Polly

by M C Beaton

  He somersaulted neatly over the railing into the Thames with hardly a splash and sank like a stone.

  Polly clutched the railing and stared down. The marquis’s silk hat bobbed jauntily on the muddy water and his cane sailed along beside it. Of the marquis there was no sign at all, and the water turned crimson, like blood in the setting sun.

  I’ve killed him! thought poor Polly. The thought that the marquis might have been holding his breath underwater to make her think just that never crossed her mind. With a terrified cry she threw herself bodily over the railing into the Thames. The marquis’s head immediately bobbed above the water, like that of a sleek seal. “Gotcher!” he said with verve worthy of Stone Lane. “And it serves you right, my girl.”

  “I can’t swim!” wailed Polly as her straw hat floated away and pursued the marquis’s silk hat, which was disappearing in the direction of Greenwich.

  Two strong strokes brought him to her side and he pulled her to him. “You can stand, you know,” he said gently. “It’s low tide.”

  Both stood with the oily, muddy waters of the Thames up to their shoulders and stared at each other.

  “Oh, Polly,” murmured the marquis, and then he kissed her as ruthlessly and efficiently as he had meant to do all along.

  “Wot’s all this then?” demanded a stentorian voice from the Embankment. Both broke apart and looked up into the steely, accusing eyes of an officer of the law.

  “It’s quite all right, Officer,” said the marquis pleasantly. “I was just rescuing this lady and—”

  “Indecent behavior, that’s wot it is,” said the constable severely. “Out of there, both of you.”

  With the marquis pushing from behind and the policeman pulling on Polly’s outstretched arms, she was landed on the Embankment like a very wet and muddy fish. She stood upright and was soon joined by the dripping-wet marquis, who took her arm in a firm grip.

  “Naow, then,” said the policeman, taking out his notebook and licking the end of a stub of lead pencil. “Let’s ’ave yer names.”

  “Run for it,” whispered the marquis in Polly’s ear.

  She needed no second bidding.

  “’Ere!” roared the policeman. “’Ere!” as the two dripping figures flew along the Embankment. A shrill whistle sounded faintly in their ears as they ran and ran.

  The marquis at last jerked Polly into a doorway and they hung onto each other breathless and laughing.

  “I think the chase is over,” he said with his lips against her hair. “We’ll find a hack and go to my place and get dried off.”

  He felt her stiffen against him and turned her face up to his. “No more remarks from you, Miss Polly Marsh,” he said severely. “You are going to marry me and that’s that. Now say ‘yes’ like a good girl or I shall be forced to give you a lesson on how to become pregnant right in the corner of this nasty, smelly doorway.”

  “Oh, yes,” sighed Polly. “Yes, I will marry you, Edward… but what on earth will my mother say?”

  The marquis laughed and held her closer. “I know what my mother will say, but no one can do anything about us now, Polly Marsh. We’re beyond reclaim.”

  • • •

  Lord Peter stood stock-still at the end of Albemarle Street and stared at the two familiar figures who were entering an imposing town house. Polly Marsh and his brother! And soaking wet, too!

  Now he could get his revenge for that night at Westerman’s.

  Mother should be at her town house getting ready for the opera, he thought. I will just pay her a little call.…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Duchess of Westerman was in a state of baffled fury. She had first had the indignity of being turned away from her eldest son’s house by his butler’s chilly news that “his lordship is not at home to anyone.” Then her husband had washed his hands of the whole affair, and next she had foregone the opera to travel to this… this market to appeal to Mrs. Marsh to find that the good lady and her family had gone out visiting and that Mr. Marsh was in the public house.

  Polly’s absence had not been noticed. Mrs. Marsh had left her daughter’s dinner in the oven and a note pinned to the door to say that she had “gone to spend the evening at Edie’s.”

  The duchess had glared at this note and was about to send one of her footmen up and down the lane to find the mysterious Edie’s when she decided to vent her wrath on the nearest Marsh available.

  The footman was dispatched to the Prince Albert with the stern instructions to bring Mr. Marsh to Her Grace immediately.

  Her wrath knew no bounds when her footman returned without Mr. Marsh but with the message that Mr. Marsh was enjoying his evening pint of mild and why didn’t Her Grace step in and join him.

