Synopsis – POKER FACE 

It is 1763. Gentlemen still wear silk and velvet and carry a sword. For the Hon. Richard Devereux, newly returned to London from India, the life of high society is not enough. To ease his need for action he agrees to ferret out the facts regarding an heiress’s marriage for a lawyer and finds himself unwittingly involved in the investigation of her murder. Of the many who quarrelled with her – her brother the Earl who had spent her dowry, her sister who had pawned her jewels, her husband who was being ruined by her family – who took the fireside poker to her? And what did society have to say about the whole affair? And who would have thought her brother’s governess had anything to do with it?

poKer face

CHAPTER 1

Two decisions, fateful for the persons taking them, were taken in September 1762.

The Hon Richard Devereux, third son of Viscount Deal, factor and ex-soldier of the East India Company, decided to come home from India.

And Lady Constance Marriott, sister of the Earl of Mereworth and his acting steward at his country house Quines, thirty five years of age and of sound mind, took to husband, in secret, her brother’s chaplain the Rev. Mr. Daniel West.

Fortunately for them, neither of them foresaw the result.

*             *                   *                   *                   *                   *

Some, but not all, of the negative results of Lady Constance’s action became obvious at once. Others, like an unperceived time-bomb, took longer to become apparent.

The immediate results could have been predicted, but were not. Lady Constance, her mind full of her recent marriage, forgot that Simmonds, the butler at Quines, went round the house late at night checking that all the doors and windows were securely fastened. She did not therefore expect to be seen as she slipped along the passage at midnight to join Mr West in his chamber. Had she had the forethought to apprise Simmonds of her marriage, he would have kept her secret. Sadly, she did not. Still shaken by the shock of what he had seen, Simmonds returned to the housekeeper’s room to consult with the other senior servants. But while he and the housekeeper might be partisans of Lady Constance, Miss Tinglewood - the Dowager Countess of Mereworth’s highly paid dresser - was not. Miss Tinglewood had only one loyalty – to herself – and disclosing this valuable and important secret to her mistress would undoubtedly enhance her position in the household. But first she had to be sure.

Everything else followed. Miss Tinglewood did indeed see Lady Constance leaving Mr West’s bedchamber at three in the morning and, trembling, informed the Dowager of this fact later in the day, thoughtfully proffering the smelling salts as she did so. The Dowager, once she had stopped shrieking, sent a messenger speeding up to London with a note to her son apprising him of the dreadful news of Connie’s lost reputation and confined both Constance and Mr West to their respective chambers until such time as her son should arrive and take charge. This he did by dismissing Mr West without remuneration and removing his entire family – Lady Constance, the Dowager, his children and their governess – to London, at great inconvenience to them all. Lady Constance, once in London, was put under virtual house arrest, while her brother, the Earl of Mereworth, tried to think what to do next.

But the Earl was not a man of agile mind and no solution to the problem presented him by his sister’s actions occurred to him, so there matters rested for the months of winter which followed.

February 1763

Richard Devereux was also unaware of any negative results arising from his decision to come home as he sat in the hackney cab carrying him from the Pool of London to his parents’ house in Berkeley Square. Instead he was aware of a glowing core of contentment deep inside him. His gamble had paid off. He had survived eight years in India and returned with both his health intact and a comfortable fortune. The ship had not foundered, his goods had not been lost and he himself was safe home. Soon he would see his family – his father, bookish and distant save for his occasional rapier-sharp thrusts of wit, his mother, elegant arbiter of social niceties, his brothers … perhaps he would not be quite so glad to see them. Stephen’s casual assumption that being the eldest entitled him to command the world was tiresome. Would Douglas try to sponge off him? Perhaps he wouldn’t let the family know just yet that his stay in India had been a financial success. But still that deep hard core of happiness within him danced on. He was home.

