Ginny

by M C Beaton

Cyril released her and turned slowly around.

  “Oh, what a pity. They’ve gone,” said Ginny. “Yes, I really think we should go back.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Three days had gone by since the failure of Cyril’s proposal of marriage. The house guests had been sent on their road, with the exception of Alicia, in the good old-fashioned English way—that is, each guest found a railway timetable placed in his or her room with the fastest and soonest train out neatly underlined in red ink.

  Ginny had seemed impervious to every snub or social setdown. Cyril had been enraged to find on climbing into bed on the night after the rose garden episode when he stretched his feet down under the cool sheets that they were sinking into something hideously sticky and cold and wet. He had flung back the sheets to find that someone had poured a whole can of Tate & Lyle’s Golden Syrup over the foot of his bed. He had cursed and accused everyone in sight in the morning and had ended up gulping when Ginny had confessed to being the culprit. Tansy had told her she must learn to be a good sport when it came to practical jokes, she had explained sweetly.

  The four conspirators now had the house to themselves to plot in. Alicia had gone out riding with Gerald, and Ginny had gone back to Bolton for two days. She had surprisingly announced at breakfast that she must see that the coal business was running smoothly.

  Barbara had been horrified. The very idea. Ginny was ruining her social career by associating herself with trade. But Ginny had merely looked puzzled and had pointed out that it was a very successful coal business that had been left to her by her father.

  This news had made the four wilder than ever. The thought that Ginny should have inherited a thriving business as well as Mr. Frayne’s fortune was almost too much to bear.

  “If she won’t have you, Cyril,” said Tansy, “then we must compromise her.”

  “Compromise?” said Barbara faintly, her massive lace-covered bosom heaving. “That’s going too far. Anyway, females don’t seem to worry about that sort of thing these days, and it isn’t as if she has parents to worry about.”

  “Lord Gerald would worry about it,” said Tansy. “He’s supposed to look after her and,” she added shrewdly, “he’s a very old-fashioned type underneath all that modern nonsense.”

  “D-do I have to?” moaned Cyril. “I can’t b-bear the thought of t-touching her again.”

  “No, not you,” said Tansy. “Jeffrey’s the one. Think your blood pressure will be up to it, Jeffrey?”

  Jeffrey looked at them and a slow smile spread across his fat features. “I wouldn’t mind touching her,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t mind doing a lot more than that.”

  Tansy averted her eyes. “You don’t need to do anything, Jeffrey. We just want her locked away somewhere with you so that it looks as if something has happened.”

  “Badger’s cottage over by the five acre is empty,” said Barbara suddenly. “She wouldn’t know anything about old Badger dying.”

  “She’s been locked up in the estate office for the last two days,” said Tansy.

  “Pooh!” said Jeffrey. “That’s all for show. She can’t tell one end of the books from the other. Do you know, I don’t think Miss Bloggs can read. I looked in the window to see what she was doing and she was drawing little stick men on the blotting paper.”

  “Well, that’s that!” said Tansy briskly. “Badger’s cottage it is. The evening after she comes back, you go down to The Green Man in the village, Cyril, and telephone and say Mr. Badger’s been taken ill. Then we will tell her that as the lady of the manor, she’s expected to call on him.”

  “What if she calls for a doctor first?” asked Barbara.

  “Cyril will tell her that that has already been done,” said Tansy. “I will offer to take her over in the governess cart, and I’ll pretend to have to look at the horse’s hoof for stones or something so that she will go in alone. You will already be there, Jeffrey, lying in bed, to make sure she gets right inside the door. Then I will slam the door and drive off and leave you to it.”

  “And I,” said Jeffrey triumphantly, “will play the Big Bad Wolf and pull Little Red Riding Hood into bed with me.” He gave a singularly dirty laugh and the other three looked at him in disgust.

  “I told you, Jeffrey,” snapped Tansy, “that you don’t have to do anything. Just keep her there for a few days.”

  “Are you sure Gerald’s going to swallow all this?” asked Barbara anxiously.

  “We’ll drop dear Gerald a few hints to the effect that Ginny’s sweet character is a bit misleading,” smiled Tansy. “Imply she’s a bit of a girl, and all that.”

