Her lips moving slightly, Mrs. Marsh carefully read from beginning to end and then dropped the letter on the table and wiped her hands carefully on her apron.
“You’re a fool, Pol,” she said heavily. “Yerse. A silly, little, snobby fool. That there Lord Peter ain’t got marriage in mind. ’E wants up your skirts, my girl.”
Polly blushed at her mother’s coarseness and became more determined than ever to escape from the working-class mud of Stone Lane. Her love for her mother vanished in a wave of fury.
“All everyone ever does is to try to keep me down,” she said icily. “I am leaving now, Mother, and I shall not return until I am Lady Burley. You will be sorry for your lack of trust.”
The small figure of Mrs. Marsh suddenly seemed formidable in the small kitchen. “Take yerself off, then, me girl,” she said slowly, “and finds it out for ye’self the ’ard way. God will punish yer for yer snotty ways, see if’e don’t.”
“Good day to you,” said Polly with awful hauteur.
“Ah, garn… yer bleedin’ little fool,” said Mrs. Marsh heavily. She moved to the fire and began to poke it heartily, keeping her back to her daughter, and listening to the angry rap of Polly’s heels as she descended the stairs and slammed the street door behind her.
Mrs. Marsh wiped away the angry tears from her eyes and lumbered over to the sideboard and extracted a few precious sheets of writing paper and a bottle of ink and a steel pen.
Sitting down at the kitchen table again, she bent her head over the paper and slowly and painfully began to write, “The Most Honorable Marquis of Wollerton, My Lord Marquis…”
The large conference room at Westerman’s had been set aside for the party. Staff were to be allowed one hour and a half to go home and change for the great event. The Duke of Westerman was not expected to attend, much to Polly’s disappointment, but she never doubted for a minute that Peter would be there. She had read in the social columns that his boat had docked at Southampton the day before. There had been no mention of any Miss Bryant-Pettigrew—not that she had expected any, Polly told herself firmly.
One of Lady Jelling’s evening gowns was pressed and ready in the small room in the hostel. Polly now lifted it over her head, shivering slightly as the cool silk touched her skin. It was of a deep kingfisher-blue, cut daringly low on the bosom and opened down the front to reveal an underdress of snowy flounces of lace. Polly’s small looking glass told her that she had never looked more beautiful but in her heart she felt ugly. The Christmas presents for her family lay wrapped under the bed but she had not had the courage to return to Stone Lane and face her mother’s angry disdain.
She thought wistfully of the cosy flat in Stone Lane. The kitchen would be redolent of all the smells of Christmas—plum pudding, turkey, brandy, hot chestnuts, tangerines, and the tangy smell of pine from the tree—and little Alf’s face would be shining as he sat by the fire and tried to stay awake to see Santa Claus. Every rattling loose slate on the roof would be the sound of a tiny hoof, every drunken laugh from the pub at the corner, the jolly laugh of the Christmas saint. Her ambition had removed her from it all and she felt immeasurably young and vulnerable as she collected her stole and fan and hurried out into the wintry streets to look for a cab.
A light snow had been falling for the past hour and as Polly clattered into the City the tall buildings were etched with white and the cobbled streets were silent and deserted. A chill feeling of dread clutched at her heart and she wondered for the first time whether Peter Burley would come.
The duchess put down her planchette after unsuccessfully trying to raise the spirits of the dead and stared in open dismay at her eldest son.
“Westerman’s party? But Peter said nothing of it to me! We have all sorts of people coming to dinner including some of the Bryant-Pettigrews’ relatives. He can’t go.”
“He already has,” said the marquis grimly, crumpling Mrs. Marsh’s letter in his hand.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Edward. Go and fetch him back.”
“Peter is not a child, Mother, and he does work for Westerman’s. There is nothing I can do about it.”
“I know it’s that Marsh girl. I just know it,” wailed the duchess. “Edward, please. Peter has been doing so well and not a breath of scandal must reach the ears of the Bryant-Pettigrews. As I told you, their relatives will be here tonight and they’re due here next week!”
