Perfecting Fiona (9 page)

‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’ said Effy quietly. ‘You hate marriage. I feel it.’

Amy snorted in disdain, but to her surprise Fiona said simply, ‘Yes.’

‘Tell us why, dear,’ said Effy. ‘We shall not betray any confidence, but it is important that we know. If for some reason marriage is so repugnant to you, then we shall have to come to terms with that, and perhaps help you get through the time until you gain your inheritance.’

‘Effy – that would
ruin
us!’ cried Amy.

‘I think Fiona’s happiness is all that matters,’ said Effy quietly. ‘Our needs must come second.’

Shaken rigid by her sister’s unusual fit of nobility, Amy felt silent and looked pleadingly at Fiona.

‘All right,’ said Fiona. ‘I’ll tell you.

‘I was brought up in a very old house in Aberdeen. There is little privacy in a Scottish household. The servants are more family friends than servants and are allowed to say what they think. People do not hide family rows from servants – in fact, they often allow them to take sides. And so it was in my home. I think Mother and Father must have hated each other deeply. They were always rowing and quarrelling and the servants would shout and quarrel as well. I often wondered why I had no brothers or sisters, but I learned all too soon. Father was broad-spoken – blunt – and Mother would not allow him in her bedchamber. She said she had nigh died giving birth to me and would not risk death a second time.’ Fiona put her hands over her face. ‘The rows and abuse went on and on and on. I felt guilty. I felt I was somehow to blame. The children of the other families were either too good for me or not good enough, in my parents’ opinion, and so I had no one to play with. My one friend was Ian, a servant. He would show me the nests of birds, how to make dolls out of clothes-pegs, how to fish . . . oh, all sorts of things. I loved him dearly. I was twelve and he was, I suppose, about thirty. My parents were away visiting one afternoon and he took me off into the country to look for a badgers’ set. We stayed away longer than we intended, and when we returned, it was to find my father home and in a towering passion. Ian had kept our friendship secret, but some of the other servants knew of it, and they talked. My father accused him of all sorts of filthy things, without mincing his words. Ian was dismissed. A doctor was called in to examine me to make sure I was still a virgin. I shall never forget the humiliation – the disgust. Ian was a good man and sorry for me, but they could not understand that.

‘When my parents died and I was sent south, I could barely mourn them. I was too excited at the thought of a new, free life. You have met my aunt and uncle. They are childless, and brought me up as they saw fit. But they wanted rid of me as soon as possible and made it plain it was my duty to accept the first suitable man who proposed. I am not strong, but I knew I would take any amount of beatings rather than marry. Marriage is a sham, a deception, a vile trade which has nothing to do with love or romance. I want no part of it.’

She fell silent. The Tribbles looked at her in dismay while both wondered desperately what to do. They had been prepared to take on wild girls, spoilt girls, even ruined girls, but never had they envisaged trying to cope with a girl who hated and feared the very idea of marriage. And to think they had been bored and irritated with Fiona because she seemed to need no schooling whatsoever.

‘There are good marriages,’ said Amy quietly. ‘I know it is hard for us women, and many of us must take what comes. But you are an heiress and can hope for compatibility and love. We won’t force you into anything.’

It was Effy who spoilt things, Effy, who had only been pretending to be altruistic to get Fiona to talk. While Fiona had been speaking, Effy had been locked in a nightmare fantasy of cold and poverty. She and Amy were just entering the workhouse with their meagre belongings; the tall iron gates clanged behind them, the poor shivering wretches in the workhouse were crowding round, grinning furtively and greedily eyeing the bundles the sisters carried with them. ‘No!’ screamed Effy. ‘I cannot bear it. This is all we have left. Do not take it from us.’

Fiona looked shocked, but Amy, who was used to her sister’s fantasizing, groaned aloud and went and put an arm about Effy’s shoulders. ‘Do not exercise yourself so much, Effy,’ she said gruffly. ‘We can always sell this house and move to a cottage in the country.’

‘I hate the country. I loathe it,’ said Effy, beginning to sob. ‘Bad drains and peasantry and genteel poverty and nasty-smelling candles and undisciplined animals in the fields who ought to wear
drawers
!’

To Amy’s added distress, Fiona began to cry as well. ‘You are s-so kind,’ she wailed. ‘No one but Ian has ever been so kind to me before. Oh, I
shall
try to think of marriage, my dear Miss Amy and Miss Effy. Only dry your eyes. I am selfish and wicked.’