Thomas Swift, Richard’s valet, was much less happy to be home. He was not, like the persons so far discussed, a member of the quality. He had started life as one to whom the options available were starvation or theft. He had chosen the latter. Happily, that was all in the past. Enlisting as a soldier with John Company had enabled him to escape the gallows and India had rewarded him during his sojourn there with a warm climate and respectability. Even so, returning now after nine years, he could not feel easy in a town where a warrant for his arrest was still extant.

And those same nine years in India made it more difficult to face weather so cold that the Thames was frozen. He might have a rug over his knees and a hot brick under his feet – one of Devereux’s idiosyncrasies was that of considering his servants’ comfort – but even so he felt perished alive. He had forgotten too that London in winter was not only bitterly cold but wreathed in the smoky fog generated by thousands of sea-coal fires. The smoke caught in his throat and made him cough all over again. “Well,” he thought, “one way and another, it isn’t much of a homecoming!” He hoped coming back wasn’t going to turn out to be an expensive mistake.

His thoughts ran on. The Hon Richard might be glad to be back. He could look forward to seeing his family and getting back into Society. But how was he, plain Tom Swift, the best pickpocket in London until he got too tall, going to fit into a Lord’s house with all those high-toned servants to look down on him?

“Don’t worry about it, Tom.”

Tom had not realised that his gloom was so apparent. 

“We won’t be staying long in my father’s house.  I’m going to hire a house - just for you, me, your missus and the nipper - as soon as I can.  In the meantime, don’t let the thought of my father’s household get you down. You’re not going to be the bottom of the heap for everyone to push around. You’re valet to a son of the house. An important man! Senior to everyone in the household except the butler, the housekeeper, my Lord’s valet and my Lady’s maid. So don’t stand any nonsense!  Act like the valet of a gentleman of fashion, tell them some of your Indian stories and they’ll be eating out of your hand!”

“Gentleman of fashion?” Tom was startled, remembering the sparseness of Richard’s Indian wardrobe.

“As soon as I can get to a tailor!”

Richard Devereux’s feelings about coming home were still unmixed. Not that he liked the cold and the fug any better than Tom, but he lacked Tom’s causes for concern. He knew that he had been lucky to survive eight years in India without a ruined constitution. In coming home he had – he felt - shown a gamblers’ skill in getting out of the game while he was still ahead. Now he proposed to enjoy the delights of town and the season, catch up on old friends and keep an eye open for whatever might be the next worthwhile venture.

    *                   *                   *                   *                   *

The meeting of those redoubtable antagonists Sophonisba, Dowager Countess of Surrey and Lady Sophronia Ellis at the Duchess of Manchester’s Dress Ball redeemed, in the eyes of those close enough to enjoy the encounter, an otherwise dull squeeze. The ladies – recognised as two of the most poisonous tongues in England – had duelled for the entertainment of the quality for thirty years.

 “Sophonisba, my sweet! How charmingly you look!”

Close observers did not miss the slightly raised eyebrow  - Sophonisba’s navy Spitalfields silk over a white petticoat must clearly have been ordered in honour of the Navy in the annus mirabilis of victories four years ago. Remodelled – yes – but the colour? Quite out of date!

Sophronia’s dark green silk damask over a petticoat embroidered with apricots resting on glossy dark green leaves was, on the other hand, entirely the dernier cri. The late Mr Robert Ellis, although not titled, had had the good taste both to be extremely wealthy (or Sophronia would not have been married to him) and to die young leaving her amply provided for.

The listeners edged unobtrusively closer. Sophronia Ellis could be relied on to be first with any private scandal: Sophonisba Surrey’s advantage lay in priority with government scandal.  Fortunately for her, tonight she had a trump.

“ The colour of my dress?  My dear, I’m wearing it in tribute to the noble dead!  The Peace has finally been signed in Paris! That idiot, Lord Bute! What our dear Sovereign sees in him, who can say?  To give away our gains in the late war! How could he?”

