ordered his coachman to follow Emily’s carriage.
While he was driven along, he turned his agile mind to the low state of his finances. He was sure the earl knew nothing of Emily’s background. Wait a bit. In the north, she had been called Jenkins, and before her marriage she had been calling herself Goodenough!
Mr. Pardon sat back and smiled. This countess was an adventuress, and would no doubt pay heavily to have her secret kept.
Her carriage stopped outside a house in Park Lane. Mr. Pardon waited until she had gone inside, called his footman, who was standing on the backstrap, and told him to make discreet inquiries as to the name of the people occupying the house.
After about ten minutes, the footman came back. The house, he said, was occupied by the Countess of Fleetwood’s uncle, Mr. Benjamin Goodenough.
“Her partner in crime,” thought Mr. Pardon gleefully. “Now, if I present my card, I shall be left standing outside and then sent away. I know. I shall say that Mr. Goodenough is expecting me; don’t bother to announce me, fellow, and walk in.”
Rainbird, after seeing Emily off, walked down to the kitchen where Angus was bent over the fire, stirring something in a pot. The rest of the servants, even Dave, were abovestairs, putting the house to rights, and lighting fires in all the rooms, for the rain outside was changing to sleet.
“What a spring!” Rainbird shivered. “Well, our Lizzie was looking much more cheerful this morning.”
“Aye,” said Angus. “I think she’s realised there’s not been much damage done, now that my lady gave us the money.”
“All the same,” said Rainbird, “I hope Luke never comes near here again. She was badly hurt and shamefully tricked. But I tell you, Angus, just before she came down the stairs last night, I could swear I heard her talking to someone outside.”
“Did you ask her if she was?”
“To tell the truth, I did not like to. She behaved badly over the taking of the money, but it made me realise she is not allowed any private life or dignity. But now I’m worried in case Luke came back last night and she is planning to run away with him.”
“She wouldn’t have looked so calm if that had been the case,” said Angus. “She seemed quite happy last night and quite her old self this morning. The church always did Lizzie a power of good.”
“Everything seems to be worrying me this morning,” said Rainbird. “Must be the weather. I keep feeling I should have gone with my lady to check on the servants in Park Lane. The butler, Giles, is a regular fellow, but Mr. Goodenough is the kind of man other servants might take advantage of.”
“Why don’t ye run along then,” said the cook impatiently, “and stop interrupting me at my work?”
Rainbird reached the house in Park Lane minutes after Mr. Pardon had made his entrance.
Giles let him in. “They’ve got company,” he whispered. “Some fop said he was expected and pushed his way in. I feel something’s wrong, for I heard my lady cry out. They have not rung for tea or wine or anything, so I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Didn’t he give a name?”
“Just said he was expected and walked in. He heard the voices from the drawing-room and went straight up there. But they haven’t asked for him to be put out, so it must be all right.”
“What did this fellow look like?”
“Oh, highly painted, weak sort of ferrety face, quite the dandy.”
“I’ll just go up and listen outside the drawing-room door,” said Rainbird.
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Giles, but Rainbird was already on his way upstairs.
Rainbird pressed his ear to the panels of the green-and-gold drawing-room door.
“… so you’d better pay up, my little servant, if you want me to keep quiet,” he heard a mincing voice say.
“How much?” Rainbird heard Emily asking, her voice high and strained.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
“We cannot afford such a sum!” Emily’s voice again. Rainbird felt impatient with Mr. Goodenough. Why did he not stand up for her? Why was he letting her cope with this man on her own? But Mr. Goodenough had let Emily cope with most of the problems before her marriage, Rainbird remembered.
“You forget,” came the nasty mincing voice again. “You told me, my dear countess, that you never stole any money from Sir Harry Jackson, that he left Spinks here the lot in his will. It was a fine house and lands. Ten thousand pounds is nothing to you.”
“Mr. Pardon,” Rainbird heard Emily say, “if I knew ten thousand pounds was all you were asking, I might be prepared to meet your terms. But when that money is gone, you will be back for more. And back. Such is always the way of blackmailers.”
“So young and so wise to the world,” mocked Mr. Pardon. “You have until tomorrow evening. I shall meet you here at six. If you do not give me the money, I shall go direct to Fleetwood.”
“What’s happening?” Rainbird swung round and saw Giles standing behind him.
