Rake's Progress (6 page)

Miss Esther Jones' butler stared at Rainbird's livery and gave him a mournful look. ‘Come to take my job, have you?' he said.

‘No,' said Rainbird. ‘Miss Jones wishes to see me to discuss the matter of servants' education. I have no intention of changing my employ, and Miss Jones has no intention of suggesting such a thing. I realize it is too early in the day to expect Miss Jones to be awake, but I hoped to make a firm appointment for the afternoon.'

‘It's never too early for madam,' said the butler gloomily. ‘Up at six most mornings. What's the protocol for servants visiting quality? Very strict on protocol is Miss Jones.'

‘You leave me in the hall,' said Rainbird, ‘and then she'll take me into whichever room she thinks fit.'

‘Thanks,' said the moody butler. ‘Got a card?'

Rainbird passed one over. ‘Bring it back,' he said. ‘It's the only one I've got.'

He stood in the hall after the butler had mounted the stairs and looked about him. Everything was very rich, very polished, and very gloomy. From abovestairs came the piping sound of children's
voices raised in a hymn. Rainbird began to wish he had not come. There was something claustrophobic about the mansion. Rainbird thought of Lord Guy's supper party. ‘Out of hell into heaven,' he said to himself, ‘and I'm comfortable neither place.'

There was a light step on the stairs, and Rainbird looked up.

He thought he had never seen a more magnificent creature. She was very tall and deep-bosomed. Her hair was scraped up under an unflattering cap, but it could not take away from the perfection of her figure, the creaminess of her skin, or the strange beauty of her large eyes.

He thought she must be Miss Jones' niece, but she advanced on him with a smile and said, ‘I am Miss Jones. You, I presume, are Rainbird. Follow me.'

She led the way into a saloon on the ground floor. It was very dark, and tall dark pieces of furniture stood about like so many disapproving members of the clergy.

‘Sit down,' said Esther.

Rainbird sat down on a hard, overstuffed chair, and Esther sat down opposite him and regarded him gravely.

‘I must begin by saying I was in two minds as to whether to give you an audience or not,' she said. ‘As you have heard, I was much impressed by the education and cleanliness of your scullery maid. But,' she went on, a slight blush rising to her cheeks, ‘I had occasion to pass Sixty-seven Clarges Street
early yesterday morning. There was a Bacchanalia in progress.'

‘That was a supper party given by our new tenant, Lord Guy Carlton,' said Rainbird. ‘The morals of the masters are not necessarily those of the servants, particularly in a house which is only rented out for the Season.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' said Esther severely. ‘This Lord Guy must be a disgusting and licentious rake.'

‘He has been at the wars a long time, I gather,' said Rainbird cautiously. ‘I do not think it my place to discuss my master, but I should like to point out that I do not think there will be a recurrence of the scenes you witnessed. His lordship was good enough to say he would in future take his pleasures elsewhere.'

‘At least that shows
some
conscience,' said Esther. ‘Now, I am interested in the fact that you hold a school for the staff. I give my servants lessons every day, but they are slow at their books, and surly, and unwilling to learn. Have you come across the same problem?'

‘No, ma'am. It came about spontaneously. One of the previous tenants took it upon herself to educate Lizzie. The education fever spread to the rest of us. We decided to pass the winter months in study. Our cook, Angus MacGregor, is Scotch, and it was he, in fact, who led the classes. You see, ma'am, if any of them did not want to be bothered with studies, they only had to say so. Angus turned out to be a good teacher. He said if people were
encouraged to read exciting stories, then enjoyment of reading led to higher things. To that end, he bought romances for the ladies, and sporting magazines for the men.'

‘But romances!' said Esther, shocked.

‘They are quite moral,' said Rainbird seriously, ‘and very amusing. The villain always pays for his crimes, and the heroine is always pure and innocent. It's a sort of way of instilling morals enjoyably – like giving children pleasant-tasting medicine.'

‘This is fascinating,' said Esther, her fine eyes glowing. ‘May I offer you tea, Rainbird?'

Rainbird accepted. As Esther talked about the difficulties of education, he studied her covertly. Here, surely, was Mrs Middleton's good woman. She appeared very strict in her ways, and yet she had a charming easiness of manner, not at all high in the instep. There were few members of the
ton
in Berkeley Square, reflected Rainbird, who would dream of entertaining a butler to tea.

As the conversation moved to more general topics, Rainbird became aware that Miss Jones did not appear to go about socially. She must be encouraged. Mrs Middleton's idea, which had seemed so foolish, now seemed quite reasonable. It was important to get Lord Guy and Miss Jones together, and the way to do that would be to encourage Miss Jones to attend the opera or a few routs.

‘You must have social ambitions for your little sister,' he ventured after a lull in the conversation.

Esther laughed. ‘Her début is a long way away.'

‘But you naturally hope she will marry well,' pursued Rainbird, ‘and you are in an excellent position to begin to make friends among the
ton
who will be useful to both children when they grow up.'

Esther frowned. She had never thought of the twins' growing up and marrying. But this odd butler had a point.

‘Besides,' said Rainbird, ‘I am sure they would like friends to play with. It is very important for children to have friends.'

‘They have each other,' said Esther defensively.

Rainbird, feeling he had almost gone too far, turned the conversation back to education, and the visit ended on a pleasant note.

After he had left, Esther sat a long time deep in thought. She had never before thought of education as being fun.
Children
were
supposed to have fun
, she thought with a guilty pang. London was full of theatres and circuses and menageries.

