Wicked Godmother (12 page)

Lizzie, who had seen him disappear into the gardens, decided there was nothing else for it but to follow him in.

Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens did not normally open up until May, but they had been opened early for this one night to celebrate the retiral of that famous ballad singer, Mrs Carlise.

The Gardens were a quadrangular grove of approximately twelve acres of closely planted trees. Four principal alleys, bisected formally by lesser roads at right angles, ran through the trees. In the clearances, there were Grecian columns, alcoves, theatres, temples, an orchestra, and an area for dancing. The Gardens were unusual in that they cut across class lines, being frequented by the ordinary people as well as the aristocracy.

Lizzie felt through the slit in the side of her gown to the pocket in her petticoat and extracted a shilling Rainbird had given her. Once inside, she discovered all the disadvantages of being an unescorted female. Every time she strayed from the path to search in the trees for Beauty, she was pursued by some boozy buck and had to fight and claw her way to safety. She tried calling ‘Beauty’, but a chorus of bloods sent up such a mocking chorus that she decided to search in silence. She was beginning to feel dizzy and faint. Fear for Harriet’s pet combined with the light comfort of her new shoes had, up till that moment, leant her feet wings, but now her legs trembled and she blundered about in the darkness, thinking every moving shape was the lost dog.

Beauty had gone exploring. Some Cit had stolen his leash and he was now enjoying the comfort of being able to run about without it becoming caught on the bushes. His stomach gave a rumble. He sniffed the air. Floating towards him came the delicious aroma of Westphalia ham. He followed his nose until he came out in a clearing.

In front of him was a semi-circle of boxes filled with ladies and gentleman seated at table, enjoying an al fresco supper.

Then Beauty’s beady eyes focused on a couple in one of the lower boxes. He recognized the gentleman. Sure of his welcome as only a thoroughly spoilt animal can be, Beauty bounded forward with a glad little yip of delight.

The Marquess of Huntingdon was feeling jaded and weary. He began to think he might be destined to lead the life of a monk. Beside him, at a table in a box at Vauxhall, sat Belinda Romney. Her hair was pomaded to a high shine, and her eyes gleamed as green as the emeralds about her neck. Her shoulders were magnificent. The marquess looked at her with revulsion. He could never lie with her again. How many such full-blown roses had he gathered? He suddenly remembered, when he was still in petticoats, having stolen and eaten too many chocolates. His mother, unaware of his sin, had presented him with a chocolate, and he had turned green and rushed from the drawing room. He felt rather like that small boy now when he looked at Belinda.

Ever since the faithlessness of his late wife had proved to him that seeming purity and innocence could cover the heart of a harlot, he had preferred to take his pleasures with the Fashionable Impure. Among them, one was safe from disillusion.

He realized he would need to terminate his affair with Belinda. It would be costly – but only financially, not emotionally.

‘Belinda, we have enjoyed a good liaison—’ he began.

‘And would it enjoy it better,’ said Belinda, ‘if perhaps we could eat. Are you going to carve that ham, or is it solely for ornament?’

‘My apologies.’ The marquess rose and went to the tiny carving table and picked up the long sharp knife and carving fork. He had just sliced several wafers of ham and was arranging them on a plate, when all at once he felt Harriet Metcalf’s arms about his neck and Harriet’s lips against his own. The fantasy was so real that he felt a surge of sweetness coursing through his veins.

He was unaware of what was going on, oblivious to the fact that Belinda was cringing back with a scream as Beauty leapt into the marquess’s recently vacated chair and leered amiably at the laughing crowd below.

The marquess absentmindedly slid the plate of ham in front of Beauty.

The vision of Harriet faded.

He blinked. Belinda was making gargling noises and pointing at Beauty, who was tucking into the plate of ham.

The marquess recognized Beauty. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Do you expect the dog to reply?’ demanded Belinda shrilly. ‘That is the animal that attacked me in the Park.’

‘It’s Harriet Metcalf’s dog,’ said the marquess, hanging over the edge of the box, his eyes raking the crowd.

‘Indeed!’ Belinda’s eyes narrowed into slits. She had found out Harriet’s name at the Phillips’ ball, being anxious to discover the identity of the fair charmer who appeared to be seducing her lover away from her.

‘Huntingdon,’ said Belinda sharply, ‘get rid of that animal.’

