‘I wanted to end it all,’ she said. ‘Mr Callaghan insulted me.’
‘How? Why?’ asked Fiona.
‘He led me on,’ said Effy miserably, ‘and then spurned me most cruelly.’
‘I shall attend to him,’ said Mr Haddon grimly. ‘Get Miss Effy back to the house. She must find dry clothes.’
The little group hurried Effy back along the woodland path and across the lawns. They were almost at the house when Mr Haddon saw Mr Callaghan.
Mr Haddon drew off one of his lavender kidskin gloves and advanced on Mr Callaghan.
Guests stared in amazement as Mr Haddon struck Mr Callaghan full across the face with his glove. ‘You have offended a friend of mine,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘Name your second, sir!’
Mr Callaghan looked wildly round for escape. But duelling, although outlawed, was considered prime sport. To the fribble’s dismay, a languid dandy called Jeremy Bessamy promptly offered to second him. Lord Peter in an amused voice offered to second Mr Haddon.
As Effy vanished inside the house, Mr Callaghan found it had all been arranged with frightening rapidity – pistols at eight o’clock in the morning at Chalk Farm in two days’ time.
It was a dismal sail home for Amy. She refused with dignity to sing a note. She was furious with Effy, Effy who sat in borrowed clothes, sipping champagne and chatting and laughing. For two men were to fight a duel over Effy. Amy could have killed her sister. What if Mr Callaghan killed Mr Haddon?
She had asked Lord Peter to try to get Mr Haddon to change his mind, having failed to do so herself, but Lord Peter had only smiled at her and said that if she stopped interfering in his romance with Fiona, then he would think about it.
As for Mr Callaghan, he sat as far away as possible from the Tribbles and Mr Haddon. He had tried to talk himself into bravery by reminding himself that Mr Haddon was an old man. But Mr Haddon looked remarkably spry, and there had been a deadly gleam in his steady grey eyes when he had issued that challenge. By the time the barge reached London, Mr Callaghan had decided to escape to the Continent.
Frank was slouched by the fireplace, moodily picking his teeth, when his master charged into the room, followed by his valet.
‘Where’s the fire?’ asked Frank, getting to his feet.
‘Make yourself useful, fellow,’ snapped Mr Callaghan. ‘I am going abroad.’
Frank’s eyes lit up. ‘I must say as how I’ve always wanted to see foreign parts,’ he said.
‘You’re not coming, you lummox,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘I’m only taking John.’ John was his valet and general servant. ‘You’ll find two imperials on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom. Start packing the necessary while John and I go round to the livery stables to rent a travelling carriage.’
‘What am I to live on while you’re away?’ asked Frank, aghast.
‘I’ve credit with the Three Jolly Chairmen round the corner,’ said Mr Callaghan. Frank tried to protest. The last time he had been to that coffee house with an order for Mr Callaghan, they had told him in no uncertain terms that there would be no further credit until Mr Callaghan settled his bill.
When master and valet had gone, Frank sank slowly back into the chair. Why had he ever listened to this fop with his rubbish about the equality of men and his Robin Hood ideas of taking from the rich and giving to the poor?
Frank felt so angry he thought he would burst. He knew now that Mr Callaghan did not believe a word of his preaching and had been out only to make mischief.
Mr Callaghan needed to be taught a sharp lesson.
Feeling a bit shaky at the enormity of what he was about to do, Frank went into the bedroom and took down the two cases from the top of the wardrobe and then started to fill them with the precious objets d’art that were lying around and all the items of Mr Callaghan’s clothing he had coveted.
He literally struck gold at the back of a drawer of cravats – two rouleaux of guineas.
He thought about Bertha, the chambermaid. It would be fun to have a companion on the road – for Frank knew he must get out of London as quickly as possible.
But to see Bertha would mean hanging about Holles Street. He decided to make his own escape and return to find Bertha when he was sure Mr Callaghan had left London.
Frank was well on his way to the City to catch any stage anywhere that had a free seat when Mr Callaghan returned to find his apartment looking as if a bomb had hit it. Drawers were hanging open or upended on the floor, and, worst of all, his best pair of Hessian boots – two sizes too small for Frank – had been stuffed into the red-hot ashes of the sitting-room fireplace.