  “Make sure the cottage is stocked up with plenty of provisions,” said Jeffrey, rubbing his hands. “I’m all set for a long, long stay.”

  “It must be nice for you to be home and among familiar surroundings,” said Mrs. Betsy Pearsall in a comforting voice.

  Mrs. Pearsall was the wife of Ginny’s Bolton business manager and also considered herself Ginny’s substitute mother. “It sounds so grand,” Mrs. Pearsall went on, “what with the big house and all the guests. But now that you’ve seen it all, dear, don’t you think you would be better back here with folk of your own class?”

  “No,” said Ginny.

  “Oh, well,” said Mrs. Pearsall, sighing. “There’s no use me trying to tell you you’re wrong. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours. I hope all that money you paid to that Miss Chatterton for elocution and etiquette lessons was worth the money.”

  “Every penny, I assure you,” said Ginny.

  The rain was falling steadily outside and pattering on the leaves of the sooty laurels in the garden. Inside, the fire crackled cheerfully in the polished grate and the lamplight glowed on the vast clutter of carefully polished objects that covered every flat surface—photographs in silver frames, shell boxes, music boxes, wax fruit, and albums of photographs. The heavy, red rep curtains and the plush red upholstered, overstuffed furniture seemed oppressive to Ginny.

  She had a sudden picture of Courtney with its light, spindly furniture and long airy rooms, and of a tall young man with thick fair hair and black, black eyes looking down at her with a puzzled expression.

  Mrs. Pearsall was wearing a black leghorn straw that she had ornamented with two stuffed blackbirds that swooped on either side of the crown and glared at Ginny with their bright glass eyes. Her stout figure was encased in black satin, and her bosom heaved with the strain of repressed curiosity. She was just about to burst, judged Ginny, and got to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” exclaimed Mrs. Pearsall.

  “Back,” said Ginny. “Back home.”

  Mrs. Pearsall shook her head in dismay. “There you are thinking of that great place as home. It won’t do, Ginny. God gives us our stations in life when we are born and we must stay in them. It’s flying in the face of Providence to step outside of your class. Oh, some fine young gentleman will marry you for your money but he’ll let you know he remembers your origins as soon as he’s got you safely married.”

  “But what if he has a lot of money of his own?”

  “Then he won’t want you, Ginny Bloggs. He might want a bit o’ slap and tickle, but that’s all.”

  “What about all the members of the aristocracy who’re marrying showgirls?” asked Ginny.

  “That’s different,” said Mrs. Pearsall darkly. “They always has been a few wild ’uns who’ve married actresses and always will be. Now, you aren’t any actress! There, now! Whatever have I said to make you smile?”

  “Nothing,” said Ginny vaguely. “I really must catch my train.”

  “If you must go, you must,” sighed Mrs. Pearsall. “Everything’s ticking over here nicely and Mr. Pearsall’s opening up a route at that new housing development outside of the town. I’m glad you’re taking that uppity maid of yours away, all the same. My Martha says the very sight of her face do give a body a turn.”

  “Yes, Masters’s face gives me a turn as well,” said Ginny th
oughtfully.

  Masters’s horselike face was still registering disapproval as the train steamed out of Bolton Station on its way south. Really! What common, vulgar people. If only she could make her mistress see that it was not the thing to associate with such low types.

  She became aware that her mistress had put aside her copy of Queen magazine and was staring at her in an irritatingly vacant manner. Masters shifted restlessly on the seat. At times Miss Bloggs looked downright half-witted, she thought.

  Ginny’s question when it came surprised her.

  “You speak French, don’t you, Masters?” said Ginny, still with that vacant stare.

  “Yes, of course, madam,” said Masters, simpering. “All good lady’s maids speak French.”

  “Who paid for the tuition?”

  “My parents, madam.”

  “Then,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “your parents were ambitious on your behalf. They wished you to better yourself.”

  Masters saw her chance. “We must all better ourselves when we get the opportunity, madam,” she said righteously.

  “And once having bettered oneself,” said Ginny, “one should of course not forget the people who have been kind to us and who have given us our chance.”

