‘And I have my mount,’ said Mr Haddon, ‘so we may ride together.’
Amy’s sudden surge of elation was short-lived. Effy got to her feet and rang the bell. ‘Then I shall come too,’ she cried gaily. When the footman answered, she told him to run to Tilbury’s and find her a horse.
‘But you don’t ride!’ cried Amy furiously. ‘You hate it. You said so.’
‘La, sis, what nonsense you do talk. I quite dote on it.’
While Effy went off to change into a riding dress, Mr Haddon tried to engage Amy in conversation. But the miserable Amy only answered him in gruff monosyllables.
Effy at last appeared in a dainty blue velvet riding dress trimmed with silver.
She chattered on gaily as they left, hanging on to Mr Haddon’s arm as Amy slouched behind them. ‘I am a veritable Diana, Mr Haddon,’ trilled Effy. She stopped short on the doorstep, her mouth fell open and her cheeks blanched. ‘Such very tall horses,’ she murmured.
Amy’s spirits rallied. She felt Effy deserved to be punished. It was balm to her soul to see how terrified Effy was as they rode along Oxford Street. But when they reached the Park and Amy wanted to gallop, Effy screamed that she could not be left alone, and so the horses moved slowly on at an amble.
‘You must think me a sad case, Mr Haddon,’ cooed Effy. ‘Now Amy is not afraid. She is quite an Amazon, and does not suffer from any frailties of our gentler sex.’
Amy let her horse fall behind Effy’s. ‘Only look over there, Mr Haddon,’ cried Amy. ‘One of the deer has escaped from the enclosure.’
As Mr Haddon looked away, Amy leaned forward and struck Effy’s mount across the rump with her whip. Effy’s horse went off like the wind, with Effy hanging on for dear life and screaming like a banshee. Mr Haddon rode in pursuit and Amy rode as well, determined to get to her sister before Mr Haddon could effect any sort of romantic rescue. But Mr Haddon had the better horse. He caught up with Effy and seized her horse’s reins and brought it to a halt. Effy was sobbing with fright as Mr Haddon dismounted and lifted her down from the saddle.
‘Now, Miss Effy,’ said Mr Haddon soothingly. ‘You are perfectly safe. I do not know what caused that ridiculous animal to bolt like that.’
Effy buried her sobbing face in his coat.
Amy sat on her horse and surveyed the scene. Instead of humiliating Effy as she had planned to do, she had succeeded in turning her twin into a maiden in distress. She felt old and gawky and tired. Amy decided there and then to behave herself in future. She had never had any chance of attracting Mr Benjamin Haddon, and it was folly to think otherwise.
She dismounted and helped Mr Haddon to soothe Effy. It was a long time before they could persuade Effy to remount and then, riding one on either side, they escorted her back to Holles Street.
Effy promptly retired to her bedchamber. Mr Haddon stayed to talk to Amy, relieved that his old friend had become easy to chat to again. He did not know that Amy had given up any hope of attracting him for the simple reason he did not for a minute suspect she had ever harboured such hopes. He was only glad that his old friend appeared once more herself and it was with great reluctance that he finally took his leave.
Amy avoided Effy for the rest of the day, hoping to put off the dreaded moment. But it came at last when Effy appeared at the dinner table. ‘Did you see how he held me to his bosom, Amy?’ cried Effy as soon as they were both seated.
‘Turtle soup,’ said Amy, putting down her spoon. ‘I really must speak sternly to Mrs Lamont. We cannot afford turtle soup.’
‘And the speaking look in his eye,’ said Effy dreamily. ‘It was the most romantical thing imaginable. I thought my last moment had come. I could see the trees hurtling past. I could feel myself slipping from the saddle to be pounded under the horse’s hooves. And then he was there, holding me in his strong arms . . .’
‘Drink your soup, in the name of a whore’s bum,’ shouted Amy suddenly. ‘It cost a fortune!’
‘So remember at all times that the Tribble sisters are ladies!’ said Mrs Burgess two weeks later as their carriage entered the outskirts of London.
‘Of course, Aunt,’ said Fiona Macleod.
‘And if they find you a suitable gentleman, you are to become engaged to him and not cause myself or Mr Burgess any more trouble.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
Mrs Burgess looked suspiciously at her niece, but Fiona’s face was hidden by the brim of her bonnet.
