Molly

by M C Beaton

  “Well, no one in New York would understand them,” said Mary warmly. “Have you heard the latest baby talk? ‘Is oo having a deevie time?’ Pah!”

  “Anyway,” said Molly. “I’m so glad you turned down the marquess. I think he was acting all along, Mary. I’m downright proud of you for being so sensible. Now, why are we looking so dismal?” Her voice changed to its new English accent.

  “After all, what a frightfully jolly, ripping evening!”

  “Quite,” said Mary, and then both girls giggled despite their hurt.

  Molly wound her arm around her sister’s waist. “Onward, Miss Mary Maguire! Let’s go back in there and knock ’em in the aisles!”

  Heads high, fans waving, skirts swinging, the Maguire sisters returned to the ballroom and broke more hearts that evening than they were ever likely to know.

  Lady Cynthia swung around in Lord David’s arms and watched the sisters’ success from under her eyelashes. They had no right to be so successful. Little upstarts! What had happened to the English aristocracy? Lady Cynthia had tried to drop a word in Lady Fanny’s ear but Lady Fanny had refused to listen. “Vulgar manners? Nonsense!” she said roundly. “The little one’s grammar was a teensy bit strange at first, I’ll admit. But they are both kind-hearted gels with a great deal of charm. And so disciplined! They are always so fresh and clean and energetic. And lots of Americans come from good British stock.”

  “Not the Maguire sisters,” Lady Cynthia had acidly pointed out. “Their father is Irish and the mother is Polish.”

  Lady Fanny had surveyed Lady Cynthia with an uncomfortably shrewd look in her pale eyes. “How well informed you are, my dear,” she had said sweetly. “I didn’t even know that and I have met both parents, but then I didn’t think it important enough to find out.”

  Lady Cynthia had been obliged to spend quite some time smoothing down Lady Fanny’s ruffled feathers. After all, she, Cynthia, wished to stay on as a house guest. She had expected Lord David to return with her to London in the morning, but that infuriating man had said that the air of Hadsea was good for him and showed every intention of spending several more weeks in this provincial backwater. Certainly Lord David had been flatteringly attentive and had held her very close indeed every time he danced past Molly Maguire.

  Somehow, somewhere, decided Cynthia, she must take the limelight away from the Maguires, even if it meant suffering the life of this poky little town. She would wait and watch and snatch at any opportunity that presented itself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Where are the girls?” demanded Lady Cynthia languidly. Several uneventful days had passed since the ball, and Molly and Mary appeared to be absent most of the time.

  “On their bicycles,” said Lady Fanny, looking up from a pile of correspondence.

  “Bicycles! How very suffragette of them. Are they wearing bloomers?”

  “Thank goodness, no!” said Lady Fanny. “I would have refused to let them buy bicycles if they meant to appear like freaks. Molly explained to me that they would wear divided skirts, and I must say she has excellent taste. Very chic. Like little sailor outfits, and really you could not tell their skirts were divided.

  They look just like ordinary walking dresses… when they’re walking that is—” She broke off to watch with horrified amazement as Cynthia took out a slim gold case, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a practiced hand.

  “Cynthia!” shrieked Lady Fanny. “If you must indulge in that filthy habit, I insist you go to the smoking room immediately. Oh, dear, Wembley, what is it now?”

  “Mrs. Pomfret from the post office, my lady,” said the butler.

  “What on earth does she want?” said Lady Fanny crossly. “Why isn’t she post-officing or something?”

  “She wished to see Miss Maguire,” said Wembley. “I informed her that the Misses Maguire were bicycling, and she begged to have a word with you, my lady.”

  “I haven’t got the time. Molly does make such odd friends. First Mrs. Pomfret and then two grubby children calling with bunches of flowers…”

  “I’ll see her,” said Lady Cynthia. The more she could find out about Molly the better. “Show her into the smoking room, Wembley.”

  To Lady Cynthia’s irritation, Wembley waited for his mistress’s orders. “Very well,” said Lady Fanny grumpily. “Grateful to you, Cynthia. But be nice to her, mind.”

