Perfecting Fiona (14 page)

Amy was sitting in the sun with her back to the long French windows of the drawing room. From inside came the chatter of the guests who had gone to tour the house and to look at Lord Dunster’s collection of miniatures.

And then Amy heard Lady Dunster’s voice very clearly. Lord Dunster was slightly deaf, and so Lady Dunster always spoke in a very loud and carrying voice. ‘I have a treat for all of you when we set sail again,’ boomed Lady Dunster. ‘I have asked Miss Amy Tribble to entertain the guests.’

This was greeted with loud cheers and laughter. Although the guests inside were unaware that Amy was outside listening, she smiled modestly and looked down.

Then a woman said, ‘Miss Amy is an Original. I declare I never laughed so hard in my life as when I heard her sing the other night.’

The listening Amy stiffened and frowned. But there was worse to come. A man’s voice said, ‘Isn’t she marvellous? She sings like a crow with a sore throat, and that poor piano player was fighting his way up and down the keys trying to find a note to match that horrible voice.’

Another man said, ‘I do not think there is one note in the music scale, either Chinese or English, that Miss Amy Tribble could hit. My dear Lady Dunster, how are we to keep our faces straight? How are we to stop dying of laughter?’

With dreadful clarity, Lady Dunster said, ‘But, my dears! When Miss Amy sings, she is quite oblivious to anything and everything. Laugh as much as you like!’

Amy got up slowly. She felt very old and stiff. She moved across the lawns as if on stilts. A few people hailed her, but she stared at them blindly. She blundered off into the uncultivated bit of the garden, bumping into trees and bushes, desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and those ugly, mocking voices.

Hot tears began to course down her cheeks. She had never felt quite so old, homely, and unloved. Perhaps Mr Haddon had been secretly laughing at her as well.

She bumped into the weeping figure of her sister, Effy. Amy stopped short and scrubbed her eyes with her glove.

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Amy harshly.

‘It . . . it’s Mr Callaghan,’ sobbed Effy.

Amy’s humiliation was temporarily forgotten. ‘That snake!’ she cried. ‘Where is he? What has he done?’

‘He’s gone,’ said Effy in a small voice. ‘I’ve been wicked, Amy . . . an old fool. He courted me because he thought I had money, just the same way as he made a fool out of Auntie.’

Amy put her arms round her sister and hugged her close. ‘Don’t cry, Effy,’ she said. ‘I am as foolish as you. I . . . oh, Lor’!’

She broke off in consternation. As she hugged Effy’s slight figure, she had been looking over her shoulder. There at the water’s edge was a pretty tableau. Lord Peter Havard was just getting down on one knee in front of Fiona Macleod.

‘We must stop them!’ cried Amy. She swung Effy around and pointed.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Effy. Both sisters thought the same thing at once. The Burgesses would be furious. The Burgesses would say they had failed. With amazing speed and agility, Effy sped straight for the River Thames and along the fallen trunk of a tree that overhung the water. Holding her nose firmly, she jumped in, a thing she would normally never have dreamt of doing but she had been shaken out of her wits by Mr Callaghan.

‘Help!’ screamed Effy. ‘I can’t swim.’

Breathless with admiration for her sister’s quick-wittedness, Amy ran to the water’s edge. ‘Save her. Save my sister,’ she called to Lord Peter.

Lord Peter sighed. ‘Excuse me, my love,’ he said to Fiona.

He marched into the river. The water did not even cover the top of his Hessian boots. He reached forward and picked up the sodden bundle that was Effy Tribble by the scruff of her neck, lifting her clean out of the deeper part of the river and dumping her on the bank.

‘How good of you to save her,’ said Amy.

Effy sat up, shivering.

‘Can you tell me why Miss Effy should decide to throw herself in the river?’ said Lord Peter, eyeing both sisters cynically.

‘Yes, why?’ came Mr Haddon’s voice as the nabob hurried towards the group.

Amy looked wildly at Effy and Effy stared in consternation at Amy. If Lord Peter had not yet had a chance to propose, then there was still hope. Effy thought of the terrible Mr Callaghan.

