Beth and the Mistaken Identity Read online

  There was some respite for perhaps two more miles and Ernestine took the opportunity to glance at Sophy again, having the satisfaction of seeing her look disturbed. Miss Wilhelmina now began on the beauty of the countryside as they passed, quoting poets who described sylvan settings very different to their views from the carriage. This lasted rather longer than her previous perorations, for Miss Florencia had fallen asleep and there was no one to stop her sister's flights of fancy. Ernestine could only wonder how her grandfather would take to his new guests. But he was rather too tied to his library, after all, Ernestine thought ruthlessly. The Misses Fosdykes’ presence would be a welcome agent of driving him out of the house and into society once more.

  The arrival of the party at Horescombe House was everything that Ernestine's sense of the ridiculous could have hoped for.

  'Good God!' said her grandfather and took himself off to another room. He poked his head around the door after he left. 'Erm! Welcome ladies. Ask Socrates if there is anything you desire. I must just... Hrrumph. Sophy. Go to your room!' he ended severely. 'I will talk to you later.' With this he left, having scared even Miss Wilhelmina silent.

  Ernestine followed him, saying to Socrates, whose real name was Williams, 'Pray bring refreshments for the ladies, Socrates, and have someone show them to their rooms.'

  'Oh, Lady Ernestine—' began Miss Wilhelmina, in grateful accents.

  But Ernestine had gone.

  Chapter 4

  It was unchristian to lie. Beth knew this, and as they sped to London, she was perfectly sure that the lie about her name (which neither the marquis nor his sister the princess believed at any rate) was now being compounded, not by her expanding it, but by her silence. Sins of omission were as bad as sins of contrition. She tried to think what she would do when she reached the capital and found that her head froze at every plan she made. There were jobs at inns which now, after seeing the fate of the landlord's daughter, seemed tainted by the prospect of unwanted attentions from men. Respectability was such a fragile thing, she was discovering. Possibly in the case of the landlord's daughter these daily insults from gentlemen did not lead much further, but for a girl on her own with no family protection, she was afraid of how much more pressing the gentlemen could be. She supposed even the men who worked at the inn could pose a problem. In a gentleman's house, with a butler keeping a close eye on staff behaviour, a young girl could be almost free of assault. But in a public inn? Was it too much to expect to be able to live a respectable life?

  Beth forgave herself for her lie, because she was thus trying both to survive and to save her virtue. Perhaps she had been too long with Miss Sophy — whose ability to lie to get exactly what she wanted was prodigious. What would she do if she was Miss Sophy in this situation? What did she want? To enter a gentleman's house as a maidservant and perhaps one day reach the heady heights of housekeeper? To go back home where she was safe and appreciated? But it was not to be.

  The marquis had handed first his sister, and then herself into the carriage, retaining her hand for a moment before saying, ‘You really must not be afraid, my child. You tremble still.’

  It had been Beth’s experience that gentlemen of rank did not live up to the picture of grandeur that their titles suggested. Lord Thornton had been but five feet tall. Sir Reginald Pine had been extremely portly with an eye-twitch, while Lord Staines, while handsome, had seemed to Beth so unbearably smug that it made her think of Peters, the under-butler at Foster Hall, who considered himself above them all, and was frequently made to look a fool by Larkins the butler. The Marquis of Wrexham however had a very tall, athletic frame, exquisite taste in tailoring, and yet a face that was not precisely the handsome of the classical figures in portraits, being scored with harsh lines down his cheeks. But it was more pleasing to most women, Beth thought, than the bland handsomeness of the loathsome Mr Tennant, who looked as callow as his behaviour. It was the face of a man of force and reason, someone to rely on. His sapphire eyes were distinctive too, and his had held hers several times over breakfast, as they did now. It was an intimate look, meant to be reassuring, but its very intimacy was terrifying. It deepened the lie, and it was moreover so very hard not to respond to with a smile.

  In the carriage, her thoughts were thus wracked with guilt and fear. Beth was afraid that her sense of humour, normally her port in any storm, was deserting her.