‘In a minute,’ he said, his eyes still searching the crowd. ‘I’m looking for Miss Metcalf.’

‘Oooh!’ In a flaming temper, Belinda brought her fan down hard on Beauty’s narrow head. Beauty seized the fan and crunched up the tortoiseshell sticks and spat the wreckage on the table.

Belinda spied one of her admirers in the watching, jeering, laughing crowd below. ‘Huntingdon,’ she said, ‘an you do not do something about that cur, I shall leave you.’

The marquess did not reply, for he had just spied Lizzie.

‘Why, there’s that scullery maid. What is her name? Ah. Lizzie . . . Lizzie!’ he called loudly.

Lizzie looked up and saw not only the marquess but Beauty, who was standing on the table, lapping up the contents of a bowl of rack punch.

As Lizzie reached the box, Beauty slowly keeled over and fell down in a drunken stupor on the table and began to snore.

‘I shall take him,’ said Lizzie eagerly. ‘I am so sorry, my lord, but I searched and searched . . .’ She picked up the dog’s heavy, inert body and then stood swaying, her face as white as paper.

The marquess caught her about the waist and called to Belinda. ‘Help me with her. I cannot hold both dog and girl.’

Belinda, with a look of jealous rage, said, ‘Then I suggest you send for Miss Metcalf.’ She tripped lightly from the box and disappeared on the arm of her admirer, a Mr Lacey, who, seeing her fury with the marquess, had been waiting hopefully below the box.

The marquess heaved Lizzie into a chair, picked Beauty up by his collar and threw him under the table, soaked his handkerchief in iced water, and applied it to the maid’s temples. Lizzy tried to struggle up, but he held her down with a firm hand.

‘Where is your mistress?’ he asked.

‘Miss Metcalf is at the play, my lord. You see, it all started when I met our footman, Joseph, in the Green Park . . .’

The marquess listened until she had finished her story. Then he said, ‘You are fortunate, young Lizzie, in that I am on the point of returning to the West End, so you may travel in my carriage as far as Clarges Street.’

He tried to revive Beauty, without success, so he threw the inebriated dog around his neck like some horrible sort of tippet and led the way to his carriage. Many of the notables stared to see the great Marquess of Huntingdon handing what was obviously a servant of the lowest sort into his carriage and wearing what looked like a dead dog about his neck.

The marquess treated his servants with the same detached courtesy as he treated most members of the
ton
. So on the journey back, he encouraged Lizzie to talk about herself and pointed out various notables to her just as if he were entertaining a young debutante.

That carriage drive meant very little to the marquess, but it meant all the world to Lizzie. She spent most of her life below ground, although Rainbird was very generous about letting her go out for walks, and she felt she had been transported to another world. The air was warm and sweet. The lamps on Westminster Bridge flickered in their glass shields. For the first time in her life, Lizzie began to wonder whether she would always be a scullery maid, or whether there was not some road up ahead for her – some road which would lead to carriage rides and bring her into a world where she would be treated with the gentle, thoughtful courtesy she was experiencing at that moment.

‘I do not know why Joseph and Luke should want to take me and the dog out in a gig,’ she said timidly.

‘My dear young lady,’ said the marquess, ‘when two young men show a sudden desire to rush a dog over to the Surrey side, it usually means they plan to enter that dog in a fight.’

‘They would never do that,’ gasped Lizzie.

‘There is a lot of money to be gained. Do not be too hard on them.’

Lizzie digested this in silence. Joseph had always seemed to Lizzie the epitome of everything that was gentlemanly, even though he did do such dreadful things. But here she was with a real gentleman, and he did not jeer at her or find her silly. When he swung off the bridge, she swayed towards him and without taking his eyes from the road, he put out a hand to support her. Joseph would have thrust her away.

‘I do not suppose your mistress will be returned home,’ said the marquess.

‘No, my lord,’ said Lizzie. ‘I shall take the dog down to the kitchen and . . . and . . . make as little fuss as possible.’ She looked at him anxiously.

‘Yes, my child,’ he said, ‘you may rest assured that I shall leave all the talking to you. You are wondering what lies you will have to tell in order to support the footman’s story.’

This was exactly what Lizzie had been wondering, and she looked at him in awe.

