Refining Felicity

M. C. Beaton
is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker and Six Sisters Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery,
The Skeleton in the Closet
– all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit
www.agatharaisin.com
for more.

Praise for the School for Manners series:

‘[M. C. Beaton] again charms and delights: a bonbon for those partial to Regency romances.’

Kirkus

‘The Tribbles are charmers . . . Very highly recommended.’

Library Journal

‘A delightful Regency sure to please . . . [Beaton] is a romance writer who deftly blends humour and adventure . . . [sustaining] her devoted audience to the last gasp.’

Booklist

‘The Tribbles, with their salty exchanges and impossible schemes, provide delightful entertainment.’

Publishers Weekly

Titles by M. C. Beaton

The School for Manners
Refining Felicity
•
Perfecting Fiona
•
Enlightening Delilah
Animating Maria
•
Finessing Clarissa
•
Marrying Harriet

The Six Sisters
Minerva
•
The Taming of Annabelle
•
Deirdre and Desire
Daphne
•
Diana the Huntress
•
Frederica in Fashion

The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence
•
Hasty Death
•
Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain

The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter
•
Belinda Goes to Bath
•
Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton
•
Deborah Goes to Dover
•
Yvonne Goes to York

The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death
•
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener
•
Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
•
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
•
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
•
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate
•
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance
•
Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison
•
Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body
•
Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns

The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip
•
Death of a Cad
•
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
•
Death of a Hussy
•
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
•
Death of a Glutton
•
Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man
•
Death of a Nag
•
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist
•
Death of a Scriptwriter
•
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
•
Death of a Dustman
•
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village
•
Death of a Poison Pen
•
Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer
•
Death of a Maid
•
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch
•
Death of a Valentine
•
Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher

The Skeleton in the Closet

Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 1988

This paperback edition published by Canvas, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1988

The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-78033-311-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-78033-466-0 (ebook)

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound in the UK

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

For Thelma Osmani

The great blessing of old age, the one that never fails, if all else fail, is a daughter.

The Reverend Dr Opimian

All daughters are not good.

Mr Falconer
– Thomas Love Peacock,
Gryll Grange

It is a sad fact that one’s insides do not keep pace with one’s outsides. Pains in the lower back, wrinkles round the eyes, soft puffiness under the chin, elasticity gone from the step; all the outward manifestations of growing old make up a pitifully hardening shell over the ever-youthful and hopeful soul.

Such was the case of the Tribble sisters. Each Season came round with all the hopes and torments and joys they had experienced in their teens. They were twins and no one knew quite how old they were, but they were rumoured to have reached their half century. They still dreamt of beaux, and later, after drums and routs and balls and ridottos, in the privacy of their drawing room, discussed each killing glance and hopeful pressure of the hand.

Euphemia, or Effy, Tribble had at least gained the false reputation of having once been a beauty. In her youth, she had been cursed with sandy hair, pale eyelashes, and a dumpy figure. Now her hair was a cloud of silver, her figure trim, and her eyelashes discreetly darkened with lampblack. Her delicate skin was only faintly lined and she had adopted all the mannerisms of a great beauty.

Her twin, Amy, was a sharp contrast. She was tall and square-shouldered and mannish, with a leathery skin and masses of iron-grey hair. She was flat-chested and flat-bottomed and had great flat feet which flapped along like boards. Effy often sighed over the fact that she, Effy, had turned down proposals so as not to leave her dear Amy alone, and Amy, who thought little of herself, half believed this fiction, although it was Amy who had turned down two genuine proposals of marriage out of loyalty to Effy – who had clung to her and cried and had told her that the gentlemen were only playing with her affections.

The fact that anyone at all had ever proposed to one of them was a miracle, for neither had any dowry to speak of. Their mother had died when they were young, and their father was a gambler who went to meet his Maker on a cloud of cigar fumes above the gaming tables of St James’s during a singularly bad run of luck.

The house in the country was sold to pay the debts. The sisters would not have dreamt of parting with the house in Town, for Town meant the Season and the Season meant marriage.

Such money as they had at their father’s death, they had put in the bank, drawing on it as they needed. Neither would hear of investing it, regarding the Stock Exchange as just another variety of gambling hell. And so the years passed and the money dwindled. One by one the servants were paid off, until there was only a daily scrubbing woman left.

But they were kept merry with shared dreams, and added to that, they had hopes of financial security. Their aunt, a Mrs Cutworth, who lived in Streatham and who was vastly rich, had promised to leave them everything in her will. For years now the sisters had been travelling to Streatham to visit the horrible old lady, who always seemed to be at death’s door but would never pass through.

One November day, when ice glittered in the parks, and a red sun low on the horizon stared at sooty London with a baleful eye, the Tribbles set out in a hired post-chaise, trying not to count the cost of all the post-chaises they had paid for over the years to take them to Streatham.

Amy was warmly wrapped in a fur cloak. It was bald in places, but she had painted the bald spots with brown paint and hoped they did not show. On her head she wore a striped cap and on top of that a huge black felt hat like the kind worn by highwaymen. Effy was wrapped in so many trailing scarves and shawls, it was hard to make out what she was wearing underneath.

Soon the sooty buildings gave way to small sooty cottages and hoardings advertising Warren’s Blacking – as if anything were needed to add to the general blackness. Blue shadows lay across the icy road in front of them as the sun sank lower. But they were warm with dreams of what they would do with the money when Mrs Cutworth died.

‘Coals,’ said Amy, flapping her great feet up and down on the carriage floor in her excitement. ‘We would have fires – even in the bedchambers.’

‘And a lady’s maid,’ said Effy. ‘Oh, and proper servants.’

‘And three meals a day,’ said Amy.

‘And dowries.’ Effy considered a good dowry more important than food or warmth.

Effy was soft and timid on the outside and had a hard core of steel within, the hallmark of a truly feminine woman. Amy was crude and harsh and ungainly and swore on occasion quite dreadfully, but could be sentimental and impractical to a fault. She used to give money to beggars until Effy stopped her from carrying any, to curb such misplaced and feckless generosity.

When their carriage lurched through the gates and up the short drive leading to Mrs Cutworth’s mansion, they saw the physician’s carriage outside.

‘Do you think . . . ?’ began Effy eagerly.

‘No, I don’t think,’ said Amy curtly. ‘She’s always calling the physician.’

They climbed down from the carriage and Amy knocked at the door, a brisk tattoo which sounded through the house.

The door was opened by a moon-faced butler with a lugubrious expression.

‘Sad news, ladies,’ he said in a mournful voice. ‘Madam has passed on.’

‘Gone out?’ said Amy.

The butler pointed up. ‘She has gone to the angels.’

Amy’s fine grey eyes sparkled as she looked beyond the butler and up the shadowy staircase as if seeing a vision of roast-beef dinners, warm rooms, and servants waiting at the top. Effy quickly put a handkerchief to her eyes to hide her excitement.