Leisured society is full of people who spend a great part of their lives in flirtation and conceal nothing but the humiliating secret that they have never gone any further.
George Bernard Shaw
‘Now, sister,’ said Amy sternly, ‘when Berham comes to call, do not looked pleased to see him.’
‘But, why?’ wailed Effy. ‘There was a point yesterday when I thought they would suit very well. Surely only Maria would take an interest in those charitable schemes of his. Any lady of the ton would consider it a waste of money.’
‘We did not consider it a waste of money when we were so very poor and Mr Haddon gave us coal.’
‘That was a present,’ said Effy huffily. ‘No lady accepts charity.’
‘Which is why so many of them starve and leave a household of fat servants behind when they die,’ said Amy roundly. ‘If Berham thinks we’re all eager to see him marry Maria, then he will turn cool. The Kendalls will be out with baby George when he calls – I have seen to that. They did very nicely yesterday.’
‘So sweet the way they dote on that baby.’
‘George is a darling.’ Amy suffered a pang of conscience. Yvette had so much work to do – too much. She eased her conscience by promising herself to see to it that once Mrs Kendall’s gowns were completed, Yvette should have several weeks free.
‘If you say so, I shall be cool to Berham,’ said Effy, standing on tiptoe to look in the mirror and adjust one of her many gauze shawls about her neck. ‘But I have been thinking, Amy. If Maria does not wish to marry him, then we stand to gain a great deal of money from Berham and we could take a little rest. We could perhaps have next Season all to ourselves.’
‘Won’t do,’ said Amy. ‘London eats money. And we must start putting something by for our old age. Mind you, we already are old.’
‘You may be, sister, but I am in my prime.’
‘We are twins – or had you forgot.’
‘Age is all in the mind.’
‘Fiddle,’ said Amy crossly. ‘Age at this moment has settled in the small of my back and it aches like the devil.’
Effy tweaked a curl and eyed her sister speculatively. She herself was suffering from back pains, strange heat, and swollen ankles. She was frightened to send for the physician, for he would bleed her and leave her feeling weak. Perhaps she should discuss her symptoms with Amy. But Amy had that wretched diamond brooch back again, pinned on the front of her gown, and jealousy decided Effy against confessing any weakness to her sister.
While Effy and Amy prepared for the duke’s call, Mr and Mrs Kendall put George in his new perambulator and headed for the Park. ‘You know,’ said Mr Kendall, ‘I’m blessed if there ain’t a prime piece of business under our noses.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Mrs Kendall looked fondly down at George, who was clutching a toy soldier firmly in one chubby hand.
‘That Yvette. See here, how many ladies complimented you on your gown yesterday? Lots. Did any of those grand folk in Bath ever say a word about your dress? Never. When I think what a mint one pays dressmakers in Bath. Imagine what a really good one could earn in London.’
George gleefully threw his soldier in the direction of a dowager and Mrs Kendall clucked fondly as she retrieved it, trying for the dowager’s sake to pretend she was angry with George and not succeeding very well. ‘Do you mean you are going into the dressmaking business, Mr Kendall?’ she asked.
‘Not me. Yvette. I could buy her a shop. All grand and tasteful, like. She sets up in business and I take a percentage of her earnings once she’s got on her feet. She’ll need to have seamstresses and a nurse for George. Take a lot of money, but I’ll swear it will pay back well.’
‘Them Tribbles would be furious,’ pointed out Mrs Kendall. ‘Remember, they’re friends of the Prince Regent.’
‘They’d come about,’ said Mr Kendall easily. ‘Now, that Amy, she looks the strong one, but she’s got a heart like butter. They could’ve turned Yvette out into the street, baby and all.’
Mrs Kendall looked doubtful. ‘Miss Amy and Miss Effy won’t like the idea of having to pay through the nose to get gowns made for them.’
