by M C Beaton
Cynthia had been to a dress rehearsal of the pageant and was being very witty and amusing at the expense of the local yokels. She was indeed very funny and Lord David found to his irritation that he was becoming defensive about the townspeople. He thought the pageant was a splendid idea, and Cynthia should be flattered that she had been chosen to play the leading part.
“But she wasn’t,” said Giles with happy malice. “Mrs. Pomfret wanted Molly to play the part and Cynthia insisted that she play it herself.”
There was a frigid, well-bred silence and then everyone began to talk rapidly about something else.
Course followed course and still the Maguires had not returned. Lord David reflected that under normal circumstances he would have been quite worried about their nonappearance but thought cynically that the girls had heard that he and Roddy were to be dinner guests and had decided to stay away.
Lady Fanny continued to worry. “I really think I must send the servants out to look for them. It is not like the girls to be late, is it Wembley?”
“No, indeed, my lady,” said the butler, who had warmed to the Maguire sisters considerably since Lady Cynthia’s arrival. “The Misses Maguire, if I may say so, my lady, would never be late for dinner. They are too considerate of the servants.” Lady Cynthia seemed to have doubled the work of the household with her perpetual inconsiderate demands.
Lord David felt the beginning of a small stab of panic.
“Come along, Roddy,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “let’s go Maguire hunting.” He added under his breath after they had left the dining room, “If they are making fools of us, I’ll wring their necks.”
The girls were indeed late. They had found a small Roman Catholic chapel several miles from Hadsea. By some strange coincidence, the priest, Father McGarry, was American-Irish. The girls attended the service and stayed to talk to their countryman while the light faded outside and a chill wind corrugated the gray sea.
Molly finally became aware of the time. Both hurriedly made their good-byes, leapt onto their bicycles, and pedaled off furiously along the narrow country lanes. “When we get to the top of this steep hill,” said Molly, panting, “we can really race down the other side.” Despite her bitterness over the trick he had played on her, she had an urgent longing to see Lord David again. She was also worried about her sister. It was always hard to tell what Mary was thinking. She had been very quiet and withdrawn since the night of the ball. They reached the top of the hill, and the long, narrow chalky road stretched all the way downward. The countryside was deserted apart from the thick-set figure of a man standing in one of the fields.
Molly took a deep breath. “Here we go, Mary!” she called. And pedaling as fast as she could, she took off down the hill, skirts flying, hat tugging against the restraint of the hat guard, sailor collar streaming out behind her, racing down through the dimming evening light. Mary drew along beside her and neck and neck the sisters raced down, faster and faster. They did not see the glittering wire stretched breast-high across the road.
Molly felt a tremendous wrench at her chest. Her bicycle flew out from under her and she sailed dizzily into the air before landing with a sickening crash on the hard pebbles of the road. Mary was lying in the ditch like a broken doll.
“Now iffen I’d ’a put the wire higher, I’d ha’ broken yer neck,” said a voice above her.
Her eyes blurred with pain, Molly looked up, straight into the grinning face of Mrs. Pomfret’s blackmailer, Billy Barnstable.
* * *
“The chapel,” said Lord David as he and Roddy rode at a leisurely pace in the direction the girls had first taken. “What on earth do they want to go to church in the middle of the week for? Sundays are enough for me.”
“Don’t know,” said Roddy, “not being a Catholic myself. I believe it takes ’em that way.”
Mrs. Pomfret had told their lordships that the girls had planned to attend church. Both men felt that the girls’ absence from the dinner table was accounted for and had lost their fears. There was no doubt that it was a lovely evening and that somewhere on the road in front of them were the Maguire sisters. They decided to keep up their search.
“Perhaps they have been held up by a highwayman,” teased Roddy. “That way, you will be able to make her faint with passion as you toy with your quizzing glass.”
“Don’t be filthy,” remarked Lord David idly. “I say, that’s a big hill up on the other side. What energy! Imagine pedaling a bicycle all the way up that!”
“Look!” said Roddy urgently.