  Wrapped in a white velvet evening cloak and blazing with temper and diamonds, the duchess swept into the Prince Albert and demanded the presence of Mr. Marsh in tones of awesome majesty.

  Alf Marsh trotted forward and surveyed the duchess gloomily. They were all bonkers he decided. Any minute now she would be demanding pounds of turnips and stones of potatoes.

  “Hah!” said the duchess. “Well, Marsh, it may interest you to know that your daughter is a fallen woman.”

  “Ah, garn!” said Alf in disgust. “Our Pol’s at ’ome right now, ’aving ’er supper.”

  “No, she is not,” said the duchess. “She is at my eldest son the Marquis of Wollerton’s house in a state of dishabille.”

  “’Ere!” exclaimed Alf with alarm. “I don’t think she’s been vaxunited.”

  “Dishabille is not a disease,” said the duchess crossly. “I mean that she and my son, in ragged, wet, and muddy clothes, were seen entering his town house, hanging on to each other.”

  “Then they probly ’ad an accident,” said Alf. “My Pol’s a decent girl.”

  “Hah!” sneered the duchess.

  “If you wasn’t a lady, I’d punch yer up the froat,” said Alf slowly. All his usual cheerful good humor had left him and he seemed to have grown in stature.

  “Now, now,” said the duchess hurriedly, wishing she had asked her footman to accompany her. “Is there anything to drink in this place?”

  “Give the lady a port and lemon,” said Alf over his shoulder, “and bring it to the private parlor and keep it coming.”

  He opened a frosted-glass door and ushered his companion into the private parlor, which was usually used for the local darts teams’ war councils.

  “Do you expect me to drink that filthy concoction?” demanded the duchess, momentarily diverted as a large glass of port and lemon was placed in front of her.

  “Well, why not?” said Alf testily. “Wot was you a-going to do wiff it otherwise? Polish yer boots?”

  The duchess took a large mouthful. It tasted unexpectedly pleasant. “See here, Mister Marsh,” she said in a more reasonable tone of voice. She took another pull at her glass. “It is not a question of whether your daughter is seducing my son or whether my son is seducing your daughter, but the fact remains that they are both badly compromised, so what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nuffink,” said Alf succinctly. He paused for a minute to watch in amazement as the duchess drained her glass and gulped down another.

  “I trust my daughter. I won’t believe she’s done anything wrong till I sees it wiff my own eyes. So there! And I would advize you to go easy on that there port and lemon. Stronger than yer thinks.”

  Just then the barman popped his head around the door. The duchess threw a guinea on the table. “Keep ’em coming, my good man,” she ordered.

  “Right-ho,” said the barman cheerfully, turning a blind eye to Alf’s frantic signaling.

  Mrs. Marsh rattled her key in the lock and turned to stare at one of the street traders. “Could you repeat that?” she asked faintly.

  “’S like I told you,” he said. “Your old man’s along o’ the Prince Albert with some great dirty bird all covered in paste, an’ she’s a-givin’ old Alf the glad eye and fillin�
�� ’im up wiff booze.”

  “Garn!” said Mrs. Marsh cheerfully. “The Prince Albert don’t allow no brass nails.”

  “She’s one o’ them high-class tarts,” said the trader earnestly. “Come in a carriage and all, she did. She’ll ’ave ’er ’ands on your old man’s crown jewels if yer don’t ’urry up.”

  “Dad ain’t got no jewels,” said Joyce, her eyes round with wonder.

  Mrs. Marsh sprang into action. “Gran, take the children upstairs till I go see wot’s ’appened.”

  She covered the short distance to the Prince Albert with surprising speed. She gave the barman one awful glare and, following the jerk of his head, crashed open the door of the private parlor.

  Behind a scarred wooden table covered with dirty glasses sat Her Grace, The Duchess of Westerman. She was crooning softly, and her massive head topped with an elaborate headdress of diamonds and feathers was resting on Alf’s small bony shoulder.

  “Mary!” gasped Alf. “Thank Gawd!”

  “Who is she?” demanded Mrs. Marsh. “Them’s real diamonds.”

