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
‘[Beaton] displays a fine touch in creating an amusing set of calamities in her latest piece of frivolous fiction.’
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, 1990
This paperback edition published by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1990
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: 978-1-78033-315-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-78033-470-7 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
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1
Father, O Father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the morning star.
William Blake
‘Common as a barber’s chair,’ said Miss Amy Tribble.
‘But so exquisitely pretty,’ pointed out her sister, Effy. ‘Quite the prettiest to have engaged our services.’
The Tribble sisters were discussing their latest ‘client’, Maria Kendall. Although they were good ton, the sisters were always in need of money, and sponsoring ‘difficult’ girls at the Season had proved a lucrative source of income. The Tribbles were too eccentric to attract the attentions of any match-making mama with a sweet young thing to puff off. But parents of the spoilt, the rowdy, the farouche, or the downright odd turned to the Tribbles. Despite four previous successes, they were lucky to get any clients, because it seemed their tall house in Holles Street in the West End of London attracted murder and mayhem.
They also had a resident French dressmaker, but it had become well known that Yvette had given birth to an illegitimate child, a child the Tribbles had not only let her have in their house but had also announced their intention of looking after.
So the fact that the Kendalls stank of the shop and were incredibly vulgar did not stop the Tribble sisters from thinking they were very lucky to get anyone at all.
Thanks to their previous successes, their home was now well appointed and well run. The drawing room in which the sisters sat, discussing the Kendalls and the imminent arrival of their daughter Maria, was a pretty room with long windows boasting new gold-and-white-striped curtains. The furniture had been upholstered in gold-and-white satin, and a fine Aubusson carpet covered the floor. The furniture was a pleasant mixture of the old and the new. There were books and magazines, vases of flowers and the scent of applewood from a cheerful fire.
Both spinsters were reputed to be in their fifties. Effy Tribble, who had been plain in her youth, had become a pretty, dainty woman with silver-white hair, a sweet face and a trim figure. Her twin, Amy, was less favoured. She had a sad, horselike face, a flat figure, large feet, and was often clumsy.
They were jealous of each other. Amy envied Effy’s looks, and Effy envied the way Amy seemed to get the gentlemen to like her. Until the last Season, they had competed for the attentions of their nabob friend, Mr Haddon. But now Mr Haddon’s friend, Mr Randolph, was on the scene. He had also returned from India rich and still a bachelor.
The sisters had spent many, many Seasons in London, but age had not diminished their hopes of marriage. Despite wrinkles and back pains and saggin
g skin on the outside, a young and tremulous girl still lived inside each of them, longing for a husband.
But that afternoon, they had for once put all thoughts of their own romantic dreams out of their heads. Maria Kendall meant work, and work meant money. The vulgar Kendalls had already paid out a large sum of money in advance.
‘The parents may be pushy, mushroom sort of people,’ said Effy, ‘but you must admit that Maria Kendall is as graceful and charming as she is beautiful.’
‘When she’s actually there,’ said Amy crossly. ‘Her parents say she lives in a dream-world and no amount of whipping will bring her down to earth.’
‘On the other hand, does she need to be brought down to earth?’ asked Effy. ‘She is rich and beautiful.’
‘But think of our reputation,’ pointed out Amy. ‘We have secured titled gentlemen for all our previous charges. Any lord has only to meet Maria’s father and mother to take the whole family in dislike. Do you know that Mr Kendall told me the price of every item in that dreadful drawing room of theirs?’
‘Yes,’ said Effy. ‘And Mrs Kendall had her jewel box brought in and discussed the value of every stone with me. Where does their money come from again?’
‘Coal mines,’ said Amy gloomily.
‘So low,’ mourned Effy. ‘Now tea or beer would have been quite respectable, but there is nothing respectable about coal.’
‘The Tribbles have never been in trade,’ said Amy.
‘We are now, dear,’ said Effy sweetly. ‘And if Papa had been a low sort of gentleman in trade, we might have been set up for life.’
‘Nonsense. Papa could have gambled coal mines away with the same ease as he gambled his estates away. There is one good thing about Maria; she does seem to be very accomplished. Her needlework is exquisite, her water-colours are good enough, and her piano playing is a delight.’
