My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie

by Beaton, M. C.

  “I mean,” Jessie was pressing on, “all this rot about the conventions is ridiculous.”

  “She is going to say something about two hearts beating as one,” thought Lord Philip in desperation.

  She did.

  “But when Two Hearts Beat as One,” said Jessie with an awkward laugh, “intelligent people like us can throw convention to the winds. Have you read Elinor Glyn?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Philip crossly. “Look, it’s frightfully hot and all that. Let me get you some refreshment.”

  Marjorie parted the fronds of the fern and peered through. Lord Philip had taken Jessie’s arm in a firm grasp that looked downright loverlike to Marjorie’s jealous eyes and was leading her out of the interior decorator’s jungle.

  “That must be what he admires!” thought Marjorie in amazement. She immediately began to practice her new role, unaware that she too was being spied on.

  Hermione watched curiously as Marjorie’s face somehow took on the sharp overeager features of Jessie Wuthers. Her eyes sparkled with malice. Philip simply must learn of this.

  Her next dance was with Lord Philip and fortunately it was the inevitable waltz, which gave ample opportunity for conversation.

  Lord Philip looked down at Hermione Ffofington’s face with pleasure. Good old Hermione! Always the same. He knew he would marry her one day and sometimes he felt it should be quite soon.

  He was not getting any younger and at thirty-two felt he was fast approaching middle age. Lord Philip was very old-fashioned in his ideas of marriage. He did not exactly believe in a marriage of true minds, he certainly did not believe in love, but he did believe in marrying a girl of one’s class who would bring some valuable agricultural property into the marriage. He had all the canniness and instinct for survival of the true aristocrat. He also had the aristocrat’s rather rigid mind, which was at most times well disguised by his good looks and famous charm. He enjoyed flirting with marriageable girls and occasionally having affairs with unmarriageable ones. He did not consider himself a snob and was capable of enjoying the company of someone from the lower ranks like, say, a Marjorie Montmorency-James. He expected them, however, to know their place and so far, those inhabitants of the lesser classes that he had to date favored with his notice had done just that.

  Hermione would make a good wife, he thought. She was as smart as paint this evening in her cleverly cut pink silk gown. Her dark brown hair was becomingly dressed and her patrician nose gave her face an air of authority. She had rather small, twinkling, intelligent eyes and a tongue like a razor. He enjoyed her company very much.

  “What do you think of the grocer’s girl?” she was asking.

  “Oh, Miss Montmorency-James? Very disappointing. I had expected her to have more character.”

  “Ask her for another dance,” commanded Hermione, grinning up at him wickedly. “You’ll find she has mysteriously become Jessie Wuthers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The clever Marjorie thinks you are smitten with Jessie and so she has been studying the role of Jessie. She’s very good. I saw her rehearsing in the shrubbery and she really should be on the stage!”

  “I say!” said Lord Philip. “What a joke!” He looked across the ballroom floor to where Marjorie was expertly swaying in the arms of a thin young man. She looked very fresh, very virginal, very beautiful.

  “No, you must be mistaken,” he said, looking back at Hermione. “She is not cunning enough. She looks a complete innocent to me.”

  “Oh, she is,” said Hermione, “an innocent who is very much in love.”

  “Love!” Philip’s mobile mouth curled in distaste and Hermione kept a fixed bright smile on her face. She was deeply in love with Philip herself but she knew his views on the subject and kept her emotions well hidden.

  “Oh, don’t look so stern,” Hermione teased. “Do give the little chameleon a dance. I wonder what would happen if she fell in love with two fellows at once. Probably split herself in two.”

  “I shall do nothing of the kind,” he said. “I obliged her with one dance to please mama—the girl’s sponsor is one of her old friends—but it does not do to pay girls of that class too much attention. It can lead to all sorts of embarrassment. She’ll soon be happily married to a stockbroker or some such chap. Goodness knows, there have been enough of my own kind in love with me for my title and my fortune. Everybody loves a lord, you see. Except you, dear Hermione. We are two of a kind.”

