Perfecting Fiona (10 page)

Lord Aubrey lived in a house in Bruton Street, which had been comfortable, conventional, and bookless until he became famous. He had read that a library was being offered at auction and had bought it before the auction by private contract. He had then sent all the books – without looking at them – to the bookbinder with instructions that the bindings were to be as rich and varied as possible. The works were of a somewhat miscellaneous character – old directories, poems by young ladies and gentlemen, ready reckoners, Dudridge’s
Expositor
,
Hints on Etiquette
, two hundred Minerva Press novels, triplicate copies of some twenty books on cookery, the
Art of War
, charades, Cudworth’s
Intellectual System
; books of travels, Bibles, prayer-books, plays, Enfield’s
Speaker
and Burn’s
Ecclesiastical Law
. But since Lord Aubrey only looked at the glowing bindings in their carved oak bookcases and never examined the contents, he was well pleased with the effect and felt more than ever like a man of intellect.

It was that irritating fashion of Regency notables to ask many more people than the house could comfortably hold in the hope that the social columns the next day would give the affair that highest of accolades, ‘a sad crush’. Mr Callaghan at first despaired of ever finding Miss Effy. People stood about, balancing plates of food and glasses, all jammed up against each other and barely able to move, let alone eat or drink. The literary luminaries of London society were conspicuous by their absence; Lord Aubrey feared being asked too many searching questions about art and literature. He enjoyed talking to the ladies, who flattered him and courted him.

He was greatly taken by Miss Fiona Macleod. She was exactly his idea of what a young miss should be. She talked about the weather, inclement, the difficulty of wearing gloves, getting them to wrinkle in the right manner, and weddings – did Lord Aubrey think church weddings were becoming fashionable again?

Lord Aubrey knew himself to be beautiful, but did not like any competition from the gentle sex. He liked the very quietness of Fiona’s appearance, her slate-coloured hair, and her no-colour eyes, which he considered a good foil for his own golden hair, large pansy-brown eyes, and tall, elegant figure. He was wearing a loose-flowing tartan silk scarf, knotted negligently about his throat, instead of a cravat, and a royal-blue velvet coat with sapphire-and-gold buttons.

While he talked to Fiona, Amy stood on tiptoe to watch Fiona’s behaviour. ‘Doing well,’ she muttered to Effy. ‘Very well. Aubrey’s a fool, but pleasant and kind and rich. Just the ticket. Sad crush, but the Westphalian ham’s good. I’m going to fight my way through the crowd and get some more.’

Effy looked about her. ‘Where is Mr Haddon? He could fetch it for you.’

‘He’s lost in the crowd somewhere,’ said Amy. ‘Quite capable of feeding m’self.’

She shouldered her way off.

The minute Amy had gone, Effy wanted to call her back. She felt ready to faint. Elbows jabbed into her back, hot bodies pressed against her, voices beat upon her ears.

She turned to escape and found herself looking up into the highly painted features of Mr Desmond Callaghan. She gave a little cry of distress and tried to back away.

‘Miss Tribble,’ he cried. ‘You are so white! Let me clear a path for you. There is a quiet place by the windows where you may get some fresh air.’

Effy felt too weak to refuse. Normally, Mr Callaghan would have been toadying and smiling to the important guests and would not have dreamt of shoving a path through them. But desire for revenge and desire for money stiffened his spine, and Effy soon found herself standing by the open windows at the back of one of the saloons with a refreshing breeze fanning her pale cheeks.

Mr Callaghan felt the gods were on his side. On a table in the bay in which they stood was a small table holding a bottle of champagne and some glasses. He deftly poured two and handed one to Effy, who was eyeing him as if he were a snake.

‘Please do not look at me so, fair one!’ cried Mr Callaghan. ‘It goes right to my heart. All those dreadful things I said to you! Please forgive me. But you must admit, Mrs Cutworth let us all down.’