‘I wanted to end it all,’ she said. ‘Mr Callaghan insulted me.’

‘How? Why?’ asked Fiona.

‘He led me on,’ said Effy miserably, ‘and then spurned me most cruelly.’

‘I shall attend to him,’ said Mr Haddon grimly. ‘Get Miss Effy back to the house. She must find dry clothes.’

The little group hurried Effy back along the woodland path and across the lawns. They were almost at the house when Mr Haddon saw Mr Callaghan.

Mr Haddon drew off one of his lavender kidskin gloves and advanced on Mr Callaghan.

Guests stared in amazement as Mr Haddon struck Mr Callaghan full across the face with his glove. ‘You have offended a friend of mine,’ said Mr Haddon. ‘Name your second, sir!’

Mr Callaghan looked wildly round for escape. But duelling, although outlawed, was considered prime sport. To the fribble’s dismay, a languid dandy called Jeremy Bessamy promptly offered to second him. Lord Peter in an amused voice offered to second Mr Haddon.

As Effy vanished inside the house, Mr Callaghan found it had all been arranged with frightening rapidity – pistols at eight o’clock in the morning at Chalk Farm in two days’ time.

It was a dismal sail home for Amy. She refused with dignity to sing a note. She was furious with Effy, Effy who sat in borrowed clothes, sipping champagne and chatting and laughing. For two men were to fight a duel over Effy. Amy could have killed her sister. What if Mr Callaghan killed Mr Haddon?

She had asked Lord Peter to try to get Mr Haddon to change his mind, having failed to do so herself, but Lord Peter had only smiled at her and said that if she stopped interfering in his romance with Fiona, then he would think about it.

As for Mr Callaghan, he sat as far away as possible from the Tribbles and Mr Haddon. He had tried to talk himself into bravery by reminding himself that Mr Haddon was an old man. But Mr Haddon looked remarkably spry, and there had been a deadly gleam in his steady grey eyes when he had issued that challenge. By the time the barge reached London, Mr Callaghan had decided to escape to the Continent.

Frank was slouched by the fireplace, moodily picking his teeth, when his master charged into the room, followed by his valet.

‘Where’s the fire?’ asked Frank, getting to his feet.

‘Make yourself useful, fellow,’ snapped Mr Callaghan. ‘I am going abroad.’

Frank’s eyes lit up. ‘I must say as how I’ve always wanted to see foreign parts,’ he said.

‘You’re not coming, you lummox,’ said Mr Callaghan. ‘I’m only taking John.’ John was his valet and general servant. ‘You’ll find two imperials on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom. Start packing the necessary while John and I go round to the livery stables to rent a travelling carriage.’

‘What am I to live on while you’re away?’ asked Frank, aghast.

‘I’ve credit with the Three Jolly Chairmen round the corner,’ said Mr Callaghan. Frank tried to protest. The last time he had been to that coffee house with an order for Mr Callaghan, they had told him in no uncertain terms that there would be no further credit until Mr Callaghan settled his bill.

When master and valet had gone, Frank sank slowly back into the chair. Why had he ever listened to this fop with his rubbish about the equality of men and his Robin Hood ideas of taking from the rich and giving to the poor?

Frank felt so angry he thought he would burst. He knew now that Mr Callaghan did not believe a word of his preaching and had been out only to make mischief.

Mr Callaghan needed to be taught a sharp lesson.

Feeling a bit shaky at the enormity of what he was about to do, Frank went into the bedroom and took down the two cases from the top of the wardrobe and then started to fill them with the precious objets d’art that were lying around and all the items of Mr Callaghan’s clothing he had coveted.

He literally struck gold at the back of a drawer of cravats – two rouleaux of guineas.

He thought about Bertha, the chambermaid. It would be fun to have a companion on the road – for Frank knew he must get out of London as quickly as possible.

But to see Bertha would mean hanging about Holles Street. He decided to make his own escape and return to find Bertha when he was sure Mr Callaghan had left London.

