Polly

by M C Beaton

  “No! Fancy!” gasped the duchess, slurping her tea.

  “Yes. Fancy!” said Lady Blenkinsop, reflecting that Miss Marsh did give one a new slant on life. The duchess, for example, would certainly be classed as common were she not a duchess. And good God! The woman badly needed a bath.

  Lady Blenkinsop pretended to be thinking deeply. After some minutes she said in her gentle, tired voice, “I think your fears are groundless, Duchess. You must know that Edward is not at all susceptible. And now you tell me that Peter is as good as engaged!”

  “True,” snapped the duchess. “But I would like that little upstart’s pretensions depressed.”

  Lady Blenkinsop was overcome by a desire to meet the intriguing Miss Marsh and she suddenly saw a way in which it could be managed.

  “I would not do this for just anyone,” she began, “but I would like to help you. I shall invite Miss Marsh to tea. She has not been in the habit of socializing with ladies of our quality. I feel sure that I can persuade her that she would not ‘fit in.’”

  “Most obliged to you,” said the duchess, “but couldn’t I do that myself?”

  “By no means,” said Lady Blenkinsop firmly. “Miss Marsh would expect you to be antagonistic. Please leave it to me.”

  “Grrumph,” assented the duchess, her mouth crammed with pastry.

  Polly stared at the embossed card, her blue eyes wide with fright. Tea! With Lady Blenkinsop, Saturday, October first. What was it all about? Should she go?

  Tea! Lady Blenkinsop! The marquis turned the card over in his long fingers. Why on earth had she invited him? He did not feel like traveling all the way to Putney to take tea with a lady whom he had met once and classed as a professional invalid. Should he go?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Blenkinsop’s large Victorian villa in Putney was called Mandalay, turreted and gargoyled on the outside, and suffocatingly overfurnished and overheated on the inside. Formal gardens, now bare of flowers, ran down to the edge of the steelgray Thames.

  Timidly pushing open the great iron gates, Polly wished for the umpteenth time that Maisie Carruthers had been employed by Lady Jellings in winter as well as summer. All the glory of the cobweb-lace tea gown was at the moment eclipsed by a shabby and worn plaid mantle of her own. Still, the butler would hopefully take that away and hang it in some dark closet before any of the company saw her. She wondered how many other guests had been invited. There were no carriages standing at the front of the house but then, she felt sure that she was early by about ten minutes.

  Wilkins relieved her of the shabby mantle and then led the way through a large dark hall that was an indoor jungle of pampa grass in Benaras brass bowls, reminding Polly suddenly of the entrance to the sitting room at the hostel.

  “Her ladyship,” said Wilkins, “will be with you presently.” He held aside the heavy red portiere and Polly stepped into the sitting room.

  Sir Edward Blenkinsop rose to meet her.

  Now, as far as Lady Blenkinsop was concerned, Sir Edward had already left to play a round of golf. But the bold Sir Edward had decided to linger behind to try his luck with the “ladybird.” The girl was no better than she should be, despite her clothes and airs. And he, Sir Edward, had been considered a bit of a dandy in his youth, and damme, if he was sure he hadn’t lost the old Blenkinsop touch.

  Twirling his shaggy gray mustache like a stage villain, Sir Edward advanced on the startled Polly. “Well, well, well, Miss Marsh! By Jove! Well, well, well…”

  Not a very sparkling conversational opening but Sir Edward was unaware of it. Inside, his voice was teasing and flirting and saying all sorts of deliciously naughty things. He was amazed that she did not fall into his arms. Instead, she sat down nervously on a red plush chair, perching herself on the edge of it as though ready for flight. “Well… Ha! Ha!… yes, yes, yes… well, well, well…” giggled Sir Edward while inside his soul rollicked and rolled. “By Jove!” he added in an intense whisper and bending forward, he placed one fat hand on Polly’s knee. He was panting and chuffing and blowing through his mustache. There! He hadn’t lost the old touch.

  Polly stared as if mesmerized at the “old touch” on her knee and at the fat blue veins like worms, which throbbed and bulged like separate creatures.

  The door opened and Lady Blenkinsop, followed by the Marquis of Wollerton, walked into the room and froze at the sight of her husband.