“Nothing,” said Rainbird hurriedly. Unlike the earl, Rainbird had no faith in the ability of his servants to keep their mouths shut. “I think I hear someone approaching the door,” he said hurriedly. “You know Lord Fleetw
ood would send you packing if he found out you’d been eavesdropping on his wife’s conversation.” He went down the stairs, pulling Giles after him.
“Let me take that, Lizzie,” cried Joseph, relieving the scullery maid of a heavy coal-scuttle. “You shouldn’t ought to be carrying heavy things like that.”
“Yes, and why don’t you go downstairs and have a bit of a rest,” said Jenny. “You’ve done enough.”
“I’ve still got the stairs to do,” said Lizzie.
“Reckon I can do those,” said Alice. “Run along, Lizzie.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Middleton, “we’re nearly finished. I think these spring flowers add a nice touch of colour.” She tweaked a daffodil into place in the flower arrangement she had been working on.
“You make me feel useless,” said Lizzie. “I’d really rather be working … honestly.”
They all exchanged glances and then looked at her anxiously.
“You can do the stairs then,” said Alice. “But don’t you go tiring yourself out.”
Lizzie blinked back tears. She found their kindness made all her guilt come rushing back. Even Joseph had gone out of his way to be nice to her.
She took her cloths and brushes and went out to clean the stairs. As she worked her way steadily down from the attics, her thoughts kept returning to Paul Gendreau, the French valet who had escorted her home. When they had reached the more well-lit streets, she had been able to see his face clearly. It was a nice face, thought Lizzie, a bit sallow, but with a good firm jaw and mouth. Somehow, she had found herself telling him all about Luke and the money. The relief of unburdening herself to a sympathetic listener had greatly eased her heart, but now she wished she had not been so open. What did he think of her? He might think she was a stupid peasant who fell in love with every charlatan who showed an interest in her. She should not be thinking of him at all. Valets were a cut above first footmen—and only look where her vanity had already led her! And Joseph had become Joseph again—kind, teasing, and a bit silly. Dear Joseph.
Lizzie began to say her prayers as she cleaned each step, trying to shut out all worldly thoughts. She jumped as she heard the backstairs door in the hall slam. Rainbird shouted when he saw her, “Fetch everyone, Lizzie. Something terrible has happened!”
They all gathered round the table in the servants’ hall. Rainbird stood at the head of the table and addressed them.
“My lady’s secret has been found out,” he said, “by a Mr. Percival Pardon. He recognised her. I think he remembers her from a time he visited Sir Harry Jackson. I did not tell you, my lady is not only of common stock, but once worked as a chambermaid. Mr. Goodenough was the butler in the same household—Sir Harry Jackson’s. Sir Harry died and left his lands and fortune to Goodenough, then called Spinks, so they came by the money honestly, and changed their names legally. Now this Pardon is blackmailing my lady to the tune of ten thousand pounds.”
“But cannot we tell my lord—cannot she tell my lord—the truth?” said Mrs. Middleton. “He is so much in love with her, he is bound to forgive her.”
“It is well known that Lord Fleetwood detests the servant class,” said Rainbird. “He might not forgive her. He does not know she is of common stock, either, for we—I—had that scrivener forge papers. We must save her. We must do something. She has been good to us, very good.”
“What if my lord did kill his first wife?” said Jenny. “He’ll kill this one if he finds out.”
“He mustn’t find out,” said Rainbird. “What are we to do?”
“What kind o’ man is this Pardon?” asked Angus MacGregor.
“I waited outside and followed him to see where he went. He is living in modest lodgings in Mount Street above a pastry cook’s. He is a fop; middle-aged, dissipated face, richly dressed.”
“Not strong, I gather?” said Angus, stroking his chin.
“No, but not like to drop dead before tomorrow,” said Rainbird tartly.
“Reckon we could threaten him,” said Alice slowly.
They all looked at her impatiently. Slow and beautiful Alice was regarded by them all as being singularly addlepated.
“Garn,” said little Dave. “We’d be arrested, sure as eggs is eggs.”
Alice yawned and stretched. Then she said, “But he tried to blackmail a countess. If he talks, then we talk, and my lady and Mr. Goodenough have done nothing against the law—well, apart from them forged papers, and we can always burn them, for she changed her name right and proper and was married as Miss Goodenough and that war her legal name. So this Pardon chap ain’t going to go hollering to the law. We kin all stick together and say as how we all heard him trying to get money out of my lady. All we got to do is to get him to come round here after my lord and lady have been served their dinner.”