  'What was the name of that dressmaker you mentioned, my dear? The one who made your shocking dress for the masquerade?' the princess was saying.

  'Madame Godot,' said Beth flatly. She realised that her listlessness was causing offence and she added, 'she is truly a marvel, I believe.' She mentally kicked herself for lack of attention. She had now confirmed the Vauxhall night to Princess Emmeline.

  The princess smiled. 'Well, she sounds French at least, and all my gowns are from Paris, you know. I have wondered how I shall ever survive in London. The new English arrivals at our balls looked a trifle dowdy, my husband always thought, but I told him we were more wholesome.' She laughed. 'I secretly agreed with him. As soon as the Paris modistes had me, they made me over entirely.' Beth frowned a little at this, confused, since England had so long been at war with France. The princess laughed a little guiltily. 'Well, our tiny country was entirely neutral at the time of war, so I was free to visit Paris whenever I liked. Indeed I had to, as wife of the Crown Prince,' she added defensively.

  Beth smiled. 'Of course you must have,' she attempted Miss Sophy's tone once more, 'and your pelisse is a work of art. It is so smart that every woman in London will be green with envy.'

  The princess looked more comfortable. The phthalo blue pelisse with the dark green velvet epaulets and buttons was indeed sharply styled. 'I daresay they will. But in spite of everything wonderful about the continent, I shall be glad to go to Almacks again, and Vauxhall Gardens.'

  'Oh,' said Beth, 'I think the ladies of the ton hardly dare Vauxhall at night these days, so shocking as they may be, though many enjoy the entertainments in the day time.'

  The princess leaned forward, with a wicked eye, 'Well, you of all people, my dear Miss Ludgate, must know.'

  Beth blushed, remembering the foul evening. 'I am not Miss Ludgate, I assure you,' she whispered near to the princess's ear.

  That lady put up a pacifying hand. 'Of course you are not. You are Elizabeth, eh, Fox, is it not?' her eyes twinkled. 'I shall call you Beth.' Beth's heart nearly stopped. How had she hit on this? Elizabeth, her given name, had so many derivatives, Eliza, Liz, Lizzie, Betty, Bess — yet she called her by her true name. She smiled, somehow her terror about being found out diminished a little at the sound of her own name. Ridiculous, but true.

  ‘And the maid?’ the princess asked.

  Beth gripped her own leg in nervousness, and the royal eyes lowered.

  ‘Oh, her leg?’ Beth gazed at her interlocutor, too puzzled to follow her. ‘Did she break it?’ Beth blinked, which she saw the princess take as assent.

  The princess chatted for some time, on different subjects, and Beth replied with smiles and the occasional phrase to keep her flow going. Part of Beth watched the princess with amusement, part with awe. She was at once sophisticated and yet revealed her youth at other times. Her life seemed to be wholly given over to pleasure, and her pleasures consisted of shopping and dancing and nothing else very sensible at all. Miss Sophy could talk of gowns of course, but she was usually plotting her next clandestine excursion to give the topic more than a quarter hour, whereas the princess... Beth wondered a little at the empty-headedness, and suspected something was behind it. What, she could not imagine.

  Beth sighed and tried not to think of what would become of her in London. She had only known the best addresses and the loveliest of shops whilst with Miss Sophy, and she had no notion about the other side of the city. But she feared it. Still, a job at a respectable inn. It was possible. Or perhaps she could offer her services to a dressmaker like Madame Godot. Well, perhaps not so high as that, but som
eone might give her a job and a cot in a backroom until she found a place. She cheered at this. She pictured herself sewing all day, and she always found pleasure with her needle. It could be a good, respectable life.