But now, of course, the ladies were interrupted. Authentic news that the peace had actually been signed  - that the Seven Years War was finally at an end - was news too big for private disclosure. Sophonisba was delighted to enlarge.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Well, we all knew that the terms had been agreed.  Martinique, St Lucia – given away – the other French sugar islands too! All our gains in India!  Oh! I could cry from mortification.”

The party swept on leaving the “two Sophies” to enjoy a comfortable cose together. The public acrimony between them, which had enlivened both their social lives for many years now, was not discarded. Beneath the façade there might be a quiet recognition of one another’s qualities but it was not to be allowed to get out of hand.

Sophronia opened the batting.

“The youngest Devereux boy, the one who went to India …”

“News?”

“Coming home. May already be here.”

“I remember him. Sent off at seventeen. Nice lad. Not as rude as many and a delightful smile. Richard, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the one. A cut above those brothers of his. I wonder what India has made of him?”

“I hope for his mother’s sake he’s better than the other two.”

“I’ve told Daphne Deal to bring Richard along to my rout on Tuesday if he’s here by then and has any clothes fit to be seen in. Daphne says he has a mind to re-renter society.”

“Money?”

“A third son? Of course, not! But Daphne says he’s not fortune-hunting. He isn’t looking to marry yet and that’s probably as well. As a third son, the Deals couldn’t include land in any marriage settlement. Who is going to marry their daughter to £500 a year and no land?”

Sophonisba continued her quest for information.

“Talking of marriage, have you seen the older of Walter Mereworth’s sisters this season?”

“Constance Marriott? No. I’d assumed she was in charge at Quines as usual. She’s not a girl anymore to be brought up for the season to find a husband. Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mystery. Like you, I though she was at Quines looking after the country house and estate for her brother, as she normally does. But the children are in London, with their governess, Miss Neal, and so is the Dowager.  Now if Mereworth, his mother and the children are all in London and nobody is left to down at Quines – where is Constance?”

“Have you asked? I expect she’s visiting a relative.”

“But she’s not. And when I asked her mother, Bernice Mereworth, where she was, she edged away from me looking nervous.”

Sophonisba was thinking about it.

“She’s over thirty. Not handsome. Never regarded as a catch, because all the world knew that her brother Mereworth would have trouble producing her dowry. A very religious girl, I seem to remember – I shouldn’t think she’s breeding. It’s probably all a hum, but I’ll call on Bernice Mereworth tomorrow and see what I can sense.”

*             *                   *                   *                   *                   *

Tom Swift need not have worried about his reception in the servants’ hall at Lord Deal’s town residence in Berkeley Square. Richard Devereux, while in India, had been a good correspondent and what was known to his mother was inevitably known to the entire household. There could be no doubt as to the warm welcome awaiting one who had been with Mr Richard for seven years, who had fought with him on those, no doubt, bloody battlefields and who had accompanied Mr Richard to what the staff earnestly hoped would prove to include exotic scenes of decadence and depravity (it being understood, of course, that both Mr Richard and Swift would only have been present at such scenes as a matter of stern duty). Mr Blake, His Lordship’s butler and Mrs Dunn, his housekeeper, had both rescued Mr Richard from the usual boyish scrapes when he was in short coats and were predisposed to regard any lack of polish in the new valet as an allowable idiosyncrasy in one who was clearly also attached to Mr Richard’s interests.

His mother was less inclined to be so uncritical.

“Where did you find him, Richard? Not at all the right style of man for you!”

“Swift suits me very well, Madam,” Richard’s family retained the old formalities, “Now we are back in England he will soon affect a degree of polish to enhance his standing as the valet of a man of fashion.  But as regards his work, he is excellent.  I assure you, you will have no call to complain about the tie of my cravat or the shine of my boots, once I have some clothes.”

“That indeed must be the first thing. You will hardly wish to been seen by anyone as you are. I have already sent a message to the tailor your father patronises instructing him to call tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning then - the tailor: tomorrow afternoon - my man of business.”

“Hoity toity indeed, Sir! Your ‘man of business’, is it now, Richard?” 