  “Oh, no, madam,” said Masters smugly. “That would be unchristian.”

  Was there a hardness creeping into Ginny’s beautiful eyes, or was it only a reflection of the gray day outside?

  “Your father, I believe, is a linen draper in Maidstone,” said Ginny.

  “In trade,” she added, as Masters remained silent.

  “Yes, madam,” said Masters in a low voice.

  “And when did you last see him?”

  Masters flushed miserably. Miss couldn’t know that she, Masters, had spent her last holidays with a friend who was also a lady’s maid.

  “Last holidays, madam,” she mumbled.

  “Then I am giving you a week’s leave to see him after we arrive,” said Ginny. “And Jobbins, the second footman, will take you over in the dogcart and leave you right on your doorstep. I shall tell Jobbins not to leave until he has made sure that you have met your father. I may even go with you.”

  The rest of the journey was passed in silence—placid on Ginny’s side and seething embarrassment on Masters’s. Somehow the idea of regaling the servants’ hall with all the delicious stories of Miss Bloggs’s low connections had suddenly palled. Masters was only too worried about her own. She had had hopes of walking out with Jobbins one day, since Jobbins shared her own snobbish views of life. Now Jobbins would see her father’s poky, dark little shop in the narrow side street.

  Masters suddenly remembered that she had told Jobbins her father was a vicar and blushed with shame and anticipated humiliation the whole way to London.

  The next to be embarrassed by Ginny were the four relatives, for Ginny had brought them each a present. After she had gone upstairs to change, they stared at the gaily wrapped packages in dismay.

  “Probably some awful junk,” said Tansy. “At least they’re small. How provincial of her to do such a thing!”

  One by one they unwrapped their presents and then looked at each other in silent consternation.

  Tansy’s was a long and beautiful jade cigarette holder. Barbara was staring as if mesmerized at a set of collar and cuffs made of delicate white lace. Cyril’s was a waistcoat in fine gray silk, embroidered with two peacocks in shades of blue and pink, and Jeffrey’s was a malacca walking cane with a solid-gold top.

  “Oh, how beautiful,” exclaimed Barbara breathlessly, looking at the fine lace as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Do you think,” she said timidly, “that perhaps we are going about this all the wrong way? I mean—”

  “Nonsense,” said Tansy, putting down the cigarette holder she had been admiring on the table with a sharp click.

  “I-I think sh-she’s cunning,” said Cyril. “I think we were supposed to feel like w-worms. I-I think Miss Bloggs deserves everything she’s going to get.” The others with the exception of Barbara nodded furiously.

  “Everything’s set for tomorrow,” said Jeffrey, sensing Barbara’s doubts. “We can’t back out now.”

  Perhaps Barbara might not have agreed to take any further part in the plot against Ginny had it not been for the arrival of Lady Rochester. Lady Rochester was a leading light of the local county, and everyone went in fear and dread and admiration of her. Her visit for afternoon tea was considered to be the height of social condescension. But Ginny had only smiled in an irritating way when the others tried to impress her with the honor about to be conferred on her.

  First of all, Lady Rochester liked to make stately visits and complained of the cold even on the warmest of days. She expected her tea to be served in the sitting room, with the windows closed and the fire lit. Ginny seemed unaccountably deaf to all such suggestions for Lady Rochester’s comfort and had insisted that tea be served on a table on the lawn under a large oak.

  Alicia rode over to tell Lord Gerald about the impending social catastrophe and to beg him to come to tea.

  “Ginny just will not listen to sense,” she cried.

  “Oh, it’s Ginny, now, is it?”

  Alicia flushed slightly. “Oh, she asked us all to call her by her christian name. And the ridiculously generous girl brought us all presents.”

  Lord Gerald looked at the bright scarf that was wound around the brim of Alicia’s riding topper. It was designed in iridescent greens and blues and added a feminine note to the severe, masculine lines of her black riding habit. “And that is the present,” he said, indicating the scarf.

  “Yes, how did you guess?” asked Alicia, and then rushed on without waiting for a reply. “I do so love coming over here, Gerald. Your home is so… so… stately. I much prefer it to Courtney.”

