Sally

by M C Beaton

  And how could she possibly put it into words? As the duchess had done? Miss Wyndham is too good for you?

  All too soon the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. The duchess immediately drew Sally aside. “Come with me,” she whispered. “Paul is home. I will have him sent to you.”

  With a rapidly beating heart, Sally followed the duchess back through a bewildering array of rooms and found herself in an enormous library, which looked down the drive at the front of the palace.

  It smelled slightly of leather, potpourri, and stale tobacco. Serried ranks of books mounted up to the painted ceiling. Sally quickly lowered her eyes from the ceiling. Goodness knew what might be up there getting raped or sacrificed.

  A footman came in silently after them and set a decanter of whisky and a soda siphon on a low table near the windows, which were flanked by two high-backed easy chairs.

  “Now,” said the duchess, with a surprisingly girlish giggle, “I will send my bad boy along. Won’t he be surprised!”

  “But doesn’t he know…?” began Sally desperately, but the duchess had fluttered off.

  Sally clasped her hands together. Outside on the terrace a peacock strutted past silently. A faint smell of thyme drifted in from the gardens.

  What shall I say to him? wondered Sally. Her Grace has planned this as a surprise. He’ll probably sneer most dreadfully. And what rank does a duke’s only son hold anyway? Marquess, I think.

  The door opened, and Sally remained where she was, quite still, seated in one of the armchairs beside the long windows looking out into the darkness of the gardens.

  “Surprise!” came the duchess’s voice from the door. “Paul, darling, this is Aunt Mabel of Home Chats. Aunt Mabel, my son, Paul, Marquess of Seudenham. I’ll leave you two together!”

  Sally tried to struggle to her feet, but a deep voice said, “Please, don’t. I shall join you.”

  Resplendent in black-and-white evening dress, the Marquess of Seudenham sank into the armchair opposite.

  Sally gazed at him, unbelieving. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen, from his thick black hair to his bright, mocking blue eyes, set in a tanned face, to his lithe, muscular body. And he was no adolescent. She judged him to be in his middle thirties.

  The marquess looked curiously at the little old lady who was staring at him so intently. Her face looked rather stiff and odd, he thought, and she was very wrinkled indeed. Only her large gray eyes seemed to be alive. He helped himself to a whisky and soda, frowning as he realized no other refreshment had been set out suitable to an old lady like Aunt Mabel.

  He waited for her to speak, but she was still gazing at him helplessly, so he said, “Aunt… er… Mabel? Which side of the family?”

  “Home Chats,” croaked Sally.

  “Home…? Oh, no! You’re not one of those ladies who give advice to the lovelorn?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Sally, suddenly helping herself to a whisky and soda.

  “Mama has really gone too far this time… er… Aunt Mabel. Who am I supposed to be lovelorn over?”

  “Miss Wyndham.”

  “Really? My mother knows more about it than I do. Does she want me to marry the girl?”

  Sally took a large gulp of her drink and looked at him shyly. “The duchess doesn’t want you to marry her at all.”

  “Your words surprise me. Miss Wyndham is young and beautiful and rich. All the things to gladden a mother’s heart. What’s up with her?”

  “Nothing,” said Sally weakly and then again, “Nothing,” in a stronger voice as she gathered the mantle of Aunt Mabel about her. “Your mother thinks she is too good for you. Her Grace thinks you need a lady with a little more vice in her.”

  He put down his glass and leaned back in his chair and laughed loud and long while Sally stared at him with adoring eyes.

  At last he finished laughing, and Sally adjusted her expression to one—she hoped—of rather prim wisdom.

  “And so the decision, I gather, is to be left to you? I think that must be why Mama sprang this surprise on me.”

  “I should think so,” quavered Sally, very much Aunt Mabel.

  What is your decision?”

  Sally bent her head and appeared to concentrate. Actually she had made a lightning decision. This handsome marquess should really marry no one else but Miss Sally Blane. How it was to be achieved, she could not even begin to imagine. But she had wanted to work on Fleet Street—and she did. All things were possible if the modern Edwardian career woman put her mind to it.

