Lady Margery's Intrigues

by Marion Chesney

  Margery rang the bell. Chuffley appeared with suspicious promptitude. The marquess was sure he had been leaning against the door outside. His old face was wreathed in smiles.

  Margery was assailed with a sudden feeling of unreality. The marquess had moved over to stand beside her and was encircling her shoulders with a strong arm. She forced herself to smile up at him.

  “Bring everyone here, Chuffley. I have good news for you all,” she said.

  Amelia was the first to arrive, looking breathless and worried, then Mr. Jessieman, bleary and sleepy, and then the upper servants. Margery opened her mouth and emitted a strangled squeak and looked wildly at the marquess for help.

  The marquess felt her thin shoulders trembling beneath his arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  “I have the honor,” he said, addressing the curious crowd, “to announce my forthcoming betrothal to Lady Margery.”

  There was a stunned silence and then a tremendous crash. Lady Amelia had fainted dead away.

  * * * *

  For the next forty-eight hours the marquess swept all before him with ruthless efficiency. The special license was procured, the wedding was to take place in the Chelmswood church, and a squad of workmen were employed to transform a dusty suite of rooms in the deserted east wing into a bridal suite. Margery and Amelia spent the time in a frenzy of sewing, transforming Margery's mother's wedding dress into a more fashionable line. It was heavily encrusted with gold and seed pearls which had an irritating habit of escaping from their threads and rolling under the furniture.

  Amelia had just recovered what she felt to be the thousandth, her back was aching, and her head was in a whirl. The first shock of surprise had gone, leaving her worried and anxious about her young niece. Margery had been strangely quiet and withdrawn, only occasionally rousing herself to parry Amelia's curious questions. When had Margery first realized that she was in love with the marquess? Margery could not say. Would they eventually be moving to the marquess's home? Margery had no idea. Amelia had delicately asked if Margery had planned to order new nightclothes, and Margery had snapped, “Oh, any old thing will do,” and when Amelia had shown her surprise, Margery had muttered something incoherent and fled from the room.

  Margery could not understand her own feelings. Every time she saw him, the marquess looked more disturbingly attractive than ever. He was extremely affectionate in public and cold and withdrawn on the few short occasions when they were in private together.

  But she would have gone to the altar hoping he were a little in love with her were it not for the unexpected arrival of the earl and the countess, complete with retinue of servants, on the day before the wedding.

  The earl was looking remarkably shamefaced and said that “his little puss” had pointed out to him that he was behaving like an unnatural father in avoiding his only daughter's wedding.

  Margery privately thought it would have been more natural as far as her father was concerned to avoid the whole thing, not favoring any occasion where he could not roll the dice or hold a hand at cards. They planned to leave after the wedding breakfast, and Margery settled herself to endure their short visit.

  The earl and the countess retired to their rooms before dinner, and Margery retired to hers in the hope of catching some much-needed rest. Her looking glass told her that she was rapidly degenerating into the Margery of old, and no amount of dressing or paint could disguise the strain in her eyes or the hollows in her cheeks.

  As it turned out, she was not fated to be left alone for long. There was a slight scratching on the door and then, without waiting for a reply, Desdemona sailed into the room, resplendent in paper-thin Indian muslin that left little of her charms to the imagination.

  She tiptoed forward and wound her arms round Margery's neck and deposited a moist kiss on her cheek. “My poor, poor girl,” she sighed.

  Margery turned away from her and began to brush her hair vigorously, “Indeed, I am more to be congratulated than pitied,” snapped Margery.

  “Poor innocent,” murmured Desdemona. “I have been talking to your father, dear—now please turn to me and attend—and although we are happy that you are marrying a fortune, we feel you are rather like a little baa-lamb being led to the slaughter.”

  “Fiddle,” said Lady Margery.

  The countess gave a pretty sigh. “Oh, I see you have not the faintest idea of what I am talking about.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, dear Margery, do you know aught of the relations between a man and a woman?”

