All in that moment, Amy could have hit him with a gin bottle.
‘Effy has nerves of steel,’ she said coldly. ‘She is a better actress than I, that is all.’
‘We will go now and see Berham,’ said Mr Haddon firmly. ‘Oh, I know it is nearly midnight, but I think he will be glad to have this matter resolved. Then you may tell Maria of the arrangements and ask her to look in good spirits. You will get your money out of Kendall easier if he thinks you have been instrumental in making Maria forget Berham. When the Kendalls learn of the elopement, pretend to be shocked and swear you know nothing of it. Once they have returned to Bath, we shall put it about society of how you arranged all. Society will consider you matchmakers extraordinary. They will think it incredible that anyone managed to get the proud Duke of Berham to elope.’
Despite the late hour, the duke received them in his bedchamber. As he listened in amazement to the news of the Kendalls’ continued refusal of his suit and to the plans for his flight to Gretna, he wondered what ever had happened to his stately well-ordered life. Then he calculated, after Amy had fallen silent, that it might work out very well after all. He would be spared the horrors of a society wedding and he would be able to have Maria all to himself as soon as possible.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But strange as it may seem, Miss Amy, I am quite capable of arranging my own elopement. All you have to do is tell Maria to wait for word from me. Now I am anxious to get some sleep. It is not every day I am hit on the head.’
Amy looked mutely towards Mr Haddon for help. He cleared his throat. ‘Your grace, you kindly promised the Misses Tribble a generous fee for arranging the happy outcome of your engagement. As you will be pressed for time in the days to come and may forget . . .’
The duke grinned. ‘If you had not damaged my wits, Miss Amy, I would not pay you one penny and I would send you the physician’s bill as well. Bring my portable writing-desk over to the bed.’
Amy twisted her gloves in her hands as he wrote a draft. He handed it over. She took out her quizzing-glass and studied it. It was a magnificent amount. She made up her mind. They would have the whole year to themselves. No work. No difficult girls. No frights. No worries. Nothing but peace and calm. She would pluck up courage to consult a doctor about her aches and pains and soaring temperatures.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you very much.’
Maria was roused at one-thirty in the morning by Amy shaking her awake.
Her eyes were red with crying. Gently Amy whispered the plans for the elopement.
‘But my parents. They will cast me off,’ protested Maria.
‘No, they won’t,’ said Amy, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘I’ll see to that. Don’t worry about a thing and leave everything to me.’
‘You are so good to me. I am sorry to disappoint you. It would be wonderful if you could have paraded a grand wedding before society.’
‘No need for that now,’ said Amy. ‘You can always get married in church when you come back.’
‘If you are sure my parents will not be furious . . . ?’
‘No, no. All they need is to be presented with the fait accompli and they’ll be merry as grigs. Just you sit tight and wait for word from Berham.’
Effy cried with relief when Amy told her about the elopement and the money. ‘The only thing is,’ said Amy, ‘I do hope the Kendalls are not too sore about it, for I have taken a certain liking to them.’
But the events of the next few days were enough to turn Amy and Effy against the Kendalls. Mr Kendall certainly paid his bill and said he was grateful to them for their schooling and amazed that they had managed to cheer Maria up so quickly. But then Mrs Kendall led Yvette into the room and the trouble started.
‘We have news for you, ladies,’ said Mrs Kendall with a motherly beam. ‘You will be losing Yvette.’
‘You cannot go with them,’ cried Effy aghast. ‘You cannot hide yourself in Bath and waste you skill on . . .’ Her voice fortunately trailed off, for she had been about to say something very rude indeed.
‘She ain’t going to Bath,’ crowed Mr Kendall. ‘I’m setting her up in her own business in the West End. Got a neat little property. Rooms above the shop, a nurse for baby George and near enough the Park to get fresh air.’
‘And what have you to say to this, ma’m’selle?’ demanded Amy wrathfully.
‘I am so grateful,’ said Yvette simply. ‘I will be my own mistress. I will give you special rates.’
‘Ho! You will, will you?’ said Amy. ‘Is this how you repay us?’
