by M. C. Beaton
Mr. Jason Fitzgerald dropped languidly into an armchair opposite the earl. He was a tall, thin man and, like the earl, in his early thirties. He had very fair hair, which was teased and backcombed up on top of his head. His collars were judged to be the highest in London and so ferociously starched that the points left little red marks on his cheekbones. Despite his thin body, he had a pair of long, well-shaped muscular legs which were that morning encased in skin-tight pantaloons of bright yellow. His face was highly painted. He had a noble forehead and a proud nose, but his receding chin was his private despair and he disguised it by having an intricately tied cravat rising up in front to shield it. A shrapnel wound in his back had put an end to his army career and often made walking and dancing an agony, but he covered up his pain with his usual mask which was that of a frivolous dandy, and only the earl knew how much of a mask it was and how Fitz longed to be fit enough to re-enlist.
“I have found a house for you,” said Fitz languidly. “Take you there now, if you like. Pretty place. No servants. Hire your own.”
“Where is it?”
“Park Lane.”
“Nobody admits to living in Park Lane!”
“You are behind the times. They do now. Come. I’ll show you.”
Park Lane, the erstwhile Tyburn Lane of dubious repute, though still unevenly paved and patched with leftover material from building sites, had rapidly improved its social standing with the disappearance of the mobs who used to make their way along it to the gallows to watch the public hangings. Now the public hangings were performed outside Newgate Prison in the City. Until a very short time ago, the residents of Park Lane had kept a high wall between themselves and the street, having their mansions fronting onto Park Street, and their gardens running down to that high wall which hid the view, not only of Park Lane, but of Hyde Park itself.
But the house Fitz had picked out for his friend belonged to a Mr. Warwick Wyman, an architect, who had received permission from the government’s Department of Woods and Forests to take down the section of wall at the end of his garden. He had then set about turning the back of the house into the front, building pleasant bay windows and delicate wrought-iron balconies and verandahs and a graceful colonnaded entrance.
Mr. Wyman turned out to be there in person to show them around.
Thanks to his improvements, the house proved to be one of the most well-lit and airy in London. Red Turkey carpet was fitted throughout with fleecy hearthrugs—a new invention—before each marble fireplace. Also new were the fire-guards, huge affairs of brass netting supported by brass pillars. Mr. Wyman told them he delighted in new-inventions and showed them his collection. There was a razor for shaving yourself while galloping on horseback, a pocket toasting-fork, a machine for slicing cucumbers, a Patent Compound Concave Corkscrew, stamped Ne plus ultra by the inventor to warn all future would-be corkscrew makers that the art of making corkscrews could be carried no further, and Mr. Wyman’s pride and joy—a portable fender complete with portable pocket-sized fire-irons.
The Earl of Fleetwood politely complimented Mr. Wyman on this last treasure, carefully hiding his sudden doubt about the sanity of this architect. For who but a madman would travel with his own fender and fire-irons? And what did Mr. Wyman do in inn or country house with the existing fender and fire-irons in his room? Throw them out of the window? Or did he plan to visit some aboriginal country where the inhabitants did not have fenders?
But the character of Mr. Wyman, as they moved from room to room, emerged as that of a pleasant and clever eccentric, rather than that of a madman.
The rooms were all well-appointed. In the main drawing room, the curtains were of rich printed cotton, lined with a plain colour and fringed with silk. Above the curtains was a sconce divided into six prints in gilt frames. Two of these were of Noel’s view of Cádiz and Lisbon and the others were from English history and represented the battles of the Boyne and of La Hogue, the death of General Wolfe at Quebec, and William Penn treatying with the Indians for his province of Pennsylvania.
The rent for the Season was seven hundred and fifty pounds. The earl thought ruefully of that house in Clarges Street, which he could have had for a mere eighty, but he had fallen in love with the Park Lane mansion and it was at least four times the size of that other house. After only a little token haggling, he agreed to meet Mr. Wyman’s price.