While Yvette’s future was being discussed, the Duke of Berham was seeing Miss Amy Tribble at her grandest. She was a stately figure in dove-grey silk, made with a high neck edged with a small ruff of lace, Yvette having at last persuaded her that low-necked gowns were unflattering. She wore a grey gauze turban and heels to her shoes, which gave her extra height, making her almost as tall as the duke.
‘We just want to assure you,’ said Effy, who had been well schooled by Amy, ‘that we will do everything in our power to persuade Maria to end the engagement.’
‘I do not wish you to turn her against me,’ said the duke sharply. ‘Leave the girl to make up her own mind.’
‘It is for her own good,’ said Amy. ‘You would not suit, and it is not as if it is a love match.’
‘Miss Kendall tried to terminate the engagement yesterday,’ said the duke abruptly. ‘I told her it would be kinder to let matters rest while her parents are in London. I beg you, say no more on this matter to Miss Kendall at present.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Amy, with seeming reluctance.
By the time Maria appeared, the duke was anxious to take his leave. He told the Tribbles they would be out for some time, as Maria wished to see a little more of London.
Maria noticed as she approached the carriage that his tiger was not present. She also noticed that his hand rested lightly on her waist for a moment as he helped her in.
The fine weather had broken, and although there was no rain, it was chilly with an irritating, frisky wind, blowing straw about the street and snapping in the blinds and awnings over the shops and houses. Because of the recent sunshine, all London had hoisted full sail. Every house and shop in the West End had its buff or striped canvas awning so that the sunshine should not fade either the goods in the shop windows or the carpets in my lady’s drawing room.
Maria was wearing a Polish robe of purple velvet ornamented with gold cord and tassels at the waist and edged with fox fur. On her head, she wore a jaunty Polish cap with a peak and cord and tassels hanging from the right side of the crown. On her hands were York tan gloves, and on her feet, gold kid half-boots.
The duke was aware of every inch of her. Because the Tribbles had made her appear forbidden fruit, he was sharply conscious for the first time how very seductive her body was, how thick and glossy her hair, and how perfect her skin.
That kiss at the inn did not count, he found himself thinking. What would it be like to kiss a willing Maria, a pliant Maria?
The carriage bowled swiftly along. Maria clung on to the side and enjoyed the novelty of speed. Soon they were through the village of Bethnal Green, past the grim walls of the workhouse and out into open fields.
He stopped his team and pointed across the fields with his whip. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘What shall I call it? Maria’s Town?’
Maria laughed. ‘I think we should let the new residents decide on a name.’
He leaned under the seat and brought out a large sketchbook and began to outline the plans for the new village. ‘It would be a semi-rural community,’ he said. ‘There would be shops and a village green and a duck pond.’
‘And a church,’ said Maria eagerly, ‘There must be a church. And can it be one like a real church and not one of those things that look like ballrooms?’
He quickly sketched a church with a steeple. He was very good at it, thought Maria, watching a picture of church and shops and houses growing up on the page.
She was leaning against his shoulder as he sketched and he was intensely aware of the warmth of her body and the delicate flower perfume she wore.
He wanted all at once to throw down the sketchpad and take her in his arms, but for the first time in his life, he was afraid of a rebuff. Men of his age and rank usually had a great deal of experience of women, but the duke had had surprisingly little. He had lost his virginity at the hands of an experienced courtesan at an early age – for that was one of the things one did, like learning fencing and boxing – and the experience had killed a great deal of the romanticism in his soul. His following affairs had been brief and matter-of-fact, the termination of each settled by his lawyers. His few past mistresses would have been amazed had they guessed that one day the chilly Duke of Berham would be sketching plans for the welfare of paupers, longing to take a young lady in his arms, and afraid of doing so.
They talked for a long time, Maria’s enthusiasm for his plans increasing her attraction for him.
‘We should go back,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but perhaps we have time to make a slight detour on the road home. I found I own some more property in bad repair, just outside the City, in St Charles Street. The builders have already moved in and the poor wretches have been given clothing and food. Would you like to see it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Maria. ‘These poor people must be so grateful to you.’