  “You sound just like Jessie Wuthers,” mocked Hermione. “She always says things like that. But do dance with Marjorie, Philip. You can be such a stuffed shirt at times.”

  “Oh, very well. But I shall prove you wrong. You are coming on my little picnic tomorrow?”

  “I’ll think about it,” teased Hermione although her heart cried out that the stars would reel in their courses before she would give up an opportunity of spending some time with Philip.

  Philip was very annoyed to find that he had allowed himself to engage Miss Montmorency-James for the supper dance. Marjorie had scribbled the mysterious Mr. Hubert’s name in that space in the wild hope that he would ask her.

  The dance proved to be a rowdy set of the Lancers and he had no opportunity for conversation with her. She seemed a lively, pretty, animated girl and he thought Hermione must have been imagining things.

  But no sooner were they seated at a little table in the supper room than the fun began. The ferns and palm trees seemed to have grown over into the supper room and the dining couples were mostly hidden from each other. He was bitterly glad that there was no one else around to witness this silly girl’s odd behavior.

  He raised his eyes from the plump quail on his plate to find himself looking at Jessie Wuthers.

  Only it wasn’t Jessie of course, but it was a miracle how Marjorie strangely seemed to become Jessie. Her large expressive eyes seemed to turn small and sharp and she hunched her shoulders in a way that turned her pretty figure into a parody of Jessie’s lean, angular one.

  “Don’t you find the conventions of society so restricting?” breathed Marjorie-Jessie intensely.

  “No, I like them,” he replied in a repressive voice.

  “Ah, you tease and joke,” cried Marjorie with a mad laugh. “But when Two Hearts Beat in Unison, what are conventions?”

  “A bloody good way of stopping people from having illegitimate babies,” he said nastily.

  His use of that awful and shocking swear word should have given Marjorie pause but instead she thought he was responding boldly to the Marjorie-Jessie-throw-away-the-conventions image.

  She threw back her head and pealed out a fair imitation of Jessie’s shrill laugh.

  “Don’t do that!” he said involuntarily.

  “Don’t what?” said Marjorie, round-eyed.

  “Act like Jessie Wuthers,” he said patiently. “The woman with the black hair with whom I was dancing. The one in the beaded dress. She’s a good sort and I shouldn’t be discussing her but she does talk the most awful twaddle and one of her is quite enough.”

  Marjorie turned crimson with humiliation. Now that she no longer had a role to hide behind, she felt very young and silly and inexperienced. She was acutely aware that she was tête-à-tête with a Duke’s son, that she herself was middle class, that marriage to him had been a silly daydream, that she had been discovered behaving like a fool. And she wished she were dead.

  Marjorie’s wide dark eyes looked up into Lord Philip’s blue ones and then fell miserably to her plate, her thick black lashes fanning out against her cheek.

  Lord Philip caught some of Marjorie’s humiliation, which had been reflected in that one glance, and was uncomfortably reminded of a dream he had had where he had walked into the Atheneum to take tea with a bishop and had found on entering the club that he was not wearing any trousers. He tried to change the conversation.

  “I believe my mother’s old friend, Lady Bywater, is staying with you?”

  “Y
es.”

  “And this is your first ball of the Season?”

  “Yes.”

  Lord Philip sighed. The girl would not look up. She would not eat. He had done enough and if she wanted to sit there and be miserable, then he was happy to leave her to it. He tried to concentrate on his food and drank quite a lot of Château Lafitte very quickly.

  A jaunty tune drifted in from the ballroom—“Champagne Charlie is my name …”—as the dance recommenced. The air was warm and heavy with perfume and French chalk and pomade and there was an almost tangible undercurrent of heavy sensuality. Oh, we obeyed the conventions all right. We did not touch in public. But we were aware of the excitement of forbidden liaisons and the stealthy creep along the corridor of some country house in the small hours of the morning; the stuffy, smelly intimacy of the hansom cab whose heavily bribed driver promenaded his tired horse round and round the park until the dawn came up. Intrigue was what made the social world go round, not love. But there was always the memory of that first dance, that first Season. Out of this jumble of thoughts, Lord Philip abruptly remembered his own. He remembered how lost and awkward he had felt and how sophisticated and old the girls of his own age had appeared. How hard and calculating the eyes of their mamas. He felt an unaccustomed twinge of compassion for the crumpled young thing opposite.

