Enlightening Delilah

by Beaton, M. C.

  Amy leaned out of the window again. ‘Tie your horse on behind,’ she called, ‘and travel inside with us.’

  ‘Madam,’ came Sir Charles’s voice, ‘I can assure you it is much warmer out here.’

  ‘Which means he is still in a huff,’ said Amy, slamming up the window. ‘Are you quite sure you cannot bear the idea of him, Delilah?’

  ‘We have been through all that before,’ said Delilah, barricading herself behind her book.

  The coach creaked forward, becoming slower and slower.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ said Effy, wiping the glass with her sleeve.

  ‘Then take those dark glasses off,’ snapped Amy. ‘You look like a guy.’

  ‘I’ve heard there are highwaymen in these parts, mum,’ said Baxter with a shiver.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by lights and noise. Amy seized the window-strap and lowered the window. They had rolled into the courtyard of an inn.

  ‘Praise be to God,’ said Baxter fervently.

  The ladder was let down and the ladies alighted from the coach. Sir Charles had dismounted and was shouting orders to the ostlers.

  ‘Go into the inn,’ he called. ‘I shall join you directly.’

  They made their way into an old-fashioned hall where the carcasses of game and legs of mutton hung from the ceiling.

  Soon Sir Charles joined them and summoned the landlord. They all went up to their rooms, agreeing to meet in the dining hall as soon as they had washed and changed.

  When they entered the dining hall half an hour later, it was to find they were not the only stranded passengers. The long tables were full of people.

  It was a silent meal. Sir Charles was stiff and formal and icily polite and Delilah picked at her food and seemed on the point of tears. Well, what did she expect? thought Amy desperately. Doesn’t she realize she’s jilted the man?

  Then Amy’s gaze softened as she looked at Delilah. Delilah had all the beauty that Amy herself had always longed to have. This stubborn pair, Sir Charles and Delilah, Amy thought, would probably go off and marry other people and be totally miserable. Amy drew the other guests at the table into conversation, but most of them were young men who seemed dazzled with Delilah, which made Sir Charles frostier than ever.

  At last the meal was over and they could retire to their rooms. But it was still snowing hard and there seemed little hope they could set out in the morning.

  Effy was sharing a bedchamber with Delilah, and Baxter had a truckle-bed set up in the corner of Amy’s room.

  Despite her misery, Delilah was amused by Effy’s preparations for bed. Effy carefully wound her silver hair into curl papers, then she slapped her face vigorously with cream before tying a chin-strap tightly about her head.

  ‘Do you mind if I read for a little?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘If you must,’ said Effy huffily. ‘I shall put on my dark glasses to protect my eyes from the light.’

  Delilah settled back against the pillows, opened a romance, and began to read.

  It was a Gothic romance in which an Italian countess was locked in a haunted room in an old castle in Tuscany. In the book, Delilah had just reached the bit where the heroine was trying to persuade herself that the ghost of the murdered princess did not exist when a loud and eerie wail came from behind the tapestry. The description was so vivid that Delilah thought she had actually heard that sinister cry. ‘Get thee to Hell, or get thee to Heaven, but do not plague me, restless spirit,’ cried the heroine. Another eerie wail.

  Delilah put down her book and frowned. That wail had not been her imagination. Then, from next door, she heard Baxter cry out.

  Delilah climbed out of bed and pulled on a wrapper and went next door.

  ‘It’s Miss Amy!’ cried Baxter. ‘She do be mortal sick.’

  Delilah nervously approached the bed. Amy stared at her with feverish, dilated eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she said faintly.

  ‘It is I, Delilah.’ Delilah sat down by the bed and took Amy’s large hand in her own. She looked up at Baxter. ‘You must fetch Sir Charles and tell him to find a physician. And get Miss Effy.’

  Soon Sir Charles and Effy were standing by the bed.

  Effy began to cry, wringing her hands, and moaning, ‘Oh, my poor sister.’

  ‘I shall go and search for a physician,’ said Sir Charles quietly.

  Amy appeared to fall into a restless sleep. Effy, Baxter and Delilah sat by the fire, waiting and worrying. After an hour, Sir Charles entered the room with a small, elderly man.