‘No, I should not think so,’ he said calmly, but as they drove back, Maria wove rosy dreams of grateful men and women clustered round the duke, kissing his hand and calling him a saint.
Maria’s dreams began to fade as they turned down among mean, sinister streets. She was acutely aware of the richness of her gown, of the splendour of the duke’s bearing, and of the red eyes that glared up at them as they passed.
The duke stopped his carriage at the end of St Charles Street, and then sighed. Maria looked down the street in horror. Men and women were tearing down the wooden scaffolding that had been erected by the builders and were throwing it on a bonfire. On one pavement, other men and women were handing over bundles of new clothes to a man with a cart and receiving money in return. On another corner, a gin shop was doing a roaring trade.
And then one of the wretches saw him and pointed. There was a cry of ‘There he is!’ But no one came forward to kiss the duke’s hand or thank him. Instead, a woman bent down and picked up a cobblestone and threw it straight at the carriage. The duke caught it and dropped it to the ground. Then he seized the reins and swung his team about and drove off as fast as he could just as a rain of missiles struck the back of the carriage.
After he had gone some way and the mean streets fell behind, he glanced down and saw that Maria was crying. He drove into the courtyard of a coaching inn in the City, tossed the reins to an ostler, and then helped Maria down, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her into the inn. People looked up curiously as they entered the coffee room and he guided her into a booth in a far corner where they were screened from view and called for a bottle of wine. He sat down next to Maria and took out his handkerchief and gently dried her eyes.
‘Come now,’ he said softly. ‘There is no reason to be so upset. You are making me feel guilty. I am a brute to have taken you there. I should have guessed what might happen.’
‘S-so ungrateful,’ sobbed Maria, all her rosy dreams in ruins.
‘It was too much, too soon,’ he said. ‘Proper charity is hard work, not just handing out clothes and food and walking away. What should I do? Call in the constable and the militia? I must return tomorrow when they are quiet and subdued again and get to work trying to rescue those that might be saved from those that are too sunk in depravity. Here is our wine. Drink up and you will feel better. You cannot expect high ideals, honesty and courtesy in a rookery. These people are further down than the people of John Street. All they have known is poverty, thieving and gin to alleviate the misery. Hope and respectability are frightening and threatening to them, and charity is an insult.’
Maria shuddered. A piece of the rookeries seemed to have entered her soul. She could smell the filth and still see the barefoot children in their dirty rags with the urine streaks down their legs, the red-eyed gin-sodden women, the orange-cheeked babies, the scabs, the bent legs, the wizened bodies. She could still feel the hate.
‘If you are hell-bent on turning reformer,’ he went on, ‘then you must harden your heart and be prepared for a lifetime of disappointment. You must believe that if only a few are turned to a decent life, then all your efforts are worthwhile. Never expect gratitude for giving away what you can easily afford. You must be prepared to work with these dreadful people or forget they exist and return to the West End where we are sheltered from such a world.’
‘I do not think I can ever forget them,’ said Maria.
‘What a shameful pair we are,’ he laughed. ‘Society would be horrified.’
Maria sipped her wine and leaned against him, still too overcome to worry about the fact that his arm was around her shoulders.
They fell silent. The coffee room was dark and smoky and low-raftered, and they were isolated in their corner from the rest of the customers. He raised her hand to his lips. Maria shivered and said weakly, ‘We should return. They will be wondering where we are.’
He tilted her chin up and smiled down into her green eyes. His mouth approached hers. ‘No,’ whispered Maria.
He frowned slightly and released her chin. Then he muttered something impatiently, gathered her in his arms and brought his mouth down on hers. At first Maria dimly told herself it would be vulgar to struggle or make a scene in a public inn. Then her emotions swept up and engulfed her. The kiss went on for a very long time. The waiter popped his head over the settle and asked, ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ and shrugged and walked away as ‘sir’ remained deaf and blind to everything but the girl in his arms.
