by M C Beaton
“Nonsense,” said his lordship with a cutting edge to his voice. “Whitest skins I’ve seen in years. Anyway, the latest rage of Paris has Negro blood in her. Skin like honey. All the fellows are mad about her.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Cynthia, raising her penciled eyebrows. “How democratic you have become. It must be the American influence.”
Roddy moved behind Lord David to find his own seat. “Her with her painted nails and Paris gowns,” he murmured in Lord David’s ear. Lord David let out a sudden unmanly giggle and Cynthia looked at him with narrowed eyes and then focussed her attention on Molly, who was seated across the table from her, next to Giles.
“You won’t object to me speaking across the table, will you, Miss Maguire?” she said sweetly. “My fiancé informs me that you Americans do not believe in our stuffy English conventions.”
The word “fiancé” pierced Molly’s heart like a knife but no trace of what she felt showed on her face.
“You make me nervous,” said Molly equally sweetly. “You see, Lady Cynthia, I have learned that in English society, if anyone begins by referring to the free and easy ways of the Americans, it usually means they are about to take some terrible liberty.”
Lady Cynthia’s mouth curled up in a thin line. That explains the mystery of the Mona Lisa, thought Molly suddenly. Leonardo da Vinci had probably just fallen on his palette knife or tripped over his easel.
“But I know a lot about you, you see,” said Lady Cynthia. “And I do admire you so—working away like slaves in that little shop in Brooklyn. And to make your family fortunes by inventing a cough syrup with that hilarious name ‘Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew.’” She gave the sort of laugh that is usually described as tinkling.
From the head of the table Lady Fanny emitted a low groan.
“I say,” said Giles suddenly. “Did you really? By Jove, I think that’s marvelous. Takes brains and guts. Tell us about it.”
And to Lady Cynthia’s chagrin that is exactly what Molly did. She mimicked the accents of Dolores and Jimmy perfectly. The whole table rocked with appreciative laughter. How English society loves a character, and if that character is very rich and very beautiful, then near adoration sets in.
Lady Cynthia realized bitterly that instead of ruining the Maguire sisters as she had, of course, planned, she had set their little footsteps well on the path to the most successful London Season two young ladies were ever likely to experience.
Lord David watched Molly’s usually mobile face for some signs of shock or hurt at the news that he was engaged. But Giles’s handsome head was bent over her in an irritatingly possessive way and Molly was laughing appreciatively at something he was saying.
At least Cynthia had done her no social damage. He found himself wanting to explain something about his relationship with Cynthia to Molly, but the conventions forbade it and he did not quite realize why he wanted to do any explaining anyway.
Suddenly Cynthia gave that terrible little tinkling laugh and raised her glass. “I think we should all drink a toast,” she said, “to David’s complete recovery.”
Molly’s face showed nothing but genuine delight. “When did you get the news?” she cried. Mary was smiling at him as well and something seemed to have happened to his voice.
“Oh, David knew ages ago, didn’t you, darling?” said Cynthia.
Why couldn’t he say anything? For one second both the Maguire sisters were expressionless as if they had been wiped with a sponge. Then Molly turned and began to chatter to Giles, and Mary turned her shoulder on Roddy and gave her full attention to her other neighbor.
What a bloody rotten country England was, reflected Lord David. He knew instinctively that the Maguire sisters would never forgive the deceit unless he did something very dramatic. Soon the ballroom stretched before him like a piece of polished eternity. Cynthia was always at his side, one gloved hand securely grasping his arm, basking in compliments on her beauty and congratulations on her engagement. And Molly was dancing and dancing with Giles, always on some other part of the floor.
He finally escaped into the garden and communed moodily with the night flowers. He heard the murmur of voices behind a low hedge and was about to retreat. He was then stopped in his tracks by the unmistakable sound of Roddy’s voice: “Oh, Mary! I am most awfully in love with you.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the unmistakable voice of Miss Mary Maguire. “Well, now you’ve said your party piece, can we go back in?”
“But Mary! I’m asking you to marry me.”
“No, you’re not,” came Mary’s transatlantic twang, very pronounced. “You’re playing at proposing to me in the way that that friend of yours pretended to be a dying man to trick my sister. Bet you both had a good laugh about it.”
“But we didn’t—”
There was the quick swish of a dress. Lord David tried to retreat but it was too late. In the pale light of the moon, he could see Mary’s eyes glistening with contempt.
“Eavesdropping, my lord?” she said coldly. He put out a restraining arm only to find that Mary had whisked off and that he was clutching Roddy.
Both friends glared at each other. Both said in unison, “It’s all your fault.”
“We won’t get very far by quarreling,” said Lord David. “We’re really making asses of ourselves over a couple of quite ordinary girls. Come, now, Roddy! How many times have you been in love before and got over it?”
“It was never like this before,” said Roddy, shaking his head.
“Yes, it was, because that is exactly what you say each time,” said Lord David. “The Maguire sisters are, after all, just like any other girls. Well… they are… aren’t they…?”
Mary went in search of her sister and eventually found her standing in the shadow of the curtains at one of the long windows overlooking the garden. Her large eyes were bright with unshed tears. Mary put an arm around her waist and both girls stood silently, listening to the music and watching the moving patterns of the leaves on the moonlit lawns.
“They’re all so cruel,” said Molly in a hard, flat voice. “I wish we were back in Brooklyn.”
“We’ll leave then,” said Mary eagerly. “Right now.”
Molly looked at her sadly. “That’s just what I want to do. But I can’t. I’m stubborn and I’m human enough to want revenge. Lord David Manley is going to wish that he never set eyes on me by the time I’m finished with him.”
“Oh, well,” sighed Mary. “I’ll stick it out. I’ve just refused the marquess, so that’s a bit of revenge.”
“Why?” asked Molly. “I thought you were sweet on him.”
Mary wrinkled her brow. “I dunno,” she said at last. “I felt he was playing a game just like Lord David. I thought that by the morning he would be laughing and saying he had never said a word.” She turned her face away to hide the look of hurt in her large eyes from her sister.
“You did the right thing, Mary,” said Molly, giving her a hug. “Some of them here can be pretty nasty about Americans. One woman asked me my real Christian name and I said, ‘Molly.’ ‘Oh, that’s a nickname,’ she giggled. ‘You Americans are so weird. Frightfully so, don’t you think? There was a chappie from New York called Harry and he had been christened Harry. He didn’t even know his real name was Henry.’ ‘So what?’ I asked. ‘I can see it is of not the slightest use trying to talk to you,’ she said, giggling. ‘You speak a different language. My God, the French are easier to understand.’ Then she told me that Molly was only a nickname for Mary and that we were both called Mary.”
“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.
&nbs
p; “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.”