by M C Beaton
Molly’s sharp ears picked up the sound of Lord David’s voice. “Let me hear what he’s saying,” she said, getting to her feet. “Probably planning his funeral.”
She crept to the door and opened it a crack. Lord David’s strong voice sailed into the room. “I don’t think this idea of yours is going to work,” they heard him say. “We came a cropper on The Highland Heart. This time ask Mrs. Pomfret what Molly reads—what she has chosen herself.”
“Right-ho!” replied Roddy, giving the bell on the counter a smart ring.
Mrs. Pomfret looked at the girls with bewildered eyes. “I don’t understand. Why should they want to know what you read, Molly?”
“Anyway, it can’t do any harm to find out what the man of her dreams is like,” said Roddy with fatal clarity.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t go in for any of that strong, silent crushing in The Highland Heart,” he went on. “I tell you, find out what she reads and you’ll find out the kind of man she likes.”
Molly’s lips folded into a thin line. She looked around the kitchen. A newly opened parcel of books for the library lay on the kitchen table. On the top was one with a brightly colored jacket portraying a Regency buck surveying a simpering miss through his quizzing glass. It was entitled The Marquess of Maidstone’s Downfall.
“Give this to Lord David,” whispered Molly urgently. “Tell him this is my favorite book and I wish I could meet a man like the Marquess of Maidstone.”
Mrs. Pomfret looked at Molly in bewilderment but she had done exactly what Molly had wanted before and had thereby rid herself of a blackmailer. With simple trust, the postmistress picked up the book. She was a strictly honest woman but for Molly Maguire she would have lied to the Archangel Gabriel himself. She hurried off into the outer shop.
Molly looked thoughtfully at her sister. “It’s a long time since we’ve been to confession, Mary,” she said.
“How can we?” said Mary with a mouthful of cake. “The nearest chapel is miles from here.”
“We’ve got our bicycles.”
“So we have,” said Mary, brightening. “But we’ll be late home for dinner and Lady Fanny will say we are so undisciplined.”
“We’ve been very good up till now,” said Molly, laughing.
“Man of my dreams, indeed! I wonder why he bothers? Probably he and Cynthia are planning to play some terrible practical joke on me. It’s just the sort of thing they would do!”
* * *
Lord David and the marquess climbed to the top of an old ruined tower at the end of the harbor wall and sat down to peruse The Marquess of Maidstone’s Downfall.
“Are you sure you want to be bothered with this?” said Roddy. “What was all that stuff the night of the ball about the Maguire sisters just being like any other girls?”
“I changed my mind,” said Lord David briefly. “Read.”
“Oh, very well,” said Robby gloomily. “But it looks like the most awful sludge.”
He bent his head over the book. Lord David propped his back against the crumbling wall of the tower and surveyed the scenery.
The sun was low in the sky, casting a crimson path across the still water and bathing the old buildings around the harbor in a rosy glow.
Swallows darted and skimmed over dark-blue water. People were walking about lazily or talking in groups. One by one the fishing boats were coming home. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke and fish and strong tea mixed with the piny smells of the woods behind the town. It all seemed very peaceful. For the first time he was aware of a feeling of holiday. He thought briefly of Cynthia. How on earth had he ever managed to let himself get embroiled? All he could do was to keep postponing the wedding date until she became tired of him. He had a longing to cycle slowly along the country lanes with Molly Maguire.
Far away along the curve of the beach, the sturdy horses were still pulling the brightly colored bathing machines into the sea, the women screaming with mock fear as they teetered down the wooden steps into the water. He wondered if Molly went bathing and was stirred by the age-old aphrodisiac of the sea, and the thought of Miss Maguire in a bathing dress.
Roddy’s voice broke into his thoughts. “This should be easy,” said the marquess. “Now this type of hero doesn’t go in for any strong, silent clutching. He actually presses her hand fervently at Almack’s on page one hundred and two.”
“You mean in the gambling club?”
