by M C Beaton
Jenkins brought a small card table over and spread it with a white cloth. He looked as if he would have liked to bundle Polly up in it and take her away and throw her in the lake.
Mrs. Baines glared across at Polly who was now seated tête-à-tête with Lord Peter. Polly’s table under the spreading branches of a great oak tree looked deliciously cool, unlike the rest of the tables that were broiling in the sun. If Bertie Baines doesn’t dismiss that girl on Monday morning, she thought, I am going home to mother.
“Where do you live, Miss Marsh?” Lord Peter was asking.
Polly thought desperately. She knew she belonged in this setting. What harm would a few lies do?
“I live with my foster parents in a quaint little cottage near the City,” she said airily. “They are very rough people, but honest. Old servants of my family, you know.”
“And your parents… ?”
“Oh, poor Mama and Papa. Such an unworldly couple. Never any money, you know. But they were great travelers. They were killed when I was just a baby. A typhoon… Indian Ocean, you know.” Here Polly produced a wisp of handkerchief and applied it to the corner of one dry blue eye.
“Oh, I say! I’m frightfully sorry. ’Course I knew you were good family the moment I saw you. Mama’s a ridiculous snob. After all, Maisie Carruthers—you know, the Sussex Carruthers—is working as a stenographer. Secretary to Lady Jellings. Poor thing! Her family hasn’t a bean and she lives in this businesswoman’s hostel in Euston.”
Polly’s brain was working overtime. Marriage to Lord Peter would be out of the question with the background of Stone Lane. But, now, an anonymous hostel for businesswomen!
“Is it very expensive?” she asked.
“What?”
“The hostel.”
“Can’t be. Why?”
“I think it might be a good idea if I lived on my own,” said Polly slowly. “I don’t want to be a burden to my foster-parents… poor old souls.”
Lord Peter’s brain began to work as well. It would be one step nearer to having an affair with this dazzling girl if he could encourage her to leave home. Get her into the hostel and from there… who knows… a little maisonette in St. John’s Wood?
“I say. If you’re interested, I’ll have a word with Maisie.”
“Thanks most awfully,” said Polly, looking into his eyes.
“Do you know, your eyes are the color of the summer sea,” he said.
“What a pretty compliment,” said Polly. “But you are just flirting.”
He took her little gloved hand in his. “I never flirt. I mean every word,” he said with boyish sincerity. Although he was only twenty, Lord Peter already had a small collection of broken hearts thanks to his air of boyish sincerity.
“He’s holding her hand,” screamed the duchess, putting down a pair of binoculars. Her guests had left and she had just been joined by her elder son, the marquis. “Edward! Go and tell Sir Edward that the picnic is finished and they all must go home. And tell Peter I want to see him immediately.”
“They’re packing up anyway,” said her son indolently. “But I shall fetch Peter for you.” The marquis was dressed in a white linen suit with a scarlet silk cravat. He looked cool and comfortable, unlike the poor members of Westerman’s who had all put on their best frock coats and hard collars in honor of the occasion and were suffering accordingly.
He reached the tree with easy athletic strides and gave Polly a slight bow and a mocking look from under his heavy lids. “Mama wishes to see you immediately, Peter.”
“Oh, rats! What does she want now?” said Peter crossly, getting to his feet. He had, however, just been sent down from Oxford for pouring bottles of champagne from the roof of New College onto the heads of the proctors below, and was still nervously awaiting his parents’ decision as to his future.
“I’ll drop in at Westerman’s on Monday, Miss Marsh,” he said. “And let you know”—here he glanced quickly at his brother—“oh, well… I’ll let you know about what we were talking about.” And with that, he ran away across the lawns.
The marquis stared down thoughtfully at the top of Polly’s pink tulle hat. “Since your cavalier has deserted you, Miss Marsh, may I escort you to the charabanc?”
Polly raised her head and the marquis looked startled. The girl was really incredibly lovely. “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. He offered his arm and she rose and placed the tips of her pink kid-gloved fingers on it and moved across the lawn with him, her silk underdress making a soft swish-swishing noise on the grass. Polly tried to think of something to say to this awesome aristocrat. After all, he was going to be her brother-in-law. She glanced timidly up at the high-nosed profile but could think of nothing to say.
