Mrs. Wilton watched with some amusement as Marjorie’s mouth puckered up in a fair imitation of Lady Bethons and she tossed her head back in the same manner.
“And you would never let me wear rings over my gloves,” went on Marjorie, sinking her voice to imitate Lady Bethons’s contralto.
“No. It’s common,” said Mrs. Wilton.
Mrs. Wilton was a small, birdlike woman of seventy with little plump hands and feet. She had hooded eyes and a small hooked nose and in her red velvet evening gown she looked remarkably like a Christmas robin.
“Felicity Bethons was on the stage before she married the East End scrap dealer, Jimmy Simons,” said Mrs. Wilton. “She used to be quite beautiful, you know, in a flashy sort of way.”
“On the stage! An actress!” cried Marjorie.
“Well, no, front row of the chorus in Falk’s Follies.”
“But … you said ‘Jimmy Simons’ not Jimmy Bethons.”
“Jimmy Simons made a fortune out of his scrap dealing and bought himself a knighthood and changed his name to Bethons. Sir Jimmy Bethons, he became. It must have cost him a mint.”
“And he died in India?” queried Marjorie, faint but pursuing.
“No, no, dear. Not India. The East India dock. He was watching the ships and had a stroke. One of the lascars ran for help but he had died instantly.”
“Was it a hot day?” asked Marjorie, reluctant to relinquish the picture of soldier Jimmy under the burning sun.
Mrs. Wilton looked at her curiously. “I don’t know, my dear. What has old Felicity been telling you? She always was a silly thing. She certainly wouldn’t have met King Edward when he was Prince of Wales. She probably saw him when Jimmy was knighted but as for His Majesty wishing to marry her …”
Marjorie sighed and stared at her hands. Haddon Common had swirled around in a delicious rainbow of aristocratic enchantment for one whole evening. “How do you know so much about Lady Bethons?” she asked at last.
“Mrs. Jenkins’s lady’s maid is a former theatrical dresser and she told Mrs. Jenkins, who told me.”
“Servants’ gossip!” cried Marjorie, her eyes flashing. “It could all be untrue.”
“Lady Bethons smells of the shop and of greasepaint,” said her grandmother tartly, “and I would not have her in my house except for the fact that she plays a fine hand of bridge. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Marjorie. But at least I shall not have to live with the image of Lady Bethons during the next few weeks. The minute you admire someone, you try to change your personality to theirs. I sometimes wish you could go on the stage and get it out of your system. The fact is, Marjorie, you lead too dull a life for a girl of your years. Perhaps I shall do something about it. But not tonight, my dear. A most exhausting evening. And sometimes Mrs. Jenkins is really too lucky. Some evenings, she seems to win every game. Turn out the gas before you go to bed, Marjorie, and put the guard in front of the fire.”
Marjorie dutifully pecked her grandmother on the cheek and waited until her small figure had left the room. Then she plumped down on an overstuffed sofa with a sigh. Somehow the boredom of her existence seemed even more unbearable after even that one taste of pinchbeck aristocracy.
She felt too restless to follow her grandmother up to bed. Some illustrated papers were lying piled neatly on an occasional table beside the sofa. She picked up a copy of the Tatler and idly turned the pages. Most of the subjects in the photographs looked as if they had been stuffed and mounted especially for the photographer as their eyes stared glassily up at her.
Then she came to one large one that had more animation than the others and, all of a sudden, her eyes were riveted to the page. There was a group of bright young things in the act of playing croquet on the lawn of a country house. In the foreground of the picture was a tall man who had turned to stare at the photographer. It was a hard, haughty, arrogant face with a proud nose, a firm mouth and a strong chin. Hair that looked black sprang away from a high broad forehead. The eyes were large and fine and well-shaped and seemed to stare straight at the mesmerized Marjorie in disdainful surprise.
And Marjorie fell in love in that instant. Rapidly she read the caption. “On the right”—ah, that was he!—“Lord Philip Cavendish.”
“I must meet him, somehow,” thought Marjorie desperately. “If only I were a titled lady or an American heiress.”
She slowly looked round the luxurious drawing room. Her grandmother was a very rich woman. Was there any reason then why she, Marjorie, should not have a Season? Just one Season?