  “I think you should only marry for love,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “And what makes you think I am not in love with Miss Wyndham?”

  “You are too detached,” said Sally.

  “Love, in my opinion,” said the marquess, “is only a fleeting fancy. I am heading rapidly for middle age. I am thirty-five years old, which must not seem much to you”—Sally winced—“nonetheless, it is time I settled down.”

  “Have you never been in love?” asked Sally curiously.

  “Oh, hundreds of times.” He paused, momentarily taken aback by the strange look of pain in the expressive eyes of the old lady opposite, who was now gulping her whisky as if it were water. “It never lasted. Can I get you another drink? Perhaps something milder? Sherry, perhaps?”

  “No,” said Aunt Mabel grimly, “whisky will do very well” Made bold by the spirit, she addressed him earnestly. “My dear lord, I have had great experience in matters of the heart. If you marry some girl simply because you think she will make a suitable wife, then your marriage will be doomed from the start. And then think of the children—the sticky, jammy, screaming, awful children,” said Sally with sudden drunken fervor, thinking of Emily’s noisy brood.

  He crossed one elegantly tailored leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. Sally studied his handsome profile in the lamplight and sighed.

  “I am beginning to think you do not approve of marriage at all,” he said. “Are you, or have you been, married yourself?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “In that case—”

  “But I must assure you, as a detached observer, I have great insight into the problems of matrimony,” said Sally.

  He looked at her curiously. It was almost as if, by some trick of the light, a young and beautiful and intense girl were superimposed like a phantom over the wrinkled and aged features of Aunt Mabel.

  Then he noticed that the hand holding her glass was trembling slightly and gently took the drink from her and put it on the table.

  “We will discuss this further tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think you should rest. It is very late.”

  Sally allowed him to help her to her feet.

  “Would you assist me to my room?” she quavered. “I do feel shaky.” And in truth, she did, not being used to hard liquor.

  Ah! The benefits of being old,? thought Sally as the marquess put one strong arm around her. She leaned against him gratefully and moved as slowly as possible so as to prolong this delicious experience.

  He felt the old lady tremble slightly and experienced a qualm of anxiety. She was a queer old bird, and it was certainly long past her bedtime.

  He escorted her to the door of her sitting room and politely held the door open for her, receiving a blazing look from a pair of glowing eyes.

  Naughty old thing, thought the marquess, much amused. I believe she’s got a crush on me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sally carefully sponged her rubber wrinkles in the morning, wishing heartily that she could tear the whole mess from her face. But the role of Aunt Mabel had to be kept up, the pouter pigeon corset to be struggled into, and the stuffy, hot old ladies’ clothes to be put on.

  It was going to be another very long day.

  She drank her tea—brought in by the maid—and ate her Osborne biscuits and found that her stomach was still rumbling, and so she went in search of the breakfast room, eventually being guided to it by a
footman.

  It transpired that everyone else, with the exception of Peter Firkin, was breakfasting in their rooms. Sally helped herself to a generous portion of bacon and grilled kidneys from the enormous array of dishes on the sideboard and sat down primly opposite Mr. Firkin, whose nose was buried in the morning paper.

  She hoped he would not trouble to engage her in conversation, but no sooner had she begun to eat than she became aware of one large hazel eye surveying her over the top of the newspaper.

  “Aunt Mabel?”

  Sally put down her knife and fork with a little sigh. “Yes, Mr. Firkin?”

  “I say, do you give chappies advice as well as the gels?”

  “Oh, yes, especially after I have eaten something and woken up properly,” said Sally repressively.

  “Haw, jolly good,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing aside the newspaper so that it fell across the marmalade. “Fact is, I’m awfully much in need of someone to natter to about things.”

  Sally sighed. “Natter away, Mr. Firkin,” she said.

  “Well, haw, haw, it’s jolly awkward getting it out, ’specially as I’ve always been one of the strong, silent types, don’t you know, eh what, haw. Fact is… I’m in love.” And with that admission Mr. Firkin blushed like a schoolboy and buried his nose in his coffee cup.

