Perfecting Fiona (3 page)

Mr Burgess opened the trap in the roof with his stick and called angrily to the coachman. ‘Are you all right, John? These young hooligans should be horsewhipped.’

‘Everything right and tight, sir. They’ve stopped along the road. One o’ them’s turned and is coming back this way. Probably to see you’re all right.’

‘Then drive on, Jack,’ said Mrs Burgess shrilly. ‘We do not speak to such riff-raff.’

‘Can’t do that, ma’am. He’s swung ’is carriage across the front.’

‘
Fiona!
’ screamed Mrs Burgess. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ For Fiona had suddenly jerked down the glass with the strap and was leaning out the window. She sank gracefully back in her seat as a tall man appeared.

Mrs Burgess shuddered. Here was a rake! He had a thin, handsome, dissipated face and very bright blue eyes. He removed his curly brimmed beaver, revealing a head of thick, glossy black hair artistically curled, and made a low bow.

‘My apologies,’ he drawled. ‘A stupid race, and I would not have frightened you for the world. Allow me to present myself. Lord Peter Havard.’

The Burgesses were not melted by the sound of a title. They were gentry and proud of it. They disapproved of the aristocracy when they thought of them, which was seldom. Lady Fremley was bearable only because she was an inhabitant of Tunbridge Wells, and anyone hailing from that sedate spa had an automatic passport to respectability in the Burgesses’ eyes.

‘I am Miss Fiona Macleod,’ said that young lady, ‘and this is my aunt and my uncle, Mr and Mrs Burgess from Tunbridge Wells.’

Shocked to the core, Mrs Burgess found her voice. ‘If you do not wish to distress us further,’ she said icily, ‘remove your carriage and let us go on our way.’

‘Did you win?’ asked Fiona. ‘The race, I mean.’

‘Yes, Miss Macleod. By a few inches.’

‘Why not more?’

‘Fiona, I shall
slap
you,’ said Mrs Burgess between her teeth.

‘Because’ – Lord Peter smiled ruefully – ‘I nearly met my match.’

Mr Burgess leaned forward and jerked up the glass. Lord Peter bowed again and disappeared.

‘Have you run mad, Fiona?’ demanded Mrs Burgess. ‘Encouraging the attentions of a rake?’

‘Is he a rake?’ asked Fiona, her voice full of rare interest. ‘How can you tell?’

‘That is quite enough of that. Oh, we are moving at last. Not another word, Fiona. Pray God these Tribble women are suitable!’

The journey continued in silence. When the carriage finally turned off Oxford Street into Holles Street, Mr Burgess addressed his wife. ‘I feel, my dear, that we should . . . er . . . leave Fiona in the carriage while we prepare these good ladies.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘It is important that we speak to them in private.’

Fiona watched her aunt and uncle mount the steps of a prosperous-looking Town house. Then she opened her reticule and took out a book and began to read.

‘And so,’ said Mrs Burgess half an hour later, ‘we have warned you about Fiona. She is to marry someone of her own station in life, that is, a member of the gentry. We are not against the army or the navy, are we, Mr Burgess?’

‘No, my dear.’

‘Or even the clergy or the merchant class. We do not ask that she marries money, she has enough of her own. But she must not encourage adventurers.’

Amy spoke up. ‘And you do not know how it was that your niece managed to frighten off her suitors?’

‘No, she simply insisted they had changed their minds. Mr Burgess himself beat her, but she remained stubborn. She is bold and wicked. I have paid you a large sum in advance, and you may demand more if necessary, for you have a great task in front of you. A rake by the name of Lord Peter Havard was bold enough to address Fiona on the road here. She is to have nothing to do with such a type.’

‘Lord Peter is the younger son of the Duke of Penshire,’ said Effy. ‘Very rich and considered quite a catch.’

‘Then let someone else catch him,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘Such a match would be counted as a failure.’

Effy looked pleadingly at Amy. Amy knew what that look meant. It meant, do not take this job. But Amy had a parcel of pound notes on her lap, the Burgesses having decided to pay their advance in hard cash, and she could feel the warmth from all that money seeping through her bones.

