Читать книгу The Enigmatic Rake - Anne O'Brien - Страница 11

In the following days Sarah could convince herself that it would be an easy matter to keep a distance from Lord Faringdon. The only immediate ripple on the tranquillity of her pool was a note from Judith, hoping that Sarah would be able to find the time to visit for tea in Grosvenor Square. Sarah did not comply, but penned a brief apology, citing pressure of work since Lord Faringdon was now in residence. She knew that she had made the friendship well nigh impossible by her stepping across the social divide. It hurt, but she had deliberately made the decision and must not, therefore, dwell on any regrets. Judith would realise and accept—she was not so naïve as to be ignorant or careless of the situation. In private, Sarah shed a few self-pitying tears.

Her energies were soon directed towards other matters, not least diplomatic negotiations between a number of strong-willed and self-important individuals. Lord Faringdon’s valet, a severe gentleman, was not given to personal chatter, but would hear nothing wrong of his employer, quick to depress any slighting comment with a stern frown and biting words. The Countess of Wexford’s maid, Hortense, was very different—a superior little madam, French, of course, who kept herself to herself, yet demanded the best of everything for herself and for her mistress. Celestine’s nurse, Mrs Watton, was a comfortable old body who did not regret in the slightest passing authority over her charge to Sarah. The child took too much after her mother. Not that they had seen a great deal of Marianne Faringdon before her untimely death. But even so! Blood would always out.

The gravest problem for her was the one most unlooked for. Mr Millington, the butler, developed an unexpected and completely inappropriate tendre for Sarah and followed her with a gleam in his pale eyes. Nor was he averse to glasses of port in the seclusion of his pantry. Sarah avoided him as much as possible after an embarrassing incident in the wine cellar, when the self-controlled housekeeper made her position very plain in a remarkably austere voice, which destroyed all Mr Millington’s pretensions.

The Countess of Wexford was demanding, thoughtless, selfish and patronising. She objected to being woken, but complained when her cup of hot chocolate did not arrive on the instant that she opened her eyes. Hot water was expected to appear at the very moment she required it, earning for one of the maids a sharp and quite unnecessary slap; the same intolerance was applied to the laundering of her beautiful clothes, with never a word of appreciation or a genuine smile.

Her smiles were gifted solely on Lord Joshua, offering a source of much interested gossip and speculation. Not that speculation was needed. Of course she was his mistress. What other reason could there be for a lady to be residing in the house of an unmarried gentleman, and one with such presence and address as his lordship? Fortunately, with his lordship somewhat incapacitated, the Countess was frequently away from the house in Hanover Square.

Lord Joshua proved to be an enigma, spending much time at home, nursing his wounds. The library became his personal domain where he read the Morning Post, drank brandy and wrote many letters. Millington proved to be a fount of knowledge for the household. His lordship had few visitors, but the gentlemen who called at the house did so at unusual times, often late at night. They never gave their names or left a visiting card. Quite respectable, dark-suited individuals, as might be expected from the legal profession, but Millington did not think they were connected with the law. Lord Joshua also received an inordinate amount of mail, over and above the gilt-edged invitations.

Otherwise his life was very quiet, which did not seem to Sarah to be at all in keeping with what she imagined the lifestyle of a notorious rake to be. But, of course, he had the companionship of the Countess. Millington swore on his own authority that his lordship visited her room at night. What man in his right mind would not, with so glamorous and seductive a lady living under his roof and casting out lures. Millington whispered rumours of outrageous orgies and scandalous parties hosted by his lordship in Paris. Not perfectly sure that she knew what an orgy entailed, Sarah’s suspicions were aroused when, on entering the morning room, she encountered the couple unawares. She was able to retreat, but not before she saw the Countess of Wexford brush her hand through his lordship’s hair and reach up to kiss him full on his mouth.

Sarah found herself thinking vengeful thoughts against the lady, disappointed that Lord Joshua Faringdon could not see the Countess of Wexford for what she was. At the same time she admitted, with a blush, that she would like nothing better than to take the Countess’s role in this little scene. Standing in the scullery, a newly polished silver tureen in her hands, her fingers itched to stroke through that silvered hair. Her lips trembled at the thought of the man’s intimate caress. Sarah blinked at the shattering image, putting down the tureen with unnecessary force and little thought to its value.