Mrs Burgess had not met either of the Tribble sisters. But Lady Baronsheath’s wild daughter had fared well at their hands, and Lady Baronsheath had told Mrs Toddy who lived in Tunbridge Wells, and Mrs Toddy had told Lady Fremley, and Lady Fremley had told Mrs Burgess, which was just about the same as Lady Baronsheath confiding in Mrs Burgess direct. The Tribble sisters must be ladies of high rank and impeccable manners or Lady Baronsheath would not have engaged their services in the first place.
Perhaps the Tribbles might find out what it was about Fiona that brought suitors up to the mark, only to have them fleeing the house after they had spoken to her. Perhaps it was the Scottish in her, thought Mrs Burgess disapprovingly. She no longer considered herself Scottish, having married at a young age and moved to England. Fiona was her late sister’s daughter. Fiona had been brought up in Aberdeen, a savage and remote place. Lord Byron hailed from there and he had no morals to speak of. It must be something to do with the climate. Mrs Burgess herself came from Ayrshire. Her sister Alice had married George Macleod, who was in trade, and had moved north to Aberdeen, while Mrs Burgess had married a gentleman of leisure and had gone south to Tunbridge Wells. But it was the Macleods who had made a fortune out of their jute manufactories in Aberdeen. Both had died of influenza, leaving Fiona, then fourteen and a wealthy heiress, in the care of the Burgesses. She was now nineteen and should have been married and off the Burgesses’ hands two years ago, which was when she had received her first proposal of marriage. Mr and Mrs Burgess were strict and staid and dull, but they were not mercenary. They were allowed to draw as much money as they wished from Fiona’s lawyers until her marriage, but they felt uneasy with the girl in their quiet, dull establishment. They never knew what she was thinking, but they sensed wickedness and slyness in her. All their rages and rows did not seem to ruffle her in the slightest. She was brazen.
Mrs Burgess’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapidly approaching hooves. Despite the noise made by their carriage rattling over the cobbles, she could hear the fast-approaching thunder, punctuated by wild cries and halloos.
Mr Burgess, who had been asleep, woke up with a cry of alarm as two light curricles, each with a team of four horses, dashed past their travelling coach, one on either side, leaving only an inch to spare. The Burgesses’ horses reared and plunged, the carriage swayed dangerously and then came to a halt. Mrs Burgess let out a faint scream.
Mr Burgess opened the trap in the roof with his stick and called angrily to the coachman. ‘Are you all right, John? These young hooligans should be horsewhipped.’
‘Everything right and tight, sir. They’ve stopped along the road. One o’ them’s turned and is coming back this way. Probably to see you’re all right.’
‘Then drive on, Jack,’ said Mrs Burgess shrilly. ‘We do not speak to such riff-raff.’
‘Can’t do that, ma’am. He’s swung ’is carriage across the front.’
‘Fiona!’ screamed Mrs Burgess. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ For Fiona had suddenly jerked down the glass with the strap and was leaning out the window. She sank gracefully back in her seat as a tall man appeared.
Mrs Burgess shuddered. Here was a rake! He had a thin, handsome, dissipated face and very bright blue eyes. He removed his curly brimmed beaver, revealing a head of thick, glossy black hair artistically curled, and made a low bow.
‘My apologies,’ he drawled. ‘A stupid race, and I would not have frightened you for the world. Allow me to present myself. Lord Peter Havard.’
The Burgesse
s were not melted by the sound of a title. They were gentry and proud of it. They disapproved of the aristocracy when they thought of them, which was seldom. Lady Fremley was bearable only because she was an inhabitant of Tunbridge Wells, and anyone hailing from that sedate spa had an automatic passport to respectability in the Burgesses’ eyes.
‘I am Miss Fiona Macleod,’ said that young lady, ‘and this is my aunt and my uncle, Mr and Mrs Burgess from Tunbridge Wells.’
Shocked to the core, Mrs Burgess found her voice. ‘If you do not wish to distress us further,’ she said icily, ‘remove your carriage and let us go on our way.’
‘Did you win?’ asked Fiona. ‘The race, I mean.’
