Rainbird's Revenge (9 page)

Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance desires;

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Mrs Freemantle made a noisy return as a red dawn rose over London. She was considered an Original and had been escorted back to Clarges Street by a party of noisy young bucks. She kissed them all good night and then lurched unsteadily into the front parlour.

Lady Letitia, roused from an uneasy sleep by all the noises outside, pulled on her wrapper and made her way downstairs.

Mrs Freemantle was slumped in a chair by the hearth when Lady Letitia entered the room. She exuded a strong smell of spirits. Her cap lay in a crumpled heap at her feet and her wig had slipped over one eye. She had her eyes closed.

Lady Letitia shook her gently by the shoulder. ‘Agnes,' she said, ‘you must not fall asleep here.'

‘Hey, what!' Mrs Freemantle opened her eyes and looked about her in a dazed way, and then up into Lady Letitia's anxious face. ‘Oh, Letisha,' she slurred. ‘Jolly, jolly party. Pelham left 'fore I could shlap his shtupid face with my fan.'

‘Why should you want to do that?'

‘What he did to Jenny.' Mrs Freemantle's eyes began to close.

‘Now, this is something I must learn,' muttered Lady Letitia. She made her way down to the kitchen and brewed a pot of strong black coffee. She was of the old school who considered only upstarts roused their servants during the night to perform trivial tasks – although it was rumoured that the Prince Regent rang for his valet about forty times a night, demanding to know the time, even though he had a watch beside his bed.

She carried cups and coffee upstairs, roused Mrs Freemantle again, and demanded she drink at least two cups. ‘For I must know what you meant by that remark about Pelham.'

Mrs Freemantle groggily did as she was bid and then sat up looking bright and sober. It was a hard-drinking age, and Lady Letitia knew from experience that her friend's sobriety would be only temporary.

‘Now, Agnes,' she urged, ‘tell me about Pelham and Jenny.'

‘Infuriating man,' roared Mrs Freemantle, pouring another cup of coffee and draining it in one gulp. ‘He ups and damns Miss Jenny as having neither wit nor charm. He says something about no gentleman of fashion should be seen dead dancing with her and quite ruined her.'

‘Oh dear,' said Lady Letitia, ‘what shall I do? I confess I berated poor Jenny and told her that her lack of success was entirely due to her own vanity.'

‘Do not exercise yourself too much,' said Mrs Freemantle, her old eyes suddenly sharp and shrewd. ‘It was montrous of Pelham, and I repaired much of the damage before the evening was out, but Jenny needs a set-down. I could not help noticing the contemptuous glances that young lady cast on me. She sets too much store on the outsides of people. How did it come about? You had the raising of her, Letitia.'

‘I am afraid I left her for too many years in the charge of an undemanding governess,' said Lady Letitia ruefully. ‘I did at times feel she should be taught something more academic than Italian, water-colouring, and playing the pianoforte. But no one wants an intelligent girl. She has always been charming and beautiful and pleasing to people. She finished with her governess a short time ago, and it was only then I realized how vain she had become.'

‘As long as she learns to appear modest,' said Mrs Freemantle, ‘then that is all that is required. You will soon be shot of her. With looks like hers, she will have her pick.'

‘But I love Jenny, and want her to be happy, and vain people are never happy.'

‘Fustian. London's full of coxcombs who start their day each morning by admiring themselves in the glass. They are so pleased with themselves they never notice anyone else. It is quite the fashion . . . vanity, I mean. But don't tell the child about Pelham. It will do her no harm to think she brought about her humiliation all by herself . . . that is, if you mean to reform her character. Now, we go to the Denbys' musicale tonight. She will have a chance to shine.'

‘Do you always rattle about London at such a rate?' asked Lady Letitia.

‘Always,' said Mrs Freemantle, with a cavernous yawn. ‘Keeps me alive.'