Oh, how she wished she had been able to afford to pay for that lovely brougham for the road back! The directors and their wives were leaving in their carriages. Even Mr. Baines had a little fly pulled by an overfed pony. But for the lower ranks the charabanc stood waiting, pulled by two enormous shaggy horses.
Polly turned to the marquis hesitantly and held out her hand. “Until we meet again, my lord,” she said softly.
He took her little hand in his and looked down at her thoughtfully. “Are we going to meet again, Miss Marsh?”
Her eyes flew to his face. “But of course. I mean…” She fell silent.
Oho! thought the marquis. So that’s the way the land lies. Damn Peter! Philandering little monkey. The last time it had been that barmaid at Oxford, and now this!
“Good-bye,” he said, firmly releasing her hand and turning abruptly away.
Polly climbed to the upper deck of the charabanc and sat down on the hard wooden seat next to Bob Friend and Amy Feathers. As the charabanc clattered down the drive, and the low branches of the trees began to brush the heads of the passengers on the upper deck, Polly took one long look back.
The duke and the duchess and their two sons were standing on the terrace. They seemed to be arguing.
About what—about me? wondered Polly. I belong here! she thought fiercely.
But as Mr. Oscar Wilde so rightly pointed out, “All the world’s a stage, but the players are badly cast.”
Polly turned back and settled herself down for the long journey home. She decided to practice her charm on Bob Friend and absolutely ruined what was left of the day for poor little Amy Feathers.
The staff picnic had left several of the travelers in cross and upset frames of mind.
Sir Edward Blenkinsop burst into his wife’s boudoir in their Putney mansion, choleric blue veins standing out on his forehead.
“Women these days just don’t know their place,” he began.
Lady Blenkinsop gave a delicate sigh and raised her Japanese fan to cover the look of boredom on her face. Lady Blenkinsop had been ill for as long as anyone could remember. Doctors could do nothing to cure her because there seemed to be nothing wrong besides an ever-present lethargy and general lack of spirits. She dragged herself from the bed in the morning, only moving as far as the chaise longue in her boudoir. She was a thin, faded woman in her forties.
“Do stop picking up things and putting them down, Edward,” she said with a slight trace of animation. “If you wish to complain about something, by all means complain and get it over with.”
Sir Edward needed only this cold encouragement. He burst forth with a long tale of the iniquities of Polly, ending up with “… and I shall see that she is dismissed first thing on Monday morning.”
“Oh, really, my dear,” said his wife in her quiet, frail voice. “Do you consider that wise?” Lady Blenkinsop was beginning to feel interested in something for the first time in years. She had once meet the Duchess of Westerman and had been terrified.
Imagine a little office girl taking in Her Grace like that!
“What d’ye mean ‘not wise’?” barked Sir Edward.
“Well, my dear,” said his wife plaintively, “since this office girl seems to have enchanted young Lord Peter… I mean
, wasn’t there a rumor of Lord Peter going into the business after that scandal at Oxford?”
“Yes, of course. But what’s that—”
“And,” pursued his wife with unaccustomed vigor, “don’t you think he would be a little upset to find out that his chère amie had got the boot, so to speak?”
“‘Got the boot!’ Where do you pick up these common expressions? Pshaw. The duke would never stand for such goings on.”
“Oh no? What about that little actress from the Hippodrome who enjoyed the marquis’s favors for some years? The duke didn’t seem to mind.”
“If you mean Daisy Sharp… she was not employed by Westerman’s.”
“But the duke never concerns himself with Westerman’s,” said his wife sweetly. “He told me so himself. Said trade was an awful bore.”
Sir Edward looked suspiciously at his wife from under his bristling eyebrows. “Harrumph!” he said, taking a few more strides around the room and setting the pretty Dresden ornaments on the mantel jigging and bouncing.
He finally stopped his pacing and stood in front of his wife with his hands behind his back and his legs apart. “Quite,” he said obscurely, staring at the carpet.
“So what will you do?” said his wife, raising herself up on one elbow.
“Well, well… harrumph. Do the sensible thing. Turn a blind eye. Aristocracy has no morals,” said Sir Edward, who had paid for his knighthood.