The duke felt weak with passion, roaring, blinding red passion that surged in his ears like the sea, making him forget place and time.
To release her was like a bereavement. He looked at her, stunned and dizzy. And then from somewhere in the room, the clock struck seven.
‘The deuce,’ he whispered. ‘We must go. They will wonder what has happened to us.’
It was unfortunate for the duke and Maria that the frantic Tribbles had gone to his town house in search of their missing charge, leaving the equally frantic Kendalls to pace the floor.
When the duke arrived back in Holles Street with Maria, he was met by an enraged Mr Kendall, demanding furiously to know where they had been.
The Kendalls listened in horror as their glowing daughter told them of her afternoon.
‘You risked our girl’s life, taking her to the worst parts of London,’ shouted Mr Kendall, all social training forgotten. ‘Do you know what we’ve spent on that girl to bring her up a lady?’ He furiously spelled out prices of governesses, dancing masters, Italian teachers, music teachers, ending up with the vast sum he was paying the Tribbles.
‘Control yourself, sir,’ said the duke, looking down his nose. ‘Your daughter was safe with me.’
Mr Kendall turned an odd sort of puce. ‘Who are you, sir? I say, who are you, sir, to take that hoity-toity tone with me? Well, we don’t need you or your title and my Maria shall not marry you. So there. Take yourself off and never come near her again.’
‘Gladly,’ said the Duke of Berham. He turned on his heel and left, just as the Tribbles arrived home.
‘The engagement is off,’ said the duke furiously. ‘Kendall has broken it himself. I must consider myself fortunate to have escaped from such a family.’
‘It was what you wanted,’ said Amy faintly.
He climbed into his carriage and drove off without answering while the Tribbles went indoors to cope with a distraught Maria and a raging father.
The duke drove home, went into his library, called for brandy and slumped down in a chair in front of the fire. A terrible coldness began to come over him and he began to feel quite ill.
For it dawned on him at last that he wanted Maria Kendall, horrible parents and all, and he would do anything in the world to get her!
Amy sat in Maria’s room and held her hand. ‘There, there,’ said Amy, ‘the man is a brute and quite, quite about in his upper chambers. Does he take you to the ring in the Park? Does he suggest a visit to the opera? No. ‘‘Come and see my filthy, dirty places,’’ says he. Tcha! Romance is dead.’
‘I wanted to go,’ said Maria fiercely. ‘This is a man I could love, or so I thought. And then because Papa berates him, he stalks off with never a thought for anything but his own dreadful pride.’
‘Take comfort from that,’ said Amy. ‘He would make a nasty husband. Have your parents spoken to you?’
Maria sighed. ‘At great length. They have changed in that they no longer want to hit me. They were kind and actually apologized to me and said that ambition had turned them into monsters. But it is not really I or you who have changed them, but George.’
‘George?’
‘Yes, Yvette’s baby. They dote on him. George can be naughty at times, but they laugh indulgently and hug him. I was never allowed to be naughty.’
‘If George were their own, they’d probably whip his arse,’ said Amy cynically. ‘He’s not theirs, but Yvette’s, and so they can go on being sort of doting grandparents. We shall come about, Maria. Plenty of men at the Season.’
But Amy felt very low as she trailed off to Effy’s room. Effy was weeping quietly.
‘I need support,’ said Amy, plumping herself down on the end of Effy’s lace-covered bed. ‘What’s to do?’
‘We are ruined,’ said Effy. ‘The announcement about the termination of the engagement will be in all the newspapers tomorrow. Berham will not pay us anything because it was Mr Kendall who ended the engagement, and Mr Kendall said that the money he spent on us was wasted and we would not get any more, and although he paid generously in advance, he was due to pay more at the end of the Season. What are we to do?’
‘Advertise again,’ said Amy with a cheerfulness she did not feel. ‘People would have come running to us if Maria had married Berham. In fact, they might have come running already if that wretched couple had not gone out of their way to demonstrate to society how little they care for each other. Damn Berham! May syphilis eat off his nose!’