  Tobias Brunswick, the Marquis of Wrexham, rode alongside the carriage often enough to hear the chatter of his sister and the occasional responses of Miss Fox, as she wished to be called. He had been clear that he had to offer his aid to the frightened young lady from the coaching inn, she seemed, for all her up-tilted chin, to be on the edge of some nervous collapse. But once in bed last night, he began to wonder, as Tennant had so phrased it, what on earth he would do with her when they arrived in London. Could he take her at her word and let her wander off to her secret rendezvous? Was London her home, or the home of friends? Had she escaped from school and was ashamed to own it? Or had she been fooled into running off with some ne'er-do-well that she was to meet in London? Or did she run away from home after a fight with her family to seek some friend in the city?

  And where was her maid? He could not believe the young girl had run off alone. Perhaps the tale of the maid’s broken leg was true, and he could send a man back along the road to talk to her. The servant would be reluctant to break her mistress’s confidence, very likely. But she must fear the girl’s family more, given that they must pay her wages.

  He had instructed his sister to sound out his young runaway. But Emmeline had smiled and said that she had an idea already who Miss Fox really was. That was all very well, but the miles under the horse’s hooves were being eaten up and he really could not leave the girl to fend for herself in London, whatever her objections. Until he delivered her into her family's hands, he would have to keep her by him. If she would not tell them her story, it would be dashed awkward. Thank God at least that his sister would be staying with him.

  And he must shut Tennant's mouth about the girl. Tennant was a casual friend from his club, who had been travelling to the same sporting event with him and had delayed his return to London in order, he thought, to spend time with his sister. The richest widow in town had been paying a brief visit to a friend in the country, and Tennant was probably glad to meet up with her, away from her admirers in London. It had done him no good, Emmi had hardly deigned to notice him over breakfast, the marquis smiled to think of it. A few hours in Mr Tennant’s unrelieved company had given the marquis the resolution never to be so again. Some streams are shallow indeed. Tennant had paid no attention at all to their mystery lady. Had not seen the kind glances she sent to those who served her, but Wrexham had, and those who served her appreciated it.

  Running from school or family was not considered good behaviour amongst young ladies, whatever the cause, and he would ensure Tennant kept silent on that head. But if only his sister would talk less about herself and try to find out more about the girl, then they might jump the fence without any damage. He could deliver her to those responsible for her in London.

  She was such a sweet little thing. The marquis did not see himself as having a soft heart, but something in her constant triumph over the deep fear he saw in her raised up his protective instinct. But what to do with her if she would not tell her tale was a real problem.

  Though she had almost willed the horses to slow down as they approached the city, now they had entered it, Beth must leave this rather strained comfort and be on her way alone. She had made a plan, as far as she was able, to find some London inn of the respectable kind and present herself for a position. And if not, pay for a room there. But she knew that if she applied for a position and was refused, she would not afterwards be considered respectable enough to have a room at the inn. She dreaded such places as might be seen fit for a discharged maid to stay. As they passed the pillared facade of Grillon’s hotel, she wondered if that orderly looking establishment might be an answer. She was sure that such a place would have an overseer quite as strict as Mr Larkins at Foster Hall, and a girl could sleep safe in her bed. But of course, the first thing that would be asked for would be her recommendation, even supposing that in this vast tumult of a city there were not another hundred young girls seeking work there. Her heart fell further into her boots. A quick prayer lifted her chin. No, an inn it would be. But first she must be untangled from the marquis’s party. She was still thinking of how this might be achieved, when the carriage pulled up at a smart London square, one which she knew and had walked through as a thorough-way from General Lord Horescombe’s house two miles away. They had walked through towards Bond Street, around which fashionable dressmakers and milliners plied their trade.

  Miss Sophy was an energetic walker, and they had gone this way daily, her mistress haunting the shops beyond, which bored Lady Ernestine quickly and ended by Sophy being allowed to go along with only her maid. Miss Sophy chattered endlessly with Beth, but soon encountered friends of her own, and Beth had walked behind with other attendants, not permitted to converse themselves. It was always a relief. Miss Sophy was quite capable of giving a passing young gentleman such a shy, maidenly smile as to cause him to follow her, or to drop her reticule or twist her ankle, or any number of such things that might allow the gentleman to speak to her without introduction. This set Beth’s teeth on edge, for her duty as attendant was to stop strange gentlemen approaching her charge, but she could do little in this case but stay close to Miss Sophy, despite hints to take herself off. Listening and watching one of Miss Sophy’s London acquaintances, a Miss Oaksett, making flirtatious advances to such bucks as they encountered, Miss Sophy had once said to her, ‘She is gentlemen mad!’ And Beth had understood, suddenly, that Miss Sophy was not. She was mischief-mad. The gentlemen were tools to further her ends.