“Forgive me, Madam.  You forget! I have been away for nine years. Long enough to have several men of business! But the fact is that goods of mine left India when I did. I must see to their safe arrival. Among other things, I packed a cashmere shawl which I think you may care for and I am sure there are one or two other trifles there which you might fancy. But shipping is ever a chancy matter and I shall be uneasy until I have confirmed their safe arrival.”

Richard had many other matters for his man of business but those he did not discuss with his mother.

*             *                   *                   *                   *                   *

Tom, meanwhile, had been consolidating his position in the household.

“Thank you, Mr Blake, a ‘heavy wet’ would be most acceptable. Indian beer is not the same. Nor did we feel it safe to drink too much out there.”

A glance around and it was clear to Tom that he was expected to continue.

“The heat, you know,” he said, by way of explanation. “It enhances the effect. And drunkenness could be dangerous. Drunk you weren’t cautious about what you ate, where you ate it, who might be following you, what you were buying …In India you had to be careful about everything. Newcomers weren’t and they tended to die quickly as a result.” Laughing, “Yes, we were real sobersides, Mr Richard and I. We drank boiled water in the day on campaign and tea and coffee at home. Real stick-in-the-muds!”

His audience expected more, so Tom obliged.

“Once Mr Richard was dining at the Presidency. I knew he’d have to drink more there than was safe. He’d be sent home in a carriage with the President’s servants escorting. It should have been alright and to this day I don’t know why I wasn’t easy.”

Tom stopped for a sup of beer and collected his audience.

“But I wasn’t. What would you have done? I knew it was probably all a hum but, in the end, I collected up all our lads, armed them with good stout cudgels and went to meet him.

What did we find? The carriage turned over, the lackeys run and the master with his back tucked into the corner of a building keeping three bruisers off with his sword. Even half-seas-over he was good enough to keep them at bay. And a good thing I sent him out with a proper cavalry sabre and not a silly little dress sword! But after that I always saw to it that it was our lads who saw Mr Richard home and not anybody else’s. I never found out whether it was an ordinary robbery or something more sinister, but whoever it was they never got a second chance.

Oh, I could tell you some stories…” and Tom bent his head and addressed his beer, his place in the hierarchy of Lord Deal’s servants assured

*             *                   *                   *                   *                   *

Next morning, Richard discovered that the acquisition of garments adequate to enable him to return to polite society was far from being the simple matter he had supposed. Taking his measurements was simple enough – Richard was of medium height and still spare of body from his sojourn in India. After that, it was a nightmare. Any notion Richard might have had that the choice was up to him was quickly dispelled. His mother and the tailor took charge. Monsieur has dark brown hair and a clear complexion – such-and-such a colour is not to be thought of! With his height an excessively military style was perhaps not advisable. The new longer coat perhaps? Braid or embroidery on button holes, pockets, cuffs and collar? Silk satin or velvet for evenings, of course but Spitalfields or French? For day wear, naturally only the finest wool would do for Monsieur. Between the two of them Richard did not escape until he had ordered four suits – a plain brown cloth coat and waistcoat with buckskin breeches for country and informal wear, a suit in fine blue wool with silver lace edging to the coat and waistcoat for town day wear, an evening suit consisting of a dark green silk coat with button-back revers of scarlet and cuffs “à la marinière”, a waistcoat of the same scarlet, both lavishly embellished with gold lace, to be worn with dark green breeches, and finally a truly memorable coat and waistcoat in cut and embossed scarlet silk velvet accompanied by black satin breeches for attending court.

But even the longest morning must end and finally Richard felt free to don his normal clothes and venture out to the City. The ordering of nightgowns, hats, boots, riding clothes, snuff boxes, fobs and a selection of the other vital necessities for one about to show himself again to the polite world could, he thought, very well wait for another day.  The dark green suit was promised for two days hence and the brown tomorrow.

“You must order some more next week”, said his mother, “but at least we have made a start.”

