Enlightening Delilah

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘We have not met,’ said Effy. ‘I am Miss Effy Tribble. You have, I believe, already met my sister, Miss Amy.’

  Delilah concealed her surprise. So the other one was Miss Amy. Amy was wearing a scarlet merino gown, beautifully cut. On her head was a scarlet velvet cap trimmed with gold. She had the face of a rather sad, tired horse.

  ‘This is my daughter, Delilah,’ said the squire. Delilah curtsied. ‘Come and sit by the fire,’ said Effy. ‘You both must be frozen. We were going to offer you champagne before that freezing fog came down, but I think a bowl of punch will be more the thing.’

  Two footmen came in with a punch-bowl and all the ingredients and placed them on a table. Amy set about making the punch. ‘Always do it myself,’ she said with a grin at Delilah. ‘Servants never make it strong enough.’

  That grin altered Amy’s face. Delilah’s heart sank. Miss Amy Tribble had a certain direct charm. But she also looked formidable, the sort of stepmother who would not appreciate having another woman running the household.

  ‘Sit down by me, Mr Wraxall,’ cooed Effy, ‘and tell me all about your journey.’

  Amy glared at her sister and poured a whole bottle of brandy into the punch-bowl. Amy knew Effy had a weak head for spirits.

  The squire was not at ease with Effy. Her flutterings and sly glances made him feel hot and awkward and miserably aware that the linen of his cravat was speckled with soot.

  Amy poured glasses of punch and a footman took them round. Delilah nearly choked over hers, it was so strong, but soon the punch began to spread a warm glow throughout her body.

  ‘I hope you plan to spend a few days in Town, Mr Wraxall,’ said Amy, sitting down on the other side of him from Effy.

  ‘I plan to leave the day after tomorrow,’ said the squire.

  ‘Have you ever been to Astley’s Amphitheatre?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Terrible place,’ interrupted Effy with a delicate shudder. ‘I detest circuses. Full of low people.’

  ‘I have never been,’ said the squire, ‘but I’ve always longed to go.’ He looked apologetically at Effy. ‘I fear I do not have very sophisticated tastes, as Miss Amy well knows.’

  ‘I took the liberty of getting us tickets for tomorrow night,’ said Amy cheerfully. ‘That is, if you would care to accompany me, Mr Wraxall.’

  The squire’s blue eyes lit up. ‘I should be honoured and delighted to go, Miss Amy.’

  ‘Amy!’ said Effy sternly. ‘You are surely not thinking of starting Miss Wraxall’s début in London at Astley’s!’

  ‘Not I,’ said Amy. ‘I only bought two tickets. I have the same unsophisticated tastes as Mr Wraxall.’

  Effy drank another glass of punch. ‘And what am I supposed to do with Miss Wraxall?’

  ‘Begin her education, if you like,’ said Amy and then coloured as the squire flashed her a warning look.

  ‘What education?’ demanded Delilah. ‘I am long out of the schoolroom.’

  ‘But you have not been in London before,’ said Effy. ‘You need town bronze.’

  ‘We have many notables who attend our local parties and assemblies in the winter,’ said Delilah. ‘I know very well how to go on.’

  ‘We shall shee,’ said Effy, and then looked in a surprised way at her glass as if it had slurred rather than herself.

  ‘Sush a pity Mr Haddon is not here,’ went on Effy. She turned to Delilah. ‘My shishter is monshtroushly taken with Mr Haddon.’

  ‘I think you have had too much punch,’ said Amy crossly. ‘You’re making noises like a crossing sweeper’s brush.’

  ‘Who is Mr Haddon?’ asked the squire hurriedly.

  ‘An old friend of ours,’ said Amy. ‘Effy hopes to marry him.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Effy. ‘You are the one who ish always making a cake of yourshelf over him. You–’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Effy,’ said Amy. ‘You’re drunk!’

  Effy burst into tears while the squire and his daughter exchanged looks of acute embarrassment. Amy rang the bell and a stern-faced maid answered it. ‘Baxter,’ said Amy, ‘Miss Effy is a trifle overcome. Take her to her room.

  Baxter looked at the punch-bowl and then went and helped the sobbing Effy to her feet.

  There was a long silence after they had left the room. Then Amy said, ‘You must have supper. Did you dine on the road?’

