Refining Felicity Read Free

All except the Tribbles. Amy and Effy Tribble could always be counted on to look delighted when he asked one of them to dance. In his innocence and still wrapped in fond memories of his youth, Mr Haddon did not realize the Tribbles would have been delighted to dance with anyone at all, both the girls being tired of the long evenings spent with the other wallflowers. He remembered them as being safe and friendly. He wondered if they were still alive and still lived in Holles Street. But the brass plate at the door, dating from the last century, before street numbers were invented, said tribble quite clearly. He knocked at the door.
    At first he did not recognize Amy, who answered it. All he saw was a tall, raw-boned woman wearing an ugly cap and with a sacking apron tied over her gown.
    They stared at each other in silence. Amy saw a very tall, thin, slightly stooped man in a plain but expensive coat. His pepper-and-salt hair was combed back and tied in the old-fashioned manner at the nape of his neck with a ribbon.
    ‘Is your mistress at home?’ he asked. He held out his card.
    Amy read the inscription and then blushed. ‘It is I, Mr Haddon. Miss Amy Tribble. No wonder you did not recognize me. It is the servants’ day off. Come in, come in.’
    But I wouldn’t have known
him
, thought Amy. I remember him as he looked all those long years ago. He was kind, as I recall, and of good family, but quite poor.
    She ushered him into the drawing room, where Effy was sitting before the empty fireplace, wrapped in so many shawls that only the tip of her cold-reddened nose peeped out.
    ‘Effy, dear,’ said Amy. ‘This is Mr Benjamin Haddon. You remember? He went to India.’
    Effy shed several shawls and held out a hand for Mr Haddon to kiss. ‘Delighted,’ she murmured. ‘We last met at the Chumleys’ ball, as I recall. I was wearing a white slip with a gold key pattern, very fine, and I had, let me see, three plumes on my head.’
    ‘You have grown more beautiful, Miss Effy,’ he said gallantly, ‘while I have become stooped and quite yellow.’
    ‘How was India?’ asked Amy, wondering whether to go downstairs and decant the last precious bottle of port.
    He smiled. He still has his own teeth, thought Amy, as we have. How very odd. One does not often see people of our years with all their teeth, and yet here are three of us. ‘It was very hot,’ he said. ‘Colourful and violent. I dreamt so often of grey skies and soft rain, I am distressed to find I cannot get my bearings now I am back. That is why I came to see you. You were both kind to me when I was a penniless young man. But how do you go on? Is your father alive?’
    ‘No, Papa has been dead this age.’
    Effy cast a few more shawls and began to fan herself, her blue eyes flirting over the top. Amy thought sourly it was just like Effy to bring out a fan when the room was as cold as a tomb.
    Mr Haddon glanced about him. He noticed that there was very little furniture and no ornaments or knick-knacks whatsoever. There were cleaner squares on the dingy wallpaper showing where pictures had once hung.
    ‘I am become quite rich,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must let me help you.’
    Two pairs of shocked eyes stared at him. Both Tribbles were bound by the iron laws of convention. It was quite
comme il faut
to wait for an elderly relative to drop dead, or to marry someone one did not like in the slightest in order to get money – but accept charity? Never!
    ‘I am afraid we have given you a false impression,’ said Amy. ‘We are shortly to become working women, so you have no need to pity us.’
    ‘What kind of work?’
    Effy produced a folded and much-thumbed copy of
The Morning Post
and pointed silently to an advertisement. He took out his quizzing-glass and read it carefully.
    ‘And have you had any replies?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Amy, throwing Effy a warning look. They had had two replies, but the families who had called were patently put off by the