  “Of course,” drawled Cynthia, moving to the door. “I always am.”

  Mrs. Pomfret nervously eyed the beauty in front of her and tried not to look too shocked at the cigarette. It was not for her to question the ways of her betters. She plunged into speech.

  “I am sorry to take up your time, Lady Cynthia,” she said timidly. “Perhaps you may be able to advise me. I have written a little play for our local pageant and I wish Miss Molly to play the part of Queen Winifred.”

  “Who on earth is Queen Winifred?” drawled Cynthia, flicking ash on the carpet.

  Mrs. Pomfret blushed painfully. The weather was extremely hot and she had not been able to afford to cater for this strangely warm English summer by buying a suitable dress. She was aware of her dowdy, well-worn tweeds and of the little cracks and holes in her straw hat, which her sensitive nature was sure that Lady Cynthia had noticed despite the fact that she had tried to refurbish it by winding her best silk scarf around the crown.

  “Queen Winifred is my invention, my lady. I write the plays each year for the pageant but this year I wrote the main part especially for Miss Maguire. She is so brave and beautiful…” Mrs. Pomfret’s voice trailed away miserably under the ice of Lady Cynthia’s gaze.

  “And who else takes part in this little pageant?” inquired Cynthia.

  “Everyone… everyone in the town, that is,” said Mrs. Pomfret, forgetting her nervousness in sudden enthusiasm for her pet subject.

  “This year it is to be a Norman invasion, and Queen Winifred is a Saxon queen. It all takes place in the harbor and some of the townspeople play the parts of the invading Normans—the fishermen kindly lend their boats—and the other townspeople play the besieged Saxons.”

  “But what does Queen Winifred do?”

  “Well, after the Norman soldiers land, they are led by Baron Guy de Boissy. The queen rides toward him and says, ‘Forsooth, sirrah, begone from this noble city.’

  “‘Merde to that,’ he roars… that’s French, you know.”

  “I know,” said Cynthia sweetly. “Do you know what it means?”

  “Something French anyway,” said Mrs. Pomfret bravely.

  Cynthia told her what it meant.

  Mrs. Pomfret’s mouth fell open in dismay but she rallied quickly. “Then he shall say ‘zounds’ or something. Then he is struck by Winifred’s beauty. ‘If you come to France with me, fair maiden,’ he says, ‘I wilt not attack thy town.’

  “‘I wilt,’ says the queen. They set sail after the townspeople have cheered Winifred to the echo, throwing roses under the hoofs of her white palfrey.”

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes. It was all silly, childish nonsense, she knew. But she could see herself on a white horse with the cheering crowds around her. She could imagine David looking at her with admiration and the Maguire sisters being forced to play the part of Saxon peasants. She would insist that they darkened their skins with burnt cork.

  “Now, Mrs. Pomfret,” she said, bestowing a glittering smile on the postmistress. “Only consider. A Saxon queen should be fair. Molly is dark. But I will save the day for you. Now, I know I am going to amaze you, but I shall play the part of Queen Winifred. Now, not another word. I do not want to be embarrassed by gratitude. Lord David will play the Norman king, of course… or leader.”

  Mrs. Pomfret summoned up her small stock of courage. “But I-I h-had set my h-heart on Miss Maguire,” she stammered.

  “You are ungrateful,” said Cynthia with a steely note in her voice. “Molly is American, and you cannot have an American as a Saxon queen.”

  Mrs. Pomfret shook her head
dumbly. Her courage had fled. She only hoped Molly would understand.

  Molly was very sympathetic. She sat in the dark kitchen of the post office later that day with Mary and Mrs. Pomfret. The girls’ bicycles were propped around the back of the shop to escape the eagle eyes of Giles. Molly had found that young man’s attentions unwelcome and boring. It was bad enough to have him always present at the house, without having him spoiling their cycling tours.

  “Let Cynthia take the part,” said Molly. “She is very beautiful. Mary and I will watch from the sidelines. I must say I am surprised Lord David is going to take part. I thought he would be too grand for the town pageant.”

