Miser of Mayfair (5 page)

‘Let!’ gasped Mrs Middleton, clutching her cap.

MacGregor dropped a pot.

‘What’s to do?’ demanded Joseph languidly, appearing at the kitchen door.

‘The house has been let, let,
let!
’ sang Rainbird.

Jenny burst into the kitchen, the streamers of her cap flying. ‘Did you say
let?
’

Rainbird nodded. The staff fell on each other, hugging and kissing. Lizzie tried to hug Joseph, but he pushed her away.

‘Who to?’ they all demanded.

‘A Scotchman and his ward,’ said Rainbird. ‘A Mr Sinclair. Oh, the parties and routs, the food, the guineas. Mayhap we’ll all get new clothes should he prove generous.’

‘I knew my prayers would be answered,’ said Lizzie.

‘Yes,’ said Rainbird slowly. ‘Yes . . . that’s right, Lizzie.’

A silence fell on the group while they looked at Lizzie with something approaching awe.

Mr Sinclair was glad to note there were no susceptible young men in the mail coach. The other two inside occupants were a thin spinster lady and a tired-looking middle-aged lawyer’s clerk. The passengers on the roof were sedate and middle-aged.

The coachman cracked his whip, and the black and maroon Royal Mail coach moved off. Mr Sinclair had never travelled by the mail coach before, and he was awed and exhilarated by the speed.

So elated was Mr Sinclair, in fact, that he found it hard to think. The gentle rocking of the slow regular coach he had taken in the past had made thought easy. But it was hard to worry about anything as they dashed through the countryside and one triumphant blast of the horn sent a cheeky goodbye flying back to the looming black tenements of Edinburgh.

After several hours and several changes of horses, he became accustomed to the speed, but instead of thinking, he fell fast asleep. It was the slowing of the hectic pace that awoke him. He assumed they must be approaching another inn. But by the light of the carriage lamps, he could see they were now going through a white world.

‘Snow,’ he thought, cursing under his breath. If they had to spend the night at an inn, he did not feel like breaking into his precious hoard of money in order to pay for two bedchambers. He leaned sideways and whispered to Fiona. ‘If we have to rack up for the night somewhere, would you mind sleeping on a chair?’

‘No,’ said Fiona placidly. ‘I can sleep anywhere.’

Mr Sinclair experienced a sudden rush of affection for her. Through all the hurly-burly of the leaving arrangements, she had remained as calm and as beautiful as ever. She was travelling in the same clothes she had worn when she had first arrived on his doorstep. He had been appalled to learn that she had very little else, her sole wardrobe being made up of two wool gowns and two cotton gowns, all made sometime in the last century, along with carefully darned shifts and stockings and one pair of shoes. Jamie had obviously found her clothes among the donations to some of his charities. But Mr Sinclair had told her she must make do with what she had until they reached London, as the latest thing the Edinburgh shops had to offer might prove to be sadly provincial.

The coach fumbled its way on through the blizzard. ‘I am paying good money to get to London,’ said the sharp-faced spinster. ‘I was told the Royal Mail could travel in any weather.’

‘We are still travelling, madam,’ said the lawyer’s clerk wearily. ‘Those poor people on the roof must be frozen.’

‘This is a weird spring.’ Mr Sinclair shivered.

The coach creaked to a halt and then dipped and swayed as the coachman climbed down from the box. He wrenched open the door, and the spinster let out a shriek of protest when a small snowstorm whirled into the interior of the carriage.

‘Can’t go any further,’ said the coachman. ‘There’s gates up ahead. Gentleman’s residence, most like. See if they’ll take us in. It’s fifteen mile to the nearest inn, and we’ll never make it in this.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Mr Sinclair.

‘Liddle bit north of the border, I reckon.’ The coachman slammed the door just as the spinster was about to protest.

‘Well,
reelly!’
she bridled. ‘I shall put in a strong complaint.’

Fiona rubbed the misted glass with her sleeve and looked out at the swirling whiteness in delighted wonder. Mr Sinclair realized again that he knew very little about her and had not even bothered to ask. Did she know her parents? She had been given the name Sinclair by Jamie. What had been her family name?

The coach swayed and dipped and lurched as it swung off the road. ‘I hope this will work,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘If it’s a grand mansion, we might be sent to the right-about.’

‘
I
am a lady,’ said the spinster, flashing a malicious look at Fiona, ‘although others may not be.’

‘That is quite enough of that,’ said the lawyer’s clerk in the quavering voice of a timid man determined to assert himself.

The spinster sniffed, but relapsed into silence.

The coach finally stopped in front of a large mansion. A lamp was hanging over the entrance portico. The coachman climbed down and rang the bell.

A powdered, liveried footman came out on the step. He retreated and was replaced by an imposing-looking butler. The butler shook his head. The coachman waved his arms. Inside the coach, they could not hear what was being said, but no one wanted to open the window and risk losing the little warmth they had.

The butler retired and then reappeared with a tall gentleman beside him. The gentleman had a weak, dissipated face that was rouged and painted. He was exquisitely dressed, and his fair hair was teased into a miraculous array of tangled and artistically disarrayed curls. He listened with a listless, bored air to the coachman’s tale and then said something to the butler.

The coachman came back towards the carriage, rubbing his hands. He pulled open the door and said cheerfully, ‘We can spend the night in the kitchens, so we’ll have food and warmth.’

‘Whose place is it?’ asked Mr Sinclair.

‘Gentleman by the name of Pardon.’

Pardon. Mr Sinclair frowned. There was something about that name, something unsavoury connected with it. He looked uneasily at Fiona’s innocent face and felt inadequate for the first time. He felt he should never have brought such a ewe lamb out into the cold world.

