My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie

by Beaton, M. C.

  Aloud he said, “Let me take you on a tour of the ship, Miss Montmorency-James.” Marjorie dutifully rose to her feet but as they left the deck on which the buffet dinner was being served, she began to feel conspicuous. No one else had risen and several startled faces were turned in their direction.

  But the Marquess was almost urging her up the companionway to the deserted after-deck. Marjorie stumbled as the full effect of all the wine she had drunk began to hit her. He grasped her arm to steady her and felt her tremble against him. Marjorie was not trembling with passion. She was trembling with fear. The opportunity was too good to miss. “Oh!” she thought drunkenly, “I will do it for England. I will save the Queen. Philip must love me! He must be made to.”

  The Marquess was standing at the rail. He had released her arm. She stood a little back, a little behind him. For a brief second, a cold sober breath of sanity seemed to blow through her brain. But then the mists of alcohol closed down. An eighteen-year-old girl often wavers between the woman and the child, between maturity and immaturity. When the eighteen-year-old is drunk, then the child takes complete control and fantasies become reality.

  Marjorie gave the Marquess of Herterford an almighty shove right in the center of his elegantly tailored back. Instead of shooting over the rail as she had intended, he staggered slightly forward, grasped the rail firmly and heaved back with such momentum that he cannoned into her and sent her flying across the deck.

  It was all too much for Marjorie. In the first place, her twenty-one-inch waist had been lashed down to nineteen by her corset, she was tipsy, she was frightened and Philip did not love her. She fainted dead away.

  The only witness to the incident was Tony who waited in the shadows of the quay like a very hairy rat. He was quite satisfied. No one could say she hadn’t tried. He knew she would not be arrested. Society never liked a fuss.

  Marjorie slowly came out of a deep swoon. She was lying on a narrow bed and the bed seemed to be moving gently up and down. After a few seconds memory came flooding back. She was still on the boat. She was in a cabin on the boat and seated on a hard chair near the bed was the Marquess. At the door stood a stern-looking maid.

  “Give her some brandy, my lord,” suggested the maid, “She’s coming round.”

  “She’s had enough to drink,” said the Marquess. “A cup of tea with a lot of milk and sugar will be much better. Now, Miss Montmerency-James, not one word until you have drunk your tea.”

  Marjorie eased herself up on the pillows and stared at him miserably. Her mouth felt hot and dry and her head ached. She gratefully drank the hot tea.

  “Where is Philip?” she asked plaintively.

  “Philip and the rest of them have only been told that you fainted—not that you had tried to push me over. But now, Miss Montmorency-James,” he went on, taking the teacup from her and placing it on a table with a peremptory little click, “you are going to tell me exactly why you assaulted me.”

  And so she did. She told him of Hermione’s story about Philip being a member of the Anarchist party and how she had joined. She did not have the courage to tell him about throwing the brick. She told him about the plot to blow up Buckingham Palace and how she hoped to foil it.

  As the Marquess listened to her, the harsh lines on his face softened and the stern maid at the door had tears in her eyes.

  “I shall go there tomorrow—you know, to the headquarters in Gospel Oak,” said Marjorie eagerly, now that she had apparently a sympathetic audience. “And … and … you shall tell the police and they can come at three o’clock and arrest them all.

  “Oh, I meant to see this thing through to the end so that I could deliver their exact plans to the police, but I really can’t go on. It is such a relief to tell someone.”

  The Marquess held out his hand and said gently, “Come, you shall wash your face with cold water and then I will take you home.”

  He helped her from the bed and led her across the cabin and opened the door of a surprisingly well-equipped bathroom. The tea clipper no longer ferried tea but had been converted to a yacht by a friend of the Duchess.

  When the door closed behind her, the maid burst out crying. “It’s terrible, my lord,” she wept. “Such a pretty little thing to have all them mad ideas!”

  “It’s a tragedy,” agreed the Marquess solemnly. “Hermione Ffofington made up some story about Philip and this poor girl believed it and dreamt the rest. There was a brick thrown through the windows of White’s with a label tied to it saying it was a present from the anarchists. It was in all the papers. She probably read it and dreamt the rest. Poor, poor child. As if anyone in this day and age would try to blow up Buckingham Palace! Shhhhh! She’s coming back.”