‘Get the Runners! Get the militia!’ screeched the valet.
But Mr Callaghan could think only of a field at Chalk Farm and of Mr Haddon’s stern eyes measuring him up from behind the long barrel of a duelling pistol. He still had money hidden under the floorboards, for he never paid any tradesmen unless absolutely forced to. He almost wept with relief to find it still there. Frank could go free. All Mr Callaghan wanted to do was to put as many miles as possible between himself and Mr Haddon.
8
It is an infallible law of nature that those who injure,
either hate or despise the object. Hence the contempt and
acrimony with which men speak of women.
The Lady’s Magazine, May 1810
Amy Tribble’s jealousy of her sister took second place to her frantic worry for the safety of Mr Haddon.
She was tempted to alert the authorities to stop the duel, but was afraid of Mr Haddon’s finding out she had done so. She knew, in those circumstances, it was highly possible he would never speak to her again.
It was Effy who all unwittingly gave her a splendid idea. Effy had decided that Fiona needed sharp and fast education in men. She instructed Amy to dress as a man in order to illustrate Effy’s talks to Fiona and show her that the most charming men were often rakes, the sort of men who promised marriage only to get their own evil ends without marriage.
Amy was half-heartedly entering into this charade the day before the duel when a marvellous idea came to her. She would dress up as a Bow Street Runner, travel out to Chalk Farm, and stop the duel. That Mr Haddon would recognize her never crossed her mind. Amy was a romantic, and the books she liked to read often portrayed heroines dressing up as men and they were never recognized by the hero. Having come to this decision, she brought her mind back to the present and threw herself into her role of dashing rake with such conviction that Fiona began to feel uneasy and wonder if Lord Peter really meant to marry her. He had promised to travel to Tunbridge Wells directly after the duel, but he had not called, and his absence was bringing back all her fears of marriage.
Ladies often dressed up as men to attend masquerades, and so it was not considered odd by the shopkeepers to attend to a lady who was anxious to buy a red waistcoat to fit herself. She at last met with success at a tailor’s who had made such a waistcoat for a customer who had not turned up to collect it. It was a trifle large, but Amy was tired of searching.
Amy hardly slept that night. She was anxious to leave as early as possible in the morning. Now that she had made up her mind to aid Mr Haddon, she felt no nervousness as she set out atop a tall, raw-boned mare to Chalk Farm. Amy prided herself on having ‘bottom’.
Bottom was one of the most prized virtues in the Regency. It meant having coolness, courage, and solidity. It was a necessary quality in this age where epidemics such as typhoid, cholera, or smallpox could wipe out whole families. Even the most effete fop learned at an early age to endure pain, as flogging was so prevalent in public schools that there were several rebellions, one in Harrow lasting over three weeks. The strange thing about the men of the Regency was that their pistolling, boxing, flogging, gaming, boozing, and enduring were combined with sensitivity. They were not bruisers, cried easily, had a real enjoyment of literature, wit, culture, delicacy, and eccentricity. Although bottom was a masculine virtue, women such as Amy who longed to have the freedom men en
joyed, often secretly considered themselves to be every bit as strong and resilient as men, and often they were.
Once Amy reached Chalk Farm, she nudged her mare off the road and made her way to the duelling ground by a circuitous route through the trees.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun was already spreading warmth over the surrounding countryside, and wreaths of mist were rising from the fields and circling round the boles of the trees. Amy dismounted and hid behind a tree. By peering around it, she had a clear view of the grassy field where the duel was to take place.
She had decided that since she could not arrest the antagonists, being hardly able to march them off to the round-house, she would need to charge them and bluster and lecture and then pretend to let them off, provided the duel did not go ahead.
Soon she began to feel hot and uncomfortable. She was wearing false side-whiskers and her face itched. She had stuffed a pillow under her waistcoat to give herself the portly appearance she considered necessary for the masquerade.
Then she heard the rattle of carriage wheels and creaking of joists. Mr Haddon arrived, then a surgeon, then Lord Peter Havard, and then Mr Jeremy Bessamy. They all stood for a moment in a group talking and examining a box of duelling pistols.