  “Oh, Mary,” said Alf. “This ’ere is the Duchess of Westerman wot says our Pol is at ’er son’s ’ouse right this minute a-being comporized.”

  “Compromised,” said Mrs. Marsh faintly. “It’s that there Marquis of Wollerton, that’s wot it is. I told’im ’e couldn’t marry Pol.”

  “We’ll all go and see Eddie,” said Her Grace, beaming drunkenly. “All go bye-byes.”

  “Right y’are, ducks,” said Mrs. Marsh grimly. “On yer feet.”

  Lord Peter pressed his handsome nose against the window of Brown’s Hotel and gleefully noticed his mother’s carriage turning the corner of the street from Piccadilly. He would just be in time to witness his elder brother’s humiliation. Whistling cheerfully he left the hotel and trotted along the street just as the carriage arrived outside the marquis’s town house. With infinite satisfaction he noticed Mr. and Mrs. Marsh descending from the carriage. With less satisfaction he saw that his mother was weaving along the pavement, supported by two footmen.

  Lord Peter gave Mrs. Marsh his best boyish smile. “Ah, Mrs. Marsh,” he beamed. “Remember me?”

  Mrs. Marsh eyed him from head to foot. “Yerse,” she said tersely. “An’ I’ll be ’aving a word wiff you later, young man.”

  Lord Peter quailed but gallantly followed them up the steps. His own philanderings with Polly would surely be forgotten as soon as the redoubtable Mrs. Marsh got her hands on his brother.

  The marquis’s butler eyed the group on the steps with a well-trained lack of surprise. “I will ascertain whether his lordship is at home,” he began and gasped as Alf jerked an elbow into his striped waistcoat.

  “Stand aside,” bellowed Alf, “or I’ll use yer guts fer garters.”

  They had heard the sound of voices from one of the rooms off the hallway. Mrs. Marsh led the way and threw open the door. Four people got to their feet in surprise.

  With suppressed fury Peter recognized his brother and Polly together with Lord Freddie Box and his wife, Sally.

  The marquis was bowing over Mrs. Marsh’s hand. In a soothing voice he was explaining that he and Polly had been splashed by a passing carriage when they had met by chance outside Westerman’s. He had telephoned Lady Sally, who had rushed around with a change of clothes for Polly. He was sorry to have caused Mrs. Marsh so much distress, but as Mrs. Marsh could surely see, her daughter was very well indeed.

  Mrs. Marsh sank down weakly into a chair. Polly was looking radiant. The duchess was collapsed in another chair. She was crooning faintly.

  The marquis took Polly’s hand in his. “Mister and Mrs. Marsh,” he said formally. “Your daughter has agreed to become my wife. I hope we will have your blessing.”

  Mrs. Marsh suddenly felt very, very tired. “Do you know what you are letting yourself in for, Pol?” she asked.

  “Yerse,” said Alf. “Look at yer future ma-in-law.”

  But nothing could penetrate the glass bubble of happiness that surrounded the marquis and Polly. Somewhere outside their happiness Peter sneered, Mr. and Mrs. Marsh fretted and worried, and the duchess sang songs of her childhood in a maudlin voice.

  Alf Marsh then protested that, as father of the bride, he could not afford the cost of the wedding. Then they would have a quiet wedding, said the marquis soothingly.

  They couldn’t have a wedding without inviting all their friends and relatives from Stone Lane, declared Alf triumphantly, and what would his lordship’s grand friends think of that?

  His lordship answered in tones of utter indifference, that he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it.

  Defeated at last, Mr. and Mrs. Marsh reluctantly gave their blessing.

  He escorted the Marshes home, pulling Polly back, as she would have followed her parents into the house. Alf Marsh turned around in the lane to look for his daughter. It had been a long and worrying evening.

  “Come along then, Alf,” said Mary Marsh gently. “Leave ’em alone for a bit. We’ve got to get used to it. Polly’s leaving us. Can’t see how we’re going to see much of her again.”

  And wiping away a tear she went upstairs to hug little Joyce and little Alf with such unwonted fervor that they began to cry and ask whether the Boers had invaded London after all.

