The Miser of Mayfair: HFTS1

by M C Beaton

  Fiona was a sensation.

  Drivers reined in their carriages while their occupants stood up to get a better look. Fiona floated gracefully at Mr. Sinclair’s side. It was the first fine day. Fleecy clouds puffed across the blue sky above, and everything was green and fresh after the recent rain. There was something about Fiona’s beauty and innocence that made even the most hardened rake think of enchanted princesses in ivory towers.

  In vain did the ladies try to point out Fiona’s faults. One said she was too bold, but that was such an obvious untruth that she blushed as she said it.

  To Mr. Sinclair’s surprise, Fiona appeared to be more awake than usual. Her grey eyes scanned the carriages with interest. It was almost as if she was looking for someone.

  Mr. Sinclair waited until he was sure they were the centre of attention, and then he dramatically clutched his heart and made odd gargling noises.

  “Papa!” cried Fiona loudly, her Scottish voice with its lilting accent carrying clearly to the surrounding spectators. “What’s amiss?”

  Mr. Sinclair made several choking noises, wrenched desperately at his cravat, and to all intents and purposes collapsed in a dead faint. Gentlemen rushed to give their assistance. Fiona, now kneeling in the grass beside the fallen Mr. Sinclair, looked more like a romantic heroine than ever.

  “Speak to me, Papa,” she urged, and even Mr. Brummell, that arbiter of fashion and renowned cynic, was to say later that her silvery voice pierced him like an arrow.

  Mr. Sinclair opened his eyes and said faintly, “My heart. Alas, Fiona, you know I have not long to live. Miser that I am, I have been a bad father to you. But when I die, all my gold will be yours.”

  The listening company looked as if they had been galvinised by one of the new electric machines. Eager hands tenderly lifted Mr. Sinclair into the famous Lord Alvanley’s carriage while Mr. Brummell, Alvanley’s closest friend, mopped the old man’s brow with his handkerchief.

  A procession followed the carriage back to Clarges Street. Apparently recovered, Mr. Sinclair fulsomely thanked his rescuers and urged them indoors for cakes and wine. The distracted Rainbird did his best. The wine was thin and sour and watered. The cakes were stale, bought at half price from a local bakery. Society gamely ate and drank, saving up each evidence of miserliness to relate at the dinner tables, routs, and parties later that evening.

  “We barely noticed,” said Lord Petersham later. “We were all too busy feasting our eyes on Miss Fiona’s beauty.

  Downstairs that evening Rainbird carefully put all the tips he had collected from the aristocratic guests into a pot. He had faithfully promised his fellow servants that all vails would be equally shared. Mrs. Middleton and Joseph had protested, claiming that Rainbird should get the main part, then Mrs. Middleton herself, then the cook, then Joseph, and so on down the line. But Rainbird said they had suffered together and they may as well benefit together.

  “I don’t know if they’ll be any more pickings,” he said gloomily, “so let’s make this last. No wasting your share on candles, Lizzie.”

  “Oh, Mr. Rainbird,” said Lizzie, “I do wish you would let me pray again.”

  “Enough of that, my girl,” said Rainbird. “Pray by your bed if you must, but there’s enough work here without you running off to waste your money on candles.”

  “Seems to me you’re touched in your upperworks, Lizzie,” tittered Joseph, and then quailed as Rainbird rounded on him fiercely. “Now, you leave our Lizzie alone, you jackanapes,” he growled. He smiled at Lizzie, that charming smile of his that lit up his comedian’s face and usually made Lizzie want to laugh. But Lizzie adored Joseph, and his remark had cut her to the quick.

  “Before that Jessamy goes a-buying scent for to anoint his useless body,” said the cook, MacGregor, “I waud suggest we could hae a wee bit o’ meat for supper tomorrow. Roast beef,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Roast beef and gravy and lots of potatoes and we’ll give them upstairs that old bit o’ venison I got cheap from the butcher ’cause he dropped it in the sawdust and I saw him do it.”

  “Roast beef it is then,” said Rainbird dreamily. He loosened his cravat and put his feet up on the table. It was a sign that they were all equal in hardship again and the others took their places at the table, each sitting in the nearest chair without carefully noticing rank and precedence as they had done since Mr. Sinclair’s arrival.

