by M C Beaton
“No, my lord.”
“In that case—”
“But I must assure you, as a detached observer, I have great insight into the problems of matrimony,” said Sally.
He looked at her curiously. It was almost as if, by some trick of the light, a young and beautiful and intense girl were superimposed like a phantom over the wrinkled and aged features of Aunt Mabel.
Then he noticed that the hand holding her glass was trembling slightly and gently took the drink from her and put it on the table.
“We will discuss this further tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think you should rest. It is very late.”
Sally allowed him to help her to her feet.
“Would you assist me to my room?” she quavered. “I do feel shaky.” And in truth, she did, not being used to hard liquor.
Ah! The benefits of being old,? thought Sally as the marquess put one strong arm around her. She leaned against him gratefully and moved as slowly as possible so as to prolong this delicious experience.
He felt the old lady tremble slightly and experienced a qualm of anxiety. She was a queer old bird, and it was certainly long past her bedtime.
He escorted her to the door of her sitting room and politely held the door open for her, receiving a blazing look from a pair of glowing eyes.
Naughty old thing, thought the marquess, much amused. I believe she’s got a crush on me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sally carefully sponged her rubber wrinkles in the morning, wishing heartily that she could tear the whole mess from her face. But the role of Aunt Mabel had to be kept up, the pouter pigeon corset to be struggled into, and the stuffy, hot old ladies’ clothes to be put on.
It was going to be another very long day.
She drank her tea—brought in by the maid—and ate her Osborne biscuits and found that her stomach was still rumbling, and so she went in search of the breakfast room, eventually being guided to it by a footman.
It transpired that everyone else, with the exception of Peter Firkin, was breakfasting in their rooms. Sally helped herself to a generous portion of bacon and grilled kidneys from the enormous array of dishes on the sideboard and sat down primly opposite Mr. Firkin, whose nose was buried in the morning paper.
She hoped he would not trouble to engage her in conversation, but no sooner had she begun to eat than she became aware of one large hazel eye surveying her over the top of the newspaper.
“Aunt Mabel?”
Sally put down her knife and fork with a little sigh. “Yes, Mr. Firkin?”
“I say, do you give chappies advice as well as the gels?”
“Oh, yes, especially after I have eaten something and woken up properly,” said Sally repressively.
“Haw, jolly good,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing aside the newspaper so that it fell across the marmalade. “Fact is, I’m awfully much in need of someone to natter to about things.”
Sally sighed. “Natter away, Mr. Firkin,” she said.
“Well, haw, haw, it’s jolly awkward getting it out, ’specially as I’ve always been one of the strong, silent types, don’t you know, eh what, haw. Fact is… I’m in love.” And with that admission Mr. Firkin blushed like a schoolboy and buried his nose in his coffee cup.
Sally surveyed him with some amusement, took several hasty bites of her breakfast, and urged, “Do go on.”
“Don’t know how to begin,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and swinging one foot so that it smacked up against the underside of the table, sending a small wave of Sally’s tea cascading over her breakfast plate.
“Try,” said Sally, resolving to try to eat breakfast when Mr. Firkin was in a less energetic state.
“It’s like this,” he said in a rush. “I’m most awfully, frightfully, terribly smitten with Miss Wyndham.”
Lovely Mr. Firkin! Brave Mr. Firkin! Splendid Mr. Firkin!
“And she’s in love with you,” said Sally, smiling.
“Oh, no. I think she’s in love with Paul.”
Stupid, dreary, useless Mr. Firkin.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, stands to reason. He’s got the title, he’s terribly rich, he’s handsome. Any gel would prefer him to me.”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Sally dreamily, and then caught his huffy look of surprise.
“No, no, I don’t mean that,” she said hurriedly. “I mean one would think so. On the other hand”—Sally crossed her fingers behind her back—“you are a remarkably good-looking young man. Yes, I would say you are definitely what I would call attractive.”
Peter Firkin blushed and looked at her adoringly.