The brief party at Number 67 was over a few minutes after Jenny had left. Fergus prepared his master for bed and returned to the servants' hall. They were all seated around the table again, studying a newspaper cutting, which was tucked out of sight into Rainbird's pocket as soon as he appeared. Fergus tried to make conversation, but they so obviously wanted to be rid of him that he took himself, rather sadly, off to bed.

‘Now,' said Rainbird, producing the cutting again, ‘there is this pub for sale in Highgate. It has stood empty for some time, so we will get it cheaply. It must need a lot of work, for it stands on the main road north. But we shall contrive, and a low price will leave us plenty to engage carpenters and builders. As soon as his grace takes himself off tomorrow – I mean today,' he amended, looking at the clock, ‘I shall take a post-chaise to Highgate and see if I can secure the premises for us.'

They sat for another half an hour, discussing what they would like to call the pub, what they wanted it to be like, and dreaming of the fine clients they would have, until Rainbird reminded them of the hour and said they would never rise in the morning unless they all went immediately to bed.

But for some of the servants, it was an uneasy night.

Lizzie tossed and turned as she thought of marriage to Joseph. She was still fond of Joseph, of course. But marriage! Joseph had seemed such a grand creature in the early days of her employment, when she could barely read or write. But the education of Lizzie, started by a previous tenant, and continued by the staff as a whole, had changed her outlook. After a long time of considering herself of no account, Lizzie was beginning to think she might be worth someone a little kinder and a little less vain than Joseph.

But she had been so much in love with him, and now everyone, including Joseph, had taken their future marriage as an accepted fact. Lizzie thought again of the Comte St Bertin's valet, Mr Paul Gendreau, whom she had met when leaving the church earlier that year. He had treated her like a lady; he had been sympathetic. She could not forget him, however hard she tried. But Mr Gendreau was French, and French servants were even more class-conscious than English ones. It had amused him to be gallant to a scullery maid. He probably never thought of her. A tear rolled down Lizzie's cheek and plopped on the thin blanket that covered her.

Alice, too, was uneasy about her future. She kept seeing Fergus's strong, tanned face. But she would soon be whipped off to freedom and Highgate, the duke would engage other servants, and she would never see Fergus again. She wanted to confide in the chambermaid, Jenny, with whom she shared a bed, but felt she might dim her friend's excitement over the pub.

She would have been surprised had she known that Jenny, too, was uneasy. Somehow, that Miss Jenny Sutherland, having the same first name as her own, had unsettled the chambermaid. It was an unfair world where one Jenny could wear pretty gowns and go to balls and dance with a duke, while she, the servant Jenny, was condemned to a life of servitude. For, Jenny thought gloomily, she would have little chance of marrying anyone interesting while she scrubbed the floors and waited on the customers in the tap. Like Lizzie, she felt she deserved something better in life – something better than the type of man who would propose to a servant in a pub, albeit a servant who owned part of the pub. She would probably get a proposal from one of those uncouth louts who were always on the look-out for a workhorse with some money, a wife to scrub and sew and clean.

In the next room, Joseph lay awake also, flexing his tortured feet under the bedclothes. The servants had been driving single-mindedly towards freedom, and now they were on the threshold. Joseph had always carried in his mind a rosy dream of standing at the entrance to the inn dressed in the latest thing in a buckram-wadded coat, receiving the nobility. He would bow low and hear my lady murmur to her lord, ‘What an elegant young man.'

But now Rainbird was going off to secure the inn – an inn that would require a great deal of manual labour to set it to rights. It was clear that Rainbird meant all of them to help. Joseph raised his hands in front of him and studied their whiteness in the flickering glow of the rushlight. He would not be allowed to wear white gloves or velvet livery. There would be no jaunts to The Running Footman – the pub round the corner where all the upper London servants met to exchange gossip. Highgate was in the country. For the first time Joseph realized his bones were made of pavement. He detested the country, all smells and flies and bumpkins. Of course, Lizzie would be a comfort. But would she? Joseph frowned. Ever since she had become lettered, Lizzie had shown a distressing independence of mind and no longer hung on his every word.

