Marrying Harriet (19 page)

‘Strange words coming from the daughter of a Methodist,’ said Amy.

‘I cannot believe that a loving God punishes,’ said Harriet firmly. ‘I believe we punish ourselves.’

‘You stick to your beliefs and we’ll stick to ours,’ snapped Amy. ‘It is not my fault that they prefer to lift the skirts of diseased mutton.’

This last coarseness had the effect of silencing Harriet, but yet she felt she could not abandon them and go to bed. If the situation could be saved, then Lord Charles would save it. He was a good and competent man.

An hour later, there came a banging on the street door. Ignoring Amy’s cry of ‘Don’t answer it!’ Harriet ran down the stairs, unlocked and unbolted the door and swung it open. Facing her were Mr Haddon, Mr Randolph and Lord Charles.

‘Put these gentlemen in the downstairs saloon, my sweet,’ said Lord Charles, ‘and then show me up. And leave me with the sisters, Harriet. What I have to say is private and not for your ears.’

He expected protests from Harriet, but she merely nodded, ushered the gentlemen into the saloon, and then went downstairs to the kitchen to find them something to drink, the servants having all gone to bed.

Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph sat looking like guilty schoolboys. They waved away the wine, and Mr Randolph asked feebly for a glass of seltzer instead.

Upstairs, Lord Charles, having finished his explanation with ‘So you see, ladies, they had already decided just to drink their champagne and leave without getting up to anything,’ discovered that doing good had ample reward, and the reward was the slowly dawning sunrise in the sisters’ hitherto miserable and haunted eyes.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ asked Amy in an awed voice, ‘that they are
both
virgins?’

‘Very much so. And so devoted to you both, they felt it not fair of them to take you to bed without experience, but that experience of the brothel so disgusted them that they decided to forgo it.’

‘It’s very sweet,’ murmured Effy drunkenly, ‘to think of us all being virgins together.’

‘Exactly.’ Lord Charles rose to his feet. ‘So may I now tell your beaux, who are waiting downstairs, that you have forgiven them?’

‘Course,’ said Effy, drunk with wine and relief.

And so the gentlemen were ushered up. Harriet reflected it was an odd sight to see four people in their fifties holding hands and blushing shyly. Then Amy called for champagne and Harriet played waltzes on the piano, so badly that Lord Charles took her place and entertained the company.

And so they were all married at last, and what a day it was for London society. The streets around St George’s, Hanover Square, were packed with sightseers. Members of society who had not been invited stood on top of their carriages to get a better look. It was, vowed the world at large, better than a public hanging.

All the Tribbles’ previous young ladies had turned out in force with their husbands – Felicity and Fiona, Delilah, Clarissa, and Maria.

The only sad member was a widow in black on the edge of the crowd – Bertha, Frank’s wife and the Tribbles’ ex-maid. Curiosity had drawn her to see what she could of the wedding. Frank had left their savings with her before he went to London and to his death, so she was comfortably provided for. But she felt a superstitious fear of the Tribbles and decided at last to move away from the vicinity of the church in case they saw her and put a curse on her.

Effy and Amy were the first to arrive, and then, in a carriage behind them, Harriet and Yvette. Effy had to be forcibly persuaded from turning out in an unsuitable white gown and veil and was dressed instead in floating blue chiffon. Amy was very grand in gold lace and with a cap of gold sequins and pearls on her head. Harriet was in white satin and Brussels lace, and Yvette in a severe grey silk gown with a white ruff of stiffened gauze at her throat.

Several peers disgraced themselves by jumping to their feet and cheering as the sisters entered the church. Whether this was caused by admiration or by the sheer relief that the sisters had kept their mouths firmly shut over who had been at the brothel that night was not quite clear.

Effy paused nervously as she saw the aisle stretching out in front of her, all the long way to the altar.

‘I cannot believe we are here at last,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, here we go,’ said Amy and, grasping her sister’s arm firmly, she began to move down the aisle.

It was a long ceremony. Outside, people played cards or bought gingerbread and oranges from the hawkers. And then the bells began to peal; the church doors were flung open and two radiant Tribble sisters stood on the steps with their husbands as the roar of the crowd engulfed them.

Their wedding had caught everyone’s imagination. Love did not die and no one was ever too old to find it. Harriet, beautiful and blushing and the perfect bride, was ignored as the crowd surged cheering after the Tribbles’ carriage.

Lord Charles’s father, the Duke of Hambleshire, had opened up his town house to provide room for the great reception. There was an enormous banquet with lengthy speeches, and some elderly people fell asleep, and some overexcited, overstuffed children were sick under the table.

Harriet was conscious of an increasing feeling of nervousness. It was all very well for the Tribbles to contemplate their wedding night with equanimity.
They
were going off to bed with their virgin husbands while she would be alone in the company of a highly experienced man. Lord Charles had finally told her what Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph had been planning to do on their visit to the brothel.

Too soon for Harriet was it time for the couples to take their leave. She took a tearful farewell of the sisters, hugging them fiercely, and wishing all in that moment she could return to Holles Street and have a quiet evening alone with her books.

Lord Charles gave her a glinting, mocking look when they were alone in his carriage. ‘The sooner I get you to bed, the better.’

Harriet blushed. ‘Why?’

‘You are suffering from an acute case of bride nerves.’

Harriet plucked nervously at the skirt of her gown. ‘I gather,’ she ventured, ‘it is quite common for some ladies and gentlemen to wait a few years after their marriage before . . .’

‘Not in our case.’

Harriet turned her face away and blinked back sudden tears. She felt very alone in the world.

They reached Lord Charles’s town house all too soon. The staff were lined up in the hall to greet the new bride. Tom, the cat, had to be petted and fussed over. Then they walked up the stairs. ‘This is my bedroom here,’ said Lord Charles, ‘and this, across here, is yours.’

Harriet smiled with relief. ‘In that case,’ she said timidly, ‘if you will excuse me, I will go to bed, for I am very tired.’

‘Go ahead,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

Harriet smiled to herself as she undressed. It was all much simpler than she had imagined. They would get to know each other better, and then, perhaps in a year’s time or something like that, they could . . . get down to business.

She climbed into bed and blew out the candle and settled herself for sleep.

The next thing she knew was that someone was climbing into bed with her.

‘Charles!’ she wailed, suddenly wide awake.

‘Yes, Harriet,’ he said, pulling her into his arms. Oh,
yes
, Harriet.’

And at his touch, all Harriet’s passion took over from her fears, so that when he at last paused to remove her nightdress, she could hardly wait for all the love-making to recommence.

The members of the house in Holles Street, who had all successfully lost their virginity the night before, were tired but smug the next day, each one feeling proudly that a man or woman with twenty years’ sexual experience could hardly have done better.

They all met for breakfast at noon, blushing shyly and giggling as if they were sixteen.

The gentlemen then went off to their club and the sisters surveyed each other with satisfaction.

‘We’ve done it, Effy,’ said Amy. ‘We’re married ladies, by George.’

‘Mr Randolph is so devoted to me,’ sighed Effy. ‘I hope it does not disturb you, sis. Mr Haddon always appears a leetle – shall I say? – cold.’

Amy grinned. ‘He’s as hot as a furnace, dear.’

Effy blinked. ‘Sister, dear, I did not like to tell you yesterday, but your hair is showing grey at the roots.’

‘Slut on you!’ roared Amy. ‘You whining, jealous, poisonous viper.’

Effy began to cry, and Amy, immediately contrite, put an arm around her.

‘There, I am a brute, Effy, and we should not quarrel now we have everything we want. And it’s goodbye to the school for manners.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Effy cheerfully, her tears, as usual, drying like magic.