‘Perhaps we should meet our new charge?’ she said.

Mrs Burgess nodded and a footman went to fetch Fiona from the carriage.

Effy and Amy waited for this bold and brazen hussy to burst into the room. She would probably be rebellious, angry, and defiant.

The double doors were opened and a slight figure walked in. Effy and Amy both looked beyond the girl, looking for someone else, but Mrs Burgess said, ‘This is my niece, Miss Fiona Macleod. Fiona, make your curtsy to Miss Effy and Miss Amy Tribble.’

Amy and Effy stared as if they could not believe their eyes. Fiona Macleod was a waif, albeit a fashionably dressed one. She had a small pale face and large, large eyes that appeared colourless.

‘Remove your bonnet, Fiona,’ ordered Mrs Burgess. Fiona untied the ribbons of her bonnet and took it off. Her hair was thick and fine and slate-coloured. Wispy curly fine tendrils rioted about her pale face.

Those large eyes of hers gazed at the sisters. They held no expression whatsoever.

Poor thing! was Effy’s first thought. They have bullied that poor child into a shadow.

Needs feeding and a bit of rouge, thought Amy.

Mrs Burgess rose to her feet and her husband followed suit. ‘We shall leave Fiona in your capable hands,’ she said. ‘Use the birch if necessary.’

‘I do not think we shall find that form of discipline necessary,’ said Amy firmly. ‘Do you journey back to Tunbridge Wells this evening?’

‘No, no.’ Mrs Burgess shuddered. ‘Such a long way. We shall put up at Grillon’s Hotel and leave tomorrow.’

‘Then you may call on Fiona before you leave,’ said Amy.

‘You are being paid to take care of the girl,’ said Mrs Burgess coldly. ‘We shall call again when the engagement is to be announced.’

Amy and Effy went downstairs with the Burgesses and saw them out. When they returned, Fiona was sitting by the fire, warming her hands.

‘You may retire to your room, child,’ said Effy. ‘Our housekeeper, Mrs Lamont, will show you the way. You must be exhausted after your journey.’

‘Not at all, ma’am,’ said Fiona.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Amy. ‘We sit down to dinner in half an hour.’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I am very hungry.’

Probably starved the child, thought Amy furiously. Aloud, she said, ‘Then go to your room and change and you may join us.’

Fiona appeared promptly at the dining table exactly half an hour later. Amy was a good judge of fashion for anyone but herself. She noticed Fiona’s silk gown was fussy and unbecoming.

Soup was served. Amy took a mouthful and spluttered and then shouted at the new butler, Harris, who was standing at attention. ‘What is this, cat’s urine?’

‘It is vegetable soup, ma’am,’ said the butler in injured tones. ‘If you will remember, ma’am, you complained that turtle soup was too expensive.’

‘A pox on the expense and bad cess to the cook,’ howled Amy. ‘Make sure the other courses are fit for human consumption.’

‘Amy!’ Effy threw her sister an anguished look.

Amy turned beet-red. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Forgot meself.’

Fiona raised her napkin to her lips. Laughter shone in her large eyes, but both sisters had their heads bent over their plates and did not see it.

Woman, though so kind she seems, will take
your heart and tantalize it,
Were it made of Portland stone, she’d manage
to McAdamize it
.

It became clear after only a few weeks of her stay that Fiona Macleod was going to save the Tribble sisters a certain amount of money. The dancing master, the water-colourist, and the Italian tutor were soon cancelled. Fiona did not need any of them.

She danced like an angel, painted highly competent water-colours, and spoke Italian fluently. She had perfect manners and a graceful bearing. Apart from the fact that she was very quiet and shy and withdrawn, there seemed to be no fault in the girl.

Both Effy and Amy decided Mr and Mrs Burgess were hard and unnatural people. Still, despite the fact that Fiona was an heiress, they did expect some difficulty in finding her a husband.
They
found her charming and attractive, but
they
were not men. Men, said Effy, were incalculable creatures, given to falling passionately in love with bold misses with pushing ways.

