by M C Beaton
Well, it seemed as if everyone was trying to shout explanations to his lordship. But his lordship did not seem to be listening to anyone because he had picked up a piece of charred towel from the doorway and was looking at it thoughtfully. Then he saw the bed candle on its flat stand lying on the floor a little distance away.
“Whose candle is that, Bessie?” he asked one of the housemaids.
“It’s her ladyship’s,” said Bessie. “See, it’s got a rose design, my lord, to match my lady’s room.”
“It seems as if we have brought you out all because of a false alarm,” said the marquess, with unimpaired amiability, to the fire chief. “Bessie, fetch Perkins and see that the gentlemen of the fire department are given a tankard of beer apiece and something for their trouble. Where is her ladyship?”
“My lady is out on the street with the servants, my lord,” said Bessie. “I would be out there with them if I had got up in time, but I’m such a heavy sleeper.”
“Fetch her ladyship and bring us something warm to drink in the study. Tell the servants to clean this room and light a fire to dry the place out.”
The marquess retreated into his rooms, changed into a black polo jumper and an old pair of flannel bags, and made his way to the study.
Annie was warming her toes at a newly lit fire. She was leaning forward so that the curtain of her red hair hid her face from him.
He sat down opposite, and she gave him a scared, guilty look and dropped her eyes again.
“Don’t say a word until I have had a good stiff drink,” he said. “Ah, Perkins! There you are. Well, as you see, there was no fire, but it shows that you can do splendidly in an emergency. How much would you like me to give you?”
“Since there was no fire, my lord, I would say that ten pounds would be very generous.”
“So would I, Perkins. So would I. But I can only assume that there is something you wish to buy that you have your heart set on. You will find the money in the desk over there. Help yourself. And then bring me something to make some punch.”
“Thank you, my lord. Very good, my lord.”
When the butler had left, Annie said, “Do you always ask your servants how much money they want as a tip?”
“Oh, always,” he said. “They never ask for too much. People like to be trusted.”
“I like to trust people,” said Annie, in a low voice.
Perkins arrived with a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey, lemons, brown sugar, a jug of hot water, and a punch bowl, which he set on a small table and then placed it in front of his master. Then he bowed and withdrew.
Annie watched her husband nervously as he mixed the punch. Then she found she could keep silent no longer.
“Well, it was only a false alarm,” she said brightly. “I wonder what caused that smoke? I’m afraid I panicked. I was sure you would be burned to death.”
“Really?” he said, seeming to concentrate his whole attention on the punch. “Annie, why did you set a towel alight and push it under my door?”
“I didn’t,” lied Annie, feeling a telltale blush creeping up her neck and face.
“You did, you know. I’m sorry if my lovemaking upset you so much that you felt compelled to set fire to me.”
Annie looked at him miserably. He gave her a charming smile and handed her a steaming glass.
“Do I have to tell you?” asked Annie.
“No,” he said gently. “I am sure you have some perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps it’s a well-known Scotch custom, like setting the heather on fire.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Annie, cradling her glass in her hands. “I tried your door and I thought it was locked, and therefore I thought you had the infernal cheek to bring that dark-haired woman home to bed with you.”
“What? Polly? My first cousin? Never. Come to think of it, I’ve never brought any of my lady friends here.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes. Mrs. Jimmy Waite-Hansen—Polly. You met her at our wedding reception.”
“I didn’t remember…”
“Anyway, why the fire?”
“I was trying to smoke you out.”
He laughed and laughed. Finally he mopped his streaming eyes. “Jealousy is a wonderful thing,” he said.
“I? Jealous?” said Annie, feeling hurt and humiliated. “You have to be in love with someone to be jealous. I was merely incensed at the thought that you had brought one of your many mistresses back here.”
“Of course,” he agreed amiably. “I had forgotten. Yes, do you know that for one little space of time, I had forgotten that you did not marry me for love.”
She looked at him, searching for the courage to tell him that she had not meant that remark about marrying him merely to get revenge on Marigold. But it had been true. Was true. Or was it? Oh, she didn’t know what she felt, she thought wretchedly, and somehow the moment to say anything had passed and he was saying mildly, “You look exhausted. You had better go to bed.”
Again she hesitated, wanting to say something. But he had never said that he loved her. And probably Marigold was right and he had married her for her money. Hadn’t he only made love to her just to beget a child before Marigold?
With a mumbled “Good night,” she trailed from the room, hesitating at each step, hoping that he would call her back.
But he sat very still beside the fire, his glass in his hand, looking into the flames.
She did not see him at all the next day. By evening, a servant handed her a ribboned box and a long envelope. The box contained a bottle of perfume called Night in Paris. The envelope contained a letter from her husband, saying that he had been called down to the country to settle a boundary dispute and would be back within a few days.
She stared mutinously at the perfume. She would not open it, would not wear it. He was her husband. He should have taken her with him. He did not love her. She had turned down two social engagements for the evening because—because she had a headache, she told herself fiercely. She would not even admit it to herself, her pride would not allow it, that she had stayed home simply to see him again.