On his pallet under the kitchen table, little Dave settled down to indulge in his favourite fantasy, which was of touring the fairgrounds and taking round the hat after Mr Rainbird had finished his performance. But the dream no longer comforted him. For the future was right there, and the future was that pub they had all schemed and worked hard to get. ‘Blow the pub,' muttered Dave sulkily. ‘I hopes we don't get it. I wish Lizzie would do something stupid again.' For Lizzie had, earlier that year, become enamoured of the first footman, Luke, who worked for Lord Charteris next door. Luke had persuaded Lizzie to give him all the savings to put on a horse and had promptly run off with the money. But their recent tenant had refunded that money, so there was nothing to stop the buying of the pub now.

Palmer was lucky. The duke had breakfasted well and was in a mellow mood. Angus's coffee, grilled kidneys, and thin slices of toast had been a miracle of cuisine. The day outside was sunny and glorious, and the narrow town house sparkled with cleanliness and comfort. Not by a flicker had any of the servants betrayed anything of the odd events of the night before. The duke had feared they might become cheeky and bold after he had honoured their revels with his august presence.

So Palmer's arrival with the books found the duke singularly uncritical. Rainbird, listening with his ear to the dining-room door, gloomily heard the duke say, ‘Everything appears to be in order, Palmer, although I still maintain the servants here are paid too low a wage.'

‘They are well content with what they get,' Rainbird heard Palmer reply gruffly.

So that was that, thought Rainbird, unaware that the duke had been looking at a list of wages that were much higher than the pittance Palmer actually gave them. Rainbird assumed Palmer had therefore not fiddled the books, and so they had no way of getting even with him. Better to see about that pub and then hand in their notices.

When Palmer had left, the duke summoned Rainbird and told him that he would spend the afternoon with friends who lived at Primrose Hill, have dinner with them, and return in the evening to change for the Denbys' musicale. Still feeling happy, the duke grandly told Rainbird the servants might enjoy some free time, provided they were on hand in the evening to attend to his needs.

Fergus, who was to accompany his master, went down to the servants' hall to say goodbye. He felt envious of the servants, who were eagerly making plans for the day. Rainbird alone did not voice his plans. How lovely it would be, thought Fergus wistfully, to be able to invite the glorious Alice to go out walking in the parks.

Lizzie had planned to go to St Patrick's Church in Soho Square, trying to persuade herself she had been sadly lacking in her religious duties, but hoping all the while for a glimpse of Mr Gendreau. Alice and Jenny were going to look at the shops, Angus and Mrs Middleton were to take a walk by the Serpentine, Joseph was going to The Running Footman for a gossip, and Dave announced firmly he was going with Rainbird.

They all waited eagerly until they heard the duke and Fergus leave, and then they set about preparing to enjoy the day.

Rainbird hired a post-chaise, took the strong-box with their money, and, accompanied by Dave, set out for Highgate. The day was so fine and so sparkling that Rainbird wished they could have afforded to hire an open carriage instead of being confined inside a stuffy, smelly post-chaise.

The inn called The Holly Bush was on the far side of Highgate, on the north road out of that village. It was owned, among other run-down properties, by a certain Squire James, who lived in the village. He was a gross, slovenly man, who showed alarming signs of wishing to show them about in person, swearing the place was double the money. But Rainbird said firmly they would judge matters better on their own and would return shortly and let him know their decision.

Having dismissed the post-chaise, they walked out to The Holly Bush. It was a Tudor pub with a thatched roof. To Rainbird's surprise, the thatch was in good repair and the glass in all the windows was unbroken. But inside, the tap was a squalid, disgusting mess. It looked as if there had been an almighty brawl on its last night, and no one had bothered to clean it up. There were four bedrooms upstairs. There was a weedy garden at the back with a muddy pond choked with reeds. But to Rainbird's surprise, the fabric of the building was sound, and the floors were good and solid. The pond could be cleaned, and tables and chairs could be arranged in the garden. Short of cleaning and scrubbing inside, there would be remarkably little to be done to get it ready.