  ‘Mr Mackay will take a look at Miss Amy,’ he said. ‘I suggest we all wait outside.’

  They stood out in the corridor. Effy was leaning against Baxter for support, her lips moving in prayer. They waited and waited for what seemed like a very long time. Then the doctor came out, shaking his head.

  ‘Miss Tribble has caught a deathly chill,’ he said. ‘I have attended many such cases in this town and they all died.’

  Effy let out a cry and fainted dead away.

  ‘Carry her to her bed,’ said Delilah to Baxter. ‘I shall sit up with Miss Amy. Tell me, Doctor, is there anything I can do?’

  The doctor shook his head mournfully. ‘Very little now,’ he said. ‘I have bled her. Bathe her temples with cologne and keep the fire made up. She may surprise you by being very hungry. They are like that in the final stages. Give her any food she wants. I shall call again in the morning.’

  Delilah’s voice trembled. ‘Is there no hope?’

  ‘You can pray,’ said the doctor, making his way to the stairs.

  Delilah slowly entered the room. Sir Charles followed her.

  Amy, with a face like clay, lay against the pillows. She was snoring horribly and her nightcap was tipped over one eye. Delilah gently straightened it and sat down by the bed. Sir Charles built up the fire and carried a chair over to sit with Delilah.

  ‘She must live,’ whispered Delilah. ‘She is always so strong, so well. I had come to love her.’

  ‘There is always hope,’ said Sir Charles gently. He smiled ruefully at Delilah. ‘You are having a miserable time.’

  ‘None of that matters,’ said Delilah fiercely. ‘If only she would recover.’

  ‘We will stay here and nurse her until she does,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Are you sure my father is well?’ whispered Delilah. ‘Somehow, Miss Amy’s illness has made me fear for him.’

  ‘Mr Wraxall will probably be restored to health by the time you return,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Let us call a truce, Delilah. We are not to be married, but we can be comfortable together while we care for Miss Amy.’

  His voice was gentle and kind and his smile sweet. Delilah felt all those old treacherous stirrings in her body that she had almost forgotten.

  ‘Very well,’ she said in a stifled voice. ‘Truce it is.’

  ‘My hand on it.’ Delilah took his hand and then dropped it abruptly as if she had been burned. She muttered an excuse and went to her own room to change into a warm gown. Baxter was holding Effy, who had fallen asleep. Delilah returned to Sir Charles. They sat quietly together, taking comfort from each other’s presence as the hours slowly passed.

  ‘While Miss Amy sleeps, I may as well give you the gossip of Hoppleton,’ said Sir Charles. He began to talk softly while Delilah listened and watched his face in the firelight. ‘And you will not think me too bad a fellow,’ he ended, ‘when I tell you that one of my scullery maids was with child and I managed to find a husband for her before I left.’

  ‘You found a husband for her? How?’

  ‘One of the farm labourers was only too happy to wed her in return for a cottage and some money.’

  ‘Could you not find the real father?’

  ‘No. He was a travelling chapman.’

  ‘But does the girl like this labourer she is being constrained to marry?’ asked Delilah.

  ‘That does not enter into it,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Yes, she is delighted not to be turned out into the street.’ �
�But why should she be turned out into the street for something that was not really her fault?’

  ‘I cannot persuade myself the girl was entirely blameless,’ said Sir Charles dryly.

  ‘No, of course you can’t,’ said Delilah. ‘You must always blame the woman, must you not? I—’

  Amy groaned and shifted in the bed. Then she sat bolt upright and stared at the bedpost. ‘Oh, bright angel,’ she cried. ‘You are come to take me home!’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Delilah, pressing her back against the pillows. ‘There is no angel there. Oh, Charles, help me. I cannot bear this.’

  He put a hand on Amy’s brow and said in a deep, quiet voice, ‘You must rest and grow strong, Miss Amy.’

  Amy appeared to lose consciousness. But her breath was rapid and shallow.

  Sir Charles sighed. ‘You had best fetch Miss Effy, Delilah.’

  Soon they were all clustered about the bed. A red dawn crept into the room. Amy tossed and muttered and then said feebly, ‘Effy, are you there?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sister dear,’ whispered Effy. ‘Don’t leave me, Amy. Please don’t leave me.’