  “Edward! Leave this house immediately.”

  “It’s my house,” said Sir Edward childishly.

  “It’s mine,” snapped Lady Blenkinsop, as indeed it was. She looked thoughtfully at her husband as he crawled from the room. “Edward!”

  “My dear.”

  “Edward Blenkinsop, you are a masher!”

  The change in Sir Edward was ridiculous. He immediately puffed and swelled with pride like a bullfrog. “You’ll be beggin’ me to come back, Jennie, see if you don’t. I’ll be at my club.”

  He slammed the door so hard that the draft blew the heavy red portiere back and forth and set its fringe of bobbles dancing.

  “You must forgive my husband,” said Lady Blenkinsop, looking quite healthy from her exertions. “And forgive me also for making such a scene but, you see,” she added, “I simply couldn’t bear the sight of the man any longer.”

  If the duchess had meant Polly to be cowed by Lady Blenkinsop’s manner, it certainly was succeeding—if “being cowed” meant being more embarrassed than you have ever been.

  Lady Blenkinsop sank gracefully into a chair and looked at Polly affectionately. “Poor girl! How badly I am behaving and how embarrassed you must be. But when I came into the room and saw Edward with his hand on your knee, it all came over me in a flash. Mister Baines, I thought. You see Edward told me that Mrs. Baines left Mister Baines because he would not dismiss you, and Mister Baines is having such a jolly time as a bachelor that he lives in fear and dread of your departing the firm.”

  “Oh!” cried Polly in distress, covering her red face with her hands.

  “I was dying to meet you, which is why I invited you to tea, but I never thought for a minute that it would work out so splendidly. Ah, Wilkins. Tea. Just leave the things and go. Now we can be comfortable!”

  The marquis felt great pity for the distressed Polly. He was too used to the direct speech and eccentricities of various society ladies to be embarrassed but he realized it must indeed be a new experience for Miss Marsh. He launched into a light description of all the gossip and affairs of society until he noticed that Polly was looking more composed.

  Polly really did not know what to make of her hostess. And she dismally remembered her last encounter with the marquis and all those horrible lies he had told her about Peter.

  She suddenly realized that the marquis had stopped talking and that Lady Blenkinsop was addressing her. “Now, Miss Marsh, I believe you live in Stone Lane in Shoreditch and that there is a weekly market there. Tell me all about it.”

  Polly stiffened, but Lady Blenkinsop’s kind face was alive with interest. Polly began to slowly describe the Sunday market, the noise, the bustle, the friendliness, the feuds between the traders, which were quickly forgotten once the market was closed. Lady Blenkinsop listened intently and begged for more. Still in a hesitant voice, Polly began to describe her family and surroundings, suddenly finding it a relief to be absolutely honest. Her voice growing stronger, she told of Joyce’s addiction to comics, her father’s terrible threats that he never meant or carried out, and of Ma’s comfortable kitchen and her ability to produce splendid hot meals at the drop of a hat. Lady Blenkinsop drank it all in with the air of someone greedy for life and the marquis watched Polly’s beautiful and animated face and thanked his lucky stars that he was a confirmed bachelor. The girl was enough to bewitch anyone!

  When Polly had finished, Lady Blenkinsop sat back with a sigh. “How marvelous. How alive!” she breathed. “I think that perhaps with Edward gone I shall be able to go out and about a little more. Edward alw
ays intimidates me and makes me feel ill, you know. I can never seem to carry on a conversation without him harrumphing and barking and saying, ‘I don’t understand the rubbish you talk. I’m a plain, simple soldier and I like things said in plain, simple terms.’”

  She rose to her feet. “Now, if you will both forgive me, I must rest. My dear Marquis, will you be so kind as to escort Miss Marsh back to town? You will? Splendid! Come, give me a kiss, my dear, and call on me at any time.”

  After they had left, Lady Blenkinsop went slowly upstairs. She had not enjoyed herself so much in a long time. She thought fleetingly and guiltily of the duchess. Well, she hadn’t meant to humiliate the girl anyway; simply to meet her. And she had asked the marquis in order to discover whether he was enamored of Polly. But the marquis’s face had been like a well-bred mask. Pity! They made such a handsome pair.