  Margery put down the hairbrush and surveyed her slowly. She was aware of a multitude of mixed emotions: fury with Desdemona for her impertinence; visions of animals coupling in the fields; and memories of the marquess's reputation.

  “Please leave,” she said finally. “I shall manage very well without any advice from you, Desdemona.”

  Desdemona's eyes narrowed angrily. “Then I shall not try to help you, you ungrateful drab.” And before Margery could guess her intent, Desdemona had seized her by the shoulders and twisted her round so that she was facing the looking glass.

  “Look at yourself!” hissed Desdemona. “And think ... think why the notorious Marquess of Edgecombe should wish to have you in his bed.”

  Margery looked miserably from her own careworn face to the glowing if vicious one of Desdemona.

  “I will tell you why,” said Desdemona, her long nails digging through the thin material of Margery's dress. “It is because our notorious rake has a soft place in his heart for lame ducks. And you, my dear, are very lame. Notice that hound he always has with him when he goes out riding? Not a distinguished animal, you must admit. He found it being beaten to death in a London gutter. But it was not enough for the marquess to put the beast in his stables. He needs must make it his favorite hound and take it with him everywhere. Poor Margery. A little pet mongrel, that is all you are!”

  Margery stared at her dressing table. The sunlight filtering through the lace curtains of her bedroom window flickered across the bottles of scents and lotions. There was a large bottle of patchouli, a scent Margery particularly loathed, lying unopened. With one deft movement, she twisted off the top and poured the contents over Desdemona's immaculately coiffed head.

  “Take that,” blazed Margery. “'Tis a scent for strumpets and it becomes you well!”

  Desdemona's nails flashed out and clawed at Margery's cheek, and then she burst into noisy tears and ran from the room.

  Margery sat for a long time as if turned to stone, a thin trickle of blood dripping from her scratched face and falling unheeded onto her dress.

  There was a clatter of hoofs in the driveway below, and, walking like a martinet, she crossed to the window and pushed open the lattice.

  The marquess was dismounting from his horse. A shaggy, lolloping mongrel with enormous paws danced round and round him, panting in adoration. The marquess smiled and stooped down and scratched the dog behind the ears and the animal looked up at him with its heart in its eyes.

  “I shall not become like that,” thought Margery, backing from the window. The poison of Desdemona's words had dripped into her soul. She had begun to wildly hope that the elegant marquess had indeed formed a tendre for her.

  He had said he was trying to atone for his behavior at Carlton House and she had not really listened to him, having a certain amount of natural feminine vanity. Had Desdemona not mentioned that wretched dog, then Margery would have believed her to be merely jealous. It was too late to cancel the marriage. The servants were singing about their work and Amelia was once more the plump and happy matron she used to be. She must go through with it.

  * * * *

  The marquess looked across the drawing room that evening at the spectacle presented by his bride, with some irritation. Their was no denying that her hair and dress were all the crack, but her face and manner were colorless and she hardly spoke. In contrast, Desdemona chattered and flirted and giggled and ogled. The earl was slumped in a wing chair, not quite drunk and not
quite sober, gazing with doglike adoration at the countess, and Margery shuddered. He looked remarkably like the marquess's dog.

  The marquess was impeccable in black and white evening dress. A sapphire stickpin winked in his cravat, matching the intense blue of his eyes. He suddenly crossed to Margery's side and put an arm round her shoulders. She cringed at his touch and his brows snapped together in irritation. He was about to ask her what on earth was the matter when the supper bell was rung and everyone started filing towards the dining room.

  The marquess was seated on Margery's right and he set himself to please. Nothing could have been more loverlike than his various attentions, and nothing, Margery reflected, could have been harder than the expression in his eyes.

  The marquess was beginning to suffer from an extreme bout of premarital nerves. He looked at his drab and silent fiancée, at her father, who was now definitely bosky, and at the beautiful and empty face of the countess. He had a longing to run from the dining room, jump on his horse, and ride and ride as far and as fast from Chelmswood as possible.

