Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus

by Beaton, M. C.

  The Glenstraith’s house was musty and cool behind drawn blinds, the servants moving quietly through its subterranean light. Tilly longed to stretch out on her bed after releasing her body from its prison of stays and her swollen ankles from the torture of a pair of high buttoned boots. But no sooner had she removed her straw hat when she was summoned again to the duchess’s presence.

  The Duchess of Glenstraith was in her bedroom. As Tilly entered, Her Grace was just in the act of plonking her great hairy feet into a basin of cold water. So, thought Tilly unromantically, must the Highland cow cool his hot hooves in the chill waters of a Highland bog.

  “Read to me,” ordered the duchess. “You’ll find The Times over there. Read the letters.”

  Tilly stifled a sigh. A barrel organ was playing “My Little Grey Home in the West” somewhere at the end of the street, the tinny music rendered poignant by distance. And the unbearably hot world of the outdoors seemed infinitely desirable now that it was shut away behind a screen of thick lace-edged blinds.

  Tilly read mindlessly and then suddenly concentrated on what she was reading as the writer’s ironic humor penetrated her tired brain. The writer to the The Times was complaining that although the opera management of Covent Garden regulated the dress of its male patrons, it did not do the same for the females. The writer explained that he had worn the regulation evening dress. Tilly read:

  “I wore the costume imposed on me by the regulations of the house. Evening dress is cheap, simple, durable, and prevents rivalry and extravagance on the part of male leaders of fashion, annihilates class distinctions, and gives men who are poor and doubtful of their social position (that is, the great majority of men) a sense of security and satisfaction that no clothes of their own choosing could confer, besides saving a whole sex the trouble of considering what they should wear on state occasions….

  But I submit that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander….

  At nine o’clock (the opera began at eight) a lady came in and sat down very conspicuously in my line of sight. She remained there until the beginning of the last act. I do not complain of her coming late and going early; on the contrary, I wish she had come later and gone earlier. For this lady, who had very black hair, had stuck over her right ear the pitiable corpse of a large white bird, which looked exactly as if someone had killed it by stamping on its breast and then nailing it to the lady’s temple, which was presumably of sufficient solidity to bear the operation. I am not, I hope, a morbidly squeamish person, but the spectacle sickened me. I presume that if I had presented myself at the doors with a dead snake round my neck, a collection of blackbeetles pinned to my shirtfront, and a grouse in my hair, I should have been refused admission.”

  Tilly looked up, her eyes crinkling with laughter, and then stared in dismay at the look of purple rage on the duchess’s face. “Who wrote that—that twaddle,” spluttered Her Grace.

  Tilly peered at the signature in the gloom of the bedroom. “Someone called G. Bernard Shaw,” she said.

  “Might have known,” said the duchess, her agitated feet sending a great slop of water over the side of the basin. “Troublemaker!”

  Tilly remembered with much amusement that the duchess herself possessed such a hat.

  But the duchess’s next remark wiped the amusement from her face.

  “I say, Tilly,” said Her Grace, lifting one foot out of the water and staring in seeming wonder at her toes, which well she might, since they looked like globe artichokes, “there’s no need for you to attend this dinner tonight. Be happier with a tray in your room, what? You never like this social twaddle anyway.”

  Tilly felt suddenly rebellious. “I would like very much to attend,” she said in a choked voice.

  “Well, you ain’t going to, so there,” said Her Grace nastily.

  Tilly gave a stifled sound and fled from the room. She reached the sanctuary of her bedroom and hurled herself onto the bed and cried and cried. Now that there was no possibility of seeing the marquess, her fickle heart told her that that was what she really wanted more than anything in the world. Her dreams and fantasies could no longer sustain her. She cried for the fall of the Burninghams, for the death of her father, for the humiliating days of her present existence. She cried so long and so heartily that it was some time before she became aware that someone was pressing a cool handkerchief soaked in cologne against her hot forehead. She twisted around and looked up into the sympathetic eyes of Francine. “You must not cry, mademoiselle,” said the lady’s maid softly. “I shall make you some tea and you will feel better. I, Francine, shall be upstairs also this evening, so we shall play the cards and I shall tell you very, very scandalous stories.”

  “You’re dashed decent, Francine,” said Tilly, sobbing. “A real brick.”

  Francine said nothing and simply took Tilly’s hot little hand in her own and sat quietly at the edge of the bed until the girl’s sobs had ceased.

  They made an odd contrast, the flushed, tousled, and tearful Tilly and the cool and svelte lady’s maid with her neat black hair and snapping black eyes. But it was the beginning of a real friendship, a friendship that was to mean more to Tilly than she could ever begin to guess.

  The marquess shifted uneasily in his chair later that day and wished he had not come. The heat in the dining room was oppressive. Various Art Nouveau products of Louis Comfort Tiffany winked at him from the table and a madonna by Edvard Munch seemed to waver restlessly on the wall. The baking heat of the outside walls of the house had finally penetrated to the interior. Flowers wilted sadly in their bowls of melted ice.