‘Yes, Miss Macleod. By a few inches.’
‘Why not more?’
‘Fiona, I shall slap you,’ said Mrs Burgess between her teeth.
‘Because’ – Lord Peter smiled ruefully – ‘I nearly met my match.’
Mr Burgess leaned forward and jerked up the glass. Lord Peter bowed again and disappeared.
‘Have you run mad, Fiona?’ demanded Mrs Burgess. ‘Encouraging the attentions of a rake?’
‘Is he a rake?’ asked Fiona, her voice full of rare interest. ‘How can you tell?’
‘That is quite enough of that. Oh, we are moving at last. Not another word, Fiona. Pray God these Tribble women are suitable!’
The journey continued in silence. When the carriage finally turned off Oxford Street into Holles Street, Mr Burgess addressed his wife. ‘I feel, my dear, that we should . . . er . . . leave Fiona in the carriage while we prepare these good ladies.’
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘It is important that we speak to them in private.’
Fiona watched her aunt and uncle mount the steps of a prosperous-looking Town house. Then she opened her reticule and took out a book and began to read.
‘And so,’ said Mrs Burgess half an hour later, ‘we have warned you about Fiona. She is to marry someone of her own station in life, that is, a member of the gentry. We are not against the army or the navy, are we, Mr Burgess?’
‘No, my dear.’
‘Or even the clergy or the merchant class. We do not ask that she marries money, she has enough of her own. But she must not encourage adventurers.’
Amy spoke up. ‘And you do not know how it was that your niece managed to frighten off her suitors?’
‘No, she simply insisted they had changed their minds. Mr Burgess himself beat her, but she remained stubborn. She is bold and wicked. I have paid you a large sum in advance, and you may demand more if necessary, for you have a great task in front of you. A rake by the name of Lord Peter Havard was bold enough to address Fiona on the road here. She is to have nothing to do with such a type.’
‘Lord Peter is the younger son of the Duke of Penshire,’ said Effy. ‘Very rich and considered quite a catch.’
‘Then let someone else catch him,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘Such a match would be counted as a failure.’
Effy looked pleadingly at Amy. Amy knew what that look meant. It meant, do not take this job. But Amy had a parcel of pound notes on her lap, the Burgesses having decided to pay their advance in hard cash, and she could feel the warmth from all that money seeping through her bones.
‘Perhaps we should meet our new charge?’ she said.
Mrs Burgess nodded and a footman went to fetch Fiona from the carriage.
Effy and Amy waited for this bold and brazen hussy to burst into the room. She would probably be rebellious, angry, and defiant.
The double doors were opened and a slight figure walked in. Effy and Amy both looked beyond the girl, looking for someone else, but Mrs Burgess said, ‘This is my niece, Miss Fiona Macleod. Fiona, make your curtsy to Miss Effy and Miss Amy Tribble.’
Amy and Effy stared as if they could not believe their eyes. Fiona Macleod was a waif, albeit a fashionably dressed one. She had a small pale face and large, large eyes that appeared colourless.
‘Remove your bonnet, Fiona,’ ordered Mrs Burgess. Fiona untied the ribbons of her bonnet and took it off. Her hair was thick and fine and slate-coloured. Wispy curly fine tendrils rioted about her pale face.
Those large eyes of hers gazed at the sisters. They held no expression whatsoever.
Poor thing! was Effy’s first thought. They have bullied that poor child into a shadow.
Needs feeding and a bit of rouge, thought Amy.
Mrs Burgess rose to her feet and her husband followed suit. ‘We shall leave Fiona in your capable hands,’ she said. ‘Use the birch if necessary.’
‘I do not think we shall find that form of discipline necessary,’ said Amy firmly. ‘Do you journey back to Tunbridge Wells this evening?’
‘No, no.’ Mrs Burgess shuddered. ‘Such a long way. We shall put up at Grillon’s Hotel and leave tomorrow.’
‘Then you may call on Fiona before you leave,’ said Amy.
‘You are being paid to take care of the girl,’ said Mrs Burgess coldly. ‘We shall call again when the engagement is to be announced.’
Amy and Effy went downstairs with the Burgesses and saw them out. When they returned, Fiona was sitting by the fire, warming her hands.
