Rake's Progress (2 page)

‘Nobody asked you, you clown,' snapped Rainbird, who had contracted a hopeless passion two years before for a visiting lady's maid and had not yet got over it.

Unabashed, Joseph picked a piece of lint from his velvet sleeve and went on, ‘Besides, I think it is not quait the
thing
to have all of us to greet him.' He looked contemptuously at Lizzie and Dave, who were waiting to take their places at the bottom of the reception line.

‘You disgust me, you jessamy,' growled Angus MacGregor, the fiery-tempered Highland cook. ‘Lizzie is more of a lady than you'll ever be a gentleman.'

Lizzie, the scullery maid, looked distressed. She had fallen in love with the footman when she had first arrived, and loved him still, although she was not blind to his faults.

‘Mayhap his servant will be a great soldier brute,' said Dave cheerfully, ‘who likes picking fights with footmen.'

‘Don't,' said Lizzie, distressed. ‘We've hardly quarrelled all winter. Don't let's start now.'

‘Silly Lizzie,' said quick and dark Jenny, the chambermaid. ‘We're all that excited. And this is the first winter we've passed where we've all had
enough to eat and enough coals to warm us. I know we're going to have a wonderful Season. What's the matter now, Liz?' she demanded crossly, seeing a shadow lurking in the little scullery maid's eyes. ‘You ain't gone and had one of your presmonishuns.'

‘I only feel,' said Lizzie cautiously, ‘that a gentleman who has spent all of his youth in battle won't want a quiet life.'

‘Shouldn't ha' taught her to read and write,' jeered Joseph. ‘Education addles the brain.' He had taken to picking on Lizzie of late, a nasty habit everyone thought he had given up.

‘Aye, weel,' said Angus MacGregor, ‘you're the most addled brain here and you can barely read a book.'

‘Shhh!' said Rainbird. ‘I hear a carriage approaching!'

They all fell into line.

Rainbird threw open the door. But the carriage went on past.

‘Not yet,' he said, disappointed. ‘I wonder what's keeping his lordship!'

‘I suppose we had best be on our way,' said Lord Guy Carlton regretfully, putting down his empty glass. He and his friend, Mr Tommy Roger – nicknamed the Jolly Roger – had stopped to take some refreshment.

‘No hurry,' said Mr Roger. ‘Let's have another bottle. You look as fit as a flea, Guy. If the colonel
could see you now, he'd have you posted back on the next ship.'

‘Go back when I'm ready,' said Lord Guy lazily. ‘Another bottle it is. That fever was the best thing that happened to us for ages. I don't know about you, but it made up my mind for me.'

‘Thought you'd never leave the battlefield, you old war horse,' said Mr Roger affectionately. ‘You swore you'd fight on until you saw the last of Boney. Don't know how you stood it all these years.'

‘Don't know either,' agreed Lord Guy amiably. He pulled a pretty serving maid onto his lap, kissed her on the lips, and told her to bring another bottle of the best. The girl went off, giggling.

‘Don't waste your energies on serving maids,' said Mr Roger. ‘I plan to treat myself to the best high-flier in London.'

‘Only one?' mocked Lord Guy. ‘I plan to have 'em by the dozen.'

The two men, who were roughly the same age, made an odd contrast. Mr Roger was squat and dark, with a head of tough wiry black hair. He was still in his scarlet regimentals, looking as odd without his horse as a reeling sailor on dry land without his ship, for his legs were pronouncedly bandy.

Lord Guy was tall, slim, and fair. His high-nosed, rakish face was lightly tanned, and his merry blue eyes under their drooping lids had a habitual devilmay-care look.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, blue morning
coat with plaited buttons, leather breeches, and top-boots. His cravat was intricately tied and starched. In contrast to all this understudied elegance, his waistcoat was an embroidered riot of gold and scarlet birds of paradise.

As they broached the new bottle, an amiable silence fell between the two friends.

They were sitting in the garden of an inn at Croydon. Crocuses were peeping up through the grass, and the branches of the trees, still bare of leaves, stretched up to the pale blue sky.

A huge puffy cloud passed overhead, reminding Lord Guy of the ship that had borne him home. Home! How odd that sounded. Home would be a rented house in Town for a few months. His conscience told him he would be back at the battlefront as soon as the Season had ended.