“I could but wish,” said the earl, “that among your inventions were a set of mechanical servants. I have no love of the breed.”
“Alas,” said Mr. Wyman, “I am afraid your lordship must rely on the human article. I can recommend a good agency.”
“No,” said the earl. “I shall fetch my own servants from the country. I have recently engaged new staff who can be guaranteed not to tattle or gossip.”
After sharing a bottle of port with Mr. Wyman, the earl and Fitz set out to walk across Hyde Park and amble round the Serpentine.
“I shall be glad to move out of that hotel,” sighed the earl. “It is excessively expensive and excessively dirty. I hope this Season proves to be less boring than the last. What an empty, shallow life we lead in Town. Empty conversations spiced with even emptier flirtations. Still, I have already had one adventure. Did I tell you I went to see that damned and accursed house in Clarges Street?”
“No. Did the ghosts come out of the wainscoting and jangle their chains at you?”
“I went twice, and no, it was not haunted. The second time I went—for I had refused it on the first visit and then thought I might perhaps take it after all—I found it already tenanted, and by quite the most beautiful female I ever beheld.”
“She does not exist! She was some fairy!”
“Not she. And in moments of stress, of the earth, earthy.”
“Who is this paragon?”
“A Miss Emily Goodenough.”
“Ah, she will turn out to be your chambermaid, Emilia.”
“Shhh. Can you imagine how damned I would be if anyone but you knew I wrote books? Did you like it? The latest one, I mean. It is to be published soon.”
“It was flattering to be allowed to read it before the publisher, and I enjoyed it very much. I recognised many members of the ton in it. You have a keen eye and a biting wit, my friend. But I did not recognise Emilia. Poor girl. You certainly vented all your dislike of servants on her. It was a bit far-fetched, too. No chambermaid, however beautiful, could foist herself on the London ton.”
“It’s fiction,” laughed the earl. “Only fiction.”
“Then let us return to fact. The beautiful Miss Goodenough. What caused the stress?”
“While we were conversing, and I quite smitten with her beauty, two things happened. My horses outside took fright, and I returned in time to find Miss Goodenough standing on a chair—revealing, I may say, ankles to make a strong man faint—and screaming her head off while a sort of House That Jack Built situation raged around her. A rat was being chased by a cat which was being chased by a small boy who was being chased by a butler who knocked over the tea-table. But I exaggerate. That was what appeared to have happened. I was not on the scene at the time, but as I returned after quietening my horses, I received the rat full in the face and the claws of the kitchen cat as it jumped up me to get at the rat.
“The beautiful divinity blamed the servants. She appeared to think they had contrived all.”
“And had they?”
“I do not think any London servants would dare to go so far.”
“And was that when Miss Goodenough fell from her pedestal?”
“Yes. She blamed the servants in language that was common to say the least.”
“Just like your Emilia!” cried Fritz. “That is when her swain sees the dross beneath the gold. You were hard on her, I must say. You might have let her marry her lord.”
The earl laughed. “And be a model for other presumptuous chambermaids? Never!”
“I confess I have a burning desire to see Miss Goodenough. Has she parents?”
“No. An odd sort of uncle with a twisted face.”
“And a sinister sneer?”
“Who is the novelist? You or I? No, a gentleman of apologetic and deferential mien. He departed before all the drama, leaving me alone with Miss Emily.”
“Very unconventional. And so Miss Emily has feet of clay. She lies in ruins at the bottom of her pedestal.”
“Well…” said the earl reluctantly, “I happened to be walking along Clarges Street early the morning after and she was paying the watchman—to go away, I think—and she stood on the step in the sunlight with her hair down her back in only her nightgown and wrapper.”
“Worse and worse and commoner and commoner. You gave a shudder and kept on walking.”
“On the contrary,” said the earl, “I stood there gazing on all that freshness and innocence and beauty and thought I had never seen anything quite so exquisite or quite so touching in my life before.”
“Odso! You are become romantic at last, my friend. No more shall we have to smart under the lash of your tongue in those bitter novels of yours!”
