Marrying Harriet (18 page)

Harriet’s voice rang out. ‘Leave me with Miss Amy,’ she commanded. ‘Go away, all of you, and that includes you, Miss Effy. Harris, fetch Monsieur André, the hairdresser, and get him to come here immediately.

‘Now there is nothing even you can do with that head of hair, my love,’ teased Lord Charles as Harriet shooed them all away.

‘No, there’s nothing,’ echoed Amy miserably when she was alone with Harriet. ‘What an old fool I am!’

‘Why did you do it? You looked very well as you were,’ said Harriet.

‘The ladies would say things, you know, when we were out on calls. Even the Marchioness of Raby kept going on about how lucky we were, and that cat, Mrs Gilchrist, said loudly I must be a witch because most women of my age were dead and hinted I must be very rich, otherwise Mr Haddon would have looked for someone younger and prettier. And of course, so he could! What does he want with me? So I thought if I could get rid of the grey streaks in my hair, then I would look younger. Then I thought if I had fair hair, I would look even better. I went over to the City and an apothecary sold me the mixture, and may he rot in hell, the Bartholomew freak of a whoreson, and may his balls fall off into the kennel and may—’

‘Miss Amy!’ screamed Harriet, putting her hands over her ears.

‘Well,’ sniffed Amy. ‘I am ruined.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Harriet, lowering her hands in time to catch the last words. ‘We will both stay here until matters are rectified.’

The house was hushed and quiet when the famous hairdresser arrived. He was ushered upstairs and treated by Effy more like a physician who has arrived too late to save a dying patient than a hairdresser.

There was no sign of Amy or Harriet for the rest of that day. Lord Charles, Mr Haddon, Mr Randolph, and Effy played cards in the drawing room that evening. Effy felt that Mr Haddon should be disgusted with Amy, but his lips kept curving in a smile, and little Mr Randolph let out a snort of laughter every time Amy’s name was mentioned. Lord Charles looked around the group and wondered why he should feel so much at home and so much at ease in such company. But his friend, Guy Sutherland, had started to make every excuse to call, and Lord Charles supposed, after some thought, that it was because, for all their nonsense, the Tribble sisters had managed to create a charming home.

The gentlemen left that evening without seeing Amy, but Harriet descended as they were putting on their coats in the hall and said Miss Amy would be happy to receive them the following afternoon.

Effy tried to see her sister before going to bed, but Amy’s bedroom door was firmly locked, the lock having been repaired earlier that day.

On the following afternoon, all assembled in the drawing room, and Harriet went to fetch Amy.

‘A wig,’ said Effy. ‘That’s the only answer.’

And then Amy Tribble came in. She was not wearing a cap. Her long tresses had been cut, bleached, and then dyed a soft dark-brown. Soft waves and curls fell on either side of her face, softening its harsh lines, and her hair had been pomaded to a glossy sheen. She was wearing a morning gown of dull gold with a little Elizabethan ruff and long tight sleeves that ended in points at her wrists. She had never looked better. Effy could have slapped her.

Lord Charles drew Harriet aside. ‘You are beginning to frighten me, Capability Brown,’ he murmured. ‘Are you always going to solve every problem and leave nothing to me?’

But there was one problem facing Harriet and she could not tell him about it. She was frightened of the intimacies of the marriage bed and felt she had no one to turn to – the Tribbles, she assumed correctly, both being virgins.

It never crossed her mind that the Tribbles should be plagued by similar fears, and not one of the ladies dreamt that both Mr Randolph and Mr Haddon were becoming increasingly worried and for the same reason. For the two gentlemen were virgins as well.

Winter melted into spring and the day of the weddings approached, for all were to be married together, including Yvette and her Monsieur Duclos, but not the Berhams, who planned to be remarried at a later date. Lady Owen remained in Scarborough, writing to say she expected Harriet to bring her husband to see her, but she herself could not face the rigours of the journey south.

Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph were sharing a bottle of wine in their favourite coffee house when Mr Randolph suddenly felt he could not bear his worries alone any longer.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he said, blushing and looking down into his glass.

‘That being?’ asked Mr Haddon.

‘I am a virgin.’

Mr Randolph buried his nose in his glass.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mr Haddon slowly, ‘I, too, have no experience.’

‘We must remember our ladies have no experience either,’ said Mr Randolph hopefully.