‘Amy!’
‘May the gout plague him, may the whores rob him, and may his charity cases stone him and burn him, the stiff-necked fool. He was in love with the girl and she with him, I swear. What other couple of fools in Christendom would want to interfere in the lives of trulls and thieves?’ said Amy with all the forthright callousness of the eighteenth century, which did not bend to this sickening sensibility of the early nineteenth.
‘Oh, what are we to do?’ wailed Effy.
‘We’ll ask Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Effy, grateful. ‘Gentlemen always know what to do.’
Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph gravely listened to the problem the next morning as they shared breakfast with the sisters.
Mr Randolph thought Mr Kendall had behaved just as he ought. Berham had behaved shockingly. No one knew of that kiss. Their shock was reserved for the duke’s philanthropic efforts. Not that he should make them, but that a man who commanded so many people should stoop to get involved himself.
‘Maria will retreat into dreams again,’ said Mr Kendall.
‘She’s suffering but she’s given up dreaming,’ said Amy. ‘Bless me, but I think that dreadful St Charles Street woke the sleeping beauty at last. I don’t know whether she misses him or his charity cases. Fact is, Mr Haddon, we wondered if you would take another advertisement and put it in The Morning Post for us. We must forget Maria and look to our future.’
‘Gladly,’ said Mr Haddon, ‘but I fear the case of Maria and Berham is hopeless and you can consider yourself well out of it.’
Which all went to show that men were not much use at all, said Amy Tribble after they had left.
She was sunk in gloom. Why could not Mr Haddon have offered to marry her? Did it never cross his mind?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr Kendall. He had talked long into the night with his wife. They felt they were doing their duty in breaking the engagement, but they decided they owed a debt to the Tribbles. Both were enjoying their new social ease and anxious for more lessons from these friends of the Prince Regent. And so the amazed Amy found Mr Kendall was offering her more money to continue schooling him and Mrs Kendall.
She was so elated by this news that when the Duke of Berham called, she felt able to face him.
Effy was summoned. Effy did not yet know the latest piece of good news and was still tearful.
‘I will come to the point right away,’ said the duke, looking anywhere but at the sisters. ‘I offered you a handsome sum to release me from that engagement.’
‘And you are going to tell us that you ain’t going to pay because Kendall broke it, not us,’ said Amy.
‘I am come to tell you I will pay you anything you wish if you will see to it that the engagement stands.’
Effy looked at Amy and Amy looked at Effy.
‘What can we do?’ cried Amy.
He smiled at her and Amy realized with a start that he was devastatingly attractive. Her eyes dropped to his well-muscled legs. Yes, definitely attractive.
‘I am sure you will think of something,’ he said. ‘I believe you always do.’
After he had left, Amy ordered champagne. Once again her nerves seemed to be stretched to the breaking point and she did not feel quite sane. She hoped the champagne would cool her.
She and Effy drank and discussed and dismissed various ways of getting the duke and Maria together.
‘Pity, that’s it!’ said Amy suddenly.
‘Whash a piddy?’ slurred Effy.
‘Maria. She’s got a lot of compassion and all that. She must be made to feel sorry for him. Let me see.’ Amy glanced at the clock. ‘He’s no doubt down in St Charles Street. I shall go there and tell him my idea.’
‘Come too,’ said Effy, blinking like an owl.
‘No, you’d better go to sleep. You’re foxed.’
Amy hurtled downstairs and ordered the carriage. She took two footmen with her for protection.
The sight that met her eyes in the middle of St Charles Street made her glad she had decided to bring a bodyguard along. A circle of men and women were surrounding the duke and a great brute of a man. Amy strode up and demanded, ‘What’s happening?’
‘A mill,’ said a dirty woman. ‘Our Bert’s going to draw ’is grace’s cork.’