  Sally surveyed him with some amusement, took several hasty bites of her breakfast, and urged, “Do go on.”

  “Don’t know how to begin,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and swinging one foot so that it smacked up against the underside of the table, sending a small wave of Sally’s tea cascading over her breakfast plate.

  “Try,” said Sally, resolving to try to eat breakfast when Mr. Firkin was in a less energetic state.

  “It’s like this,” he said in a rush. “I’m most awfully, frightfully, terribly smitten with Miss Wyndham.”

  Lovely Mr. Firkin! Brave Mr. Firkin! Splendid Mr. Firkin!

  “And she’s in love with you,” said Sally, smiling.

  “Oh, no. I think she’s in love with Paul.”

  Stupid, dreary, useless Mr. Firkin.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, stands to reason. He’s got the title, he’s terribly rich, he’s handsome. Any gel would prefer him to me.”

  “Oh, yes,” breathed Sally dreamily, and then caught his huffy look of surprise.

  “No, no, I don’t mean that,” she said hurriedly. “I mean one would think so. On the other hand”—Sally crossed her fingers behind her back—“you are a remarkably good-looking young man. Yes, I would say you are definitely what I would call attractive.”

  Peter Firkin blushed and looked at her adoringly.

  “It is necessary,” went on Sally cautiously, “to take some action. It is no use sitting around inarticulate. You must have courage! You must woo her. And you must tell his lordship, the marquess, that your feelings are engaged, so that he will not come between you and Miss Wyndham. I happen to know that his lordship is indifferent to Miss Wyndham.”

  “I say, you can’t go around saying things like that to another chappie when the chappie’s your friend! And Paul… well, he can be a funny sort of cove. He might laugh—and—and I don’t think I could bear that.”

  “I shall speak to him if you like,” volunteered Sally, completely forgetting about breakfast.

  “Oh, would you? I say, Aunt Mabel, you are absolutely the cat’s pajamas. If I were younger, I’d marry you instead.”

  “Oh, Mr. Firkin,” said Sally roguishly. “You naughty man.”

  And absolutely delighted with each other, the pair finished their breakfasts.

  Sally felt quite powerful and elated. Being Aunt Mabel certainly had its advantages.

  But it was not until late in the day that Sally had her much-longed-for talk with the marquess. First, directly after breakfast, she had been accosted by the housekeeper, a formidable lady, all bosom and no hips, who wanted to seek Aunt Mabel’s advice on the insobriety of the butler and the peccadilloes of the footmen.

  Luncheon was a dreary affair for Sally, since the marquess was seated next to Miss Wyndham and seemed to be flirting outrageously. Then, after luncheon, Her Grace wished a report on Aunt Mabel’s talk with her son. Then, because of her great age, Sally was almost forced to lie down in the afternoon while “the young people”—everyone under sixty—went out for a drive.

  As the duchess was leaving Aunt Mabel in her sitting room, she turned at the door and said, “I have a simply marvelous idea. Paul obviously wants just to get married. Therefore it is up to us to find him someone suitable! I shall give a ball and invite all the prettiest and raciest girls.”

  Sally longed to cry out, “Oh, don’t do that!” but Aunt Mabel said instead, “A very good idea.”

  The duchess tilted her head to one side and surveyed Aunt Mabel. “You know, I think it was such a good idea getting you here. You must come for the ball. Simply must attend. What fun we will have watching to see which one Paul chooses!”

  “Yes,” said Sally bleakly. “On the other hand, I must really return to London. You see, I have many letters to—”

  “Of course you have!” said the duchess blithely, “and I took the liberty of telephoning that Mr. Barton and telling him to forward all your mail here. He wanted to send your secretary, but I said there was no need for that. You can use mine. Have you met him? He’s cataloging the library just now. Mr. Worthing. So that’s all right. You will be here for the ball. Now, please lie down, dear, and rest your old bones, and we shall see you at dinner.”

  The duchess went off merrily, and Sally slumped miserably in her chair. She did not want to sleep. She wanted simply to go to that ball as anyone other than Aunt Mabel.