  Now, as she stepped down from the coach, aided by the marquis’s strong hand, she began her practised speech. ‘Oh thank you so much your lordship, I am very near my destination now, and I will say goodbye to you and Her Royal — I mean Serene Highness.’ (The princess had corrected her on the journey, saying, ‘Is it not absurd, as though I have ever been serene in my life.’)

  The marquis grasped her hand more firmly.

  ‘Oh, I shall call a maid and we shall accompany you to your family home.’

  ‘But I do not at all need you to!’ said Beth rather desperately.

  ‘Nevertheless, your family would never forgive a gentleman who left a young lady to walk home alone.’

  ‘It is but a step, I assure you ...’

  ‘A neighbour, then?’ smiled the marquis looking down at her kindly, ‘It is even more imperative.’

  ‘Perhaps you could just summon a maid,’ said Beth with an assumption of good manners. ‘You need not trouble to attend me yourself.’

  ‘Ah!’ laughed the marquis, ‘It would be easier to give the maid the slip, would it not?’ He was teasing her and Beth trembled with weariness, and the need for freedom, but he had not yet let go of her hand. Something in his smile evoked one in hers. She had never met such a man.

  ‘No, my lord. I just—’

  ‘Might I suggest,’ said the princess, ‘that we have this discussion indoors? It is most frightfully cold.’ She too smiled at Beth, ‘You may as well agree, my dear Miss Fox. My brother can be kind, but desperately ruthless when he wants his way.’

  So Beth was handed up the steps of the great house by the marquis himself, trembling violently. She stood stock-still in the square hall, almost reaching out to take the princess’s pelisse before she could stop herself. The quick French maid stepped in before this catastrophe could occur and soon she found herself, in spite of the protests she had given, divested of her own pelisse and bonnet. She watched as the marquis made a remark of recognition to his butler whom he called Dow, but strode past a curtsying maid without really seeing her. It was another blow to her conscience. This is the true significance of a maid, not being led into an elegant sitting room and offered refreshments.

  The marquis seemed to take in her appearance, without doing the ungentlemanly thing of drawing his eyes over her. She was wearing Miss Sop
hy’s blue dress with the double frills carefully unpicked to make it plainer, and a gathered muslin insert above the neckline making it rather more decorous than when Miss Sophy wore it. The problem had once more been that the gathered bodice fell rather lower on Beth’s plump bosom than on Miss Sophy’s.

  She found herself alone with the marquis, the princess having gone upstairs to see the safe disposal of Trixie, the snapping Pekingese, whom she declared out of sorts because she was exhausted.

  ‘My dear girl, you must not be afraid of me,’ said the marquis, coming rather closer to her and looking down with his strange sapphire eyes. She looked up and blinked, suddenly knowing how young girls could fall so far from grace. It was, at this time of high stress and near panic about her future life, like a Morpheus drug to be looked on with such care and attention by a man whose strong shoulders might bear any of her burdens. She supposed Mrs Shuttleworth would call him a worldly temptation. He smelled of horseflesh and some spicy soap. If she were a pretty piece and he showed some interest in her beyond his fatherly demeanour at the moment, she might throw herself into his arms and weep, unburdening herself of all worldly, and probably heavenly, concerns. And take whatever consequences accrued.

  ‘Please tell me how I can help you. I expect your worries might be less serious than you think. If you confided them to me, or perhaps my sister, we could aid you in sorting out whatever they may be. Your family would be glad to have you restored.’