the Marquis's Memory 9

 

Chapter 9

 

Effie met Geoffrey in the private parlour of the Pigeons, having hired it for the meeting.

“You recall, of course, that Pip went off in a bit of an emotional upset after I gave the same talk my father gave me,” said Geoffrey.  “It… was educational for Pip because, although Pip’s mother raised a son, Pip is actually a girl, and the name in the parish register can be read as ‘Philippa.’ Now, I had planned to raise a connection of mine, treating him as a younger brother, but now… well, Pip needs someone to teach her how to be a woman.”

“Dear God!” exclaimed Effie.

“He has helped her not to be spoiled by her step father, one way or another, I think,” said Geoffrey.  “I want to employ you to teach her how to be a girl, and ready her to come out.  I will, of course, finance your niece coming out as well. I have already made orders to have the cottage abutting yours and the one next to that to be renovated, since they are empty, and to be made into a single house, and the ownership of that will be yours as part of the deal if you will take it on.  I believe you already have care of a maid who fled my mother, who will be Pip’s maid. And I believe that the Murfitts may give notice, and will be available; I will pay their wages, and Betty’s, and a groom for your horses as she must, of course, be able to ride.”

“I… you are moving very fast,” said Effie.

“Something needs to be done as soon as possible,” said Geoffrey. “I have discovered that I have a lovely young girl sharing my room, and of course no hint of that must ever come out. And whilst Pip’s sty is a tribute to her skills as a housekeeper, it isn’t the family seat she should inhabit.”

“No, quite,” said Effie. “Pip… Philippa, I had no idea!”

“Nor had I,” said Pip. “It’s a relief that it is normal, though, and not a curse wished onto the generations of my natural father.”

“We will need clothes,” said Effie. “And not any that my niece would recognise, because, dearly as I love her, I just know she would blurt it out without thinking, if she knew.”

“My dear Miss Congreve, put it to your niece that she will need to loan a gown to a girl who is dressed in gypsy tatterdemalion, and that I will replace it; my ward’s guardian and her niece must also be dressed to the correct estate,” said Geoffrey. “When Simon arrives with my boat, I thought you might sail across to Ipswich, and I will have you put up in a hotel there, whilst the renovations are completed, and you can then purchase clothes for all of you, for I am sure you would be happy to have clothes you have not had to make?”

“Well, it would be nice,” said Effie.  “My goodness! But where will Pip… Philippa… sleep in the meantime?”

“In my room so as to arouse no suggestion of shame, and therefore anything that might point to the truth,” said Geoffrey. “There is the bedcurtain between us, which covers our modesty.  And, of course, in a year, you will bring her to town for a season, and Miss Alethea as well. By then, I will also have arranged a secure private house for my mother to be confined for the good of her health.”

“You are ruthless, my lord; surely she is not insane?”

“That depends on your perspective, Miss Congreve. But she does not act with the temperate behaviour a well-bred lady should display. And I will not take it any longer; I believe her quite capable, if she thought there was any affection between Pip and myself, to have ruffians hired to violate her, and place her in a brothel. She threatened as much for a young lady to whom I felt some attraction last year, since the young lady in question was in similar situation to yourself, a child of the rectory, with no patron or protector.  She threatened to hire someone similar in build to me, to violate her, wearing a mask, and let her think it was me. I… I did not think the girl had formed a strong tendre for me, and nor had I for her, so I backed off, for her own protection.”

“I withdraw all objections; she is insane,” said Effie, paling. She was well aware how vulnerable she would have been, had her brother been able to put together just enough for her to have a season, and her heart went out to the young lady who must have felt fondly enough of the marquis to have felt that a pleasant life was snatched from her, and probably still wondered why.

“Yes, and I shall have a doctor and burly nurses to certify that, shortly,” said Geoffrey.

“Kinder than having her sent to Bedlam,” agreed Effie.

“I don’t approve of Bedlam, it is degrading,” said Geoffrey. “Having the inmates on display like animals in a menagerie appalls me.”