‘Stow it!’ said Mr Kendall brutally. ‘You wasn’t even paying her a wage, and if we hadn’t taken George out to the Park, the mite wouldn’t have seen a peep of daylight this age.’
The fact that all this was true and made Amy feel bitterly guilty only added fuel to her wrath. Now Yvette’s marvellous creations would be available to anyone who could pay and not reserved for them alone. She raged, she pleaded, and she cajoled, but Yvette would not be moved.
Luckily for Yvette, a note arrived later that day with plans for the duke for the elopement, and so the sisters’ attention was momentarily diverted and she was able to take her leave with surprisingly little fuss, although both sisters did break down in tears at the last moment as baby George waved a chubby fist in farewell.
They turned their full attention on Maria. She was to leave in two days’ time at dawn. The duke’s carriage would be waiting outside. There was a bustle of packing and planning, all to be done in secrecy.
The great morning arrived. The sisters, in wrappers, nightgowns and fantastic nightcaps, stood on the step of their house on Holles Street, waving goodbye. Maria hugged them fiercely, begging them to send her love to Frederica Sunningdale and her apologies to her for not being able to engage her services as maid of honour.
The carriage turned the corner of the street and disappeared.
‘Another one bolted,’ said Amy sadly, ‘and left us the mess in the stables to clean up.’
‘I am glad it was not a wedding in London after all,’ said Effy. ‘You know, it always serves to remind me that we are still . . . are still . . .’
‘I know.’ Amy put an arm about her sister’s shoulders. ‘Come inside. The morning is chilly.’
* * *
Maria had left a note for her parents in which she said the Tribbles knew nothing of her elopement, but that did not stop most of Mr Kendall’s wrath descending on the Tribbles’ heads. He ranted and raged and told them they were a disgrace until Amy, exasperated, ordered both of them from the house. Mr Kendall demanded his money back, and then Effy and Mrs Kendall had to stop him from striking Amy after she had told him in which part of his anatomy she would like to lodge his money.
To Effy’s relief, the angry couple took their leave without any further demands for repayment. They left the Tribble sisters feeling shaken and sick.
Amy and Effy, strangely enough, would have been even more furious if they could have heard a conversation between the couple on the road to Bath. For after berating the Tribble sisters and cursing them and leaving them both feeling as if they had been in the wars, the Kendalls were slowly waking up to the fact that their daughter had made a very successful marriage indeed.
‘You know, my love,’ said Mrs Kendall, putting a hand on her husband’s knee. ‘I am wondering why we are in such a taking. Our daughter is to be married to a duke.’
Mr Kendall snorted furiously. Then he began to think about it. He was going back to Bath, where despite all his money and all his efforts, he had been cruelly snubbed so many times. He was about to become father-in-law to a duke. He looked down at his new clothes. The Tribbles had done their stuff, right enough. Why, his wife looked even better-gowned than some of the titled ladies in the Pump Room. He began to dream. He would be questioned about the elopement. He would say casually, ‘That young jackanapes of a duke was down on his knees begging me for Maria’s hand but I did not think him at all suitable.
A bit too old, hey, Mrs Kendall? But the silly things must need run off to Gretna. Still, they will be married in London on their return. You want to come to the wedding, my lady? I’ll see, I’ll see. So many people to invite, don’t you know.’ And so Mr Kendall dreamt, while far to the north on the road to Gretna, one of his daughter’s wildest fantasies had come to life. She was eloping with a handsome duke.
The Tribbles missed baby George desperately. Why had they not paid him more attention of late? they mourned to each other. Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph missed the baby too. While they played whist of an evening with the sisters, Yvette used to bring the baby down to the drawing room.
Something in the house seemed to have died. Still, they did their bit for Yvette. Both went on calls and loudly mourned the loss of their dressmaker, praised Yvette’s skill to the skies and passed around notes with the address of her new shop. They called on Yvette, too, but she was too busy supervising the workmen who were laying out her showroom, and baby George was too fascinated with the jolly company of a plump young nursemaid to make either sister feel wanted.