Mr Haddon was wearing a black coat buttoned up to the neck, black knee breeches, and top boots. His hair under his tall beaver hat was tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon.
The men and Amy waited and waited. Suddenly Mr Bessamy cried, ‘Here he comes!’ Mr Bessamy was mistaken. It was only a carriage passing along the road beyond the field, but Amy did not know that.
She leaped from behind her tree. ‘Hold hard!’ she cried in a gruff voice. ‘I arrest all of you in the King’s name!’
The pillow under her waistcoat proved too much of a strain for the buttons, which started to pop, and she was waving a large pistol which she had bought for the occasion but did not know had a hair-trigger. It went off with a loud report and put a ball clean through Mr Bessamy’s hat. Mr Bessamy uttered a faint bleating sound and swooned.
Lord Peter rushed to Mr Bessamy and knelt down and then swung round in a fury to face Amy. But the Bow Street Runner was being led away through the trees by Mr Haddon.
‘Help me. I am seriously killed,’ cried Mr Bessamy, recovering and clutching hard at Lord Peter’s lapels and nearly toppling him over.
‘I suggest you stay here in hiding, Miss Amy,’ Mr Haddon was saying severely, ‘and I shall go back and tell them that because of your dangerous behaviour you have decided not to report the matter.’
‘Who’s Miss Amy?’ demanded Amy in a shaky voice.
‘You silly goose,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘Do as you are told.’
Amy waited and waited, feeling ridiculous and dreading Mr Haddon’s wrath. She heard the sound of carriages driving off. Amy trembled, hoping Mr Haddon had left as well. But he eventually reappeared and stood looking at her. ‘Now, Miss Amy,’ he began severely. But his eyes crinkled up with laughter, and he put a handkerchief over his face. It was to no avail. He laughed and laughed as he had not done since his boyhood, while Amy shuffled her large feet and felt ready to die of embarrassment.
‘You ridiculous girl,’ said Mr Haddon, recovering at last, and Amy began to feel a little glow of pleasure despite her distress. It was wonderful to be called a girl. ‘You cannot return to Holles Street in those clothes,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘I assume you said nothing to Miss Effy?’
Amy dumbly shook her head.
‘Then we shall go to some posting house for breakfast and I will try to find you a ready-made gown and bonnet. You are very brave and I thank you, Miss Amy. But there was no need for such heroics. Mr Callaghan appears to have no intention of showing up.’
‘How did you recognize me?’ asked Amy.
But Mr Haddon only began laughing again, so hard that he could not reply.
Lord Peter arrived at last in Tunbridge Wells two days later, put up at the best inn, and sent his card around to the Burgesses.
He decided that once he had secured their permission, he would return to Town and tell Fiona the news and then travel to that property in Kent and see if it was as good a place as Cully had described.
A brief note arrived back from the Burgesses, inviting him to dinner. He sighed with relief. Things looked promising. Provided he behaved in as sober a manner as possible, he felt sure he could persuade them to give him their permission to marry Fiona.
Lord Peter was well aware of the rules laid down for gentlemen dining out. An etiquette book stated that the Diner Out ‘must keep the character of a good-natured fellow. It must be his study to display a certain good-natured dullness.’ Intellect was something one was expected to have but not to display, especially in the company of ladies.
He dressed in his best and made his way to the Burgesses at five o’clock, Mr and Mrs Burgess considering the new later hours of dining but one step removed from decadence.
They lived in a large mansion full of cold, dark rooms. Mrs Burgess had a hatred of dust, and although she would never stoop to do such a menial task as dusting, she never had fires lit after the first of March, whether it was blowing a blizzard outside or not. Fires created dust.
The gardens were dull. Bright flowers were considered immoral, and so the depressing laurel bushes and yew hedges and the marble rocks bordering the lawns gave the gardens all the cheer of a well-kept cemetery.
After the formalities of greeting had been exchanged, Mr Burgess said, ‘We have invited you here, Lord Peter, for we fear you may wish to ask for Fiona’s hand in marriage. Such a marriage would not be suitable. The aristocracy should never marry out of their class.’