“I agree,” said Effie. “I also agree to tutor Philippa. When your yacht arrives, I will take Alethea shopping; it would be best if Philippa can manage to join us as covertly as possible.”

“On the contrary,” said Geoffrey. “I will see Pip off to school by putting him on the yacht whilst it also takes you shopping. My friend, Mr. Endicott, will be escorting the boy to The Ipswich School, a good public school, quite equal to Eton or Winchester, but more provincial, and easier for a lad in his situation to come to terms with.”

“How clever,” said Effie. “And, separated by time, as I am presumably collecting her in Ipswich, the likeness can more easily dismissed.”

“Indeed, the familial likeness permitted her to be recognised,” said Geoffrey.

 

Now it was necessary to set the rumour mill going, and Geoffrey made use of being in the bar to eat with the Gaffer, who invited himself to dinner nightly

“And by the letter my friend has written me, Pip has a sister, who is a few years older than him. Simon recognised the family look immediately, so I’ve asked the Misses Congreve to take her under their wing and teach her to be a lady.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Pip.

“It will be of short duration; Simon will get you settled into the Ipswich School. Work hard, my boy, I am sure you can catch up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pip.

There were a dozen listening ears, and the story would be around all the Haddingtons by nightfall the next night; and doubtless descriptions of the lovely Miss Seward.

 

 

Pip took herself to the back door of the rectory, where Mrs. Murfitt let her in, and gave her a glass of milk and a macaroon.

Pip did not turn down this largesse.

“Hev yew a message for the… leardy, or for me, moi little ow’ boi?” she asked.

“For you, and Mr. Murfitt,” said Pip. “And verbal at that. The marquis is sending me to school because I’m the get of his connection, Mr. Seward, but I’ve an older sister, who will be coming to Miss Effie to learn how to be a lady. And my lord is having all the cottages in the row knocked into one, so that it’s a better size of house, and if you wanted to leave Mr. Coot’s employ and help oversee the changes, he’s happy to start paying you right away.”

“Well! Thass news wass couldn’t of come at a better toime,” said Mrs. Murfitt. “That screechy mouthed madam an’ her fancy maid ain’t done nuthin’ but cause trouble, ar, an’ I bean’t so fond o’ the reverend that Umma willin’ tu stay out o’ loyalty tu him. Roight away?”

“Today’s wages on, if you wish it,” said Pip. “Seventy five guineas a year for you both and I’ve fifteen guineas for you on account.”

“We’ll be in the far cottage by the toime it’s dark,” said Mrs. Murfitt.

 

 

 

Effie explained to Alethea that they would be helping one of Seward’s offspring to be a lady.

“But what if she’s awful?” demanded Alethea.

“Then we shall have to teach her to be nice,” said Effie.

“I don’t want anyone here, getting between us,” sulked Alethea.

“You don’t want an extra two hundred pounds a year plus a hundred pounds dress allowance, plus a season next year in London?” asked Effie.

“Oh!” said Alethea, and was contemplative for a moment. “So, you’re to be paid to do it?”

“Handsomely,” said Effie. “The three cottages are to be knocked into one and I will have the deeds to the whole house when it is one house. We are to go into Ipswich to meet her, and spend a week in The Great White Horse Inn, purchasing gowns for her, and for ourselves. Just think of it, Alethea!”

“Well, I shall have to hope she is nice, then,” said Alethea.

Effie agreed, and hoped that her niece would not prove difficult.

 

oOoOo

 

Lady Calver rang the bell rather sharply when she found the dinner table had not been set, and there was no apparent preparation for dinner. She had ordered dinner for the fashionable hour of eight, rather than six, the hour at which her son cheerfully dined in the Running Buck.  She rang again, and this time her own French maid came.

“Where’s Murfitt?” demanded Lady Calver.

“Je ne sais pas,” said Adèle, sulkily. Her own meal was not prepared, either. “Zere was a letter, addressed to you,” she added, passing the folded note addressed to “Milady.”

Ann Calver opened it, hurriedly. It was written in the careful, rounded script of an unlettered hand, and read,

“Missus,

Yew ain’t much of a laydy so we quits. Vere’s a leg of mutton in ve oven. Dew yew wants it, get it yor blurry self.

