by M C Beaton
Lady Ann had been particularly sugary. Lady Fanny had been on the point of refusing the invitation to the ball but the stupendous news that none other than Lord David Manley was to be present had forced her to change her mind. The Maguire girls were looking enchanting and Lady Fanny knew where her duty lay. If only Molly would curb her sense of humor and if only Mary would learn to keep her mouth shut, then they might be married before the summer ended. Mary had quickly adopted the English accent and manners of the aristocracy but the context of her conversation was still pure Brooklynese.
Roddy gloomily retired from the Maguires’ crowd of admirers. “I only managed to get two dances,” he said to Lord David. “All these other damned chappies are scribbling away in the girls’ dance cards. How did you get on?”
“Not any better than you,” said Lord David. “Don’t worry. I have a plan. Before the next dance starts, plunge in there, laddie, and ask to see their dance cards. Tease, you know. Say you can’t believe they’re fully booked. Make a note in that brain of yours of the names of the chappies who have them signed up for the supper dance. Then we’ll take it from there.”
The marquess plunged back into the crowd of admirers. He started chatting and laughing. Lord David noticed that Mary looked at the marquess with glowing eyes and that Molly was even smiling at him with open friendliness. The young Americans had not yet learned to school their expressions.
Vincent and His Melody Makers struck up once again and Lord David was joined by Roddy. “Cuthbert Postlethwaite has got yours,” he said, “and Alfred Bingham has mine.”
“Oh, good,” said Lord David matter-of-factly. “I hate Postlethwaite. I’ll go and get rid of him directly.”
“Hey, what about me?” cried Roddy. “I like old Bingham.”
“Appeal to his better nature,” laughed Lord David, striding off.
Refreshments were being served under various marquees on the lawns. Beneath one, draped inside in great swathes of pink silk, only champagne was being served, and it was into this one that Lord David saw Cuthbert Postlethwaite’s broad back disappearing.
Cuthbert had his large face in a silver tankard. Lord David slapped him heartily on the back and said cheerfully, “And how are you, you silly little man?”
“Quite well, you old turd,” said Cuthbert amiably. Ladies were not present.
“Last time I saw you was at Cannes,” said Lord David, staring at Cuthbert’s frilled shirt. “That gigolo at the hotel must have been a damned decent chap.”
“Why?”
“I see he gave you his shirt,” said Lord David, helping himself to champagne.
Cuthbert’s broad face became puce. “If your lungs weren’t rotting in your chest, you’d answer for that,” he said wrathfully.
“I got the all clear from the hospital. Everyone knows that,” said Lord David. “Of course, a lot of chaps pretend not to know it. You know the sort. Frightened they’ll get hurt.”
Cuthbert was smaller in height than Lord David but he was powerfully built. He put down his tankard and stared at his lordship in blank amazement.
“Are you calling me a c-coward?” he stammered.
“Y-yes,” mimicked Lord David. “I am calling you a c-coward.”
“Outside,” said Cuthbert. “I’ve wanted to smash your face in for years and now I’m going to do it.”
They marched outside the tent and into the shrubbery while the band played on.
Molly swayed elegantly in the arms of her partner and assured herself that she was glad that that horrible Lord David had chosen to disappear. Perhaps he would stay away and not turn up to claim his two dances after supper. She was conscious of a faint sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She put it down to worrying about her sister. Mary was floating in Roddy’s arms, looking like a child at Christmas. Molly distrusted Roddy. First, of course, because of his friendship with Lord David. Secondly, because he seemed somehow insincere. It was rather like watching someone flirting in a play, Molly decided.
She whirled to a stop and gave her partner an abstracted smile and refused his offer of refreshment. She wandered over in the direction of the chaperons, meaning to have a word with Lady Fanny. Then she saw a young girl sitting forlornly on her own beside a pillar. She was dressed in a very dashing Paris gown that was much too old for her and much too daring for her obviously retiring manner. She had a very young, freckled face that bore the traces of tears. Molly’s warm heart was touched. She plumped herself down beside the girl, ignoring the fact that her next partner would be searching for her, and asked, sympathetically, “Are you all right?”