“Not I,” said the earl. “I shall avoid Miss Emily in the future for fear she may open her mouth and ruin quite the most beautiful picture I ever beheld!”
Lizzie, the scullery maid, hurried back to 67 Clarges Street from Shepherd Market. She had been sent out to buy black pepper for Angus, the cook, and although the market was just around the corner, she had spent more time there than was necessary, enjoying the unexpected warmth of the weak early spring sunlight.
She had changed in appearance from the small, frail child who had taken up employ some years before. Her hair, regularly washed despite warnings from the other servants that it was a dangerous habit liable to cause all sorts of inflammations and “dampness in the brain,” was thick and glossy and of a rich brown. It was confined at the nape of her neck with a cherry-red silk ribbon, a present from a previous tenant. Her new cotton gown, made by herself under Mrs. Middleton’s instruction that winter, was white with a thin green stripe. It was of coarse cotton and unlike the fine India muslins worn by the ladies, but it looked fresh and neat.
She was not looking where she was going as she turned into Clarges Street, being lost in her favourite day-dream of marriage to Joseph, and she nearly collided with Luke, the Charterises’ first footman. Lizzie murmured an apology, stepped backwards, and dropped Luke a curtsy, a first footman being high above a scullery maid in the servants’ pecking order.
“Look where you’re going next time,” said Luke ungraciously. He was as tall as Joseph and wore his black hair powdered. He was wearing new livery, red plush laced with gold.
“Yes, Mr. Luke,” said Lizzie meekly, anxious to get away, for she did not like Luke and thought he was a bad influence on Joseph.
As she turned away, Luke noticed the wealth of Lizzie’s shining hair and the trimness of her figure.
“Wait a bit, Lizzie,” he said. “You are looking very fine these days. Quite the little lady.”
“Thank you,” whispered Lizzie, avoiding his bold gaze.
“P’raps you’d care to step out with me of an evening,” said Luke.
Lizzie was human enough to blush with pleasure. It was a great honour for a scullery maid to be asked out by a first footman.
Although she had no intention of walking out with Luke, she did not want to annoy him be refusing his offer there and then.
“I would need to have Mr. Rainbird’s permission,” said Lizzie. “We have a new tenant and we’re ever so busy.”
“I’ll ask old Rainbird,” said Luke with a grin. “Tell him to expect me.”
Lizzie bobbed another curtsy and then ran towards Number 67.
“Fetching little thing,” thought Luke. “Bound to be grateful to me for the honour.”
“Mr. Rainbird will tell him to go away,” thought Lizzie, but she still glowed with pleasure at the compliment.
Chapter
Four
… land of punch romaine and plate,
Of dinners fix’d at half-past eight;
Of morning lounge, of midnight rout,
Of debt and dun, of love and gout,
Of drowsy days, of brilliant nights,
Of dangerous eyes, of downright frights.
—May Fair, Anon.
Miss Emily Goodenough had not yet grasped that to know nobody in London was to be a Nobody.
With the help of Mr. Goodenough, she studied the social columns in the newspapers and planned whom to invite to her first rout.
She longed to plunge into that glittering world of society she saw all about her when she went out for walks accompanied by Joseph. And when she was at home, studying the magazines and newspapers, it was maddening to hear noise and laughter from the street as people made calls and received calls and went for drives, or to stand by the window watching them setting out for balls, glittering with jewels, and know that all these members of society were as yet unaware of Miss Goodenough.
Mr. Goodenough was well-versed in all the names of the notables, having made a study of them all when he had been in service in Cumberland. That was why he had recognised the earl’s name so promptly. But, like Emily, he assumed a lavish entertainment would soon bring floods of invitations pouring in. Naively, the ex-servants thought that to be rich was enough.
“Should we ask the Earl of Fleetwood?” asked Emily one evening.
“By all means,” said Mr. Goodenough. “He is a social leader.”
