Mr Haddon had travelled to the country to visit an old friend, and so there was no one to curb the Tribbles’ flying spirits, or to point out to them that they were well on their way to ruining a promising career. Fiona was wrapped up in her own happiness and did not notice what they were about, and Lord Peter was down in Kent.
For once Amy and Effy were in agreement over their latest piece of madness. They had rented an open carriage, lined with blue silk and bedecked with silk roses. And they’d had a large placard made, painted in gold curly letters, and affixed to the back. On it was proclaimed, ‘The Misses Tribble, Chaperones Extraordinary. No Miss Is Too Difficult for Us to Hone and Refine.’
Then they went driving in this equipage in the Park at the fashionable hour. The Honourable Geoffrey ‘Cully’ Coudrey took one appalled look and headed for his club to send an express to Lord Peter. The Duchess of Penshire turned scarlet with rage and cut the Tribbles, turning her head away and pointedly ignoring their greeting, and the gossip writers from the magazines and newspapers gleefully took notes.
But the sisters were still blissfully unaware of their disgrace. They agreed that the duchess must have mistaken them for two other ladies. There were plenty of society members, mostly foppish young men, to crowd round the carriage when they stopped, twittering with delight and telling them it was a famous idea.
Fiona was rudely jerked off her pink cloud that evening to land to earth with a bump, open her eyes, and realize her chaperones were well on the way to making themselves – and her – ridiculous.
After dinner, when they were seated comfortably over the tea-tray in the drawing room, Amy produced sheets of paper and started to draft out an advertisement. ‘Let me see,’ she said dreamily, ‘we shall put something like . . . um . . . ‘‘Witness our latest success. Miss Fiona Macleod is to marry Lord Peter Havard.’’ Yes, and perhaps, dear Fiona, a little tribute from you.’
Fiona carefully put down the sampler she had been laboriously stitching and said, ‘Do not be ridiculous. You must be joking.’
‘It pays to advertise,’ said Amy, unaware of Fiona’s distress. ‘You should have seen the faces when we drove our rig in the Park.’
‘What rig?’ asked Fiona.
‘The sweetest little chariot.’ Effy sighed. ‘We had it bedecked with flowers and a neat board on the back advertising our prowess.’
‘How could you?’ demanded Fiona, her face flaming. ‘Not only have you made laughing-stocks of yourselves, but of me too.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Amy. ‘Everyone was most intrigued. Mr Cecil Delisle declared himself quite enchanted.’
‘Mr Cecil Delisle is a painted and malicious gossip,’ said Fiona. And, made cruel by her feelings of outrage, she added, ‘You should have heard his remarks on your singing at the Dunsters’ party. I heard him tell Lord Aubrey that if his horse could sing, he is sure it would sound and look just like you.’
‘You nasty little girl,’ roared Amy. ‘Go to your room. After all we have done for you . . .’
‘All you have done,’ said Fiona stiffly, ‘is to do something that might stop me marrying the man I love.’ She turned and walked from the room.
Effy patted Amy’s hand. ‘Pay no attention,’ she said. ‘Bride nerves.’
Amy shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh, Lor, Effy, do you think . . . ?’
The door opened and the butler, Harris, came in. He handed them a letter. ‘Came by hand,’ he said. ‘The Duke of Penshire’s footman.’
‘That will be all, Harris,’ said Amy grandly. When the butler had left, she looked at Effy’s stricken face. ‘Don’t look like that,’ she said. ‘It will be about the wedding arrangements. So kind of them to offer their town mansion.’
She crackled open the heavy parchment and began to read. Her face turned a muddy colour, and as Effy watched, Amy picked up a large quizzing-glass from the table beside her and studied the letter again.
‘Don’t just sit there, reading and reading,’ squeaked Effy. ‘Out with it! What does it say?’
‘The duchess says,’ said Amy heavily, ‘that we are a disgrace, that we are vulgar and common. She says that she and her husband cannot bless the marriage. Lord Peter is well over age and must do as he likes, but they will no longer be a party to it.’
‘Ruined!’ said Effy, aghast. She began to cry helplessly, saying in a choking voice between sobs that Mr Haddon was their only hope.