Like the heavy feet of the prisoners on the treadmill at Newgate, her thoughts churned laboriously around and around in her head until she decided sadly that he had not gone to the country, that he was probably lying in the experienced arms of some mistress, and that he was not thinking of her at all.
For the next three days she threw herself into a frenzy of social activities that left her feeling tired and listless.
On the morning of the fourth day, Miss Mary Hammond called. At first Annie debated whether to see her or not. Then she remembered that Mr. Shaw-Bufford had not seemed to disapprove of Miss Hammond, so perhaps she was not quite as mad as she had appeared at the meeting in the Masonic Hall.
Miss Hammond’s appearance was reassuring. She was wearing a smart felt hat and a walking dress, which, although not precisely fashionable, at least looked like a woman’s dress.
“My dear Annie,” began Miss Hammond, as Annie walked into the drawing room. “What a charming home you have! That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“Pray sit down,” said Annie, ringing the bell and asking for the tea tray. “Surely you did not come simply to tell me how charming my home is!”
“No.” Miss Hammond gave an awkward laugh. “I’ll get straight to the point. I don’t believe in shilly-shallying. I have formed a little band of women supporters. Your town house is so central. I wondered if you would consider helping our cause by holding a meeting here?”
“Here!” Annie looked about her. She wanted to say that she would feel easier in her mind if she asked her husband’s permission, but that would probably be taken by Miss Hammond to betray a weak-kneed slavish dependency.
“Are you still sort of… well, ‘Down with Men’ and all that?” she asked.
“Well, no,” said Miss Hammond, baring her large teeth in a smile. “Men are in power at the moment and we need their support. But
Our Day Will Come.”
“So what is the purpose…?”
“The Vote.”
“Oh,” said Annie doubtfully. “You do not plan anything militant…?”
“Oh, no, no. We have Other Means.”
For a moment, Miss Hammond’s pale eyes flashed, and Annie felt increasingly nervous.
“Do I know any of the ladies perhaps?” she asked, to stall for time.
“I think at least one name will be familiar to you. Mrs. Amy Cartwright.”
Annie’s face cleared. “I know Mrs. Cartwright well,” she said. Amy Cartwright was a young widow and one of Annie’s newfound social friends.
“And Mrs. Tommy Winton.”
Better still. Mrs. Winton was a frivolous matron.
“Very well,” said Annie, slowly. “And when is this meeting to take place?”
“I thought perhaps Saturday.”
“This Saturday?”
“I know it’s short notice.” Miss Hammond played her ace. “Mr. Shaw-Bufford was sure you would not mind and he has promised to look in.”
“Well, I have no arrangements for Saturday afternoon, but perhaps Saturday evening was what you had in mind?”
“Oh, no. Saturday afternoon at two o’clock. We are having a meeting to arrange a social function to raise funds.”
Annie smiled with relief. She had been afraid that the purpose of the meeting was to arrange some sort of painful demonstration like chaining themselves to the railings of the Houses of Parliament.
“What a pleasant way of raising money.” She smiled. Secretly, Annie found herself hoping that her husband would return in time for the meeting. Then he would see that she had ideals, that she was not a useless member of society, unfit to set foot on his precious estates. For, among her other fears, Annie was beginning to wonder whether her husband was ashamed of her.
She imagined him entering the drawing room and finding her presiding over a meeting of intelligent, dedicated women. This happy dream carried her through until Saturday.
Saturday was a gloomy day. Rain fell steadily and remorselessly from a leaden sky. Raindrops trickled down the windows, blurring the view of the buildings across the square.
Annie’s throat was sore and her forehead felt hot.
She had not been ill since childhood, and she refused to accept the fact that she was ill now. She moved hazily through the house supervising the arrangements for the meeting: arranging flowers in bowls, telling the servants to carry in ranks of chairs for the drawing room, cajoling the cook into preparing her special scones for the occasion.
At times she couldn’t stop shivering and asked for fires to be lit throughout the house; then she was boiling hot and fretfully told the servants to open all the windows.
By the time the ladies started to arrive, shaking dripping umbrellas in the hall, Annie found that her vision was becoming slightly blurred and the day had begun to take on a dreamlike quality. She was too busy supervising the serving of tea to take in much of what was going on. Although she was the hostess, the women seemed to have forgotten about her.
Mrs. Tommy Winton was enthusiastically discussing arrangements for a ball to be held in her house. With the exception of Miss Hammond and a few of her militant supporters, the other ladies were mostly society butterflies who were supporting the Vote for Women movement as the latest fad and who were more interested in an excuse to hold a ball than in any political reform.
After a date had been fixed and caterers agreed on, Miss Hammond rose to make her speech. With amazing fervor, she thanked the ladies who had gathered to support her. By the evening of the ball, she said, she hoped to be able to tell them Marvelous News at which they would Throw Off Their Chains. Her audience, in the main, listened with polite disinterest. Miss Hammond and her society were merely part of the excuse for the ball and something to be endured on a rainy afternoon.
The butler murmured in Annie’s ear as she was just sitting down that Mr. Shaw-Bufford had arrived and begged a few words with her in private.
