Lady Margery's Intrigue

by Beaton, M. C.

  “What a marvelous evening!” exclaimed Lady Amelia finally, as they stood on the steps of Almack’s and waited for their carriage.

  It was a beautiful spring night, clear and warm, with the scent of limes from the park mingling with the less attractive smells of whale oil from the parish lamps.

  “And how marvelous of the Marquess of Edgecombe to bring you into fashion. What a pity you shall not have an opportunity to see him again.”

  “A pity!” snapped Margery, near to tears. “It’s a blessing!”

  How could she tell her aunt that, until now, she had been able to endure the boredom of the social round because she was heart-free?

  She was furious with the handsome marquess for having made her heart beat faster, and furious at herself for having childishly annoyed him and driven him away.

  Her stockings were coming down and her shawl had become entangled in the beads of her necklace.

  She felt dowdier and plainer than she had ever done in her life before.

  She never wanted to see the Marquess of Edgecombe again!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chelmswood was rarely to be found in any guides to homes of the British aristocracy. There was nothing about it at first sight to excite the public interest.

  It was an old Tudor pile built of rose-red brick with mullioned windows and tall ornate chimneys, built into a fold of the Sussex downs. Many considered it a very unpretentious home for the Earl of Chelmswood, and the earl himself had damned it as a “drafty, poky place” but it was Lady Margery’s only love.

  She loved the low-paneled rooms with their great, gaping fireplaces, and the long, winding galleries and corridors so full of surprising steps up and steps down to trip the unwary. She loved the sprawling lawns with their huge beech trees and the heady scents of the formal rose garden, which was the pride and joy of a crusty Scottish gardener named McKinnon.

  A week had gone past since the end of the London season, and Lady Margery, looking round the pleasant morning room with its homely clutter of books and sewing, felt as if she had never been away. Sometimes the handsome face of the marquess rose up before her eyes to mock her with a feeling of opportunities lost, but she quickly shrugged it away.

  She had not seen her father since her return. Lady Amelia had informed her sourly that her papa was “junketing in London” and, last heard, had stated that he had plans for moving to Brighton with the Prince Regent’s court—“though where your papa gets the money to run with Prinny’s set, I’ll never know,” said Lady Amelia.

  Margery looked over at her aunt with affection. Lady Amelia Carroll was a buxom matron in her fifties, widowed at an early age and now long accustomed to her single state. She enjoyed her unpaid post as friend and companion to Lady Margery. Both women had much the same tastes, enjoying the simple life of the country with its round of genteel calls on the local gentry and its unpretentious amusements.

  Lady Amelia could not help sighing a little as she looked across at her younger companion. Lady Margery, she felt, would have had much more success with the gentlemen if they could have seen her in her home setting. The country air had brought the roses back to Margery’s white cheeks, and she wore her sandy hair brushed and shining in a simple style. The plain blue muslin high-waisted gown was of Margery’s own making and was much more attractive than her fashionable wardrobe, which had been chosen for her by one of her father’s many lady friends.

  But no gentleman was likely to view the country edition of Lady Margery. Their few neighbors were mostly elderly people or couples with daughters of their own to push onto the marriage mart.

  The clatter of wheels in the carriageway announced the arrival of a visitor.

  “Now who can that be?” murmured Margery placidly, not bothering to rise. “Perhaps it is Mrs. Skeffington from the rectory with that recipe for tansy pudding.”

  She heard the slow, laborious steps of Chuffley, their ancient butler, crossing the vast acreage of the hall to greet the arrivals. And the rumble of a familiar masculine voice.

  “Papa!” cried Margery, throwing down her sewing and rushing to the door of the morning room, closely followed by Lady Amelia.

  Both women stopped and looked across the gloomy expanse of the hall in surprise. The tenth Earl of Chelmswood stood at the entrance with a slightly sheepish smile on the ruin of his once handsome face. And clinging to his arm was a vision of loveliness. Butter-blond curls peeped out from beneath a dashing poke bonnet, and the finest Indian muslin clung to an exquisite form.

