Plain Jane (6 page)

‘We have never seen papa in grand company, but he met many great men when he was serving in the navy so no doubt he knows how to go on better than any of us,’ said Jane.

‘Pooh! Stop sounding as if you know everything,’ snapped Euphemia, a petulant look marring her beauty. ‘Besides, mama will not waste time inviting
you
to balls and parties. She said so. She does not want to waste money on a wardrobe for you.’

‘I think it is very unfair to be continually passed over,’ said Jane in a low voice.

‘It is not your fault you are so plain,’ said Euphemia indifferently. ‘Mama said to papa t’other day that she would take you to the local assemblies when I am puffed off. Squire Bascombe is said to be looking for a young bride.’

‘Squire Bascombe is
fifty
, a widower, and has daughters older than I,’ exclaimed Jane in horror.

Euphemia’s unusual warmth towards her sister had now completely gone. ‘You always were a depressing little thing,’ she said, crossing to the glass to pat her curls.

Jane stormed out of the room. How lovely it would be to be able to put Euphemia’s pretty nose out of joint . . . just once.

That night, after Jane had fallen asleep, her dreams took an odd turn. She dreamt she was walking down a London street with Euphemia. Beau Tregarthan drove past in his curricle. Now, in previous dreams, Euphemia had faded into a rosy mist while Beau Tregarthan’s blue eyes gazed adoringly down into Jane’s. But this time, he reined in his horses and sprang down from the curricle. He was no longer quite such a shadowy figure as in previous dreams, but very alive, very attractive, almost real. He advanced on the sisters, his eyes sparkling. He came to a stop in front of them. His blue eyes gazed with admiration on . . . Euphemia. It was Jane who felt herself fading away into the shadows beyond the circle of light that surrounded the pair.

She awoke with a start. The dream had been so vivid, so real – and so horribly possible. She climbed down from her bed and lit a candle from the rushlight in its pierced canister. Carrying the candle, she walked to the glass and stared at her reflection. Plain Jane stared back. With a muffled sob, she blew out the candle and plunged headlong into bed, burying herself under the blankets and trying to blot out that bright dream image of Euphemia with Beau Tregarthan.

Like dragonflies the hansoms hover,
With jewelled eyes to catch the lover.
The streets are full of lights and loves,
Soft gowns and flutter of soiled doves.

The human moths about the light
Dash and cling close in dazed delight,
And burn and laugh, the world and wife
For this is London, this is life!

PAUL VERLAINE
,
BALLAD OF LONDON

The rigours of the winter were over at last as Lord Tregarthan sat at his desk and flicked through a pile of gilt-edged invitations. Behind him sat his friend, Mr Peter Nevill, a small, thin, angry man whom many of the
ton
considered an odd friend for the easy-going and elegant Beau Tregarthan to have.

Perhaps it was Mr Nevill’s very lack of social graces and attitudes that attracted the over-courted and famous Beau, but then it was hard to tell what went on behind his handsome face and smiling blue eyes.

He had fought in the wars against Napoleon and had sold out after being invalided home. He had stated his intention of finding a wife at the Season, starting a family, and then taking himself off to the wars again.

Mr Nevill was a first-lieutenant in the navy, enjoying the first leave he had had in a long time. Both men had been to school together. Then, the larger Lord Tregarthan had been Mr Nevill’s champion, and Mr Nevill still returned that championship with a fierce devotion.

The news that the famous beau was back on the London scene had gone round the drawing rooms and saloons of the elegant like wildfire . . . hence the small avalanche of invitations.

‘Who is this Mrs Hart, 67 Clarges Street?’ demanded Lord Tregarthan laconically. ‘Keeps sending me cards.’

‘Odd woman,’ said Mr Nevill. ‘Rumour has it she took that unlucky house because it was cheap.’

‘Unlucky?’

‘Yes. Duke of Pelham hanged himself there, one of the tenants found their daughter dead in the Green Park, another lot lost all their money or something. Ones who took it last year were a Mr Sinclair and his daughter, Fiona.
She
married the Marquess of Harrington and they went off on a long honeymoon and are now missing. Old Sinclair’s said to have braved the whole of Boney’s army to go looking for them. Unlucky house. This Hart female took it not knowing about its reputation. Very pushing. Had to be set down. Embraced Sally Jersey in the Park, saying, “I am a friend of Lady Doyle.” Lady Jersey pushed her away. Never heard of this Lady Doyle. Neither has anyone else.’

‘Has she a marriageable daughter?’

‘Ah, well, that’s another thing. Daughter is a diamond of the first water. They’re holding their first rout next week. Some going out of curiosity, but no one important.’

‘It would amuse me to meet this daughter,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘Very few beauties around.’

‘Family’s bad
ton
,’ said Mr Nevill. ‘Well, that is, if the mother is anything to go by.’

‘I would rather make up my own mind, Peter, as to whether anyone is bad
ton
or not. Society can be very cruel. Also, it would amuse me to see the inside of this unlucky house.’

‘I’ll go with you, if you like. But no one else of consequence will be there.’

‘That should be refreshing.’

‘But, o’ course, if they know
you
are going, they’ll all go.’

Lord Tregarthan smiled sweetly. ‘Then let us not tell them, Peter. Let us see this haunted house in a modicum of peace and quiet.’

But, alas, for Lord Tregarthan’s hopes of a quiet evening. Mrs Hart could not believe that Lady Doyle had been lying to her. After all, she had paid Lady Doyle quite a large sum of money to buy those gifts for the
ton
, and the present to Mr Brummell of one snuff box had cost so much it had made Mrs Hart wince.