Effy smiled at him in a tentative way. His eyes were glowing with warm admiration and he had called her ‘fair one’. Feeling guilty, she looked about for Amy but could see no sign of her. ‘I accept your apology,’ said Effy, ‘but you must admit, it did seem odd, you courting Mrs Cutworth. It is not as if you were a relation.’

‘I was sorry for her,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘I was visiting relatives in Streatham and happened to come across her when I was walking on the Common. She invited me to tea and begged me to call again, saying she was lonely.’

‘But I thought Aunt was bedridden these past six years or more,’ exclaimed Effy.

‘Mrs Cutworth often took the air in a Bath chair on the Common. You can ask your maid, Baxter, whether I speak the truth or not. I had no intention of trying to get her money. Do believe me, my delicate and beautiful Miss Tribble. But I must say when I found I was her sole heir and she had left me nothing but debts, I lost all reason. The duns were pressing me and life was hard. Can you understand?’

‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Effy, remembering their own too recent poverty.

‘I felt I had been cheated and I accused you – oh, my shame! – of having taken her money and jewels. How can I make up for my terrible rudeness? When I saw you there with your beautiful silver hair shining in the candlelight and looking so fragile, like a crushed flower, my heart went out to you.’

A slow feeling of delicious warmth started to grow inside Effy. It seemed such a long time since any man had paid her compliments. Mr Callaghan, who only recently had seemed such a pathetic figure of fun with his tight lacing and ridiculous clothes, now seemed almost handsome. When a man looks at a lady with a world of admiration in his eyes, it is very hard for her to consider him a poor creature.

‘I have already forgiven you,’ said Effy, fluttering her lamp-blackened eyelashes. ‘Do not distress yourself further.’

‘Alas, if only your sister would be so womanly – so forgiving. But I feel she hates me.’

Effy felt a little uncomfortable. Amy would indeed be in a towering rage if she knew that her sister were even exchanging two words with the enemy. Amy had not yet told Effy of Mr Callaghan’s call on Fiona. Mr Callaghan, studying her expressive face, decided he had better explain his call.

‘I have another confession to make,’ he said, smiling ruefully and, he hoped, boyishly into Effy’s eyes. ‘Did your sister tell you that I called on Miss Macleod?’

Effy’s eyes grew hard. ‘No, she did not.’

‘You see, I needed some excuse to see you again. I knew I might be taken as just another of Miss Macleod’s suitors, although I have no interest in the girl. Too immature.’ He looked down modestly. ‘I had been watching the house, you see, and knew your sister was absent, but unfortunately, I did not know that you, too, were gone from home.’

‘Mr Callaghan,’ said Effy firmly, trying to hang on to the remains of her common sense, ‘I cannot believe that a young and fashionable man like yourself could be in the slightest bit interested in an old woman like me.’

‘Old! How can such monstrous lies escape your fair lips. Old! Look in your glass and you will see what I see. Your gentleness, your delicacy of movement. The young misses of today are too farouche, too hurly-burly.’

Effy always prepared for a social outing in the dimmest of candlelight. She remembered herself as she had looked in her glass before she had set out that evening, with the smoky, greenish glass washing away all wrinkles. Every spinster of fifty, however sensible, has the soul of a seventeen-year-old virgin. Effy’s heart beat quicker. Her vanity had stopped her from seeing her own proper image in the glass, and now her vanity changed the weak and shifty Mr Callaghan into a dashing and handsome cavalier.

Several glasses of champagne and some heady compliments later and Effy, feeling like the heroine of one of her favourite romances, had agreed to meet Mr Callaghan in St James’s Park the following afternoon at three o’clock.

While Effy was absorbed in the attentions of her new beau, Amy was at the far end of a chain of saloons, chatting happily to Mr Haddon. She had him all to herself and she did not care what Effy was doing or, for that matter, Fiona. Mr Haddon was talking about his experiences in India and Amy was hanging on his every word. And Mr Haddon, who was often damned as a funny, dry old stick, was blossoming in front of the best audience he had ever had. He did think at one point that they should be searching in the crush for Fiona to find out what she was up to, but Amy had told him all about the girl’s revelations and how good and affectionate she had become, and so he eased his conscience with the thought that Miss Macleod was probably at no risk from anyone.