Mr. & Mrs. Murfitt.”

 

The first thing that Ann Calver did was to have hysterics, flinging anything she could reach in the dining room at the wall. The she rounded on Adèle.

“You will have to get my dinner for me.”

“Madame la Marquise surely jests,” said Adèle.

“Of course I do not jest; you are a servant, so serve,” said Lady Calver.

“I cannot, and I will not. It is not the job of a dresser. I will not do it,” said Adèle, who was quite as capable of throwing a hysterical temper tantrum as her mistress. They screamed at each other, and threw the reverend’s ornaments at each other until the smell from the kitchen suggested that the mutton leg was past its best.

Whilst she had become used to being waited on hand and foot, Ann Calver did know how to cook, from the time before she had snagged herself a marquis, and dredged up her memories  to do her best to rescue the leg of mutton, somewhat shrivelled, and definitely crispy on the outside. She served it up with care, so as not to get any grease on her gown, having forgotten to wear a pinafore. There were no vegetables cooked, so she made a rough salad with what was available, and cut lavish slices of bread and butter. Adèle whined that it was not what she was used to.

“Idiot girl! I’m finding you food, aren’t I?” said Lady Calver. “We will return to London tomorrow.”

“We will go tonight; not one night more will I spend in this collection of peasants’ hovels,” declared Adèle.

“Then you can go and get the coachmen,” snapped Lady Calver.

It is a measure of how much Adèle hated the countryside more than any level of devotion to her demanding mistress that, having eaten the viands provided, grumbling all the time, she did indeed mince over to the Running Buck, where the coachmen had hospitality with the other stablehands. They were not happy to be expected to turn out for another night drive, but the pay was good, so they fettled the horses and took the coach over to the vicarage. They struggled out with the lady’s trunks, indifferently packed by the unhappy Adèle, to load the coach, and get the unwilling horses back on the road.

Lady Calver did not have the courtesy to inform the Reverend Coot that she had left his house, nor that she had driven away his servants; and it was not until Sunday morning that the vicar called in to his house to retrieve the proper surplice for his service that he discovered that his house had been left unlocked, with virtually every piece of chinaware in the place smashed, the leg of mutton which would have provided him with several meals entirely spoiled and writhing with maggots, as was the butter, and the bread was stale. There was a goat in his kitchen, making short work of the rest of the vegetables, no self-respecting goat being able to resist the lure of an open door. The kitchen was a mess. Coot was in a fine old temper by the time he got to the church, late, having had some difficulty evicting the goat, whose name was Poppy, and saw Geoffrey, with Pip in his wake.

“This is your fault!” howled Coot. “You would run away for whatever debauchery on which you were bent so that your mother felt a need to pursue you, and she has left my house open, and everything broken, my food spoilt, my servants gone, and I don’t know what else!”

“You can stop right there, you canting fool,” said Geoffrey. “Why do you assume that I have been bent on debauchery? I am not my distant cousin, Philip Paul Seward.  As it happens, I am spending my time here sorting out the mess he has left with those of his get not yet taken care of, under the efforts of my father, since for some reason both Pip Seward and his older sister had not been taken in to care. You are slandering me, sir! As to my mother, I am going to be approaching a doctor specialising in mental alienation to see about having her confined, over her unhealthy and un-motherly pursuit of me. And it saddens me to have to speak of this, but your assumptions about me to date are distasteful and disturbing, and I wonder how much this speaks of your own predilections and desires for debauchery. I had planned to worship here this morning, but I do not intend for my young ward to be exposed to such an unchristian and unholy vicar of Satan like you. Good day to you.”

He turned and walked out of the church.

It took only the appearance of Poppy’s sister, Marigold, wearing one of Lady Calver’s gowns, which had been forgotten, and the vicar’s surplice, to leave the Reverend Coot falling into hysterics and having to be carried back to the vicarage.

Marigold, curious, went with the stretcher party, and proceeded to make herself at home in the vicar’s best parlour.