  Then she gave a happy chuckle as she thought of her banished husband and rang the bell to tell Wilkins to tell the cook to take every grain of curry powder in the kitchen and throw the stuff on the garbage heap. Sir Edward would not be dining at home again. Not if she could help it.

  The marquis and Polly traveled a good length of the way back to the center of London in chilly silence. Polly was still furious with him for his disparaging remarks at Brown’s and for his part, the marquis thought sourly that the girl was too attractive for her own good.

  At last, as the horses were clopping toward Euston, some imp forced him to say, “Still expecting to marry my brother, Miss Marsh?”

  “Of course,” said Polly, turning her head to stare out of the window. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss a lady unless he means to marry her.”

  “Don’t be so naive,” drawled the marquis. “If all the men married all the girls they’d kissed, we’d have polygamy all over the country. A kiss means nothing. It’s simply a pleasant gallantry that leads to… well, never mind.”

  She looked at him with slightly disdainful and inquiring surprise, the light of a gas lamp shining on her gold curls, making her large eyes great black pools of mysterious depths.

  He swore gently and pulled her toward him. She stared as if mesmerized at the white high-nosed face bending over her and the thin, mobile mouth coming closer to hers.

  His thin, cool lips pressed gently against hers, much as Peter’s had done, and then pressed closer as his tongue gently parted her mouth. And then all the skyrockets and Catherine wheels and Roman candles burst and rocketed across a sky of deep black velvet.

  The carriage came to a stop. Polly wrenched herself from his arms, stumbled from the carriage, and ran into the hostel.

  The marquis sat as still as a statue, staring straight ahead, his eyes hooded by his heavy lids and his chin sunken into his fur coat while his carriage rumbled over the cobblestones toward the West End of London.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The November gales whistled and roared through the twisting streets of the City, swept up the Strand to Leicester Square, scampered along the Tottenham Court Road and, howling along Goodge Street and increasing in force by the minute, plunged into Euston and tore slates from the roofs, sent chimney pots flying and sent whirlwinds dancing around the arch of Euston Station.

  Polly Marsh was worried. She rose shivering and tiptoed across the icy linoleum to the washstand in the corner. The water in the ewer had a small film of soot on it as the gale seemed to have forced the output of London’s chimneys through every crack in her small room.

  Lord Peter Burley had not written. He had not replied to her many letters although she had kept them light, gossipy, and friendly, and had not mentioned anything about their future together.

  Westerman’s was to have its first Christmas party ever, and Polly had dreamed of announcing her engagement before that time and then gracefully retiring from the grubby world of commerce. She had tossed and turned all night in her narrow bed, dreaming endlessly of walking in St James’s Park with Lord Peter. But every time he bent his head to kiss her, his face faded to be replaced by that of the marquis. And what was even more horrible about these dreams was that she was always glad it was the marquis instead of Lord Peter.

  She carefully put on the scarlet velvet dress that was now smelling strongly of benzine from repeated cleanings. Her precious store of rice powder was nearly finished. Polly sighed. Perhaps if she managed to slip a few pieces of toast from the breakfast table into her reticule, she would make them do for lunch and save the money toward a new box of powder. She had told Mrs. Marsh not to bring any more food parcels and her mother had good humoredly agreed. Polly had not wanted the other girls to see her cockney mother arriving with shopping bags of groceries. So now there was no store of biscuits and sausages hidden in her small cupboard next to the gas ring.

  She went down to the small dining room and sat down at her allotted table. The Belham’s buyer was already there, studying the social column of The Times. Polly eyed Miss Smythe under her lashes, waiting for a chance to thieve some pieces of toast when the beady eye of the buyer was otherwise employed. She had just seized three pieces of toast and, under cover of the tablecloth, was about to slip them into her reticule, when Miss Smythe let out a startled exclamation and put down the paper.

  “Beg poddon,” she began. “Eh believe you know Lord Peter Burley.”

  Polly nodded dumbly, her nervous fingers clutching the buttered toast.

  “Eh see he has just become affianced to a lady in Bengal… a Miss Jane Bryant-Pettigrew.”

  “Nonsense!” said Polly. The toast fell unheeded to the carpet.

  Miss Smythe bridled. “Beg poddon, miss. Look here.”