The duke had not found a docile population when he had returned to St Charles Street. It was almost as if they had been waiting for him. Almost as if they had had this bruiser, Bert, drafted in from somewhere to confront him. It was, however, not unusual for one of the lower orders to challenge an aristocrat to a fight. The social laws did not interfere when it came to every Englishman’s right to bloody the nose of another. Often, like Bert, they made the mistake of thinking all aristocrats effete. But men like the duke, thrashed at home, thrashed at public school, trained from an early age to endure pain, sent to the wars, and then trained in delicate social arts like boxing, were tough and fit. If an aristocrat survived his upbringing, he was usually very strong indeed. Only those who had the luck to come into their inheritance when they were still in short coats could lead a life of carefree indolence.
So he had removed his coat and prepared to do battle. Amy’s brain worked quickly. If the duke was injured, then she could tell Maria, and Maria’s kind heart would be touched and she would come and sob at his bedside. But just to make sure the duke was not actually killed, Amy gently eased a pistol she had had the foresight to prime and bring along out of her reticule. She saw a gin bottle on the ground and picked that up as well. Then she noticed a pamphlet lying at her feet, and under the feet of the mob she could see many other pamphlets. Still holding the pistol, she tucked the gin bottle under her arm and picked up the pamphlet. ‘Citizens, rise against your oppressors,’ screamed the black type. ‘Come to the Methodist Hall tonight and hear Dr Frank preach on the equality of Man.’
‘Seditious bastard, whoever he is,’ muttered Amy. There was a cheer as the fight began.
To the crowd’s disappointment, it did not last very long. The duke danced lightly around his opponent and then struck like lightning. It was a massive blow, and Bert crashed onto the cobblestones while the duke stood over him nursing his bleeding knuckles.
A reluctant cheer went up and the crowd parted to let him through.
He walked blindly past Amy, his coat, which he had picked up off the ground, slung over his shoulder.
‘Oh, God, for what I am about to do, please forgive me,’ said Miss Amy Tribble, and she lifted the gin bottle and gave the duke a sharp and efficient crack on the back of the head. He reeled and staggered. ‘Catch him and put him in the carriage,’ shouted Amy.
As the duke was hoisted in, Amy saw his agent and servants clustered at the end of the street. ‘You cowards,’ she shouted.
‘Why did you hit ’im on the head, missus?’ demanded a woman, clutching at Amy. Amy shook her off. She had to get the duke away before any more onlookers began to spread the word that she had deliberately struck the duke, who was now unconscious.
The duke was laid out on the seat of her carriage by the two footmen. Amy climbed in and pulled down the window and called up to the coachman, ‘Drive on, fool. What are you waiting for?’
As the coach began to move, Amy heard a loud voice shouting. ‘Don’t let the rich scum escape. Hang them. Burn them.’
Amy stared in the direction of that voice. A ginger-haired man in showy clothes had climbed up a lamp-post to address the crowd.
Amy knew that face. It was Frank, the ex-second footman, who had caused rebellion in her servants’ hall and then had fled. He saw her and ducked down the lamp-post and disappeared into the crowd.
But Amy quickly forgot about Frank. The duke lay very still, his face white.
‘What have I done?’ whispered Amy. ‘Perhaps I have killed him.’
She raised the trap and ordered the coachman to drive to the duke’s town house in Cavendish Square.
The Dowager Duchess of Berham came slowly down the stairs as her unconscious son was carried into the hall. She leaned heavily on her stick and asked in a flat voice, ‘Is he dead?’
‘No,’ said Amy, ‘but get a physician. I think he is only stunned,’ while inside she prayed to God and all his angels to spare her from the gallows.
She turned to leave as the duke was slowly carried up the stairs.
‘No! Stay!’ cried the dowager. ‘I must know what happened.’
She commanded the housekeeper to put Amy in the Yellow Saloon. Amy waited in an agony of fear. They would probably hang not only her but Effy as well, assuming Effy to be a conspirator. Her mind see-sawed wildly.
