Sally

by M C Beaton

  “But we’re staying now,” said Sally. “Don’t you see how easily they accepted me? And in two hours time I’ll be going riding with Paul.”

  “With… oh, the Marquess of Seudenham. And then we leave,” said Miss Fleming hopefully.

  Sally avoided her gaze. “We’ll see,” she mumbled. “Wasn’t it marvelous the way he looked so bored with the gushings of the Guthrie sisters?”

  “Sophisticated young men about town often look bored with that sort of nonsense,” commented Miss Fleming, “but they marry them just the same. Makes them feel superior. Little woman, and all that. Besides, the Guthrie girls have considerable dowries.”

  “The marquess is very rich. He doesn’t need to marry for money,” pointed out Sally, sitting down by the fire.

  “My dear child,” said Miss Fleming acidly, beginning to remove her hatpins. “Whenever did an English aristocrat sneer at money? The marquess has considerable estates of his own, and they must cost a mint to keep up.”

  “I thought he lived here,” said Sally naively.

  Miss Fleming gave a superior titter. “Oh, no. The marquess lives at Seudenham Manor in Surrey. It’s almost as big as this place.”

  Sally looked at her friend, round-eyed. It seemed… well… indecent to have parents who owned all this, and yet to have nearly as much yourself.

  Miss Fleming, having divested herself of her beaver hat, announced she was going to lie down until five o’clock tea. Miss Fleming was accustomed to country house visits. When the owner of the Daily Bugle summoned the editor, Mr. Wingles, to a house party, Mr. Wingles always took Miss Fleming along by way of protection.

  The great palace seemed much livelier than before, with the voices of the other guests rising and falling from the nearby rooms.

  Sally looked out of the window. They were at the top of the house, on the fourth floor, under the attics in the west wing. Over to the left she could see the clock tower over the stables, and up above the clock tower loomed a darkening sky.

  Oh, please don’t let it rain, prayed Sally, or I won’t have a chance!

  Two hours seemed a long time to wait. But a maid arrived with a smart black gaberdine and velvet riding habit over one arm and a smart black riding topper to go with it—“… compliments of Her Grace.”

  The outfit looked brand new, and Sally was to find out later that it belonged to Miss Wyndham, who went riding as little as possible.

  She spent most of the two hours trying it on and pacing mannishly up and down the room, feeling like a heroine in a novel. She weaved all sorts of fantasies around the forthcoming ride. In some, she would be thrown from her horse, and the marquis would clasp her in his arms and say he loved her. In others, he would be thrown from his horse, and she would clasp him in her arms and cradle his poor bloodied head on her lap, and then spend endless gorgeous days nursing him back to health.

  At precisely ten minutes to four Sally left the palace by a side entrance and made her way by a sort of circular road that led to the stables.

  The marquess was already there, talking to the head groom. He gave her a somewhat indifferent nod by way of a greeting, and Sally’s heart fell. The marquess was, in fact, wondering what had come over him to single out Lady Cecily for this honor. He had learned that his mother had put it about that he was looking for a wife, and he was beginning to feel hunted. The duchess had invited quite a bevy of beauties, and everywhere he went in the palace, glowing eyes stared at him from rooms and corridors.

  While he continued to chat with the groom, Sally eyed the tall, nasty looking horse the groom was holding and wondered how she could mount something like that in what she was wearing. The riding habit had been made by John Barker of Kensington for 105 shillings—a top price. The dress itself had a very tightly cut bodice, lightly boned to the waist, and the skirt was cut to accommodate the right knee when mounting sidesaddle.

  Over the bodice went a very tightly cut waistcoat. Now, most ladies “buttoned up” after they were mounted, but, of course, no one had told Sally that, and she was already having difficulty breathing.

  At last the marquess turned his gaze on her. Sally preened a little. She knew that for once she was wearing something that became her.

  “Sanders,” said the marquess, leading the groom forward, “we need a mount for Lady Cecily.”

  “I’ve put the sidesaddle on Thunderbird,” said Sanders.

