Animating Maria

by Beaton, M. C.

  How true, thought Miss Spiggs, engulfed in a pleasurable wave of self-pity.

  At the end of his speech, the orator said a collection would be taken up for The Brothers and Sisters of the Uprising of the Underdog. He swept off his hat and passed it round. Miss Spiggs ostentatiously put in a bright new shilling and hoped he noticed.

  The meeting ended with the singing of a hymn, and the crowd began to shuffle away. Miss Spiggs was just turning away when she found the speaker at her elbow.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, my lady,’ he said with a low bow. ‘I am Dr Frank.’

  Miss Spiggs tittered. ‘I am not titled, sir, but one of those poor companions you mentioned in your speech.’

  ‘Indeed!’ His eyes shone with warm sympathy. ‘You must tell me about it. There is an inn hard by and I would be honoured if you would join me in some refreshment.’

  His wife approached him bearing the hat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Miss Spiggs, ‘while I talk to my assistant.’

  He snatched the hat from his wife, Bessie, tipped the coins out and put them in his pocket.

  ‘Lose yourself, Bess,’ he hissed. ‘See that diamond pin? I’ll have it off her by the end of the day. So you ain’t my wife.’

  Bessie nodded, although she sent a venomous look in Miss Spiggs’s direction.

  By the time Dr Frank and Miss Spiggs had reached the inn, she had told him all about the perfidy of the Tribbles.

  And Frank, the Tribbles’ ex-footman, put aside for the moment any idea of getting that diamond pin right away. Here was a coincidence. Here was a rare happening. He pretended he had never heard of the Tribbles while he asked question after question. Although his leaving the sisters’ household had been of his own doing, he blamed them for all his subsequent bad luck. There must be some way he could use this silly woman to avenge himself on them and get not only that diamond pin from Miss Spiggs but money from the Tribbles as well. He remembered seeing Amy in St Charles Street but was sure she had not recognized him. He had become a fine gentleman, he thought proudly, squinting down at the silk of his showy waistcoat and the gold tassels on his boots, and, in any case, London was a better hunting-ground.

  * * *

  Amy and Effy were seated with Mr Randolph and Mr Haddon some two weeks later, discussing the surprising letter that had arrived from Lady Owen.

  ‘Do you not remember her, Effy?’ asked Amy. ‘She had a beautiful sister – Lydia, that was it. Young Lord Lamperton was enamoured of her, as were quite a few gentlemen, but she showed no interest and they left their one Season, both of them unwed. It seems, gentlemen, that Lydia married a Methodist preacher and it is their daughter Lady Owen wants to send us. There seems to be no fault in the girl, except that she is a leetle old – twenty-five – and unpolished. ‘‘Modest and well-behaved if a trifle stiff in her manner and disgracefully short of light conversation,’’ says Lady Owen. Seems easy enough.’

  Effy shifted restlessly. ‘It would have been so nice to forget about these wretched girls for a little,’ she said with a sigh, ‘but if we could secure a good marriage for a Methodist – Methodist, mark you – minister’s daughter, then we should prove our worth. What do you think, Mr Randolph?’

  Mr Randolph looked pleased. He was used to both sisters consulting Mr Haddon first. ‘It seems quite safe,’ he said. ‘I think you should go ahead with it.’

  Although the sisters agreed with him, he could sense a sudden coldness in the room and wondered what he had said wrong.

  When the gentlemen had left, Amy said, ‘They both sit there, two rich nabobs, drinking our hard-earned wine, eating our hard-earned cakes and agreeing placidly on more work for us. Oh, why does not just one of them say, ‘‘Be mine’’?’

  Effy stretched out her hand and Amy clutched it. Outside the hoarse voice of the watch called the hour and strains of a waltz filtered through from the house next door where the neighbours were holding a ball.

  They sat like that for a long time, each one thinking of the long years of parties and balls and routs, the endless parade of gentlemen who just might be interested, the hopes and fears and disappointments – so very many disappointments.

  Amy cleared her throat and tried to think of something to say to lighten the gloom. ‘You know, Effy, when I was in St Charles Street, there was some fellow rousing the crowd to riot. I saw a handbill which said he was Dr Frank and then I saw him, up a lamp-post, staring at me. And do you know who it was? Our Frank. That silly footman who tried to get the rest of the servants to stop work.’

  Effy sat silently, her throat working. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Hey, what is this, sister? A wake? Champagne, Harris!’ shouted Amy. ‘We drink a toast to our future, Effy. We’re still alive, which is more than you can say for most of our contemporaries, and damme, if we ain’t got two real live gentlemen callers.’

  ‘We have?’

  ‘Course we do. Aren’t Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph here practically every day? We’ve got the pleasures of company without the pain of marriage. Why, that old trout, Lady Witherspoon, said t’other day, ‘‘I think Effy Tribble must go in for witchcraft. She gets younger by the minute.’’ And did you mark last time we drove in the Park that Colonel Flanders actually leered at you?’

  ‘He did?’ Effy released Amy’s hand and patted her silvery hair.

  ‘You’re an awful old rip, Effy,’ said Amy Tribble.

  Effy giggled. ‘And I will tell you something, sister. I think Mr Haddon’s in love with you. There!’

  A sort of radiance illuminated Amy’s plain face. ‘Hey, here’s the champagne. Call the staff in, Harris. Give them all a glass. A celebration.’

  ‘May I ask the nature of the celebration?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Life!’ said Amy Tribble. ‘There’s life in the old dogs yet. Or should I say bitches?’

  ‘Oh, Amy,’ admonished her exasperated sister.