  ‘We had quite a large dinner at four,’ said the squire. He felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but he could hardly abandon Delilah so quickly. He was regretting his decision to turn her over to the Tribbles.

  Amy read that indecision in his face and set herself to please. The Wraxalls were conducted upstairs to wash and change.

  The supper was excellent and Amy encouraged the squire to talk. Delilah had never heard her father chatter on so much to any lady. Usually he was silent and let his daughter make most of the conversation.

  Delilah had sensed earlier that her father was in two minds about leaving her. But by the end of the supper party, she knew he was once more happy with Miss Amy Tribble.

  She felt gauche and ill at ease. In the village, everyone had deferred to her, even Lady Framley and her daughter. But she knew that in Amy’s eyes, she was important only because she was the daughter of a handsome widower. Neither Amy nor Effy had remarked on her beauty, and Delilah, who thought she did not care for perpetual compliments on her appearance, now sorely missed the lack of them.

  She clung to her father as he stood in the hall, taking his leave.

  When he had left, Amy turned Delilah over to Baxter, the lady’s maid, who took her up to her room and prepared her for bed. Delilah was not used to the services of a lady’s maid, a luxury she could easily have afforded but had not considered important, and found it pleasant to have her hair brushed and a glass of hot milk handed to her, and to have all her fog-soiled clothes taken away to be sponged and pressed.

  Delilah awoke next day to the sounds of a furious altercation coming from somewhere belowstairs. Then she heard Amy shout, ‘A pox on you and your humours, Effy. It is your own fault if you cannot hold your drink!’

  What an odd pair, thought Delilah, bewildered. Is this how London society goes on?

  A chambermaid came in and drew the curtains back. ‘Fog’s gone, miss,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely day.’ Sunlight streamed into the room.

  The chambermaid left after lighting the fire and was shortly followed by Baxter, who began to look through the contents of Delilah’s wardrobe. She examined the boning in Delilah’s dresses and shook her head. ‘I’ll need to get that Frenchie dressmaker to look at these, miss,’ said Baxter. ‘No one wears them like this any more. Unnatural the way they push up the breasts so.’

  ‘I had these gowns made for me in London,’ said Delilah.

  ‘Ah, well, you wouldn’t know any better, miss,’ said Baxter. ‘Who made these?’

  ‘Mr Treadwell.’

  ‘No one uses Treadwell any more,’ said Baxter. ‘’Cept dowagers, that is. Better to have a woman design things for you anyway. Men are always behind the times.’

  She selected a gown of blue tabinet and then set about preparing Delilah for the day ahead and arranging her hair in one of the new styles.

  When Baxter considered she was ready, Delilah was conducted down to a morning room where Effy was sitting alone, having breakfast.

  ‘How beautiful you look, child!’ said Effy. ‘Pray be seated and tell Harris what you want.’

  Delilah ordered cold ham, eggs and kidneys, toast and coffee.

  ‘How do you keep your figure?’ sighed Effy. ‘Dry toast is all I allow myself. But then I eat like a bird. I must apologize for my illness last night. I am not strong, you know. Now, if you consider yourself rested, we shall make some calls this afternoon to introduce you to various people.’

  ‘Will not my father be calling?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘He did call, but he has gone out driving with my sister. We shall no doubt see both of them later in the day. Now, let us check
your accomplishments. Do you play the pianoforte?’

  ‘Yes, but not very well.’

  To Delilah’s surprise, Effy drew out a small note-book and pencil and wrote ‘music teacher’ in it.

  ‘Italian and French?’ asked Effy.

  ‘A very little,’ said Delilah.

  ‘Dear, dear, dear. Italian and French tutors,’ said Effy, writing busily. ‘Needlework?’

  ‘I embroider well.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ said Effy. ‘Water-colours?’

  ‘I am accounted very good.’

  ‘Singing?’

  ‘Fair.’

  Effy’s pencil hovered over the paper of the note-book. ‘Perhaps not,’ she murmured. ‘Unnecessary expense. Dancing?’

  ‘Yes, I dance,’ said Delilah.

  ‘Waltz?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quadrille?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dancing master,’ said Effy, writing it down. ‘Would you mind walking up and down the room for me, Miss Wraxall?’

