Perfecting Fiona (8 page)

Lord Peter Havard was thirty-three and he felt his feelings at that moment could only be relieved by slapping her hard. Controlling himself with an effort, he said, ‘You could not possibly even begin to understand. Men are different from women.’

‘Physically, yes. Mentally – how so?’

‘Fall back apace,’ snapped Lord Peter over his shoulder to Henry. Then, as the footman obeyed, he said in a low voice, ‘Men have stronger passions.’

‘More guilty of lust, you mean,’ said Fiona airily.

‘One of the seven deadly sins which you have never experienced?’

Fiona smiled but said nothing.

‘Ah, the footman-lover. I had forgot.’

‘My feelings for that poor man were pure and good,’ said Fiona primly.

‘Miss Macleod, if you wish the forthcoming Season to end in success, then I suggest you get your female trainers to teach you the art of flirting.’

‘In other words, I am to stop making myself thoroughly unpleasant to gentlemen such as you who hitherto have only known toadying and flattery? Walk on, my dear Lord Peter. Walk on. There is no need to endure more.’

‘I should not expect elegance from a tradesman’s daughter.’

‘Cheap. Very cheap,’ commented Fiona. ‘You and your friends affect to despise trade. Miss Darsey, aged eighteen, was married amid floods of tears in St George’s t’other day to Baron Breadly, aged sixty-five. She is pretty and young and has a small dowry, he is old and ugly and rich. Now if that is not trading, what is? Go to any ballroom in London, my lord, and you will find us young ladies all up for sale to the highest bidder. Trade. And yet such as you dare to despise such as me.’

‘Enough! I never want to see you again.’

‘That is easily done. Come, Henry.’

Rigid with anger, Lord Peter watched her walk away. Her pliant figure swayed slightly and, almost as if conscious of his gaze, she unfurled a lilac parasol as if to block it off.

It is not only young girls who live in fantasies of love and romance. Before setting out for Tunbridge Wells with Mr Haddon, Amy Tribble had lain awake weaving rosy scenes and dreams about the forthcoming trip. Speaking glances were exchanged along with loaded sentences. Bosoms heaved with suppressed passion up till the final passionate kiss and . . . oh, glory, oh, wonder! . . . the very highlight of the fantasy was the entering the drawing room in Holles Street hand in hand with Mr Haddon to break the news to Effy of their engagement. By the time an exhausted Amy climbed into Mr Haddon’s travelling carriage, she could hardly understand why that gentleman was behaving in much the usual way, for in her mind Amy had kissed him, lain with him, married him, quarrelled with him, and had even run off with another man so as to create a passionate reunion.

She would have been thoroughly distressed had she known that the practical Mr Haddon had put her strange and weary behaviour down to those odd feelings which seemed to beset ladies of a certain age.

But soon the dream Mr Haddon faded from Amy’s mind to be replaced by the present real one. To Mr Haddon’s relief, Amy appeared to become her usual practical self, and by the time they reached Tunbridge Wells, they were once more the best of friends.

Amy was reluctant to approach the Burgesses because she felt to do so would advertise failure. But Mr Haddon said it might take days, gossiping and questioning about the famous spa, to find out the names of any of Fiona’s previous suitors.

Shortly after they had booked in at a comfortable inn, they found themselves in the Burgesses’ chilly drawing room. A reluctant spring was blossoming outside the windows, but inside it felt like perpetual winter. No fire was lit, and little pieces of soot decorated the orange crepe paper that decorated the empty hearth.

‘I assume you have failed’ was Mrs Burgess’s opening remark.

‘Not a bit,’ said Amy. ‘But if we are to do our best for Fiona, we must find out what she said to her previous suitors.’

‘You look a strong woman,’ said Mrs Burgess acidly. ‘Try the birch.’

Amy’s dislike for Fiona fled. Poor girl. It was no wonder she was a trifle sly and odd. ‘We think it would be better if we could question some of her previous suitors,’ said Amy. ‘Perhaps if you could let us have their names . . . ?’

‘Never!’ said Mr Burgess. ‘The shame of it all. The humiliation. No. We do not want to rake over the cinders of the past.’

‘But surely you must see the wisdom of Miss Tribble’s request?’ pleaded Mr Haddon.