  It was with something of a feeling of relief that Sally welcomed the arrival of two sacks of mail that had arrived by train that morning and had been collected by the duke’s servants.

  She debated whether to go down to the library and engage the services of the duke’s secretary, but then decided to work on the letters herself. All at once she wanted to keep thoughts of the marquess out of her mind.

  I must be terribly kind to old people, thought Sally as she settled down to her work. How awful to be excluded from everything.

  She worked away steadily until a maid arrived at six o’clock with the news that the marquess wished to have a word with her.

  With a rapidly beating heart, Sally adjusted her wig, patted her rubber wrinkles, and followed the maid to the long gallery on the first floor, where the marquess was sitting reading a copy of Home Chats, surrounded by the portraits of his ancestors.

  He looked up at Sally and smiled in such a way that she felt quite breathless.

  “Well, my wise Aunt Mabel,” he said, rising and pulling a chair forward for her. “Have you come to a decision? Am I to offer my heart and my hand to Miss Wyndham?”

  “I don’t think you should,” said Sally, carefully aging her voice. “Apart from the fact that you are not in love with Miss Wyndham, someone else is.”

  “Who?”

  “Peter Firkin.”

  “Pull the other one,” he said rudely. “I mean to say, Peter. I’m very fond of the old boy, and I’ve known him since we were at school together. But honestly, you must be mistaken. Peter runs from anything in a skirt, no matter what age. What on earth gave you that strange idea?”

  “He told me.”

  “Good heavens! You are good at your job, if winkling dark secrets out of people is part of it. I must tease old Peter about this. Goodness, what a laugh!”

  “The reason I am telling you this and not Mr. Firkin,” said Sally primly, “is because Mr. Firkin is very much in love and did not want to tell you just in case you did laugh at him.”

  “Dear me!” He raised his thin eyebrows. “I shall not embarrass him in any way. Actually, Peter is not dim at all. He was very bright at school, and under all that shyness lurks a pretty good brain. Ah, well… have you heard about mo
ther’s ball? She is importing suitable young ladies for my amusement. I wonder what has come over her. She never bothered before.”

  “Perhaps the duchess thinks it is time you settled down,” said Sally.

  “Undoubtedly. Never mind, I shall dance with you, Aunt Mabel, if you will save one for me.”

  Sally smiled bleakly. Then she looked around the long gallery. Was she aiming too high? The only money she had was what she had earned, apart from the two hundred pounds she had taken out of the bank in Lewes.

  The aristocracy—particularly these days—did not lightly marry girls of a lower class with insignificant dowries.

  She became aware that he was speaking again. “After all,” he was saying in a light, mocking voice, “you quite put me off the whole idea. I hadn’t thought of all those squalling brats running around the place.”

  “I was thinking of my sister’s children,” said Sally hurriedly. “Very spoiled, all of them.”

  “Your sister’s children? Surely they are grown-up by now?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I was thinking of what they were like when they were little. But—but—all children need not be like that.”

  “No, no!” He laughed. “You have talked me out of it. Well, I must get changed for dinner.” He hesitated before he had moved away a few paces. “I know little of Fleet Street, Aunt Mabel,” he said, “but I must think it’s very enterprising in a lady of your years to take on such a demanding job.”

  “I enjoy it,” said Sally truthfully. “I learn a lot about myself from other people’s problems. There is an infinite capacity in all of us for being wicked.”

  “’The only original sin is opportunity,’” he quoted.

  “Exactly. Given a different upbringing, say in Seven Dials, I, perhaps, would be capable of all the seven deadly sins at once.”

  “Tut-tut!” he mocked. “What a shocking old thing you are, to be sure. Are you leaving with me?”

  “No, my lord. It is peaceful here. I shall sit and think of my sins.”

  “They can’t be very many.”

  “Few,” admitted Sally, “but quite colorful for all that.” She turned a glowing pair of eyes on him, and then found he was watching her strangely, and she hurriedly looked down at her hands. When she looked up again he had gone.