  He tried again.

  “You are living in Eaton Terrace, I believe.”

  “Yes,” whispered a little voice from the other side of the table.

  “Where is your home normally? I mean when you’re not in London for the Season?”

  “Haddon Common.”

  “Where’s that? Outside London?” He was suddenly determined to wring a whole sentence out of her.

  “Norwood. Near Norwood.”

  “And what’s it like?”

  “Very pleasant, thank you.”

  “It must be something more descriptive than ‘very pleasant.’ What is the social life like?”

  “Oh,” faltered Marjorie. “Not much. I go for walks on the common with my dog, Mackintosh. My grandmother entertains her friends, of course, but they are all very old. And I go to church and … and … we have a weekly sewing bee … and … and …”

  “Sounds absolutely frightful. I should die of boredom.”

  Marjorie’s eyes flew up and she said in a stronger voice, “Well, it does seem dull I suppose but it … it’s safe, you know, and everyone is so kind …”

  “Most of us here are quite kind,” remarked Philip, relieved to see she had picked up her knife and fork and was attempting to eat. “Have some wine. It’s very good and it will buck you up no end.”

  Marjorie had never drunk anything stronger than cider but she dutifully took a cautious sip from her glass. It tasted like medicine. So she drank it like medicine, tipping the glass and swallowing the contents in one gulp.

  She began to feel a little glow starting in the pit of her stomach and spreading through the rest of her body. He poured her another glass and she swallowed some of it cautiously. It really wasn’t bad once you became used to it, reflected Marjorie, mentally damning a very good vintage with faint praise.

  The gray world of her misery began to recede, began to take on color.

  “Do you have many social engagements?” asked Lord Philip, noticing for the first time what remarkable eyes the girl had. They changed like the sea, one minute dark, dark gray and the next almost light silver.

  “I don’t know,” said Marjorie shyly. “Lady Bywater is arranging everything.”

  “Does she plan to marry you off?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Marjorie. “My grandmother wants me to become used to the society of young people. There are no young people in Haddon Common, you see.”

  “Come, all young ladies wish to get married,” teased Philip, admiring the tiny gold flecks in her brown hair. He bestowed a smile of singular sweetness on her and Marjorie’s heart began to hammer against her stays. “You’ll find plenty of suitable chaps,” he went on. “I have some jolly stockbroker friends you would like very much.”

  Philip had no intention of being or sounding snobbish but his light remark about stockbroker friends put Marjorie firmly in her middle-class place. She drank her wine very quickly, looking for that magic glow. She said:

  “Do you think I should marry a stockbroker because they are an estimable breed of young men or because I am from the middle class and can only marry someone middle class?”

  “I didn’t say that,” snapped Philip, aware for the first time that that is exactly what he had meant. But she had made him feel badly behaved, a new and uncomfortable feeling that he wished to dispel as quickly as possible. “Look here,” he said, “I’m making up a picnic party. We’re going to drive down to a little place on the river tomorrow. Would you care to join us? I will ask your grandmother’s permission if you like.”

  “Oh, thank you!” said Marjorie with stars in her eyes.

  Something prompted him to go on, “Yes, you’ll like my friends, I think, especially Hermione Ffofington. She is a great friend of mine.”

  “Thank you,” said Marjorie again but in a more subdued voice.

  He found himself becoming fascinated by those expressive eyes. Her skin was quite beautiful as well, very white and fine, and when she blushed it became suffused with a warm pink. He was acutely aware of the fact that their barrier of greenery effectively cut them off from the rest of the company. He was glad he had invited her to his picnic. He had really been too stuffy, he thought. Society had changed. King Edward himself adored the company of the rich middle class, laughed uproariously at Jewish humor and threw open the doors of his court to American heiresses. Hermione, of course, deplored the change and was always warning him against possible low-class social climbers.