  Amy’s eyes opened. ‘I am going to a far country where there is no pain, no suffering,’ she said in a hollow voice. Tears were streaming down Delilah’s cheeks. Sir Charles gathered her in his arms and she leaned her head against his chest. Baxter fell to her knees at the foot of the bed and began to pray.

  ‘My last dying wish,’ said Amy faintly, ‘is that Sir Charles and Delilah will marry.’

  ‘Please tell her you will,’ cried Effy.

  Sir Charles looked down into Delilah’s eyes. ‘We are a pair of fools, are we not? I love you with all my heart and soul, Delilah Wraxall. Will you marry me?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Delilah. ‘I love you, too, Charles.’

  Amy sat up straight and raised her hands to heaven. ‘My blessing on you both,’ she said. ‘Now I can go to my grave with a clear conscience.’

  Effy flung herself across her sister’s body. ‘I shall be all alone,’ she sobbed. ‘There is no one but you, Amy. I cannot live without you.’

  Sir Charles raised Baxter to her feet. ‘Go to Miss Effy and comfort her,’ he said. Amy had slumped back against the pillows. Sir Charles tenderly smoothed Amy’s hair back from her brow. There was a great lump in his throat. Overcome with emotion, he went and stood by the window and stared miserably down into the snow-covered whiteness of the inn yard.

  He raised his hand and leaned it against the glass. Delilah came to stand beside him and he took his hand away from the cold window pane and put it at her waist. ‘Do not worry, Delilah,’ he said. ‘The end cannot be far now. I shall go and find the physician and see if he can give me some drug to alleviate her pain.’

  Delilah leaned against him, weeping softly.

  Sir Charles looked bleakly at the window and then saw that his hand had left a white imprint on the glass. He drew his hand gently from Delilah’s waist and looked at it. It was smeared with white. Then he looked at Amy’s clay-coloured face.

  ‘Delilah,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Stay here. I am going to find that physician.’

  Mr Mackay was tucking into a breakfast of York ham, cold pheasant, game pie, lamb chops, devilled kidneys and curried eggs, all washed down with old ale, when Sir Charles strode into his parlour.

  ‘My dear Sir Charles,’ said the physician. ‘I am just having a light repast before calling on Miss Tribble. Has she survived the night?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles, sitting down at the table, ‘and like to survive a good many more. How much did she pay you?’

  ‘I do not know what you mean. Miss Amy Tribble is at death’s door.’

  ‘If Miss Amy Tribble is going to die of anything, it might be from lead poisoning,’ said Sir Charles. ‘She must have about one inch of blanc on her face.’

  ‘Indeed!’ The physician shook his head. ‘Ah, the ladies. Exhausted after the journey and already ill, she must have forgot to remove her cosmetic.’

  ‘I do not know what she paid you,’ said Sir Charles evenly, ‘but I will pay double for the truth.’

  Mr Mackay, a little Scotchman with sandy hair and bristling eyebrows, looked thoughtfully at his plate and then speared a kidney and popped it into his mouth. Then he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, ‘Five guineas.’

  ‘Then I shall give you ten,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You will make me up the nastiest concoction you can think of. I shall tell Miss Amy it is a new miracle medicine. Do you understand me?’

  Mr Mackay grinned. ‘I understand you very well.’

  ‘Then finish your breakfast, make up a bottle of something, and come to the inn with me.’

  When Sir Charles entered the bedchamber and saw how white and wretched Delilah looked, he nearly seized Miss Amy Tribble by the neck and dragged her from the bed.

  But if Delilah knew she had been tricked, then Delilah might change her mind again.

  So instead, he said, ‘Do not cry. I bring hope; Mr Mackay has been working all night on a recipe. He is sure it will cure Miss Amy. Come, Mr Mackay. Miss Amy is too weak to sit up. Place a funnel in her mouth and I will pour it into her.’

  Amy had not heard what he said. She only felt something being placed between her lips.

  Sir Charles tipped the whole bottle of evil-smelling and foul-tasting stuff down Amy’s throat.

  Amy Tribble tore the funnel out of her mouth. ‘How dare you pour that horse’s piss down my throat?’ she raged. ‘Odd’s whoresons. Have you no thought for a dying woman?’

