The Wicked Godmother: HFTS3 Read online

  “You know, Sis,” said Annabelle, “have you noticed that although Harriet sits against the wall at balls and parties just as she ought, the gentlemen do seem to show a marked degree of interest in her?”

  “Of course they do, stoopid,” said Sarah. “How else can they get introductions to us?”

  Down in the servants’ hall, excitement was reaching fever pitch. The only one unaffected was Emily, who absented herself more and more from the servants’ hall. She had said she was always with her young mistresses, as they changed their gowns at least six times a day, but Jenny said that Mary, the housemaid next door, had seen Emily walking through Shepherd Market talking to a fashionable lady. Emily surprised them all by saying she did not want to go. The Misses Hayner were not leaving until ten in the morning, whereas Miss Metcalf and the servants would be leaving at dawn. She would be expected to prepare the ladies for their outing and someone should be indoors to guard the house, she added righteously. Lizzie felt she would die from happiness. The fact that Emily was not to join them was all that was needed to guarantee a day of pure pleasure. Long after Harriet, Sarah, and Annabelle had retired for the night, the servants were awake, brushing down their best clothes and polishing their shoes. Rainbird had hired a spanking travelling carriage from the best livery stable in Town. He hoped Miss Metcalf would not be shocked at the expense.

  Everyone in their various ways prayed for good weather. Lizzie turned so white with excitement at the thought of seeing the sea that she was sent to lie down. She lay on her new bed, hardly able to luxuriate in its comfort as she usually did, because she was afraid that something terrible would happen to prevent them going.

  But the morning dawned clear and fair, and at first light they were all piling aboard. Even Beauty looked excited, having recovered from his excesses at Vauxhall. With his mistress by him, he looked a meek and servile dog.

  The sight of the Moocher skulking at the top of the kitchen steps made him try to break free, but a stern word from Harriet cowed him. Still, somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, Beauty registered two facts—cat and kitchen.

  Luke was gloomily polishing the brass on the door of Number 65. Why was that Joseph always saying what an unlucky house he worked in? Exciting things seemed to happen at Number 67. Who else ever got taken out for a day by their master or mistress? And what a set-up! What a spanking rig with four fifteen-mile-an-hour tits to pull it.

  Gloomily waving his polishing rag in farewell, Luke watched them until the carriage had turned the corner into Piccadilly.

  Mrs. Middleton, Jenny, Alice, and Lizzie rode inside with Harriet, while the menservants travelled on the roof.

  Harriet had had a hard job hiding her alarm when Rainbird told her how much the carriage, coachman, and groom were going to cost, but she covered her dismay well. It was distressing to be always spending someone else’s money. After some reflection, Harriet, who had been hoping to save as much of her own small income as possible, decided to dip into it to cover the costs of the outing. She apologised to Lizzie for the postponement of her lessons, promised to begin them on the following morning, and then settled down to enjoy the drive.

  Mrs. Middleton asked Harriet if what the newspapers said was true and that the Prince of Wales planned to reconstruct the Marine Pavilion at Brighton and add Indian towers.

  Harriet replied that from the gossip she had had of the other chaperones, she gathered that at the moment the Prince’s taste was for chinoiserie, but she had heard that the Royal Stables and Riding House had been completed the year before and were said to be magnificent. The stables had an eighty-foot cupola and provided accommodation for forty-four horses in stalls going round the great circle of the interior, with harness rooms and grooms’ quarters above the stalls. In the centre of the floor was a fountain for watering the horses. People had said the new buildings were in the Moslem-Indian style, so it could indeed be that the Prince was moving away from China.

  Jenny, not used to talking freely to her betters, said shyly that it now seemed certain that the Prince would become Regent. Harriet agreed and repeated more gossip.

  Lizzie sat, drinking it all in. Miss Metcalf had an unaffected ease of manner to the servants which made them begin to relax, although all were careful not to overstep the mark and indulge in any familiarity.