In the dim greenish light at the foot of the hill, the squat figure of a man was aiming blows with a cudgel at a girl who was writhing away from him on the dusty road.
Both men spurred their horses.
Billy Barnstable heard the sound of the galloping hoofs and plunged through the thorn hedge that bordered the road and started to run across the fields. Roddy rushed to where the still body of Mary was lying, but Lord David rode on, trying to find a gap in the hedge so that he could pursue Molly’s attacker.
But by the time he finally plunged into the field and rode across it, there was no sign of anyone at all.
When he got back to the scene of the accident, Mary had recovered. Lord David registered with some surprise that Roddy looked almost as white as Mary. Molly was struggling painfully to her feet. Her skirt was torn, her hat was lying in the road, and her hair was escaping from its pins. He stretched out his hands to help her. She tried to avoid him but stumbled and fell into his arms instead. He felt her trembling against him and realized with a queer little wrench of tenderness that she was still afraid. He thought he heard her murmur, “I always hated that fellow,” and looked down at her curiously.
“Have you seen your assailant before?” he said in a voice sharpened with anxiety. “You recognized him?”
Molly thought quickly. If she told anyone that she had recognized Billy Barnstable, he would be dragged before the magistrates and she felt sure Billy would broadcast Mrs. Pomfret’s pathetic story all over town out of sheer spite.
“No, never. I’ve never seen him in my life before,” she said, throwing a warning look at her sister, who was being held tightly in Roddy’s arms. Lord David looked at her curiously but her expression in the dim twilight was unreadable. Molly became aware that he was holding her very closely and tried to extricate herself but she still felt weak and faint and staggered into his arms again. Now was the time to kiss her. But, reflected Lord David, the heroes of Molly’s romances did not seem to be hidebound by what was good or bad form and it was definitely “not done” to take advantage of this occasion.
He led her gently over to her sister instead. Mary looked in much worse condition than Molly, as if she might faint again at any minute. Roddy eased her down tenderly onto a hillock of grass beside the road. “I’d better ride to the Holdens for the carriage,” he said. “You had better stay with the ladies, David.” And with a final, worried look at Mary, he rode off.
Molly and David sat down apart from Mary and conversed in low voices. Molly was anxious to lead the conversation away from the subject of the accident. Lord David sensed this and knew it was not the time to probe any further. He contented himself by asking questions about her life in America and privately thought it sounded very grim and that the Maguire parents were behaving in a stupid and insensitive way. He then took the opportunity to apologize for his lie about his illness. Molly was so grateful to her rescuer that she had already forgiven him. She longed to ask him about his peculiar engagement to Lady Cynthia but realized with a little pang of disappointment that he would not discuss his fiancée.
He began to talk to her of his estates and of the improvements that he hoped to make and Molly, listening to the light, pleasant, drawling voice, found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had shouted so savagely at his servants. She studied his hawklike profile: the peculiarly slanting eyebrows, and the thick black hair. He suddenly turned, his face illuminated by
the rising moon, and looked full at her. She felt as if something was happening to her breath. All the sights and sounds of the night seemed immensely clarified: the wind hissing across the field of corn; the rustle of some night creature nearby; the moonlight washing over the fields, highlighting the plains of her companion’s face. He leaned slowly toward her, his face very tense. And then the sound of rapidly approaching horses’ hoofs broke the spell. Molly blinked as if she had been asleep, and Lord David rose regretfully to his feet. He turned for a second and looked curiously down at his companion.
I’m in love with her, he thought with some surprise. I’m very much in love and I just don’t know what to do.
There was, indeed, very little he seemed able to do about it in the days before the pageant. Cynthia was fortunately away most of the time, rehearsing her part, but Mary had been kept to her room to recover from her ordeal and Molly spent most of her time above-stairs with her, and the only good thing about that was that Giles had left in disgust. He learned that the sisters planned to attend the pageant but not take part in it; however, they had refused, through the medium of the butler, Wembley, his offer of escort. He had been visited by the local police inspector and had been puzzled by the girls’ description of a tall, thin, scarred assailant. He was more than ever convinced that their attacker had been someone they both knew and someone they were shielding from the police.