‘No. Go away,’ said Mrs Burgess.

‘In that case,’ said Amy, sending up a silent prayer that Effy would forgive her if her plan did not work, ‘we may as well return your money and Miss Macleod to you as soon as possible.’

‘You will carry on and do what you promised,’ said Mrs Burgess wrathfully.

‘We cannot proceed unless you give us the name of at least one suitor,’ said Amy firmly.

Mr and Mrs Burgess exchanged glances. Mrs Burgess rang the bell and when the parlourmaid answered it, she said, ‘Mary, take this lady and gentleman to the library. We wish a private discussion, Miss Tribble.’

Mr Haddon and Amy had to wait nearly a quarter of an hour before being summoned back.

‘Mr Willox of Courtney Hall, two miles out on the London road,’ said Mrs Burgess stiffly.

Mr Willox turned out to be a pleasant gentleman with a square face and steady grey eyes. To Amy’s questions, he shook his head and swore he had never proposed marriage to Fiona.

Seeing that Amy was about to lose her temper, Mr Haddon suggested she should go and admire Mr Willox’s excellent gardens. Once they were alone, he said mildly to Mr Willox. ‘I fear the ladies never quite understand how sensitive and honourable we gentlemen are. But you must realize that if Fiona has been turning down proposals and then swearing her suitors to secrecy, this is something we should know. If you have any affection in your heart left for her, please tell me. We cannot help the girl otherwise.’

‘You mean I’m not the only one?’ asked Mr Willox, scratching his fair hair in bewilderment.

‘I fear not.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Mr Willox, growing visibly angry, ‘that she was lying to me?’

‘That would appear to be the case.’

‘Well, I’m dashed if I can believe she would . . . The long and the short of it is that I did propose marriage and Miss Macleod told me that she had galloping consumption and was not like to live very long. I wanted children, of course, and so I said in that case I must withdraw my proposal. She made me swear not to tell anyone I had proposed, but, dash me, when I saw her uncle and aunt outside the door, I could only babble some nonsense at them and take to my heels.’

‘Was there anyone else courting her about that time?’

‘There was the Honourable James Fordyce at Just Hall, that’s the other side of the town, but I don’t know if he was serious about her.’

This time Amy agreed to stay at the inn while Mr Haddon went to interview Mr Fordyce. When Mr Haddon returned, Amy listened eagerly to his news. Fiona had told Mr Fordyce that her mother had died mad, that there was madness in the family, and that she could never marry.

‘So she must hate the very idea of marriage!’ exclaimed Amy. ‘Why, I wonder?’

‘There must be some ladies who do not wish to marry,’ pointed out Mr Haddon.

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘There ain’t a single one.’

Mr Callaghan learned that Effy was to visit an old friend one afternoon. The butler had, of course, been told not to admit any visitors, but Mr Callaghan thought he would try his luck. Harris was, after all, not the butler who had seen him forcibly ejected from the house by Miss Amy the previous year.

He presented his card barely five minutes after Effy had left. Harris bowed and said Miss Macleod was not receiving callers, but eyed the huge posy which Mr Callaghan held in front of him with a sympathetic eye.

Mr Callaghan pressed a guinea into the butler’s hand and murmured he was sure Miss Macleod would be more than happy to receive him.

Harris took the card and retreated up the stairs to the drawing room. Fiona was restless and bored. Her days of misery and bullying under the Burgesses’ rule had at least made her appreciate every free moment. But now she felt she had too much time on her hands and too little to do. Obscurely, she blamed Lord Peter. What an irritating man! She had felt quite comfortable before she met him. At first she did not recognize Mr Callaghan’s name. Then she remembered him as the fribble from the Park. Although there was very little chance of Lord Peter’s ever finding out about Mr Callaghan’s visit, Fiona felt she was somehow scoring a point by agreeing to see this freak of fashion.

Mr Callaghan came in and handed her the bouquet and bowed and scraped and bowed and scraped until Fiona became heartily tired of curtsying in return.

‘Pray sit down, sir,’ begged Fiona, already regretting her impulse to see him.

‘Lady of my heart,’ began Mr Callaghan, his pale eyes flashing fire. ‘I have written a poem in your honour.’

He unrolled a long piece of parchment.

