Lady Fortescue Steps Out Page 3

  “Hear, hear!” cried Miss Tonks, thinking of her sister and then blushing when she found herself the centre of attention.

  “I have a suggestion to make,” said Harriet.

  “Go on,” said the colonel. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I am a very good cook. When my parents were alive, they employed a French chef and he trained me because I asked him to. I can create very good dishes out of next to nothing and provided Betty did not object to me in her kitchen, I could handle that side of things, including the shopping. I know all the best markets.”

  “My dear Miss James,” said Lady Fortescue haughtily, “there is no need to stoop so low.”

  “It is more dignified than carrying down slops,” pointed out Harriet.

  “It sounds like fun,” said Mrs. Budley with a giggle. “Miss Tonks and I could help, too.”

  “Very well,” said Lady Fortescue grandly. “Betty will not object.”

  Harriet flicked a glance at Betty, whose face registered the well-trained absolutely nothing of the good servant.

  “So now we have had our tea,” said Lady Fortescue, “Miss James should go with John and collect her things.”

  And so the poor relations settled down to what, for them, seemed an idyllic way of life. Mrs. Budley had brought her piano and played to them in the evenings while Miss Tonks sang, the spinster having a surprisingly beautiful voice. Harriet produced a “chicken” casserole and then amazed them all by telling them it was rabbit. They were warm and well-fed. Only Harriet, carefully working out the accounts, knew that it all could not last much longer.

  If they had thought of a saviour, they would all have thought of some knight errant looking rather like the handsome Duke of Rowcester, particularly Harriet, who found she dreamt of him often.

  But not one of them could ever have thought of the unlovely person of Sir Philip Sommerville.

  Sir Philip was old and smelly and arthritic. He was well-connected. He had in the past not waited for rich relatives to invite him but had simply descended on them. Unlike Lady Fortescue, he was an expert thief and always took, not only some little objet d’art that he could sell, but practical things like cheese, ham and bread, and always travelled with an extra large empty trunk for the purpose of filling it up with what he could take from the kitchens of whatever stately home he happened to be in.

  But thievery demanded a certain quickness and agility. His shoulders were stooped, and his once-beautiful hands knotted and gnarled. His sparse hair clung to his pink scalp and his face looked like that of an elderly tortoise.

  He had given up grooming himself or washing some time ago. Colonel Sandhurst and Lady Fortescue had got downwind of him in Hyde Park and that had been enough. They had moved on without speaking to him.

  But Sir Philip had noticed their close scrutiny and the way they had shaken their heads and his interest was quickened. He scuttled after them and demanded to know why they had been staring at him.

  Lady Fortescue raised a scented handkerchief to her nose and from behind its barrier said coldly that if he washed himself, he might present himself at her home in Bond Street at two on the following afternoon.

  Sir Philip stalked off, greatly offended. And yet that spark of curiosity would not go away. What if this Lady Fortescue, as she had introduced herself, were to prove some sort of philanthropist? There might be money in it for him.

  So he sold a little silver box he had stolen from a niece. It was a pretty thing used in the early part of the eighteenth century for storing lice. For when you plucked the occasional louse from your clothes, it was only polite to put the thing away in a box rather than offend society by crushing it in public or flicking it onto the floor where it would be free to leap on someone else. He had been keeping it in reserve. He lived in one room above a butcher’s shop in Shepherd Market. Now he took himself off to the Hummuns, the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street, and finally emerged pink and scented. He realized his clothes stank, so he went and bought clean clothes and underclothes with what was left, and also reclaimed his china false teeth from the pawn and substituted them for his second-best set, which was of wood.

  Before calling on Bond Street, he went into a perfumer’s and asked to try several samples before shaking his head and saying none of them would do. Lady Fortescue opened the door herself to him and nearly fainted as a great wave of scent hit her in the face.

  Sir Philip was brought before the others, questioned and then told to wait outside the drawing-room while they decided on their verdict. Lady Fortescue said firmly that the man was impossible. But Colonel Sandhurst, whose spirits had come back under the influence of food and warmth, was beginning to resent Lady Fortescue’s high-handed manner and so he said he seemed all right to him. The others, who also thought Lady Fortescue took too much upon herself, sided with the colonel.