  “Give us a bit of a tune, Joseph,” said Rainbird. “This is the best day we’ve had for a while.”

  Joseph took out his mandolin and with a wicked sidelong look at Mrs. Middleton began to play the opening chords of a rather bawdy ballad, but his aim of shocking the housekeeper was defeated by MacGregor, who began to make up words, all of them ridiculous, to go along with the tune. Jenny and Alice began to giggle helplessly, and little Lizzie put her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh in case she offended Joseph.

  “Tol rol diddle dol,” carolled MacGregor happily. Then his voice trailed away, and there was a sudden shocked silence. For the door had quietly opened, and Miss Fiona Sinclair stood surveying the scene.

  Miss Harriet Giles-Denton and Miss Bessie Plumtree had been enjoying their evening at Mr. Pardon’s town house until the name of Fiona Sinclair cropped up. Their respective parents, who had brought them to London for yet another Season, had graciously allowed both of them to attend a musicale at Mr. Pardon’s under the stern chaperonage of a maiden aunt of Miss Plumtree, who had been engaged for the Season by the Plumtrees and Giles-Dentons to keep a watchful eye on their daughters.

  The acceptability, or lack of it, of Mr. Pardon had been much discussed by both families on their arrival in London, but Mr. Giles-Denton had clinched the matter by saying that Pardon was well-regarded by the ton. This was in fact true, because Mr. Pardon’s more nefarious deeds had been discreetly performed in or near his mansion on the Scottish borders. Because he entertained lavishly, he was accounted no end of a good fellow.

  There was a fair sprinkling of titles in his mansion that evening. There was of course Mrs. Leech, but neither Bessie nor Harriet allowed themselves to think about her because to do so might conjure up unladylike feelings.

  The musicale was over and the company were strolling about or sitting chatting or striking attitudes when Harriet heard Fiona’s name. It quite spoiled the attitude she had been rehearsing all day, which involved propping her chin on her plump hands and scowling out into space.

  Bessie, too, had been striking an attitude when that wretched name had spoiled it all. She was wearing a Turkish turban of bright blue, fringed with gold. Her gown was white-silver lamé on gauze, the gauze sleeves revealing her sharp pointed elbows. Bessie’s attitude was to point one finger to the centre of her brow and look dewy-eyed, the dew in her eyes being a liberal application of belladonna.

  A certain Lady Disher voiced the dreaded name. “Who is this beautiful Fiona Sinclair everyone is raving about?” she asked languidly. “Evidently she caused quite a sensation in the park this afternoon.”

  “Oh, we met her,“ said Harriet. “She was travelling by the mail when it broke down or something and she and her father were invited to take dinner by Mr. Pardon in his home. She is nothing out of the common way. A marked Scotch accent, very bold, and badly dressed.”

  Mr. Pardon, who was still smarting over the humiliation of kissing Mr. Sinclair, said nothing.

  “But everyone—even Brummell—says she is divine. And all that money, too!” enthused Lady Disher.

  “What money?” demanded Mr. Pardon sourly. “The old man hasn’t a feather to fly with.”

  “But he is a miser. Is it not thrilling? A veritable miser. One of his servants, the butler, I think, came upon him counting bags and bags of gold. He has a weak heart. In fact he had an attack in the park which nigh took him off to his Maker. ‘I will leave all my gold to you, Fiona,’ he was heard to say. Of course, the gentlemen are going wild. Gold, more gold, and the face of an angel. Nothing could be more seductive. They were all—a
ll the people who helped them home, that is—offered sour watered wine and stale cakes. ‘Divine,’ says the great Brummell. ’So good for the tailleur.

  Everyone started to show interest in the Sinclairs, although Bessie and Harriet tried every way they could to diminish Fiona’s beauty and reputation.

  Lady Disher moved a little away from the nodding, gossiping heads. Mr. Pardon followed her. He was suffering from a mixture of fury and humiliation. It was one thing to try to seduce a penniless girl of no particular family, but another to try to ravish an heiress. Sinclair could have taken him to court. He broke out in a light film of sweat at the thought.

  “Pity me,” he said lightly. “I did not know I had a rich heiress under my roof.”

  “Why? Have you a need to marry well?” laughed Lady Disher.

