My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie

by Beaton, M. C.

  Hermione put the letter back on the desk exactly where she had found it. She must go. Philip had been enamored of girls before but she had managed to prize him away from them. She must plan. She walked away from the house with quick worried steps and was nearly run over by Amy Featherington who came wobbling up on the pavement on her bicycle. “What are you looking so worried about?” panted Amy. She never wasted baby talk on her own sex.

  “Philip!” snapped Hermione, too cross to keep her news secret. She told Amy about Toby’s letter while Amy’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. “What will you do?” asked Amy when Hermione had finished.

  Hermione bit her lip. Already, she was regretting having told Amy. “Oh, nothing,” she said airily. “Toodle-oo.”

  She walked off quickly, leaving Amy staring after her deep in thought. A masked gypsy, thought Amy. Now that had infinite possibilities!

  The day before the ball, Lady Bywater arrived home with Mrs. Wilton, both ladies perspiring in the heat. It transpired they had been calling on Mrs. Bassett.

  “A most uncomfortable time we had of it,” said Lady Bywater, unpinning her hat. “Mrs. Bassett has a new housemaid, a slatternly creature who smells quite abominably. I told Mrs. Bassett to get rid of her but Mrs. Bassett, I think, is too frightened of the girl to say boo! One should never let servants get the upper hand. Also this girl has a caller who is always hanging about the kitchen door, some ragtag of a fellow in shabby uniform. No regiment I recognize. Offered to fire the girl for her and poor Mrs. Bassett turned quite pale. Dear me.

  “The ball seems to be arranged pretty well. We have the band and we have the flowers. I don’t think you should go as a gypsy, Marjorie. People always go as gypsies or pirates or highwaymen. Now when I was a gel of your age, I went as Cleopatra—very dashing. I sent to London for the costume and it should be here today, black wig and all. Of course, I am taller than you but Stavely is a marvel with a needle. What do you say?”

  Marjorie, who had been curled up on the window seat with a book, put it down with a sigh. She nodded. She did not care what she went as.

  There was no fun anymore in trying to be anyone else. There was no fun either in being Marjorie.

  Robert, Marquess of Herterford, stared gloomily out of the window of White’s. The new glass sparkled in the hot sun. The whole of London baked and sweltered under the sun. “I wonder if we shall ever see the sun again,” Miss Montmorency-James had said. Well, she was no doubt seeing it now, strolling on the arm of that chattering fool, Toby Anstruther. And he hadn’t warned her properly about the anarchists.

  A fancy dress ball. It made him old to think of it. The last one he had attended had been when he was twenty-five. It had been a splendid costume, especially tailored for him and he still had it.

  The heat was suffocating. The sun glared through the perpetual haze of smoke that hung over London. The streets smelled terribly of horse and drains.

  He needed to get out of town, didn’t he? He owed it to himself.

  And she had written to him, hadn’t she? And sent her “warmest regards.”

  Chapter Eight

  Toby Anstruther tied a scarlet bandana around his waist with fumbling fingers. He had drunk too much, sitting on the hotel terrace in the hot afternoon sun. He should have gone to sleep before the ball but he’d met some jolly chaps in the bar. Lady Bywater had imported the youth of the local county for the occasion, afraid that there would be no one on the floor but elderly people like herself.

  He had forgotten to buy anything to stain his face and used his shoe polish instead. He applied a cork moustache with shaky fingers. He felt absolutely dreadful. Toby stumbled over to the dressing table and shook his silver flask, which gave back a reassuring glugglug. He sighed with relief and tipped some whiskey down his throat. Ah, that was better! Marvelous stuff. He swaggered in front of the looking glass. Now for Miss Montmorency-James!

  Along the corridor, Lord Philip was also looking at himself in the looking glass. He thought he made a very convincing gypsy. He had seen Toby in the bar on his arrival and had crept quietly past. Once he put his mask on, Toby would not even know he was at the ball.

  Downstairs in the ballroom, Marjorie was already circling around the floor in the arms of an elderly Major. She made a striking-looking Cleopatra in a black-and-gold robe, heavy black wig and black-and-gold mask. She was glad she had not come as a gypsy. There were at least two girls in the ballroom dressed as gypsies.