‘But they will expect us to know what to do,’ pointed out Mr Haddon dismally. ‘I declare I won’t know which end is up.’

Despite his distress, Mr Randolph let out rather a coarse laugh.

‘It’s all very well to laugh,’ said Mr Haddon, who was drinking steadily, ‘but is it fair to our ladies?’

‘I don’t really see how we can do anything about it.’ Mr Randolph offered his snuff box but Mr Haddon waved it impatiently away.

Mr Haddon ordered another bottle of wine. Both men normally did not drink very much but that evening saw them becoming tipsy for almost the first time.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Haddon after the third bottle, ‘we should do something about it.’

‘Such as?’ asked little Mr Randolph owlishly. ‘Lose it.’

‘Lose what?’

‘Our virginity.’

‘With
whores
?’ squeaked Mr Randolph.

‘There are whores and whores. I am not talking about the poor diseased creatures of the streets, forced by poverty into such circumstances. I mean the Royal Saloon in Piccadilly.’

‘Us go there? I should die of terror,’ said Mr Randolph.

‘Better to die of terror there than die of terror on our marriage beds.’

They drank and argued and drank and argued until suddenly, feeling elated and courageous and not at all like himself, Mr Randolph said, ‘I’ll do it.’

In a booth behind them, Mr Lawrence slowly lowered his newspaper and smiled. A most fascinating conversation. He had never forgiven Mr Haddon for challenging him to a duel. He summoned the waiter and asked for pen, paper and ink, and began to write.

Amy and Effy were preparing to leave the drawing room and go to bed. Both of them wondered what had happened to their beaux that evening. Harriet was sitting by the fire, reading. Lord Charles had introduced her to the world of fiction and now she felt she could not read enough.

Amy cocked her head. ‘I wonder who that can be hammering at the street door. It is nearly midnight.’

Harriet put down her book. ‘It might be the watch,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Harris left the basement door open.’

‘Harris would never do that,’ said Amy. ‘He is most careful. Oh, here he comes.’

Harris handed a letter to Effy. It was addressed to both sisters.

‘I wonder who it can be from,’ said Effy, turning the letter over in her hands.

‘Well, open it and see,’ said Amy impatiently.

Effy broke the plain seal and began to read. Her eyes grew rounder and rounder with alarm. Amy could bear it no longer. She snatched the letter out of Effy’s hands. Harriet watched her face turning grim and set.

‘Who is it from?’ cried Harriet.

Amy silently handed her the letter. ‘Dear ladies,’ she read. ‘If you wish to know how your fiancés pass their nights, go to the Royal Saloon.’

‘What is the Royal Saloon?’ asked Harriet.

‘A brothel in Piccadilly,’ snapped Amy.

Harriet laughed. ‘It is a malicious lie. How can you believe such spiteful nonsense?’

Amy looked at Effy and Effy looked at Amy. ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Amy. ‘But I’m damned well going to find out.’

Effy’s pretty crumpled face had taken on a cold, hard look. ‘I shall go with you, sister.’

‘Then you will take me,’ Harriet closed her book with a snap. ‘You are not going to such a place alone.’

‘Yes, we are,’ said Amy sternly. ‘You will do as you are told, Harriet Brown, and stay here and wait for us.’

Harriet pleaded and argued, but the sisters would not listen to her.

Lord Charles Marsham was enjoying a quiet glass of brandy when he was informed by his surprised butler that his fiancée had called.

‘Show her in,’ he said, wondering anxiously what adventure had befallen Harriet now.

He listened in amazement as she told him of the Tribbles’ visit to the Royal Saloon. ‘So we must go too,’ begged Harriet.

‘I will go, my dear girl, but you must not.’

‘I am going. If it is true, my ladies will need comfort and help.’

He hesitated a moment and then said quietly. ‘Very well. I must insist, however, that you wear a mask. In fact, I shall lend you a domino. But I must say I find it hard to believe that either Haddon or Randolph could be in such a place.’

They arrived just after the Tribble sisters had made their entrance, their coachman having wasted a great deal of their time in trying to persuade them not to go in.

The Royal Saloon’s busiest hours were between midnight and dawn. It was decorated in what the proprietors fondly believed was the eastern style. There was a main room and along either side of this were curtained recesses for private parties. The balcony, decorated with trellis-work and palms, also had a series of these semi-private boudoirs, and at the back were card rooms and a billiard room.