  The maid quickly dried her tears and bustled after Marjorie as the Marquess led her out. He led her away from the lights and music of the party. He talked of conversational nothings on the road home and the maid seated in the carriage opposite the Marquess and Marjorie could only admire his aplomb.

  “Will you remember,” she said shyly, “the address is number fourteen, Burnham Road, Gospel Oak. At three o’clock.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said soothingly. “Now go to bed like a good girl and get some sleep.”

  Marjorie went to bed that night feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her mind. Once it was all over, she would call on Hermione and give her a piece of her mind. How could she, Marjorie, have ever believed dear Philip could have been associated with such a lot of crazy people as the Camden Town Anarchists!

  In the broad light of a sunny new day, Marjorie’s spirits were completely restored. Charlie-the-coachman and Charlie-the-horse were waiting for her at the cab rank. But after they had driven a little way, the growler rattled to a halt and Charlie climbed down heavily from the box and went round and opened the carriage door. He held out ten new pound notes to Marjorie and said urgently, “Here take this, miss!”

  “I couldn’t,” said Marjorie amazed. “What is it for?”

  Charlie went a deep red. “Well, it’s like this, miss,” he said awkwardly. “I’ve bin overcharging you. But I was so hungry and so was pore old Charlie there, that I took it. That there five-pound note you gave me, miss, I took it down to Ascot. There was this ’orse called Lilac Lady a-running at one hundred to one and the name reminded me of you seein’ as how you wore a lilac dress oncet. I felt I had bin a-cheatin’ of you and if the good Lord saw fit, why He’d make me lose. It cum in, furst. So I’m goin’ to retire and Charlie there, he’s goin’ to retire and it’s all on account o’ you.

  “An’ see here, I wrote down the cab fares what they oughter be so you ain’t goin’ to get cheated agin.”

  “Please keep the money,” said Marjorie with a touch of the role of anarchist-conspirator. “I was paying you for Extraordinary Services.”

  “Yerse, well that is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Charlie. “If you wants to shy bricks at gentlemen’s clubs that’s all right with me but don’t yer ma know yer out? I mean ter say, you’ll end in the pokey.”

  “It’s all right,” said Marjorie hurriedly, anxious to get to her destination. “All that’s over and done with. You needn’t wait for me today. A gentleman,” here she saw the look on Charlie’s face and hurriedly added, “a very respectable gentleman will be escorting me home.”

  “All right, miss,” said Charlie reluctantly. He gave Marjorie an anxious look and climbed back into the box.

  Marjorie looked at the watch pinned to her bosom. She hoped she would be on time. She did not want to tell Charlie to move faster. She didn’t want old Charlie-the-horse to die before he had enjoyed his retirement.

  But Charlie deposited her in Burnham Road exactly at three o’clock. “No fare, my lady,” he said, smiling down at her. “Just ’eartfelt thanks from me and the ’orse. I’m a-thinkin’ of goin’ down to the seaside for to retire, see. Somewheres not too classy.”

  “Go to Sandypoint,” said Marjorie, although most of her mind was on the an
archists. “That’s a pleasant little spot and I believe the rents are moderate.”

  Charlie touched his hat and the growler rattled off.

  Marjorie looked up and down the street. No one. Of course, the police must be hiding in some of the buildings.

  “Come along,” said Phyllis’s acid voice from the area steps. “You going to stand there all day?”

  Marjorie followed her down into the red-painted room. With a sinking heart, she saw the House of Frederic box with its pretty ribbons all parceled up and ready.

  A new Tony was standing beside it. He was wearing a moderately smart suit and his hair and beard were neatly trimmed.

  “So when do you plan to deliver the bomb?” asked Marjorie brightly.

  Tony produced a pistol from behind his back and pointed it straight at Marjorie’s heart.

  “Today, Miss Montmorency-James,” he said.

  “Today!”

  Chapter Six

  There was a long silence in the room. Marjorie turned very white. Phyllis watched her face avidly. Joseph, Charlie, Bernie and Jim stared at her coldly. They didn’t look funny or silly at all. They looked like killers.