Richard forbore to remind her that the £500 a year left him by his grandfather was unlikely to stretch to further extravagance on this scale. His mother’s views on his current standard of dress had been so pronounced and had been expressed with so little restraint that he was grateful to be allowed, later that day, to slink discreetly out of the house in the clothes he had arrived in, having first assured her that he was only going to the City and would on no account allow himself to be seen by anyone who mattered anywhere west of Temple Bar until his new clothes came home.

Once outside, he breathed a sigh of relief and set off to walk the fidgets out of his legs and renew his acquaintance with London by walking to Mr Clodworthy’s place of business on Fish Street Hill. A hackney, he told himself, would take longer to thread its way through the City’s narrow streets than he would on foot.  In this he was right, but living in the smaller cities of India had made him forget that London and Westminster are two separate cities. Marching the length of Piccadilly and down Haymarket was invigorating, and the stroll down the Strand offered a chance to size up the new shops and coffee houses, but by Fleet Street the pleasure had worn a bit thin and the trudge up Ludgate Hill, through St Paul’s Churchyard and on down Cheapside felt altogether too much to one who had just spent six months on shipboard.

An hour after he left home he arrived at Mr Clodworthy’s place of business in a surprisingly heated state for someone walking in freezing February weather and feeling quietly appalled to discover how out of condition he was.

A man arriving on foot, sweating and wearing a shabby and out-of-date suit could not expect any high degree of attention from Mr Clodworthy’s clerks, although they did consent to announce his arrival to their principal. It came then as some surprise to them when Mr Clodworthy erupted from his office as though shot from a gun to shake his visitor warmly by the hand, while begging him to do him the honour of stepping into his chamber and almost simultaneously sending the boy out to the coffee house for refreshments.

“My dear Mr Devereux, how good to see you! I did not know your ship had docked or I would have done myself the honour of waiting on you in Berkeley Square.”

“Pray make yourself easy, Mr Clodworthy. You and I have dealt with one another for too long to be on other than friendly terms – even if we have not previously had the opportunity of meeting. I am delighted to meet you at last, my good Sir, and I hope that the happy relations we established while I was in India may continue now that I am returned home.”

Mr Clodworthy hoped so too. Young Mr Devereux was one of his most lucrative clients having built up a very pretty fortune while he was in India by intelligent and diligent trading. That fortune he had quietly moved home from India over the past twelve months with equally clear and fore-sighted instructions as to its investment.

Richard elaborated his plans over the coffee.

”As it happens my ventures have been lucky. But the India trade is always a risky one, so it is only now that I am able to feel reasonably assured of having improved my financial position.”

Mr Clodworthy, himself given to the rational evaluation of financial gain, offered silent approval for this elegant understatement describing what was, in his view, a very substantial fortune.

“My family too would not have approved of my dabbling in trade, so they have no idea that I have returned from India better shod than I left. I should prefer to keep it that way for a while. I should be grateful if you would continue to conduct my business in the name of Richard Very” – the pseudonym had arisen because Indian consignment clerks had found Devereux altogether too difficult – “and keep on investing for me, on the lines we agreed, as though I were still abroad. I will visit Mr Child’s and arrange banking accommodation for myself in London but I plan to live in a fairly modest way until I have the feel of things in England again.

In time, no doubt, I shall buy an estate, but for the present I plan a bachelor existence living on the £500 a year my grandfather left me.”

Richard went on to chat, “I shall need a pied-à-terre. Nothing too large. Just somewhere for myself and the couple who look after me. Around Covent Garden, perhaps?”

Seeing Mr Clodworthy’s expression, “I know the neighbourhood is no longer at the cutting edge of fashion as it once was. Even in India we have heard of the fame of the Covent Garden bordellos! But consider! For a bachelor like myself, it is convenient for the theatres and the coffee houses, taverns and shops and not too far from either the City or the West End.”

Richard stopped, fascinated by the change of expression on Mr Clodworthy’s face. It was that of a man who has suddenly seen a connection between two things at opposite ends of his universe.