  So Sir Philip came to stay.

  And they should all have been happy. They all had what they had craved, food and companionship. It was when Harriet produced the accounts book and said they soon must do something to gain money that the real cracks began to show.

  “It’s a pity none of you females has been trained to work,” said Sir Philip waspishly. “I mean, take Miss Tonks there. No good to man nor beast.”

  Miss Tonks began to weep and Harriet coldly told Sir Philip that he had proved himself to be the most worthless member of all, as he never did anything to help. The colonel said sarcastically that he had no doubt Lady Fortescue would tell them all what to do as she usually did, and Lady Fortescue asked him acidly if he would like to go back to his old life and the colonel said huffily it might not be a bad idea, for he was tired of petticoat government, and then everyone relapsed into a bitter silence.

  It was broken at last by Harriet. “The trouble is,” she said firmly, “that we have not enough to do with our time. If we were proper members of society, then we would be making calls and going to parties and dances and things like that: Or if we were servants, we would not have time to quarrel. Look at the servants at Limmer’s Hotel down the street. Limmer’s is always crowded from one year’s end to the next, for there are just not enough hotels in London.”

  Sir Philip looked around and said suddenly, “This could be a hotel. Lots of room. Make a fortune.”

  “Oh, really,” exclaimed Miss Tonks with rare sarcasm. “And where would we get the money to pay for the alterations? And a chef? All good hotels have a renowned chef.”

  “As to that,” said Harriet slowly, “I could do that.”

  “Do you mean that we should stoop to being in trade, that we should become hotel servants?” demanded Lady Fortescue.

  “Survive the first Season and we’d have money to hire servants,” said Sir Philip. “But don’t you see, all we would have to do would be to get the readies to start the place up, and before you know it all our relations would be on the doorstep, clamouring to buy us out!”

  The colonel thought of his rich cousin. He thought of visits to his other relatives, always invited when there were no other guests, snubbed by the servants, patronized …

  “I’d agree to the scheme,” he said, “but how do we get the money? If we had the money, we would not be having this discussion.”

  Sir Philip leaned forward, his small head poking out of his high collar. “We don’t wait to be invited. I never do. Drop in on the richest of them and stay long enough to steal something valuable.”

  There was an outcry against this. Then Lady Fortescue in a shaky voice told them of the stealing of the candlesticks and her subsequent humiliation. The Duke of Rowcester, thought Harriet, remembering his handsome face and grey eyes. Was he married?

  But Sir Philip’s pale eyes began to gleam. “You ain’t doing it right,” he said to Lady Fortescue. “A small gold object would’ve fetched more and not have been missed till you were clear away. You’re an amateur. Let a professional do it first.”

  “Very well,” said Lady Fortescue frostily. “You go first. You set an example and prov
e it’s not all talk.”

  “Oh, it’s not talk. I’ll get something if I can which’ll start us off. Now what about a bottle of burgundy to send me on my way?”

  What Sir Philip did not tell them was where he meant to go. He was in fact, like Lady Fortescue, a relative of the Duke of Rowcester, but a very distant one. So distant that he had never been invited to the stately home. He decided it was time he cashed in on it. Besides, under his unlovely exterior and waspish manner, Sir Philip was fond of Lady Fortescue and wanted to enrich them all and at the same time get revenge on the duke for her humiliation.

  It was true that the Duke of Rowcester was still accounted handsome, but perhaps now more because of his title and fortune. There was a perpetual frozen haughtiness of manner about him that robbed his looks of any appeal or charm.

  He was at his frostiest when his butler told him that his uncle, Sir Philip Sommerville, had arrived.

  From his great height, the duke looked down at the small bent man with the china teeth and said awfully, “I have never heard of you.”

  “Don’t suppose you have,” said Sir Philip cheerfully. “I’m several times removed, so to speak.”

