Refining Felicity (2 page)

‘We shall pay our last respects,’ said Amy. The twins walked slowly up the steps, although they were tempted to break into a run.

The doctor was just coming out of the bedchamber. ‘Buttered crab,’ he said. ‘I told her not to touch it, but she would have it, and it’s been the death of her.’

As the Tribbles walked into the gloom of the bedchamber, Baxter, Mrs Cutworth’s lady’s maid, was just twitching the bed curtains back into place.

She was a tall, gaunt, elderly woman, and when she saw the Tribbles, she began to cry, great ugly sobs racking her body.

‘There, there,’ said Amy. ‘It was not as if it was unexpected.’

‘Nothing,’ sobbed Baxter. ‘How could she do it to me? Not a brass farthing has she left me, her that promised me riches in her will.’

‘Do not cry,’ said Effy briskly. ‘We will take care of you, Baxter.’

‘What with?’ demanded the maid rudely. ‘She’s left you nothing as well.’

Amy felt sick. ‘You are overwrought, Baxter,’ she said sharply. ‘How can you know this?’

The maid scrubbed her eyes with a corner of her muslin apron. ‘Because I read her will, that’s why.’

Effy pulled back the bed curtains and looked down on the dead face of her aunt. Mrs Cutworth had a smile on her face, as if savouring their dismay and mortification.

‘Where is this will?’

‘In her bureau,’ said Baxter. ‘I’ll show you.’

She went to a flat-fronted bureau in the corner of the room and let down the flap. She took a roll of parchment tied with pink tape from one of the pigeon-holes and mutely held it out.

Amy seized it and, followed by Effy, carried it to the window and jerked up the blind. Pale grey light crept into the room.

With Effy peering round her arm, Amy read in horrified silence. Mrs Cutworth had left all her worldly goods to a Mr Desmond Callaghan.

‘Who is Mr Callaghan?’ she asked.

‘A fribble,’ said Baxter sourly. ‘A Pink of the
ton
. Been calling for over a year.’

‘Why didn’t you warn us?’ demanded Effy sharply.

‘I didn’t take it seriously,’ said Baxter. ‘He used to flirt with her and she’d laugh at him behind his back and say he was only after her money.’

Amy’s hands tightened on the will. She noticed with irritation that her last pair of good gloves had a split on the index finger of the right hand. ‘I have a good mind to destroy this,’ she said.

‘I thought o’ that,’ said Baxter. ‘But she’s sent a copy to her lawyer. You could challenge the will. Mr Callaghan isn’t a relative. You could prove he only called to gull her.’

‘It would take money to fight this in the courts,’ said Effy. ‘And her lawyer would say she was of sound mind.’

Baxter began to cry again. Amy patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a good reference, Baxter, and if the worst comes to the worst, you may come and starve along with us.’

The sisters sat in silence as the post-chaise bumped over the frozen ruts on the road to London.

At last Amy said passionately, ‘Bad cess to her. I hope she died slow.’

‘Tch! Tch!’ admonished Effy, shocked. ‘It may be God’s judgement on us. We never liked her, you know. We only pretended to like her to get her money.’

‘That is not entirely true,’ said Amy harshly. ‘We were kind to her. We put up with her spite and humours. We were the only living relatives she had. As far as we knew, the money would have come to us whether we visited her or not. We
did
go out of duty, and you know it! She was cruel and insulting to us. And yet, you know, quite a big part of our motive in seeing her was because we were sorry for her. She seemed so bitter and lonely. Besides, what ways are there for two gently bred women to find money? Society allows us only two options: marry, or wait for someone to die. I wish I were dead myself. No one is going to marry either of us.’

Effy began to cry. Amy had at last voiced the hitherto unmentionable.

Amy put an arm about her sister’s shoulders. ‘I’m a beast. Of course someone will marry
you
. You’re awfully pretty. The deuce! There must be something. What have we got to sell?’

‘Nothing,’ wailed Effy. ‘There is nothing left.’

‘There’s the house.’

Effy looked stricken. She would rather die of starvation at a good address than live genteelly at an unfashionable one. She began to cry harder than ever.

‘Oh, dear. Forget I spoke,’ said Amy desperately. Then her face lit up. ‘By George! We have got something to sell. We can sell ourselves.’