Although she was beginning to have a dim suspicion that Lady Doyle had pocketed the money without buying any gifts, Mrs Hart accosted the famous Mr Brummell when she had come across that arbiter of fashion walking along Pall Mall.

Had Mr Brummell not had a weakness for pretty females not yet turned twenty, and had Mrs Hart not been accompanied by Euphemia, then Mr Brummell would probably have given her the cut direct. But no sooner had his eyes fallen on Euphemia’s enchanting face than he swept off his hat and made Mrs Hart his best bow in return to her almost over-familiar greeting.

Mrs Hart, elated, begged him to attend her rout, adding that she hoped he had received the snuff box she had sent him.

Now, by coincidence, the Duchess of Devonshire had sent Mr Brummell the present of a solid-gold snuff box inlaid with diamonds, which had arrived only that morning. But she had forgotten to put a card in with it. Mr Brummell, who had been wondering who had sent him such a magnificent present, smiled graciously on Mrs Hart, thanked her warmly, and said he would be delighted to attend her rout.

Flushed with triumph, Mrs Hart and Euphemia moved on. ‘Everyone will come
now
,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘I am so relieved to find Lady Doyle actually sent him the snuff box in my name. I confess I was beginning to wonder if she were not, after all, the most consummate liar we have met.’

‘Well, Jane always said she told fibs.’

‘Pooh! What does Jane know?’

‘Will Jane be attending the rout?’ asked Euphemia.

‘No, of course not. I have enough expense as it is without finding her a new gown.’

Euphemia bit her lip and glanced sideways at her mother. She did not want to admit to her mother that she was frightened of her forthcoming debut. But if Jane went, Euphemia would feel comfortably superior. She did not know that she often leaned on her younger sister’s greater strength of character.

‘I think it might be marked if your other daughter did not attend,’ said Euphemia. ‘Why not get that sly French maid to earn her keep for a change? She could alter one of my old silks to fit Jane.’

‘Perhaps you have the right of it,’ said Mrs Hart reluctantly. ‘Servants are
such
a worry. Rainbird, the butler, seems very respectful and very well versed as to how to go on – although I must admit I was shocked when he pointed out to me I was expected to pay the staff extra wages. “Fustian,” I said. But Rainbird told me that Lord Charteris, for example, always pays his servants extra for the Season and he hinted that upper servants do gossip and it might get about . . .’

Her voice trailed off into silence when she realized Euphemia was not listening.

The fact was that Rainbird had quickly learned how to manage Mrs Hart. At first, she had tried to make MacGregor produce gourmet meals on the smallest amount of money possible and had reduced Mrs Middleton to tears by quarrelling over pennies and halfpennies in the housekeeping books. Mrs Hart had been further incensed to learn that Palmer expected her to pay the new increased servants’ tax, the new rate being fifteen shillings a year per male servant; females, like horses, being kept pretty much at the old tax level.

Rainbird had stepped in. Copying the most condescending manner of several of the worst butlers he had met, he set about putting Mrs Hart in her place. There would be Talk, said Rainbird firmly, if it got about that the food allowance and the servants’ wages were not those of a
ton
household. And so he went on until life became more comfortable for the servants.

In fact, all the servants would have been happy had it not been for Felice, the French maid. Lizzie was as wary of her as if she had been some strange foreign animal like an orangutan. Yet Felice did not look in the least frightening, nor for that matter did she appear markedly foreign. She was a small neat woman of about thirty years. Everything about her seemed to be curved. Her eyelids curved, her mouth was curved in a perpetual half-smile, her dark-brown hair curved in two wings on either side of her face. She was round-shouldered and deep-bosomed. She had a tiny waist and small hands and feet. She said very little and seemed constantly employed. Although Mrs Hart had given instructions that the maid’s meals were to be served to her in her room, Felice had chosen to join the other servants in the hall. It was not as if she particularly appeared to enjoy their company although her large black eyes gave nothing away. What made the females of the staff uneasy was the way she appeared to listen to every word as she bent her smooth head over a piece of sewing, for Felice’s hands were busy even at mealtimes.

Although Alice, Jenny, Mrs Middleton, and even Lizzie could see nothing out of the way about her, Joseph deferred to her, MacGregor gave her the best cuts of meat, and even Dave ran her errands. Rainbird’s twinkling, intelligent eyes softened as they watched her.

She was like a cat, thought Lizzie, a smooth, sleek, little cat. Joseph shows off to her the whole time, thought Lizzie gloomily, and has not a word to say to me.

Although Lizzie knew Joseph quite well, love had blinded her to the footman’s extreme preoccupation with class and rank. The only female servants he considered his equal were governesses and lady’s maids.

Felice could not be drawn to give any view on the war with the French. She admitted to having been previously employed by a Mrs Swan, a friend of Lady Doyle. But she never spoke about her parents, her background, or how she came over from France.

Lizzie decided that what was most upsetting about Felice was that she always seemed to be laughing inwardly at some private joke. Mrs Hart was a hard mistress and Felice had very little free time; what she had was taken up with sewing, but she never complained, never lost her temper, and never said very much.

The evening before the rout, the exhausted servants sat down to a late supper. Rainbird and Joseph had been moving furniture down into the cellars all day to leave the maximum amount of space for the guests. A rout was a peculiar affair. There were never any cards or dancing or music or refreshments: simply one huge mass of people congregated in one house, jostling and fighting their way in and then jostling and fighting their way out. Very few remained above half an hour.