  The interminable evening came to an end at last. Lady Margery cried herself to sleep and the marquess dreamed long and horrible dreams of life imprisonment.

  * * * *

  Lady Margery descended the ancient oaken stair of Chelmswood, feeling very strange and quite unlike herself. There is undoubtedly some good fairy who looks after brides on their wedding day. Although Margery could hardly be called radiant, there was a translucent glow on her pale face, and the dress, heavily encrusted with gold and pearls, gave her small figure a regal air.

  Her father began to cry great sentimental tears— “one part salt and two parts old wine,” thought Margery cynically. He was also sweating profusely, from alcohol, nerves, and remorse.

  “Are you sure you ain't throwin’ yourself away?” bleated the earl, mopping the accumulation of liquid from his face with a large handkerchief.

  “Yes, yes!” said Margery testily. “Let's get on with it!”

  “See how anxious our bride is!” tittered Desdemona. “You're a bit late to be worrying about it now, Jimmy.”

  The earl turned on her in a sudden fury. “You're common, Des, that's what you are. Never told you before. Common as dirt!”

  Desdemona let out a hiss of pure rage. “And you're a drunken old fool. D'you think it's fun for me to share your bed—to have that great body—?”

  Amelia let out a squawk of alarm and threw herself between the earl and countess. “You will please curb your arguments on Margery's wedding day,” she said in her haughtiest voice. “James! Take Margery's arm to the carriage, and you"— here she gave Desdemona a hard stare—"will follow with me.”

  The sun blazed down on a perfect day. The earl was mercifully silent on the road to the church.

  Chelmswood Church dated back to Norman times, with a squat square tower and a pleasant shaggy churchyard where the gravestones stood at lopsided angles and every bird in England seemed to gather to sing.

  Margery breathed in the familiar Anglican smell of wood smoke, damp prayer books, dry rot, and incense and felt a great calm descending on her. The village organist was murdering Bach as he had done on all the Sundays stretching back to her baptism. The familiar faces of her tenants smiled at her out of the gloom, and the only unfamiliar things were the tall figure of the marquess standing at the altar and that of his best man—no other than Freddie Jamieson.

  The service passed as if in a dream. Some other Margery seemed to be making the responses. Then the marquess stooped to kiss her and she felt his lips cool and impersonal against her own.

  Then out into the sunshine again under the swinging clamor of the bells and surrounded by the cheers and cries of the villagers.

  The wedding breakfast, to which most of the local county had been asked, was laid out on long tables on the lawns in front of Chelmswood.

  Margery smiled and bowed and listened to the toasts and drank a considerable amount of iced champagne, feeling all the while that the old house was tying her to her childhood and that the familiar setting was stopping her from realizing that she was in fact married to one of the handsomest and richest men in England.

  The twilight deepened, and one by one the guests began to leave. The marquess did not wish any rowdy revels outside his bedroom windows on his wedding night.

  He looked down at his bride. She was talking to Freddie on her other side and showing more animation than she had done all day.

  Suddenly it was dark and Amelia was whispering in her ear that it was time to retire and, followed by a vindictive titter from Desdemona, Margery went slowly indoors. She had drunk too much and eaten too little. She seemed to float up the great dark staircase and along the twisting corridors that led to the east wing. She paused with Amelia outside her new bedroom door, realizing in a fuzzy way that she had not inspected her new quarters, having left all the arrangements to the marquess.

  She pushed open the door and went in.

  A footman followed behind them and busily moved about the room lighting great branches of candles.

  Amelia looked timidly round. “It is perhaps a rather masculine room, Margery. But no doubt you will wish to make some changes when you settle down.”

  A great four-poster bed draped in heavy crimson silk dominated the room. A fine tapestry of a particularly brutal hunting scene decorated one wall and the rest were hung with heavy, dark flock wallpaper and embellished with hunting scenes in ornate gilt frames.