‘As courtesans?’ asked Effy, drying her eyes and looking more cheerful at the prospect of a really interesting fantasy. ‘We could be like Harriet Wilson and have the Duke of Wellington paying for our services.’

‘No, no. We can be chaperones. Look here! We have the right connections. We are good
ton
.’

‘You can’t eat good
ton
,’ said Effy crossly.

‘Listen. There are many counter-jumpers and mushrooms who would pay for the chance of getting into society.’

‘But how do we find these people?’ asked Effy. ‘I mean, it might take ages and ages. We don’t know any common people.’

‘We advertise, damme. We advertise. Just like Warren’s Blacking.’

A few weeks later, Mr Benjamin Haddon stood hesitantly on the pavement outside the Tribbles’ home in Holles Street. He felt lost and strange. He had been away from London for many years. He had worked long and hard for the East India Company, until a trifling service to a rich raja and the resultant munificent reward had given him fortune and freedom. Before turning into Holles Street, he had walked along Oxford Street, dazed by the glitter of the shops. He wondered if the crowds who swarmed down it ever thought of the time, not so very long ago, when it was a dismal trench of a road, a Via Dolorosa, along which the unfortunate were taken to the Triple Tree, as the scaffold at Tyburn was called. It was estimated five hundred thousand had gone to their deaths on that terrible scaffold, but now it looked as if it had never existed. Everything was new and different. Even fashions had changed. The ladies wore next to nothing, and he found it hard to tell prostitute from gentlewoman. That was why he had thought of the Tribble sisters. He was sure
they
would not have changed. They were a fixed part of his memories of the London he had known before he sailed to India.

Although he had been a not-very-well-off young man, he was of good family and had been invited to various social events. But his clothes had been sadly countrified and the ladies were apt to shun him. All except the Tribbles. Amy and Effy Tribble could always be counted on to look delighted when he asked one of them to dance. In his innocence and still wrapped in fond memories of his youth, Mr Haddon did not realize the Tribbles would have been delighted to dance with anyone at all, both the girls being tired of the long evenings spent with the other wallflowers. He remembered them as being safe and friendly. He wondered if they were still alive and still lived in Holles Street. But the brass plate at the door, dating from the last century, before street numbers were invented, said tribble quite clearly. He knocked at the door.

At first he did not recognize Amy, who answered it. All he saw was a tall, raw-boned woman wearing an ugly cap and with a sacking apron tied over her gown.

They stared at each other in silence. Amy saw a very tall, thin, slightly stooped man in a plain but expensive coat. His pepper-and-salt hair was combed back and tied in the old-fashioned manner at the nape of his neck with a ribbon.

‘Is your mistress at home?’ he asked. He held out his card.

Amy read the inscription and then blushed. ‘It is I, Mr Haddon. Miss Amy Tribble. No wonder you did not recognize me. It is the servants’ day off. Come in, come in.’

But I wouldn’t have known
him
, thought Amy. I remember him as he looked all those long years ago. He was kind, as I recall, and of good family, but quite poor.

She ushered him into the drawing room, where Effy was sitting before the empty fireplace, wrapped in so many shawls that only the tip of her cold-reddened nose peeped out.

‘Effy, dear,’ said Amy. ‘This is Mr Benjamin Haddon. You remember? He went to India.’

Effy shed several shawls and held out a hand for Mr Haddon to kiss. ‘Delighted,’ she murmured. ‘We last met at the Chumleys’ ball, as I recall. I was wearing a white slip with a gold key pattern, very fine, and I had, let me see, three plumes on my head.’

‘You have grown more beautiful, Miss Effy,’ he said gallantly, ‘while I have become stooped and quite yellow.’

‘How was India?’ asked Amy, wondering whether to go downstairs and decant the last precious bottle of port.

He smiled. He still has his own teeth, thought Amy, as we have. How very odd. One does not often see people of our years with all their teeth, and yet here are three of us. ‘It was very hot,’ he said. ‘Colourful and violent. I dreamt so often of grey skies and soft rain, I am distressed to find I cannot get my bearings now I am back. That is why I came to see you. You were both kind to me when I was a penniless young man. But how do you go on? Is your father alive?’

‘No, Papa has been dead this age.’

Effy cast a few more shawls and began to fan herself, her blue eyes flirting over the top. Amy thought sourly it was just like Effy to bring out a fan when the room was as cold as a tomb.

