Two Corinthians (13 page)

“Oh yes, he would make you a wonderful husband if you do not think him too old.”

“I did at first, until I came to know him better. Now I think he is just the perfect age. However, it is not at all likely he will ever make an offer.”

“Why do you say so? He has been most particular in his attentions to you, Lizzie.”

“Yes, but it is all a hum, to mislead Mama. It will not lead to anything more. I know I ought not to repeat what I have overheard, but when you went to the Carfaxes’ book-room with Lord Pomeroy, Lady Caroline was talking about George. She told Mama that he is a gazetted flirt. He has broken the hearts of any number of young ladies. I do not mean to be caught in the same trap, I promise you, so I think of him as a very good friend and no more.”

Claire was aware of a horrid sinking feeling which she could not explain. To be sure, she had hoped that something might come of George’s apparent partiality for Lizzie, but there would be plenty of gentlemen in London seeking a bride. If George fought shy of marriage, it was nothing to her. In fact, it was better in a way, for if he wed someone other than Lizzie she must expect to lose his friendship.

“How very commonsensical you are,” she said with attempted cheerfulness. “I am sorry that he has such a reputation, but it need not affect us as long as you are on your guard.”

“I am glad you think he will visit us. All the same, I hope Lord Pomeroy will too, for I still think you and he would deal well together!”

Claire shook her head in amused disagreement, and the subject dropped.

They spent the night at the Catherine Wheel in Henley-on-Thames and arrived in Portman Square the next afternoon. Despite the short notice of their coming, the cook-housekeeper, Mrs Rumbelow, had everything in readiness with welcoming fires in parlour and bedchambers. A short, round woman who moved with jerky efficiency, she also acted as caretaker for the owner when the house was empty, and she showed them around with proprietary pride.

As the lawyer had promised, the tall, narrow house was well suited to their needs. The basement, lit by windows high in the walls, was Mrs Rumbelow’s territory, and the attic was servants’ quarters. In between, there were two parlours and a dining-room on the ground floor and three bedchambers on the first floor. All were sparsely but elegantly furnished, and spotless.

“I can see that you are an excellent housekeeper, Mrs Rumbelow,” said Claire approvingly as they finished their inspection of the third chamber and moved out onto the landing.

She beamed and curtsied jerkily. “Thank you, miss. There’s  a woman comes in to do the ‘eavy cleaning and laundry and such. Being as you’ve brought your abigail and manservant, we won’t need to ‘ire but a girl for the scullery and a chambermaid.”

“Six servants to wait upon the two of us!” said Lizzie in astonishment. “Surely we don’t need so many, Claire.”

“Molly is not really our abigail,” Claire explained to the frowning housekeeper. “We are used to taking care of ourselves. We shall see if we can manage without any more maids.”

“As you wish, miss.” Mrs Rumbelow was definitely displeased.

“If you and Molly find yourselves overworked, of course we shall hire more help,” Claire hastened to assure her.

At that moment a squeal echoed down the uncarpeted stairs from the attic and Alfie came clattering down. His eyes were big with excitement.

“What is the matter?” asked Lizzie. “Never say there are rats in the roof!”

“Not in
my
house, miss!” said Mrs Rumbelow, outraged.

“Don’ care ‘bout rats,” Alfie told them. “Lots in the stables. Oh, Miss Lizzie, Molly says I c’n have a whole room jus’ for me. With a bed in it! Can I? Can I, Miss Claire?”

“Yes, Alfie, I’m sure there is a room for you.” Claire was filled with guilt as she realised she had no idea where the boy slept at home. The servants’ living arrangements were her mother’s responsibility, and her mother had never encouraged her to take an interest in managing the household. In fact, she thought bitterly, had she ever expressed an interest she would doubtless have been severely snubbed.

And here, within half an hour of stepping through the front door, she was already faced with questions to which she did not know the answers. Did they really need another two maids, or was it just that a larger staff would enhance Mrs Rumbelow’s status? What salary would she have to pay, and how much would their keep add to her expenses? The housekeeper’s wages were included in the rent, but she had no notion what she ought to pay Alfie and Molly.

The first thing, she decided, was to see to their comfort. “Will you show me your room, Alfie?” she requested. “I must see that you have everything you need.”

Mrs Rumbelow nodded approval, and Alfie beamed with pride as he ushered her up the narrow stair.