  Torn between amusement and exasperation, Delilah pushed away her plate, got up and walked slowly up and down.

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Effy. ‘But bridle. You must bridle. You tuck your chin in and look down your nose . . . so.’

  Delilah burst out laughing. ‘That looks silly.’

  ‘There is a great deal in London society which looks silly,’ said Effy repressively, ‘but one must strive to please. Harris,’ she said to the butler, ‘we shall need a dancing master, music teacher and French and Italian tutors. Deportment can be taught by ourselves.’

  ‘It is very kind of you, Miss Effy,’ said Delilah, ‘but why are you going to such an effort to school me? I am only here for a short time and then I shall return to the country.’

  Effy remembered in time that they were supposed to be old friends of the squire. ‘It is always important to be good ton,’ she said.

  ‘On whom are we to call?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘I think we shall call on the Marchioness of Raby. She is very comme it faut. You must study her manners and aim to copy them. Harris, bring me the card rack from the drawing room.’ She waited until the butler returned and placed a little rack containing a great many gilt-edged invitations and began to look through them.

  ‘Now, here, next week is a ball and quite a grand one, too,’ said Effy thoughtfully. ‘Lady Burgoyne. I said we should not attend, but I am sure she will understand if we explain you are newly arrived from the country and we wish to puff you off and plan to come after all. And, let me see, there is a musicale on Wednesday . . . perhaps . . . and a turtle dinner. Yes, we shall go on very well. Harris, send for Ma’m’selle Yvette.’

  Delilah sat feeling bewildered. Perhaps it was the London fashion to school young guests. The French dressmaker came in and Effy instructed her to look over Delilah’s wardrobe and alter anything that needed altering. ‘In fact,’ said Effy, ‘take her with you and pin her.’

  ‘May I finish my breakfast first?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘Yes, of course, child. But not too much heavy food. You will have spots all over your face in no time at all.’

  The Marchioness of Raby lived in a pretty town house in Bolton Street. She was small and dumpy with a round head and a very large mouth. She had tried to reduce the size of her mouth by painting a small pair of lips in the centre of her own. This, combined with the amount of white lead she wore on the rest of her face, contrived to give her the appearance of a clown. She welcomed Effy with great enthusiasm and offered Delilah only the curtest of nods and two fingers to shake.

  She then drew Effy down beside her on the sofa and began to chatter, leaving Delilah completely ignored. Then a Mrs Busby and her married daughter, Mrs Tomlinson, were announced. Mrs Busby, like the marchioness and Miss Effy, looked to have reached her half-century, but she was dressed in damped muslin which revealed she was wearing the latest in corsets, called The Divorce, because it was the first piece of corsetry ever invented that separated the breasts, rather than presenting them as one solid front.

  Mrs Tomlinson was heavily pregnant and made no attempt to hide that fact. Delilah saw that these newcomers were about to ignore her as well and was determined to enter the conversation. She smiled at Mrs Tomlinson and said, ‘When is your baby expected?’

  There was a shocked hush. The marchioness turned red with embarrassment under her paint, and then Effy, throwing a warning glance at Delilah, said, ‘The weather is beautiful now, is it not? But such fog yesterday. Filthy stuff. All the curtains will need to be taken down and washed.’

  All the ladies, except Delilah, began to talk about the fog. Delilah felt miserable. She knew she had made a dreadful social gaffe in mentioning Mrs Tomlinson’s pregnancy.

  ‘Lord Andrew Bergrave,’ announced the marchioness’s butler. The gentleman who entered the room was not precisely handsome. But he was well-tailored, slim, and had a clever face and a pair of merry brown eyes. Those eyes lit on Delilah and he promptly demanded an introduction.

  He pulled a chair up next to Delilah’s and said, ‘Now you must just have arrived in Town, Miss Wraxall, otherwise I would have heard all talk of your beauty.’

  Effy, watching closely, noticed the caressing smile Delilah gave him and how she prettily raised her fan to her face as if to cover her confusion.

  ‘You tease me, my lord,’ said Delilah. ‘There must be a great number of very beautiful ladies in London.’

  ‘None as beautiful as you, I swear,’ said Lord Andrew. ‘Do you plan to stay in Town for long?’