Then Marjorie’s expressive mouth drooped. She was middle class. Mrs. Wilton’s money had been left her by her late husband who had owned a chain of grocers’ shops. There was no way to lose the stigma of trade. Even Mrs. Wilton herself spoke jeeringly of people who “smelled of the shop.”
Marjorie had never questioned her grandmother on the subject but she felt sure that Mrs. Wilton, like everyone else in Haddon Common, believed that your station in life had been appointed by God and it would be flying in the face of heavenly law and order to try to step out of it.
“I shall ask her in the morning,” thought Marjorie, still clutching the magazine. “She can only say no.”
Which is what Mrs. Wilton did … a flat, unequivocal “NO.”
“If I stay here in Haddon Common, I may meet unsuitable young men,” pointed out Marjorie desperately.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Wilton. “There are no young men in Haddon Common, unsuitable or otherwise.”
Marjorie bent her head over her congealing breakfast. “Then I shall find one,” she thought. “Just you wait and see.”
Chapter Two
Mrs. Wilton’s first small attempt to divert Marjorie’s mind from thoughts of a London Season was to buy her a dog. It was a small Scotch terrier called Mackintosh and had Marjorie not become obsessed with that black-and-white picture of Lord Philip Cavendish, she would have been delighted with the animal.
As it was, she enjoyed the stocky little dog’s company in a lukewarm way, made sure it was exercised and fed and its rough coat brushed. The animal also made a tolerably good confidant and learned along with Marjorie as she pored over a large volume of Burke’s Peerage that Lord Philip was the youngest son of the Duke of Dunster. This exalted fact should have poured cold water on the ambitions of any sensible girl but Marjorie had not been much in the way of experiencing the realities of life, immured as she was in the genteel backwater of Haddon Common, and so everything seemed possible and, in her nightly dreams, she walked and talked with Lord Philip.
She had not, however, forgotten her resolve to find an unsuitable man. Her grandmother might grant her a Season if it meant removing her from the evil influence of unsuitable company.
At last she found him.
Mrs. Wilton became aware that there was some strange influence in Marjorie’s life. One day she came across Marjorie kneeling in prayer over a rosary. Mrs. Wilton had smiled tolerantly at that, assuming that Marjorie had read some ridiculous novel about a nun and was bent as usual on emulating the heroine.
Then a crucifix appeared above Marjorie’s bed. That gave Mrs. Wilton a few anxious moments but she decided not to mention it.
Then the blow fell. She was entertaining her elderly friends and the vulgar Lady Bethons to tea when Mrs. Jenkins put her cup down in her saucer with a smart click and pointed to the far wall of the drawing room.
“Dear me, Mrs. Wilton,” said Mrs. Jenkins, aghast. “Not turning papist are we?”
Mrs. Wilton slowly turned round. There in a corner of the drawing room under the English landscapes and hunting prints was a picture of the virgin and child framed neatly in black passe-partout. Not by one of the masters either. One of those cheap, highly colored religious paintings.
“I don’t know how on earth that got there,” she said, urgently ringing the bell.
When Rose entered, Mrs. Wilton waved at the picture. “Who put that thing there, Rose?”
“Miss Marjorie, ma’
am,” said Rose with the shining bright look of restrained glee a good servant adopts when he or she knows that one of the betters is going to cop it.
“Nonsense!” began Mrs. Wilton, and then she remembered the crucifix and the rosary. “I admit Marjorie has been acting strangely. Have you any idea who might be responsible for Marjorie’s … er … Romish behavior? Speak up, Rose. Some lady from St. Mary’s congregation, perhaps?”
“I think, ma’am,” said Rose, enjoying herself hugely, “that if you look out of the window you’ll see Miss Marjorie on the common with a certain gentleman.”
“Don’t be so coy and secretive, Rose,” snapped Mrs. Wilton. “When I ask you a simple question, I expect a direct answer.” But gasps from the window as her friends stared out and a high sniggering laugh from Lady Bethons forced her to leave Rose and follow suit. The company parted to allow her a full view.
There in the middle of Haddon Common stood Marjorie. She had Mackintosh on a leash. The spring day was fine and she was wearing a straw boater, a striped shirt-blouse and a white linen skirt.