  It was all very exciting. They raced along the Brighton road, stopping at smart posting houses to change the horses and to take refreshment. Only Rainbird, as he efficiently dealt with ostlers and landlords along the way, began to doubt the wisdom of Miss Metcalf’s treat. Dave and Joseph were so carried away by being treated like young gentlemen that both had started to swagger and put on airs—not unusual in Joseph’s case, but worrying in Dave’s.

  Luxury bred discontent, as Rainbird well knew. They had all been guests at one of the previous tenants’ weddings, but then they were still in the servants’ quarters of a country house, and although they were not expected to work, they were still recognisable as servants.

  But racing along down to Brighton on a sunny spring day and being waited on at the most expensive posting houses on the road was too heady a brew for such as young Dave. Rainbird could only be glad that dour Angus seemed indifferent to it all and that the women servants were behaving prettily.

  The minute the first glimpse of the sea came into view, Rainbird ordered the coachman to stop. The ladies climbed down from inside.

  Lizzie stood with her hands clasped, gazing at the great glittering blue expanse of the ocean, so elated, so moved, she began to cry a little with happiness and Harriet felt her own eyes brim over as well.

  It was so wonderful, thought Harriet, to escape for a little with these oddly companionable servants, to leave the worries of Sarah and Annabelle in Miss Spencer’s capable hands, and to forget about the disturbing and bewitching Marquess of Huntingdon for just one day.

  When they arrived at Brighton, Harriet raised the trap and called to Rainbird to reserve a private parlour at some suitable inn where they would all meet for dinner at four o’clock. Harriet preferred the early country hour for dinner and found it hard to get used to the new London fashion of sitting down to dine as late as seven o’clock.

  Rainbird decided on The Ship. He made arrangements for the stabling of the carriages and horses and then they all gathered about Harriet.

  “Mr. Rainbird has someone he wishes to visit, but what would the rest of you like to do?” asked Harriet.

  There was an awkward little silence while the servants looked at the butler, and the butler looked away.

  In all the excitement of the outing, they had forgotten about the existence of Felice, that treacherous foreigner who had stolen poor Rainbird’s heart away. Mrs. Middleton bent her head to hide the wounded expression in her eyes. She nourished secret hopes that one day, should they ever find themselves free from the shackles of service, Rainbird would marry her—for servants were not allowed to marry.

  “I have heard tell o’ a shop that sells all sorts of wondrous things made oot o’ shells,” said Angus MacGregor, breaking the silence.

  “Lizzie will come with me,” said Joseph, and it was obvious to all that the footman thought his great condescension worthy of applause. Lizzie looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  Alice and Jenny were eager to stroll along by the sea and look for gallants. Dave wanted to play by the shore. Mrs. Middleton said quietly she would accompany Miss Metcalf.

  “I think I would like to go with Mr. MacGregor and look at those shells,” said Lizzie in a squeaky voice.

  “Aye, weel, you’re welcome tae come,” said the cook, flashing a malicious look in Joseph’s direction.

  Joseph turned on his heel and flounced off without another word.

  They all agreed to meet back at the inn at four. Harriet went off with Mrs. Middleton. Beauty was straining at his leash with excitement.

  Rainbird set off alone. By the time he turned the corner into Lanceton Street where Felice lived, his heart was beating hard
. If only he had had time to write to her.

  Felice Laurent lived with a widow, a Mrs. Peters, at Number 11. It was a small villa, looking very much like the villas on either side. He stopped with his hand on the top of the low gate.

  A lilac tree beside the little garden path was in bloom, its sweet scent mixed with the smell of salt from the sea.

  He stood there for only a little, but to him it felt like an age before he could summon up courage to walk along the path and rap on the knocker.

  There was a long silence, and then he heard someone moving towards the door.

  It opened. He recognised Mrs. Peters, who stood there, blinking at him in the sunlight. She was the same as when he had last seen her, stout and middle-aged.

  “Felice,” said Rainbird. “I am come to see Felice.”

  “She does not live here any longer,” said Mrs. Peters.

  “She’s wed to a Mr. Malin, lives the other side, Bishop Row.”