The news of the elopement rocked London, and although Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph diligently talked about the Tribbles’ skill in arranging it, no one believed them. No one believed the duke’s mother either. She was surely just trying to smooth things over and make less of a scandal by saying they had all been party to the plot. Lady Bentley had arranged a prestigious marriage for that little nobody, Frederica Sunningdale. She was to marry Lord Alistair Beaumont at a splendid wedding in St James’s Chapel. Now that was the way things ought to be done, said the wagging tongues.
And so even Effy, who had been so glad to think of relaxing for a whole year without any cares, began to thirst for another success. Amy tried to console her by saying that the duke and his new duchess would return to London and have their great wedding, and faith in them would be restored. But then a letter arrived from Maria in which she said they were boarding a ship at Glasgow to go to France for a honeymoon and not a word of that wedding.
‘And that’s gratitude for you!’ cried Amy, throwing the letter across the room. ‘People are so jealous of us; they long to see us fail just because we’ve snatched so many prizes away from them. By George, I would give anything for just one more success.’
‘Alas, Amy,’ said Effy sadly. ‘I fear our career is at an end. We will bide our time and think of a new line of business.’
‘That advertisement has been running for some time now,’ said Amy. ‘Mr Haddon insisted on paying the costs.’
‘The dear man,’ cooed Effy, batting her lamp-blackened eyelashes. ‘So protective.’
And then she ducked as Amy threw a cushion at her.
Unknown as yet to the Tribbles, their next ‘job’ was struggling against a gale along the North Cliff of Scarborough in Yorkshire past the cemetery where her parents were buried. The earth on the grave was new, her father having recently gone to join her mother.
Miss Harriet Brown was on her way to visit her aunt, Lady Owen, who lived on the more fashionable St Nicholas Cliff. Harriet had never seen her aunt, although they both lived in the same town. Lady Owen had cut herself off when frivolous Lydia, the belle of Scarborough and Lady Owen’s sister, had married a Methodist minister, Mr Thomas Brown, of no particular background whatsoever.
So incensed had Lady Owen been at her sister’s fall from grace that she had not even attended her funeral when Lydia died giving birth to baby Harriet.
Harriet had grown up, trained to help her father in his good works and act as unpaid housekeeper. She was now twenty-five and had never been to a ball or party. She did not want to visit her aunt, but Harriet was ever practical and knew her father had left very little money, and that if she did not find help soon, she would end up in the workhouse.
The size and splendour of her aunt’s mansion rather daunted her, but she reminded herself sternly that this was all mere worldly show and knocked at the great door, feeling the wind plucking at her black mourning-clothes.
When the door opened, she had no card to hand the butler, but merely gave her name.
‘You are expected, miss,’ said the butler. ‘Be so good as to come this way.’
He led the way up a curved staircase and threw open the double doors of a drawing room on the first landing.
‘Miss Harriet Brown,’ he announced, and then withdrew, leaving Harriet and her aunt together. Each surveyed the other curiously.
Lady Owen saw a tall slim girl dressed in a shabby black coat and gown and depressing bonnet. She had good eyes, large and sparkling and very blue.
‘Take off your bonnet,’ she commanded.
Harriet untied the strings and took it off and let it dangle in her hand.
Her hair was magnificent, black and glossy and rippling with natural waves.
Lady Owen noticed, however, that Harriet’s chin had a firm, stubborn look and that her mouth was too generous for beauty.
For her part, Harriet saw a woman of fifty or so, very expensively gowned and turbaned with a sour, petulant face. Her eyes were a faded blue and she had very large hairy eyebrows. She smiled and extended her hand. Harriet noticed as Lady Owen smiled that her set of false teeth was of the best china.
‘Sit down, Harriet,’ said Lady Owen. She waited until Harriet was seated, and then went on. ‘I have made inquiries as to your circumstances and find that you have no money, no beaux and no future. Am I right?’
‘Yes, Lady Owen.’
‘Apart from myself, you are the only surviving member of the Owen family. It is important to me that you should marry well and bear children. Your unfortunate background is known in Scarborough . . .’