Huddled together, the inside and outside passengers trooped into the entrance hall, clutching their belongings. The hall was wood-panelled and hung with portraits. A fire burned in a marble fireplace, and the air was scented with rose water.

‘This way,’ said the butler, leading the way to the back of the hall so that he could conduct these plebeian guests down to the kitchens.

Mr Pardon stood in front of the fireplace, warming his bottom, the tails of his evening coat hitched up. ‘Serve dinner, Johnson,’ he called to his butler. ‘My guests are sharp set.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the butler. ‘I will usher these persons belowstairs first.’

The passengers shuffled through the hall, gazing about them in awe, all except Fiona, who seemed unaware of her surroundings. She drew back the hood of her cloak and shook out her hair.

‘By George,’ muttered Mr Pardon. Something made Mr Sinclair take Fiona’s arm and draw it protectively through his own.

His languid pose completely gone, Mr Pardon glided forward and intercepted Mr Sinclair and Fiona. ‘My apologies,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was not aware a
gentleman
was of the party. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pardon, Percival Pardon.’

‘Roderick Sinclair,’ said Mr Sinclair, executing a clumsy bow.

‘And this . . . ?’ asked Mr Pardon, smiling at Fiona. Before Mr Sinclair could speak, Fiona said, ‘I am Fiona Sinclair, Mr Sinclair’s daughter.’

. . .
his legs were so beautiful . . . his skin so clear and transparent . . . Really all these things, and thirty thousand a year besides, were enough to melt a heart of stone.

HARRIETTE WILSON’S MEMOIRS

Mr Sinclair blinked, wondering why she had not said she was his ward, but quickly decided Fiona was being simple-minded as usual.

‘Charming,’ said Mr Pardon. His pale eyes studied Fiona’s face and figure in a way that Mr Sinclair did not like. ‘Of course you must join me for dinner.’ Mr Pardon snapped his fingers. ‘James,’ he said to a tall footman, ‘tell Mrs Anderson to have . . . let me see . . . the Yellow Room and the Blue Room made ready for Mr and Miss Sinclair and set dinner back by half an hour.’

‘We are honoured, sir,’ said Mr Sinclair, still holding tightly on to Fiona. ‘But I fear we are putting you to too much trouble.’

‘Nonsense, my dear Sinclair. You will not be my only unexpected guests. The Earl of Harrington has also thrown himself on my . . . er . . . mercy, having been travelling south when the storm struck.’

Mr Sinclair had a longing to say he would be quite happy in the kitchens with the other passengers, but the housekeeper had appeared and was obviously waiting to conduct them upstairs. All he could do was to bow and thank Mr Pardon, resolve to caution Fiona, and hope she might grasp at least a tenth of what he was saying.

The house was richly carpeted. Ornaments and statues gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps. Fiona was given the Yellow Room. The Blue Room was next door. A footman put their scanty luggage on the floor and said he would send a maid to see to their unpacking.

‘No need,’ said Mr Sinclair hastily. He turned to the housekeeper. ‘If you will excuse us, mistress, I wish to have a word with my wa— daughter.’

The housekeeper and footman left.

‘Sit down, Fiona,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘It’s time we had a talk.’

Fiona took off her cloak and sat down by the fire. The room was very warm. It was dominated by a large modern bed that had the bedposts left bare and supporting an elaborately domed top. Thick yellow silk curtains hung at the window. The mantelpiece was of marble and, to the right of the fire, a mahogany tallboy soared up to the shadows of the ceiling. There was a bowl of rose petals on a satinwood dropside table, sending their delicate summer scent into the quiet, still air of the room.

‘Now,’ said Mr Sinclair, ‘why did you call yourself my daughter?’

‘I thought it . . . more fitting,’ said Fiona after a pause.

‘Well, so it is, so it is. It had not crossed my mind that as my ward people would wonder why you were not chaperoned, and with a predator like Pardon around, it is as well to observe the conventions. Make sure he does not get you alone.’

Fiona nodded, her eyes very large and limpid.

‘What is your real name, Fiona? I assume my brother gave you his name.’

‘Yes. I do not know my real name. The orphanage called me Fiona Ross because it was a Mr Ross who found me.

‘Found you . . . where?’

‘Outside St Giles Church.’

‘Then you should have gone to the Foundling Hospital.’

‘I did. I was kept there until I was seven and then sent to the orphanage so that I might be trained as a servant. The Foundling Hospital called me Fiona. The orphanage added the Ross.’

‘And why weren’t you sent out as a servant? It is unusual for the orphanage to keep you so long.’

‘I was employed at the orphanage, cleaning and cooking. Mr Sinclair took me home with him when I was thirteen.’

‘And how old are you now?’

‘Eighteen . . . I think.’

‘So Jamie had ye all that time and never a word to me!’

Fiona said nothing.

Mr Sinclair rose to his feet, went to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered out. ‘Rain,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘The mail won’t wait here longer than necessary. We’d best fix ourselves for dinner as best we may. Leave the talking to me. I’ll apologize for our dress – say we’ve sent the bulk of our wardrobe on to London. Knock at my door in about ten minutes and I’ll take you down.’

Fiona nodded again. When he left, she was still sitting by the fire, gazing dreamily into the flames.

As Mr Sinclair scrambled into a rusty black evening coat, which he had bought ten years before, and was now two sizes too small for him, he kept thinking of Fiona, sitting by the fire. The full enormity of what he was doing struck him like a hammer blow. How could he take such an innocent girl and put her up on the block of the marriage market like a cow at Smithfield?