His wife smiled faintly. “I knew you would do what was right. But do let me know more about this Polly female.”
The eyebrows went up again. “Good God, woman. Don’t go concerning yourself about a female who is nothing more than a… than… a—a—tart.”
“Oh, absolutely,” drawled Lady Blenkinsop and sank back into her customary torpor.
Amy Feathers took off the black-and-white-striped poplin dress that she had worn to the picnic and hung it in a closet with sad, reverent movements of her thin, freckled arms. She could almost have been laying it to rest. She had had such hopes of that dress!
Before Polly had arrived, everything had been marvelous. Bob Friend and the other chaps from the office had teased her about how smart she looked. She had had quite a little court around her. Then Polly Marsh had arrived and they had all lost interest, particularly Bob Friend, who had looked at Polly with a lost, hungry look.
Amy unfastened her Liberty bodice and popped her serviceable flannel nightgown over her head. How could any girl compete with someone as dazzling as Polly? But Polly had no eyes for Bob Friend… only for that young Lord Peter.
All she could do, reflected Amy sadly, was wait until Polly Marsh had well and truly broken Bob Friend’s heart and then, she, Amy, would be right on hand to pick up the pieces. Damn Polly Marsh, thought Amy, with unaccustomed venom. She hoped Lord Peter ruined her!
Polly and her mother were left alone in the kitchen in Stone Lane. The battle was over.
Polly had announced her decision to move to the businesswoman’s hostel in Euston. Father Marsh had told his eldest daughter roundly that there was only one reason why single girls left home and had told Polly that one reason in very graphic terms. Then he had stomped off to the Prince Albert, Stone Lane’s public house, to drink his fill with all the enthusiasm of the stag at eve.
Joyce had shouted at her, “You ain’t nuthin’ but a rotten snob,” and had gone out, clutching little Alf, who was crying because of all the loud, angry voices. Through all the rumpus, Gran had carried on a long monologue about the shames and diseases that could befall any young maiden hellbent on taking the primrose path, ending up with a lugubrious saga of a young girl called Rita who had once lived in Stone Lane and who had plunged into such a life of vice that “’er whatsit fell off.” She finally ambled off to bed after throwing her teeth, with a resounding clash, into a water glass by the sink.
Mrs. Marsh eyed her scarlet-faced daughter and took a deep breath. “I’m a-lettin’ you go, Pol. I knows why you’re doing it. Cos you’re ashamed of yer ’ome.”
“It’s not that, Ma,” lied Polly desperately. “I’d just like a bit of independence.”
“Well, let’s hope you know wot to do wiff it,” said Mrs. Marsh heavily. She suddenly felt very old and her feet hurt.
“Remember this, my girl,” she said, struggling to her feet. “The good Lord above ain’t going to give you any more until yer learns to appreciate wot you’ve got.”
• • •
Hampstead Heath swam in the dusky blue twilight of a perfect summer’s evening but Mrs. Gladys Baines was blind to its beauty. For once, the solid comfort of their villa overlooking the Heath with its heavy, highly polished mahogany furniture and dark, red plush portieres between the rooms did little to ease her anger.
She paced their sitting room with much the same lumbering, choleric gait as Sir Edward Blenkinsop, stopping occasionally to address the bald spot on top of her husband’s bent head. Mr. Baines crouched forward in his armchair, miserably cracking his knuckles. “For the last time,” grated his wife, “why won’t you get rid of that girl?”
“I’ve told you and told you,” sighed her husband. “The girl is good at her job. The Westermans certainly seem to have forgiven her. It would cause an unnecessary fuss.”
“And that’s your last word?”
“The last word on this subject, I hope,” said Mr. Baines meekly.
“Then, Bertie Baines, let me tell you this. I am going home to mother. And I am not returning until that girl is no longer employed in your office.” She rang the bell. A trim parlormaid appeared. “Maisie, see that my things are packed,” said Mrs. Baines. Maisie bustled off with a crackle of starch and Mrs. Baines looked hopefully at her husband. He hadn’t moved. She went slowly from the room and upstairs to supervise the packing.
When she descended some time later, he was still sitting as she had left him. Mrs. Baines tried again. “I’m going, Bertie,” she said.