“But how do we do that?” asked Rainbird impatiently.
“By George!” exclaimed the cook. “We kidnap him—that’s what.”
Mrs. Middleton let out a faint scream. “We cannot do such a thing. Servants do not kidnap gentlemen.”
“I think Alice has hit on it,” said Rainbird slowly. “Never credited you with having ideas before, Alice.”
Alice blushed. “Been thinkin’ a lot about it,” she admitted modestly. “Secrets always come out somehow. I mean I didn’t know that someone would demand money from my lady, but I thought something would happen, and worry about her fair sharpened my brain-box.”
“Now, let me see,” said Rainbird. “We’ll need a closed carriage, strong rope, and something to gag him with.”
“What if he’s gone out for the evening?” asked Lizzie.
“We’ll wait until he comes back—even if it takes all night.”
“But what if my lord and my lady wonder where the servants have gone?” demanded Mrs. Middleton.
“Well, you womenfolk won’t be coming with us,” said Rainbird. “They won’t notice as long as they’ve got someone to wait on them. They’re too newly married to notice anything but each other.”
“But my lord’s brother has just died,” said Lizzie doubtfully, “and you said Lord Fleetwood was very upset. He might not be feeling romantic enough not to notice.”
“Mrs. Middleton will think of something to say,” said Rainbird impatiently. “Now, let’s work out our plan of battle….”
The earl collected his bride from the house in Park Lane late in the afternoon. He accepted her explanation that Mr. Goodenough had gone to lie down, and being too taken up with distress over his brother’s death, he failed to notice that Emily was unnaturally white and strained.
He went upstairs to change for dinner as soon as they arrived home—a process that took a whole hour, the earl finding it hard to master the intricacy of his cravats without the help of his valet. He then had to wait downstairs for his wife, Emily being still too shy to share a dressing room with him and having not yet moved her belongings into the back bedroom so that she might have a dressing room all to herself.
When they sat down to dinner, he talked about what he had learned of his brother’s funeral in Portugal. Emily noticed the strain and pain on his face and knew she was about to add to it. Percival Pardon would never keep that secret, of that she was sure. He would demand more and more money until she could not pay him further, and then he would talk.
Unaware that his bride was suffering the tortures of hell, the earl talked in a low voice about how good Harry had been when they had been boys together, before he, Harry, had turned out a wild, unmanageable rake.
By the time Alice and Jenny had cleared the covers and set down the port and walnuts, the earl finally noticed Emily’s pallor.
“You must not take my family tragedy to heart,” he said gently. “Harry’s death is a mercy in a way….”
“I must tell you something,” said Emily, gripping the edge of the table so that her knuckles stood out white.
Mr. Percival Pardon was feeling pleased with the world. The blackmailing of Emily gave him a heady sensation of po
wer. That would teach the little slut to repel his advances.
He finished his toilet by sticking a diamond pin in his stock, took his hat and cane and descended the stairs, and then stood on the pavement looking for a hack, and thinking that he would soon be able to afford a private carriage once more.
A closed carriage drew up beside him, the burly red-haired driver up on the box swathed in a greatcoat and shawls.
“Do you want a carriage, master?” called the driver. Mr. Pardon hesitated. The driver’s accent had been Scotch, and although Mr. Pardon’s country home was on the Scottish borders, he was suspicious of every member of that disgustingly independent race. But the carriage was well set up and rather above the usual standard of hackney carriage.
“Take me to Brooks’s,” he said.
He opened the carriage door and climbed in. There were two men and a boy inside. He opened his mouth to shout and a handkerchief was roughly shoved into it. Hands seized him, ropes bound him, and then, spluttering behind his gag with outrage, he felt himself being thrust into a sack.
Chapter
Twelve
For herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship, cowardice, murder, hate, virtue and sin.
—Sir Thomas Malory
“No,” said the earl quietly, “I think what I have to tell you is more important.”
“But, Fleetwood …”
“You must let me speak. I have been plucking up my courage to tell you this since my visit to the War Office.”
“Go on,” said Emily, although she wanted to scream at him that she had just screwed her courage up to the sticking-place and felt she would fail to say anything if she had to wait much longer.
But the earl’s next words drove all thoughts of her own predicament out of her head.
“Harry killed Clarissa,” said the earl flatly.