  A full moon rode above the sea outside the long windows of the ballroom, which overlooked the terraced gardens, fronting the hotel.

  Lady Bywater made a rather modern, rather elderly Queen Elizabeth and Mrs. Wilton had come as herself.

  Marjorie easily recognized Toby Anstruther by his fair hair. She had not told him of her change of costume and now she was glad.

  She realized that she was still hoping the Marquess might come. It was inconceivable. But he might.

  Then she recognized Philip, although, like everyone else, he was masked. There was no mistaking that tawny hair, those glinting blue eyes behind the mask. She looked across the room at him and felt nothing. Not a thing. He was dancing with one of the gypsy girls, switching that smile of his on like a lantern.

  There was a little stir at the entrance and she looked over. One of the most magnificently costumed of the guests had arrived. He was dressed in Georgian dress, a magnificent figure from his powdered hair to his buckled shoes. His blue brocaded coat was tailored to fit his broad shoulders and his silk knee breeches and clocked stockings hugged a pair of muscular legs. Marjorie was sure that the sapphires that blazed on the lace at his throat and on his long fingers were real. His blue velvet mask only covered his eyes. There was a ripple of appreciative applause and he bowed with a tremendous flourish.

  The sugar-sweet strains of the Merry Widow waltz started up and the Georgian gentleman turned and looked around the room. He stared for a long time at the two gypsy girls and then at the rest of the guests. His eyes fastened on Cleopatra and seemed to narrow slightly. Then he walked swiftly across the ballroom floor and bowed low before Marjorie.

  “This dance is mine, my Queen,” he said.

  Marjorie drifted into his arms in an uninterested kind of way. She did not care how marvelous he looked or how well he danced. The Marquess had not come.

  After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Will my Queen of the Nile not look up at me?”

  Marjorie looked up quickly in surprise. Then she caught her breath. She recognized those strange golden eyes smiling at her so warmly through the slits of the mask.

  “Robert!” she gasped. “I mean … my lord.”

  “Robert,” he said. “Please say Robert.”

  “Do you know it’s me?” asked Marjorie inanely.

  “Yes, Miss Marjorie. Even with a black wig on and your face covered up, I would know you anywhere. I trust Cleopatra does not have anything so anachronistic as a dance card?”

  “No. Lady Bywater did not think it a good idea. There are so many elderly married couples who prefer to dance together.”

  “As we shall dance together,” he said, laughing down at her surprised eyes. “I must look after you. There may be anarchists lurking among the guests. There are at least two gypsy barons who, I feel sure, are at this moment making terrible mistakes.”

  “You mean …” began Marjorie, staring wide-eyed in the direction of Philip who was holding one of the gypsy girls closer than the proprieties allowed.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. No, not any more. No, I don’t mind in the slightest.”

  He swept her into the center of the floor and Marjorie turned and swayed in his arms, her happy mind shutting out past and future. The tinny sound of the town band sounded like the harps of angels.

  Lord Philip was feeling elated and happy. He had Marjorie in his arms and she seemed content to stay there. She felt familiar and right somehow. She even sounded a little like Hermione, which made him feel more at ease. He longe
d for the unmasking. She was so bedecked with shawls and gold coins that he could hardly see the outline of her figure. Her hair was covered with a scarlet scarf and her large mask hid her face and only showed a glint of her eyes. He thought it would be marvelous to kiss her again. He thought how marvelous it would be to be in favor with the British public again. He suddenly could not wait. He held her even closer and whispered, “Will you marry me, my gypsy princess?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed and he heaved a sigh of relief.

  In another part of the ballroom, Toby Anstruther was enjoying a tremendous joke. He thought Marjorie was a superb little actress. Why, she played the part of Amy Featherington to perfection. He felt very happy and elated. He suddenly and drunkenly envisaged a jolly life with Marjorie who could become any woman she fancied at the drop of a hat. By Jove, he would ask her to marry him.

  And he did!

  ‘Oooh, yeth, darling,” said the gypsy girl in his arms.