‘Just what I am always saying myself,’ said Lord Peter with a look of amiable stupidity.
‘Then why are you come?’ asked Mrs Burgess in surprise.
‘I do not believe in girls’ marrying for money,’ said Lord Peter, ‘and I wish your assurances as to Miss Macleod’s character. I am a very wealthy man.’
‘But Fiona is an heiress!’ exclaimed Miss Macleod.
‘Dash me,’ said Lord Peter with a vacuous laugh. ‘I wondered why it was she appeared to attract every fortune-hunter in London.’
‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Mrs Burgess. Then she relaxed. ‘I am sure the Misses Tribble would not allow our niece to marry anyone like that.’
‘Still,’ said Lord Peter, ‘the fact remains that Miss Macleod does not seem to like the idea of marriage, and rumour has it she has had several proposals and turned them all down.’ Lord Peter was guessing, but it was a safe guess. In these inflationary days of the Regency, any heiress received a great many proposals.
Mr and Mrs Burgess exchanged glances. They did not want to confess to Lord Peter that they were not quite sure whether Fiona had actually ever received proposals of marriage or had strangely managed to give her suitors a violent disgust of her before they got to the point.
Mr Burgess found his voice. ‘I must confess, Lord Peter, our disapproval of you was based on our first meeting. You were in a curricle race on the London Road.’
‘Egad, what you must think!’ said Lord Peter. ‘I did not want to betray my friend and tell you the truth. I was trying to catch him to give him a horsewhipping. He had been rude and ungracious to an elderly couple at an inn at which we had stopped for refreshment – a vicar and his wife. I did not realize until then that my friend had such a hatred of the clergy. You must understand my horror. He had to be taught a lesson.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Mr Burgess, thawing visibly. ‘But why did you lie to us?’
‘You did not know me; my quarrel was with my friend, and I did not want to betray his bad behaviour to anyone else. Do forgive me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘Your behaviour does you credit.’
Dinner was announced.
Lord Peter was amazed at the paucity of the fare. He would not have allowed such meagre helpings to be served in his own servants’ hall. There
was a thin, watery soup, two tiny slivers of plaice followed by boiled mutton and overcooked vegetables, and rather dusty-looking tartlets, all washed down by a canary wine so peculiar in taste that Lord Peter wondered if some vintner had assumed in a mad moment that canary was made from a distillation of those birds rather than hailing from the vineyards of the Canary Islands.
Lord Peter discoursed with amazing stupidity on several topics of the day. Transportation, he said, was too good for criminals and a waste of public money; mass hangings such as they had had at Tyburn in the golden days of the last century ought to be reintroduced. The Burgesses nodded and smiled and ate with a hearty appetite. The Whigs, drawled Lord Peter, were all Jacobites at heart, and had lost his respect when they had supported the American colonists. So amazed and approving were Mr and Mrs Burgess at this piece of wisdom that they failed to observe that Lord Peter had not yet been born at the time of the colonial wars. Slavery, said Lord Peter expansively, was good for trade, and he had no sympathy with the abolitionists. By the end of the dreadful meal, Mr and Mrs Burgess had begun to think this paragon almost too good for their niece. With a gracious smile and a silent nod of approval to her husband, Mrs Burgess retired to leave the gentlemen to savour quite the worst port Lord Peter had ever allowed to pass his lips.
‘I must confess we were sadly mistaken in you,’ said Mr Burgess. ‘I know my wife will now join me in giving our permission to this marriage. But a word of warning. Fiona can be wayward. I have always found the application of the birch rod necessary.’
Lord Peter clutched his glass and with a heroic effort refrained from throwing its contents in Mr Burgess’s face. He reflected that had they not given him permission to marry Fiona, he would have taken her straight to Gretna Green to marry her immediately and save her from ever having to return to monsters such as these.
So enchanted were Mr and Mrs Burgess with him that he found some difficulty in taking his leave. It was only nine o’clock when he returned to the inn and yet he felt he had been locked up in that villa for years.
Perfecting Fiona Page 11