Yet they held back from starting instruction in the important arts of flirting and conversation. Both decided that Fiona was much in need of a period of kindness and rest.

Neither would admit to the other that they found living with Fiona a bit of a strain. She was so very quiet, so very good. Amy felt clumsy and gauche and loud. Effy, who often enjoyed comparing her own delicate appearance favourably with that of her mannish sister, now felt every bit as large and loud and clumsy as Amy.

Had their charge proved as difficult as they had expected, then they would have kept her at home with her schooling and not presented her anywhere until the beginning of the Season. But, although neither would admit it, both longed to be shot of the waif.

And so when an invitation to a ball at the Duke and Duchess of Penshire’s Town house arrived, they decided to accept. Amy thought guiltily about the ducal son, Lord Peter, and then came to the rapid conclusion that he was no threat. How could such a well-known rake and heartbreaker ever even look at such a one as Fiona.

Effy, too, was anxious to go. Life had become strangely flat and dull now that the spectre of financial ruin had retreated. They were comfortable, and nothing threatened them.

Perhaps it might have added spice to the sisters’ life to know that someone was plotting their downfall at that very moment and spent a great deal of time watching the comings and goings at the house in Holles Street.

The villain was Mr Desmond Callaghan. He was an Exquisite, a Pink of the
ton
, a fribble, who had assiduously cultivated the sisters’ aunt, Mrs Cutworth, to such good effect that the aunt had died leaving the sisters not one penny, but everything to Mr Callaghan. The sisters, because of this disappointment, had ‘gone into business’ as chaperones. The wealth they had gained through their first job had prompted the furious Mr Callaghan to believe that the sisters had inveigled all their aunt’s money and jewels out of her before her death. In short, they had tricked him, and must be punished. For he, who had expected to gain riches, after many weary hours and days of dancing attendance on the old frump, had found her bequest contained nothing but debts, which the sale of her house only just covered.

He had recently learned of their role as chaperones extraordinary and was now watching and waiting like a cat at a mouse hole for a chance to harm them in some way. He did not for a minute believe they had achieved their new and comfortable style of living through work alone.

He was one of those doubtful young men who managed to get invitations to some of the best houses, but the Duke and Duchess of Penshire were too high up and too rigid to issue an invitation to their ball to such as himself.

The Tribbles’ second footman, Frank, was a callow young man with a taste for low taverns into which he often dropped when he was supposed to be delivering cards. Mr Callaghan followed him into one of these low hostelries and loosened his tongue with drink and therefore found out the movements of the Tribbles.

He knew he could not hope to attend this ball, but he did learn from Frank that the Tribbles’ charge was a Miss Macleod, reputed to have enormous wealth.

Mr Desmond Callaghan decided to find a way of courting Miss Macleod, marrying her, getting her wealth, and spiting the Tribbles at the same time.

It was such a splendid plan that, for the moment, he was content to warm his hands at the fantasy rather than do anything about it.

Amy and Effy were proud of their dressmaker’s skill and had left Fiona in Yvette’s hands, confident that any ballgown she made would do the girl justice.

But when Fiona appeared before them, ready to go to the ball, they wondered if Yvette had made a dreadful mistake. Fiona looked . . . well . . .
odd
.

They had expected Fiona to wear white muslin. But for some reason, Yvette had chosen to attire Fiona in a slate-blue silk slip with an overdress of pale-green gauze edged with gold. Her hair had been cut short and curled all over her head, that fine, wispy fly-away hair through which the lamplight shone, creating an aureole around Fiona’s small head. Had Fiona been posing for an illustration for a fairy-story book, then, thought Amy, she would have been perfectly suitable. But Amy doubted if someone looking like the Queen of the Elves would cause one heart to beat faster at the ball. Gentlemen liked substantial English beauties, tall and well rounded, with plump bosoms and generous hips.

She wanted to tell Fiona to go and put something else on, but the more she thought about it, the more she decided that white muslin, say, would simply make the girl look washed out.