  “James!” Lady Amelia’s voice was like ice. “We are accustomed to your escapades, but to bring one of your ladybirds—”

  “Damn you, you long-nosed old harridan,” roared the earl. “This is my wife!”

  The earl and his new wife had retired to their quarters to change for dinner, and Lady Margery and Lady Amelia were left alone with their shock.

  “How could he?” demanded Margery, her voice trembling with tears. “She cannot be a day over nineteen. To have a step-mama younger than oneself! And where did he find her? I declare, I was so shocked that I did not pay too much attention.”

  “Oh, she’s good enough family,” said Lady Amelia wearily. “Her name is, or was, Desdemona Bryce of the Bryces of Surrey. They’re a poor family but gentry for all that. Your papa broke his axle on the road there and dropped in at their place for the night several months ago. He has evidently been courting her ever since but keeping the whole affair prodigious dark. Frightened we would put a spoke in his wheel, he said. And her family is no better. They consented to a havey-cavey wedding at their village church. No one was there but her family. I gather she has an exaggerated idea of your dear papa’s wealth.”

  “So I gathered,” said Margery grimly. She ruthlessly mimicked Desdemona’s die-away voice. “‘Oh, what a dirty old place, Jimmy. Not at all what I expected.’”

  “Desdemona!” said Lady Amelia. “What a name! Mayhap he’ll strangle her.”

  “Mayhap I will,” said Margery, beginning to giggle. “Perhaps we are being too severe on the girl. I suppose I am to teach her the running of the house.”

  But when the vision that was the new countess joined them in the drawing room before dinner, it soon became evident that she had no intention of bothering her head over household affairs.

  “I am sure you do it all so well, dear Margery,” she said languidly. “After all, what else do you have to do? Jimmy tells me he has paid for season after season but nothing happened.”

  “No,” said Margery baldly.

  “Such a waste of poor Jimmy’s money,” said Desdemona.

  She floated off into the dining room on the earl’s arm before Margery could think of an answer.

  Margery was proud of the fact that they kept a good table despite their straitened circumstances. Mulligatawny and turtle soups were followed by a salmon and a large turbot surrounded by smelts. This was in turn followed by a magnificent saddle of mutton, with a tongue, a ham, and two roast fowls.

  “Such plain, simple country fare,” sighed Desdemona. “The flavor is a trifle odd.”

  “It is perhaps because you eat our simple country fare so fashionably,” said Margery dryly.

  It was the custom to make a selection of the good things on the table and then attempt to place a portion of each in your mouth at the same time. Desdemona’s plate, for example, contained a slice of fowl, a piece of stuffing, a sausage, a slice of tongue, cauliflower, and potatoes, and she had somehow managed to arrange a piece of each on her fork. As Gronow was to say in his Recollections, “It appeared to me that we used to do all our compound cookery between our jaws.”

  Margery could not decide whether Desdemona was being deliberately malicious or if she was simply stupid.

  Desdemona was so surprised that her Jimmy had such an old daughter. They had not yet been on their honeymoon, she explained, blushing prettily. Jimmy was going to take her to Paris now that that monster was safely in Elba. She was simply dying for some Parisian
dresses.

  A faint summer breeze blew in from the open windows and sent the candle flames streaming. The wavering light danced on Margery’s diamond-and-ruby necklace and it flashed and burned like fire.

  Desdemona clapped her hands. “Ooooh! What a gorgeous necklace. Can I have it, Jimmy?”

  “No, you can’t,” said the earl, rousing himself from a torpor induced by infatuation and wine. “Margery’s mother left that to her. It’s part of her dowry.”

  “But she’ll never get married,” said Desdemona, all pretty surprise. “And I want it.”

  The earl was not a man much used to having his will crossed. He promptly forgot his infatuation in a burst of his old choleric temper. “Damme,” he said testily, “I’ve said ‘no’ and I mean no.”

  A wisp of fine lace appeared in Desdemona’s hand as if produced by magic. “You’re howwid to me, Jimmy,” she sobbed. “Jimmy said he would get his baby anything she wanted.”