“It is necessary,” went on Sally cautiously, “to take some action. It is no use sitting around inarticulate. You must have courage! You must woo her. And you must tell his lordship, the marquess, that your feelings are engaged, so that he will not come between you and Miss Wyndham. I happen to know that his lordship is indifferent to Miss Wyndham.”
“I say, you can’t go around saying things like that to another chappie when the chappie’s your friend! And Paul… well, he can be a funny sort of cove. He might laugh—and—and I don’t think I could bear that.”
“I shall speak to him if you like,” volunteered Sally, completely forgetting about breakfast.
“Oh, would you? I say, Aunt Mabel, you are absolutely the cat’s pajamas. If I were younger, I’d marry you instead.”
“Oh, Mr. Firkin,” said Sally roguishly. “You naughty man.”
And absolutely delighted with each other, the pair finished their breakfasts.
Sally felt quite powerful and elated. Being Aunt Mabel certainly had its advantages.
But it was not until late in the day that Sally had her much-longed-for talk with the marquess. First, directly after breakfast, she had been accosted by the housekeeper, a formidable lady, all bosom and no hips, who wanted to seek Aunt Mabel’s advice on the insobriety of the butler and the peccadilloes of the footmen.
Luncheon was a dreary affair for Sally, since the marquess was seated next to Miss Wyndham and seemed to be flirting outrageously. Then, after luncheon, Her Grace wished a report on Aunt Mabel’s talk with her son. Then, because of her great age, Sally was almost forced to lie down in the afternoon while “the young people”—everyone under sixty—went out for a drive.
As the duchess was leaving Aunt Mabel in her sitting room, she turned at the door and said, “I have a simply marvelous idea. Paul obviously wants just to get married. Therefore it is up to us to find him someone suitable! I shall give a ball and invite all the prettiest and raciest girls.”
Sally longed to cry out, “Oh, don’t do that!” but Aunt Mabel said instead, “A very good idea.”
The duchess tilted her head to one side and surveyed Aunt Mabel. “You know, I think it was such a good idea getting you here. You must come for the ball. Simply must attend. What fun we will have watching to see which one Paul chooses!”
“Yes,” said Sally bleakly. “On the other hand, I must really return to London. You see, I have many letters to—”
“Of course you have!” said the duchess blithely, “and I took the liberty of telephoning that Mr. Barton and telling him to forward all your mail here. He wanted to send your secretary, but I said there was no need for that. You can use mine. Have you met him? He’s cataloging the library just now. Mr. Worthing. So that’s all right. You will be here for the ball. Now, please lie down, dear, and rest your old bones, and we shall see you at dinner.”
The duchess went off merrily, and Sally slumped miserably in her chair. She did not want to sleep. She wanted simply to go to that ball as anyone other than Aunt Mabel.
It was with something of a feeling of relief that Sally welcomed the arrival of two sacks of mail that had arrived by train that morning and had been collected by the duke’s servants.
She debated whether to go down to the library and engage the services of the duke’s secretary, but then
decided to work on the letters herself. All at once she wanted to keep thoughts of the marquess out of her mind.
I must be terribly kind to old people, thought Sally as she settled down to her work. How awful to be excluded from everything.
She worked away steadily until a maid arrived at six o’clock with the news that the marquess wished to have a word with her.
With a rapidly beating heart, Sally adjusted her wig, patted her rubber wrinkles, and followed the maid to the long gallery on the first floor, where the marquess was sitting reading a copy of Home Chats, surrounded by the portraits of his ancestors.
He looked up at Sally and smiled in such a way that she felt quite breathless.
“Well, my wise Aunt Mabel,” he said, rising and pulling a chair forward for her. “Have you come to a decision? Am I to offer my heart and my hand to Miss Wyndham?”
“I don’t think you should,” said Sally, carefully aging her voice. “Apart from the fact that you are not in love with Miss Wyndham, someone else is.”
“Who?”
“Peter Firkin.”
“Pull the other one,” he said rudely. “I mean to say, Peter. I’m very fond of the old boy, and I’ve known him since we were at school together. But honestly, you must be mistaken. Peter runs from anything in a skirt, no matter what age. What on earth gave you that strange idea?”