‘We did not do anything so very wrong,’ blustered Amy. ‘I will not apologize to Fiona, nor to the Penshires!’
But for the next week the house in Holles Street was shrouded in gloom. Fiona went for long walks and played the piano for hours and spoke only when spoken to.
Effy prayed that Mr Haddon would come.
Come he did at last on a morning of gloomy rain. But just before his arrival, the sisters had received another blow. The Season was only a week away and the stern patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms in King Street had written to say they could not allow Miss Macleod vouchers. The sisters did not know that this decision had been reached before their self-advertising display. Engaged to Lord Peter Havard she might be, but Miss Macleod’s own family was not distinguished enough to allow her the honour of being seen at Almack’s.
Mr Haddon surveyed the dismal scene, Effy in tears and Amy tight-faced and red-eyed.
In his usual way, he sat down patiently and listened hard to the almost incoherent explanations and excuses.
Then they both looked at him hopefully, like sinners waiting for the priest’s blessing.
But he shook his head. ‘You have done a great deal of damage,’ he said, ‘and I do not know how you can possibly repair it. No one will want to send their daughter to you after such a public display. But that is as nothing compared to the wrong you have done Miss Macleod.’
‘Perhaps Lord Peter . . .’ began Amy hopefully.
Mr Haddon shook his head. ‘He will be furious and perhaps all too glad to settle for a quiet wedding.’ He held up his hand. ‘No, not another word. Let me think!’
Amy went to Effy and gathered her in her arms and the sisters sat side by side on the sofa, holding each other for comfort.
Mr Haddon turned over in his mind what he knew of the Duke and Duchess of Penshire. Everyone in London society knew everyone else, like members of an exclusive club. The Penshires were acquisitive, grasping, enormously wealthy, but always on the look-out to increase the family wealth – hence their initial acceptance of Fiona. As a ducal son, there was little fear that Lord Peter would turn out to be the same. Brought up as he had been by tutors, school, and more tutors at Oxford, he had never been under any parental influence.
‘I cannot promise you anything,’ he said at last. ‘But I might be able to do something.’
They watched him take his leave without much hope.
They were leaning their heads together and talking in low voices when Fiona entered the room and at the same time Lord Peter Havard was announced.
He bowed to the sisters, who rose and curtsied and looked at him miserably.
‘Leave us,’ said Fiona sternly. ‘I wish to speak to my fiancé in private.’
Amy and Effy were too crushed to protest.
‘You have changed roles, my sweet,’ said Lord Peter. ‘Goodness, I feel I have been away for years. Come and kiss me!’
‘Not yet,’ said Fiona. ‘Something disastrous has happened.’
While Lord Peter held her hands in his, Fiona told him of the sisters’ iniquities. She heard a stifled chuckle and looked up in amazement to find Lord Peter’s eyes dancing with laughter.
‘How can you laugh?’ asked Fiona, pulling her hands away.
‘Because it does not matter,’ he said. ‘My friend, Mr Coudrey, wrote to me express in Kent to tell me of that affair in the Park. I set out for London immediately and by chance I met our Prince Regent on the road. He congratulated me on my marriage and I boldly told him of the Misses Tribble’s advertising efforts and he laughed so hard I thought h
e was going to have a spasm. He had already heard of Miss Amy’s singing and he says he must meet them. He is coming to our wedding and so your chaperones will have all the success they crave. But we do not need fashionable blessing. We have each other, and, oh, Fiona, such a sweet home in Kent.’
‘But your parents . . . ?’
‘They will come about. Why are we wasting time? We are alone. Kiss me.’
‘Oh, Peter.’
‘And again. And again.’
‘We cannot leave them alone in there,’ bleated Effy, hanging on to Amy. Both sisters were huddled together on the landing.
‘Don’t see how we can do anything else,’ mourned Amy. ‘She don’t want us. Nobody wants us. And Mr Haddon is a good and kind man, but we’ve gone too far this time, Effy. I wonder whether there is madness in our family.’