  Philip had hoped to see that strange tomboyish girl again, since he felt sorry for her, but she was unaccountably absent. The heavy meal and heavy wine combined with the heat of the room made him feel sleepy, and he would have been content to relax and exchange desultory pieces of conversation with the duke had it not been for Lady Aileen, who restlessly sparkled at him and postured and tittered and chattered. Any time she looked like flagging before the almost tangible air of boredom emanating from the marquess, her mother would spur her to fresh efforts with great nudges of her massive elbow and strange little whoops that sounded like muted hunting calls.

  At last he put down his glass and said mildly, “I trust Miss Burningham was not affected by the heat. What is the matter with her?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” said the duke in surprise. “She always joins us for meals. What is up with Tilly?”

  His wife looked as if she would like to strangle him. Aileen’s beautiful face took on a sulky look. The duchess leapt into the awkward silence that had followed her husband’s question. “Yes, it was the heat. She’s not very strong, you know.”

  “Dear me,” said the marquess. “I would have said she was as strong as an ox.”

  Aileen giggled. “Oh, I must remember that. Poor old ox, Tilly.”

  “I trust,” said the marquess in even tones, “that you would not repeat anything so cruel. I did not say ‘looked like,’ I said ‘as strong as.’”

  Aileen bit her lip and her mother rose majestically from the table. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their wine, my precious? Don’t be too long,” she added, waving a roguish finger at her husband. “Fairy’s going to play the piano for us.”

  The marquess groaned inwardly. Would the evening never end? He and the duke sat in silence after the ladies had gone. The duke was working himself up to snatching his guest away from the table as soon as was decently possible, and the marquess was plotting how soon he could make his escape and wishing he were a woman so that he could plead a headache.

  All too soon the duke gave a diffident cough and suggested they should join the ladies.

  Aileen was already seated at an upright piano. As soon as the marquess was seated she began to sing a selection from Die Fledermaus in a high, thin voice, which acted on his nerves like a knife being scraped across the bottom of a pot.

  Finally he leapt in with his excuses when she paused f
or breath. He would need to get an early night. He had a lot to do in the morning.

  Plainly disappointed, they reluctantly let him go. He felt guilty and pressed Aileen’s hand rather more warmly than he had intended as he made his good-byes. Aileen was immediately transported from a sulky child to a dazzling young woman. She was confident he was in love with her after all and put his long silences of the evening down to manly reticence. She would plot and plan and contrive to get him on his own.

  The marquess stood for a moment on the steps outside and took in deep breaths of the now cool evening air. He climbed into his carriage with a sigh of relief and settled back against the leather upholstery, glancing up at the windows of the house as he did so.

  He saw Tilly Burningham staring down at him from an upper window, her face lit clearly by the light of an oil lamp. It was flushed and swollen with crying. She raised her hand in a half salute. And then she was gone.

  Poor child! he thought as the carriage moved forward. They deliberately kept her abovestairs.

  He was suddenly weary of the heat of London and of the idle gossip of the Season. He would travel to Paris in the morning and get away from it all for a bit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A week had elapsed since the dinner at the Glenstraith mansion, and the marquess was sitting up in bed in his apartment in the Avenue Foch in Paris, reading the illustrated papers and well content with life.

  By his side, still asleep, lay Cora Duval, one of the most beautiful courtesans in Paris. It had been, reflected the marquess, the most satisfactory liaison he had ever entered into, if not the most expensive. Cora was splendid in bed and witty and amusing out of it. He looked down at a copy of the Illustrated London News and frowned. There was a picture of Aileen and her friends, taken at Ranelagh, with the usual caption reading, “Enjoying the London Season are…” followed by a long list of names. To anyone who did not know the situation it would seem as if Aileen and her friends were enjoying an innocent joke. The marquess searched on his bedside table, found a magnifying glass, and held it over the picture. The malice in Aileen’s eyes seemed to leap out of the page.

  Her friends’ heads were half turned, and in the strong lens the marquess could make out the object of their mirth. Tilly Burningham was sitting a little behind them with the duchess. She was unbecomingly dressed in a dark gown with a severe collar, and the duchess was leaning toward her with an angry expression on her face. He looked up from the picture as his gentleman’s gentleman, Lennox, appeared with the morning post.

  He flicked through it until he found himself staring down at a letter from his lawyer. He sliced open the embossed envelope and read the contents.

  His lawyer begged to remind his lordship that the month was nearly up, and that if his lordship did not wed soon, he would forfeit his father’s fortune.

  The marquess swore under his breath. Cora had made him forget the whole cursed business. He picked up the Illustrated London News again and stared thoughtfully down at the Ranelagh picture.

  I’ll marry her, he thought suddenly, and then I can return to Cora. Tilly won’t mind. I’ll get the fortune, she’ll get a home of her own, and then we can go our separate ways.

  He leaned over the white length of his mistress’s body, revealed by the tossed back bedclothes, and shook one white shoulder gently. “Wake up, my heart,” he whispered. “I have to travel to London for a few days. But I shall be back as soon as I have attended to… er… some unfinished business.”

  “Do not eat so much, Tilly dear,” said Francine. “You’ll ruin the figure.”