  “Is that Thunderbird?” asked Sally faintly, looking up at the black snorting animal.

  “Yes, my lady,” said Sanders. “Quiet as a lamb.”

  Sally bit her lip. “H-haven’t y-you anything smaller?”

  The marquess had fortunately gone off to attend to his own mount. A faint look of scorn flickered across Sanders’s mahogany face. “Well, I dunno, my lady. Reckon there’s that slug, Dandelion.”

  “Dandelion will do perfectly, Sanders,” said Sally in what she hoped was a very autocratic manner.

  Sanders gave a faint shrug and led Thunder-bird away toward the stables.

  Dandelion, when at last saddled up, proved to be what Sally hoped he would be from his nursery name. He was a broad-backed piebald horse with an expression of patient suffering.

  “As long as you’re happy, my lady,” said Sanders as Sally walked to the mounting block. “Dandelion’s an old broken-down show jumper and a bit sluggish.”

  Meanwhile the marquess had swung himself easily into the saddle of an enormous hunter. Sally, more by good luck than anything else, succeeded in getting herself into the sidesaddle on Dandelion’s back without much mishap, apart from the fact that her waistcoat buttons snapped under the strain and shot off all around the stable yard like bullets.

  Master and groom averted their eyes and politely refrained from comment.

  Sally and the marquess ambled out of the stable yard, and all Sally’s fears left her. There was nothing to this horse riding after all. She relaxed her feverish grip on the reins and looked about her with pleasure. She had recovered quickly from the embarrassment of the popping buttons.

  The marquess was a little in the lead. “We’ll take the bridle path along the other side of the lake,” he called over his shoulder, and Sally called back a cheery “Right-ho!” feeling no end of a horsewoman.

  Everything went very well as they moved slowly along the cinnamon-colored path beside the ruffled black waters of the lake. “That very pretty rotunda over there,” called the marquess, pointing to a marble colonnaded building situated on a knoll, “was built by the second duke.”

  Sally was about to make some reply, but Dandelion had decided to amble sideways along the path and was beginning to take up all her attention.

  Then the marquess began to move his horse into a canter. Sally looked after his disappearing figure in dismay. So did Dandelion. At last Dandelion judged correctly that the limp weight on his back was devoid of mastery and decided to take the law into his hooves. He tossed his head and set off at a canter along the path after the marquess.

  It was then that Sally realized there was more to riding than she could have possibly imagined.

  Up and down went Dandelion, and up and down went Sally, like a sack of potatoes, slipping and sliding and always just nearly falling off, and always just managing to haul herself back with the pommel.

  The marquess left the lake and cantered along a long, narrow stretch of beaten track that led up a gentle slope towards Sally thought bleakly, infinity.

  And then the marquess urged his horse into a gallop.

  For one split second Browning’s lines ran madly through Sally’s head: “I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three,” for she knew as sure as she knew anything that Dandelion was going to follow suit. And sure enough off he went like an arrow from a bow.

  Now, apart from the fact that one gets hurtled along at a frightening pace, a galloping horse does not chuck one about the place as much as a cantering horse, and so with Sally hanging onto the pommel, Dandelion streamed off in pursuit, up the hill and dow
n the other side. Sleet was beginning to fall and stung her face. There is nothing like novice horse riding for working up a good religious fervor, and Sally certainly prayed as she had never prayed before. At the bottom of the hill, the path swerved sharply to the left at the front of a five-barred gate.

  Sally left off praying and opened her mouth to call “Whoa,” but, alas, in her extreme fright, she called out “Hup!” instead and Dandelion, hearing that command from his old show jumping days and being full of oats, went straight for that five-barred gate.

  The marquess, hearing the frantic thud of hooves over the sound of his own horse, had reined in and turned just in time to see a splendid sight.

  Dandelion sailed over the gate with an inch to spare, with Sally clinging for dear life to his back. Some age-old instinct told her at the last minute to lift her bottom out of the saddle before Dandelion landed. He then galloped hell-for-leather twice around the field and then slowed and stopped finally, putting his head down and amiably beginning to crop the grass.

