by M. C. Beaton
He went straight to the desk in Emily’s bedroom. It was locked. He fished in his pocket for his bunch of keys and searched through them until he found the tiny spare key to the desk. Quietly he opened it and, carrying a branch of candles over to the desk, he sat down and began to read through a small pile of papers. And there, finally, was the registration paper of Emily’s birth from the parish of Burton Hampton in Cumberland. Born, Emily Jenkins; mother, Rachel Pretty, housemaid; father, Ebeneezer Jenkins, blacksmith. There were also papers to prove she had changed her name legally and then a copy of Sir Harry Jackson’s will in which he had left everything to his butler, Spinks. So their only crime was pretending to be a gentleman and lady. Any money they had legally belonged to Spinks, now legally Benjamin Goodenough. Rainbird replaced all the papers. He was about to lock the desk when he changed his mind and extracted the parish registration of Emily’s birth. He slipped it into his pocket and made his way downstairs in time for a final glass of champagne.
Later that evening, when Mrs. Middleton was about to prepare for bed, she thought about Angus MacGregor. His fever appeared to have abated. The doctor had said it had probably been caused by an inflammation of the lungs.
Mrs. Middleton hesitated, trembling, and then she stiffened her spine, picked up a book in one hand and a candle in the other, and made her way up to the attic where Angus slept. Rainbird and Joseph were still downstairs in the servants’ hall, and so the cook was alone. Joseph and Rainbird had helped him upstairs to his bed as soon as Emily’s party was over.
Mrs. Middleton set the candle down beside the bed and said softly, “Are you awake, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Aye,” said the cook. “Thon was a grand letter from Agnesby. It got me fair excited. What brings you here, Mrs. Middleton?”
“I thought it might settle you for the night if I read to you.”
“That would be fine.”
And so Mrs. Middleton began.
“The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill.
And deep, his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”
The words of Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake fell gently on the cook’s ear. His hand crept out from beneath the covers and he took hold of the housekeeper’s mittened hand. She started and blushed but let him retain her hand and went on reading until Rainbird and Joseph crept in. Joseph looked at the unlikely couple’s joined hands and opened his mouth to say something, but Rainbird nudged him hard and glared him into silence.
Chapter
Nine
It is in truth a most contagious game;
HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.
—George Meredith
Emily hardly slept, torn between fear and elation. Ambition had driven any amorous thoughts she might have held for the Earl of Fleetwood straight out of her pretty head.
Somehow, everything would be manageable after they were married. For the first few weeks, she would have the servants to support her. As a timid girl will inflict her mother on her new husband’s household, so Emily was prepared to inflict the rented house and its rented servants on the earl. She did not consider the earl’s thoughts and dreams. That a high-born earl might have fears and worries of his own never entered Emily’s mind. She naïvely supposed a title protected any human from the insecurities and uncertainties that plagued common mortals like herself.
She rose and dressed with great care in an elaborate morning gown. It was of white muslin with a high ruffled collar and three deep lace flounces at the hem. The sleeves were long and tight and ended in points at her wrist. She dressed her hair à la angélique and then decided the centre parting made her look too severe. Her hair had a natural curl, but Emily heated the curling tongs and tried to make it curlier. Curls fell over her eyes and down her back but would not allow themselves to be twisted into any fashionable coiffure. Her arms began to ache with the effort of trying to arrange her hair and a sudden fit of nerves made her drop the brush with a clatter onto the floor.
She heard voices from the street below and crossed to the window and looked down.
Lizzie, the scullery maid, was leaning on a sweeping brush and talking to a tall footman. Emily recognised the footman as being the one from next door.
He looked very handsome and Lizzie looked young and pretty and carefree.
Emily’s heart gave a lurch. What if she had stayed in her position as servant? Perhaps she, too, might be standing there receiving the flattering attentions of some footman. In that moment, Emily envied Lizzie from the bottom of her heart.
As if aware of her gaze, Lizzie looked up, said something to Luke, who smiled and walked away, and then she began sweeping the pavement outside the house.
It must be wonderful, thought Lizzie, to be a lady like Miss Emily—and she is a lady; I don’t care what Mr. Rainbird says—and be able to have a handsome man fall in love with you and be able to get married, just like that.
Lizzie had promised at last to go out walking with Luke. She did not like Luke, but she was very flattered by his attentions. Too many times had Joseph snubbed poor Lizzie because she was only a scullery maid. It would be wonderful to show Joseph she could attract a first footman, who was a cut above a mere rented ordinary footman such as Joseph in the servants’ pecking order. The servants had been discussing their pub that morning at breakfast, and once more it had seemed to Lizzie that all that was expected of her was that she should continue to work in the kitchen. But it also seemed expected, though nothing definite had been said, that, of course, she would marry Joseph. Now that idea would have sent Lizzie into seventh heaven only a short time ago. But Lizzie’s head had been turned by Luke’s attention and she was beginning to feel she was worthy of someone better than Joseph. The dream about Joseph marching home in the evening from the fields had been vastly silly. Joseph would never do anything that might soil his white hands. He even wore gloves when he cleaned the silver, and he often sat in the evenings polishing and manicuring his nails, as fastidious as the kitchen cat.