”Yes, thank you,” said the girl in a faint voice.
“I guess we haven’t been introduced, and you British set such store by introductions so I’ll introduce myself. I’m Molly Maguire, and the one out on the floor that looks like me is my sister, Mary.”
“I know who you are,” said the girl in a low voice. “He’s done nothing but look at you all evening.”
“He? Who?” asked Molly somewhat incoherently.
“Lord David.”
“That bully,” scoffed Molly. “Oh, here, for land sakes don’t start crying again. Tell me all about it. Start by telling me your name. Come on. I’m not going to eat you.”
“My name is Jennifer Strange,” said the girl, speaking in such a low whisper that Molly had to bend to hear. “I have been sent down here to stay with my Aunt Matilda, only because Lord David is here. My—my mother is very ambitious and—and—persuaded my aunt that there was a good chance of me marrying Lord David so they bought me a dashing new wardrobe and—and—sent me here—and—and he won’t even l-look at me.”
“But your mother can’t force you to marry just anyone,” exclaimed Molly.
“N-no one is f-forcing me,” said Jennifer, hiccuping. “I love him. He’s s-so strong and masterful.”
At first Molly thought this a bit theatrical but then she put it down to the British attitude.
“Well, you won’t attract his attention sitting behind this pillar,” Molly couldn’t help pointing out.
“H-he won’t even see me with you and your sister around. And—and—my aunt’s so furious, I’m hiding from her.”
Another bully! Another dragon to fight. Molly’s blue eyes gleamed. “You just relax,” she said, laying a comforting hand on the girl’s knee. “Leave everything to Molly.”
Jennifer raised adoring eyes to this new, strong personality in her life. Molly smiled down at her. She was really very engaging. Rather like a small Pekingese. Resisting an impulse to pat her on the head, Molly returned to the floor just as the supper dance was being announced and found herself looking up into the tanned and somewhat battered features of Lord David.
She forgot her dislike of him as she stared at his face. “You look as if you have been in a prize fight,” she exclaimed as he led her unresistingly into the steps of the waltz. And then, “Say, isn’t this someone else’s dance?” She tried to tug her hand free to look at her dance card but he kept her hand in a strong clasp.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he murmured.
“It was Cuthbert’s dance, but he… er… met with an accident in the grounds and had to go home.”
“Ran into a fist, by the look of things,” said Miss Maguire with an irritating lack of femininity.
Lord David decided to ignore the remark. Instead he smiled down into her eyes and tightened his grip around her slim waist. “You know you really are a most beautiful girl,” he said.
Molly felt that something odd was happening to her breath. It must be because he was holding her so tightly. She also felt as if she had just been filleted. Her body seemed to be boneless as it automatically followed his every movement. They danced in silence, but Molly felt that this disturbing man was making love to her without opening his mouth. She was glad when the dance finally ended and they walked out into the garden toward the marquee that held the supper tables.
“And how do you find Engla
nd?” asked Lord David, when they were finally seated.
“I only know this part,” said Molly. “Well, it’s quaint and kinda pretty. Everything’s so small. Small cottages, small fields, and then after you stay for a bit it seems to get bigger and bigger.”
“You must be expanding the horizons of your mind,” teased Lord David, helping her to lobster patties. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t gulp your champagne like that. It isn’t lemonade. You’re too young to know what strange things too much alcohol can make respectable people do!”
Molly suddenly thought of Lady Fanny as she had appeared at the prize-giving under the influence of Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew and blushed.
“Oh, so you do know,” teased Lord David, appreciatively eyeing the blush. “Now, I wonder why.”
Molly racked her brains for some way to change the subject and then remembered poor Jennifer.
“Do you ever dance with wallflowers?” she asked abruptly. His slanting brows almost vanished into his black hair.
“Do I what?”
“You heard me. Do you dance with wallflowers?”