  The former Honorable Miss Matilda Burningham would never have dreamed of allowing a servant to address her so familiarly or for that matter stop her from eating a delicious slab of Congress cake. But the present Tilly was deeply grateful for the maid’s friendship and, besides, Francine never called her anything other than Miss Burningham in public. She put down her cake with a sigh. “I’m getting as fat as a pig,” she groaned.

  “You could lose it, oh so easily,” said Francine, “if only—”

  She broke off as James, the second footman, appeared with an air of suppressed glee and announced in his stateliest voice, “His lordship, the Most Noble Marquess of Heppleford, is in the drawing room and requests a few words with the Honorable Miss Burningham.”

  Tilly jumped to her feet, nearly oversetting the tea table. “You must be mistaken, James,” she gasped. “Surely he wishes to see Lady Aileen!”

  “No, miss,” said James, dropping his stately manner and grinning all over his face. “It’s you he wants, and it couldn’t happen at a better time. There’s no one else in the house.”

  Tilly ran to the door.

  “Wait!” screamed Francine. “I must do the hair and make the face and change the robe.”

  “Can’t wait!” said Tilly, grinning. “He might get away!”

  Francine threw up her hands in despair as Tilly, wearing a skirt and blouse that were coming apart at the waist and with her hair coming down and jam and cake crumbs on her face, hurtled down the stairs to the drawing room.

  She hesitated outside the door, wishing she had not been so precipitate, but the butler was already moving to open the double doors of the drawing room, so there was no time to change her mind.

  She blinked her eyes before the vision that was the marquess. A stray sunbeam gilded his golden hair. His suit seemed to have been molded to his body and his embroidered waistcoat emphasized his trim, muscular waist.

  “Pray be seated, Miss Burningham,” he began. Tilly sat down awkwardly and tried not to slouch. The marquess sat down opposite her with graceful ease, not even looking around to see if the chair was there—a social art Tilly had as yet been unable to accomplish, since she either fell on the floor or hurt her bottom on the edge of the chair.

  “It’s awfully decent of you to call,” said Tilly. “Don’t get much callers.” She tried to give a coquettish laugh but it emerged as an embarrassed guffaw.

  The marquess eyed her coolly. He did not feel in the least embarrassed. He was about to enter into a business contract, that was all.

  “Miss Burningham,” he said, “you have perhaps heard that under the terms of my late father’s will I must marry before the end of the month. That is only a week away and here I am, still unwed.”

  Tilly’s heart began to hammer uncomfortably against her stays.

  “So,” he went on, “I wondered if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Tilly put a hand to her heart, a pathetic feminine gesture in one so robust, and her face drained of color.

  “You see,” went on the marquess, “I am sure your position in this household is an unhappy one. I am offering you my name and a home of your own—a home rather like Jeebles—and in return I expect a partner who will fulfill the duties of her position and not… er… interfere in my affairs.”

  Tilly opened and shut her mouth. “I wouldn’t,” she finally gasped. “I mean… interfere.”

  “You do realize it’s a sort of business contract?”

  “Oh, yes!” breathed Tilly, who really didn’t understand any such thing.

  He stood up, and Tilly stood as well. He moved forward to kiss her on the cheek and then reeled slightly as Tilly gave him a resounding slap on the back.

  “It’s most awfully ripping of you,” she said shyly. “Things are really ghastly here.”

  “I am afraid we shall have to marry in haste,” he said, ignoring the cynical voice in his brain that murmured, “and repent at leisure.”

  Tilly’s face fell. “I can’t p-pay for the wedding,” she stammered, “and I don’t like to ask Her Grace.”

  “There is no need for that,” he smiled. “Send all the bills to my lawyer. Ah, I hear the duchess arriving. I had best break the news to her.”

  At first neither the duchess nor Aileen could quite take in the news, but when it finally got through to them, their astonishment and dismay were ludicrous.

  “Well, I ain�
�t paying for the wedding,” grumped the duchess sourly. “And I’ve got too much on my hands to bother with guest lists and all that.”

  “And I certainly don’t want to be maid of honor,” said Aileen nastily.

  “Nobody asked you,” retorted Tilly with a rare burst of spirit.

  “Go and get your hat, Tilly,” said the marquess quietly. “You are coming with me.”

  Tilly needed no second bidding and flew from the room.

  When she had gone, the marquess turned his icy gaze on the furious duchess. “I am taking Tilly to an old friend of mine,” he said. “She will be married from there. I shall send for her trunks later in the day.”

  “Scheming, conniving thing,” said the duchess, referring to Tilly. “Glad to see the back of her. Never any use anyway. Oh, don’t cry, precious.”

  Aileen was sobbing angrily into a pocket handkerchief.

  The marquess swung around with relief as Tilly appeared in the doorway, with a straw boater crammed on her carroty hair.

  “Tart!” howled the duchess. “Serpent!”

  “Serpent yourself!” said Tilly. “You great hairy cow. You can take that backboard of yours and plonk your great bum on it and sail off down the Themes to oblivion, for all I care.”

  The marquess winced at the vulgarity and Aileen went into strong hysterics.

  “I’ve a good mind to slap you for your impertinence,” said the duchess, lumbering forward threateningly.