  “Yerse, that surprised you,” sneered Tony. “Oh, I saw you trying to push my lord off the boat. But I crept back just to make sure you didn’t need any help. So what do I see? I see you and my lord leave that there boat all chatty and cozy. So I followed you. And this morning I asks around the servants in your manor and learns that Mrs. Wilton is your grannie, not your employer. So, I thinks, we’ve got one of these here debs looking for excitement. So you’re going to get it. You and me are going to deliver this here package to Buckingham Palace in person. You look the part. Phyllis don’t. We tried cleaning her up but it didn’t do.”

  Phyllis, looking as dirty as ever, scowled malevolently.

  “See,” went on Tony, the pistol in his hand never wavering, “we decided to make sure it got there. Now if we sent it in one of them shabby hansoms, we’d never get it past the gates. What we need is a classy carriage and a fine-looking lady and we’ve got both.”

  A rattling on the cobbles outside diverted him. The police, thought Marjorie, weak with terror. Oh, thank God!

  “That’ll be our carriage now,” said Tony, shattering her hopes. “Move!”

  “But I can identify you all!” cried Marjorie. “You will shoot me anyway!”

  “Oh, no,” smiled Tony, “You’re to be left alive with the mess. We want the world to know it was us what done it.”

  His eyes were fever-bright and Marjorie realized for the first time that he was completely and utterly mad.

  He moved forward and dug the pistol into her corset.

  “Move!” he said grimly.

  He caught up a light coat from a chair and draped it over his arm to hide the pistol. Joseph and Charlie picked up the box.

  A smart, rented brougham was stationed outside. Marjorie looked appealingly at the driver but he was staring woodenly in front of him. The package was loaded into the brougham and Marjorie was prodded in after it.

  Still hoping that the police might arrive, she stared eagerly out of the window.

  No one!

  And then she realized the Marquess had not believed a word of it.

  Marjorie was very young, very immature, but she had more courage than most. She leaned her head back against the squabs, her face very white. She knew what she had to do even if it meant losing her life. The package must never be delivered.

  What a long, long way it seemed to be until at last they turned into the Mall and clattered along under the plane trees. Tony had been mercifully quiet the whole journey.

  The palace guards stood like toy soldiers and just about as caring. The carriage clattered into the palace yard—and was stopped.

  Marjorie looked out of the window into the thin sharp face of a British bobby. There was a policeman on Tony’s side of the carriage too. Both doors were simultaneously opened.

  “What’s this ’ere?” demanded the heavy voice of the law.

  “Package from the House of Frederic for Her Majesty,” said Tony, staring straight ahead.

  “Don’t know you, mate,” said the policeman. “Name?”

  “Charles Percival-Smythe,” said Tony promptly.

  The sharp official eyes rested on Tony’s smart clothes, then on Marjorie’s white face, then back again to Tony, and then dropped to Tony’s boots and rested there for a long moment.

  Tony had forgotten about his boots. They were scuffed and cracked.

  “Out! Both of you,” ordered the policeman on Tony’s side.

  Marjorie tried to get out of her side of the carriage but Tony dug the gun into her ribs and so she followed him out on his side.

  The two policemen faced them. “You come from this House of Frederic?” called one up to the driver.

  “Not me, guv,” said the driver. “Picked ’em up at Burnham Road, Gospel Oak. Hired me from Jones’s Livery Stables, they did.”

  Marjorie sensed rather than felt Tony’s arm move.

  She knew he was going to shoot the policemen.

  “He’s got a gun!” she shouted and threw herself in front of the policemen.

  “Bitch!” screamed Tony and shot at her point blank.

  She felt a terrible impact and fell to the ground. Tony scampered out of the palace yard with the shrill sound of the police whistle sounding in his ears. Policemen seemed to blossom from every corner. The guards outside fired wildly as Tony plunged into St. James’s Park. Fear lent his feet wings. Luckily for him, the park was fairly deserted—for everyone who was there from old men to small children and nursemaids tried to stop his flight. How he made it through Downing Street is a miracle but when he erupted into Northumberland Avenue with the No. 10 Downing Street police joining in the chase, he found it was congested with traffic.