The Duke and Duchess of Penshire gracefully agreed to give audience to Mr Haddon. They knew he was a nabob who had made a great fortune in India. But the minute they heard the reason for his call, their faces hardened.
‘Havard must do as he pleases,’ said the duke, as usual referring to his younger son as if speaking about some unrelated member of society. ‘But we will not be party to the Misses Tribble’s vulgarity.’
‘They are very great ladies,’ said Mr Haddon, ‘who are striving to earn their keep in a genteel manner. They are well aware they have offended you and charged me to bring their apologies with this present’ – he indicated a packet on his lap – ‘but if your minds are set against them, I shall return the present.’
Two pairs of hard, acquisitive, aristocratic eyes fastened on the packet. ‘What is it?’ asked the duke.
‘I do not know,’ said Mr Haddon, although he knew very well. He had brought back a collection of fine jewels from India and the one in the little packet was the prize. It was a large pigeon’s-egg ruby, estimated to be one of the finest ever to come out of India. ‘Shall I open it? I can always wrap it again and say you refused it out of hand.’
‘It would be interesting to see what trifle they sent,’ said the duchess curiously. ‘The insult to our name was great.’ By which she meant that the present should therefore be valuable enough to cancel out that insult.
Mr Haddon slowly unwrapped the packet, revealing a flat square box of red morocco leather. The day was dark and rainy and the oil lamps in the saloon had been lit. He clicked open the box and held it under the light of an oil lamp on a console table beside him.
Blazing with fire, red, wicked as sin, the large ruby shone with an evil light.
The duke and duchess rose as one person. Mr Haddon rose at the same time and the three stared down at the jewel.
‘Gracious,’ said the duchess faintly. ‘Why must they work when this is worth a king’s ransom?’
‘They have a few items,’ lied Mr Haddon, ‘which have been in their family for a long time. They would do anything rather than part with them, but their reputation is dearer to them than any jewel.’
‘We accept,’ said the duchess breathlessly. ‘Pray tell Miss Amy and Miss Effy to call on me this afternoon so we can discuss arrangements for the wedding reception – to be held here, of course!’
Mr Haddon bowed and handed her the box. Like twins, the duke and duchess sat down on the sofa together and gazed at the jewel.
‘Pray do not refer to the jewel,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘The Tribbles were afraid you might consider their great generosity a trifle vulgar.’
‘No, no,’ they chorused, still looking at the ruby. ‘We are vastly pleased.’
Mr Haddon bowed his way out. He could hardly wait to get back to Holles Street to tell the sisters the glad news.
Before he entered the drawing room, he could feel the mourning atmosphere of the house had changed. When he entered, he found the reason. Lord Peter and Fiona were sitting together, looking happy and relaxed. Effy and Amy, who had finally plucked up their courage to interrupt the pair, had just heard the news of the Prince Regent’s intention to attend the wedding.
In a mild voice, Mr Haddon told them that the Duke and Duchess of Penshire had forgiven all.
When Amy and Effy’s cries of rapture had died down, Lord Peter asked curiously, ‘How did you manage it, Mr Haddon?’
‘Your parents were most forgiving and understanding,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘I merely conveyed the Misses Tribble’s apologies and presented them with a trifle.’
‘A present!’ said Effy. ‘We must repay you. What was it?’
‘A little bagatelle I happened to have at home,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘A nonsense, I assure you.’
Lord Peter looked shrewdly at the nabob. He knew his parents and knew the present must have cost Mr Haddon dear.
Mr Haddon returned Lord Peter’s gaze with a slight look of warning in his steady grey eyes which only Fiona and Lord Peter noticed.
Amy and Effy were hugging each other in delight. Lord Peter’s eyes turned to the sisters. Had Mr Haddon’s gesture been purely altruistic, or was he in love with one of the strange pair? It could be Effy with her silver hair and dainty ways and delicate skin. But there was a gallantry about Amy and a directness that might appeal to the nabob.
Mr Haddon fell silent. He was worrying again about the future of his old friends. The wedding would be a social success, yes, but a social success for Fiona Macleod. Society would not soon forget that vulgar advertising display in the Park. Would anyone now dare to send their daughter into such a household? Mr Haddon could only pray that somewhere in England there was some family desperate enough. It took a whole three months for his prayers even to begin to be answered.