A large part of the peerage was present every night, and when the Tribbles strode in, earls, dukes, lords and marquesses pushed aside their Cyprians and dived for cover under the tables. Most were married, and most of their wives were known to the Tribble sisters.

Amy’s eyes raked the room. Then, followed by Effy, she went around the recesses, jerking back the curtains, deaf to the screams of the couples revealed.

‘I’ve never seen so many bare arses in my life,’ grumbled Amy, making for the balcony. Effy was quite white and was beginning to feel she might faint. Along the balcony strode Amy, jerking aside the curtains, just as Lord Charles and Harriet entered downstairs.

Harriet knew the Tribbles had found their quarry. There was a piercing scream from the balcony from Effy, a cry of ‘Bastard!’ from Amy, and then both Tribbles descended, their heads high.

‘Come, Harriet,’ said Amy, recognizing her despite the scarlet domino that shrouded her and covered her face, for she saw Lord Charles beside Harriet and, despite her own disillusionment, knew that Lord Charles was too much in love with Harriet to be unfaithful to her with any whore. ‘I told you not to come.’

Harriet and Lord Charles followed them out.

‘Please bring Miss Brown home,’ commanded Amy, her stare fixed, not looking at either Harriet or Lord Charles. The sisters entered their carriage and were driven off.

‘We cannot go home,’ said Harriet. ‘We must go back in there and find out what happened. They must be doing it for some sort of wager.’

‘I do not have your faith in the good intentions of men,’ said Lord Charles, ‘and no, you are not going in there.’

Harriet rounded on him. ‘Did you not see them? The Tribbles? Their lives are blighted. If there is some reasonable explanation, then we must discover it.’

At that moment, Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph came out of the Royal Saloon, arm in arm.

Harriet flew at them before Lord Charles could stop her. ‘How could you?’ she raged.

‘We cannot explain such a delicate matter here, Miss Brown,’ said Mr Haddon.

‘Then where can you explain it?’ demanded Harriet fiercely.

Lord Charles joined them. ‘We will take you home, Harriet, and then I shall find out what I can. No! You have been allowed too much license for one evening. Do you think these gentlemen will talk easily in front of you?’

Harriet reluctantly accepted the wisdom of what he said. She was returned to Holles Street and Lord Charles drove off with the nabobs.

Amy and Effy were in the drawing room, drinking port. Their faces were flushed and their eyes hard. Tomorrow, tears would come, but that night they were in the middle of the battlefield of life and fighting their shattering disappointment with every bit of courage they had.

‘Lord Charles has gone off with them to demand an explanation,’ said Harriet.

‘More fool he,’ said Amy. ‘And more fools us. Men are not worth a whistle, Harriet. Help yourself to port and do not mourn for us. We had a lucky escape.’

‘But what were they
doing
?’ wailed Harriet. ‘I mean were they . . . ?’

‘They were the only ones who weren’t, I’ll grant you that,’ said Effy waspishly. ‘They were sitting with a couple of the lowest bawds and drinking champagne.’

‘With . . . with all their . . . em . . . clothes on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Well, nothing,’ snapped Amy. ‘They just hadn’t got around to removing their breeches.’

‘And to think,’ said Effy, ‘that I have been so frightened of the intimacies of marriage.’

‘You too?’ said Harriet. ‘But it is not the same for you.

‘Why not?’ demanded Amy.

‘You are older, and . . . and I saw you pulling back those curtains and heard the screams. After what you saw . . .’

‘Seeing’s one thing, doing’s another,’ said Amy. ‘Take a wrong turning in a wrong part of London and you’ll see the same thing. Maybe it’s all the same when it comes to between the sheets, whores and ladies alike.’

‘But we have love and respect,’ protested Harriet.

‘Had,’ said Amy gloomily. ‘Had.’

‘But I thought,’ ventured Harriet after a long silence, ‘that many men behave thus after marriage and ladies turn a blind eye.’

‘I thought so too,’ said Amy, ‘and I always thought I could do the same thing, but I couldn’t. Not me.’

She crossed the room and sat on the sofa beside her sister and put an arm around her slim waist. Effy sighed and leaned her head against Amy’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps this is God’s way of punishing us,’ said Effy. ‘We were so very happy. So very triumphant. Too much pride and vanity.’

‘I do not believe God punishes anyone,’ said Harriet.