“No, silly. Almack’s assembly rooms. Marriage market of Regency days.”
“According to my old rip of a grandfather, they got up to a lot more than holding hands, even at Almack’s,” said Lord David testily, “and what is this Marquess of Maidstone’s downfall?”
“His downfall,” said Roddy, reading quickly, “is a shy country girl who is fresh and natural and not like those other painted hussies. Her name is Belinda and she blushes and faints a lot.”
“Forget it,” said Lord David. “Molly is not going to faint and blush.”
“Don’t interrupt,” said Roddy. “The marquess is described as having an indolent manner, with indolent eyelids that seem to be closed half the time. Occasionally his eyes glint with mocking laughter as he flicks a speck of dust from the high gloss of his Hessians.”
“Sounds like a twit,” said Lord David. “How does the fair Belinda react to this half-awake lord?”
“‘He smiled down at her from under heavy drooping lids and she trembled with an awakened passion,’” read Roddy. “I’ll tell you why the girls like this sort of book and why maybe they don’t like us—particularly with them being Americans. We don’t behave like aristocrats. That’s what! Where is our languid indifference? One minute you’re swearing at Molly, the next you’re trying to play on her sympathies. As for me, I’m down on my knees in the wet grass asking Mary to marry me. We must be standoffish. Born to command and all that rot.”
“But how does this marquess eventually get to first base?—as the Maguires would no doubt say.
“He clasps her firmly and tenderly in his strong arms and kisses her passionately on the mouth. She trembles at his touch and faints from an excess of emotion. That’s on the last page.”
“She sounds like a bore in bed,” said Lord David.
“Tut, tut. They don’t get as far as that! Oh, I see. He rescues her from a highwayman.”
“Well, that’s out for a start,” said Lord David moodily. “Come along. We’re invited to the Holdens for dinner. At least that way we’ll get to look at them.”
But there was no sign of the Maguire sisters at the dinner table. Cynthia looked particularly glowing and beautiful. Giles was moody and silent—Molly Maguire had paid him no attention at all at the ball and had laughed at all his very best compliments. Lord Toby was staring moodily down at his dish of Coquilles St. Jacques, already seeing in his mind’s eye the scallop shells being scrubbed and cleaned in the kitchen so that the soulless Scottish gnome gardeners could regiment another flower bed. Roddy was plainly disappointed and showed it. Lady Fanny fretted over the lack of discipline in the young in general and in two American misses in particular, and it was left to Lord David and Cynthia to keep the conversational ball rolling.
Cynthia had been to a dress rehearsal of the pageant and was being very witty and amusing at the expense of the local yokels. She was indeed very funny and Lord David found to his irritation that he was becoming defensive about the townspeople. He thought the pageant was a splendid idea, and Cynthia should be flattered that she had been chosen to play the leading part.
“But she wasn’t,” said Giles with happy malice. “Mrs. Pomfret wanted Molly to play the part and Cynthia insisted that she play it herself.”
There was a frigid, well-bred silence and then everyone began to talk rapidly about something else.
Course followed course and still the Maguires had not returned. Lord David reflected that under normal circumstances he would have been quite worried about their nonappearance but thought cynically that the girls had he
ard that he and Roddy were to be dinner guests and had decided to stay away.
Lady Fanny continued to worry. “I really think I must send the servants out to look for them. It is not like the girls to be late, is it Wembley?”
“No, indeed, my lady,” said the butler, who had warmed to the Maguire sisters considerably since Lady Cynthia’s arrival. “The Misses Maguire, if I may say so, my lady, would never be late for dinner. They are too considerate of the servants.” Lady Cynthia seemed to have doubled the work of the household with her perpetual inconsiderate demands.
Lord David felt the beginning of a small stab of panic.
“Come along, Roddy,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “let’s go Maguire hunting.” He added under his breath after they had left the dining room, “If they are making fools of us, I’ll wring their necks.”