Fiona was trying hard to please, but she was becoming heartily bored with Lord Aubrey, who showed no signs of leaving her side. She felt small and insignificant. She wished Amy had not overridden Yvette’s choice of gown. Fiona knew that the white muslin she was wearing made her look washed out. She suddenly felt she could not bear Lord Aubrey one minute longer, and with a cry of dismay said that one of the flounces of her gown needed mending and excused herself, thrusting her way through the press with an energy as great as that previously demonstrated by Mr Callaghan. She made her way down to the hall and into an ante room reserved for the ladies. There she sat down wearily on a stool in front of a looking-glass and fiddled with her hair and powdered her nose and tried to summon up courage to plunge back into the crush.

With a little sigh, she stood up and went back out into the entrance hall. Lord Peter Havard, who had just arrived, was swinging his cloak from his shoulders. The two stared at one other, each with a sensation of shock. Fiona was thinking that she had forgotten how devastatingly handsome Lord Peter was with his intense blue eyes and midnight-black hair and powerful, athletic body. Lord Peter was thinking that Fiona was a poor-looking dab of a girl and wondered why he had ever become so enraged, upset, and attracted by her.

She was no longer a threat to his peace of mind and so he smiled on her, and said, ‘Good evening, Miss Macleod. May I escort you upstairs?’

Fiona felt crushed. She had seen shock, followed by wariness, followed by amused relief in his eyes. She had meant to behave well and to practise on him the gentle arts of flirting and conversation as taught by the sisters. Some imp prompted her to say, ‘Are you sure you wish to be seen with me, my lord? I am even drearier than you remembered, is that not so?
I
did not choose this wretched gown.’

Annoyed that she had guessed what he had been thinking, Lord Peter said crossly, ‘Either you are going to accept my escort or not, Miss Macleod. I do not want to stand in this draughty hall all evening.’

He held out his arm.

Fiona put her hand on his arm. That slight physical contact sent a thrilling charge of emotion through Lord Peter’s body. He led her up the stairs, looking down at her curiously, not knowing that Fiona was trying to stop herself from trembling, for she was suffering from the same violent physical reaction.

Lord Aubrey came up to them as they entered. ‘Havard,’ he cried. ‘Help yourself to food and drink and leave me to look after Miss Macleod.’

‘Evening, Aubrey,’ said Lord Peter. He disengaged himself with relief from Fiona and then immediately wanted to touch her again. He was annoyed at the admiration in Lord Aubrey’s eyes and by the possessive way he crowded in on Fiona, monopolizing her and cutting her off from the rest of the company. Lord Peter took a glass of champagne and talked to some friends, all the while edging back in the direction of the door. He hated crushes like this and wondered why he had come. A Miss Dryden, doing her second Season, was eating him up with her eyes, and kept moving closer to him as she spoke, egged on by her doting mama. He backed away and then suddenly felt as if someone had applied one of the new galvanizing machines to his back. People were pressed against people all round the room because of the crush. But he knew, before he twisted about, that his back was pressed against Fiona’s. He wondered what they would all think if he suddenly turned about and jerked her into his arms.

And then she moved away. He felt her move away. He heard Amy Tribble’s loud voice making the farewells and Effy Tribble saying ‘Come along, Fiona,’ and Lord Aubrey begging permission to call.

He realized Mrs Dryden had asked him a question and that she and her daughter were waiting for his answer. He said, ‘Yes,’ and then found to his horror that he had accepted an invitation to an al-fresco meal in the gardens of their Kensington villa.

He bowed and managed to get away. Surely such a strange and disturbing creature as Miss Macleod should be avoided at all costs. But perhaps he would just call on the morrow to reassure himself, to prove that his mind had been playing tricks, and to find she was every bit as ordinary as she had looked when he had seen her earlier in the hall.