“He told me.”
“Good heavens! You are good at your job, if winkling dark secrets out of people is part of it. I must tease old Peter about this. Goodness, what a laugh!”
“The reason I am telling you this and not Mr. Firkin,” said Sally primly, “is because Mr. Firkin is very much in love and did not want to tell you just in case you did laugh at him.”
“Dear me!” He raised his thin eyebrows. “I shall not embarrass him in any way. Actually, Peter is not dim at all. He was very bright at school, and under all that shyness lurks a pretty good brain. Ah, well… have you heard about mother’s ball? She is importing suitable young ladies for my amusement. I wonder what has come over her. She never bothered before.”
“Perhaps the duchess thinks it is time you settled down,” said Sally.
“Undoubtedly. Never mind, I shall dance with you, Aunt Mabel, if you will save one for me.”
Sally smiled bleakly. Then she looked around the long gallery. Was she aiming too high? The only money she had was what she had earned, apart from the two hundred pounds she had taken out of the bank in Lewes.
The aristocracy—particularly these days—did not lightly marry girls of a lower class with insignificant dowries.
She became aware that he was speaking again. “After all,” he was saying in a light, mocking voice, “you quite put me off the whole idea. I hadn’t thought of all those squalling brats running around the place.”
“I was thinking of my sister’s children,” said Sally hurriedly. “Very spoiled, all of them.”
“Your sister’s children? Surely they are grown-up by now?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I was thinking of what they were like when they were little. But—but—all children need not be like that.”
“No, no!” He laughed. “You have talked me out of it. Well, I must get changed for dinner.” He hesitated before he had moved away a few paces. “I know little of Fleet Street, Aunt Mabel,” he said, “but I must think it’s very enterprising in a lady of your years to take on such a demanding job.”
“I enjoy it,” said Sally truthfully. “I learn a lot about myself from other people’s problems. There is an infinite capacity in all of us for being wicked.”
“’The only original sin is opportunity,’” he quoted.
“Exactly. Given a different upbringing, say in Seven Dials, I, perhaps, would be capable of all the seven deadly sins at once.”
“Tut-tut!” he mocked. “What a shocking old thing you are, to be sure. Are you leaving with me?”
“No, my lord. It is peaceful here. I shall sit and think of my sins.”
“They can’t be very many.”
“Few,” admitted Sally, “but quite colorful for all that.” She turned a glowing pair of eyes on him, and then found he was watching her strangely, and she hurriedly looked down at her hands. When she looked up again he had gone.
Sally sat on in the long gallery, trying to still the turmoil of her soul. But she was not to be left in peace for long.
The door opened, and Miss Wyndham drifted into the room, a vision in a white lace tea gown threaded with rose silk ribbons. She was carrying a red hothouse rose in her hand.
“Isn’t it pretty?” said Miss Wyndham with a dreamy smile on her beautiful face. “Paul gave it to me.”
Oh, burning acid of jealousy! Sally felt cast adrift on a bright green sea of churning emotion.
“I wish to speak to you,” went on Miss Wyndham, sinking into the chair recently vacated by him.
Bad etiquette, thought Sally sourly, feeling more like a bitter old spinster by the minute. A lady is not supposed to sit in any seat warm from a gentleman’s bottom.
“I believe you are very sympathetic. I feel you have a clear and kind soul.” Miss Wyndham smiled beatifically into Sally’s hate-filled eyes.
“How can I be of assistance?” asked Sally in a crotchety voice.
“I am in love,” said Miss Wyndham simply, twisting the stem of the rose in her long white fingers.
“You would be!”
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Wyndham raised slightly startled eyes.
“I said, I thought you were,” lied Sally, sternly, and with stupendous effort banishing jealousy into the far corner of her heart.
“Oh, does it show?” She blushed prettily. “The trouble is that I don’t think he even notices me. Do you think he is shy?”