  Stunned and shaken, Sally moved her grip automatically from the pommel to the reins and sat as still as a stone.

  “By Jove!” called the marquess, dismounting and opening the gate. “What splendid horsemanship. I didn’t know old Dandelion still had it in him! Wonderful riding!”

  He stood smiling up at her, and Sally smiled back, a blinding smile, a wonderful smile. And the marquess was enchanted. He did not know that it was the smile of a girl who could not believe she was still alive.

  “Come along!” cried the marquess, all boyish enthusiasm. “I’ll race you back.”

  And in one split second love nearly changed to hate in Sally’s bosom.

  “I think poor old Dandelion has had enough, and one must always consider one’s horse,” she said sanctimoniously. “Let’s just amble and—and—talk.”

  “Right-ho!” he said gaily. He held open the gate for her, and, fortunately for Sally, Dandelion was tired and realized it was nearly feeding time, and so he ambled placidly out of the gate.

  The marquess mounted and this time rode beside Sally.

  “I think that was the most gallant jump I have ever seen,” he said, enthused, and Sally privately agreed with him.

  “You hunt, of course. There’s a meet after the ball.”

  I can’t, thought Sally wildly. I just can’t. Aloud she said, “I have hunted, yes, but not the fox. I have been out of England a great deal. Pigsticking, you know.”

  The marquess surveyed her in amazement. “Pigsticking! In Africa?”

  Too late, Sally realized her mistake. “Well, it was not precisely Africa. We were in India—Bombay, for a time.”

  “I’ve never heard of a woman going pigsticking in any country,” said the marquess suspiciously. “Tell me about it.”

  And Sally did, for Sally could. Hadn’t she listened to boring after boring story about that brutal sport at dinner party after dinner party?

  So she discoursed at length about the typical pigsticking meets, which would start long before dawn because it was too hot to ride in the heat of the day; of the long line of riders moving across country, usually in heats of three, a few lengths ahead of the beat; of the pandemonium that would break out when a boar was sighted, every beater yelling “Woh jata!” or “There he goes!” and the nearest heat galloping off in arrow formation with the man in front shouting, “On! On! On!”; of the incredible speeds of the horses, usually Australian walers—from New South Wales—that seemed to be able to float across the country.

  Sally went on to explain how to deliver the spear correctly over the boar’s shoulder and into his shoulder blade. And the marquess listened, entranced. Although he had heard most of it before, he thought it marvelous and amazing that this elflike creature should be capable of such bravery and experience. He was so engrossed in her lecture that he kept his horse to a safe amble and was barely aware, until they were once more moving along beside the lake, that the sleet had changed to large flakes of snow that were gradually blotting out the landscape.

  He thought Sally’s indifference to the weather was typical of the girl, not knowing that Sally was freezing to death but would have endured anything other than another gallop, and was trying to keep his attention away from horse riding by going on about pigsticking until she felt she was beginning to bore herself.

  When they finally arrived at the stables, Sally was making a great effort to control the shaking of her knees. She felt battered and bruised all over.

  The marquess held up his arms to lift her down, and she fell heavily against him. But not for worlds would she let him know what a physical wreck she felt, and so she smiled up into his eyes with a flirtatious twinkle in her own so that he would think she had collapsed deliberately against him.

  After a slight look of surprise the marquess held her very close and then released her, turning away to shout something to the head groom, Sanders, and therefore sparing himself the sight of his fair partner reeling like a drunk as her weak and trembling legs fought for balance.

  By the time he had turned back, she had recovered enough to walk with him to the palace without staggering or falling. Much as she loved him, all Sally longed for was a hot bath. But…

  “Good Heavens! Teatime already,” said the marquess, pulling out his half hunter and staring at it. “Don’t bother to change. We are not very muddy. Only rather wet.”

  Sally groaned inwardly. As he led her through the hall she caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass and almost started in surprise. Apart from the missing buttons on her waistcoat, she saw in amazement that she looked possibly more elegant and assured than she had ever done in her life. The black topper was remarkably becoming, and, underneath it, not even a strand of hair had come loose from its moorings.