  He wondered for the first time whether he let Hermione influence his views too much.

  He found himself wondering what his formidable brother, the Marquess of Herterford, would make of Miss Marjorie. Robert was convalescing in Deauville and had not accepted an invitation to the ball. Philip suddenly realized that brother Robert for all his stern and autocratic manner would probably like Marjorie very much. But then Robert never bothered himself with the niceties of class distinction. Which was rather a pity, thought Philip. A Marquess should be more careful in the company he kept.

  Marjorie could not begin to guess at the thoughts racing behind the impassive handsome face opposite. She felt she was experiencing too much life in one chunk. She all at once wanted to leave his company and retreat back to her dreams. And if she stayed with him too long, perhaps he might regret having asked her, might even withdraw his invitation!

  “It is kind of you to entertain me so well,” said Marjorie shyly. “But I feel I should return to the ballroom. My next partner will be searching for me.”

  Lord Philip experienced a twinge of annoyance. He was not used to young ladies putting an end to any chance of holding him in conversation.

  Nonetheless he got to his feet and walked round the table and drew her chair back for her. She turned and looked up at him, a drowned expression in her eyes. Marjorie was beginning to feel the effects of the wine she had drunk. She swayed slightly and he caught her arm to support her and pulled her against his chest.

  Marjorie wondered whether he could hear the hammering of her heart. She stared helplessly up into his face as he bent his head slowly toward hers. She saw his firm sensuous mouth drawing closer and nearer, ever nearer …

  “Well, what have we here!” Hermione stood staring at them, her sharp eyes sparkling with good humor while inside her feelings heaved and churned on a frothing green sea of jealousy.

  “I think I drank too much wine,” said Marjorie, who had jumped away from Lord Philip at the sound of Hermione’s voice. “I lost my footing.”

  “Really, one would think you were climbing the Alps, dear girl,” laughed Hermione, tapping Philip playfully on the arm with her fan. “Have you forgotten our dance, Philip? Most u
nlike you!”

  “How could I ever forget you, Hermione,” he said smiling down into her eyes in such a way that the storm inside Hermione died away and broke out a few feet away in the chaste bosom of Miss Montmorency-James. He held out an arm to each young lady and led them back into the warmth and noise of the ballroom where the faces were more flushed and glistening and the dancing more bouncing and lively.

  Marjorie was quickly claimed by her partner, a young Mr. Jeffrey Lewis, son of a merchant banker and considered quite a catch despite his cheerful rugger-bugger features and his ability to treat any ballroom like a rugby scrum. As Mr. Lewis cheerfully bounced her off into the throng, plying her hand vigorously like a pump handle, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Hermione in Lord Philip’s arms. He was laughing at something she was saying and looked well content. “I wasted my time with Amy and Jessie,” thought Marjorie dismally. “Hermione is my rival. But there is hope. Surely there is hope.”

  On and on went the dance, ball gowns rustling and swishing over the floor. Round and round circled Marjorie in the arms of various young men. But she did not dance with Lord Philip again that evening. She wondered if she would ever dance with him again. Her feet ached, her head ached and she wanted to go home. But her two chaperones, Mrs. Wilton and Lady Bywater, were chattering in a rejuvenated way and seemed all set to last out a fortnight at least.

  But at last the ball was over, at last the dance was done, and many the hearts that were broken, and Marjorie did wish they would stop playing that silly heartbreaking song over and over again.

  A pale, gray dawn was frowning on London as the landau sailed home over the cobbles, swaying on its springs.

  Marjorie wearily scanned the sky with the anxious eyes of a mariner. One could not go on a picnic should the day remain as damp and chilly as this.

  As if reading her thoughts, Lady Bywater said, “Lord Philip Cavendish said he wanted you to join his party today, Marjorie, and I gave my permission. He’s taking some young people somewhere on the river. But there will be no question of your going unless the weather changes.”