Simon's Waif Read online

  So matters stood when Mrs Cushing acquired a new social asset. Admittedly she had to pay a higher wage than she had ever before paid to a manservant, but a butler who had once served in the household of the Duke of Byram would add such distinction to her entertainments as must make her the envy of all her acquaintance. The fact that Dorset (he had been born in the county, which entitled him, he felt, to lay claim to its name) had served his Grace in the lowly capacity of boot boy and in his own rightful name of Binks, and that the employment had terminated at the end of a month, to the vast relief of his Grace’s butler, was mercifully hidden from his new employer, who set little store by written references. He was a tall, fine figure of a man was Dorset, and though he heartily despised the kind of establishment that the Cushings kept, it would suit him very nicely to lie low for a while, at least until the matter of the missing Murray silver had been forgotten. He did not think that anyone would look to find him in Kensington.

  Unfortunately, in addition to a tendency to light fingers and a certain vagueness about property rights, the fine figure of a man had a distinct weakness for women. His position of authority and his striking good looks made it a fairly simple matter for him to satisfy this very natural appetite. Such of the maidservants as did not succumb to his masculine charms could easily be bullied into submission. It never occurred to him that the shy, quiet little sewing-maid or nursemaid or whatever she was might resent his distinguishing attentions. As a matter of fact she was not at all in his usual style. He preferred them plump and cuddlesome. But she had a kind of refinement that was mildly intriguing. Come down in the world, he shouldn’t wonder. And then of all things, she turned out to be standoffish. The sly nips and squeezes, the occasional stolen kiss that were the common currency of this kind of affair, were evaded with a skill that must be deliberate. Nothing could have inflamed him more surely. And one afternoon he caught her fairly, when there could be no evasion, following her into Mrs Cushing’s dressing-room where she was hanging away a dress that she had been altering. He came silently up behind her and put his arms about her, nuzzling the back of her neck with greedy lips and squeezing her breasts with experienced fingers. He was quite unprepared for her reaction. She wrenched herself out of his careless hold with a strength that amazed him and swung round on him in a fury, her hands coming up almost automatically to slap his face, first on one side and then the other.

  “Keep your hands to yourself in future, you dirty beast,” she said, low and fierce. And turned and left the room before he had done fingering his burning cheeks.

  Of course he could not leave it at that. He would take her now, whether his heart was in it or not. No uppity wench was going to treat Jacky Binks – alias John Dorset – like that, and giggle over it with the other girls. The lady had a sharp lesson coming to her.

  He went to her room that night. The door was standing wide open. In all the months of Harriet’s occupation no one but herself and Jessy, the scullery maid who had the other attic, had ever climbed those stairs, save for the housekeeper on her occasional visit of inspection. Since the arrival of the pup, Harriet usually left the door open. The attic, which had baked all day under a July sun, was like an oven. The one small window did not open. And the pup, like all her breed, had difficulty in breathing.

  Dorset had taken the precaution of ascertaining that the doors of the attics could not be locked, but he had never expected such good fortune as this. A shaft of moonlight falling through the tiny window showed him the sleeping girl, just as she had cast herself down on top of the bed, unable to endure so much as a sheet to cover her in the stifling heat. For so large a man he could move very quietly, an art in which he had had considerable practice. He stole forward, velvet-footed, flung himself on top of her, and seizing her in his arms clamped his mouth over hers as the simplest method of preventing any outcry.

  Harriet, roused from the first deep sleep of utter weariness, was so dazed that the attack might well have succeeded. But he had reckoned without Mandy. The pup, also roused from blissful slumber, reacted far more swiftly than her human protector. She was not very big nor very old but her instincts were sound and she had a fine new set of teeth which she used to good effect on the marauder’s legs. Two good slashing bites were quite sufficient to make Mr Binks-Dorset release his victim and howl his wrath to the receptive darkness. The pup broke into a series of menacing snarls and was obviously prepared to bite again, and Harriet’s cries for help swelled the clamour which roused the whole house.

  The outcome was a foregone conclusion. No one, from Jessy, always jealous anyway, who had run to waken the housekeeper, to Mrs Cushing herself who was finally summoned to pronounce judgement, believed Harriet’s version of the events that had occurred. No one wished to believe them. Mrs Farson, the housekeeper, herself had an eye to the handsome Dorset. So far as Mrs Cushing was concerned, an abigail, even one who was handy with her needle, was more easily replaced that her latest acquisition. Dorset stuck to his story that he had heard the girl cry out – perhaps in her sleep, he added with a large generosity – and had immediately gone to search for possible intruders, when he had been set upon by the dog and savagely bitten. No one enquired what he had been doing on the attic stairs in the first place, or how he imagined that an intruder could have gained access to the attics. Mrs Cushing said that a doctor should be summoned immediately to dress his wounds and promised that the savage brute which had inflicted them should be destroyed first thing in the morning. Dorset declined the services of the doctor, saying bravely that he could manage well enough for himself, but adding in a sanctimonious voice that he could not see his way to working in the same house as one who had so maligned him and that, with deep regret, he must tender his resignation. Mrs Cushing, who had feared something of the sort, promptly assured him that there was no need for such extreme measures. The girl should be sent off at once, and without a character, too. One could not give a reference to a proven liar. Which caused Dorset to smirk his satisfaction and Harriet to lose her temper and declare hotly that she would rather leave without a character than share the same roof with a dirty lecherous beast. She was promptly told to hold her wicked tongue and bustled back into her room by the scandalised Mrs Farson. Mandy had already taken refuge under her bed and came creeping out to greet her, not sure whether she was to be scolded or praised for her recent activities.