The next morning, Claire swallowed her pride and went to the housekeeper for advice. Her frank confession of ignorance won Mrs Rumbelow over, and even elicited an admission that they might manage with just one more maid.

“And my niece Enid ‘appens to be needing a position right now so with your permission, miss...”

For the next week Claire spent several hours every day learning the principles of household management from Mrs Rumbelow. The housekeeper also proved a mine of information on fashionable modistes and inexpensive haberdashers, so she and Lizzie spent the rest of their time exploring these fascinating establishments.

Lizzie, showing an unexpected practical streak, refused to buy anything until they had thoroughly investigated both the latest fashions and the prices and quality of goods in the various shops.

“Then I shall sit down and make a list of just what we need,” she explained, “so we shall not waste your money, for I can see it is all going to be shockingly expensive. But do you think, dearest Claire, we might afford a pair of comfortable chairs for the back parlour? The house is so elegantly furnished that there is nowhere to relax!”

“I have already consulted Mrs Rumbelow,” said Claire smiling, “and she says Tottenham Court Road is the place for furniture. I shall need all sorts of things for Bumble’s Green, so it is not an extravagance. By the way, I received word from the caretaker there that my goods arrived, so I must go tomorrow and sort them out. Will you go with me?”

“I long to see your house, but I shall only be in the way if you are arranging your gardening things. It will be a good opportunity to start on my lists. You will take Alfie to fetch and carry? If I decide to go out Molly can go with me.”

They had taken Alfie on all their wanderings about the town, and he had learned his way about the streets with astonishing speed, remembering the places they had pointed out to him. Since one of these was the livery stable in the next street, Claire gave him a note to take there requesting a gig and driver for the next day. It was the first time he had gone out on his own, and once again he was proud as a peacock. Alfie was enjoying Town life.

His mistresses waited anxiously for his return, and Claire noticed Molly hovering in the hall. While they had little fear that he would lose himself on so short an errand, if he succeeded they might send him farther afield, which could prove useful in the future. When he reappeared with a note from the stables promising a gig and driver for eight the next morning, Molly hugged him and Claire gave him sixpence. He went off happily to put it under his pillow.

Claire overheard Enid, the new maid, saying to Molly, “Well, I’ll give yer this, ‘e ain’t bright but ‘e’s willin’.”

Bumble’s Green was a tiny hamlet some fifteen miles north of London, on the edge of Epping Forest. Claire had only seen her house twice, some five years earlier, when she had been in London to see the lawyer on receiving her inheritance.

She felt a rising sense of anticipation as the carriage turned off the toll road, crossed the River Lea and rattled past Waltham Abbey. This was the place where she intended to spend the rest of her life.

The house was just as she remembered it, a small, square, two-storey building of red brick, built in the middle of the last century, set in the centre of an acre of land. She imagined the front garden overflowing with roses, saw herself growing old amid their beauty and fascination, the ladies of the ton driving out from London to buy her new varieties. For the first  time the vision failed to satisfy. Would George Winterborne bring his wife to buy her roses?

She pushed the thought from her mind and stepped down from the gig, sending the driver round the back where the stables sheltered the kitchen garden from north winds.

The front door opened before she reached it, and she was warmly welcomed by the elderly couple who took care of the place for her. She never had sought a tenant, not wanting to envision strangers in her refuge. Only two rooms were furnished—the kitchen and a small back room where the couple slept. The latter had small, high windows and a large brass lock on the door. Mrs Copple had a particular aversion to being, as she said, “murthered in me bed.”

“You’ll take a cup o’ tea, Miss Sutton?” asked Mrs Copple now. “It’ll ‘ave to be in the kitchen, I’m afeared. There’s a spot o’ mutton pie to your luncheon, but we wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Pray do not bother with luncheon, Mrs Copple. I ate a hearty breakfast, not wishing to put you to any trouble. I should like a cup of tea though, and I expect Alfie and the ostler will like ale if you have some.”

With her new understanding of household matters, Claire looked around the kitchen and saw a number of improvements that could be made, including a closed stove. However, the garden still held her chief interest, and soon she and Alfie were busy sorting out the pile of equipment and tools the carter had stacked in the little coach house. Then she walked about her property and chose the best spot to build a greenhouse. Before she realised how time was passing, the ostler returned from a stroll into the village and told her they must leave if she wished to reach home before dark.