  The earl flushed the color of his wine and looked hunted. “Yes, yes, m’dear,” he said hurriedly. “Dry your eyes now. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “I want to talk about it now.” Desdemona’s voice had become increasingly shrill, and a firm L-shaped line had appeared along her jaw.

  Margery and her aunt writhed in embarrassment. Never had either of them been subjected to such a vulgar scene, and never had either of them been so totally powerless to do anything about it. Desdemona was the new countess. This was now her home and she could do and say as she pleased.

  “Drink your wine,” said the earl desperately.

  “Shan’t!” screamed Desdemona. “I want to know, now. Now! Now! Now!” She was beginning to turn an alarming bluish shade and her breath was coming out in short bursts.

  To Margery’s horror, her father looked furtively at her and mumbled, “I say, Margie, y’don’t suppose…”

  “No,” said Margery coldly. “It is the only valuable thing I possess and I intend to keep it.”

  “Buy you another,” said her papa sulkily.

  Margery looked at him in surprise. “You couldn’t possibly afford to buy me another!”

  Desdemona paused in mid-gulp and looked at the earl, her pretty eyes narrowing into slits. “You’ve got money, lots and lots of money, you know you have, Jimmy. Tell her!”

  “There, there,” said the earl, running a finger along the inside of his cravat. “Very rude to talk about money at table. Tell you after, what!”

  He winked at his bride, who suddenly smiled back. Desdemona thought she had solved the problem. Naturally he did not want that dreadful daughter of his to know just how much he had.

  Desdemona set herself to please. She told a host of on-dits which Margery recognized as the gossip belonging to the season before last. The earl laughed at all the old stories as if he had never heard them before.

  He was a large, beefy, jovial man who had once dazzled the salons of eighteenth-century London with his manly graces. Now in his middle fifties, he showed all the marks of an indulgent life of long hours of drinking and gambling. Margery’s mother had died giving birth to her, and since then there had been no one to curb the earl’s excesses. His new bride seemed to be in a fair way to encouraging them!

  When Desdemona was in good humor, it was all too easy to see what had fascinated the earl, apart from her extreme youth. She was as pretty and dainty as a Dresden figurine, and had her family had enough money to launch her on a London season, they would not have looked twice at a middle-aged earl.

  By the time dinner was finished, Margery felt she had been put through a wringer. Any remarks Desdemona addressed to her seemed to be made to the necklace that flashed and burned on Margery’s bosom. Margery was beginning to see her home as it appeared in the eyes of this supercilious newcomer. For the first time she noticed the bare patches in the rugs and the worn upholstery on the chairs. The ceilings, which were blackened in the winters by gusts of smoke from the great fires, were badly in need of painting. She prayed silently that Papa would remove his bride to Paris as soon as possible.

  She had not long to wait. It appeared the bridal couple were to depart on the following morning. Desdemona deposited an icy peck on her cheek before climbing into the great traveling carriage and leaving the earl alone to have a word with his daughter.

  “You know, Margie,” said the earl, shuffling his feet in the pebbles of the drive. “No one’s denying you ain’t a good housekeeper. But a man wants something more in life than just that. Seems to me you could do with a bit of training from a girl like Desdemona. She’d soon catch you a man, heh!”

  Margery took a deep breath. “Your wife has been extremely unkind to me, Papa. She has made a great many cutting remarks, and I am surprised to hear you taking her part. The one thing you have never suffered before is ill-bred manners under your own roof.”

  “Hoity-toity, miss. You’re just jealous,” said the earl infuriatingly. “You’ll get over it.”

  He gave his fulminating daughter a hearty slap on the back and plunged into the carriage. As the carriage lumbered off, Margery heard Desdemona titter, “What a dragon of a daughter, dear Jimmy! More like a mother-in-law,” and heard his hearty laugh in reply.

