Enlightening Delilah

by Beaton, M. C.

‘We look quite like an old married couple, do we not?’ called Effy gaily.

  Amy’s temper snapped. ‘I held my peace while you looked as frightened and worried as I, Effy,’ she raged. ‘But now I see you must have been play-acting as usual. Here we are in a terrible, dreadful mess and you sit there, like some old harpy, flirting and ogling without a care in the world.’

  Effy stole a look at Mr Haddon. ‘Can it be that Amy is jealous?’ she murmured.

  Amy heard that murmur. She got to her feet and tore the skein of wool out of Mr Haddon’s hands and threw it on the floor.

  ‘Are you deaf and blind as well as dumb?’ she shouted at Effy. ‘Do you not know what has happened?’

  ‘Oh, sit down, do,’ said Effy crossly. ‘It is no use ranting and raving and trying to get me worked up, Amy. It has all been quite awful, to be sure, but as soon as the snow stops, we will turn the matter over to our lawyers and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘You really don’t know,’ said Amy, amazed. ‘Let me spell it out for you: We earn our living sponsoring young girls and finding them husbands. There has been an attempted rape in this house and a murder while we were gulled into travelling to Croydon. Who, in the name of a demi-rep’s disease-ridden bum is going to send anyone to us now?’

  Effy looked stricken. ‘B-but, perhaps it is not so very bad. We have had two successes already and now we have a third.’

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ said Amy. ‘Delilah ain’t going to marry Sir Charles, and that’s that.’

  Effy began to cry and Mr Haddon looked at Amy reproachfully.

  ‘It’s no use looking at me like that,’ said Amy. ‘She’s got to see sense. Think, Mr Haddon! Is anyone in their right mind going to send a daughter to us now?’

  And Mr Haddon slowly shook his head.

  8

  The slavery of the tea and coffee and other slop-kettle.

  William Cobbett

  The sisters were unaware that in a quiet and fashionable street in Bath, events were taking place which would bring them another customer.

  Viscount and Viscountess Clarendon had arranged a tea-party. The purpose of this sedate affair was to introduce their daughter, the Honourable Clarissa Vevian, to a prospective suitor. They felt it was their last hope. Mr Paul Deveney had but lately come to Bath. New blood might be luckier than old.

  It was not that Clarissa was in any way repulsive in appearance. It was simply that she was infernally clumsy.

  And dangerously so.

  She had broken a bone in a gentleman’s foot only the other week at an assembly by landing on it enthusiastically from a great height after completing an entrechat in the quadrille. Clarissa had tearfully pointed out that the gentleman should not have been in the way when she came down to land.

  Lord Fremney had been playing a tune to her on the piano and Clarissa had somehow forgotten he was there or even that he was playing and had slammed down the lid of the piano and had broken his fingers. She seemed to have cut a swath of disaster through Bath.

  She had received written instructions from her mother as to how to go on at the tea-party. She was to sit, unmoving, and let her mother pour the tea and hand round the cakes. She was not to move at all. Not a muscle.

  Her maid, Jessop, had been given so many instructions as to how best to prettify her young mistress that she had overfussed and primped until Clarissa’s head felt as if it were on fire from all the crimping and singeing and curling.

  The Honourable Clarissa was a tall girl, very tall, and walked with a stoop. Her hair was dark red, a sad defect, and her eyes, her finest feature, were of a clear grey. She had large, well-shaped feet, but large feet were considered a common-looking disgrace and she was constantly being constrained to wear shoes too small for her, and so she walked with a shuffling gait and a pained look on her face. And with the white lead cosmetic her parents made her wear, she often looked like a weird apparition.

  Half an hour before the ‘last hope’ was due to arrive for tea, Lord and Lady Clarendon again studied an old newspaper, which carried the Tribbles’ advertisement.

  ‘Well, that’s out now,’ sighed Lord Clarendon. ‘Murder, indeed!’

  ‘But there are so many wickednesses in the world,’ said his wife, ‘and I know Effy Tribble. She is a sweet creature and very bon ton. Don’t you think . . . ?’