Emily hesitated before drawing forward one of the gilt cards with the legend “At Home”—for one spoke about inviting people to a rout, but the invitation always simply said that so-and-so would be at home on a certain evening. The earl had made her feel uncomfortable. She cursed her own slip of the tongue.
In the hope that her niece would rise in service to the level of lady’s maid, Emily’s aunt, Miss Cummings, had schooled Emily’s voice to eradicate her soft Cumbrian burr, but had failed to correct the content of her speech. Miss Cummings had a nasty habit of becoming broad and coarse-mouthed when she had taken too much gin, and Emily had grown up innocently trotting out some of her aunt’s choice phrases. Although Mr. Goodenough had done much to correct her, Emily still felt all those horrible coarse phrases were lurking around in the back of her mind, ready to leap out at the wrong moment.
Then there was surely more to learn that she had ever dreamt of in Bath. She had listened eagerly to the speech of the young London débutantes as they shopped in Oxford Street and was amazed to find that the fashionable method of speech was a babylike lisp. You became “oo,” walk became “walkies,” an drives “tiddle-poms in the Park.” It was all very baffling. She could not hope to master this strange lingo in such a short time, but provided she kept her voice free of cant and coarse expressions, she would survive.
She thought of the earl and thought of his social position and reluctantly penned his name on the invitation. Emily did not aspire to wed an earl. A younger son of a peer, Sir Somebody, or a plain esquire would do very well.
As the day on which the rout was to be held approached, Emily plunged into a frenzy of shopping until Joseph, who accompanied her everywhere, wailed that his feet were being “destroyed.” She bought jewels, she bought feathers, gloves, fans, and silk flowers. She ordered banks of hothouse flowers to decorate the rooms and, unaware that a rout was not usually blessed with either refreshments or entertainment, hired a small orchestra.
She was rather puzzled that no one had called or replied in any way to any of her invitations, but assumed that was the way of the ton. If all these grand people were not coming, then they would have surely written to say so. Mr. Goodenough had tried to reassure her by saying that many things were conducted differently in the country.
The day of the rout was depressing. A soaking drizzle wept from the grey skies. Emily fought down the feeling that the weather was a bad omen. But she was ready for the whole of fashionable London, and the servants were behaving in a calm and u
nflurried manner.
It was as well Emily could not hear the frantic discussion in the servants’ hall.
“I really do not think poor Miss Goodenough knows what she is doing,” said Mrs. Middleton. “She says she is expecting at least a hundred people. How can we fit one hundred into this tiny house?”
“Crushes are fashionable,” said Rainbird. “Society thinks a rout is a success if they have been crushed and beaten and trampled on.”
“But what troubles me,” said Mrs. Middleton, her nose twitching in distress, “is that I do not believe our Miss Emily knows anyone. No one has been to call, except that Fleetwood, and he only came because he thought he might take the house after all.”
“That’s right,” said Joseph, coming in at the end of Mrs. Middleton’s worries. “I’ve been round to The Running Footman, and Luke says—”
“Luke says. Luke says,” jeered Jenny.
“He knows what’s he’s talking about,” said Joseph huffily. “He has been talking to Lord Fleetwood’s butler, Giles, what is just come up from the country, his lordship having taken a house in Park Lane. Giles says his master got this invitation from Miss Goodenough and he overheard Lord Fleetwood say to his friend, Mr. Fitzgerald, ‘I think it wiser not to go.’ And then Luke says as how Lord and Lady Charteris thought it presumptuous of Miss Goodenough to send them invitations when she don’t know them or anybody else. Then Lord Frankland’s valet says as how everyone’s saying, ‘Who is this mushroom?’ and how Brummell said in White’s t’other day, ‘I shall not go. Not good enough for me,’ which everyone thought was monstrous funny.”
“But Miss Emily has spent a fortune on food and flowers and an orchestra,” said Mrs. Middleton. “I wanted to tell her that all these things were not necessary for a rout, but she is rather cold and haughty, and I did not like to tell her what to to do.”