  Rainbird stood very still. He saw the peeling paintwork on the door where it had been dried and blistered by the sun; he saw a caterpillar on a rose leaf on the flowerbed beside the half-open door; he felt the rush of warm wind on his cheek.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “It’s Five Bishop Row. Number five,” called Mrs. Peters to his retreating back.

  Rainbird walked away as fast as he could.

  Now where in Brighton, he wondered, can a broken-hearted butler go to cry his eyes out in peace?

  Far away, at The Star and Garter in Richmond, two gentlemen were acting with great courtesy and charm. Never by one flicker of an eyelid did one of them show his surprise and dismay over the absence of Harriet Metcalf. Miss Spencer was to remember that day. She did not know what was wrong at the time. Everyone was behaving so perfectly. The Hayner girls were silly chits, but then so were any other debutantes that Miss Spencer had known. The gentlemen were amusing and charming. But underneath it all ran an undertow of emotion. Miss Spencer had an uneasy feeling that, behind his smiling eyes and amiable manner, the Marquess of Huntingdon was inwardly raging, but she decided that her fancies were caused by her disordered spleen. Both Sarah and Annabelle boasted large dowries, and men of the ton usually settled for birth and money in the ladies they chose to marry. So Miss Spencer was not surprised to observe that lovelight did not brighten either the marquess or Lord Vere’s eyes.

  She did feel that Sarah and Annabelle had made too much of a joke about “dear Harriet” choosing to go off with a parcel of servants for the day, a joke that they continued to enlarge on as the day wore on.

  But perhaps, she, Josephine Spencer, was too nice in her ideas, for the gentlemen laughed heartily at all the girls’ sallies and seemed to find nothing amiss.

  Miss Spencer was impressed with Lord Huntingdon and could not help thinking it hard that poor Harriet did not have enough of a dowry to attract such a paragon. That some men might actually fall in love did not cross Miss Spencer’s cynical mind. With the wars against Napoleon dragging on and on, prices had reached an all-time high, and everyone, no matter how high-minded, had become acutely conscious of the value of money.

  The day was golden, the food was delicious, and she was not to know that two gentlemen were thinking in their different ways that it was a perfect day for dalliance and romance. All it lacked was the lady.

  Lord Vere decided to propose to Harriet as soon as possible. He felt he had waited for her a lifetime already. The marquess was wondering whether Miss Metcalf was cunningly aware of the force of her physical attractions and had deliberately stayed away to make him suffer. For to his surprise, he did suffer. He smiled at Sarah and all the while dreamed of strangling Harriet and kissing her at the same time.

  The little staff from Number 67 Clarges Street had never before been so enthralled with their butler. Never before, all agreed, had Mr. Rainbird been so entertaining. He juggled oranges, he made hard-boiled eggs appear out of Dave’s ears, and he presented Miss Metcalf with a bouquet of roses which he conjured out of the tails of his coat. He did cartwheels and handstands, all in the small confines of the parlour. Harriet laughed and clapped, amazed at the butler’s talent, not knowing Rainbird had spent part of his youth as a fairground acrobat. And she could only be glad that the antics of this odd butler had dispelled a certain bad-tempered feeling which had hung in the air when the staff had first assembled for dinner.

  Dave was looking bruised and bloody. Exalted with the thrill of being a guest for a day rather than a pot boy, he had swaggered up to three pages from the Marine Pavilion and had tried to patronise them. After looking at the wizened little Cockney in amazement, they had then set on him to bring him to a nice understanding of the importance of pages at the Prince of Wales’s Marine Pavilion.

  Joseph had been smarting over the snub Lizzie had delivered to him. He had gone for a lonely walk. It had not been at all the same without Lizzie trotting beside him, hanging on his every word.

  Jenny and Alice had spent a pleasant hour with two gallants, but that had all gone to underline the fact that they were servants and not free to have beaux or to marry. Discontent had set in, affecting even the normally placid and sunny Alice.