  ‘It is a miracle,’ said Sir Charles. He seized a damp face-cloth from the toilet table and scrubbed Amy’s face hard. ‘Only see how her colour has returned!’

  Amy darted one sharp intelligent look at him and closed her eyes. ‘I feel sick,’ she said weakly.

  ‘I think we should leave her to sleep now,’ said Sir Charles quietly. ‘Dry your tears, ladies, and join me for a hearty breakfast. Mr Mackay has decided that the best treatment following his wonderful medicine is fasting. A day completely without food will soon put Miss Tribble on her feet again.’

  Delilah and Effy begged to stay with Amy, but Sir Charles ushered them out of the room, saying if they wished to help their patient, then they must keep their spirits up with a good breakfast.

  Delilah prayed for Amy’s recovery, Amy who had been instrumental in bringing her such happiness. She could not believe that she had ever wanted to be free of Sir Charles. The man was all heart! Only look how lively and amused he seemed now that the danger to Amy’s life appeared to be over.

  It was three days before they could set out on the road again. Effy and Baxter and Delilah could talk of nothing but Mr Mackay’s miracle cure. Amy smiled and agreed the man must be a genius, she had never felt so well in her life.

  The merry party finally arrived at the squire’s to find that gentleman up and about. Amy was cast down by Mrs Cavendish’s very ordinary appearance. Surely it would have been better if the squire had ignored her for some beauty!

  Effy was still shaken by the experiences of the road and pleased to find the squire’s mansion elegant and comfortable and Mrs Cavendish prepared to minister to her every need. The Tribbles agreed to stay for the wedding. Both were enjoying the novelty of being mothered and looked after, and even Amy finally gruffly allowed that the squire was lucky and that Mrs Cavendish was a Trojan.

  The weather had turned frosty and fine and Sir Charles was a constant visitor.

  And then one week before the weddings, Mrs Cavendish invited the ladies of the village to one of her readings. New novels were hard to come by and when one arrived, it was considered the duty of the lucky lady to read it aloud to the others.

  The ladies of Hoppleton crowded into the squire’s comfortable drawing room and settled down with their work-baskets as Mrs Cavendish began to read in her pleasant, mellow voice.

  Delilah had been dreaming of her wedding when suddenly she realized that there was something dreadfully familia
r about the lines which Mrs Cavendish had just begun to read as Sir Charles walked into the room.

  The old marchioness was lying in her bed, near death. Suddenly, she straightened up and stared at the end of the bed. ‘Oh, bright angel,’ she cried. ‘You are come to take me home. I am going to a far country where there is no pain, no suffering.’ Elizabeth began to cry and Count Florinda seized her hand. The dying marchioness suddenly looked at them. ‘Grant my last dying wish,’ she said. ‘Say you will marry each other.’

  Delilah rose and left the room and Sir Charles followed her. She waited until they were both out in the garden and said, ‘She couldn’t . . . she didn’t . . .’

  Sir Charles put his arms about her waist and held her close. ‘Would it make any difference now to know that she did trick us?’

  ‘No,’ said Delilah. Then she began to laugh. ‘Was there ever anyone in the whole world like Amy Tribble?’

  He began to kiss her so fiercely that neither of them heard the monstrous crash of china as, indoors, the enraged Effy picked up the tea tray and threw it straight at her sister’s head.

  * * *

  Three weeks later, the Tribble sisters made their way back to London. Effy was still barely speaking to Amy. Amy was wrapped up in her own worries and did not notice. During their stay at the squire’s, they had been mothered by Mrs Cavendish, fed enormous meals, and gone for sedate walks. Even Effy had become almost reconciled to life in the country.

  But London was soon to swallow them up – black and dangerous, hard and cruel London. The squire had given them a bonus and, generous as it was, the sisters knew it would need to last them a long time. Soon now, they would need to pay off their servants one by one. The Season would come and the Season would go and no one would want their services. And they would have all the responsibility and cost of caring for Yvette’s baby.

  Mr Haddon is rich, thought Amy crossly. By George, I don’t think I would give a tart’s curse if he did marry Effy. At least we would be set for life.

  A greasy drizzle was falling when they alighted at Holles Street. As she made her way up to the drawing room, Amy was glancing this way and that, making a mental record of what they could sell.