Annie arose wearily. Her head was on fire and her legs felt as heavy as lead. She followed Perkins to the study where Mr. Shaw-Bufford had taken up a position before the fire.
After a few preliminary conversational gambits, he got down to brass tacks.
“Lady Torrance,” he said, taking her hand in his, his deep-set eyes boring down into Annie’s fevered ones. “I am deeply moved to find that you have given up your house to such a noble cause. I have never discussed politics with you. But I will tell you this in the deepest confidence because I feel there is a bond of friendship between us…”
He hesitated, waiting for some response. He noticed Annie’s scarlet face and, not realizing it was the result of fever, put it down as a gratified blush.
“If I were prime minister,” he said in a low voice, “then women would have the vote, I assure you.”
Annie tried to gather her scrambled wits. “But Mr. Macleod is prime minister,” she said, passing the hand he was not holding over her hot brow.
“Exactly. And while he is in power there is not much I can do. That position should have been mine. But the day will come… Forgive me, I go too fast. The fact is, this society of Miss Hammond’s needs money. With money we can start to gain power.”
“But… the ball,” said Annie, weakly. “That is to raise money.”
“All it will raise is interest in the movement,” he said dryly. “By the time all the arrangements are paid for out of the subscriptions, there will be little left.
“And that is what has given me the courage to approach you. Lady Torrance, I beg you to contribute ten thousand pounds to the society.”
“What?” said Annie, dizzily. She tugged her hand away. “My dear Mr. Shaw-Bufford, you must ask my husband.”
“But you are a wealthy heiress. Surely you have money of your own?”
“I don’t know,” said Annie, wretchedly. “All my husband told me was that he had made arrangements for me to draw money on his bank any time I wanted.”
“Then it is probably your money. Your husband’s life-style, dear Lady Torrance, is… But I must not say more. It is your money, believe me. You are not his slave. You are an independent lady.”
By this time Annie would have paid him double the amount to get rid of him, she felt so ill. “I—I must think,” she said. “When shall I give you the money?”
“Well, I do not wish to rush you. Shall we say next Wednesday? I shall call for tea.”
“Yes, yes,” said Annie. “Now I really must get back to my guests…”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. He walked forward and held the door of the study open for her. “Perhaps you would be so good as to send Miss Hammond to me, Lady Torrance? That is, if she has finished speaking.”
Annie nodded and went out. She entered the drawing room and gave Miss Hammond the chancellor’s message.
It was only when Miss Hammond had left and Annie looked around the room through glazed and feverish eyes that she began to feel resentful. Mrs. Tommy Winton had taken over the role of hostess and was ordering the servants about as if she were in her own house. Nobody bothered to pay Annie the least attention.
To add to that, thought Annie furiously, the chancellor was holding private meetings in her husband’s study and sending the lady of the house scurrying about on his errands like a servant girl.
Well, he would stop it this instant!
Annie marched in the direction of the study. But as she put her hand on the doorknob, the intensity of the two voices inside the room stopped her. She was also assailed by a feeling of giddiness and a pounding in her ears, so the voices from inside the room seemed as if they were rising and falling on the waves of the sea.
“If I am caught, I shall at least be a martyr…” boomed Miss Hammond.
Mr. Shaw-Bufford’s answer came out in a sort of hiss that nonetheless carried through the panels of the study door.
“You will not be caught, Miss Hammond. Remember, my n
ame must never be mentioned. Never!”
And then the voices sank to a murmur.
Annie turned wearily away. All at once she was too ill to cope. Let them stay till the coming of the Cocqeigrues for all she cared!
CHAPTER SIX
“And where is my wife, may I ask?” said a pleasant, masculine voice from the doorway of the drawing room.
Mrs. Winton had a mouthful of scone and strawberry jam and could only stare wildly at the Marquess of Torrance in dumb silence. Miss Hammond sailed forward like a tweedy galleon.
“Annie must be somewhere around,” she said brightly.
“Annie? You mean my wife, Lady Torrance?”
“Yes. You must not think me presumptuous, my lord, but dear Annie simply begged me to call her by her Christian name.”
The marquess leaned one broad shoulder against the doorway and smiled benignly at the room full of women.
For some reason they all found themselves becoming ruffled and uncomfortable.
Mrs. Winton succeeded in gulping down her scone. “Lady Torrance was here a moment ago,” she said, peering around hopefully. Everyone began to look around in a ludicrous way as if the Marchioness of Torrance were a missing handbag.
“Then,” pursued the marquess, “since you cannot produce my wife, perhaps you can enlighten me as to why so many of you delightful ladies have called for tea.”
“It’s a meeting. We’re organizing a ball to raise funds to support the Vote for Women movement,” volunteered Mrs. Winton, after a short silence in which no one spoke.
“And it was my wife’s idea?”
“Well, no,” blustered Miss Hammond. “I asked dear Ann—Lady Torrance if we could use her house and she said we could. Of course, she is a devoted supporter.”
“Obviously a strong feminist,” said the marquess sweetly, “since my house has become not ‘our’ house but her house.”
“Oh, your lordship will have your little joke.”