“It is Peter’s affair, not mine,” said the marquis testily. “How do mothers expect their children to grow up if…” He broke off as he remembered the pathetic plea from Mrs. Marsh in his hand and sighed heavily. “All right, Mother. I’ll go and bring him back.”
Despite the speed of his new Sunbeam Mabley motorcar, the thickening snow finally reduced him to a crawl. By the time he had changed motorcar for carriage at his town house—not trusting modern transport to cope with winter conditions—he estimated Westerman’s party must have started an hour ago.
Perhaps Peter would not be there after all.
Lady Blenkinsop yawned and stretched like a cat and slowly opened her eyes. For a minute, she could not remember where she was as her sleepy eyes roamed over the small overly-furnished bedroom. Then they came to rest affectionately on the knobby bones of Mr. Baines’s back as he turned up the gas.
“You look funny naked,” she giggled. “You still look as if you’ve got a sort of bumpy white City suit on.”
Albert Baines blushed. He could feel the blush rising from his hammertoes to the top of his bald spot and hurriedly put on his long woollen combinations. He could never become accustomed to Jennie Blenkinsop’s lack of inhibitions, unaware that Lady Blenkinsop was quite amazed at it herself.
“I must go to the office party,” he said, carefully averting his eyes from her small naked bosom that was emerging from beneath the covers.
“Can I come too?” she asked lazily.
Mr. Baines looked startled. “But Sir Edward is bound to be there…”
“So?”
“So—I will be terribly embarrassed and probably lose my job,” he said with some vigor.
“No you won’t, my darling office slave. And anyway, I’ve got lots of money. Why don’t we run away together to somewhere splendid?”
Albert struggled into his boiled shirt. “Because I would feel strange, Jennie. I’ve been a working man all my life. I’m not used to your world.”
“It’s much the same as yours,” said Lady Blenkinsop. “Anyway, I’m coming to your party. I want to gossip to the beautiful Miss Marsh. You must help me dress, you know. I could not possibly bring my maid, although this haven of Hampstead respectability would no doubt appeal to her.”
Mr. Baines looked at her with baffled adoration. He would never understand her. He would never stop loving her.
When they were finally dressed, they descended the oaken stairs. Albert suddenly stopped and wrapped his long, bony arms about her and held her close. “You won’t let anything happen to spoil this, Jennie?” he said. “I suddenly feel afraid.”
“My poor Bertie,” she said, kissing him affectionately. “Always the worrier. Now what could happen on this beautiful Christmas?”
As if in answer, the doorbell clanged. The small parlormaid ran to answer it. Mr. Baines opened his mouth to tell her not to but no sound came out. The door swung open, and a cloud of snow swirled in from the Heath and settled on the shiny parquet of the hall floor. Gladys Baines and Sir Edward Blenkinsop stood on the doorstep.
The Baines’s cook had written to inform her mistress of “the dreadful goings-on” and Gladys had immediately enlisted the aid of Sir Edward.
There was a long silence while both couples confronted each other. Then Mrs. Baines began to sob. The large, domineering women was softened by her vulnerability and tears, reminding Bertie of the young, slim girl he had married so long ago when the world was young and the Heath stretched all the way to Samarkand.
Sir Edward looked like a whipped dog, his bloodshot eyes turned pathe
tically up toward his wife. Lady Blenkinsop could feel her vitality draining away bit by bit. Her voice reached Bertie’s ears, the sad ghost of a whisper: “Our dreams are over. The time has come for us to go home.”
She moved down the stairs like an old woman and took her husband’s arm and went out with him into the snow without looking back.
Bertie Baines reflected that hearts did not break; nothing so physical happened. A piece of the soul had been torn out from him leaving a great gaping wound which would never heal. He looked down at his wife. “Come, Gladys,” he said gently. “If you hurry and change, I can take you to the office party. “Come, come,” he added, moving slowly toward her. “Dry your eyes, that’s my girl. There, there. We’ll talk about it all later. But not now. Please God, not now.”
The conference room managed to look grim and foreboding despite the gaudy paper decorations. Some optimistic soul had hung a large bunch of mistletoe on the chandelier but no one looked in danger of kissing each other—or even of speaking to each other. In the hope that the duke would grace it with his presence, the organization of the party had been allocated to Sir Edward who, on hearing of the duke’s refusal to attend, had done very little about it.