  The tinny orchestra struck a crashing chord and Lady Bywater climbed onto the rostrum in front of the band.

  “My lords, ladies … and Marjorie, where is Marjorie? Anyway, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to unmask!”

  With sighs of relief from the elderly who had found their masks too hot and giggles and cheers from the young people, strings were untied and faces laid bare.

  Philip looked down at Hermione.

  Toby looked at Amy.

  Hermione tugged Philip to the rostrum. He was too dazed to think or do anything but follow her. Hermione spoke quickly to Lady Bywater who held up her hands for silence.

  “Happy news,” she cried. “Miss Hermione Ffofington has just become engaged to Lord Philip Cavendish!”

  There was a burst of applause. The drummer performed a roll on the drums. Lord Philip should have been wearing his brother’s costume. He looked just like an aristocrat waiting for the guillotine to fall.

  “Me too! Me too!” screamed Amy, pulling Toby with her. Amy had forgotten all about Lord Philip. Pretty as she was, her suitors did not seem to stay around for long and now Toby Anstruther had actually proposed to her.

  Lady Bywater made that announcement, reflecting to herself that both gentlemen looked very pale under their swarthy makeup. “Hermione, where is Marjorie?” demanded Lady Bywater.

  “Yes,” echoed Lord Philip in a hollow voice. “Where is Marjorie?”

  Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James was in a dark patch of the gardens of the Royal Hotel being ruthlessly kissed by the Marquess of Herterford. “Tell Me Pretty Maiden, Are There Any More at Home Like You” played the orchestra, distance lending enchantment to its tinny strings.

  The moon swung dizzily above and the dark corner of the garden smelled of warm pine. Marjorie had been trying to speak for some time but the Marquess could at times be as self-centered as his brother and his whole being was concentrated on kissing Marjorie. She was not wearing stays under her loose costume and her body seemed to melt into his. She would have spoken in the moment that he raised his head but she looked infinitely seductive with her lips parted. He quickly bent his head again and gave himself entirely up to the pleasurable sensations of exploring her mouth.

  His deft long fingers opened the neck of her costume and his hands slid over her breasts. He thought he would go mad with desire and Marjorie thought she would go mad with shame. No gentleman should go this far with a lady unless … unless … unless he thought she was a woman of easy virtue.

  “Robert!” she wailed in despair, pulling at his powdered hair.

  “My heart?”

  “How can you treat me so?” said Marjorie beginning to sob. “It’s indecent!”

  “Only,” pointed out the Marquess in a practical voice, “if we weren’t about to be married as quickly as possible. Which we are. Aren’t we?” He gave her a little shake. She was now staring at him in a dazed way.

  He pulled her into the moonlight and looked down intensely into her eyes. “Or do you think me too old for you, Marjorie? Do you?”

  “Oh, no,” said Marjorie, beginning to sob this time with sheer relief. “Oh, no, Robert. You’re not old at all. It’s just that you frightened me. I am not used to such intimate caresses. In fact, I am not used to any caresses whatever.”

  “Good,” he muttered thickly, pulling her back into the shadows.

  In no time at all Miss Montmorency-James and the Marquess of Herterford were thrashing around the pine needles in a fever of passion.

  “No,” he said suddenly. “Not here. I want you and a nice comfortable bed and a room with a locked door all night long. I refuse to deflower you in the damp and prickly gardens of the Royal Hotel, Sandypoint. Furthermore, Lady Bywater and Mrs. Wilton will think the anarchists have got you. We shall be little ladies and gentlemen and very restrained. I shall kiss you here … and here … and here … and then I shall fasten these little buttons so and we shall go and amaze everyone by announcing our engagement. But of course there would be no harm in just kissing you a little more … like this … and … this … and this.”

  “Oh, Robert, I do love you so,” gasped Marjorie when she could.

  “You’d better,” he laughed.

  “Except,” went on Marjorie, “you look so strange with your white hair and costume, I hardly recognize you.”

  “Then I had better remind you what I feel like,” he mocked, covering her mouth with his own. After five minutes of absorbed occupation, he added, “What about you, Marjorie? Perhaps I shall become addicted to women with black hair. No, don’t take your wig off. We have to go back. Your grandmother must be fretting herself to flinders. Hold out your left hand, Marjorie.”

