Wicked Godmother (5 page)

At first it seemed as if Number 67 was all set for one of the most tranquil periods the town house had known since it was first built early in the previous century.

From Rainbird down to Dave, the staff vowed they had never known such sweet and charming ladies.

Miss Metcalf, on being appealed to by Rainbird shortly after her arrival for an increase in the staff’s wages, had said she would write to the lawyer, Mr Gladstone, asking his permission. Mr Gladstone had replied that since the servants appeared to be asking only a reasonable amount, he would allow Harriet to pay the increase, but added that he had written to Mr Palmer, complaining that servants should be paid so little in this year of Our Lord, 1809.

At first Harriet was at a loss as to how to begin finding suitable social company for her charges, but Rainbird had stepped in with a list of the correct people to cultivate. Joseph was sent to the pub patronized by the upper servants, The Running Footman, to spread the gossip that the Hayner girls were very rich, and soon a few invitation cards began to arrive.

London was still thin of company, but Harriet was anxious to give Sarah and Annabelle a head start on the other hopeful debutantes.

Much of the day was taken up being pinned and fitted by the dressmaker. Sarah and Annabelle were furious when it transpired that Harriet was to have a new wardrobe as well, but they concealed their rage, writing instead to Mr Gladstone, demanding such extravagance on the part of their godmother be stopped. Mr Gladstone replied that it was only right that Harriet should be decked out in a style that befitted her station and it would shame the Misses Hayner in the eyes of the
ton
were they to appear with a poorly dressed chaperone.

To do them justice, the twins had become firmly convinced some time ago that Harriet had stolen away their father’s affection. But the sad fact was that Sir Benjamin had come to despise and dislike his vindictive wife during her lifetime. After seeing too many of her nastier traits in his own daughters, which no teaching by several excellent governesses could appear to eradicate, Sir Benjamin had come to the conclusion that both his daughters were sly and devious. But he was a careless and jovial man, not given to much deep thought on any subject. He was rarely at home, and, when he was, he always summoned Harriet to dinner – a practise that his daughters had hoped would end with the death of Harriet’s parents. Up until then, they had thought Papa merely amused at the foibles of the shabby-genteel Metcalfs, and it was only after the death of Mr and Mrs Metcalf that his real affection for Harriet began to shine through. They had always concealed their envy and dislike of Harriet very well, and Sir Benjamin would never have saddled Harriet Metcalf with his daughters’ debut had he guessed the extent of their jealousy.

But the early days, while the girls prepared for the Season, passed pleasantly enough. By rigorous dieting, Annabelle had managed to lose a few pounds of weight, and by eating regular meals, Sarah had gained the same amount of weight her sister had lost. They came to look very alike, although Sarah was still nervous and intense and Annabelle sluggish and lazy.

Both agreed privately that Harriet should be treated with courtesy until she had created the groundwork for their social success. That she worked so hard at achieving this end did nothing to soften the feeling of either towards her.

Perhaps the only person in the house who was not very happy was Lizzie, the scullery maid. Try as she would, she could not like Emily, the lady’s maid. Emily had not ousted Mrs Middleton from her parlour, but appeared content to share an attic with Jenny and Alice. Nor had Emily caught Joseph’s eye, something that really would have annoyed Lizzie, who was hopelessly in love with the vain footman. It was that Lizzie sensed a cruelty in Emily which the others did not seem to notice. She had a secretive way of looking at people out of the corners of those odd yellow eyes of hers, as if she was privately laughing at some particularly nasty joke.

And Lizzie was, moreover, not feeling very well. The rain still poured down, day after day, which meant muddied floors and floods in the kitchen to clean up. There were also fires to be made up in all the rooms and fenders to be polished.

All the servants had eyed Beauty askance, particularly Joseph, who was not only frightened it would savage his pet – the kitchen cat called the Moocher, a tawny, disreputable miniature lion of an animal – but was also dismayed to learn he was expected to take the beast out for walks.

But Beauty created no problems. He trudged miserably at Joseph’s heels outdoors and slept in front of the fire indoors. Harriet thought her pet was adapting well to city life, mainly because she had not very much time to worry about his oddly chastened mood. But the truth of the matter was that Beauty had cankers in his ears and was in perpetual pain and discomfort. His coat grew shabby and dull, and he barely touched his food.