“Go if you must,” said Mr. Baines, getting to his feet, “but I am not going to do anything that will jeopardize my position with Westerman’s after all these years.”
His wife’s answer was a monumental sniff of disdain. She swept out in a flurry of taffeta and, some minutes later, Mr. Baines heard the clop-clop of the carriage horses as they bore their infuriated burden off down the street.
Mr. Baines crouched back down in his chair. He felt immeasurably alone without his wife’s domineering presence. The shadows were lengthening. He had been an utter fool. What was a chap supposed to do on his own? The heavy furniture seemed to be massing for the attack. “You catch him on the left flank,” the table seemed to be saying to a hard, high-backed chair.
But the little imp who looks after henpecked husbands seemed to whisper in Mr. Baines’s ear, “A chap could take a nice promenade across the Heath on this beautiful evening. A chap could have a pint of mild and sit out over the pond at the Vale of Health pub and watch the ducks. A chap could…”
With a tremulous feeling of excitement, Mr. Baines hurriedly collected his tall silk hat and his best malacca cane. He pushed open the heavy, gloomy, stained-glass door, walked through the pocket-sized garden and stood for a moment on the pavement outside.
The gas lamps had been lit along the walk across the Heath and a faint mist had descended turning the lamps into great hazy, magic globes of light.
He walked across the road and ambled hesitantly along the walk. Above him, somewhere in the trees, a blackbird began to sing. “Past your bedtime,” muttered Mr. Baines to cover the sudden rush of emotion he had felt at the bird’s song. The greenish-blue misty light was turning to black and the lights of the pub were dimly reflected in the pond.
Above the pub door was a sign to tell all and sundry that the establishment had been licensed by George the Third for singing and dancing.
Slowly, Mr. Baines raised his cane and tilted his silk hat to a slightly rakish angle. He pushed open the glass doors and went in.
CHAPTER FOUR
Miss Thistlethwa
ite’s hostel for businesswomen could hardly be said to be a home away from home. As you pushed open the black, glossy door under the dingy Georgian fanlight, the mingled odors of strong tea, disinfectant, and dry rot rose around you.
The rooms were very small and barely furnished. An iron bedstead stood against the window that overlooked a sooty garden where no birds sang. There was a marble washstand against one wall and a curtained closet on the other. A minuscule round cane table ornamented the scuffed green linoleum and a hooked rug lay beside the bed.
In the entrance hall two brass Benaras bowls of pampas grass formed a sort of dusty triumphal arch to a chilly sitting room, where a circle of hard-backed chairs held a perpetual conference.
All rules and regulations had been stitched in the form of samplers by an elderly relative of Miss Thistlethwaite’s, who had tried to lighten their grim message by embellishing them with neatly stitched herbaceous borders. NO VISITORS IN THE ROOMS AT ALL TIMES. BATHS—TWO PENNIES. NO MALE VISITORS IN THE SITTING ROOM AFTER FIVE P.M…. and so on.
It was doubtful whether Polly would have been allowed a room had it not been for the departure of Lord Peter’s friend, Maisie Carruthers, who confided to Polly, breathlessly, that she had been left a small legacy by an aunt and was going back to the country.
“You may have Miss Carruthers’s room,” said Miss Thistlethwaite with a gracious creaking of stays and rustling of dusty black silk. “You may move in your belongings as soon as Miss Carruthers moves hers out.”
Polly privately wondered how Miss Carruthers was going to manage to move out. For an indigent gentlewoman she seemed to have a remarkable wardrobe of dresses. The tiny room was foaming with laces and silks and chiffons.
Maisie Carruthers was a thin, energetic girl of Polly’s age with a large horselike face and bony red hands. “Oh, bother!” she said, unstuffing a trunk for the hundredth time and looking wildly around. “All this junk! Most of it’s hand-me-downs from old jelly bag—Lady Jellings, I mean. She never wears a frock more than once.” She turned one dark eye on Polly. “See here, if I leave you some money for the carter, could you be an angel and see that this stuff is shipped to the work-house? I really don’t want any of it. I hate clothes that are not my own, but Lady Jellings said I had to dress up because I was her social secretary.”