  He drew a large sapphire ring from his finger. “This was my great-great-great-grandfather’s,” he said, sliding it on her finger. “He was a tremendous dilettante. It is a little loose but it will do until I buy you one of your own.”

  “Marjorie!” came a shout from the terrace.

  “There you are!” he said. “What did I tell you? Let us go in quickly.”

  Lady Bywater and Mrs. Wilton faced the happy couple as they mounted the steps of the terrace to the ballroom. Mrs. Wilton’s sharp eyes focused on the fact that Marjorie’s wig was askew, that her mouth was swollen, and that there were pine needles, leaves and twigs sticking to her costume.

  Mrs. Wilton closed her eyes and said bitterly, “What role are you playing now, Marjorie? Harlot?”

  “She is playing the role of my fiancée,” said the Marquess.

  “It’s Herterford,” said Lady Bywater gleefully and slapped Mrs. Wilton on the back. “You owe me a monkey,” she chortled gleefully. “I bet you she’d marry a lord in the end.”

  “Is this true?” demanded Mrs. Wilton.

  “Oh, yes!” cried Marjorie, her eyes shining.

  “Pay up! Pay up!” cried Lady Bywater happily.

  Mrs. Wilton stood for a moment, looking for all the world like Queen Victoria not being amused about something.

  “Bet you a monkey they have a quiet wedding!” she said suddenly to Lady Bywater.

  “Done! But you’ll lose again,” said Lady Bywater. “They won’t have a quiet wedding! Look at his face! He wants the whole world to know about it.”

  “No, a quiet wedding,” said Mrs. Wilton firmly.

  Lady Bywater shrugged. “Well, if you want to lose your money …”

  The Marquess and Marjorie moved off, leaving the two old ladies squabbling.

  “What a pair of inveterate gamblers,” said the Marquess in awe. “Your grandmother will have no money left at all if she goes on in this fashion. She can’t go about throwing away five hundred pounds at a time like a Regency rake.”

  “She wins as much as she loses,” explained Marjorie. “Do we have to go back to the ballroom? I don’t want to spoil anything by meeting Hermione … or … or Philip.”

  “You need not meet them,” he said gently. “We will dance until Lady Bywater announces our engagement and then we will leave.”


  It was not as bad as Marjorie had expected. Lord Philip had apparently resigned himself to his fate and not for the world would he allow himself to show his hurt to the company.

  He heard the announcement of his brother’s engagement with a rather set face, drank a lot of champagne and soon began to feel better. He had not really wanted her anyway, he told himself. She was rather a silly little girl and he was surprised at Robert wishing to marry a person of that class. As for Toby Anstruther, he was fast asleep in a corner behind a potted palm. Amy looked down at him with a determined look on her little face. He most certainly wasn’t going to be allowed to forget his proposal in the morning. Anyway she had telephoned an announcement of their engagement to all the newspapers.

  Well away from the festivity of the ball in Mrs. Bassett’s quiet villa, the housemaid silently opened the kitchen door and crept out into the night. What had happened to Joseph? Tomorrow was her first day off and they had planned to meet that night to discuss how to waylay Marjorie on one of her walks. But the back garden was silent, drenched in moonlight. Phyllis turned back. It was then she saw a note pinned to the kitchen door. She tore it down and took it into the kitchen to read it.

  “Dere Phyllis,” she read, “I cant take no more. I’m going to try and get out the country and join the others. I don’t want to murder nobodys. I thinks you’re mad. Joseph.”

  She crushed the note in her fingers, a murderous rage boiling up inside her. She and Tony had been the only true anarchists. She alone was left to avenge his death.

  The door opened and Mrs. Bassett stood there in her nightgown and curlpapers. “What are you doing standing here wasting gas?” she quavered.

  Phyllis shot her employer a malevolent look. “Just off to bed,” she muttered. “And don’t go forgetting tomorrow’s me day off.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Mrs. Bassett who was terrified of Phyllis and who had been looking forward to the maid’s day off almost as much as Phyllis herself.