The day of the pageant dawned warm and fair. People everywhere were talking about this incredible summer and the mayor had posted notices around the town advising the people to ration their use of water. Cynthia had scorned the use of the local dressmaker and had had her costume designed and made in London. Molly and Mary were of the very few not taking active part so they walked slowly down to the harbor—still feeling stiff and sore after their ordeal—to climb to the top of the ruined tower in order to get a good view. The water in the harbor looked like glass, and the fishing boats stood ready for the “invasion,” with cardboard shields along their sides and all the fishermen, obviously having a tremendous time, dressed up in armor made from silver paper. The mayor did not look a very convincing Norman baron, for although his armor was real, borrowed from the local museum, he had insisted on retaining his pince-nez, his high celluloid collar, and his necktie.
The townspeople in the harbor front were all turned out in what they fondly considered to be Saxon dress and the children were obviously having a marvelous time. Molly noticed two little boys in Norfolk knickers standing at the edge of the water in front of the crowd. They had, for some reason, not dressed up in costume like the rest of their friends. With a start, Molly recognized the twins—Bobby and Jim.
The fact was that Bobby and Jim had learned that their heroine was not to take part in the pageant and had therefore consented to wear their Sunday best instead of costumes.
There was a strangled fanfare of trumpets and Cynthia made her entrance. And what an entrance! She had not been popular with the townspeople but every single one gave her a hearty cheer. She looked like a princess out of a fairy tale, her blonde hair hanging to her shoulders in two thick gold braids. A tiny gold crown was perched on her head and she wore a scarlet-and-ermine robe. She was seated on a magnificent white horse, which pranced and curvetted in the best manner. Molly saw Lord David at the edge of the crowd. He was watching Cynthia. She experienced the awful wrenching pangs of jealousy and turned her head away to look anywhere else but at Cynthia.
There were the twins, being pushed precariously near the edge of the harbor by the crowd. Molly watched anxiously. Everyone was trying to get a look at Cynthia, and the cheering and the noise of the trumpets seemed very loud even at the top of the tower.
The crowd swayed and pushed and one of the twins was catapulted into the water.
Molly sprang onto the parapet of the tower, pushing back Mary’s restraining hands. She raised her arms above her head and prepared to dive.
A woman in the crowd saw the poised figure on the tower and screamed and screamed, pointing upward. The trumpets stopped. Everyone looked up. No one had noticed the boy struggling in the water, despite the frantic yells of his twin.
Lord David pushed and pushed, trying to fight his way to the front, trying to call to the figure on the tower not to do it. This had all taken a matter of seconds.
And then Molly Maguire dived. It was madness—it was incredible. She cut the water with hardly a splash and swam in an efficient crawl to where the twin had disappeared. She disappeared under the water again, while the people around the other twin, who turned out to be Bobby, finally managed to tell everyone around him that Jim had fallen in and Miss Maguire had gone to rescue him. The news spread in seconds. There was an agonizing wait and then Molly’s head broke the water, pulling the limp body of Jim to the steps cut into the harbor wall. Willing hands helped her out and then watched again in silence as the redoubtable Molly began to pump water out of the boy’s lungs. Jim sat up, vomited, and then began to cry in great, healthy, roaring shouts. His mother, Mrs. Wheelan, struggled to the front of the crowd and flung her arms around the startled and dripping-wet Molly and gave her a resounding kiss.
What a cheer went up as Molly, wet and blushing, made her way through the crowd. The Saxon peasants who had been standing ready to throw rose petals at the feet of Lady Cynthia threw them at Molly instead. Cheer upon cheer rent the summer air and the town band, overcome with emotion, burst into “Rule Britannia!” and everyone joined in and sang until they were hoarse, never stopping to wonder what “Rule Britannia!” had to do with an American miss.
A great bouquet of flowers, intended for presentation to Queen Winifred, was presented to Molly instead.