  With a look that said Sir Philip was not far enough removed, the duke called for the map of the family tree and there, sure enough, albeit out on a twig, was Sir Philip Sommerville.

  “Do you plan to stay long?” demanded the duke glacially.

  “Only a week,” said Sir Philip.

  The duke relaxed. He had expected Sir Philip to say something like six months. “I am very busy at the moment,” said the duke, “but ask the servants for anything you need.”

  “You are most kind,” said Sir Philip, giving a courtly bow.

  The butler led him up to a richly appointed guest chamber. “Mrs. Herriot, the housekeeper, will be with you presently, sir,” he said. “If there is anything further you wish, you have only to ring. If you wish a bath, his grace has had a bathroom installed.”

  Sir Philip scowled, thinking that the butler was suggesting he was a trifle ripe, and certainly he had not had much of a wash since he had joined the poor relations.

  “We are most proud of it, sir,” went on the butler. “We are sure we are one of the few stately homes in England which has a bathroom.”

  “I may have a wash shortly,” said Sir Philip. “Where is it?”

  “It is in the basement.”

  “What? In the servants’ quarters?”

  “No, sir. This is an old pile and was built in the seventeenth century. The servants’ quarters are in the rustic at the side of the house. The new bathroom is conveniently situated under the hall.”

  “Perhaps before dinner,” said Sir Philip, thinking what an odd cove this duke must be to give up any living space to house a bath when the wretched thing could be easily carried up the stairs by the servants. Besides, all this washing all over except for medicinal purposes was deuced odd.

  The butler left and was shortly replaced by a buxom housekeeper.

  “This is a splendid mansion,” said Sir Philip ingratiatingly.

  “Yes, indeed,” beamed the housekeeper.

  “I would appreciate a tour of it tomorrow, if you would be so good.”

  “Certainly, sir. I would be honoured.”

  An hour later, led by a liveried footman, Sir Philip descended to the bathroom. A marble bath was sunk into the floor. Hot water was supplied by an elaborate machine at the head of the bath, a form of oil heater which the footman proceeded to light. Sir Philip watched with interest as the bath slowly filled with steaming water. The footman sprinkled it with rose water, added cold water, tested the temperature with his elbow rather like a mother testing the bath-water for the baby, and then helped Sir Philip out of his clothes.

  Sir Philip descended a flight of marble steps into the bath and then sank slowly into the water. He thought he could get to like bathing such as this. The great house above him was hushed and quiet. Nothing to disturb him but the sound of scented water lapping against the marble sides. When the water was beginning to get cold, he tugged on a long bell-rope which hung over the bath and this time two footmen in oilskin aprons appeared, helped him out and assisted him to dress.

  Back in his room, he ordered brandy and then began to look around. There was a good French clock on the mantel, but that would hardly get the builders started on the hotel. Best to wait for the grand tour of the house and see what he could see.

  The duke did not join him for dinner that evening, but Sir Philip, eating his way through many delicious courses washed down with first-class wine, did not care. He did not crave the duke’s liking, only some of his wealth.

  On the following day, he followed Mrs. Herriot, the housekeeper, about, asking questions about the family portraits, although he was not interested in any of them. It was when he came to the muniments room that he had an effort to look casual and uninterested. For among the glass cases of family relics, swords and awards and manuscripts was one glass case holding a necklace which sparkled and winked evilly in the dim light of the room. It was a barbaric necklace of heavy gold set with rubies, pearls, diamonds and emeralds, great chunks of stones. With seeming indifference, Sir Philip damned it as “a heathen vulgar thing” and Mrs. Herriot agreed, saying the late duke had brought it from the East.

  “Mind you, the stones are very fine,” said Sir Philip airily. “I wonder the duke does not fear it might get stolen.”

  “Mercy, sir,” said Mrs. Herriot, raising her plump hands. “Who would dare to steal from a duke?”

  “I have a strange request,” said Sir Philip, wrenching his eyes away from the glittering gems with an effort, “I would like to see your kitchens, if that is not too much trouble.”