After an hour of pure hell, the door opened and the dowager came in. ‘He is recovered,’ she said.
Amy put her head down and wept with relief.
The dowager sat beside her on the sofa and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘There, there. All is well. You have had a bad fright. He is very strong. He will need to rest, however. His wits seem to be wandering. He is talking about being in some fight and that as he was leaving, you struck him down from behind. Before he lost consciousness, he heard someone asking you why you had struck him.’
Amy flinched. She had been so sure that the duke had been totally unaware of her presence.
‘I did strike him,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I meant it for the best.’
‘Meaning you thought the world would be better off without him?’
‘Oh, no. You see he is in love with Maria Kendall, but her father has forbidden the marriage and I thought if he were ill or injured, Maria might rush to his bedside and . . . and . . .’ Overwrought, Amy began to cry again.
‘You are a very bad woman,’ said the dowager in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘But I shall forgive you if your plan works.’ She rang the bell and then walked over to a writing-desk in the corner and began to write. When a footman entered, she ordered him to take the note to Miss Kendall, and to make sure it was delivered to her personally.
When the footman had gone, the dowager went back to sit beside Amy. ‘Now, Miss Tribble,’ she said sternly, ‘dry your eyes and let us get down to business. The Kendalls are common, but I believe them to be rich.’
‘Oh, yes, very rich,’ said Amy weakly. She took out a large handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘You are sure of this? Might they not be showy and vulgar people who put on a display of wealth but are constantly in debt?’
‘No, I happen to know that Mr Kendall pays cash for everything. No debts. I found out that much when we were in Bath.’
‘You advertise for difficult girls, do you not? What is the difficulty with Miss Kendall?’
‘Dreams, that is all,’ said Amy. ‘She used to live in a dream-world. Her parents bullied her too much, you see. But she is gentle and kind and most young girls have heads filled with nonsense.’
‘And some old ones,’ pointed out the dowager maliciously. ‘You take your duties seriously, Miss Tribble. Do you usually risk gentlemen’s lives in order to bring your charge to the altar?’
‘Please . . . I must apologize . . . not myself.’
‘We will see how it works. If it does not work, then you will be damned by me and society as a dangerous and silly old woman; if it does work, and I hope it does, for I have a feeling in my bones that Miss Kendall will do very well for my son, then you will have my lifelong support for your ventures. Please stop crying. Tears do not become you; nor do they make me feel sorry for you. It will be a great coup for you if this comes off. Believe me, the Kendalls should consider themselves fortunate that such as we should stoop so low. Why did the silly man break off the engagement?’
Amy told her of the duke’s drive with Maria.
‘Ah, well, I see his point. My late husband left all the squalid side of things to his agent, and quite right too. The only time we ever concerned ourselves overmuch with the welfare of underlings was when it seemed we might have an uprising like the Terror in France. Some of my friends even apprenticed their children to a trade. Trade! Can you imagine it?’
‘Easily,’ said Amy, recovering some of her spirit. ‘I am in trade myself, as are all women who push their sons and daughters into marriage.’
‘We take marriage very seriously,’ said the dowager, ‘and quite right too. You would not mate a fine racing horse with a coal horse, now would you, and expect the outcome to be worth anything? I hear someone arriving. Let us hope it is Miss Kendall.’
The butler entered carrying a card on a silver tray, which he presented to the dowager. ‘Miss Kendall,’ he said.
Amy let out a slow breath of relief. ‘Do not relax so soon, Miss Tribble,’ said the dowager sharply. ‘You are not out of the woods yet.’ She turned to the butler. ‘Take Miss Kendall directly to his grace’s bedchamber, usher her in, shut the door behind her and tell the other servants not to go near.’
‘What did you say in your letter?’ asked Amy curiously.
‘Why simply that my son was at death’s door and that she should come and say her last goodbyes.’
Amy’s face broke into a grin. ‘And they call me ruthless,’ she said.