“No, I don’t, you strange girl,” he said. “And if I did,” he added with simple arrogance, “then that girl would not be a wallflower much longer.”
“Why?”
“Because I set the fashion.”
“Oh!” said Molly, looking at him thoughtfully. “Say, do you feel like doing me a favor?”
“Anything,” he replied.
“Then, lemme see,” said Molly, looking in her dance card.
“Your English accent is slipping,” he murmured.
Molly chose to ignore his remark. “I have promised you two dances in the second half of the gig. Okay?”
“Okay,” repeated his lordship politely.
“Well, see here,” said Molly, putting her gloved elbows on the table and leaning toward him. “There’s this little girl called Jennifer Strange and her auntie’s the bullying sort. Furious with her because no one’s dancing with her. So why don’t you. I mean, dance with her instead of me. Get it?”
“I would much rather dance with you,” said his lordship, feeling somewhat piqued. Never in his well-bred life had any woman suggested that he should spend his time with anyone else.
He leaned back in his chair and drew patterns on the damask tablecloth with his knife. Molly watched his tanned face above his shirt-front. His face was unreadable.
“You must do me one favor in return,” he said at last.
“Surely,” cried Molly.
“You must promise to drive out with me tomorrow.”
Molly bit her lip. She did not really want to be alone with this disturbing man.
“I-I can’t,” she said. “Lady Fanny says I am not to go out with a man, unchaperoned.”
“She’ll let you go with me,” he said confidently. “After I’ve had a little talk with her.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Quite.”
“Oh, okay,” said Molly while he watched her dismal face with wry amusement.
“Cheer up, dear girl,” said Lord David. “It’s not a visit to the dentist, you know. Now lead me to your wallflower.”
Molly had at least the pleasure of watching Jennifer’s face light up as Lord David bowed to her. She found a chance to speak to Jennifer before the ball ended. “There you are,” said Molly. “He noticed you after all.”
“No thanks to you,” said Jennifer triumphantly, looking at Molly out of the corners of her eyes. “I did it all myself.”
Molly felt all the rage one usually feels when a doormat type of person gets uppity. Harsh and bitter words rose to her lips. Several choice phrases nearly escaped her. She resolutely choked them all back, except one. “Well,” said Molly Maguire, “you can’t win ’em all,” and walked off primly on her little French heels and left Jennifer to stare after her in surprise.
CHAPTER SIX
Roddy, Marquess of Leamouth, awoke with a groan. Someone was roughly shaking him by the shoulder. What uncouth servants Lord David must have.
“Leave the tea on the table and get out,” he moaned without opening his eyes.
“Wake up, you ass!” snapped the well-remembered tones of his host. “How can I plan a campaign with you lying there, snoring your head off?”
Roddy reluctantly opened his eyes. “What’s the time?”
“Eight in the morning.”
“Eight in the—I say it’s a bit much,” said Roddy, propping himself up against the pillows. “What do you mean by waking me at dawn?”
“Are you awake now?” demanded David. “Then listen. I blackmail the Maguire girl into driving out with me today and I go to ask Lady Fanny’s permission because I don’t want a chaperon. All is set. She smiles on me. Later she strides over to me as if she’s on the parade ground, fluttering like an effeminate sergeant major, if there is such a thing, and informs me that you are hell-bent on joining the expedition and are escorting Mary. How am I to murmur sweet nothings into her shell-like ear with you listening to every word?”
“I won’t be listening to every word,” Roddy pointed out, “for the simple reason that I hope to be muttering some sweet nothings into a shell-like ear myself. It’ll set the atmosphere for you, old man.”
“You may have something there,” said Lord David thoughtfully. “But I must confess to feeling a little nervous. She’s one of those strong, clear-eyed sort of girls who doesn’t seem to have any weaknesses. Do you think Miss Molly Maguire has a weakness?”
Fully awake now, the marquess bent his mind to the problem. “I’ve got an aunt who’s as tough as old boots but she loves romances. You know, sort of drivel women read. Find out what Miss Molly reads. Is there a library here?”