The girls were indeed late. They had found a small Roman Catholic chapel several miles from Hadsea. By some strange coincidence, the priest, Father McGarry, was American-Irish. The girls attended the service and stayed to talk to their countryman while the light faded outside and a chill wind corrugated the gray sea.
Molly finally became aware of the time. Both hurriedly made their good-byes, leapt onto their bicycles, and pedaled off furiously along the narrow country lanes. “When we get to the top of this steep hill,” said Molly, panting, “we can really race down the other side.” Despite her bitterness over the trick he had played on her, she had an urgent longing to see Lord David again. She was also worried about her sister. It was always hard to tell what Mary was thinking. She had been very quiet and withdrawn since the night of the ball. They reached the top of the hill, and the long, narrow chalky road stretched all the way downward. The countryside was deserted apart from the thick-set figure of a man standing in one of the fields.
Molly took a deep breath. “Here we go, Mary!” she called. And pedaling as fast as she could, she took off down the hill, skirts flying, hat tugging against the restraint of the hat guard, sailor collar streaming out behind her, racing down through the dimming evening light. Mary drew along beside her and neck and neck the sisters raced down, faster and faster. They did not see the glittering wire stretched breast-high across the road.
Molly felt a tremendous wrench at her chest. Her bicycle flew out from under her and she sailed dizzily into the air before landing with a sickening crash on the hard pebbles of the road. Mary was lying in the ditch like a broken doll.
“Now iffen I’d ’a put the wire higher, I’d ha’ broken yer neck,” said a voice above her.
Her eyes blurred with pain, Molly looked up, straight into the grinning face of Mrs. Pomfret’s blackmailer, Billy Barnstable.
* * *
“The chapel,” said Lord David as he and Roddy rode at a leisurely pace in the direction the girls had first taken. “What on earth do they want to go to church in the middle of the week for? Sundays are enough for me.”
“Don’t know,” said Roddy, “not being a Catholic myself. I believe it takes ’em that way.”
Mrs. Pomfret had told their lordships that the girls had planned to attend church. Both men felt that the girls’ absence from the dinner table was accounted for and had lost their fears. There was no doubt that it was a lovely evening and that somewhere on the road in front of them were the Maguire sisters. They decided to keep up their search.
“Perhaps they have been held up by a highwayman,” teased Roddy. “That way, you will be able to make her faint with passion as you toy with your quizzing glass.”
“Don’t be filthy,” remarked Lord David idly. “I say, that’s a big hill up on the other side. What energy! Imagine pedaling a bicycle all the way up that!”
“Look!” said Roddy urgently.
In the dim greenish light at the foot of the hill, the squat figure of a man was aiming blows with a cudgel at a girl who was writhing away from him on the dusty road.
Both men spurred their horses.
Billy Barnstable heard the sound of the galloping hoofs and plunged through the thorn hedge that bordered the road and started to run across the fields. Roddy rushed to where the still body of Mary was lying, but Lord David rode on, trying to find a gap in the hedge so that he could pursue Molly’s attacker.
But by the time he finally plunged into the field and rode across it, there was no sign of anyone at all.
When he got back to the scene of the accident, Mary had recovered. Lord David registered with some surprise that Roddy looked almost as white as Mary. Molly was struggling painfully to her feet. Her skirt was torn, her hat was lying in the road, and her hair was escaping from its pins. He stretched out his hands to help her. She tried to avoid him but stumbled and fell into his arms instead. He felt her trembling against him and realized with a queer little wrench of tenderness that she was still afraid. He thought he heard her murmur, “I always hated that fellow,” and looked down at her curiously.
“Have you seen your assailant before?” he said in a voice sharpened with anxiety. “You recognized him?”
Molly thought quickly. If she told anyone that she had recognized Billy Barnstable, he would be dragged before the magistrates and she felt sure Billy would broadcast Mrs. Pomfret’s pathetic story all over town out of sheer spite.