When Sarah’s cheeks had cooled and she had scolded herself out of her bad temper, her thoughts turned to Lord Joshua’s daughter. So young and yet with a studied and disturbing composure. Beth had already been taught the rudiments of reading by someone in the household in Richmond. She loved to turn the pages of books, poring over the illustrations, and even more to listen to Sarah read the stories, following the words with her small hands. She was soon close to having read all the suitable books in the schoolroom. On the whole Sarah found that her role of governess was not onerous, particularly as Beth took on the role of an elder sister toward John. She reprimanded him and hugged him in equal measure. John at his most good-natured accepted the attention with equanimity.

Given Beth’s blunt statement that she was not wanted, it surprised Sarah that Lord Joshua took it upon himself to visit his daughter every day, although there was little obvious progress in developing a closer relationship. His lordship made every effort, inviting her to ride in the park in the barouche. Beth declined, most politely. He asked if she would care to visit her Aunt Judith. Yes, of course, but first she must finish an exercise for Mrs Russell. Beth rarely raised her eyes from her book, almost as if she feared to make contact with her father. It worried Sarah. How she would have hated if John had reacted so toward his own father. If Lord Joshua wished to learn more about his daughter and was not the careless parent as he had been painted, he was having no success. So, certain of one sure way to the child’s heart, Sarah decided to take some action.

She arranged to visit his lordship in the library one morning, knowing that the Countess was from home. He looked up as she knocked and entered.

‘Good morning, Mrs Russell.’ Although he might be surprised to see his housekeeper seek him out, with innate good manners he pushed himself to his feet and approached.

‘Forgive me if I intrude, my lord. May I speak with you about your daughter?’ There he stood. An imposing figure, a little withdrawn, but not unwelcoming. Sarah swallowed against her breath, which had for some reason become lodged in her throat.

‘Of course. Is there some difficulty? She seems well enough.’ He was blandly gracious.

‘Not exactly a difficulty, my lord. Your daughter is keen to read and she loves books. Would you be willing to allow her to come and read here in the library when you are at home? She is very careful and will cause no damage. Perhaps after her morning lessons? I thought that she would care to see the plant illustrations and the books with the coloured pictures of animals and birds.’ If anything would create a bond between them, this might be the answer. At least it would put them in the same room together. But would he refuse? Would he say that it was her responsibility to entertain and educate his daughter?

‘Of course. Let her come.’ He would have turned away, the matter as far as he was concerned settled.

‘Also,’ she added as an apparent afterthought, ‘she enjoys stories.’

‘Are you suggesting, then, that I should read to her?’ The Faringdon brows rose.

‘It is not my position to suggest that, sir.’

‘No? You are, after all, her governess.’ A line marred his brow as his attention was caught by this fair lady who had such an air of insistence about her.

‘Beth will enjoy it, sir.’

‘Beth?’ The brows rose again.

‘Forgive me, my lord.’ Sarah sighed inwardly. She had forgotten her somewhat high-handed change of the child’s name. ‘Celestine. It is just that John does not pronounce it well. And she enjoys being called Beth.’ He would probably demur, she decided as she awaited his reply. It might be that it was a family name that he would wish to keep.

‘I see.’ He narrowed his eyes at his housekeeper. Neat and self-effacing, yet supremely competent, as he always saw her. But with a strong managing streak, it would seem. He felt as he came under the gaze of her guileless blue eyes that he had been penned very neatly into a corner, although for what purpose he was unsure. Even to the change of name of his daughter! But if it was acceptable to the child …

‘Then Beth it shall be. Let her come here, as I said.’

In considerable relief at this anticlimax, Sarah curtsied and turned to go, leaving Lord Joshua to return to his seat by the window. Without thought, he moved awkwardly so that he took his full weight on his damaged hip, staggered a little, and in so doing brushed against a book on the edge of his desk. It fell to the floor, a minor mishap. Sarah’s immediate instinct was to pick it up.

‘Leave it.’ The order was instant and harsh. ‘I am not a cripple.’

Tension, sharp and diamond bright, crackled in the still room.