Sally thought longingly of the marquess. “No,” she said. “I would not have thought that at all.”
Miss Wyndham looked sad. “You must be right, because you are so wise. Then it must be that he does not care for me. I only accepted the invitation so as to be near him. Do you think I have any hope?”
Sally looked at the beautiful girl opposite. “Perhaps,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you wait until the ball? It will be a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps then you could summon up enough courage to give him a little encouragement.” Just give me time to think, cried Sally’s treacherous inner voice. “There are other young men who must find you very attractive.” she added hopefully.
“I am not interested in any other young men,” said Miss Wyndham, with infuriating simplicity. “Perhaps,” she said, looking eagerly at Sally, “you yourself could mention some little thing.”
“I’ll try,” replied Sally, wrestling with her conscience.
“You’re a dear,” said Miss Wyndham, getting to her feet and kissing Sally impulsively on the cheek. She looked rather startled as her lips came into contact with the cold rubber wrinkles on Sally’s face.
When she had left, Sally sat chiding herself for her own jealousy and misery. How could she compete with a girl like Miss Wyndham, even supposing she were not disguised as Aunt Mabel? But I would like to try, screamed her rebellious inner voice. If only I could go to that ball as myself.
“You, there…er…Aunt Mabel, or whatever your name is,” said an acid voice in her ear.
Sally stared upward into the cold eyes of Mrs. Annabelle Stuart. She struggled politely to her feet and found herself thrust back down into the chair with a strong hand.
“Sit down,” commanded Mrs. Stuart. “You need all the rest you can get at your age.”
She plumped herself down opposite and glared at Sally.
“Can I be of assistance?” asked Sally politely.
“I didn’t come here to ask for help from some grubby little magazine’s letters editor,” barked Mrs. Stuart, and then relapsed into smoldering silence.
Sally raised her false eyebrows and did not deign to reply. At last she got to her feet and tried to make her escape.
“And where do you think yo
u’re going?” demanded Mrs. Stuart.
“To change for dinner.”
“Time enough for that,” snapped Mrs. Stuart, and relapsed into a sort of brooding silence that was somehow familiar to Sally.
Then Sally realized Mrs. Stuart was sulking. “I am not a servant, Mrs. Stuart,” said Sally at last with a faint edge to her voice. “My time is my own to spend as I see fit. So…” She got to her feet.
“Oh, if you must know, I do want your help,” grumped Mrs. Stuart, playing with a hideous string of hand-thrown pottery beads that, in Sally’s opinion, someone had not thrown far enough. They were those multicolored lumps in shades of sulphur-yellow and purple strung on black cord.
Sally gave a little sigh of resignation. “Please, go on,” she said, adopting her Aunt Mabel expression of patient wisdom.
“I want to kill my husband, Freddie,” said Mrs. Stuart.
“Why?” asked Sally in amazement.
“You really are rather a stupid old woman,” said Mrs. Stuart nastily. “Anyone with half a brain would want to kill Freddie. He’s a dead bore. He picks his teeth. He leaves the top off the tooth powder. He smokes cheroots in bed. He pinches housemaid’s bottoms. Do you need anything else?”
“But you must have loved him,” protested Sally.
“No. Who told you that?”
“Well, I mean, you married him.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. You are naive. I married him for his money, like any other sensible girl of my generation. I don’t want a divorce. Too messy. Detectives and Brighton hotels. Ugh! So I’ve decided to kill him. That’s where you come in. You can tell me how to do it.”
Sally sat in stunned silence. Purple shadows crept across the room. Somewhere outside, a rising wind began to moan in the trees, crying out the end of a long Indian summer and heralding the first bite of winter.
“Come on. Think, woman!” said Mrs. Stuart while those awful beads went clunk, clunk, clunk. “I’m asking you cos I’ve got to discuss it with someone, and you’re honor bound not to mention it to a soul—just like a priest.”
If I thought you were serious, you horrible frump, thought Sally, then I would call the local police station. But I happen to have guessed that this is some kind of spiteful joke. But I’ll play your little game.