Not only had Sir Edward failed to put in an appearance, but he had provided nothing in the way of drink. The best crystal glasses were lined up at the end of the conference table but there was nothing to put in them. After the first quarter of an hour had passed in whispers and the chill of the musty room began to creep into the very bones of the guests, Mr. and Mrs. Baines arrived exuding all the jollity of a wake.
The directors clustered eagerly around Mr. Baines. What should they do? Damned fellow Blenkinsop had done absolutely nothing!
Mr. Baines gave a wild distracted look around the room while his subdued wife clutched his arm like an amorous gorilla. “The directors’ champagne,” he said. “Six crates were delivered just yesterday. You know, sirs, the stuff we keep for visitors.”
Splendid chap! Saved the day. The beautiful green bottles appeared as if by magic. Pop! Pop! Pop! And the directors’ wives started to talk to each other. More pops and the directors’ wives talked to the clerks’ wives. Still more pops and the directors’ wives complimented young Amy Feathers on her gown. She had made it herself! How cunning!
Polly stood ignored at the edge of the room. The directors’ wives had not forgotten the picnic. The girl was much too pushing, and the directors themselves did not want to talk to someone who was on familiar terms with the Westermans. The clerks were tired of Polly’s hoity-toity ways, and even Bob Friend felt that he had been snubbed once too often.
Polly tried hard not to mind. When Peter arrived they would all find that she was far above them.
The door swung open and Lord Peter Burley breezed in. He was warmly greeted and slapped on the back by the directors. He drank several glasses of champagne. He talked to Mr. Baines and drank several more. He flirted with the delighted clerks’ wives and drank many more. He glanced at the mistletoe and insisted on kissing Amy Feathers to roars of applause from the now well-lubricated party. Would he never notice her? He moved off into a corner with Mr. Baines and sat down, and soon the two men were deep in conversation.
Then he looked across the room and saw Polly and winked.
A small, cold hand of misgiving clutched at Polly’s stomach. There had been nothing loverlike in that wink. He was coming toward her; he was smiling. She gazed up into his glinting green eyes and wondered how she could have ever forgotten what he looked like.
“Darling Polly,” he said in a thick voice. “Bainsey-boy has told me of a splendid place where we can be alone.”
Polly was aware of Mr. Baines staring at her worriedly from across the room. “Come now,” whispered Peter. “Nobody’s looking.” He opened the door and pulled her outside into the corridor. Polly felt suddenly breathless and lighthearted. Everything was going to be all right.
Peter led the way to a showroom at the back of the office building and threw open the door. It was used to display all the splendors of the east to visiting buyers. Ivory, jade, and brass shone in the light, buddhas from China, many-armed goddesses from India, silks from Japan, peacocks’ feathers from Kashmir, tusks from Africa, coral from the West Indies, and piles and piles of Oriental rugs. Peter drew the unresisting Polly down onto a pile of these and took her hands in his. The moment had come.
She turned her head shyly away and stared at a small bearded peasant who endlessly poled his ivory boat across a sea of jade.
Then strong hands were forcing her head around and hot lips still wet with champagne were pressed against her own. She surrendered herself to his kiss wondering why nothing was happening to her senses. At last she drew gently away.
“Peter—you said you would discuss our future.”
“Later, darling,” he murmured impatiently, his lips against her hair. “I’ve waited so long.”
Polly once again let herself be drawn into his embrace. But where was the cool, dashing, young aristocrat she remembered? His face was flushed and his breathing ragged. His hands seemed to be everywhere, probing and stroking. He murmured endearments in a thick voice, as if they were obscenities. She felt a draft of cold air on her legs and realized, with horror, that he had lifted her skirt and one determined hand was crawling up the inside of her leg.
She jerked away and pulled her skirts down only to find that the other roving hand had slid down the front of her dress and was clasping her bosom. Terrified images flashed through her brain. “’E only wants up yer skirts, my girl,” said the voice of Mrs. Marsh. Then she seemed to be looking up at the painted ceiling of Bevington Chase, where the man with the horns and goats’ feet perpetually clutched a large white breast in one tanned and horny hand.