He could have stayed. His fever, though violent, had soon abated, leaving him weak and listless. The voyage home had been calm and restful. His health was almost immediately restored.

But for the moment, he was sick of war and bloodshed. He wanted to surround himself with the prettiest women in Town and kick up all those silly pranks that single gentlemen indulged in. He planned not to let one serious thought enter his head until it was time to go back.

He did not plan to marry. Women, like fine wine, were to be savoured and treated with respect, and, like wine, there was a tempting variety to look forward to.

An hour and another bottle later, Mr Roger idly remarked that the sun was setting and the day had lost its warmth.

‘This house I've taken for us,' remarked Lord Guy, rising to his feet, ‘some fellow told me it was unlucky.'

‘Must have been a gambler,' said Mr Roger, nodding wisely and then finding to his surprise that he could not stop nodding. ‘They're a supperstish . . . sushersh . . .'

‘Superstitious,' said Lord Guy with a smile. ‘You're foxed, Tommy.'

‘Am I, b'Gad! Lovely.'

‘Where's that man of mine, Manuel?'

‘Try raising an eyebrow. He's always lurking about. Makes my flesh creep.'

Darkness had fallen on Number 67 Clarges Street. The oil lamps and candles had been lit. Mrs Middleton, weary with the long wait, was asleep in a chair in the hall, her large starched and frilled cap casting a shadow over her face, which wore its habitually frightened, anxious look even in repose. Joseph was cleaning his nails. The Moocher, the kitchen cat, was the only thing in the household that looked alert as it sat facing the door with a comic air of expectancy.

‘Ah'm off down the stairs,' grumbled Angus MacGregor wearily. ‘I dinnae think he's going tae come now.' He took off his white skull-cap, exposing a head of flaming red hair, fished inside
the cap, produced the end of a cheroot, and lit it with a candle.

‘Then take that nasty-smelling thing with you, Angus,' said Rainbird crossly. ‘Jenny's been sprinkling rose water in all the rooms, and what's the point of it if you're going to stink the place up?'

‘Someone's coming,' said Lizzie.

‘I've opened that door about a hundred times today,' said Rainbird. ‘It's just a carriage going back from a rout.'

Angus was just making for the back stairs when there came a brisk tattoo at the door. Knocking at a door in London was an art, like drumming. The number of knocks and the violence and rhythm with which they were performed denoted the importance of the visitor. This tattoo was sounded with all the vigour and verve of a Royal footman.

Angus threw his cheroot into his cap and crammed it on his head. Mrs Middleton awoke with a start. Rainbird pulled down his waistcoat and made for the door while all the servants formed a line in the hall behind him.

He swung open the door. A slim, supercilious manservant looked at him contemptuously. ‘You take the time, fellow, do you not?' he remarked with exquisite insolence. He stood aside as two gentlemen mounted the steps.

‘Well, this isn't too bad,' said Lord Guy, strolling into the hall with Mr Tommy Roger. ‘Not bad at all,' he said, one wicked blue eye rolling in Alice's direction.

Rainbird began introducing the servants. Smoke from the burning cheroot was beginning to send curls of smoke out from under the cook's cap. Rainbird banged MacGregor on the head when he felt he was unobserved in the hope of extinguishing it. When he came to the women, Lord Guy smiled charmingly on Mrs Middleton, grinned at Jenny, winked at Lizzie, caught Alice around the waist, drew her to him, and planted a lazy, caressing kiss full on her mouth.

Alice looked up at him in a dazed way.

‘My lord,' said Rainbird repressively, ‘you will wish to see your rooms.'

Mrs Middleton took Alice, who was standing with her mouth open, firmly by the hand and led her downstairs, signalling to the other women to follow.

‘Draw me a bath, will you?' said Lord Guy. ‘Rainbird, I think you said your name was. This is my servant, Manuel. Look after him. He's a capital chap.'

There was a loud crash as Mr Tommy Roger fell over on the tiled floor and began to snore.

‘And black coffee,' said Lord Guy. ‘I do not plan to celebrate my first night in Town alone. Sober Mr Roger, please, after you have drawn my bath.'

‘Yes, my lord,' said Rainbird woodenly.

‘And send that fair-haired beauty up to scrub my back.'

‘Of course, my lord,' said Rainbird, determined to humour him. He was sure Lord Guy was as
drunk as his friend and would probably fall asleep in his bath. He led the way upstairs.