  Quite a surprising number of people were assembled in the large drawing room, drinking tea. The Guthrie sisters descended on the marquess with little chirping cries and bore him off, one on either side. He cast an anguished look of mock despair over his shoulder at Sally, which every lady in the room noted, hating Sally accordingly.

  With relief Sally saw the trim and upright figure of Miss Fleming and headed in that lady’s direction.

  “I’m dying,” she muttered as Miss Fleming handed her a cup of tea. “I’d never ridden a horse before, and never, ever will I ride one again.”

  “I say, Lady Cecily,” said a voice at her elbow, “allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Firkin, Peter Firkin. Just heard Paul telling everybody about your marvelous jump. Jolly good, haw. You’ll show us all at the meet on Saturday.”

  “I don’t think—” began Sally weakly.

  “Everyone’s turning out to see you go through your paces, don’t you know. You must tell me all about the time you went pigsticking.”

  “You what?” interposed Miss Fleming.

  Sally suddenly put down her teacup with a hand that shook. “Later, Mr. Firkin,” she said.

  “Miss Fleming, please come upstairs with me. I do not like to stand around in all my dirt.”

  Miss Fleming cast a longing look toward a plate of cucumber sandwiches and decided to make the best of it. She collared a footman and asked that their afternoon tea be served to them in their rooms and bore Sally off.

  Sally managed bravely until the door of her room closed behind her. Then she threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.

  “He didn’t… he couldn’t have,” exclaimed Miss Fleming, who always believed that men were only after one thing.

  “No! No!” wailed Sally. “I hurt all over, and I was so frightened, and now I am to go hunting.”

  Miss Fleming sat on the edge of the bed and took Sally’s limp hand in her own.

  “Look here, Sally,” she said. “Have you paused to think what on earth you can possibly do even if the Marquess falls head over heels in love with you? By the ball tomorrow night, he will only have known Lady Cecily a short time. A man like that does not propose on such short notice. And what if he does?
You will then need to tell him that you are not Lady Cecily Trevelyn, a duke’s daughter, but plain Sally Blane of Bloomsbury, who works as Aunt Mabel.”

  “Oh, don’t!” wailed Sally. “I know it’s all been such a mistake. I fantasized that he would forgive me when I told him… but now I’ve already deceived him further by pretending I can ride.”

  “Then let us make our excuses and leave,” said Miss Fleming briskly. “If we hurry, perhaps we can catch the seven o’clock train from Bath.”

  Sally sat up and dried her tears, looking mulish. “And leave him in the clutches of those Guthrie girls? Never! I’ve gone through all this to go to this ball, and go I jolly well will!”

  “And on the stroke of midnight you’ll have to turn back into Aunt Mabel,” pointed out Miss Fleming.

  “Oh, I don’t need to turn into Aunt Mabel until after the hunt,” pointed out Sally, looking considerably more cheerful.

  “You can’t possibly go on that hunt. You can’t even ride. You don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “I can read a book on the subject,” said Sally, all mad reason.

  “It’s a pity you can’t marry the man,” said Miss Fleming acidly. “You would fit in very well here. They’re all mad. That Mrs. Stuart was telling everyone before you arrived that ‘poor old Freddie’ was due to pop off any minute, and the man just stood there looking like a silly sheep. And for your information, Miss Wyndham is not in love with your Paul. The poor girl is head over heels in love with that ass, Peter Firkin.”

  Sally opened her mouth in surprise, but at that moment two footmen arrived, bearing their tea.

  “Oh, splendid!” cried Miss Fleming. “Hot muffins and strawberry jam. Come along, Sally. There is nothing like a muffin and a good cup of tea to restore anyone to sanity.”

  But Sally could barely wait until the servants had left before she burst out with, “But how can Miss Wyndham be in love with Peter Firkin when Paul is around?”

  “No accounting for taste,” said Miss Fleming, her mouth full of muffin.