“You’ve thought of something.  I can see it in your face.”

Mr Clodworthy was seen to move uneasily in his chair. “It’s not a thing I would have thought to suggest to your honour …”.

“Out with it, man!”

“It happens that I’ve got a property on my own hands to let. In Henrietta Street. Not the sort of place I would have thought of suggesting for your honour. Mrs Albegg had it… she used to sing with Garrick, you know.  Yes,” in a low voice, “an actress!”

Having allowed his client time to get over the shame of being offered a dwelling formerly inhabited by so low a member of society as a woman whose calling necessarily involved a commercial approach to sexual relations, Mr Clodworthy continued in a more normal tone of voice, ”But if you have a fancy to live round there…it’s empty now.”

“Henrietta Street? Couldn’t be better. How big is it and when can I view?”

Mr Clodworthy rang his bell, “Wilkins, bring me the papers for 19 Henrietta Street.” And to Richard, “You know about the new street numbering?”

“Yes, indeed. My parents are outraged to find themselves living at ‘number 10 Berkeley Square’ instead of at ‘Devereux House on the corner of Bruton Street, Berkeley Square’.”

“They are not alone in that. Many people feel the same. Now, let me see …”, looking through the papers. “Oh yes, semi-basement stone kitchen, cellars under, yard with privy and access to the churchyard of St Paul’s, ground floor let as a shop, first and second floors two good-size reception rooms each, third floor two good bedrooms, fourth floor attics for the servants. Quite a neat little property for a single person.  No good, of course, for a couple. Far too small!”

Richard had not made himself wealthy by being rash.

“We could perhaps consider it.  I’ll look at it tomorrow. Shall we say twelve of the clock? And the rent?”

Apart from the acquisition of somewhere to live, Richard’s visit to Mr Clodworthy was to have another result which Richard had not foreseen and which changed the whole direction of his life. 

They had adjourned to the ordinary for dinner and were sitting comfortably afterwards mulling over their wine when Richard, no doubt made confidential by good food and wine, commented,

“I think I shall get bored in England just doing the polite.  After soldiering and trading in India, cards don’t seem to me much of a gamble. And in India heavy drinking was much too dangerous for me to have kept a taste for it. In many ways I’d like something to do, but openly conducting a business here would cut me off from society – my mother would hate it - and politics is closed to me – after the recent peace, there is no way I could become one of the King’s Friends. So I suppose I shall have to content myself with the social round with some hunting and shooting thrown in from time to time. But I do like to be doing something, to have some other interest. In India I was often employed by my friends to sort out some puzzle for them or ferret out the answer to some mystery. I should  certainly welcome a chance to be similarly useful now that I am home.”

Little did Richard expect the excitement and danger which that simple dinner-time conversation would bring into his life!

*             *                   *                   *                   *                   *

The Earl of Mereworth, unlike Richard, had no objection to heavy drinking and cards, nor had he any urge to “do something”. Reared as the eldest son of a peer who had proved, on his demise, to be less wealthy than expected, he had never felt any inclination to exert himself beyond what was necessary to make life comfortable – for himself. But at this he had, until recently, been eminently successful. The Earl was not clever but prior to this his manoeuvres had enabled his life to proceed to his own satisfaction. Whether it suited others in his sphere of influence was not a matter which often claimed his attention.

Up till now everything had conspired to meet his requirements. The heiress provided for him by his father’s marriage negotiations had had the good sense to die after providing him with the heir society expected. He was prepared to forgive her the two girls who had preceded the boy. His current mistress was so handsome that society speculated openly as to how much she was costing him, but he did not let this curtail his regular enjoyable visits to Charlotte Hayes’ elegant brothel off Covent Garden. Evenings not enlivened in this fashion were usually spent – once his social duties had been met by a brief look-in one of that evening’s routs or assemblies – further depleting his fortune playing cards at White’s. Mornings, for one who seldom went to bed while it was still dark, did not exist while he was living in town. Out of town there were hunting or shooting house-parties with friends and summer visits to Brighthelmstone and Bath. When all else failed, there was always his country house, Quines.