‘Can she dance well, d’you think?’
‘Bound to,’ said Amy. ‘She moves so gracefully.’
‘At least Mr and Mrs Kendall are not accompanying her to London. They’ve hired some shabby genteel Bath spinster to accompany her. What is her name? Ah, Miss Spiggs. I hope this Miss Spiggs realizes she cannot stay in London and her services are at an end as soon as she delivers Maria.’
‘If she doesn’t know, we’ll soon tell her,’ said Amy grimly. ‘At least Maria is travelling from Bath. A good hard road and little fear of footpads and highwaymen. We may complain about the Kendalls, but we need their money. I only hope that dreamaday Jill doesn’t wander off somewhere on the road and forget she’s supposed to be travelling to London!’
Miss Maria Kendall had little hope of forgetting where she was bound. She was travelling in a brand-new travelling carriage with Miss Spiggs, her lady’s maid, Betty, two outriders, two grooms on the backstrap, and a coachman and burly thug hired for her protection on the box.
For the moment, as the grey, depressing countryside rolled past outside the carriage, Maria was not lost in dreams or fancies. Her thoughts were of a more practical nature. She hated every bit of the wardrobe her mother had chosen for her. Her gowns were too jeune fille, too high-necked and frilled and tucked and gored. She was a good needlewoman and when they stopped for the night, she planned to sit up and alter at least one gown to make it look more like one of the illustrations in La Belle Assemblée and less like those made-up gowns which provincial dressmakers put in their shop windows to advertise their skills. Mrs Kendall had no eye for line, no eye for fashion. As long as the material cost the earth, she felt happy about the result.
The steady drizzle which had been falling all day changed to heavy rain. Rain thudded down on the carriage roof and lashed against the windows.
‘I wonder if John Coachman can get us to The Bell by nightfall,’ Miss Spiggs asked anxiously. The Bell was where they were to break their journey for the night. It was a famous and luxurious posting-house. Miss Spiggs had never been used to any luxury at all and had been looking forward to that posting-house all day.
‘Ask him then,’ said Maria.
Miss Spiggs got to her feet and balanced in the swaying coach, pushing open the trap in the roof with her cane. A small waterfall poured down on her and she gasped and spluttered. Maria turned away to hide a smile. She thought Miss Spiggs a detestable creature. Miss Spiggs was a small plump lady in her late twenties with mousy-brown hair, a round face, pale-blue eyes, and a little curved mouth like those mouths you see on eighteenth-century statues. She had a sycophantic, oily manner and was not very clean. Her gown stank of benzine from frequent cleanings, her armpits of sweat and her feet of old unwashed stockings. It was, Maria reflected gleefully, probably the first wash Miss Spiggs had had in months. While Miss Spiggs sank back in the seat, leaving the trap open, Maria stood up and called out to the coachman, who replied they were nearly at their destination. Maria closed the trap and sat down.
‘Dearie me, Miss Kendall,’ said Miss Spiggs. ‘I am quite wet.’
‘What you need,’ said Maria firmly, ‘is a warm bath as soon as we arrive.’
‘I do not hold with bathing all over,’ said Miss Spiggs. ‘It can cause the ague.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Maria robustly.
‘I do not know what Mrs Kendall will say when she hears about this,’ sniffed Miss Spiggs. ‘She don’t hold with washing all over.’
‘But I do,’ said Maria sweetly, ‘and you are now under my orders. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Of course, of course, my dear Miss Kendall. Anything you want. You have only to command. I am only a poor creature of aristocratic birth who has fallen on hard times and I often forget my lowly station. Oh, my poor papa. He must be revolving in his grave.’