  “Oh, he is,” said Mrs. Pomfret. “He told me he wanted to have nothing to do with it, so the main male part is to be taken by the mayor, Mister Henderson, as usual.”

  “Cynthia won’t like that,” said Molly thoughtfully. Mr. Henderson was pompous, fat, and florid. The idea of him bearing Cynthia off to France suddenly made her giggle.

  “When is this all to take place?” she asked.

  “Next week—on Saturday,” said Mrs. Pomfret, putting a plate of hot buttered crumpets on the table. “We never have much rehearsal because it is always a little bit the same. You know, an invasion and so on. Last year it was Queen Elizabeth and the Spanish invasion.”

  “And who took the part of Queen Elizabeth?

  “I did,” said Mrs. Pomfret, flushing slightly. “It was the most marvelous moment of my life. But you see I couldn’t this year because I wrote about a young queen and I did so want it to be you.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Molly gently, “I couldn’t have taken the part. I can’t ride a horse, and you couldn’t have Queen Winifred riding down to the waterfront on a bicycle.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pomfret, made stubborn by disappointment. She did not like Lady Cynthia. “A few years ago Mister Henderson insisted on using his new motorcar in the pageant. It was all about Druids—”

  “Invading England?”

  “Dear me, no! Welcoming the arrival of Christian missionaries in their coracles. Well, we couldn’t have a motorcar in that. So modern. But the Boy Scouts covered it with painted canvas and turned the motor into a sacrificial chariot, which really looked splendid, although it did take its victims to the altar rather fast. Now then. I hear someone in the shop.”

  Molly’s sharp ears picked up the sound of Lord David’s voice. “Let me hear what he’s saying,” she said, getting to her feet. “Probably planning his funeral.”

  She crept to the door and opened it a crack. Lord David’s strong voice sailed into the room. “I don’t think this idea of yours is going to work,” they heard him say. “We came a cropper on The Highland Heart. This time ask Mrs. Pomfret what Molly reads—what she has chosen herself.”

  “Right-ho!” replied Roddy, giving the bell on the counter a smart ring.

  Mrs. Pomfret looked at the girls with bewildered eyes. “I don’t understand. Why should they want to know what you read, Molly?”

  “Anyway, it can’t do any harm to find out what the man of her dreams is like,” said Roddy with fatal clarity.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t go in for any of that strong, silent crushing in The Highland Heart,” he went on. “I tell you, find out what she reads and you’ll find out the kind of man she likes.”

  Molly’s lips folded into a thin line. She looked around the kitchen. A newly opened parcel of books for the library lay on the kitchen table. On the top was one with a brightly colored jacket portraying a Regency buck surveying a simpering miss through his quizzing glass. It was entitled The Marquess of Maidstone’s Downfall.

  “Give this to Lord David,” whispered Molly urgently. “Tell him this is my favorite book and I wish I could meet a man like the Marquess of Maidstone.”

  Mrs. Pomfret looked at Molly in bewilderment but she had done exactly what Molly had wanted before and had thereby rid herself of a blackmailer. With simple trust, the postmistress picked up the book. She was a strictly honest woman but for Molly Maguire she would have lied to the Archangel Gabriel himself. She hurried off into the outer shop.

  Molly looked thoughtfully at her sister. “It’s a long time since we’ve been to confession, Mary,” she said.

  “How can we?” said Mary with a mouthful of cake. “The nearest chapel is miles from here.”

  “We’ve got our bicycles.”

  “So we have,” said Mary, brightening. “But we’ll be late home for dinner and Lady Fanny will say we are so undisciplined.”

  “We’ve been very good up till now,” said Molly, laughing.

  “Man of my dreams, indeed! I wonder why he bothers? Probably he and Cynthia are planning to play some terrible practical joke on me. It’s just the sort of thing they would do!”

  * * *

  Lord David and the marquess climbed to the top of an old ruined tower at the end of the harbor wall and sat down to peruse The Marquess of Maidstone’s Downfall.