Frank was well on his way to the City to catch any stage anywhere that had a free seat when Mr Callaghan returned to find his apartment looking as if a bomb had hit it. Drawers were hanging open or upended on the floor, and, worst of all, his best pair of Hessian boots – two sizes too small for Frank – had been stuffed into the red-hot ashes of the sitting-room fireplace.

‘Get the Runners! Get the militia!’ screeched the valet.

But Mr Callaghan could think only of a field at Chalk Farm and of Mr Haddon’s stern eyes measuring him up from behind the long barrel of a duelling pistol. He still had money hidden under the floorboards, for he never paid any tradesmen unless absolutely forced to. He almost wept with relief to find it still there. Frank could go free. All Mr Callaghan wanted to do was to put as many miles as possible between himself and Mr Haddon.

It is an infallible law of nature that those who injure,
either hate or despise the object. Hence the contempt and
acrimony with which men speak of women
.

Amy Tribble’s jealousy of her sister took second place to her frantic worry for the safety of Mr Haddon.

She was tempted to alert the authorities to stop the duel, but was afraid of Mr Haddon’s finding out she had done so. She knew, in those circumstances, it was highly possible he would never speak to her again.

It was Effy who all unwittingly gave her a splendid idea. Effy had decided that Fiona needed sharp and fast education in men. She instructed Amy to dress as a man in order to illustrate Effy’s talks to Fiona and show her that the most charming men were often rakes, the sort of men who promised marriage only to get their own evil ends
without
marriage.

Amy was half-heartedly entering into this charade the day before the duel when a marvellous idea came to her. She would dress up as a Bow Street Runner, travel out to Chalk Farm, and stop the duel. That Mr Haddon would recognize her never crossed her mind. Amy was a romantic, and the books she liked to read often portrayed heroines dressing up as men and they were never recognized by the hero. Having come to this decision, she brought her mind back to the present and threw herself into her role of dashing rake with such conviction that Fiona began to feel uneasy and wonder if Lord Peter really meant to marry her. He had promised to travel to Tunbridge Wells directly after the duel, but he had not called, and his absence was bringing back all her fears of marriage.

Ladies often dressed up as men to attend masquerades, and so it was not considered odd by the shopkeepers to attend to a lady who was anxious to buy a red waistcoat to fit herself. She at last met with success at a tailor’s who had made such a waistcoat for a customer who had not turned up to collect it. It was a trifle large, but Amy was tired of searching.

Amy hardly slept that night. She was anxious to leave as early as possible in the morning. Now that she had made up her mind to aid Mr Haddon, she felt no nervousness as she set out atop a tall, raw-boned mare to Chalk Farm. Amy prided herself on having ‘bottom’.

Bottom was one of the most prized virtues in the Regency. It meant having coolness, courage, and solidity. It was a necessary quality in this age where epidemics such as typhoid, cholera, or smallpox could wipe out whole families. Even the most effete fop learned at an early age to endure pain, as flogging was so prevalent in public schools that there were several rebellions, one in Harrow lasting over three weeks. The strange thing about the men of the Regency was that their pistolling, boxing, flogging, gaming, boozing, and enduring were combined with sensitivity. They were not bruisers, cried easily, had a real enjoyment of literature, wit, culture, delicacy, and eccentricity. Although bottom was a masculine virtue, women such as Amy who longed to have the freedom men enjoyed, often secretly considered themselves to be every bit as strong and resilient as men, and often they were.

Once Amy reached Chalk Farm, she nudged her mare off the road and made her way to the duelling ground by a circuitous route through the trees.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was already spreading warmth over the surrounding countryside, and wreaths of mist were rising from the fields and circling round the boles of the trees. Amy dismounted and hid behind a tree. By peering around it, she had a clear view of the grassy field where the duel was to take place.

She had decided that since she could not arrest the antagonists, being hardly able to march them off to the round-house, she would need to charge them and bluster and lecture and then pretend to let them off, provided the duel did not go ahead.