  “We all have a need to marry well,” said Mr. Pardon, thinking bitterly of the piles of unpaid bills stuffed in the pigeon holes of his bureau.

  “Then propose to her by all means! Mrs. Leech is, after all, only the latest mistress on the scene. You have gracefully rid yourself of them before. Would that I were a man! I find myself at low ebb.”

  “What! I thought that gambling hell of yours made a fortune.”

  “Shhhh! My gambling hell, as you call it, is nothing more than a gathering of ladies who play cards. They are invited to one of my little afternoons or evenings and if they feel the urge to play, who am I to deny them?”

  “Perhaps we both might profit,” said Mr. Pardon slowly. “Say you were to send Miss Fiona a card—and quickly, before she is warned against you. That way you could shake some money loose from the golden tree. She will need to ask papa for the money, and he will be incensed. I will be on hand to comfort and advise him. I will offer myself as guide and protector—after I have settled your bills with his money, of course.” He mentally added, And I had better have some splendid excuse to explain what I was doing jumping on him in the middle of the night.

  “I shall call on her tomorrow,” said Lady Disher. “But what if she is shrewd? What if she takes one look around my establishment and takes her leave? What if she brings her father?”

  “You always know how to play your cards,” said Mr. Pardon, fanning himself delicately with a chickenskin fan. “She is invited to afternoon tea. Ladies only. Gossip among the cups. Little game of faro, Miss Sinclair? All respectable. You know how it is done. If she fails to take the bait, then I will do my best to lead her back into your web, my divine spider.”

  “Is she clever?”

  “I did not have much conversation with her. She was next to Harrington at dinner.”

  “Harrington? That devil and woman-hater? What did he say of her?”

  “Nothing. You know Harrington. Never gossips.”

  “He will not interfere? Did he seem épris in that direction?”

  “When was Harrington ever épris? Stern, silent misogynist … but she did make him laugh at one point.”

  “Aha! I feel the sooner I entrap Miss Fiona the better. I shall call tomorrow, and, if I fail, I will ask your help.”

  “Miss Sinclair!” said Rainbird, rising to his feet.

  “What a pretty servants’ hall,” said Fiona vaguely. “Is that your dinner?”

  A stale loaf and a hunk of cheese stood on the table.

  “Yes, miss,” said Rainbird with some asperity. “It’s all we can afford.” He thought guiltily of the tips they had received and then comforted himself with the thought that that had been all they could afford since they had received the money after the shops had closed.

  “I know you, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona. “Now, let me see … that’s Alice, and that’s Jenny, but who is this?” She looked down the table to where Lizzie sat at the end.

  “Lizzie O’Brian,” said Lizzie, bobbing a clumsy curtsy.

  Fiona gazed at Lizzie’s spotted face and lank hair. “Vegetables,” she said suddenly. “You must eat vegetables, Lizzie. Lots and lots. They will shine your hair and clear your complexion. Raw vegetables.”

  “Like a rabbit,” sniggered Dave, the pot boy, and was cuffed into silence by Alice.

  MacGregor, who had been seething like a volcano, moved forward towards where Fiona was standing, tufts of red hair sticking out from under his white skull cap. “Now, now,” bleated Mrs. Middleton, catching hold of his sleeve.

  “Vegetables is it?” demanded MacGregor passionately. “For a wee scullery maid when us can’t get a bite to eat. Vegetables!”

  “Stow your whidds and plant ’em, for the cove of the ken can cant ’em,” jeered Joseph.

  “Silence, all of you,” roared Rainbird, appalled at such insubordination. “You should be abovestairs, miss.” He marched to the door and held it open.

  “I do not mind,” said Fiona, wide-eyed. “I know that lack of food causes sharpened tempers. You will have money for food and clothes and warmth just as soon as I can arrange it.” She went quietly from the room and closed the door behind her.

  The servants looked rather shame-faced. All their wrath was directed against Mr. Sinclair. They felt Fiona had done nothing to deserve such a display of bad manners.

  “Do you think she meant it?” asked Lizzie timidly. “About us getting money, I mean?”

  “Naw!” said Joseph. “I been out wiff her on her errands.” Then he shook his head as if giving his slipping accent a shake to get it back into his mouth again. “Simple, if you esk me. Wrapped herself ehround with thet cloak of hers, covered from head to foot. Never said a word to me.”