Maria reflected that she had now heard of Mr Spiggs’s revolving so many times that the corpse must surely have dug a hole right down to Australia by now. She pictured an angry and earth-covered Mr Spiggs erupting in the middle of a convict settlement. Maria’s thoughts drifted on. It would be fun to sail across the world to Australia. The sun shone there, it was said. The captain of the ship would be a tall man with thick black hair, merry blue eyes and a tanned face. He would fall in love with her. They would be married on board ship. The pirates would attack them and he would defend his ship nobly, saving them all at the last minute, except Miss Spiggs, whom the pirates had made to walk the plank just before the gallant captain’s rescue. Maria and the captain would build a fine house in Australia and have parrots and monkeys. Did they have monkeys in Australia? Well, if they didn’t, the captain would ship them in for her amusement. But there were all those convicts about. That could not be so terrible, decided Maria after much hard thought. People were transported for all sorts of minor crimes, like stealing loaves of bread. Convicts might be quite jolly. Any company seemed jolly after Bath society. And anyone who had survived transportation was bound to be healthy, not like all those invalids who invaded the Pump Room in Bath, comparing physical deformities and sores. Back to the gallant captain. She had married him but he had not even kissed her yet. What would that be like? It was very hard to imagine being kissed when no one had kissed you.
The carriage lurched to a halt. They had arrived. Maria was disappointed to have to give up such a splendid dream.
There seemed to be a great number of people and carriages about the inn. As the groom let down the steps, he said, ‘They’re saying as how part of the road is washed away up ahead. We may not be able to travel on tomorrow.’
‘Very well,’ said Maria, climbing down. ‘It does not matter all that much. This posting-house has a good reputation and will be a comfortable place to stay.’
But Maria, who was all ready to sink back into her pleasant dream about the captain, received a rude shock when she walked into the hall of the posting-house. She found she had to share a room not only with her maid but with Miss Spiggs as well.
‘And why is that, sir?’ demanded Maria. ‘My parents bespoke two bedchambers, one for me and one for my companion and lady’s maid.’
/> The owner, Mr Swan, bowed low. ‘I am sorry, miss, but there are so many travellers stranded by the weather. The Duke of Berham himself arrived looking for a room and I could hardly refuse.’
‘Oh yes, you could,’ said Maria crossly. ‘Very well, see to it that an extra room is found as soon as you possibly can, for it seems as if we shall be stranded here for more than one night.’
But Maria became even more angry when she saw the room. There was a large four-poster bed and a truckle-bed in the corner. She summoned Mr Swan and demanded another bed to be set up in the room. Maria had no intention of sharing a bed with Miss Spiggs.
‘And,’ she called to the owner’s retreating back, ‘have a bath of hot water sent up immediately.’
He swung round. ‘I will send it up as soon as it is free.’
‘I want it now,’ said Maria, thinking that Miss Spiggs now smelled like a wet dog.
‘I am afraid it has just been taken up to the Duke of Berham’s room,’ said Mr Swan miserably.
‘And everything must be for the Duke of Berham? Very well, as soon as you can. We are all hungry. Where is my private parlour?’
Mr Swan turned red. ‘His grace demanded a private parlour and—’
‘If there was anywhere else to stay on this dreadful night, then I would find it, you toady,’ said Maria. ‘Go and tell this duke I want that parlour.’
The owner looked at this Miss Kendall’s provincial clothes. He cringed before her rage but a duke was a duke. ‘I am afraid I cannot do that,’ he said. ‘I shall put screens around a table in the public dining-room.’
Maria felt the lack of male support keenly. This owner would not have been so ready to give up the private parlour if she had been a man. ‘I told his grace you had already bespoken it,’ said Mr Swan in a conciliatory tone, ‘but he reminded me he owns most of the land around here, including the land on which this posting-house stands. I am sorry we had to give the Blue Room to him instead of you.’
‘Thank you, that will be all,’ said Maria, suddenly realizing the futility of arguing with him any further.
But when the bath finally arrived and a protesting and screaming Miss Spiggs was shoved into it by a determined Maria, she found her rage against this high-handed duke mounting by the minute. She went through Miss Spiggs’s trunk while Betty, the maid, scrubbed that lady’s back, or as much of it as she could considering Miss Spiggs had insisted on taking a bath in her shift. Then, piling up an armful of clothes, she rang the bell and handed them to a chambermaid, with instructions that everything was to be laundered.
Animating Maria Page 1