Amy strode to the window and glared out and then scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘No need to sacrifice yourself,’ she said.

‘I won’t sacrifice myself,’ said Fiona. ‘I shall choose someone highly suitable and you will be covered in glory. Provided I choose a gentleman who is rich enough not to want my money, may I choose whom I please? That is the only stipulation I will make.’

‘Of course!’ cried Effy, her tears drying like magic.

‘Certainly,’ said Amy with a broad grin. ‘You can’t have anyone in mind at the moment.’

Fiona stood up. She had just decided never to tell lies again. But surely the Tribbles deserved just one little white lie to make them happy. And she did so much want them to be happy. ‘Yes, I do know someone,’ she said.

‘Who!’ demanded the sisters in unison.

‘Lord Peter Havard.’

‘Oh, lud,’ said Amy.

‘Not suitable, dear,’ said Effy. ‘The man has no interest in anything other than roistering and womanizing. Forgive me for speaking so plain.’

‘You agreed, you promised, that I might have the man of my choice,’ said Fiona stubbornly, disappointed that they had not hailed her declaration with relief. After all the trouble she had given them, she had been so sure they would have greeted the idea of marriage to anyone with delight.

Effy opened her mouth to speak, but Amy flashed her a warning glance. ‘We will discuss it later,’ she said in a milder tone. ‘I think we should all have a glass of champagne to restore our nerves.’

A look of friendliness and happiness showed on Fiona’s glowing face as she sipped her champagne; trepidation and worry on the sisters’ side. What were they to do with the girl? It was wonderful to see her looking so happy. What would happen to her when Lord Peter ignored her, as he had ignored so many young misses in previous Seasons? Or worse? If Lord Peter was interested enough in Fiona to get his parents to invite her to that ball, then he might break her heart. And the sisters had promised Mr and Mrs Burgess to steer Fiona clear of Lord Peter.

When Fiona at last rose and said she was going to her room, the sisters could hardly wait for her to leave so they could discuss this new problem. No sooner had Fiona left than Mr Haddon was announced and stood bewildered before a barrage of explanations about cruelty, marriage, and Lord Peter.

In his usual way, he sat down patiently and listened until he had the full story.

‘I think it would be a dangerous thing to cross the poor girl at the moment,’ he said at last. ‘Besides, are you not worrying overmuch? Lord Peter Havard? He is too interested in sport and curricle-racing and every frivolity the fringes of the Season has to offer to pay attention to a young miss whose father hailed from the middle classes. I have noticed furthermore that Fiona has an oddly direct approach when speaking to gentlemen, even such elderly gentlemen as myself. She does not know how to flirt. Now, perhaps it is this . . . er . . . farouche manner of hers which has caught Lord Peter’s interest, if it has been caught. She needs schooling. Oh, I know she has all the ladylike accomplishments such as dancing, water-colouring, and pianoforte-playing to perfection. But give her a little schooling in flirting and genteel conversation to turn her into a regular young lady like all the other young ladies and you may see his lordship’s interest die. Correct young ladies attract correct young gentlemen. Eccentric ladies do not.’

‘So I had noticed,’ said Effy with a sly look at Amy, who coloured angrily and turned her head away.

‘I would not, however, tell her why you are training her in the art of flirtation,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘Rather tell her that good behaviour gives rakes such as Lord Peter thoughts of marriage.’

Mr Haddon felt rather guilty when he left. But he felt he had to give the sisters something to work on. There was, however, a quality about Fiona that the sisters did not seem to have noticed. She was sensuous and passionate. It was in every movement of her body, in the turn of her head, in the occasionally caressing look in her odd eyes. But such things he, as a gentleman, could not discuss with two spinster ladies like the Tribbles.

Mr Desmond Callaghan sat slumped in a wing-chair in his lodgings and stared moodily at the fire. ‘That Miss Amy is a Tartar, sir,’ said Frank, who sat in a corner polishing a pair of his master’s boots. ‘No wonder she never married. Miss Effy’s another matter. Ever so sweet she is and very pretty for an old lady. ’S funny, but all them two talk about is hopes of marriage. You’d think they’d have given up a long time ago.’

‘Anyway,’ said Mr Callaghan, who had only been half-listening, ‘I don’t see how I’m going to get near Miss Macleod again. The duns are a pest and my tailor has had the cheek to demand payment. I don’t know what tradesmen are coming to these days. Maybe I’d better go back to chasing rich old women. I’m a dab hand at that. Didn’t I get that old frump, Cutworth, to make out her will to me? It should have worked if those Tribbles hadn’t cheated her out of everything before she died.’