  Margery looked around her vaguely. “It will do,” she said indifferently, and received a surprised and anxious look from Amelia. Battersby bustled into the room and set about getting her mistress ready for bed, turning the unresisting Margery this way and that as if she were a rag doll.

  Finally Margery was left alone to wait for her lord.

  The room seemed uncomfortably bright, so she snuffed most of the candles with the exception of one branch over the fireplace. The summer breeze blew in from the garden, bringing with it the smell of sweet-smelling stock, roses, and freshly cut grass. Margery wandered aimlessly about the room, picking things up and putting them down. A door beside the tapestry led to a small dressing room. There was a narrow bed over in the corner by the window and Margery's heart leapt with relief at the sight of it. Perhaps he did not mean to sleep with her after all. Hard on the heels of that emotion came an irrational feeling of defeat. The marquess must have had love affairs with many beauties. He would probably not feel himself honor-bound to consummate a mere marriage of convenience—until he decided he wanted an heir.

  The effects of the champagne were slowly dissipating and she felt very young and forlorn. She climbed up into the great bed, closed her eyes, and waited patiently for sleep.

  The sound of the door opening made her sit up with a gasp. She had finally convinced herself that the marquess would not come and was shocked to see him standing in the doorway of his dressing room wrapped in an elaborate dressing gown embroidered in blue and gold. Without looking at her, he walked across and snuffed out the candles. She heard the whisper of silk as he removed his dressing gown, and pressed herself back against the pillows.

  “Is this necessary, my lord?” whispered Margery.

  “Very necessary,” came the mocking reply from somewhere in the darkness. “And my name is Charles.”

  Margery sensed a great bulk looming over her in the darkness. “Charles,” she cried in a pleading voice.

  He was in bed beside her. He was drawing her closer.

  “Now, madame wife,” said the Marquess of Edgecombe, “come here to me!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Marquess of Edgecombe twisted round in bed and stared down at the face of his sleeping wife. He was shocked, puzzled, and worried.

  He knew that many country-bred girls like Margery who went in for strenuous sports such as hunting did not come to their marriage bed virgo intacto.

  But nonetheless, he was troubled. Instead of the shy, frightened girl who would have to b
e coaxed in the arts of lovemaking, he had found himself in the arms of a fiery, sensuous woman who had returned passion for passion until he had been left trembling and shaking and feeling like a novice.

  The trick she had played on his three friends, which had recently seemed the desperate move of an innocent girl determined to save her home, now appeared as if it might have been the ploy of an experienced woman. He knew very little about Margery Quennell. His amours had always been with experienced women of the demimonde. And that was why these women existed. It was downright indecent for any gently bred girl to behave with the abandon that his wife had shown.

  He looked down at his wife again. Her face looked very young and innocent. He traced the faint scratches on her cheek and wondered again where she had got them.

  She stirred in her sleep at his touch and then opened her eyes and looked straight up at him. She stretched like a cat and murmured something and then wound her arms round his neck.

  Her slim body seemed to throb and pulsate against him, and the marquess's last coherent thought before he was carried away on a tide of passion was, “Dammit, she might at least have blushed.”

  It was Margery's turn to awaken first. The sun was high in the sky and her lord was asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed at him tenderly. He loved her after all!

  She looked lazily around the room and judged that the other door must lead to her own dressing room. Stiff and sore, she climbed down from the bed and made her way on trembling legs across the floor. She looked back at the sleeping marquess and had a sudden longing to climb back into that large, beautiful bed and fall asleep on his shoulder. But she was anxious to look her best for him when he awoke, so instead she moved into her dressing room, noting with amusement that it was as masculine as her lord's, and rang for Battersby.

  Half an hour later, she tripped lightly down the stairs to find the Honorable Freddie helping himself liberally to breakfast.

  Freddie looked at her glowing face and the last of his doubts about Margery fled. “Morning!” he hailed cheerfully. “Been looking round your place and I must say I don't blame you a bit for fighting hard to keep it. Would do the same thing meself.”