  The viscount shook his head. ‘Can’t send our only daughter into a household where there’s been a murder. I have great hopes of Deveney. I have been told he could do with some money and Clarissa has a very good dowry. As long as she remembers not to move, she will do very well.’

  Clarissa was seated in the drawing room behind the tea-table at four o’clock, the time Mr Deveney was due to arrive. She felt ugly and miserable. Her hair, from over-frizzing and curling, looked lifeless. She felt slightly unwell and seemed to have no energy whatsoever. She was sure that the blanc that covered her face, neck and arms was giving her cosmetic poisoning, a common enough complaint, but one neither her parents nor her maid appeared to have heard of.

  Her mother sat at the other side of the tea-table, a small, delicate creature with hair as fine and silvery as Effy Tribble’s. The viscount sat a little way away on Clarissa’s other side. He too was small in stature, but slim and elegant and dressed in his finest.

  The large Clarissa sat between them like a miserable cuckoo chick.

  ‘Mr Paul Deveney,’ announced the butler.

  Clarissa made to rise but her mother frowned a warning at her and went forward herself to greet Mr Deveney. He was a small Exquisite, dressed in the latest of wasp-waisted fashions and with very high heels to his boots and fixed spurs. His face was stained with walnut juice and the palms of his hands were dyed pink with cochineal. He carried a clouded cane in one hand and a highly scented handkerchief in the other.

  He sat at the tea-table and discoursed at length on the provincialism of Bath society. The Clarendons politely agreed, glancing nervously at their large daughter to make sure she did not move.

  And then all hell broke out from somewhere downstairs. There were screams and crashes and calls for help.

  The viscount ran to the door and could shortly be heard calling down from the landing, asking what the fuss was about.

  ‘Lady Howard’s horse ran away with her and her carriage is splintered against our railings, my lord,’ came the reply.

  The viscountess rose to her feet in great agitation. ‘Pray excuse me, Mr Deveney,’ she said. ‘Lady Howard is my oldest friend.’

  She fled from the room. There was a short silence during which Mr Deveney looked at Clarissa and Clarissa looked into the middle distance. Clarissa would have liked to go and look out of the window at the accident but had promised not to move, and Mr Deveney had no interest in anyone else’s welfare other than his own.

  ‘I would like some more tea,’ said Mr Deveney at last.

  ‘Of course,’ Clarissa picked up the teapot and found it empty. Well, she would have to rise to get more. No point in ringing for the servants when they were all busy at the accident. She carried it over to a silver urn on the sideboard where the water was being kept at a low boil over a spirit-stove.

  Poor Clarissa. Her feet hurt and her head hurt and she felt large and stupid and ugly in front of the dainty little Mr Deveney, who was watching her with a certain rather waspish amusement in his eyes.

  In fact, he is like a wasp, thought Clarissa, with that ridiculously nipped-in coat and that black-and-gold-striped waistcoat. People like Mr Deveney should be swatted; nasty, buzzing, spiteful creature. She made a flapping motion with her hand as if swiping a wasp and knocked the urn and spirit-stove flying. Clarissa leapt back with a scream as a Niagara of boiling water cascaded across the floor.

  Mr Deveney tried to leap up but his spurs got entangled with each other and he fell under the table. The spirit-stove had rolled under the table and had set the pretty lace cover alight.

  ‘The tablecloth’s on fire,’ shouted Mr Deveney, wriggling out f
rom under the table like an eel.

  Clarissa seized the burning tablecloth, sending cakes and cups and dishes flying, and threw it over in the direction of the window; then she kicked the spirit-stove across the room. The tablecloth set the curtains alight and the trail of spirits from the stove sent the carpet up in flames.

  As Clarissa tugged at the bell rope for help and then tried to stamp out the flames, Mr Deveney, who still had hopes of Clarissa’s dowry, caught her round the waist and cried, ‘I shall save you.’

  ‘I don’t need saving,’ said Clarissa crossly. She gave him what she considered a gentle shove, but he went flying backwards into the flaming curtains. His hair went up like a torch and he tore it off, revealing it had been only a wig and that he was as bald as a coot underneath.

  Clarissa obligingly jumped up and down on his wig to put the flames out as the servants came running in with pails of water.

  Lord and Lady Clarendon came into the wreck of their once pretty drawing room to find Mr Deveney a sobbing, demoralized creature and their daughter trying to comfort him by putting a charred wig on his head.

  Both agreed later that that was the very moment when they decided to send Clarissa to the Tribbles.

  Unaware of the good fortune about to descend on them, Effy and Amy Tribble, once the thaw came, coped competently with lawyers and burst pipes alike.

  The genius of McAdam had not stretched as far as the village of Hoppleton, and when Sir Charles finally set out, he had to struggle through miles of mud and flooded rivers on foot before reaching a good posting-house where he could hire a horse and find a decent road leading to London to ride it on. He had not taken any servants with him, preferring to face the rigours of the journey alone. A husband in the person of a farm labourer had been found for the scullery maid and a vacant cottage on Sir Charles’s estate had been refurbished for the couple. He was looking forward to telling Delilah all about it. She would learn that he was not hard and unfeeling.

  The squire was still confined to bed, recovering from his accident. Sir Charles had not learned of Delilah’s change of heart, for the post-boy had been unable to reach the village, and the squire had begged Sir Charles to bring Delilah home.

  He finally was on his way on horseback for London, relishing the change in the weather. The sky above was a pale washed-out blue and a mist was rising from the sodden fields.

  Sir Charles was sure Delilah would be delighted not only to see him but to escape from that dreadful house. He rode straight to Holles Street. It was the middle of the afternoon when he arrived, and he found to his irritation that the ladies had gone out on calls.

  He felt he ought to find a hotel and change out of his muddy clothes, but the desire to see Delilah was so great that he told the butler, Harris, that he would wait. He expected the Tribble sisters to be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. He wondered who was receiving them, for surely the shame of failing to protect their charge had put them beyond the social pale.

  But it was thanks to Delilah that the Tribble sisters were now the most sought after ladies in Town. Having become fond of them and knowing how badly they had been tricked by Mr Berkeley, Delilah had become expert at telling her story very dramatically. One hostess told another, and Delilah and the Tribbles were soon heavily in demand, everyone wanting to hear first hand of Delilah’s Gothic adventure.

  Sir Charles heard their return and the chatter of voices in the hall downstairs, followed by a sudden silence. Then, to his horror, he heard Miss Amy say clearly, ‘We shall explain matters if you like, Delilah. You have been through so much. We would not want to cause you any more pain.’

  Delilah answered something in a low voice that he could not hear.

  He rose to his feet as they entered the room. Delilah was looking bewitching in a morning dress of black bombazine covered with a short mantle of silver cloth.

  She turned to the sisters and said quietly, ‘I shall see Sir Charles alone.’

  Effy made to protest, but Amy pulled her from the room.

  Delilah unpinned her bonnet and placed it on a side table and then turned to Sir Charles.

  ‘How is my father?’ she asked.

  ‘I am afraid he is not well yet,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Of course, you do not know. We set out some time ago for London, but the carriage overturned in the ditch and Mr Wraxall was knocked unconscious. He is recovering fast with Mrs Cavendish to tend him. I told him I would ride to London and bring you home.’

  ‘Of course I shall go as soon as possible,’ said Delilah. ‘Poor Papa. Are you sure he is better?’

  ‘Much better. Mrs Cavendish is an excellent nurse. I have made arrangements with the vicar to marry us as soon as we return. Mr Wraxall says it would be fine to have a double wedding, so he will be marrying Mrs Cavendish at the same time. What is the matter? You are very pale. Your father is not in any danger.’

  Delilah looked at him sadly. ‘I am trying to find the courage to tell you I cannot marry you.’

  Sir Charles took an angry step towards her and she backed away, holding up one hand. ‘Do not come near me, sir,’ she said. ‘I cannot be forced to marry when I don’t want to.’

  ‘You jade,’ he raged. ‘Once a heart-breaker, always a heart-breaker. You led me on. Was it revenge you wanted? I feel like shaking you.’

  He took another threatening step forward. Amy appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Go to your room, Delilah,’ she said. ‘I will handle matters here.’

  Amy waited until Delilah had left, and said, ‘That is no way to speak to her.’