Squire Simon Wraxall should have been a happy man. He had a handsome house, broad, prosperous acres, and one of the most beautiful daughters in the county. Delilah had recently inherited a handsome fortune from her aunt. She had everything any lady could desire – money, looks, and a comfortable home.
Except for one thing. Delilah Wraxall was twenty-three and still unwed.
The squire walked faster as if hoping to outstride his troubles. It was his late wife’s fault, he thought gloomily. Whatever had possessed the wretched woman to insist on christening the girl, Delilah? Just asking for trouble.
And the trouble had been going on for some time. On her seventeenth birthday, Delilah had been a different creature, happy, gentle and kind. She had been all set to become engaged to a baronet, Sir Charles Digby. Sir Charles was a handsome young man, admittedly rather cold and over-elegant, and Delilah had obviously been in love with him. Then Sir Charles had gone away to London and, on his return, had announced he had enlisted in the army. He did not call on Delilah before his departure. She had gone about for months, silent and downcast. And then she had begun to live up to her name.
Surely there were no more hearts in the county of Kent left for her to break, thought the squire savagely. He found he had come to the outskirts of the village of Hoppelton, which boasted a good inn. He decided to go into the tap and comfort himself with a pint of brown ale.
There was a familiar gorilla-like figure sitting in the bay at the window. The squire, whose eyesight was not very good, moved forward for a better look and then recognized the squat figure and heavy features of the Honourable Geoffrey Coudrey.
The squire hailed him with delight. He had been a close friend of Cully’s father and had known Cully when he had been in short coats.
‘What brings you here?’ asked the squire when they had settled down at the window table facing each other.
‘I’m on the road back to London. I’ve sold my place here to Lord Peter Havard,’ said Cully. ‘He’s getting married and wants to settle down.’
‘Thought that would never happen,’ said the squire. ‘Bit of a rake.’
‘Mostly gossip,’ said Cully. ‘Mind you, he’s marrying a fine girl. Unusual. Background of trade and as rich as Croesus.’
‘Where on earth did he meet this girl?’
‘There’s a couple of old eccentrics called Tribble, twin sisters, bon ton, go
t a house in London. It seems they bring out girls damned as being difficult. Not that anyone seems to know anything difficult about Miss Macleod. Sweetest little charmer you ever saw. Still, the Tribbles got her into Peter’s orbit, and with her sort of background that was quite an achievement.’
‘What do they mean by ‘‘difficult’’?’ asked the squire, studying his glass of ale.
‘Lot of gossip about that. Seems parents these days spoil the girls something dreadful. Still lash the boys to pieces, but the little misses are not expected to do anything but lisp and sew and look pretty – not like the old days,’ went on thirty-year-old Cully with all the sententiousness of an ancient, ‘where they had to know how to do everything better than their servants. Stands to reason, their minds get weak and full of fancies.’
‘So what do these women do?’
‘Well, they run a sort of school for manners, teach ’em how to behave prettily as well as seeing they are expert at all the accomplishments – anyway that’s what I gathered. They never let up, go on right to the wedding. Last time I called on little Miss Macleod – there she was, bent over her sewing which she said she hated, but that the sisters would not let her slack on it.’
‘Interesting,’ said the squire, affecting a yawn. ‘Where do these sisters reside? Some suburb?’
‘No, smack bang in the middle of town. Holles Street, off Oxford Street.’
The squire changed the subject and began to talk of crop rotation and Cully listened with all the boredom of a man who had recently renounced living in the country and everything to do with it.
Yvette, the Tribbles’ French dressmaker, sat in her little room off the top landing and stitched away at Fiona’s wedding gown. Another wedding gown, thought Yvette with a sigh. She knew the Tribbles would stay loyal to their servants as long as their money lasted and would not turn her off. Provided that they continued to find husbands for young ladies, Yvette could look forward to stitching more wardrobes for the Season and more wedding gowns for the successful.
Perfecting Fiona Page 14