“Peter!” she wailed, pushing him away with all her strength. “Can’t you wait until we are married?”
Lord Peter’s clutching hands went suddenly still and he sat bolt upright. His champagne-glazed green eyes focussed on the flushed and furious Polly.
“Married!” he hooted. “Whatever gave you the idea that I would marry you. Good heavens, I’m engaged to a perfectly suitable girl, but that need not interfere with our future together. Come, Polly. You were made for fun.”
Polly’s dream world whirled and crashed. She got slowly to her feet, smoothing down her dress with trembling fingers, and backed away from him toward the door. “I thought you loved me,” she whispered.
“Of course I do,” he answered in an exasperated voice. “But you must see that marriage with one of your sort is strictly out of the question.”
Gone was the dream Polly, the debutante Polly, the gracious Lady Polly. Miss Marsh of Stone Lane raised her small hand and struck Lord Peter as hard as she could, right across his face, and then turned and opened the door.
The next minute, she was wrenched back and thrown down on top of the pile of rugs again and Lord Peter dived on top of her.
“You little hellcat! You’ll pay for that, my darling guttersnipe. I know your type. You led me on and now you’re going to pay the penalty. He forced his mouth down on hers. One minute Polly was struggling and biting and kicking—and the next she found herself looking up at Lord Peter, who seemed to be floating in midair.
The Marquis of Wollerton, who had picked his little brother up by the seat of the pants and the scruff of the neck, hurled him across the room. “Get out of here,” snapped the marquis to Polly. “Go back to the party and act as if nothing has happened. Do not leave without me.”
Polly fled. She blundered sightlessly along the corridors toward the noise of the party and then stopped and leaned her hot head against the cold wall. Waves of shame engulfed her. This is what came of despising her fellow workers and being ashamed of her family.
In her attempts to enlarge her education at the theater, Polly had attended a production of Mr. George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman at the Criterion. Now a passage from the play rang in her ears: “We live in an atmos
phere of shame. We are ashamed of everything that is real about us; ashamed of ourselves, of our relatives, of our incomes, of our accents, of our opinions, of our experience, just as we are ashamed of our naked skins.”
She edged into the room but nobody seemed to notice her. She stood on the outside of a happy office world to which she could have so easily belonged. Amy was surrounded by a small court of admirers. Her thin face was flushed and her eyes were like stars. Now jealousy was added to Polly’s other burning emotions of anger and shame. She wanted to kill Lord Peter, she wanted to kill herself, she wanted to run away—all at the same moment.
The door behind her opened and the marquis came in alone. She watched him with dull eyes as he moved about the room, shaking hands with the staff, saying a pleasant word here and there. How he must despise her!
At last he came toward her, accompanied by Mr. Baines.
“Mister Baines was just agreeing with me that you should not go home at this time of night unescorted. The wives have their husbands and Mister Friend is accompanying Miss Feathers. I have suggested to Mister Baines that it would be a good idea if I saw you safely to your doorstep. Is that not so, Mister Baines?”
“Quite,” said Mr. Baines in a dull, flat voice.
“And as it is snowing quite heavily, I suggest we leave now.”
Polly bowed her head in assent and took his offered arm. Now everyone was watching her—Miss Marsh leaving with a marquis. Polly would rather have had the comforting escort of Bob Friend.
They climbed into the carriage in silence and in silence moved through the glittering white streets of the City. The snow had ceased to fall. Down Ludgate Hill the carriage trotted as its occupants sat in either corner, each wrapped in their miserable thoughts. “If that is love,” Polly was thinking, “all that heavy breathing and panting and fumbling, I want nothing to do with it.”
The marquis was feeling that he ought to make some apology on behalf of his family, yet did not know quite how to begin. The thick snow muffled the horses’ hooves as the carriage rolled silently along the Strand. The raucous cries of the merry-makers under the flaring gaslights and all the particular smells of the Strand—cigars and patchouli mixed with beer and roasting chestnuts—seemed a world away.
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