Mr Haddon glanced about him. He noticed that there was very little furniture and no ornaments or knick-knacks whatsoever. There were cleaner squares on the dingy wallpaper showing where pictures had once hung.

‘I am become quite rich,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must let me help you.’

Two pairs of shocked eyes stared at him. Both Tribbles were bound by the iron laws of convention. It was quite
comme il faut
to wait for an elderly relative to drop dead, or to marry someone one did not like in the slightest in order to get money – but accept charity? Never!

‘I am afraid we have given you a false impression,’ said Amy. ‘We are shortly to become working women, so you have no need to pity us.’

‘What kind of work?’

Effy produced a folded and much-thumbed copy of
The Morning Post
and pointed silently to an advertisement. He took out his quizzing-glass and read it carefully.

‘And have you had any replies?’

‘Not really,’ said Amy, throwing Effy a warning look. They had had two replies, but the families who had called were patently put off by the cold rooms and lack of servants.

‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘I believe you have put in the wrong type of advertisement.’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Effy, forgetting to flirt.

‘In this age of sensibility,’ he said slowly, ‘parents often ruin their daughters by indulging their every whim. You have seen some of the difficult ones. They are so spoilt, so hoydenish, that they do not “take”. Now, if you were to advertise for difficult misses, parents who were absolutely desperate might reply . . . if you see what I mean.’ He coughed and added tactfully, ‘The middle classes are apt to equate riches with good
ton
. An aristocrat would not notice, provided he thought he was gaining the correct schooling for his daughter before the Season. After all, one of your favourite phrases used to be that you always made the best out of the worst.’

There was a long silence. Effy looked at Amy, wide-eyed.

‘By Jove!’ said Amy suddenly. ‘I believe you have it.’ She rushed out of the room to return with pen and paper.

‘I will take it myself direct to the newspaper,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘At least let me do that for you.’

The three of them worked busily, writing and scoring out and redrafting until they were satisfied.

‘That should fetch them,’ said Mr Haddon at last. They all looked at the finished result.

If you have a Wild, Unruly, or Undisciplined Daughter, two Ladies of Genteel Birth offer to Bring Out said daughter, and Refine what may have seemed Unrefinable. Religious and Social Training. The Seeds of Decorum planted where the Ground was Once Considered Barren. We make the Best of the Worst.

Direct to XYZ, Cruickshank’s Perfumier, 12, Haymarket.

The perfumiers ran a letter collecting service for advertisers.

‘I shall take it away directly,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘We shall meet tomorrow.’

After he had gone, Amy said dismally, ‘We shall have to tell him the truth. We can’t go on saying the servants have a day off.’

‘He is a fine-looking man,’ said Effy dreamily. ‘Did you notice the speaking look in his eye when he bent over my hand?’

But, for once, Amy would not share in any romantic speculation. ‘I had better go down to the larder and see if I can scrape up something to eat,’ she said. ‘We go to Lady Rochester’s tomorrow. Be sure to eat as much as you can, Effy.’

‘Oh, I shall. But do not disgrace me again.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, Amy. You scandalized the Petersons at their party by trying to stuff so much food into a reticule the size of a trunk and were caught. We were never asked back.’

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ said Amy sulkily.

She spent an hour in the kitchen trying to coax scrag-end of mutton into a nourishing stew. A rumbling from the street outside made her leave the pot and go up the area steps. A coalman was bent over their coal-hole. Behind him stood his cart, laden with sacks of coal.

‘Leave that alone,’ said Amy sharply. ‘We did not order any coal.’

‘Mr Haddon ordered and paid for it,’ said the coalman crossly.

‘Very well,’ said Amy. ‘I had forgot.’ She ducked back down the area steps.

There was a warm glow in her heart. Another man might have sent them flowers or chocolates. Only clever Mr Haddon would think of sending them coal. If he had asked if they would like any coal, the sisters would have refused. That would have been accepting charity. But this! This was a present.

Amy went down to the empty cellar and stood with her hands clasped and her eyes shining, waiting for the avalanche of coal to descend down the chute from the street above.

Two days later, in the county of Sussex, the Countess of Baronsheath sat at a pretty escritoire in her drawing room. She slid out a drawer and took out a copy of
The Morning Post
. She read the Tribbles’ advertisement over and over again. Could it be a joke? Were these self-styled Ladies of Genteel Birth really genteel? Could anyone in the whole wide world reform her daughter, Lady Felicity Vane?