At last she roused herself. She would go out to Hatchard's bookshop in Piccadilly and buy some entertaining books for the children and for the staff.

Beguiled by the bright sunshine outside the windows, she set out wearing insufficient clothing. By the time she set out to walk back from Piccadilly, an icy wind was blowing and a thin sleety rain whipped against her clothes.

By the next morning, she had a raging cold. Wearily, she summoned the twins and told them
they must make shift to look after themselves until she felt better.

‘What shall we do, Peter?' asked Amy when they were back in the nursery.

Peter's eyes shone. ‘Why don't we slip out on our own and go to Kensington Gardens?'

‘That's not much fun. Why there?'

‘To look for that French spy. We could follow him and unmask him and get a medal from the king!'

‘Oooh,' breathed Amy. ‘Let's go.'

The afternoon was dry but steely grey with a biting wind. The twins told their nursery maid that they were going to play quietly by themselves, and, when she had gone off, they put on their coats and slipped quietly out of the house.

Hand in hand, they trotted quickly through Hyde Park and into Kensington Gardens.

They searched and searched for an hour until they were tired out.

‘We'd best be getting back,' said Peter, disappointed.

He took Amy's hand and they set off home. But as they left Kensington Gardens and entered Hyde Park, Peter stiffened and clutched Amy.

‘Look!' he said. ‘Over there.'

The Bloomsbury Volunteers were drilling on an open patch of ground. Standing watching them and making notes in a small black book was Manuel.

‘What do we do?' asked Amy, her voice squeaky with excitement.

‘We creep stealthily up on him and try to see what he's writing,' said Peter. ‘Come on!'

They crept up behind Manuel until they were almost next to him. Peter raised himself on his tiptoes to see if he could make out what the servant was writing in his book. At the same moment, Amy let out a tremendous sneeze. Manuel looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the small boy, obviously trying to read what he had written.

He seized them both by the arms and started to shake them. ‘What you look at me for, heh?' he shouted.

‘We weren't doing anything,' gasped Peter bravely, but Amy, thoroughly terrified, began to scream.

‘Manuel! Leave those children alone this minute!' came a loud voice.

Manuel's sallow face flushed, and he dropped the children's arms. Peter and Amy clutched each other and stared up at their rescuer. He was tall and fair and dressed elegantly.

‘My lord,' said Manuel sulkily, ‘these brats, they sneak up on me and frighten me.'

‘What! A couple of small children! You must do better than that.'

‘He's a spy!' cried Peter. ‘He's watching the troops and writing in his book.'

‘He does not need to count the troops when anyone can read all the details in the newspapers,' said Lord Guy. ‘But let me see this book, Manuel.'

Manuel produced a small black book. Lord Guy flicked open the pages. ‘It is my diary,' said Manuel.

‘“Went with my lord this day to Box Hill”,' read Lord Guy.

‘It's not the same book,' whispered Peter to Amy.

‘That seems to be all right,' said Lord Guy, handing it back. ‘I shall deal with you later, Manuel. Now, my children, your names.'

‘Peter Jones,' said Peter, ‘and this is my sister, Amy. Don't cry, Amy. It is all right now, you know.'

‘And where do you live?'

‘In Berkeley Square.'

‘And where is your nursemaid?'

Peter shuffled his feet. ‘She don't know we're out,' he said.

‘Then I shall return you to your parents.'

‘We haven't got any parents,' said Peter. ‘Our big sister looks after us and she's going to be mad.' All thoughts of pointing out that Manuel had produced a different book fled from Peter's mind now that he was firmly back in a real world of disapproving grown-ups.

‘Better to put up with a little anger from your sister than to go out wandering again on your own,' said Lord Guy. ‘Manuel, return to Clarges Street and await me. First go over there and tell Mr Roger I am taking these children home. Come along, children.'

The glory of a drive home in a spanking racing curricle was enough to take Peter's mind off his worries.

As he reined in outside the house in Berkeley Square, Lord Guy looked up at it curiously. He felt
he had noticed it before, that something monumental had happened to him there.

Then the door opened and Esther hurtled out, eyes only for her brother and sister. When the twins were reported missing, she had risen from her sickbed. She was wearing a loose gown and her red hair was pinned loosely on top of her head.

Lord Guy looked at her in a dazed way.

‘You,' he said. ‘You were not a dream. You exist.'

‘I am grateful to you for bringing the children home,' said Esther, not really hearing what he said but looking at him for the first time. Her face stiffened.

‘Oh, yes,' she said coldly. ‘We have met.'

‘Where?' asked Lord Guy.

‘You were very drunk. You entered my house one morning and tried to assault me. You have turned Number Sixty-seven Clarges Street into a brothel. I should not even be speaking to you, but I must ask you where you found the children.'

‘In Hyde Park, ma'am,' he said. ‘They mistook my servant for a spy. He frightened them.'

Esther lifted the children down from the carriage, passed them over to the nursery maid, and then turned her attention back to Lord Guy.

‘Thank you for returning the children,' she said.

She turned away.

‘May I see you again?' he said.

She turned back and looked at him blankly.

‘Don't be silly,' said Miss Esther Jones. And, picking up her skirts, she followed the children into the house and slammed the door.

‘O Radcliffe! thou once were the charmer
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were striplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.

Haut Ton finds her privacy broken,
We trace all her ins and her outs;
The very small talk that is spoken
By very great people at routs.
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY