Perfecting Fiona
Page 1
M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker and Six Sisters Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more.
Praise for the School for Manners series:
‘A welcome new series . . . the best of the Regency writers again offers an amusing merry-go-round of a tale.’
Kirkus
‘The Tribbles, with their salty exchanges and impossible schemes, provide delightful entertainment.’
Publishers Weekly
‘A delightful Regency sure to please . . . [Beaton] is a romance writer who deftly blends humour and adventure . . . [sustaining] her devoted audience to the last gasp.’
Booklist
‘The Tribbles are charmers . . . Very highly recommended.’
Library Journal
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The School for Manners
Refining Felicity • Perfecting Fiona • Enlightening Delilah
Animating Maria • Finessing Clarissa • Marrying Harriet
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 1989
First published in the UK by Chivers Press, 1990
This paperback edition published by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1989
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-78033-312-0 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-78033-467-7 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
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For Sue Austin, with love
1
A young unmarried man, with a good name
And fortune, has an awkward part to play;
For good society is but a game,
‘The royal game of Goose,’ as I might say,
Where everybody has some separate aim,
An end to answer, or a plan to lay –
The single ladies wishing to be double,
The married ones to save the virgins trouble.
Lord Byron
To practise economy was to be out of fashion. And so those two professional chaperones, Effy and Amy Tribble, were soon hard pressed.
Both were maiden ladies of a certain age, fallen on hard times. They had, on receiving their last piece of bad news – a dying relative had cut them out of her will – decided to go into business. They were well connected and had a fairly fashionable London address. And so they advertised themselves as chaperones, not to any ordinary misses, but to the difficult ones, the spoilt ones, the seemingly unmarriageable ones.
They had already had one great success, but strangely enough, offers for their services had not come flooding in. The fact was that society members felt that to engage the services of the Tribble sisters was to advertise to the world that one’s offspring was, to say the least of it, ‘difficult’.
Their first ‘job’ had paid generously and the Tribbles had enjoyed their first taste of luxury in a long time. But the inflationary prices of the Regency soon began to make enormous inroads in their capital.
And so, on one cold winter’s day when London lay under a blanket of suffocating fog, Effy awoke to the sound of whoops of delight from her sister Amy. An offer had arrived in the morning’s post.
‘Don’t be so noisy, Amy,’ wailed Effy, struggling up against her lace-edged pillows as her sister erupted into the bedchamber.
Effy Tribble had gained a delicacy and beauty with age that she had lacked when she was younger. Her fine silver hair curled prettily around a sweet, only slightly wrinkled face. Her hands were still small and white and her tiny feet had high-enough arches to please the most finicky member of society.
Alas for Amy! She had been a plain girl and now was a large, plain, middle-aged woman with a tall flat figure and enormous hands and feet and the face of a trusting horse.
She sat heavily on the end of the bed and crackled open the parchment. ‘Listen, sis,’ she cried. ‘It is from a Mr and Mrs Burgess of Tunbridge Wells. They have a niece, Fiona, and they say that despite several
advantageous offers, she remains unwed. The gentlemen ask leave to pay their addresses, are left alone with this Fiona, and the next thing the Burgesses know is that the suitor has fled the house, never to be seen again.’
Effy sighed. ‘Oh, if we could only say No. This Fiona sounds a difficult case.’ Effy could not imagine any lady refusing even one offer.
‘Nonsense,’ said Amy. ‘I am sure all she needs is a firm hand. How much more difficult our task would seem if the girl was an antidote and not capable of attracting any suitors at all. Let me see, the Burgesses are very hard on her. They say she is bold and brazen. Dear me! Slut on’t! We shall come about.’
‘Do not use foul language, Amy,’ said Effy primly.
Amy reddened and muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and then fell to studying the letter again. ‘They do sound desperate. They will call here on January the fourteenth – that’s about a fortnight hence – and if they find us and the accommodation suitable, they will ‘‘deposit’’ Fiona with us.’
‘So soon?’ wailed Effy.
‘Can’t be soon enough,’ said Amy robustly. ‘Only think! Not so long ago we had very little money and no servants. Now we have a whole houseful of servants to be paid on quarter-day and . . .’
‘And no money at all,’ finished Effy in a hollow voice. ‘How could we manage to get through so much?’
‘Because we are in society,’ said Amy, ‘and just being in takes a deal of money. Why, even when our last client paid up, we had little compared to others. What of the gentlemen who think nothing of losing thirty thousand pounds of an evening at White’s?’
‘They are gentlemen,’ said Effy repressively. ‘It is only the ladies who know how to balance the books and that is why the gentlemen marry us.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Amy cynically. ‘I thought it was because they wanted a legitimate ride at home instead of playing the beast with two backs around the brothels. Have you ever considered how many of our Pinks of the ton must be Frenchified?’
‘AMY!’ screeched Effy, clapping her hands over her ears. ‘Frenchified’ was cant for contracting venereal disease.
Amy paid her no heed. ‘Mr Haddon calls today. He will be glad to hear our news.’
Effy dropped her hands. ‘Mr Haddon! Why did you not warn me?’
Mr Haddon was a nabob, and a friend of the sisters. Effy was always sure Mr Haddon was on the point of proposing to her – an assumption which never failed to infuriate Amy.
‘I must see Mamselle Yvette right away,’ said Effy, getting out of bed. ‘She must finish that scarlet merino gown for me directly.’ Mamselle Yvette was another of the sisters’ extravagances – a resident French dressmaker.
‘Mr Haddon is an old friend,’ said Amy sulkily. ‘No need to primp and fuss.’
‘There is always need,’ said Effy, pulling on a lacy wrapper. She then gently removed a confection of a nightcap to reveal a headful of curl papers. ‘My efforts have not been in vain in the past. To think I could have been married were it not for . . . Ah, well, no use crying over spilt milk.’
Amy flapped her large feet in embarrassment. Effy always claimed that her single state was due to her determination not to desert Amy. But it was Amy who had been nagged out of accepting two respectable proposals by Effy, a fact that Amy, who did not think much of herself, often forgot.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, for her thin muslin gown was not adequate protection against the winter draughts which whistled under every door of the house in Holles Street. Yvette, the French dressmaker, had tried to persuade Amy to adopt the new military style of dress for ladies, feeling that a more mannish mode of dress would flatter Amy’s flat figure. But Amy, after reluctantly agreeing to the making of two gowns, became convinced that if she dressed in a young fashion, then she would look young, so her gown was of pink muslin with a low neckline and little puffed sleeves.
She sighed and went off to inspect the household books, and to see if any more extravagances could be pared from the budget.
And yet the expenditure of the Tribble sisters seemed downright parsimonious compared to that of other members of the ton.
The Prince Regent’s capacity for spending money was shared by the whole of society. A hostess who was in the grip of one of the latest crazes of interior design and wanted her whole house done over in the Egyptian mode thought nothing of piling all the old furniture – Sheraton, Chippendale, and Wyatt – onto the lawn and making a bonfire of it. To make a brave appearance riding in the Park was far more important to a gentleman than his bank balance, and aristocrats like the humpbacked Lord Sefton cheerfully paid a thousand guineas at Tattersall’s for a thoroughbred.
Amy, who enjoyed riding, hired a horse from John Tilbury of Mount Street for twelve guineas a month, and that did not cover the animal’s keep.
Clothes were another extravagance. A simple muslin evening gown could end up costing a fortune, for often the clasps on the bodice were made of gold and precious stones and the embroidery was of gold thread and seed pearls. Fine lace was so expensive that each lady’s maid had a lace box to guard as well as a jewel box.
Amy’s head was soon aching after studying the books. Mrs Lamont, the housekeeper, protested that Amy did not trust her and threw her apron over her head and burst into tears and had to be soothed down with gin and hot water.
Feeling frazzled, Amy decided to go out riding as soon as Mr Haddon’s visit was over. She changed into a smart bottle-green riding dress of mannish cut which became her better than anything else she had in her wardrobe. But Amy did not know that. In her mind, she had given up any hope of attracting Mr Haddon. Let Effy flutter and flirt and tease. Amy decided she would rise above it all.
She sat down at the toilet table and let Baxter, the lady’s maid, arrange her hair. Baxter was a tall, gaunt elderly woman, former lady’s maid to the aunt who had failed to leave the Tribbles any money in her will. She was a conscientious woman and felt Amy was a perpetual walking slur on her art.
She picked up Amy’s heavy iron-grey tresses. ‘Have you ever thought of a leetle dye, mum?’
‘No, I have not,’ snapped Amy, who often thought of dying her depressing locks but had not the courage to do so.
‘Or one of the new cuts? I would not do it myself, of course,’ said Baxter, lighting the spirit lamp to heat the curling tongs. ‘But I could get Monsieur André, who—’
‘Enough,’ said Amy crossly. She was a tall woman, but Baxter always left her feeling diminished in size and spirit. ‘Monsieur André is too expensive and that you know. Get on with it, Baxter.’
Baxter primped her lips in disapproval, and after combing a solution of sugar and water through Amy’s hair to stiffen it, began to curl it all over her head.
Yvette, the dressmaker, entered quietly and stood watching the operation.
‘What are you staring at, Frenchie?’ grumbled Baxter.
‘I do not think Miss Amy should have the curls,’ said Yvette. Baxter’s bosom swelled with outrage. She was jealous of Yvette, who was young and attractive in a sallow-skinned, black-eyed way.
‘Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job,’ she said.
Yvette sighed and tried again, appealing to Amy directly. ‘The curls are not for you, ma’am. Perhaps one of the new Roman styles with the hair swept back from the forehead and perhaps ringlets falling from the crown, but not curls.’
‘Leave me alone, both of you,’ cried Amy, starting up so suddenly that the curling tongs went flying.
She marched down to the drawing room, a high colour on her cheeks, to find that Mr Haddon was already there and being entertained by Effy, who was wearing her new gown of scarlet merino. Looks like a tart, thought Amy viciously.
Mr Haddon rose courteously at Amy’s entrance. He was a tall, thin, slightly stooped man with pepper-and-salt hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. He had gone out to India a relatively poor young man and had come back a rich nabob. He bowed over Amy’s hand, and when sh
e was seated, went back to his own chair beside the tea-tray.
‘So,’ said Effy, ‘you can see we are all of a dither. I am afraid our new task must be this Fiona, although I had thought, after our last success, that we would have been able to take our pick.’
‘It takes time to build up a reputation,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘Does this young lady have a good dowry?’
‘She is an heiress,’ said Amy gruffly.
Effy raised plucked eyebrows. ‘You did not tell me that, Amy.’
Amy gave a gauche shrug and stared at the fire as if it were the most interesting fire she had ever seen.
‘Then you should have no difficulty,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘It is a sadly materialistic world. Everyone talks of love, but no one marries for it.’
‘Our last charge did,’ said Effy.
‘Ah, well, there is always the exception to prove the rule.’
Effy batted her lamp-blackened eyelashes at Mr Haddon over the edge of her fan. ‘Would you marry for money, Mr Haddon?’
‘I am a confirmed bachelor, but were I not, then I would not marry for money.’
There was a little silence. Amy looked sideways and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a long looking-glass. An angry middle-aged woman with a ridiculously girlish head of curls stared back.
‘I have just passed my half century,’ thought Amy bitterly. ‘I look it. Effy and I have been dreaming of marriage for so long that we have not noticed the passing of the years. A lot of our contemporaries are dead. We should be studying the latest patterns in shrouds instead of the latest fashions in gowns.’ Her eyes glittered with tears.
‘I see you are dressed for riding, Miss Amy,’ said Mr Haddon gently.
‘Yes,’ said Amy hoarsely. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘My horse is being brought round from Tilbury’s.’