Animating Maria (16 page)

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.’