Lizzie’s thoughts turned once more to Luke. He was very handsome, and he always told her she looked pretty. That Luke had proved in the past to have a spiteful streak was forgotten by Lizzie. She would be the only scullery maid in London who had attracted the attention of a first footman. First footmen certainly were not known to stoop so low.
Luke had said she was to ask Rainbird for permission to walk out with him that evening for an hour. Lizzie knew the butler did not like Luke, but she also knew he would give her permission if only to annoy Joseph.
The same ambition that fired Emily also fired Lizzie. She gave the pavement a last angry sweep with her broom and then choked. A little pile of dust had been left by the dust-cart and it swirled up about her, covering her dress in fine white ash and soiling her shoes.
Lizzie sighed and went downstairs to clean herself.
“Seen a ghost?” jeered Joseph. “You’re all white.”
Lizzie compressed her lips and threw him an angry look before making her way to the scullery pump. “It’s Friday,” called Joseph after her.
No water was pumped up to London houses on a Friday. Lizzie slammed the door of the scullery and began to take off her soiled gown. She would use one of the pails of water that had been drawn the day before for dish-washing.
Above her head, she heard the rumble of an arriving carriage and Rainbird’s exclamation of “Noon already! That’ll be his lordship. That scrivener had better be here in a minute or I’ll murder him.”
Upstairs, the Earl of Fleetwood was soon closeted with Mr. Goodenough in the front parlour. Rainbird served wine. He took up a position inside the door instead of leaving the room.
Mr. Goodenough looked ill and miserable.
“You know why I am come?” asked the earl.
“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Goodenough gloomily.
“And I have your permission?”
“Yes, my lord.”
>
“You are perhaps unhappy because of the rush and secrecy of this proposed marriage. I am prepared to be married with full pomp and ceremony in several months’ time, if that would please you better.”
“No!” squeaked Mr. Goodenough.
“Now as to the matter of dowry and marriage settlements …”
“I am not well, my lord, not well at all!” exclaimed Mr. Goodenough, tugging at his cravat. “I have no head for business.”
“Then our lawyers …”
“I hate lawyers.”
Rainbird crossed to the window and looked out as if searching for someone.
Emily entered the room. The earl stood up and bowed before her.
She looked anxiously at her distressed “uncle” and then at the earl. “Have you not received my uncle’s permission?” she asked.
“I have Mr. Goodenough’s permission,” said the earl, “but I am afraid I have distressed him with business matters.”
“But I thought we were going to dispense with such mundane and unromantic arrangements,” cried Emily.
The earl hesitated. It went against tradition, it went against the grain, not to discuss financial arrangements. But she was so very beautiful and she had trusted him. The least he could do was to repay that trust.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall arrange a special licence today. But you must observe some formalities.”
Rainbird gave an exclamation and darted from the room.
“Such as?” asked Emily, striving to appear calm.
“I must have your papers—the parish registration of your birth.”
“I would like to sit down,” said Emily in a small voice. She knew now she would have to refuse him. He would see that paper and then demand to know why she had changed her name. He would know her parents had been common folk. Perhaps, in his fury, he would denounce her to society.
The earl waited patiently as she sat down, and still more patiently as she looked down at her hands, frozen in silence.
“The papers, Miss Goodenough,” he prompted gently.
“Ah, yes, the papers,” said Emily wildly. “Uncle, pray leave us. There is something I wish to say to Lord Fleetwood.”
Mr. Goodenough walked over to Emily, bent down, and kissed her cheek. “I am so sorry,” he whispered.
The earl’s heart sank. There was something awfully wrong in his asking for her papers. She wished to conceal the secret of her birth. And if that secret was so terrible, then he had better not marry her. He could always take her to Gretna Green in Scotland and marry her without any identification, but he felt in his bones she would not want to do that, to prolong the masquerade—if she was, as he suspected again, acting a part.
Rainbird appeared again and crossed the room to Emily’s side. “Your papers, ma’am,” he said.
Emily turned very pale. “Thank you, Rainbird,” she said quietly. “I shall speak to you later. I did not give you permission to search my desk.”
She sat looking down at the yellowing piece of paper in her hand. She would hand it to the earl and then the charade would be over.
Then the spidery writing leapt from the page. She looked and looked again. Her eyes must be deceiving her. It must be a trick of the light. She carried the paper over to the window and read it with a fast-beating heart. Born 1791, Emily Goodenough. Mother, Rachel Parsons, spinster. Father, Ebeneezer Goodenough, Gentleman.
A faint tinge of colour appeared in her pale cheeks. She could marry the earl after all! Rainbird had found out her secret and had not betrayed her! Somehow he had contrived to forge this document.
But as she looked at the handsome earl, her heart misgave her. How could she deceive him so? How could she go on living a lie? And then ambition took her firmly by the shoulders and pushed her forward. “I think this is what you require, my lord,” she said. He thanked her and put the paper in his pocket without looking at it.