Cynthia sat as still as a statue on her white horse, ignored by everyone, watching and watching as Molly and her procession neared where Lord David and the marquess were standing.
“Please go and see if you can find Mary,” said Molly to Roddy. “She is not very strong yet and I don’t want her to be pushed around in the crowd.”
Roddy ran off on his errand. Molly paused for a moment, looking up at Lord David. Then, seized by an impulse, she took a white rose from her bouquet and handed it to him. He accepted it gravely. The procession moved on. He stood quite still, looking after her for a long time after she had disappeared from sight.
Lady Cynthia became aware that someone was calling her name. She dragged her eyes away from Lord David and looked down. Cuthbert Postlethwaite was looking up at her. “Been watching the end of your engagement, Cynth?” he drawled. “David seems quite smitten.”
“Nonsense,” said Cynthia with a light laugh. “David…fall for a little upstart with me around? You’ve been drinking.”
Cuthbert gave a massive shrug. “Oh, well, if you want to sit on your high horse, in every sense of the word, and not do anything about it when I’m ready and willing to help you get your revenge…”
“Here… help me down,” she said suddenly. “I’m sure you’re talking rubbish but I want to get away from the local yokels. Have you got your motorcar? Good. You can drive me somewhere where they serve a really good afternoon tea.”
Half an hour later they were cozily ensconced in the parlor of a tea shop in a nearby village. Cynthia looked around disapprovingly at the many brass bowls of flowers, knickknacks, brass ornaments, pictures framed in passe-partout, and an assortment of china gnomes on the mantelshelf.
“What a lot of junk,” she said caustically. “Why doesn’t the silly woman realize she is simply making work for herself by dusting all that trash?”
“Some people would think it cozy,” remarked Cuthbert amiably.
Cynthia wrinkled her pretty nose in disdain. “We didn’t come here to discuss the artistic foibles of the village frump,” she remarked, indifferent to the fact that the “village frump” was placing the cake stand on the table and could hear every word.
“No,” said Cuthbert. “The subject is the Maguire sisters. I want to pay David back. I want to get at him by driving the olde
st girl, Molly, back to the States. I’ve already heard rumors that she doesn’t like it here.”
“And what is your plan?” asked Cynthia curiously.
“Well, you know that great pile of a place I live in… you know, moat, turrets, battlements, the lot…?”
“Yes, yes, yes. What’s that to do with it?”
“Give me time to explain. Lady Fanny has always wanted an invitation to my home but I’ve never asked her because she’s a bossy sort of woman. She’d jump at the chance of a visit. I’ll invite Fanny and the Maguires and Lord David and Roddy and then I’ll set the stage. I’ll haunt the Maguire sisters.”
“Pooh!” said Cynthia, shifting restlessly in her seat. “If they’re silly enough to fall for it, David and Roddy will put them wise.”
“You must let me explain,” said Cuthbert angrily. “Now look here, you don’t think I’m going to run along the battlements in a sheet or anything stupid like that? I can hire this magician chappie from London. He’s a whiz. He’s so good, he’ll make sure only the Maguires see him. He’ll have the spirit voices telling ’em to take the first boat to the bally States, and they won’t know whether they’re coming or going.”
“Is anyone really that good?” asked Cynthia. She waved her arm and knocked a cream bun on the floor. “Now look what I’ve done,” she said indifferently. “Mucked up the old frump’s carpet. Oh, well… where were we…?”
“You were asking me whether he was any good?” scoffed Cuthbert. “The man’s a genius. Why, Bertie Stuart-Graham hired him for a house party up in Scotland because he wanted revenge on some girl who wouldn’t marry him. This magician chappie drove this girl to a complete nervous breakdown. Lord! How we all laughed when they carted her off.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “If I agree to help you, how can I be sure you won’t tell anyone of my part in it?.”
“You can’t,” said Cuthbert, with a great shrug of his massive shoulders. “But what would it matter anyway? No one blamed Bertie for the girl’s nervous breakdown. Everyone thought it the best joke in years.”