“Only one is in the post office. We’ll go down there this morning and ask Mrs. Pomfret what Miss Molly reads. Then we’ll bone up on it and find what sets her hormones dancing.”
Lord David had expected to have to approach the question of what Miss Maguire read in a roundabout sort of way but the postmistress was only too anxious to talk at length about her heroine. “She’s so brave and so beautiful,” said the elderly postmistress, clasping her hands to her thin bosom. “Just like someone in a book.”
“What books does Miss Maguire like to read?” asked Lord David.
“Miss Maguire has just finished this one,” said Mrs. Pomfret, picking a book from one of the shelves. “She told me she thought it was wonderful.” In her innocence Mrs. Pomfret did not realize that Molly had said the book was wonderful simply because Mrs. Pomfret had obviously thought so herself.
Lord David and the marquess gloomily surveyed the book. It was entitled The Highland Heart and showed a red-haired girl in a droopy sort of tea gown sawing away at a violin, against a background of hills and heather. A brooding sort of cove in a kilt was standing down left, staring at this girl with a sort of “Awakened Conscience” expression, all the while clutching an extremely chic blonde in his arms.
“May I take it?” said Lord David. He was obscurely disappointed in Molly.
“Oh, my lord, of course,” breathed Mrs. Pomfret, scenting a romance.
Lord David and the marquess walked in silence down to the little harbor of Hadsea. It was a beautiful morning with a fresh breeze scudding across the bay.
“Here, you have a look at it first,” said Lord David, handing Roddy the book. “I only need to know the passionate bits. Spare me the rest.”
“Right-ho!” said Roddy and bent his fair head over the pages of The Highland Heart.
He read and skimmed and read and skimmed and then read and read. “Stop it,” said Lord David. “You’re not supposed to be enjoying it.”
“But it’s great stuff,” protested his friend. “Oh, well, I’ll give you the gist of it.
“There’s this laird called Angus who lives up somewhere in the Highlands and runs about the heather with his childhood sweetheart, Morag. Then he goes off to the fleshpots of London, after giving a final r
uffle to Morag’s hair—”
“That won’t get me far,” Lord David put in gloomily.
“Don’t interrupt. The laird hasn’t got warmed up yet.”
“Why do lairds go to London?”
“I don’t know. To sell grouse or something. Anyway, this Morag scrapes away at her violin in the manse—she’s the minister’s daughter—and pines for Angus. Angus returns, but on his arm—oh horrors I—is his sinister, overly sophisticated, painted fiancée, Cynthia. Hey, that’s a coincidence.”
“My Cynthia is not overpainted. Stop digressing,” said Lord David.
“Oh, yes, where was I? Well, this Cynthia puts old Morag’s eye out, her with painted nails and Paris gowns—Cynthia, I mean. But the veil is torn from Angus’s eyes—”
“The veil? What’s the chappie wearing a veil for? Is he a pansy?”
“Of course not. That’s poetic, that is. And how is the veil torn? Angus comes upon Cynthia beating a kitchen maid with a riding crop. ‘Awa, wi’ ye,’ he cries to the fair Cynthia.
The veil has been tore frae ma eyes.’ See?”
“And Morag throws away her violin and rushes into his arms, I suppose,” yawned Lord David.
“Not a bit of it. She’s a strong lass, is Morag. ‘Ye cannae get roond me, ye wi’ yer seductive London ways,’ she says, throwing her head back and staring him straight in the eyes. Morag does a lot of that, by the way. Angus strides about the heather in agonies. He remembers all sorts of endearing things about his Morag. How they ran about the braes together and all that. Oh, and he remembers her tending the broken wing of a sick grouse.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” howled Lord David. “Any decent Highland lass knows exactly what to do with a grouse with a broken wing: wring its neck and pop it in the pot.”
“You have no heart,” said Roddy severely. “How are you going to charm Miss Molly if you won’t listen? Now all seems hopeless for the laird, but the fair Morag has a dog called Hamish—”