The Earl did not expect to have to exert himself to ensure that all ran smoothly and to his liking. For that he employed a butler and housekeeper in town, a man of business and a steward for the Quines estate. Anything else could be attended to by his mother and sister – what else had they to do with their time?

It was, he felt, quite unacceptable for his sister to have inconvenienced him in the way she had. Naturally it could not be true that a sister of his had actually married a penniless hedge-priest. But he could hardly credit the rest of the behaviour reported of his earnest, religious sister. Visiting a man’s bedchamber at night! Claiming to be married to him – didn’t every housemaid caught misbehaving claim the same? And after having heard that farrago of nonsense, how could he leave her at Quines with the man when such matters were alleged. To crown it all, in order to post down to Quines in answer to his mother’s summons he had had to miss what his friends all assured him had been a truly memorable party at Charlotte Hayes’!

Now, everything was topsy-turvey and upset. Connie had to be locked in her room here in London and the children and their governess were cluttering up the house, all of which upset the town staff, and his mother expected him to “do something”. Naturally he did what he felt any man so pestered to death would have done – he made off to his club to try to forget how plagued he was at home.

His mother, the Dowager Countess of Mereworth, while equally selfish, had no such resource. Her usual fall-back against life’s unreasonableness – that of complaining to all her friends – was not available to her, given Connie’s ambiguous position. Connie could not, of course, have married that insignificant text-peddler but, if she had not, there was the matter of her reputation to consider. If she confided in even one of her best friends the news would go round society like lightening and Connie would be come a social pariah. The Dowager, with no outlet for her nervous irritation, could only lecture her errant daughter on how imprudent she had been and turn to her dresser for comfort.

Miss Neal, the governess, was also not a happy woman. The Earl’s three children might adore being in town, but she herself was not happy.

Governesses did not, of course, expect to be happy. The post involved loneliness, unreasonable demands by employers and a pittance for remuneration. Indeed, Miss Neal’s own view was that, to one who had been reared as a gentlewoman, the need to earn a living must always be repugnant. However, given that need, the alternatives to being a governess were so appalling as not to need more than a moment’s consideration. One either starved, begged, stole or sold oneself.

Fortunately for her, Miss Neal had been too delicately reared to be aware of the latter option. She was unsuited to it.  Good looks, while they lasted, might enable a very pretty girl to survive as a high-class courtesan for a while. But, once they faded, degradation and starvation were the inevitable end. Few were likely to earn enough at that trade to keep them for life. Miss Neal, having been carefully reared, was naturally unfamiliar with the finances of profitable concubinage and she lacked, in any case, the essential qualification of dazzling good looks. A dumpy figure, mousey brown hair and a scared expression would have totally failed to qualify their owner for elegant prostitution, but they served well enough for a governess in a nobleman’s household.

Before the Great Upheaval, all had been well. Her position as governess to the Earl’s three children at Quines had been a happy one. In a household consisting of the Dowager and her daughter, it was natural that the governess and the chaplain, Mr West, should dine with them when company was not expected. When it was, Miss Neal dined alone with the chaplain in a small room known as the Estate Dining Room. This room, which was not otherwise used unless the estate manager chanced to stop at the big house for a meal, might lack status but did have the great advantage of being conveniently near the kitchens. There were few interruptions to life and Miss Neal’s programme of instruction for Lord Mereworth’s children could proceed unhindered.

But now! Mr West was gone, who knew where? Lady Constance was shut in her chamber and allowed to speak to nobody. And the change in her own circumstances - transplanted at no notice to the London house, the children coughing from the smoke and waking in the night and the small hours and crying because of the noise! (She did not, of course, herself attend them at night. That was the work of the nursery staff. But the noise of carts and carriages and the raucous street cries and bells woke her and loss of sleep did not make coping with fractious and weary children any easier.) And the formerly quiet school day now disrupted by dancing masters and fencing masters and even a Huguenot to teach French, as though her own accent were not good enough! No more meals with the family, properly waited on, in her best silk dress with the lace ruffles kindly passed on by Lady Constance and her hair dressed and powdered by Lady Constance’s maid! No more quiet dinners with Mr West!  Just dirty streets, walks in the park and meals by herself in the schoolroom. Oh! It was all dreadful!