‘Why don’t you try your hand with Miss Effy?’ asked Frank.

‘You stupid lummox. I—’

Mr Callaghan’s mouth fell open as he stopped talking and turned over in his mind what Frank had said. ‘Damme, but you might have it,’ he said. ‘Where do they go tonight?’

‘Nowheres I know of,’ said Frank. ‘But Bertha says that everyone’s going to that poet’s, you know, Lord Aubrey.’

‘When?’

‘Friday night. He’s by way of being a distant relative of that old stick, Haddon, who’s always hanging around Holles Street. Ladies are mad to meet him. Wrote some silly poem called
The Gypsy Baron
.’

‘Get me a copy,’ said Mr Callaghan, ‘and then find out where I can come across Aubrey.’

Lord Aubrey, like Lord Byron, had woken up one morning to find himself famous. The poem had actually been written by his sister, who had died two years before. Lord Aubrey had found the poem while going through her effects. He had taken it to a bookseller with the vague idea of selling it, but with no thought of claiming it as his own work. The shrewd bookseller, although thinking the poem not very good, knew that it could catch a market established by Lord Byron’s
Corsair
. He praised Lord Aubrey for his brilliance, his talent, and offered him a generous sum for it. No one had ever called the beautiful but dull-witted Lord Aubrey clever before. He cheerfully took on the role of author. The long poem, a Gothic affair rather like one, of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels in verse, was published. The critics tore it to shreds, but the ladies loved it. Lord Aubrey was fêted and petted as he had never been before. He dressed the part, tousled his fair hair into artistic disarray, and cultivated a smouldering look. He was sitting in his club, practising this look, when Mr Callaghan found him.

Mr Callaghan produced a leather-bound copy of the poem and begged Lord Aubrey to sign it. Mr Cal-laghan then sat down and quoted long extracts from it, which he had cleverly inked on his cuffs in case his memory ran out. Lord Aubrey was enchanted. He expansively invited Mr Callaghan to a ‘little fork supper’ he was having on Friday and Mr Callaghan left flushed with success, his only worry being that Amy Tribble might throw the supper at him when she saw him.

Of the three ladies who set out from Holles Street on Friday night with Mr Haddon, only Fiona was not particularly thrilled at the idea of meeting the great poet. She had read a copy of
The Gypsy Baron
and thought it quite terrible. She also wondered why she had told her chaperones that she wanted to marry Lord Peter. She had walked in the Park, but he had not been there, she had attended the opera, but he had been absent. Absence did not make the heart grow fonder. Fiona was basically practical enough to know that rakes did not reform. Lord Peter, who had seemed a stimulating adversary to cross swords with only a few days before, now seemed a bad-tempered, self-indulgent man who cared for nothing but idleness and pleasure.

She was not happy with the gown she was wearing, which had been chosen by the sisters rather than Yvette. It was one she had brought with her from Tunbridge Wells, a dainty, fussy affair of white muslin with a small sprig, a high neckline, and only two flounces at the hem.

She had promised the Tribbles she would remember her lessons. Amy, dressed as a man, had acted the gallant while Effy had stood on the sidelines, gently giving instructions on how to flirt. Fiona was anxious to please these two kind ladies and did her best, but it was very hard not to burst out laughing at Amy’s horsehair side-whiskers and old-fashioned tie-wig. She was to confine her conversation to gushing praise of the poet’s work, to the weather, and to genteel and mild gossip about members of society. Miss Harrison-Jones had recently married Sir Edward Trench. The bride had worn a veil. Would this bring bridal veils back into fashion? Also, more Fashionables were being married in church rather than in their drawing rooms. ‘No, no, Fiona,’ Amy had admonished. ‘You are not to say you think it is a sign of a religious revival. You must say that churches are very pretty places in which to marry. Never talk about religion, even on Sundays, and do not, under any circumstances, mention Jesus Christ. He is not at all fashionable. Society does not like that bit about the eye of the needle, you know. And do not ever mention politics. It is to be assumed you are Tory. But ladies know nothing of politics. Nor do you mention the war in the Peninsula. It does not exist as far as you are concerned. A correct gentleman will not talk of those things either. A correct gentleman should be able to converse about the best place to buy gloves and interesting topics like that.’