And she was smiling gaily up into the face of a very handsome young priest who seemed equally enchanted with Marjorie’s company. He had a square tanned face and very white teeth and a shock of blond hair. In all, he was certainly much too good-looking to be a priest.
“Oh, dear,” gasped Mrs. Wilton. “Who on earth is he?”
“Oh, that’s Father Benjamin from St. Mary’s,” drawled Lady Bethons, enjoying herself hugely. “All the young girls are mad about him but Marjorie is the only one he seems interested in.”
“Dear me!” wailed Mrs. Wilton. “A Roman Catholic priest. Oh, the shame of it! And Marjorie such a good Anglican. I shall speak to his religious superior. What will our good vicar say? Marjorie will be ruined. I know Marjorie! She’ll fall into a religious fever and become a nun! Oh, dear! What am I to do?”
“Take her away from Haddon Common,” said Lady Bethons, lowering her voice dramatically. “He is a new priest, you know, and perhaps it is part of some devilish plot on the part of the Church of Rome. They plan to lure our young girls away by seducing their minds.”
“It’s not her mind I’m worried about,” snapped Mrs. Wilton.
“Piffle,” said old Mrs. Bassett. “Absolute balderdash! You’re all takin’ it too seriously. Call the gel in and have a word with her.”
Mrs. Wilton flapped a hand at Rose who scampered out and shortly afterward could be seen heading across the common in Marjorie’s direction.
There was a heavy silence in the drawing room. The old grandfather clock ticked away in the corner, a log fell in the grate and the bright sunlight flickered through the bushes and trees of the garden to waver over the rose-patterned wallpaper and carved walnut furniture.
Then Marjorie came in with Mackintosh at her heels. She stood in the doorway with her hands clasped as if in prayer and her eyes turned up toward the ceiling.
Mrs. Wilton sighed.
“Marjorie!” she said crossly. “What on earth are you doing talking to a Catholic priest?”
“I am in love with him,” said Marjorie. “His church forbids him to marry so it shall be a marriage of true minds.”
“She needs a good purge.” (Mrs. Bassett.)
“Touch of the birch rod more like.” (Mrs. Jenkins.)
“Darling child, I feel for you!” (Lady Bethons).
“Bread and water and locked in her room.” (Mrs. Fyfe-Bartholomew.)
“Go to your room,” said Marjorie’s grandmother severely. “I shall talk to you later.”
Marjorie floated out, the stocky figure of Mackintosh ploughing after her.
Once inside her bedroom, she leaned against the door, feeling the beating of her heart against her stays. Surely it would work! Not that Father Benjamin wasn’t extremely handsome. Marjorie played briefly with a rosy fantasy of being immured in a convent and seeing him every ten years through a black, forbidding grill and then rushed to that now well-worn magazine photograph for courage.
The light began to fail outside and one by one the elderly ladies’ carriages arrived to take them home. Lady Bethons was the last to leave. As Marjorie was turning up the gaslight, she heard her grandmother’s slow footsteps on the stairs.
Mrs. Wilton entered and seated herself on a small chair beside the popping and hissing gas fire.
“Now, Marjorie,” she began, arranging her skirts, “you are a very silly girl. I will say no more about it provided I have your promise to forget this … this … priest.”
“I cannot,” said Marjorie in a trembling voice for she hated to lie to her grandmother so much. “I love him.”
“Then you will stay in your room until you come to your senses!”
Marjorie picked up her rosary by way of reply and began to tell her beads.
“Ooooh! I could shake you,” said Mrs. Wilton, rising to her feet and trembling with outrage. “I am going right round to St. Mary’s to give that young man a piece of my mind.”
Marjorie experienced a terrible qualm of conscience. She had been forward enough in approaching Father Benjamin herself, welcoming him to the suburb. Their conversations had been innocent in the extreme.
But she must have that Season in London. Would refuse to see Mrs. Wilton.
Finding that she was getting no reaction whatsoever, Mrs. Wilton stumped angrily out. She was becoming seriously worried. There was only one answer to the problem of Marjorie. The girl must be married off as soon as possible.