But alas for Joseph. He was already in deep trouble before Lizzie arrived at Number 67. Rainbird had been horrified when Joseph had returned alone. In vain had the footman blustered and tried to make light of it. Rainbird had heard of the departure in the gig. Why rent a gig when the purpose of the outing had been to walk with Lizzie? And what had Luke to do with it?

At last, backed up against the kitchen wall, faced by a furious butler and cook, Joseph blurted out the truth.

‘You heartless man,’ cried Jenny. ‘Poor little Lizzie. She thought you were doing it all for her. Oh, what will the mistress say?’

‘Nothing. For all of us must go and find that dog as well as Lizzie if it takes all night,’ said Rainbird. ‘Mrs Middleton, you had best stay with Dave to mind the house while the rest of us go out.’

The searchers were just emerging from the basement when a high-perched phaeton rolled to a stop in front of the house, and they stood open-mouthed as the Marquess of Huntingdon jumped down and helped Lizzie to alight. Then the marquess picked up Beauty from the floor of the carriage. It was then they all turned and saw Harriet Metcalf standing on the step.

There had been a riot at the play, a not infrequent occurrence these days, because the managers of the play-house had raised the price of the seats and the public had once again taken their nightly revenge.

Lord Vere had been at the play and had been wonderful in extricating the ladies from the riot and bearing them home. When he had left, Annabelle and Sarah had said they were going to bed to have an early night, and Harriet had been sitting in the front parlour reading a book when she had heard the noise of the marquess’s arrival.

Now she stood, the light evening breeze lifting the errant strands of her fair hair, which always escaped from their moorings no matter how expert the hairdressing, and saw the marquess with Beauty lying in his arms.

She thought Beauty was dead. And on top of that shattering thought came the realization that she must not cry or make a scene in front of the servants over the death of a mongrel. Amazed at the steadiness of her own voice, she said, ‘Is he dead?’

‘Dead drunk,’ said the marquess.

Harriet ran forward and pried up one of Beauty’s eyes. He gave a faint snore and stirred in the marquess’s arms. ‘Thank the Lord,’ said Harriet under her breath. Then she saw Lizzie.

‘Please tell me what happened?’ she said.

The marquess nodded his head towards Lizzie as a signal that the scullery maid was to give the explanation. Lizzie looked at Joseph, and Joseph threw her a pleading look.

‘I am afraid your dog ran away, Miss Metcalf. I should have waited for Joseph to come with me, but I chased after the dog and found him eventually in Vauxhall Gardens. His lordship was kind enough to take me home.’

Harriet became aware of all the faces at the windows along the street.

‘It is most good of you, my lord,’ she said. ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’

The marquess’s intelligence prompted him to refuse. His emotions screamed to him to accept. His emotions won.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one of your servants could look after my horses?’

He followed Harriet into the house, still carrying Beauty.

‘May I put this dog down somewhere, ma’am?’ he asked plaintively. ‘I don’t know how that little servant girl of yours managed even to try to lift him. He’s deuced heavy.’

‘Certainly,’ said Harriet. ‘Place him in front of the fire. Sit down, my lord, and tell me how my poor Beauty comes to be drunk.’

The marquess placed Beauty down on the carpet and then sat down in a chair facing Harriet. Harriet blushed slightly and would not meet his eyes. She was already regretting her invitation. For, at the playhouse, before the riot started, she had been overcome with such physical longing for him that she had felt haunted and then had thought miserably that London must be turning her mind to carnal thoughts and herself into a strumpet.

‘I was at Vauxhall,’ said the marquess, ‘at supper, when suddenly I looked round and there was your dog, sitting at table, with a knife and fork in his paws, demolishing wafers of ham.’

‘What really happened?’ asked Harriet. ‘Thank you, Rainbird. Put the tray down there and we shall serve ourselves.’

‘He did help himself to a plate of ham, Miss Metcalf, and then Lizzie came rushing up and nearly fainted, by which time Beauty had had his snout in the punch bowl and had passed out.’

Harriet poured a glass of wine for him and then one for herself.

‘My poor Beauty,’ said Harriet. ‘I am afraid he is not a very well-disciplined dog.’

The marquess thought that was putting it mildly, but he politely said nothing and studied her instead. A branch of candles on the mantelpiece was gilding her hair. Her gown was of a soft blue material, the low neck being edged with a fall of lace.