‘You may retire to your room, child,’ said Effy. ‘Our housekeeper, Mrs Lamont, will show you the way. You must be exhausted after your journey.’
‘Not at all, ma’am,’ said Fiona.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Amy. ‘We sit down to dinner in half an hour.’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I am very hungry.’
Probably starved the child, thought Amy furiously. Aloud, she said, ‘Then go to your room and change and you may join us.’
Fiona appeared promptly at the dining table exactly half an hour later. Amy was a good judge of fashion for anyone but herself. She noticed Fiona’s silk gown was fussy and unbecoming.
Soup was served. Amy took a mouthful and spluttered and then shouted at the new butler, Harris, who was standing at attention. ‘What is this, cat’s urine?’
‘It is vegetable soup, ma’am,’ said the butler in injured tones. ‘If you will remember, ma’am, you complained that turtle soup was too expensive.’
‘A pox on the expense and bad cess to the cook,’ howled Amy. ‘Make sure the other courses are fit for human consumption.’
‘Amy!’ Effy threw her sister an anguished look.
Amy turned beet-red. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Forgot meself.’
Fiona raised her napkin to her lips. Laughter shone in her large eyes, but both sisters had their heads bent over their plates and did not see it.
2
Woman, though so kind she seems, will take
your heart and tantalize it,
Were it made of Portland stone, she’d manage
to McAdamize it.
James Planche
It became clear after only a few weeks of her stay that Fiona Macleod was going to save the Tribble sisters a certain amount of money. The dancing master, the water-colourist, and the Italian tutor were soon cancelled. Fiona did not need any of them.
She danced like an angel, painted highly competent water-colours, and spoke Italian fluently. She had perfect manners and a graceful bearing. Apart from the fact that she was very quiet and shy and withdrawn, there seemed to be no fault in the girl.
Both Effy and Amy decided Mr and Mrs Burgess were hard and unnatural people. Still, despite the fact that Fiona was an heiress, they did expect some difficulty in finding her a husband. They found her charming and attractive, but they were not men. Men, said Effy, were incalculable creatures, given to falling passionately in love with bold misses with pushing ways.
Yet they held back from starting instruction in the important arts of flirting and conversation. Both decided that Fiona was much in need of a period of kindness and rest.
Neither would admit to the other that they found living with Fiona a bit of a strain. She was so very quiet, so very good. Amy felt clumsy and gauche and loud. Effy, who often enjoyed compar
ing her own delicate appearance favourably with that of her mannish sister, now felt every bit as large and loud and clumsy as Amy.
Had their charge proved as difficult as they had expected, then they would have kept her at home with her schooling and not presented her anywhere until the beginning of the Season. But, although neither would admit it, both longed to be shot of the waif.
And so when an invitation to a ball at the Duke and Duchess of Penshire’s Town house arrived, they decided to accept. Amy thought guiltily about the ducal son, Lord Peter, and then came to the rapid conclusion that he was no threat. How could such a well-known rake and heartbreaker ever even look at such a one as Fiona.
Effy, too, was anxious to go. Life had become strangely flat and dull now that the spectre of financial ruin had retreated. They were comfortable, and nothing threatened them.
Perhaps it might have added spice to the sisters’ life to know that someone was plotting their downfall at that very moment and spent a great deal of time watching the comings and goings at the house in Holles Street.
The villain was Mr Desmond Callaghan. He was an Exquisite, a Pink of the ton, a fribble, who had assiduously cultivated the sisters’ aunt, Mrs Cutworth, to such good effect that the aunt had died leaving the sisters not one penny, but everything to Mr Callaghan. The sisters, because of this disappointment, had ‘gone into business’ as chaperones. The wealth they had gained through their first job had prompted the furious Mr Callaghan to believe that the sisters had inveigled all their aunt’s money and jewels out of her before her death. In short, they had tricked him, and must be punished. For he, who had expected to gain riches, after many weary hours and days of dancing attendance on the old frump, had found her bequest contained nothing but debts, which the sale of her house only just covered.
He had recently learned of their role as chaperones extraordinary and was now watching and waiting like a cat at a mouse hole for a chance to harm them in some way. He did not for a minute believe they had achieved their new and comfortable style of living through work alone.
Perfecting Fiona Page 2