  He plunged into the traffic, trying to zigzag his way across. But distorted news flew with him. “He’s killed the King! He’s killed the King!” cried voices all around.

  He had dropped his coat and his gun in the chase. Whips lashed down on his shoulders. Horses reared and plunged. A woman with a scream like a banshee went on and on.

  A large Clydesdale pulling a coal cart reared up in fright. And the last thing Tony the anarchist knew on this earth was the crashing descent of those enormous hoofs.

  At least, thought the police gathered in the palace yard, they had one alive to tell the tale.

  The bullet had crashed into the steel of Marjorie’s corset and had broken her ribs. That latest piece of underwear designed to produce a Gibson girl figure had saved her life.

  The appearance of Miss Montmorency-James in the magistrates’ court was jam for the press. The small court was crowded to overflowing and prominent among the distinguished guests were Miss Hermione Ffofington, Lord Philip Cavendish, Tony Anstruther, Amy Featherington, Jessie Wuthers, Jeffrey Lewis, Mr. Guy Randolph and Lord Harry Belmont. The rest of the anarchists had disappeared as if into thin air.

  Marjorie was numb with misery. She had spent a night in the cells and no amount of frantic string-pulling by Lady Bywater and Mrs. Wilton had been able to get her out of them.

  Lord Philip felt uneasy. It had seemed like such a splendid joke when Hermione Ffofington had told him the lunacy of Marjorie’s devotion. Now, here he was with his friends, chattering and laughing, and there in the well of the court was a pale and drawn Marjorie. “I can’t stand this,” he muttered to Hermione. “I want to go.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “The fun is just beginning.”

  “Fun?” he thought, looking at her curiously.

  The hearing began.

  Now Hermione was not a particularly wicked or cruel girl. It was just that her place in society and a certain insensitivity had insulated her from the harsher side of life. She wanted Marjorie convicted. The fact that the girl would be at least sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor did not cross her mind.

  Marjorie was asked whether she
would accept the judgment of this court or be tried at a higher court before a judge and jury. In a barely audible voice she said she would accept the judgment of the magistrates’ court.

  Then things began to go very wrong for Hermione as the evidence was read out. Marjorie had indeed told the whole truth and nothing but the truth in her statement.

  All was revealed. Her love for Philip, Hermione’s prompting her to join the anarchists, her desire to save England. She had not, however, admitted to throwing the brick into White’s.

  Then the policemen at the palace gave evidence that the girl had risked her life to save theirs. Then there was a peculiar character witness, a big old cabbie called Charlie who swore Marjorie was an angel. Then a surprise witness was called. His lordship, The Most Noble Marquess of Herterford took the witness stand while the press leaned forward eagerly and Philip suddenly wished he were dead.

  The Marquess looked an awesome and commanding figure. He was tailored to perfection and his tawny hair shone in the dim light of the court. His strangely hypnotic stare seemed to mesmerize the court as he related in a clear resonant voice of how Marjorie had told him the whole affair and that he had not reported it to the police because he thought the girl was mad. He added wryly that his brother, Philip, had a devastating effect on the hearts of impressionable debutantes and that the whole thing had been prompted by malice on the part of a certain Miss Ffofington who, he believed, was also in love with his brother.

  Hermione turned as white as Marjorie.

  The Marquess went on smoothly. Miss Montmorency-James, he went on, was indeed a silly girl in one way. But he urged the court to admire her incredible courage. One or two policemen would be lying dead had it not been for her bravery. Had she not stuck it out to the last minute, then the anarchists would merely have killed her and tried again. Marjorie’s defense lawyer rubbed his hands in glee. My lord was doing a splendid job.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Marquess, his deep voice carrying to every corner of the overcrowded court. “I ask you to picture the dilemma of this young girl. She joins this organization under the mistaken impression that the man she loves is also a member of it. Having at last decided he is not, she does not shirk her duty. Picture that ride to Buckingham Palace! Picture the agony of a young girl who has led a sheltered life, forced to sit there with a pistol pressed into her side and a bomb at her feet. Does she faint or cry out? No! She puts her life in jeopardy for the safety of Their Majesties. Such a girl is the flower of English womanhood!”