“Where is your chaperone, Mrs. Middleton?” he asked. “She has not yet wished me well.”
Relieved to be able to confess some truth, Emily said, “Mrs. Middleton is in the servants’ hall. She is the housekeeper here. I had to use her services as chaperone for I have no living female relatives and did not know any genteel female when I arrived in London.”
“What resourceful servants you seem to have, my love. But we will be married, and very soon, and you need only rely on me.”
He walked forward and took her in his arms.
He bent his head and kissed her, a formal chaste kiss on the lips. But Emily had forgotten that real ladies do not have passions. The cool touch of his lips started a fire burning in her own. In the most natural way in the world, she flung her arms around him and kissed him back.
And then he kissed her properly, and Emily moaned in her throat in a most vulgar way and responded with every fibre of her body.
He was deliriously kissing her ears, her neck, her throat, and her lips again when a chill little voice of propriety told him the door was standing open and any gossiping servant who walked across the hall might have an interesting view.
He raised his head and gave her a little shake. “Wait until we are married, my sweet,” he said caressingly. “Then we will have all the time in the world for kisses.”
Emily blushed miserably. She knew she had behaved disgracefully. Was not this sort of behaviour just the way that wretched fictional maid, Emilia, had betrayed herself?
But when he bowed and walked to the door, stopped, turned back, and pulled her into his arms again and kissed her feverishly and passionately, Emily’s treacherous, wanton, common body betrayed her again, so that when he finally released her and took his leave, she had to stagger to a chair and sit down. It was some time before she could bring herself to summon Rainbird.
When the butler entered the room, Emily said curtly, “Sit down, Rainbird.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Rainbird sat primly on the edge of the chair opposite her.
“I am surprised you do not address me as Emily—now that you know we are of the same class,” said Emily.
Rainbird gave an infinitesimal shrug. “It is not my duty to question the machinations of my employers,” he said.
“You had a registration paper forged,” said Emily. “It was very wicked of you—very wicked of you, too, to read my papers. But I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You will not tell anyone?”
“No, Miss Emily.”
“Then I am to be the Countess of Fleetwood.”
“My felicitations. But, miss, have you not thought it might be wise to tell my lord the truth? He will find out sooner or later.”
“Why?” demanded Emily fiercely. “Do I not look like a lady?”
“You are a lady,” said Rainbird. “But my lord is very much in love with you, and men in love become jealous and suspicious and can sense secrets in a woman.”
“They say that love is blind,” said Emily lightly.
“Only for a little while,” said the butler earnestly. “I am sure if my lord knew the truth, he would still marry you.”
“He might forgive me for being of common stock,” said Emily. “But he would never forgive me for having been a servant. I was a servant in Sir Harry’s household. Fleetwood despises servants.”
“As to that, it is perhaps because there was a great deal of gossip about his late wife’s death.”
“Then he should blame his horrible sister for that scandal and not his servants. She called to tell me he had killed his wife!”
“But you did not believe her?”
“Not I. I believe in trusting people.”
“But Lord Fleetwood may come to believe you did not trust him enough. I will tell you why I examined your papers. I recognised Mr. Goodenough as being the former butler, Spinks. Although his face is greatly changed, someone else might recognise him … might recognise you, Miss Emily.”
“I was only in service a short time before Sir Harry’s death,” said Emily. “I was very young, only sixteen during the las
t year he was well enough to entertain guests. I have not seen anyone in London society who ever visited Sir Harry. And who ever notices a servant?”
“If you were as pretty then as you are now,” said Rain-bird cautiously, “some gentleman may well remember you.”
“There was one … No, I refuse to worry about it.” Excitement and elation flooded Emily again. “Only think! I am to be a countess.”
“Surely my lord means more to you than just a title?” said Rainbird.
“Oh. yes, of course. He is so very handsome—and I will be the envy of so many,” added Emily naively.
“Do you not think it wise to give matters a little longer, Miss Emily?”
“No,” said Emily. “Time may go against me. I mean to be a countess. Now I must go and tell Mr. Goodenough that, thanks to you, all is well.”
Rainbird felt a qualm of unease as he went down the stairs to the servants’ hall. He felt he had, perhaps, done Emily a disservice by supplying her with forged papers.
Lizzie tugged at his sleeve as he entered and whispered to him she had something to ask him. Joseph was glaring at her suspiciously, so Rainbird led her through to the kitchen, which was empty, for Angus was still in bed recovering from his fever.
“What is it, Lizzie?”
“It’s Luke,” said Lizzie. “He wants me to get an hour off this evening to go out walking with him.”
“It’s all right, Lizzie,” said Rainbird soothingly. “I’ll tell the young whipper-snapper to leave you alone.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Rainbird. I want to go out with him!”
“Lizzie, he is not a very pleasant individual.”
“I’m not going to marry him,” said Lizzie crossly. “Luke is a first footman. I shall be the envy of all the girls. He didn’t ask Alice or Jenny, he asked me.”
“You are a pretty little thing, Lizzie, but be careful! He may just be asking you out to spite Joseph.”