  “I am afraid Miss Fiona is somewhat naive, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Middleton. “Forget her. Tomorrow we eat beef. Let us plan the menu.”

  Lizzie, who slept in a makeshift bed in the scullery, said her prayers that night. Unlike the others, she worshipped Fiona, thinking her a goddess. She began to believe everything Fiona had said about getting them money and clothes and food. She decided to forego her share of the beef and see if MacGregor would allow her some vegetables.

  She rose at five in the morning as it was her duty to serve the other servants with their morning tea. There was a little package beside the scullery sink. Lizzie could barely read, but she recognised her own name, neatly printed on the outside of the package. She put her shaking hands to her mouth, thinking the fairies had crept in during the night. At last, she crossed herself and opened the little package.

  Inside lay one long cherry-red silk ribbon. Lizzie thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. There was a small slip of paper with it with only one sentence of writing. Something stopped Lizzie from asking Rainbird to read it to her. Something stopped her from telling any of the others about her present. She did not want anyone to laugh at her or possibly take the ribbon away from her.

  Between her duties, she returned to the note, painfully deciphering each word until by evening she had it all. It said simply, “To tie up your hair. F. Sinclair.”

  A warm comfortable glow spread through Lizzie’s thin frame. Even when MacGregor dumped a plate of raw vegetables down in front of her and gave a cackling, jeering laugh, she still continued to glow. The others ate roast beef while abovestairs Mr. Sinclair and Fiona fought with a leathery and athletic piece of venison.

  But Mr. Sinclair was well pleased. They had had many callers including a certain Lady Disher, who had been most gracious to Fiona and had invited her to tea on the following day. “Not you, Mr. Sinclair,” Lady Disher had teased. “Ladies only.”

  And Mr. Sinclair, flattered that Fiona’s newfound friend should be a lady of quality, eagerly pressed her to accept the invitation.

  Chapter

  Five

  What have I done, so very wicked, that I may not ever again behold him? I will wait at his door, every night that I ascertain he is from home, and, the first time he happens to return on foot, I cannot fail to see him; and one word he must say to me, if it is but to order me home. Something like the man who boasted of having been addressed by the Emperor Bonaparte; What did he say to you? somebody a
sked. Va t’en, coquin, answered this true Christian.

  —Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs

  The Earl of Harrington pulled his shirt on after a bout in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. John “Gentleman” Jackson was English boxing champion from 1795 to 1803, although such was his enormous strength that he needed to appear in the ring only three times.

  The earl’s friend, Mr. Toby Masters, looked wistfully at Harrington’s powerful chest and slim waist and then ruefully down at his own corpulence. Mr. Masters loved eating and drinking, preferably to excess. He was uncomfortably aware of the heat of the room and the itching of his skin beneath his tight corset.

  “Have you heard about the latest beauty?” he asked.

  “Hear of all sorts of beauties,” said the earl, shrugging his broad shoulders into his coat. “Who is the latest fair charmer?”

  “A Miss Fiona Sinclair.”

  The earl stood very still, his coat half up over his shoulders. “I have met a Miss Fiona Sinclair,” he said slowly.

  “Lucky dog,” said Mr. Masters. “Have you called on her already?”

  “No, not I,” said the earl, settling his coat and straightening his lapels. “I met her when she was travelling south. She and her father were journeying by the mail that was stopped by a storm. The same storm drove me to take refuge with Pardon, who also took in the passengers from the mail. Only a storm would force me to throw myself on that creature’s hospitality. He was much struck by Miss Fiona’s beauty and begged her father to join the guests at his dinner table.”

  “Pardon’s good ton,” said Mr. Masters.

  “He raped a servant girl last year. A great scandal, ineffectively hushed up in the north. I was staying with the Chalfonts in Dumfriess when I heard about it.”

  “Surely not!” exclaimed Mr. Masters. “He is too weak and foppish a fellow to be a threat to any female.”

  “He was saved from prosecution only after the girl hanged herself and the father was paid a considerable sum to keep his mouth shut. But to return to Miss Fiona. She was seated beside me at dinner. An odd girl. Rather shabby.”