  Harriet gathered the shivering pup in her arms and found relief in a hearty burst of tears which trickled down on the pup’s fur and caused it to lick her face in a frantic attempt at comfort.

  Presently the storm of tears subsided and she brought herself to face the problem of the future. One thing was certain. She was not going to let them kill the puppy. So she must leave the house that night and take Mandy with her. And there was one piece of good luck. Her pitiful wages had been paid only the previous week, so she had a small store of money. She had nowhere to go except the farm. Since coming to Kensington she had never heard from Uncle Jonas, but he was not much of a hand with a pen. Now that she was older and could work harder he might find her more acceptable, though she dreaded to think what he would say about Mandy. She would face that battle when she came to it. Meanwhile the main thing was to escape. She lit her candle and began to dress.

  She had nothing fit to wear to present a respectable appearance on the coach, and the sight of a shabbily dressed girl carrying a pug puppy was likely to attract a most undesirable degree of attention. Not that she supposed any one would search for her, but she would not put it past Dorset to insist that sentence be duly carried out on the animal that had dared to bite him. Desperation sharpened her wits. There was a suit of Master Horace Cushing’s hanging in the sewing-room awaiting her attentions. It would be rather large for her – he was a plump lad – but it would serve. And she could leave some money to pay for it so that they could not accuse her of stealing.

  Breathlessly, with wildly beating heart, she crept down the stairs, barefooted as she was, and made her way to the sew
ing-room, not daring to make a light for fear of wakening any one. As she gathered the suit over her arm another thought struck her. Her hair. Well – this was no time for half-measures. She found the dressmaking shears and sawed through the thick plait into which her hair was confined at night.

  Back in her own room she dressed awkwardly. She had no shirt and dared not venture into the laundry room in search of one. Her chemise would have to do and she could wind a scarf round her neck. It would look a little odd in high summer but it was the best she could think of. There was no packing to do. With strange pockets she would have all she could do to cope with her purse and the pup. She could not manage a bundle as well. In any case there was little that was worth troubling about except her Bible that Mama had given her. She could only wrap it up carefully in a piece of paper and hope that some day she might be able to claim it again. At least no one would venture to steal a Bible.

  She left the pup’s collar in a conspicuous place on the table in the hall and three of her precious guineas with it. There was no time for writing explanatory letters and in any case she had no materials available.

  The journey to Holborn was the next difficulty. It was a long way – perhaps as much as five miles – and the coaches left early, she knew. Nor was she too sure of finding her way. Better to set out at once and put as much distance as possible between herself and that hated house before daylight. Her preparations had taken longer than she had thought and dawn came early at this time of the year. She shivered a little at the thought of venturing out alone into the deserted streets, but it had to be faced. And if there were any desperate villains on the prowl they would scarcely concern themselves with a lad and his dog. Later, in daylight, she would concoct some tale about being employed to take the dog to a new owner in the country.

  In the event the journey proved memorable mainly for her growing hunger. She had been too wrought up to think of eating before they left Fetter Lane, though she had managed to book a seat on the Winchester coach without difficulty, having assured the agent that the pug was not ill-tempered, a character born out by the sight of an exhausted little animal asleep in her arms. She had lost her way several times between Kensington and Holborn, and eventually Mandy had needed to be carried for short periods. Surprisingly heavy she was, too, but her physique was not designed for prolonged exercise. It was questionable which of the pair was the more exhausted by the time that they eventually boarded the stage.

  She had reached Alresford some time during the early afternoon and had bought buns in a shop which she remembered from childhood. No one had recognised her. She and Mandy had shared the buns in the shelter of a hedge before walking on to the farm.

  It had never occurred to her that she might find strangers in occupation. They were kindly enough and gave her a glass of milk, but they could tell her nothing of her uncle’s present whereabouts. They had been living at the farm for close on three years. There had been some talk of Mr Johnson going to Canada, but they did not know if he had actually gone. Certainly they had not come across him at any of the local markets or hiring fairs, so it looked as if he had left the district. When they, in turn, began to ask questions, she had evaded their kindly curiosity, saying that she had friends in the district with whom she would beg a night’s lodging.

  A night in the woods, empty pockets, and a hunger that made her feel quite sick, combined to convince her that she must have help, and she had been on her way to seek out Mrs Bedford when the accident happened.