She rang for her carriage and told the surprised coachman to take her to St. Mary’s.
Father Benjamin was extremely puzzled as why this elderly lady should be calling on Mrs. Wilton merely said calmly that she Father Benjamin had made himself granddaughter and then sat back and fixed the young priest with a steely glare. Had Father Benjamin been less innocent he would have immediately understood Mrs. Wilton’s problem and have allayed her fears.
But his childlike blue eyes merely lit up with enthusiasm and he said in a pleasant Irish brogue, “Ah, that’s a fine girl you have there, Mrs. Wilton. You are Anglican I believe. A pity. We could do with some fine-looking lasses like Miss Montmorency-James to liven up our little flock.”
“There will be no livening up of your little flock,” snapped Mrs. Wilton.
Father Benjamin merely smiled. He was already used to several irascible old ladies in his own congregation. He assumed Mrs. Wilton was trying to be funny in a grumpy way. He also assumed she had only called to be neighborly, having freshly come from Ireland and not quite realized the immense barriers between the Anglican and Catholic religions.
“Sure, it was neighborly of you to call, Mrs. Wilton,” he said in a jolly voice. “I look forward to the pleasure of seeing your beautiful daughter on my walks.”
“May I point out you have not been introduced to her,” said Mrs. Wilton.
“Oh, but I have,” said Father Benjamin. “The young lady introduced herself in a most friendly way.”
“Let me put things another way,” sighed Mrs. Wilton. “You are a man of God cannot become married.”
A look of rather pleasant stupidity crossed Father Benjamin’s blue eyes. “No,” he said. “That’s a fact for sure, for sure. Would you be wanting a cup of tea?”
“No, I would not,” rapped out Mrs. Wilton. “I will come directly to the point. You will not be seeing my granddaughter again.”
“Ah, well, now. She’ll be making her coming out and all that,” said Father Benjamin with infuriating good humor. “And next time I see her, she’ll be married to a lord, I shouldn’t wonder. Will you be taking a house up in town?”
Mrs. Wilton stared at him in baffled fury. Then slowly the anger died out of her eyes. Plainly this cunning priest was determined not to understand. But a Season for Marjorie? Well, why not! “I have money enough,” thought Mrs. Wilton, “and society is not what it was. Money talks. Look at Jimmy Simons.”
She smiled frostily at Father Benjamin. “As a matter of fact Mar
jorie will be leaving—next week.”
She rose to her feet to conclude this useless interview.
“Don’t wear yourself out at all the parties, ma’am,” said Father Benjamin with a cheery grin. “And may the Lord bless you.”
“What! Oh, yes, quite,” said Mrs. Wilton faintly, her mind already busy with plans.
* * *
It took more than a week to effect the change. But Marjorie’s rosary and crucifix and religious painting had mysteriously disappeared. The house on Haddon Common seemed to be in a perpetual uproar and servants packed and sorted and chattered with excitement over the move into high society.
Mrs. Wilton had hired a house in Belgravia and had rummaged through old diaries and address books until she had managed to find one illustrious name among her old acquaintances, that of Penelope, Lady Bywater. She had met Lady Bywater many years ago at a hotel in Deauville and the two had become very friendly. Mrs. Wilton had not, however, seen fit to resume the friendship on her native soil, feeling that one could step out of one’s place abroad but in Britain, of course, the good Lord had ordained things otherwise.
Surprisingly enough, Lady Bywater was still alive and delighted to offer her help in launching young Marjorie.
Lady Bywater was to live with them in the Belgravia house until the end of the Season.
Marjorie lived in a whirl of silks and satins and lace. She was taken to that terrifying temple of haute couture, the House of Frederic in Lower Grosvenor Street, to be measured and pinned and fitted.
It was, in a way, rather like getting ready for a very expensive theatrical production. The house in Eaton Terrace, Belgravia, was the stage setting. The backers were consulted—in this case the backers being the modistes and jewelers and catering firms—and the costumes designed and made ready.
To Marjorie, used only to the stagnant life of Haddon Common, it was breathless and frightening. She was, after all, to play the part of the leading lady. It seemed impossible that everything should be ready in time for the “curtain up.”
My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie Page 2