The blue eyes opposite her flashed fire. ‘I do not consider my life to date unfortunate,’ said Harriet. ‘My father was a good and kind man.’
Lady Owen sniffed. ‘Don’t take on so. I am entitled to my opinion. You are a trifle old but not ill-looking, and it will take a great deal of money and work to make you a suitable bride for some man of high rank. To that end, I am writing to a couple of professional chaperones who reside in London. You will go to them for the Little Season and they will bring you out. You must do your best and learn to charm and flirt.’
Harriet bit back the angry retort that had risen to her lips. She had been brought up to respect her elders. She was shocked at the proposal, but did not know what else to do. She was well educated and had tried to get a position as governess during her father’s last illness, for she knew very well she would soon be alone in the world. But several interviews had shown her that the kind of education required was the kind she lacked – Italian, water-colours and piano playing.
‘The ladies who will bring you out,’ said Lady Owen, ‘are called Effy and Amy Tribble, a couple of farouche eccentrics, who are, nonetheless, of the highest rank of society and are famed for having a gift of refining the seemingly unrefinable.’
While she talked, Harriet sat and assessed her new situation. It was necessary to be practical. It was no use shrinking from the prospect. Her father had taught her there was good in everyone, even Lady Owen. All of London society could not be given over to dissipation and folly. She would find one good man of sober tastes and modest mien, perhaps a member of the clergy, and make the best of it. Her father had always wanted her to marry.
The new Duchess of Berham lay naked in her husband’s arms as the ship that was bearing them to France ploughed through the stormy seas.
‘Of what are you thinking, my love?’ he asked.
‘I was thinking of Effy and Amy Tribble,’ said Maria. ‘They did so want a grand wedding in London and I feel guilty about going on our honeymoon first.’
‘The Tribbles will survive.’
Maria stretched and yawned. ‘It is a pity Mr Haddon would not marry Miss Amy. Then they would not have to work.’
‘What do you want me to do, my love? Write and order him to do so?’
‘Silly. But when we return, perhaps we might call on th
em and see if we can do anything in that direction.’
‘As you will. Although the thought of going near Amy Tribble again rather frightens me. You must remember it was she who challenged me to a duel and hit me on the head.’
‘And brought us both to our senses,’ said Maria.
The ship plunged and shuddered in the trough of a wave and she clutched him hard. ‘We will do our best for the Tribble sisters,’ he said as his hands slid down her body, ‘and we will get to work on that new village. But first . . . first . . . I want you to myself for some little time so that I can do this . . . and this . . . and this . . .’
And Maria plunged back into a sea of passion, as noisy and turbulent as the storm outside.
Miss Spiggs was walking through the lanes outside Bath, feeling very sorry for herself. The Kendalls had dispensed with her services. She thirsted for revenge on the Tribbles, for she was sure it was they who had poisoned dear Mrs Kendall’s mind against her.
The sound of a noisy, haranguing voice reached her ears, and she came out of her bitter thoughts to see she was approaching some sort of meeting that was being held in a field. A man was standing on a platform, speaking to a small crowd.
Miss Spiggs stopped to listen. ‘Brothers and sisters,’ said the speaker, ‘why should there be one law for the rich and one for the poor? Why should we have to slave all our days for people who are no better than we?’
He was wearing a very tight blue coat with brass buttons over a striped waistcoat. A beaver hat was perched on his ginger hair. Miss Spiggs thought him a compelling figure and edged her way to the front of the crowd until she was standing below him. ‘They ride past us in their carriages and never notice the poor starving in the streets,’ said the speaker, as he dropped a quick calculating glance at Miss Spiggs, discreet in dove-grey silk gown with the diamond pin Maria had given her winking on the front of it.
‘And it is not only the very poor who suffer,’ he said and now his eyes seemed to hold those of Miss Spiggs. ‘It is the poor relations, the cast-off companions, the wretches who have only their dignity to live on. Let us pray for them too, brothers and sisters.’
Animating Maria Page 14