No doubt he had found Bumble’s Green lacking in attractions, for they reached Portman Square shortly after five, still daylight now that March had arrived. Claire paid him and trod wearily up the front steps.

Enid met her in the hall, her round face excited. “There’s visitors, miss,” she hissed, gesturing towards the front parlour, “an’ both on ‘em’s lords!”

Claire felt suddenly weak, overwhelmed with emotions she could not identify. She put one hand out to steady herself against the hall table, and caught sight of her grubby glove. She was wearing her gardening clothes, of course. She must change, and that would give her time to regain her composure. She started for the stairs.

It was too late. Enid had opened the parlour door and announced her return. Unwillingly she turned and entered the room.

The room seemed to shrink before her eyes as George Winterborne and Lord Pomeroy both rose with alacrity to greet her. She was used to seeing them in the more spacious rooms of country houses, and had never really grasped how big they both were.

“How happy I am to see you both, my lords,” she said in a wavering voice, helplessly holding out a hand to each.

George was beside her in an instant, supporting her to a chair. She shivered at his touch.

“We startled you,” he said in self-reproach, “and you are frozen.”

Lizzie was kneeling at her side, drawing off her gloves and chafing her hands, her face anxious. “Claire, are you all right? What is the matter? It is not like you to be so easily overset.”

“I am more tired than I had thought,” she said, feeling an utter widgeon. “I shall be quite all right in a moment. It has been a long and busy day.”

“And we have been racketing about all week,” added Lizzie.

“Drink this, Miss Sutton.” Lord Pomeroy handed her a glass of Madeira. “It will soon set you to right.”

“The colour is returning to your cheeks already,” said Lizzie with satisfaction as she stood. “Oh Claire, is it not famous that they are come?” Her voice was joyful.

Claire nodded, aware that the gentlemen were grinning at her sister’s exuberance. She sipped at the wine. She felt stronger by the minute, quite unable to account to herself for her momentary faintness.

George looked at her searchingly. “I see you are better, Cl—Miss Sutton.” He glanced at Lord Pomeroy. “However, I believe it is time that we took our leave. May I call tomorrow to see how you go on?”

“Thank you, you are very kind, sir.” She was shy with him, shyer than she had been since their first meeting. Yet, as he bowed over her hand, she was overcome with an urge to run her fingers through his crisp, dark hair with its sprinkling of grey.

He was a flirt, she reminded herself fiercely, and she was an old maid.

Lord Pomeroy took his place. “I am persuaded, Miss Sutton, that fresh air without exertion will do you a world of good tomorrow. May I have the honour of driving you in the park if it is fine?”

From the corner of her eye, Claire saw George look startled and then sardonic. Wondering at his expression, she murmured a polite acceptance.

“Then I shall call for you at three, if that will suit.” Lord Pomeroy’s calm, smiling courtesy was soothing.

“Well, Miss Elizabeth,” said George jovially, “shall we go along to keep an eye on your sister? I believe you will enjoy an outing in my high-perch phaeton.”

“Oh yes, please!” Lizzie’s blue eyes sparkled. “That will be beyond anything great.”

“Three o’clock then.”

Molly, who had been sitting in a corner quiet as a mouse to chaperone Lizzie, showed the gentlemen out. Lizzie peeked round the parlour door until the front door was firmly shut behind them, then she turned back to Claire.

“Whatever shall we wear?” she wailed.

Claire looked at her vaguely. “It does not signify,” she said.

“Yes it does.” Lizzie was indignant. “George and Bertram will not wish to be seen in the park with a pair of dowds.”

“Lord Winterborne is too easygoing to mind what you wear, and Lord Pomeroy already knows me for a dowd.”

“Fustian! Let me look at my lists. There must be something we can do to be ready by tomorrow. Ah, I know. We shall buy those shawls we saw at Waithman’s. You remember the cashemire? Fastened at the throat with a brooch, like the picture in
Ackermann’s
that I showed you, they will hide the worst, and they will always come in useful in future. Then I’m sure George and Bertram will have rugs to keep us warm, which will conceal our lower halves! We will need hats, though. A neutral straw, I think, then we can change the trimmings to match anything. I saw just the thing in Cranbourne Alley at an excellent price.”