And why? Why all this upheaval? Miss Templewood seemed likely to know, but how could a governess – by definition a member of the polite world – so far demean herself as to seek information from a lady’s maid – particularly one who gave herself such airs. Nor, before they left Quines, had any indication of the cause of all the excitement escaped Simmonds. One was forced to suppose that Mr West – so summarily ejected – had offended in some way. But perhaps it was merely that his services would no longer be required when the household moved to London? And why this sudden move? Why was Lady Charlotte so seldom seen? Some illness perhaps? But then the whole household would know about it. The whole thing was very unsettling.

Others in the Mereworth household had problems too.

 “I am afraid, Mr Verne, that I shall have to employ another young person to assist the ladies to dress.”

Lord Mereworth’s butler, the Mr Verne so addressed, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Mrs Manners, the housekeeper, would explain herself in her own good time.

“Lady Constance’s maid did not come up to London with her when she removed here from Quines. She has been being assisted by one of the upstairs maids. I had hoped that Miss Tinglewood …”, Mrs Manners peroration trailed off.

“Ah!” No further comment was needed. All was clear to the two demi-gods who ruled Lord Mereworth’s household on his behalf. It was not to be expected that the superior dresser employed at the extortionate salary of fifteen pounds a year to ensure that the tenue of the Dowager Lady Mereworth continued to be, in all respects, perfection would tolerate for long a situation whereby she was also expected to pay attention to those needs of my lady’s daughter which were beyond the skills of an upstairs maid.  Clearly a trainee lady’s maid must instantly be taken on. To do more would be excessive. Lady Constance was not going into society at present.

Why Lady Constance was not going into society and why she was confined to her chamber was something Mr Verne would dearly have loved to know. To have something as truly mysterious as this happening without explanation was a sore trial to him. Normally he would have known. But on this occasion his Lordship had been so inconsiderate as to throw into the fire the letter from his mother which had caused him to post down to Quines and his use of the hired chaise and driver had meant that the usual information as to what was happening at Quines, brought by the coachman, had not been available. Not for a moment would he have demeaned himself by seeking information from Miss Neal or Miss Templewood or asking Mrs Manners if she were better informed than he. She, in fact, knew just as little. A situation as unusual as this, where everything was not known to the servants could not endure for long. In the meantime he directed his attention to the matter in hand.

“What about the nursery? The arrival of two girls of seven and eight and a boy of five must have created a considerable amount of additional work.”

“Indeed they do! Fortunately I had already increased the number of our laundry maids and Miss Neal, the governess, had the sense to bring the nursery maids with them, so we are managing quite well at present. Miss Neal, though a gentlewoman, does not dine with the family but Ladies Diana and Chloe will soon be old enough to need the service of a ladies maid and ..”

“… before long we shall have to think about a valet for young Lord Cromer!” Mr Verne finished the review, since valets came within his empire rather than that of Mrs Manners.

“I shall place a notice regarding the new maid in the ‘Daily Advertiser’ at once.”

In the event, it was Mary Peebles, fourteen years of age, skilled with her needle and the smoothing iron but not yet fully competent at dressing a lady’s head, who was taken on as trainee lady’s maid to wait on Lady Constance while she was confined to her chamber.

All was not gloom in the Mereworth household. It did contain one contented member. Miss Tinglewood had the satisfaction of being high in her mistress’s favour and, even better, of being the only member of the staff who knew what all the fuss was about. Oh, the lures that were laid before her in conversation to tempt her into letting fall a morsel of information and, oh, the pleasure of delicately sidestepping them in the name of her duty to the Family.