  She held out the paper and Polly took it in her buttery fingers. There it was at the top of the social column in black and white. Lord Peter Burley had indeed become engaged to Miss Jane Bryant-Pettigrew, daughter of Colonel, Sir Percy Bryant-Pettigrew.

  The room seemed to swim around her. Miss Smythe’s voice, saying crossly, “You hehve put bottor on meh pepah,” seemed to come from a long way away.

  Mumbling something incoherent Polly fled from the room, and, slipping on her old coat, hurtled out into the windy street, oblivious of the gale. The turmoil of the storm as she made the long, long walk from Euston to the City was nothing compared to the turmoil in her brain.

  How could he? What would she tell her family? How they would be laughing at her in the office, thought poor Polly, unaware that the office staff had already forgotten her noble friendship long, long ago.

  It was all the fault of that sneering brother of his, decided Polly at last, as she negotiated the crowded pavements of Fleet Street and battled the cross winds at Ludgate Circus. He had forced poor Peter to become engaged to Miss Jane Bryant-Pettigrew. All the way up Ludgate Hill Polly cursed the marquis in her mind. She was in such a rage that she did not realize that it would be very difficult for the marquis to force his brother to marry anyone when he, the marquis, was in England and Lord Peter in India. By the time she reached St. Paul’s Polly suddenly felt very young and weak and vulnerable. She did not know whether or not to go into church and pray. Pray for what? Perhaps God felt that little office girls should keep to their own caste. With the wind whipping the salt tears from her cheeks, she finally pushed open the door of Westerman’s.

  For the first time she was glad of her isolated cubicle away from the gossip and noise of the main office. She needed a plan of action. Lady Blenkinsop! She would know what to do.

  The long morning of letters and invoices dragged on, the clatter of the typewriter keys accompanied by deep rumblings from Polly’s stomach. She even thought longingly of the crushed toast lying on the carpet back at the hostel. Near lunchtime her door opened and Bob Friend popped his curly head around the edge. For a long time after the office picnic he had not come near Polly, but lately he had begun to drop into her office with every sort of excuse.

  “Hey, Miss Marsh,” he said. “Care to join me for a spot of lunch? I won a whole five pounds at a bridge party last night. Please say you’ll l
et me treat you.”

  Polly opened her mouth to give a chilly refusal but her stomach was rumbling and her heart was sore. “All right, Mister Friend,” she said suddenly, “I’d love to.”

  “Oh, jolly good,” said a radiant Bob. “I’ll come back for you in ten minutes.” He went off down the corridor whistling to himself and nearly collided with Amy Feathers. Amy looked up at him shyly. “Are you having lunch with me today, Bob?” Amy had been bringing a generous lunch basket to the office during the past few months and Bob had got into the habit of sharing it with her in her little room upstairs where she worked at the switchboard. He had never asked her to go out with him, but Amy was happy with her lunches and lived for them. She spent a whole weekend planning tasty menus.

  Bob looked at her and blushed guiltily. Amy was the one he should be taking for lunch. “I—I can’t, Amy,” he stammered. “I promised to take a friend for lunch; old school pal.”

  “That’s all right, Bob,” said Amy shyly. “I don’t mind. There’s always tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes… what. Certainly,” said poor Bob, edging past her and praying that Amy would never find out about his lunch with Polly.

  But the gods were not on his side. Amy had been so disappointed that she had decided to take a short walk before eating her lunch. The wind was so fierce and so cold that she had only taken a few steps when she changed her mind and turned to reenter the office, subsequently getting a splendid view of Bob Friend escorting Polly Marsh to the chophouse, looking every bit as if it were Christmas already.

  Amy trailed miserably through Westerman’s. In her mind, Polly was worse than Delilah. She had turned that fine, upstanding young man, her Bob, into a liar. But although her eyes were slightly blurred with tears, Amy was still able to make out an imposing-looking letter with a foreign stamp lying in the post basket. She wiped her eyes and picked it up. Yes, she had been right! It had a Bengal postmark and was addressed to Miss Polly Marsh. Now shrewd little Amy had heard all about Lord Peter’s engagement and knew exactly why the usually standoffish Polly had suddenly decided to have lunch with Bob Friend.