“No, never. I’ve never seen him in my life before,” she said, throwing a warning look at her sister, who was being held tightly in Roddy’s arms. Lord David looked at her curiously but her expression in the dim twilight was unreadable. Molly became aware that he was holding her very closely and tried to extricate herself but she still felt weak and faint and staggered into his arms again. Now was the time to kiss her. But, reflected Lord David, the heroes of Molly’s romances did not seem to be hidebound by what was good or bad form and it was definitely “not done” to take advantage of this occasion.
He led her gently over to her sister instead. Mary looked in much worse condition than Molly, as if she might faint again at any minute. Roddy eased her down tenderly onto a hillock of grass beside the road. “I’d better ride to the Holdens for the carriage,” he said. “You had better stay with the ladies, David.” And with a final, worried look at Mary, he rode off.
Molly and David sat down apart from Mary and conversed in low voices. Molly was anxious to lead the conversation away from the subject of the accident. Lord David sensed this and knew it was not the time to probe any further. He contented himself by asking questions about her life in America and privately thought it sounded very grim and that the Maguire parents were behaving in a stupid and insensitive way. He then took the opportunity to apologize for his lie about his illness. Molly was so grateful to her rescuer that she had already forgiven him. She longed to ask him about his peculiar engagement to Lady Cynthia but realized with a little pang of disappointment that he would not discuss his fiancée.
He began to talk to her of his estates and of the improvements that he hoped to make and Molly, listening to the light, pleasant, drawling voice, found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had shouted so savagely at his servants. She studied his hawklike profile: the peculiarly slanting eyebrows, and the thick black hair. He suddenly turned, his face illuminated by the rising moon, and looked full at her. She felt as if something was happening to her breath. All the sights and sounds of the night seemed immensely clarified: the wind hissing across the field of corn; the rustle of some night creature nearby; the moonlight washing over the fields, highlighting the plains of her companion’s face. He leaned slowly toward her, his face very tense. And then the sound of rapidly approaching horses’ hoofs broke the spell. Molly blinked as if she had been asleep, and Lord David rose regretfully to his feet. He turned for a second and looked curiously down at his companion.
I’m in love with her, he thought with some surprise. I’m very much in love and I just don’t know what to do.
There was, indeed, very little he seemed able to do about it in the days before the pageant. Cynthia was fortunately away most of the time, rehearsing
her part, but Mary had been kept to her room to recover from her ordeal and Molly spent most of her time above-stairs with her, and the only good thing about that was that Giles had left in disgust. He learned that the sisters planned to attend the pageant but not take part in it; however, they had refused, through the medium of the butler, Wembley, his offer of escort. He had been visited by the local police inspector and had been puzzled by the girls’ description of a tall, thin, scarred assailant. He was more than ever convinced that their attacker had been someone they both knew and someone they were shielding from the police.
The day of the pageant dawned warm and fair. People everywhere were talking about this incredible summer and the mayor had posted notices around the town advising the people to ration their use of water. Cynthia had scorned the use of the local dressmaker and had had her costume designed and made in London. Molly and Mary were of the very few not taking active part so they walked slowly down to the harbor—still feeling stiff and sore after their ordeal—to climb to the top of the ruined tower in order to get a good view. The water in the harbor looked like glass, and the fishing boats stood ready for the “invasion,” with cardboard shields along their sides and all the fishermen, obviously having a tremendous time, dressed up in armor made from silver paper. The mayor did not look a very convincing Norman baron, for although his armor was real, borrowed from the local museum, he had insisted on retaining his pince-nez, his high celluloid collar, and his necktie.
The townspeople in the harbor front were all turned out in what they fondly considered to be Saxon dress and the children were obviously having a marvelous time. Molly noticed two little boys in Norfolk knickers standing at the edge of the water in front of the crowd. They had, for some reason, not dressed up in costume like the rest of their friends. With a start, Molly recognized the twins—Bobby and Jim.
The fact was that Bobby and Jim had learned that their heroine was not to take part in the pageant and had therefore consented to wear their Sunday best instead of costumes.