  Summer mellowed into autumn and still the earl showed no signs of returning home, leaving his daughter to cope with one financial blow after another. The first bad news was that the earl had sold his estate in Yorkshire for a considerable sum and had taken up permanent residence in an elaborate mansion in Grosvenor Square. News of the earl and his new countess’s excesses filtered down even to the quiet backwater of Chelmswood.

  Margery and Lady Amelia could only be thankful for small mercies. They had been left alone to pursue the quiet tenor of their country days unmarred by the demanding presence of the new countess, whose daring Parisian wardrobe and magnificent jewels were said to be the talk of London.

  As the first snow began to fall, the earl’s man of business, Mr. Harold Jessieman, arrived unexpectedly from London, demanding to see Lady Margery.

  He could hardly wait for the elderly butler to take away his muffler and greatcoat before he burst into speech.

  “My dear Lady Margery, I trust you are not one of those young ladies who are prone to fainting fits?” was his unauspicious opening.

  “No,” said Lady Margery. “Please tell me your news.”

  The little businessman straightened his wig with chalky-white fingers and looked at her anxiously. “Perhaps it would be wise to call Lady Amelia…?”

  “My father!” gasped Lady Margery. “Speak up, man, for heaven’s sake, or I will have an attack of the vapors.”

  “There is nothing physically wrong with your father,” said Mr. Jessieman. “I almost wish that there were.”

  “Come now,” said Lady Margery in what she hoped were bracing tones. “Let me fetch you some mulled wine to warm you. If father is well, there can be little wrong.”

  “I am not in the habit of making a journey in the middle of winter to discuss trivia,” said Mr. Jessieman sharply. “The long and the short of it is that your father has squandered his inheritance at the gaming tables of St. James’s in order to support his wife in a style of living to which she has become all too rapidly accustomed. I informed him that he must retire to the country and retrench. He simply laughed in that guilty way of his and told me not to be such an old stick and to find a buyer for Chelmswood!”

  Lady Margery stood very still. The wind sighed gently through the great trees outside and the powdery snow whispered against the windows. She looked with wide eyes around the cozy, shabby room.

  “Sell!”

  “I appealed to him,” went on Mr. Jessieman, looking at her nervously. She had turned as white as the snow drifting gently outside. “I reminded him that Chelmswood had been in his family for generations, and for a minute he seemed to be moved. Then Lady Desdemona came into the room. She immediately demanded to know what we were talking about, and the earl told her. She simply laughed in my face. Laughe
d! Said that ‘her Jimmy’ would be better off without that great barn of a place.

  “I reminded her that it was your home that was being sold from under you.”

  “And what did she say to that?” asked Margery faintly.

  “My lady suggested that Lady Amelia should find employment as a paid companion and that you, my lady, should go to London and become her companion. I assure you, Lady Margery, at this point your good father did try to protest, but she… she…”

  “Goon!”

  “The countess sat down on your father’s knee—right in front of me—and wound her arms round his neck and persuaded him that it was all for the best and that she would find you a suitable husband.”

  “To which my father answered?”

  “To which your father answered…” Here Mr. Jessieman hesitated and eyed his young hostess nervously. He then seemed to gather courage. “To which he answered,” said Mr. Jessieman, “‘My clever little puss, I never thought of that. Margery will be delighted.’”

  Margery looked out of the windows at the falling snow. It was all too dreadful and all too true. She could just picture Desdemona cajoling her naïve father and persuading him that Margery would be ecstatic over the idea of living as a companion under the cat’s-paw of Desdemona.

  There was nothing Margery could do or say. She noticed that Mr. Jessieman was looking fatigued after his journey and rang the bell so that the butler could show him to his rooms.

  Left to herself, she paced the room nervously and wondered what on earth or how on earth she was to tell Lady Amelia. The wind moaned in the chimney like a cry from her heart.

  Never in her life before had she felt so weak or so feminine. She suddenly longed for a pair of strong masculine arms to comfort her and for a strong masculine shoulder to cry on. She thought fleetingly of the Marquess of Edgecombe and then laughed at her fancy. The elegant marquess was the type of man to complain that she was ruining his jacket if she ever cried on his shoulder.