  Mrs. Herriot was delighted. Sir Philip spent a whole hour inspecting everything and asking questions, and she was not to know that his eyes had taken in the contents of the well-stocked larder.

  Sir Philip did not see the duke that day either, and again he did not care.

  He slept lightly and rose at two in the morning. He slipped out of his bedroom and crept up to the attics at the top of the east wing. “We won’t bother going up there,” Mrs. Herriot had said. “The servants sleep in the attics in the west wing, and the ones in the east are used for storing all the old furniture.”

  Taking a thin piece of metal from his pocket just in case the doors should prove to be locked, Sir Philip tried the handle of the first door. It turned easily and soon he was inside. He took a candle from his dressing-gown pocket and a flat stand from his other, along with a tinder-box, and soon was holding the candle up to inspect the contents of the attic.

  There were great pieces of carved Jacobean furniture, piles of old-fashioned clothes, bits of dinner services, cast-offs of all kinds.

  He went from there to the attic room next door. Here he found what he had been hoping to discover, chests full of expensive ladies’ gew-gaws. He helped himself to three silver patch-boxes, four fans with carved ivory sticks, several gold-topped scent bottles, the gold knob from a broken cane, a small clock which didn’t work but had a case of solid gold, and the silver top off a long walking-cane.

  He found a bag full of sewing silks, emptied it and put his treasures inside. Then he made his way quietly back to his room.

  The servants all thought Sir Philip was a very nice old gentleman and it was a pity the duke did not show more courtesy and respect to his relative. So when Sir Philip said plaintively that he wondered whether it might be possible to borrow a carriage and drive to the nearest town to see the sights, all was quickly arranged, particularly as the thoughtful old gentleman said he would drive himself and a gig or any other light carriage would suffice.

  The nearest town of Ledcham, he was told, was only six miles away.

  Taking his haul of stolen goods with him, he set off in a gig pulled by a glossy pony.

  At Ledcham, he stabled the pony at an inn in the centre and then began to search the back-streets until his nose for villa
iny told him he had found the right sort of jeweller. He haggled away over the sale of the goods and then said he would settle for a lower figure if the jeweller would take more from him on the morrow, to which the greedy jeweller agreed. Sir Philip then bought a drawing-pad, pencils and paints and returned to the duke’s, feeling satisfied with himself.

  The duke eventually came across Sir Philip, who was sketching the hall. “Why, that is very good, sir,” said the duke in surprise. “You are indeed an accomplished artist.”

  “You have a beautiful home. I thought I would make some sketches of it,” said Sir Philip, and returned to his work. By evening and after a pleasant dinner with the duke which did not trouble Sir Philip’s conscience one bit, he had made a sketch of that necklace down to the last detail.

  For the rest of the week, Sir Philip raided during the night and sold the stuff during the day, so that by the end of his stay he was able to tip the butler and housekeeper handsomely, so that when they subsequently found a surprising amount of stuff missing from the larder, they blamed a housemaid who had left the week before.

  Sir Philip, who had arrived in a hired hack after taking the stage to Ledcham, arrived back in the duke’s travelling carriage with a trunk-ful of all the goods he had stolen from the larder on his last night.

  He decided not to tell the others of his plan in detail or where he had been. Lady Fortescue, he was sure, would go white at the idea of the duke’s being robbed and think just because she had been caught out, he would be found out as well.

  So he said he was about to take something extraordinarily valuable from a relative of his, that he had a sketch of it, that he had raised enough money to get it copied. All he had to do was leave the substitute and the fake would probably never be discovered. Sir Philip did not care whether it was, but he did not tell them that. For by the time the duke noticed, he was sure there would have been plenty of other people staying in the house.

  The others were not surprised that Sir Philip knew some villain who would do the craftsmanship. As in the eighteenth century, when Sir Philip had been a young man, the minor lights of society and a few of the major ones drifted between the salons of the great and the villainous dives of London. Sir Philip found the man to craft the fake necklace, he paid him, and when it was ready set out so that he would arrive at the duke’s during the night.