‘I was never under an impression that you were, my lord,’ Sarah replied immediately, as if the tone had not startled her. She bent to pick up the book.

‘Leave it, I said.’

She straightened, eyes wide on his face. ‘But why, my lord? There is no need for you to stoop, to put added pressure on your strained joint. It would be foolish of you to do so.’ For a brief moment she saw the raw, unguarded expression in his eyes. A sharp physical pain. But an even sharper humiliation. And she understood without words that such a man would detest his dependence on others. Her instinct, her driving need, was to approach him. To touch, offer comfort, soothe with soft hands and kind words. But she could not. She was a servant and it was not her place. And he was not, she thought, a man to accept such comfort.

Lord Joshua stiffened under the gentle but totally unexpected reprimand. She was looking at him, he realised, as if he were a spoilt child in her care, one who had been ill mannered enough to reject a kind offer. And she was right, of course, he accepted with a disgust as the housekeeper continued to upbraid him with perfect propriety. ‘I am employed as your housekeeper to pick up after you, my lord.’

‘Yet you will disobey me, Mrs Russell.’ Inner fury still vibrated through his body.

‘You can, of course, dismiss me if that is your will, sir. For picking up a book.’ There was the faintest question, a suggestion of censure in her voice and her composure challenged him. He flushed with a sense of shame, even as her forthright words earned Sarah a sharp glance. But he had seen the stupidity of his rejection of her help, born of lack of patience and clumsy frustration at his inability to move about with the readiness of before, his incarceration within the four walls when used to a life of action and involvement. His behaviour was unpardonable. His manners must disgust. He took a steady breath and tightened his control.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Russell. I was not considerate.’

‘No. But as my employer you do not have to be so.’

She placed the book back on to the desk and went out, leaving him more than a little astounded at the parting shot. So meek and mild as his housekeeper appeared. Nothing like. The lady had teeth! And a confidence above the norm for a housekeeper of such tender years.

Sarah closed her eyes as the door shut behind her and wondered what she could possibly have been about, what fierce dragon she had unleashed from its cave. Seeing the frustration and impatience, she had appreciated its source and her heart had been touched in that moment of physical weakness. But to tell her employer that he was stupid and illogical—if not in so many words—what had she done?

Yet there were no repercussions other than the child spending time in her father’s company, in an undertaking that the little girl could not resist. All those books with their coloured plates and leather bindings with gilt and red tooling. Altogether a neat little plot that Sarah prayed would be beneficial for both.

As it proved to be.

Lord Joshua found his daughter to be not tentative or shy, but painfully reserved with an equally painful desire for approval. She came into the library next day, wished him good morning, chose a book and sat in silence, curled up in a window seat, turning the pages with uncanny deliberation. He looked over at her. What did one say to an eight-year-old child whom one did not know? She seemed content with her own company and yet here was a chance he should not overlook since Mrs Russell had effectively thrown them together. He must make a beginning.

‘Celestine …’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Mrs Russell says that in the schoolroom you are called Beth.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you prefer it?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Shall I call you Beth?’

‘If you wish it, Papa.’ Not exactly enthusiastic, but it was not an outright no.

‘Then I will. It is a pretty name.’ He smiled at her across the width of the library. And, after a heartbeat, she smiled back.

Which was enough for one day, his lordship decided. Mrs Russell and her stories could wait. They both returned to their silent perusal of the printed word, at least one of them aware that an important bridge had been crossed. Lord Joshua found a smile touch his lips as he watched his daughter and considered the possible tactics of Mrs Sarah Russell.

Lord Joshua met the other child in his establishment in the stables. John withdrew into one of the empty stalls as his lordship came in to inspect the horseflesh. Lord Joshua noted the quick movement and spoke to the silent shadow.

‘Do you like horses?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come here.’

John edged forward. ‘My mama says I must not be a nuisance or speak to you unless you speak to me first, sir.’

He laughed ‘Does she now? Then come and tell me—where were you born?’

‘In London, sir.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘I have been to New York in America. I have—’ John would have said more, but then stopped and frowned. ‘My mama says that I must not say.’

The child ran off before tempted into further indiscretions.