  Lord Gerald looked around his home in surprise as if seeing it for the first time. He compared it to Courtney—Courtney with its wide, spacious rooms, delicate coloring, and light, elegant furniture.

  His own home had been designed in the eighteenth century by William Wyatt and was a sort of Gothic castle with a great deal of pointed windows and stone fretwork. The Victorian furniture, bought by his late parents, had not been replaced. It was large, solid, and heavy and seemed to take up a considerable amount of space.

  Everything was very highly polished, reflecting the dimness of the room rather than the daylight outside. Various stags’ heads glared down from the walls, and a large stuffed pike seemed to float in its glass case above his head. Lord Gerald suddenly realized that old Mr. Frayne had had very good taste in furnishings indeed; an almost feminine taste for charming colors and beautiful china vases and ornaments.

  “Have Frayne’s relatives become reconciled to the idea of Ginny being mistress of Courtney?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t think so,” said Alicia slowly. She lowered her voice. “Jeffrey confided in me that there were some unsavory scandals attached to Ginny’s name in Bolton. Something about one of her father’s coalmen.”

  “Spite, that’s all,” said Gerald roundly while his mind worked furiously. Was it the action of a virginal and innocent girl to lead him into the rose garden and to allow him to kiss her with such passion? He closed his eyes slightly, remembering the feel of her lips and the fresh pliancy of the young body pressed so close against his own. He remembered…

  “Gerald! Are you feeling ill?” asked Alicia anxiously. “There’s a most peculiar expression on your face, and you are quite flushed.”

  “I’m rather tired, that’s all,” lied Gerald. It was comforting sitting here with Alicia, he reflected. He really ought to propose to her. It was as comfortable as being with another man. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Her lips were rather thin and hard and brightly painted, and like most women he knew, she smelled of cigarette smoke. He admired the fact that she had a studio in Bloomsbury, where she painted and wrote poetry. All women should have a career, instead of sitting around uselessly in prett
y-pretty gowns and batting their eyelashes. But then Ginny Bloggs would no doubt question the wisdom of following a career that did not earn any money. Ladylike accomplishments, indeed. Drat her!

  Instead of proposing he said, “Of course I’ll come for tea. Ginny will need all the support she can get.”

  “She doesn’t realize it,” said Alicia gloomily. “I told her Lady Rochester’s ancestors came over with the Conqueror, and do you know what she said? She said, ‘Oh, how very interesting,’ and then she yawned right in my face.”

  “Well, Ginny has been coping very well,” Gerald felt forced to admit. “But she’ll meet more than her match in Lady Rochester.”

  The information that tea was to be served on the lawn put Lady Rochester in a bad mood for a start. She had arrived, punctual as ever, accompanied by a wheezing pug dog and a companion called Miss Chesham, who walked in the shadow of Lady Rochester’s bulk like a frightened ghost.

  Everything about Lady Rochester was larger than life. She had a large, heavy-looking face with large, protruding eyes, a large, jutting nose and chin, and great, strong yellow teeth. Her lace tea gown had been starched, so that instead of falling in soft cascades, it stuck out all around her in layers, making her look rather like an angry Christmas tree.

  She wore a hard white straw hat decorated with very hard, very red artificial cherries.

  Lord Gerald thought the table looked very pretty in its garden setting, standing as it did on the green velvet of the lawn, with the sunlight winking on the silver teapot.

  Ginny was wearing her favorite sky-blue, a clinging silk blouse tucked into the waist of a long skirt of darker blue and bound at the waist with a white silk sash intricately wound and tied to emphasize its smallness.

  Lady Rochester sat down in a basket chair that creaked protestingly and immediately demanded rugs and wraps to be brought. Then she ignored the delicate little sandwiches on their bed of cress and, seizing a rich-looking cream cake, proceeded to feed it to her pug. To Lady Rochester’s annoyance, she found that the day was, after all, exceedingly hot, but not for the life of her would she shed one of the wraps she had wound around herself in order to underline her young hostess’s thoughtlessness in setting tea in the garden. She began to sweat, exuding a strong smell of camphor and lily of the valley.