  Mrs. Middleton and Harriet had arrived somewhat shaken. Beauty had behaved like his name until he had met a beribboned and prancing poodle and had tried to take it down a peg. The poodle belonged to a certain Lady Parsons, who had promptly gone into a spasm. The row had drawn a crowd, and Harriet had taken the coward’s way out by seizing Beauty by the collar and dragging him away, consoling herself with the thought that Lady Parsons appeared to have a whole retinue of servants on hand to look after her.

  Only the cook and the scullery maid had enjoyed a pleasant afternoon.

  It was then that Rainbird had begun to clown. Harriet smiled as the little group of servants once more drew closely together, joined by common hilarity and common pride in their butler’s prowess. Joseph was then sent to fetch his mandolin from the carriage and entertained them at the end of dinner with sentimental ballads.

  The journey home was relaxed and pleasant. It was a tired but happy little party who finally debouched at Number 67 Clarges Street.

  Sarah and Annabelle had already retired. Harriet was about to go upstairs to see if they were still awake so that she might find out how they had fared at Richmond when she saw two letters waiting for her on the silver salver on the hall table. Asking Rainbird to bring tea, she retired to the back parlour, which was more cluttered and cosy than the front one, and opened them up. Her heart beat hard as she read the contents.

  Lord Vere wrote to say he would be calling on her at eleven o’clock in the morning because he wished to ask permission to pay his addresses.

  The other was from the Marquess of Huntingdon. He said he would call at two in the afternoon on the following day to discuss a serious matter concerning his future. He added lightly that at his great age it was time he settled down. Harriet felt a glow of triumph. Sarah and Annabelle would be engaged to two highly presentable men before the Season had even begun.

  She ran up the stairs and knocked on Sarah’s door and went in. The two girls were sitting in front of the fire. Harriet showed them both letters and hugged them warmly. Then she turned to Sarah.

  “Are you sure, dear Sarah,” she said, “that you consider it wise to accept such as the Marquess of Huntingdon? You are very young and his reputation—”

  “Pooh!” laughed Sarah. “Turn down the biggest prize on the Marriage Mart? Do not be ridiculous, Harriet.”

  “Well … well … if that is how you feel,” said Harriet. “I will rouse you, Annabelle, first. Wait in your room until I have given Lord Vere my permission and then I shall send for you.”

  Sarah and Annabelle threw their arms about her, calling her a clever puss and saying they were not very surprised because both gentlemen had all but declared themselves at Richmond.

  Neither gentleman had done anything of the sort, but the twins were both possessed of an overweening v
anity that made them quite capable of hearing compliments and proposals that had never been uttered.

  Harriet went back downstairs to find Rainbird depositing the tea tray on the table. “Wonderful news,” cried Harriet. “Lord Vere is calling tomorrow morning to ask my permission to pay his addresses to Annabelle, and in the afternoon, Lord Huntingdon will also call with a view to securing Sarah’s hand in marriage.”

  “Felicitations,” said Rainbird quietly. “On behalf of the servants, ma’am, we wish to thank you for a splendid day in Brighton.”

  “It was fun,” said Harriet absentmindedly, her mind busy with plans. “Did you see your friend, Rainbird?”

  “No, Miss Metcalf. It appears she has married and moved to another address. May I pour your tea?”

  “Yes, Rainbird. Ask MacGregor to make some of those little caraway cakes. They are a great favourite of Lord Vere.”

  Rainbird bent over the tray and poured a cup of tea. A drop of moisture fell on Harriet’s hand. She looked up quickly. The candle on the mantel lit only the table, leaving the butler’s face in the shadows.

  “Are … are you crying Rainbird?” asked Harriet.

  The butler turned away, his back rigid as he made for the door.

  “Will that be all, madam?”

  “Yes, Rainbird,” said Harriet sadly. “That will be all.” Poor Rainbird, thought Harriet. He was crying.

  A great weight of depression settled on her, and she did not then realise that the idea of the Marquess of Huntingdon marrying Sarah was repugnant to her; she put all her sadness down to worry about her butler.

  Chapter

  Eight

  Let bygones be bygones:

  Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true;

  I’d rather answer “No” to fifty Johns