  Epilogue

  The new office manager gave his silk hat a brush with the back of his sleeve and wondered whether houses were haunted after all.

  From humble clerk to office manager had been a meteoric rise for Bob Friend. He had married his Amy and, with a generous loan from the bank, had bought Mr. Baines’s old house in Hampstead.

  That, he reflected, was when all the trouble had started. His thin, vivacious, birdlike Amy had almost immediately started to put on weight. Her voice had taken on a thin, hard veneer of refinement. She saw social snubs at every turn and brooded over them all day, and poured out the accumulated venom of her hurt into her husband’s unwilling ears in the evening. She no longer joined him for lunch in case anyone would find out that she once worked as a telephone operator. Bob had once asked one of the clerks and his wife home for dinner and had remarked cheerfully during the evening that Amy used to work for Westerman’s. She had never forgiven him.

  Amy followed Polly’s social career by way of the glossy magazines and wrote frequently to editors reminding them that the Marchioness of Wollerton was nothing more than a cockney office girl. They never replied to her letters.

  Bob thought fondly of his new secretary. She wasn’t a dazzler like Polly Marsh; she was a quiet little thing with large spectacles and mousy hair scraped back in a bun, but she had a way of saying, “Oh, yes Mister Friend. Of course you are right,” which made him feel very masculine and important.

  He was toying with the idea of asking her out for lunch as he waited in the hallway to say goodbye to Amy.

  Bob turned as his wife came down the stairs heavily. He moved forward to give her a dutiful peck on the cheek. Something in the turn of her head made him remember the old Amy.

  “Amy,” he said abruptly. “I’ve been standing here thinking about taking my secretary out for lunch. And do you know why? It’s because she thinks I’m no end of a great chap, and I’m tired of your putting down and complaining. I’m a decent chap, Amy, but you push me too far.”

  Amy felt a chill of terror going through her. She knew she had been awful. She opened her mouth to beg his forgiveness, to say she would change, but instead her voice said, “Well, go out with your little secretary, for all I care.”

  “Very well,” said Bob Friend. He crammed his silk hat on his curls and strode out, slamming the door behind him.

  Amy cried for a long time after he had gone. He should have understood her. He should have understood how terrifying it is to cope with servants and snobby shopkeepers and stuck-up neighbors. He should have understood how the loneliness of her days magnified every little irritation.

  After a while she dried her eyes and put
on her best frock and went to sit in the parlor like the lady she wasn’t, wishing heartily that she could do some real old-fashioned dirty housekeeping to occupy her time.

  The doorbell rang and Amy went to answer it. The parlormaid was probably taking another morning off and Amy was too frightened of her to rebuke her.

  Bertie Baines stood on the doorstep. Both stared at each other with the utmost surprise.

  “Amy! What are you doing here?” gasped Mr. Baines.

  “I live here,” smiled Amy. “I married Bob Friend. He got the office manager’s job after you left.”

  “Good heavens!” said Mr. Baines. “I was walking across the Heath and I decided to have a look at my old home.”

  “Please come in,” said Amy, stepping aside. “You do look fit.”

  Bertie Baines looked fit indeed. He was lean and tanned and wearing a very expensive white raw-silk suit. Amy rang the bell for the tea tray and then bit her lip as she realized that no one would answer the bell.

  Bertie quickly assessed the situation. Fancy little Amy Feathers having servants—even though she obviously did not know how to cope with them.

  “Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me, Mrs. Friend,” he said. “It’s a beautiful morning. Now wouldn’t it be nice to get out of the house?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Amy, jumping to her feet. She ran lightly up the stairs to fetch her very best hat. She felt sure Mr. Baines would appreciate it.

  They walked along by the Heath under the heavy summer trees in companionable silence. Amy felt that she could almost behave like herself and Bertie did not feel obliged to say anything witty or clever.

  They found a small tearoom near the High Street, with little tables on the pavement outside, and Bertie Baines drew out Amy’s chair for her and then sat down with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “I must say it does my heart good to see you, Mrs. Friend. I’m going back into the business world, you know. Got a job as office manager with Westerman’s rivals—Heatherington’s, you know—they’re on the other side of the Bank.”