  “Are you sure you want to be bothered with this?” said Roddy. “What was all that stuff the night of the ball about the Maguire sisters just being like any other girls?”

  “I changed my mind,” said Lord David briefly. “Read.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Robby gloomily. “But it looks like the most awful sludge.”

  He bent his head over the book. Lord David propped his back against the crumbling wall of the tower and surveyed the scenery.

  The sun was low in the sky, casting a crimson path across the still water and bathing the old buildings around the harbor in a rosy glow.

  Swallows darted and skimmed over dark-blue water. People were walking about lazily or talking in groups. One by one the fishing boats were coming home. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke and fish and strong tea mixed with the piny smells of the woods behind the town. It all seemed very peaceful. For the first time he was aware of a feeling of holiday. He thought briefly of Cynthia. How on earth had he ever managed to let himself get embroiled? All he could do was to keep postponing the wedding date until she became tired of him. He had a longing to cycle slowly along the country lanes with Molly Maguire.

  Far away along the curve of the beach, the sturdy horses were still pulling the brightly colored bathing machines into the sea, the women screaming with mock fear as they teetered down the wooden steps into the water. He wondered if Molly went bathing and was stirred by the age-old aphrodisiac of the sea, and the thought of Miss Maguire in a bathing dress.

  Roddy’s voice broke into his thoughts. “This should be easy,” said the marquess. “Now this type of hero doesn’t go in for any strong, silent clutching. He actually presses her hand fervently at Almack’s on page one hundred and two.”

  “You mean in the gambling club?”

  “No, silly. Almack’s assembly rooms. Marriage market of Regency days.”

  “According to my old rip of a grandfather, they got up to a lot more than holding hands, even at Almack’s,” said Lord David testily, “and what is this Marquess of Maidstone’s downfall?”

  “His downfall,” said Roddy, reading quickly, “is a shy country girl who is fresh and natural and not like those other painted hussies. Her name is Belinda and she blushes and faints a lot.”

  “Forget it,” said Lord David. “Molly is not going to faint and blush.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” said Roddy. “The marquess is described as having an indolent manner, with indolent eyelids that seem to be closed half the time. Occasionally his eyes glint with mocking laughter as he flicks a speck of dust from the high gloss of his Hessians.”

  “Sounds like a twit,” said Lord David. “How does the fair Belinda react to this half-awake lord?”

  “‘He smiled down at her from under heavy drooping lids and she trembled with an awakened passion,’” read Roddy. “I’ll tell you why the girls like this sort of book and why maybe they don’t like us—particularly with them being Americans. We don’t behave like aristocrats. That’s what! Where is
our languid indifference? One minute you’re swearing at Molly, the next you’re trying to play on her sympathies. As for me, I’m down on my knees in the wet grass asking Mary to marry me. We must be standoffish. Born to command and all that rot.”

  “But how does this marquess eventually get to first base?—as the Maguires would no doubt say.

  “He clasps her firmly and tenderly in his strong arms and kisses her passionately on the mouth. She trembles at his touch and faints from an excess of emotion. That’s on the last page.”

  “She sounds like a bore in bed,” said Lord David.

  “Tut, tut. They don’t get as far as that! Oh, I see. He rescues her from a highwayman.”

  “Well, that’s out for a start,” said Lord David moodily. “Come along. We’re invited to the Holdens for dinner. At least that way we’ll get to look at them.”

  But there was no sign of the Maguire sisters at the dinner table. Cynthia looked particularly glowing and beautiful. Giles was moody and silent—Molly Maguire had paid him no attention at all at the ball and had laughed at all his very best compliments. Lord Toby was staring moodily down at his dish of Coquilles St. Jacques, already seeing in his mind’s eye the scallop shells being scrubbed and cleaned in the kitchen so that the soulless Scottish gnome gardeners could regiment another flower bed. Roddy was plainly disappointed and showed it. Lady Fanny fretted over the lack of discipline in the young in general and in two American misses in particular, and it was left to Lord David and Cynthia to keep the conversational ball rolling.