  The long telling had tired her. She sat limp and drooping in her chair, her hands lying lax in her lap, the wan little face utterly weary. Simon was filled with a passion of pity which he had some difficulty in restraining. His instinct was to offer whatever kind of help the girl needed, but luckily Mrs Bedford had warned him of the stubborn attitude that she had displayed over the purchase of necessary clothing. He was still mulling over the best way of broaching this ticklish subject when Alice came in with the tea tray.

  He was grateful for the interruption. The crumpled little creature in the chair certainly looked as though she would be all the better for a cup of tea, and Miss Mandy woke up and announced her readiness to take an interest in the proceedings. She was told, in a very firm voice to sit down.

  “You must never feed her at table,” said Simon. “If you do she will become a nuisance, always pestering for titbits, as well as getting too fat, which is dangerous with this type of dog.”

  He turned his attention to Alice’s tray. He was not in the least hungry and never took tea in the middle of the afternoon, but it seemed to him that a shared meal might help him to establish better relations with his protégée. He despatched Alice to the kitchen for another cup. “And some of Mrs Bedford’s cherry jam, and some bread to toast and a toasting fork,” he added with a flash of inspiration. “I am very partial to cherry jam,” he told her, as Alice bustled off. “Especially the way Mrs Bedford makes it. Do you remember it from your childhood?”

  It was a far cry from the girl’s miserable story to cherry jam, but it served admirably, with its reminder of homely, comfortable things that had once been familiar. And purely by chance he had hit upon a genuine link with Harriet’s childhood, for Mrs Bedford had always been used to present her grandmama with a jar of the new season’s preserve. She was still telling him how they used to have it for a special treat on Sundays, when Alice came back.

  At Mr Warhurst’s suggestion, Alice poured out. She also spread cherry jam on the bread that the master toasted, since it would not do for Miss Harriet to sticky her gorgeous coat. By the time the pair of them had finished with her Harriet felt about seven years old and wouldn’t have been surprised if one or other of them had suggested washing her hands and face for her when tea was done. She also felt very much happier, as though in giving Mr Warhurst her confidence she had somehow rid herself of something foul and beastly. In fact, like the little girl whom at the moment she resembled, she felt clean and good again, but very tired. Perhaps tonight there would be no frightening dreams to make a mockery of sleep.

  And here was Mr Warhurst calmly telling Alice to come back in half an hour and put her to bed. “For she has sat up quite long enough already but there are still one or two points that we have to decide.”

  Much restored by tea and toast and a little easy laughter, Harriet sat up straighter in her chair and tried to concentrate her thoughts. It was difficult, because the whole situation was dream-like. Who, for example, could have imagined either Mr or Mrs Cushing in Mr Warhurst’s place? Perfectly at ease and pleasant in the company of a housemaid and a girl who had been dismissed without a character; handling the mischievous Mandy firmly but with kindness. It was all too good to be true and very soon she would have to wake up to real life again. But for the moment she was too sleepy to fight any more. She just hoped Mr Warhurst wasn’t going to make things too difficult for her.

  Mr Warhurst had no such intention. “Be patient for a little while,” he was saying gently. “I understand your desire for independence and I respect it, but at this moment you are in no case to earn your own living, and the only sensible thing to do is to submit to the care that will make you well and strong again. If you neglect your health now you may be sickly for months. Let Mrs Bedford look after you – which you must know will make her very happy – and accept the simple necessities that she is bringing you with a good grace. You must have two dresses you know. Suppose Mandy were to tear one of them – or you were to spill a glass of milk down it? And I may as well confess now that I told her to buy pretty ones. All the other members of the household have to look at you. They may as well have something pleasant to look at, while I can think of nothing more likely to prolong your convalescence than being obliged to wear dresses that were dowdy or ugly and ill-fitting. As for payment – you can eventually repay me in money if you so wish. I will undertake to keep a careful account of all expenditure, and since I am comfortably circumstanced there is no urgency. But you could repay me far better by helpi
ng Mrs Bedford. Once you are a little stronger there must be a dozen things that you could do to lighten her labours. She is not so young as she was, you know, and the services of a daughter – for I am sure she regards you in that light – could do much to make her life easier. What do you say?”

  What could she say? His tact made it easy to accept his generosity. Perhaps, some day, she would repay him in money. Meanwhile, she said, “Thank you, Sir,” with all her heart.

  Chapter Five

  For the next week she saw very little of her patron. He came each day with Dr Fearing to visit her, gazing politely out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, while the doctor enquired into her progress, turning to join with the doctor and Mrs Bedford in the discussion which followed. She lay meekly, the covers drawn up to her chin, while they debated what further activities might be permitted her. She looked the picture of docility, but day by day the tide of youth and health was rising within her, and the thoughts behind the childlike mask grew more and more rebellious. They spoke soberly of rest and nourishment and gentle exercise, and Harriet controlled a mounting desire to be up and about and exploring this new world to which chance had brought her.