‘How kind,’ said Fiona faintly. ‘May I not read it later?’

‘No, no. ’Twill melt your heart. Hark!’ Mr Callaghan proceeded to read.

‘Fiona, walking in the Park

Doth make my pulses race.

I do not pursue her for a lark

Or for the fun o’ the chase.

I sigh, I pant . . .’

He broke off. There were sounds of arrival from the hall downstairs.

‘Do go on, Mr Callaghan,’ said Fiona, her eyes full of tears of suppressed laughter.

‘No, no, better leave.’ Mr Callaghan rolled up the parchment and rushed to the door. He scampered past Amy, who was mounting the stairs, and she turned with a cry of rage. Quick as a flash, Amy seized a large willow-pattern plate from a table on the landing and hurled it down the stairs after Mr Callaghan’s retreating figure. But he nipped through the door, which the butler was still holding open. The plate sailed over his head and crashed in pieces on the cobbles of the road outside.

Amy strode into the drawing room. ‘What was that piece of garbage doing here? And where’s Effy?’

‘Miss Effy is making a call and Mr Callaghan met me the other day in the Park and so came to call.’

‘Met you in the . . . ? Where’s Baxter?
She
would never have let such a piece of shite near you!’

A flicker of amusement shone in Fiona’s eyes. ‘Do you train all your charges to emulate your highly colourful vocabulary, Miss Amy?’

Amy had the grace to blush. ‘Sit down, Fiona,’ she said wearily, ‘and I’ll tell you about Mr Desmond Callaghan.’ And so Amy proceeded to tell Fiona how she and Effy had been so poor and at their wit’s end but how they had hoped Mrs Cutworth, their aunt, would leave them her fortune in her will. Then, went on Amy, they found that Mr Callaghan, no relation, had been paying court to the old lady and so she had left him everything in her will. ‘Everything’ had turned out to be nothing but bad debts, and Mr Callaghan, noticing the Tribbles’ new-found comfortable circumstances, had assumed that they had cheated Mrs Cutworth before her death out of jewels and money that now rightly belonged to him.

‘Whereas,’ interrupted Fiona, ‘you in fact obtained money from bringing out girls such as myself?’

‘Precisely.’

‘And if I do not marry, do you lose the money paid to you by my aunt and uncle?’

‘No,’ said Amy, ‘but we stand to lose a reputation. We fail with you and we may not get another for next Season.’

‘Trade,’ said Fiona mournfully. ‘It’s all trade.’

‘And on the subject of marriage . . . oh, I hear Effy. Not a word about Callaghan. No need to upset her. He won’t come round again.’

It took Effy some time to settle down. Questions, sly questions, as to how Amy had fared with Mr Haddon seemed to be of more interest to Effy than anything to do with Fiona. At last, she seemed reassured nothing of a tender nature had taken place between the two, and turned her eyes inquiringly on Fiona.

‘Yes,’ said Amy grimly. ‘Now sit there, sister, and hear what I have learned about Fiona and marriage!’

Those smiling matrons are appraisers sly,
Who regulate the dance, the squeeze, the sigh,
And each base cheapening buyer having chid,
Knock down their daughters to the noblest bid
.

‘So,’ finished Amy, ‘we have it that you told the one you were consumptive, t’other you were like to go mad; so what did you tell the brave captain?’

Fiona sat very still, remembering the enormity of what she had told the captain. Better to lie. ‘I merely said I did not want to marry him, and that would he please not tell anyone he had proposed, because I should be in trouble.’

‘What ails you, girl?’ cried Amy. Certain dark, half-remembered scandals came back to her. ‘Are you,’ she said, staring hard at the clock, ‘in the way of . . . er . . . disliking men?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Fiona, and with a sudden flash of spirit. ‘Have you considered that I might not have considered any of my suitors suitable?’

‘Yes, I did consider that,’ said Amy. ‘So why not say so before they reach the point of declaring themselves?’

‘Mrs Burgess,’ said Fiona – the sisters noticed again that she hardly ever said ‘my aunt’ – ‘does not allow for tender feelings. The size of the man’s bank balance is all that matters. As long as she was kept in doubt that there ever had been a proposal, then there was no danger of her forcing me to accept.’