An end came to the dog’s misery one day when Joseph was walking him along Curzon Street. A light carriage had overturned, spilling its occupants into the kennel. Joseph stopped to watch the drama. Then he found he was being addressed by a tall, elegant gentleman.

‘Is that your dog?’ asked the gentleman. Joseph looked up – it was not often that Joseph, who was tall, had to look up at anyone – and saw a strong, handsome face shadowed by the brim of a beaver hat.

‘No,’ said Joseph, who was ashamed of Beauty’s mangy looks. ‘Belongs to my mistress.’

‘It looks ill,’ said the tall gentleman. He bent down to where Beauty sat shivering in the rain at the side of the pavement, looked at the dog’s teeth, and then flipped back Beauty’s floppy ears, one after the other.

He straightened up. ‘The dog has cankers in both ears. Give me your direction, and I shall leave a solution with your mistress that will cure the animal of his discomfort in a few days.’

Joseph, who had already taken in the richness of the gentleman’s clothes, said promptly, ‘Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street. Miss Metcalf.’

‘Here is my card,’ said the gentleman.

Joseph took it and read the name, T
HE
M
ARQUESS OF
H
UNTINGDON
. His eyes widened. Joseph knew all the gossip there was to know about his betters. The marquess, he remembered, had been abroad for a long time in America, where he owned a tobacco plantation in Virginia. He was reputed to be one of the richest men in England, and the most handsome.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, bowing so low he almost touched noses with Beauty. The marquess nodded and strolled off along Curzon Street with his friend, Lord Vere.

‘Why on earth did you waste your time over that brute of a dog?’ said Lord Vere. ‘There’s nothing up with it that a good bullet straight between the eyes wouldn’t mend.’

‘I noticed it looked sick,’ said the marquess mildly. ‘But you are quite right. I should curb these charitable impulses. Now I have to call on some old spinster called Metcalf at Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street and give her medicine for the brute. But it’s good stuff. I’ve used it on my own hounds, and if it can put one more animal out of misery, then why not?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lord Vere eagerly. ‘When are you going?’

‘Possibly tomorrow. Why so eager to accompany me?’

‘Vulgar curiosity, that’s why. I want to get a look at the inside of that famous Clarges Street town house and see the sort of lady who’s brave enough to take it.’

‘What is so special about the house? Is it haunted?’

‘In a way. There’s a curse on it. All sorts of odd things happen to people who stay there. The old Duke of Pelham hanged himself there. The house now belongs to the new duke, but he never goes near it. It’s the place where Clara Vere-Baxton died and last Season the new Lady Tregarthan discovered Clara had been murdered by Dr Gillespie.’

‘Oh, I remember that scandal,’ said the marquess. ‘But you surely don’t believe in all that fustian about a curse. Come with me tomorrow, and we shall find, I assure you, some sweet little old lady, no doubt short-sighted, who does not even know her dog is sick.’

Joseph presented the marquess’s card to Harriet when he returned. The twins were out shopping with their maid, Emily. Harriet was too shocked upon finding out her pet was ill to pay much attention to the fact that it was a marquess who was going to supply the cure. She told Joseph to fetch her a bowl of potassium permanganate and warm water and some cotton wool.

Then she knelt down beside Beauty and gently lifted his ears, wincing as she saw the angry scarlet infection inside. She gently bathed his ears, fussing over him, and he rolled his eyes miserably and feebly licked her hand.

So ashamed was Harriet that she had not noticed how ill her dog was that she failed to tell the girls about the Marquess of Huntingdon. Also, she knew that Sarah and Annabelle did not like Beauty. Had Joseph told her that the marquess was an eligible and handsome man, then she would most certainly have roused the twins early in the morning to prepare for his call. But the little Harriet had seen of the young men of the town had led her to doubt that anyone under the age of forty would trouble themselves about a mongrel, and so she cheerfully imagined the marquess to be quite old and countrified.

Sarah and Annabelle came home carrying a great many packages and boxes. Harriet did feel they spent far too much money on trifles, but as it was their own money they were spending, she decided to let them have their heads, and perhaps curb them if they had to have another Season before finding husbands.