Which admission Lord Joshua thought was probably a tall story, embroidered by a child’s desire for adventure—yet there was something about him and his mother that was beginning to take his interest. He sensed secrets here. And the lad’s mother had clearly laid down instructions. What was Mrs Russell? Gently born, of course, presumably fallen on bad times. He wondered idly about the boy’s father. Perhaps he should ask Judith when they next met since she had employed the lady.

But of course it was not of very great importance. His mind turned to other matters.

Meanwhile, imperceptibly the Countess of Wexford began to make her presence felt more and more in the household, encroaching on the reins of power. It was not appreciated. Nor was her antipathy to Mrs Russell. Her intense dislike was patently evident, for what reason no one could guess, but which had no effect other than to unite the servants’ hall against the Countess in support of the housekeeper. What right did she have to look down her supercilious nose at Mrs Russell? If there should be any criticism levelled against the servants, it should be at the hands of Lord Joshua Faringdon. And he appeared to find no cause for complaint in the running of his household.

It had become customary for Sarah to present herself every morning in the breakfast parlour to discuss the menu and any particular needs for the day. It was unfortunate that within the second week the Countess of Wexford was completing her breakfast alone. Her tight smile on seeing Mrs Russell was not pleasant.

‘Ah. Mrs Russell. The menu for another tedious meal.’ She held out an imperious hand for the list. ‘Tell me, Mrs Russell. Where were you last employed as housekeeper?’

‘I have never been in employment as housekeeper, my lady.’ I have never been employed at all!

‘Never? That would account for it, I suppose.’ The sneer was most marked as the lady perused the list. ‘So how can you presume to know the needs of a gentleman’s establishment such as this?’

‘I have had no complaints from Lord Faringdon, my lady.’ The perfect housekeeper kept her hands folded, her eyes lowered respectfully, her intense irritation veiled.

A glint of anger in the Countess’s eyes was hardly masked. ‘Who provided your references for this position?’

Well, there was only one way out of this difficulty. Sarah looked up. ‘I was employed for this post by the Countess of Painscastle.’ She refused to allow her direct gaze to fall. ‘Her ladyship found my abilities highly appropriate. Perhaps you could apply to her if you have some concerns, my lady.’

On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.

‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’

‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.

‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.

‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’ I will do it if it kills me in the process. But her heart sank at the prospect.

‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’

‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’

Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.

‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’

‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’

‘A French banquet?’

‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’

‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’

‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’

Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.

Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.

‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie! And look at this. Turbot with lobster sauce, pike with oysters … eel with quenelles, truffles and cock’s combs.’

‘Roast larks in pastry lined with chicken livers!’ continued Millington. ‘And truffles mentioned six—no, seven times in all!’

‘Such extravagance!’ Mrs Beddows shook her head. ‘With the best will in the world, we cannot—’

‘No, no, Mrs Beddows. Of course we cannot.’ Sarah patted her hand consolingly. ‘But look. We can follow the same pattern of courses and simply select what we require. We can use some of the same dishes, but not the most extravagant. Alter some of the ingredients if necessary. And if we give them their French title … Millington can be sure to tell the Countess when she asks, as she most assuredly will. And since his lordship has placed no restrictions on our expenditure, then I suggest that money should be no object!’

‘Well … If you think so …’ A competitive spark had entered the cook’s eye.

‘I do. We have something to prove here. We will also, I suggest, serve it à la française, with the dishes arranged in the middle of the table so that the guests help themselves and then pass them on to their fellow guests. Very fashionable in the greatest houses, I understand, and highly inconvenient for those who wish to sample a dish from the far end of the table, but if that is what her ladyship wishes …’ A wicked little smile crossed Sarah’s face as she contemplated the possibilities. ‘What’s more, I shall write out the menu, à la française, which will be highly uncomfortable for everyone if they do not recognise the dishes. Haute cuisine is what she demanded, so haute cuisine is what she will get. Whatever happens, we do not want one of the Countess of Wexford’s creatures lording it over this kitchen.’

‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.

So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive tour de force. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The turbot à l’Anglaise (turbot without lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the noix de veau à la jardinière (veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces (roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the petits soufflés d’abricots—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.

The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A frisson of sheer pleasure.

The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.

The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.

So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.

There was no further discussion of a French chef.