  ‘How else do you expect me to speak to her?’ said Sir Charles. ‘Is this a result of your schooling? She is a worse flirt than ever she was!’

  ‘Sit down, Sir Charles,’ said Amy wearily. ‘Now you must realize Delilah has had a very nasty experience. Very nasty. It is not you she dislikes at the moment, she is simply afraid of all men. If your courtship had not been so forward, she might perhaps be less afraid of you. If you want to win her back, then I suggest you begin to woo her properly and patiently.’

  ‘And what do you, a spinster, know of such matters?’

  Amy looked like a whipped horse, and Sir Charles said quickly, ‘Forgive me. I did not mean that. But you must see how it looks from my point of view.’

  ‘I can understand your point of view,’ said Amy. ‘Now try to understand Delilah’s. She was badly beaten by Mr Berkeley and nearly raped. She may believe that is how all men are. I know you want to shout at her and give her a good shaking, but if you still want her, then that is not the way to go about it.’

  ‘Do you not think I, too, have sometimes had doubts about this marriage?’ said Sir Charles. ‘I was sometimes afraid that she would turn from a flighty girl into a flighty matron. But the love I had for her was so strong, I was prepared to take that risk. I can see now that I have had a lucky escape.’

  Amy sighed. ‘And I can see your pride is badly hurt. Are you come to take her home?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Wraxall was knocked unconscious in a carriage accident. Mrs Cavendish is nursing him and he is recovering fast, but he is anxious to have his daughter back home.’

  ‘Then it is as well she goes,’ said Amy sadly. ‘You cannot travel alone with her in a closed carriage. Effy and I will go with you. It is the least we can do for Delilah. I have an account with the livery stables. We can set out in two days’ time.’

  ‘Why not earlier?’

  A ghost of a smile played on Amy’s lips. ‘Because it will take some time to persuade my sister to face the evils of the countryside. Please think of what I have said, Sir Charles. Delilah is a warm and generous woman, a woman any man should be proud to court and woo. All it takes is a little patience.’

  ‘I shall call for her in two days’ time,’ said Sir Charles stiffly. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

  ‘Absolutely ridiculous,’ raged Effy when she heard the plan. ‘You know how I detest the country, Amy. Bad smelly drains and bad smelly peasants. Besides, Mr Haddon is to take
us to the playhouse.’

  ‘Look, Effy.’ Amy sat down and glared at her sister. ‘You are forgetting about our job, and that job is to find a husband for Delilah. She loves him and he loves her, but there’s fright on the one hand and pride on the other. We should see it through. Thanks to Delilah, our reputation is much restored. Now if only we could get her married, I feel we would be back in business again.’

  In vain did Effy protest; Amy was adamant. Effy had made up her mind to pretend to fall ill when a letter arrived from Mr Haddon to say he was suffering from the ague and would be unable to escort them to the play. Effy thought of being left alone in the house (for she did not consider the servants as company), expecting every moment that another mad rapist would come bounding up the stairs. At last, she set her mind to travel to the dreaded country, deciding to wear a pair of smoked glasses so that she should not have to look too closely at the place.

  When they finally set out, the mercurial English weather had changed again. The sky was leaden and a biting wind blew from the north-east. Effy, Amy, Delilah, and the maid, Baxter, travelled inside the coach and Sir Charles rode alongside.

  Delilah had feared he would renew his attentions, but he was polite and chilly and distant and she consoled herself with the thought that she was better off not being married to such an icy mortal.

  But she could not help glancing out of the carriage window at him. He rode easily and well. A cheeky housemaid, shaking a rug out of an upstairs window, blew Sir Charles a kiss and he smiled and raised his hat.

  If that girl were in my employ, thought Delilah, I would send her packing. She took out a book and began to read.

  When she looked up again, it was to see small flakes of snow beginning to blow outside the carriage.

  ‘What weather!’ said Amy with a shiver. She pulled down the window and called to Sir Charles, ‘How far to the nearest town?’

  ‘About ten miles, I think,’ he called back. The snow fell heavier and heavier. The wind had dropped, but great flakes blanketed the landscape. Soon, Sir Charles looked like a snowman on horseback.