When Harriet awoke the next morning, she was aware of a change in the sounds coming from outside. There seemed to be a great deal of movement and bustle, and, above it all, the birds were singing on the rooftops.

Harriet leapt from the bed and drew back the curtains. Golden sunlight flooded the room; sunlight gilded the cobbles of the street. She raised the window with some difficulty because the wood had swollen with all the rain and the frame was inclined to stick. Warm, sweet air flowed into the room.

She stretched her arms above her head. It was going to be a beautiful day. Her mind was full of plans. That evening was to see the first of their social engagements, a ball at Lord and Lady Phillips’ in Brook Street. Lady Phillips was a fat, friendly lady who had taken a great liking to Harriet.

Harriet, under Rainbird’s instructions, had invited her to tea shortly after her arrival in London. Rainbird had said that Lady Phillips was one of the easiest members of the
ton
to get to know and one of the most pleasant.

Beauty stirred in his basket at the foot of Harriet’s bed, and she remembered that the Marquess of Huntingdon was to call.

She took great trouble with her appearance as a courtesy to this elderly gentleman who had been kind enough to show concern for her dog. The twins never rose before two in the afternoon, having adapted to fashionable London hours even before their first social engagement.

Harriet put on one of her new gowns. It was of pale-blue India muslin and tied under her bust with two blue silk ribbons. She twisted her thick, fluffy hair into a knot on top of her head, but mischievous little tendrils escaped and formed a sort of sunny halo about her face.

She was sitting in the front parlour at eleven in the morning, with Beauty at her feet, when Rainbird announced that not only the Marquess of Huntingdon but Lord Vere as well had called to see her.

Two gentlemen entered the room and stood on the threshold. Harriet’s blue eyes had all the clear candour of a child’s as she looked at them. Her first thought was that both men were very presentable, and she regretted not having roused the twins so that they might be introduced.

In their turn, the marquess and Lord Vere studied Harriet Metcalf. Their first sight of her was one that they were both to remember always. She was sitting in a chintz-covered armchair with Beauty at her feet. The sun, shining through the open window behind her, lit up the aureole of her golden hair. She looked dainty, fresh, and very feminine.

The marquess was, Harriet estimated, in his thirties. He had thick, curling chestnut hair, hazel eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a humorous mouth. His waist was slim, and his legs had been called ‘the finest in England’ – after all, no one ever mentioned a lady’s legs in an age when it was not polite to admit such female appendages existed. He was dressed in a blue morning-coat with gold-plated buttons, buff breeches, and hessian boots. His biscuit-coloured waistcoat was buttoned high up under the snowy folds of his intricately tied cravat.

Making a magnificent leg, the marquess said, ‘We called to see Miss Metcalf.’

‘I am Miss Metcalf.’

Lord Vere looked around the room as if searching for a chaperone. He was slightly shorter than the marquess and had black hair and black eyes. He affected the Byronic style of dress, a fashion described sometimes unkindly as highly expensive sloppiness.

‘Are your parents at home, Miss Metcalf?’ he asked.

Harriet’s blue eyes clouded. ‘They are both dead,’ she said. Then her eyes cleared. ‘Oh, of course you do not know why I am in London. I am godmother to two very beautiful ladies, the Misses Hayner, who are to make their debut at the Season.’

‘You look much too young to have god-daughters old enough to make their come-out,’ said the marquess.

‘The late Sir Benjamin Hayner,’ said Harriet, ‘made me the girls’ godmother. I am some years older than they and should really be wearing caps.’

Beauty stirred and rolled a bloodshot eye in the direction of the marquess.

‘So this is my patient,’ said the marquess. He fished in his coat pocket and brought out a small phial and a wad of cotton wool and then bent over Beauty.

‘Do be careful,’ said Harriet. ‘He is inclined to be a little bit bad-tempered with strangers.’

But Beauty barely stirred as the marquess gently washed out first one ear and then the other with the solution.

‘Now, Miss Metcalf,’ said the marquess, throwing the soiled cotton wool on the fire and handing Harriet the phial, ‘treat his ears twice a day for a week, and he will soon be well again.’