The ground floor of the house consisted of front and back parlours, the first floor of a dining room and bedroom. There were two bedrooms above that, and above that, the attics.

With the exception of little Lizzie, who washed herself regularly under the pump, the servants frowned on bathing, thinking it a pernicious practice. It endangered the health, everyone knew that.

So it took some time to prepare my lord's bath, since said bath was in the cellar and full of firewood.

At last Joseph and Rainbird carried its coffin-like shape upstairs. Rainbird told Angus and Dave to help carry the cans of hot water, for he did not want any of the maids to be left alone with Lord Guy who, Rainbird was fast deciding, showed all the signs of being a rake.

In the meantime, Lord Guy had demolished a bottle of champagne. It had served only to deepen the wicked look in his blue eyes and to make him look livelier than ever.

With the help of Manuel, his Spanish servant, he stripped off and sank down into the bath. ‘Hey, Manuel,' he said, ‘go find me that gorgeous creature.'

Manuel bowed, immediately identifying the ‘gorgeous creature' as Alice.

He walked downstairs and into the servants' hall, where they were all busily discussing the new tenant. Their voices died and they surveyed him in
silence. Manuel was small in stature and dressed in black-velvet livery ornamented with pink silk braid. His hair was smooth and black like shiny leather and his skin was olive. His liquid dark eyes were expressionless, his nose was small and thin, and his slightly protruding teeth gave his small mouth a rabbity look.

He beckoned Alice. ‘My lord wishes you,' he said.

Alice blushed and made to step forward.

‘No,' said Rainbird. ‘If my lord wishes anything, I shall fetch it, or Joseph here.'

The Spanish manservant shrugged. Then he walked towards Alice and seized the maid's hand and started to drag her out. Rainbird leapt forward, wrenched Alice away and gave Manuel a push that sent him flying.

Manuel fished in his pocket and produced a long stiletto knife, which he held to Rainbird's throat. ‘You,' he said to Alice over the butler's shoulder, ‘go upstairs or I will slit his throat.'

A tense silence fell on the servants.

Then Angus MacGregor rolled up his sleeve, stretched one hairy arm around Rainbird, and seized the Spanish manservant by the cravat. Manuel made to stab Rainbird with his knife, but Jenny the chambermaid sank her excellent teeth into his wrist and he let the knife fall with a clatter. MacGregor picked him up and began to shake him to and fro while the Spaniard screamed in terror like a wounded animal.

‘What the deuce is going on?' demanded a cold voice from the doorway.

The women began to scream as loudly as Manuel and covered their eyes with their hands, although Mrs Middleton peeped through her fingers. It was a sight she had not seen before and was not likely to see again.

Lord Guy stood there, dripping water, stark naked.

‘Well,' he demanded, ‘what are you doing with my servant?'

‘He tried to drag Alice upstairs,' said Rainbird. ‘Then he drew a knife.'

‘Oh,' said Lord Guy blankly. ‘Don't you want to scrub my back, Alice?'

‘No,' mumbled Alice.

He shrugged his naked shoulders. ‘Well, that's that,' he said cheerfully. ‘Manuel, come with me. That knife of yours must never be used again. Oh, Rainbird, get that coffee down Mr Roger's throat. The night is young, and I am of a mind to enjoy myself.'

He strolled out, presenting a view of impertinent, muscled buttocks to the embarrassed servants, with his Spanish shadow at his heels.

‘Oh, dear, dear, dear,' mourned Rainbird. ‘What a Season this is going to be. Joseph, you'd best come and help me with Mr Roger. Angus, bring lots of coffee.'

By dint of walking Mr Roger up and down for about an hour and pouring scalding black coffee
down his throat from time to time, they managed to get him upstairs to his bedroom. Lord Guy had taken the large bedroom behind the dining room, so they propelled him into the front bedroom on the floor above.

Rainbird signalled to Joseph to remove Mr Roger's boots.

‘What are you doing?' demanded Mr Roger truculently.

‘We will help you dress,' explained Rainbird.

‘Don't need to dress. Am dressed. Oh, my aching head.' Mr Roger lurched across the room and was sick in the fireplace. Joseph turned green and clutched his heaving stomach.

‘Are you ready, Jolly Roger?' came Lord Guy's cheerful voice.

Mr Roger rallied amazingly. ‘Coming,' he roared.

‘Feeling better?' called his lordship.