  ‘I do not know, my lord,’ said Delilah. ‘I am staying with Miss Effy and Miss Amy Tribble.’

  A slight look of shock registered in Lord Andrew’s eyes. ‘They are old friends of my father,’ added Delilah.

  ‘Well, of course they are,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘Someone as perfect as you could hardly—’

  He broke off and said instead, ‘You must allow me to take you driving in the Park, Miss Wraxall.’

  ‘I should like that above all things,’ said Delilah, giving him a blinding smile.

  ‘And how is your mother, Lord Andrew?’ interrupted the marchioness.

  ‘Very well, ma’am. She sends her regards.’

  ‘The duchess must be relieved to have you back from the wars safe and sound. I remember staying with her on a visit when you were a very young man, Lord Andrew. But you had a superb pair of legs even then.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ said Lord Andrew.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the marchioness. ‘I, too, have still a good leg. What are your legs like, Miss Effy?’

  ‘Fair, I think,’ said Effy.

  ‘Let us all show our legs!’ cried the marchioness.

  She hitched up her skirts, revealing thick legs like posts and a pair of scarlet garters. Miss Effy had quite a shapely pair, Mrs Busby had a powerful pair of muscular ones, and Mrs Tomlinson had varicose veins.

  ‘Am I not to have the delight of seeing yours, Miss Wraxall?’ asked Lord Andrew.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Delilah. She was deeply shocked.

  Effy then announced she was taking her leave. Lord Andrew whispered to Delilah that he would call as soon as possible.

  As soon as they were seated in the carriage, Delilah burst out, ‘What odd behaviour! What peculiar standards! I ask that Mrs Tomlinson about her baby and everyone looks as shocked as if I had mouthed an obscenity. And yet they all start to show their legs, exactly like a group of demi-reps.’

  ‘There are some things you must not do or say,’ said Effy. ‘You must never mention that a lady is with child. It is different in the country, where you have people and farm animals breeding in such an undisciplined way. But here in Town, it is considered vulgar to remark on a lady’s condition. The marchioness is very good ton and therefore can be allowed a few eccentricities like showing her legs. You, Miss Wraxall, on the other hand, must behave with modesty at all times. Now, I noticed you flirting with Lord Andrew. You
must be careful not to appear too forward. You may have given him a disgust of you.’

  Delilah tossed her head. ‘He is to call to ask your permission to take me driving.’

  ‘Be warned,’ said Effy severely. ‘There are a great many rakey-hell gentlemen in London who think that when a lady flirts too openly, it means her morals are not of the purest.’

  ‘At least I do not go around showing my legs,’ said Delilah huffily.

  ‘Now we make a few more calls,’ said Effy, and Delilah just stopped herself from groaning aloud.

  There were to be no more eligible men that day. Delilah met only elderly gentlemen and various ladies, all of whom went on as if she were not in the room.

  She thought she heard one lady, after looking at her in surprise, whisper, ‘Another of the Tribbles’ difficult ones. I wonder what is up with her.’ But the whisper was so faint, she thought she must have misheard it.

  When they returned to Holles Street, it was to find the squire and Amy sharing the tea tray in high good humour. Delilah took her father aside. ‘Take me with you when you leave, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘I do not think I like London.’

  ‘Give it a chance,’ said her father. ‘I shall call again in a month’s time, and if you are still of the same mind, then I shall take you away.’ And with that, Delilah had to be content.

  Sir Charles Digby arrived in town a few days later. Lord Andrew was just about to leave to go out for the day. ‘Charles!’ he cried. ‘Are you come to stay?’

  ‘If you’ll have me.’

  ‘For as long as you want. You must excuse me. I am off to drive an angel around the Park, but I shall be back very soon.’

  ‘What angel is that?’

  ‘I am not telling you,’ said Lord Andrew. ‘She is but lately come to Town and I mean to keep her to myself for as long as possible.’

  Sir Charles oversaw the unpacking of his trunks, changed, and decided to go out and walk to White’s in St James’s and renew his membership of that famous club. The sun was shining and everything looked fresh and glittering. The striped blinds were still down in front of the house windows and buff canopies protected the goods in the shop windows from the sun’s glare. The ladies were in their prettiest muslins and the men were even better-tailored than he had remembered.