Marjorie closed her eyes, feeling tired and depressed. How difficult life was! Why couldn’t she fall in love with someone who would love her back? And as the sky grew brighter and the rich went home and the poor started work, Marjorie fell fast asleep.
Chapter Three
The English discuss the weather a great deal because they can never seem to get used to its mercurial changes. The morning that had begun so gray and autumnal changed into full, blazing summer by the afternoon.
Lord Philip’s party consisted of eight young people, including himself, and an elderly aunt to act as chaperone. They were conveyed out of London in two open carriages, the servants necessary to their comfort having been sent on ahead. Marjorie found to her dismay that she was to share a carriage with the bouncing Mr. Lewis—whom she bitterly felt had been invited along for her benefit—Jessie Wuthers, Amy Featherington, a close friend of Lord Philip called Toby Anstruther and the aged aunt.
Philip was in the leading carriage with Hermione at his side and two handsome young men, whose names she did not yet know, facing them. Hermione was chattering and elated at having three men to escort her—as well she might, thought Marjorie sourly.
Her pleasure in her own appearance was somewhat dimmed. Marjorie was wearing the latest thing in “pneumonia” blouses, a transparent confection of pale lilac chiffon worn over a chemisette. Her skirt of heavy crêpe de chine was in a deeper shade of lilac and was swept up at the back into an elaborate fall of pleats and gathers and ruching. On her carefully dressed hair, she wore a neat “pancake” hat of lilac straw, tilted forward over her eyes to complement the fashionable S-bend of her figure. Her long white kid gloves clung to her arms without a crease and her little lilac kid boots peeped out from beneath the froufrou of her skirts. She held her lilac parasol tilted over her face, more to hide her sad expression than to protect her skin from the sun.
The air was warm and balmy and full of the smell of growing things, mixing memory and desire and breeding all sorts of uncomfortable longings in Marjorie’s bosom.
Toby Anstruther seemed quietly bored with the whole outing, the aunt and Mr. Lewis had fallen asleep and Amy and Jessie seemed as saddened by Philip’s not being in their carriage as Marjorie was. Marjorie studied the back of Philip’s neck, admiring the glint of gold in his thick hair under the shadow of his straw hat. Hermione’s face was often turned toward her companion and Marjorie studied every nuance, every gesture.
Her attention was finally claimed by Mr. Lewis who had awoken much refreshed from his nap. Wasn’t the lilac jolly, he said, just like your dress, Miss Montmorency-James. He had been lucky, he said, to get a day off work to go on this outing. Lord Philip had only asked him the night before at the ball. No, he didn’t know Lord Philip very well so it was dashed decent of him to allow him, Jeffrey Lewis, to tag along. Jolly amusing chap, Lord Philip. Had said he, Jeffrey, and Miss Montmorency-James made a good couple. Ha! Ha!
Marjorie winced. So she was being partnered off with Mr. Lewis.
Marjorie decided there and then not to lose hope. She was here and Philip was here and a picnic would provide endless opportunities for romance. She murmured polite noncommittal noises in answer to Mr. Lewis’s outpourings while her mind shaped one romantic picture after another. In her mind’s eye she could see the white tablecloth spread on the grass while Philip lounged beside her, propping his head on his hand. His other hand would slide across the grass to take her own and then he would suggest that they take a walk along the riverbank away from the others and under the glinting, dappling sunlight, he would get down on one knee and he would say …”
“We’re here!” called Lord Philip.
Marjorie came out of her reverie to find that the carriage was bowling along a smooth drive between manicured lawns.
It turned out that Lord Philip liked his al fresco entertainments to be as rigidly and formally organized as a state reception.
The picnic was to be held at the edge of the river in the grounds of a villa belonging to one of his friends who was recovering from consumption in a clinic in Switzerland.
On the smooth grass at the river’s edge, tables had been set up, covered with heavy linen cloths, and the sunlight winked on silver and crystal. Liveried servants stood ready to serve them. On a temporary bandstand near the tables, the band of the Grenadier Guards was playing airs from Gilbert and Sullivan. There were even little cards at each place so that Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James should know that she was to sit next to Mr. Lewis while Lord Philip sat at another table altogether with Hermione Ffofington.
There was only one small comfort. Marjorie’s table was next to Lord Philip’s and so she could watch Hermione. “Not much of my idea of a picnic,” whispered Mr. Lewis. “It’s outside but that’s about all you can say for it.”
“I think it’s perfectly splendid,” lied Marjorie while she strained her ears to hear what Hermione was saying. From the snatches of conversation she was able to pick up, she judged that Hermione was one of those young misses who pride themselves on speaking their minds. She was in fact very cruel in some of her observations but Lord Philip laughed appreciatively at everything she said.
Had Marjorie not been so obsessed with Lord Philip she would have noticed that his two handsome friends were eying her appreciatively. But Lord Philip did and felt vaguely irritated although he did not know why. His friends, who had shared his carriage, were a Mr. Guy Randolph and Lord Harry Belmont. Both were very much lilies of the field, neither working, toiling nor spinning. Both were of impeccable birth and both impecunious, relying on friends like Lord Philip to supply parties for their entertainment and various aunts and uncles to pay their tailors’ bills. Both were looking out for an heiress to marry. Not many heiresses, thought Philip with surprise, were so awfully pretty as Marjorie.
A stand of pretty aspen trees quivered by the river and cast the moving shadows of their young leaves across Marjorie’s thoughtful face. What was she brooding about, he wondered and was overcome by a desire to know.
There was lemonade or champagne for the ladies and Marjorie had decided to try champagne. She did not like the taste of it at all; in fact it did not taste nearly as pretty as it looked. She idly watched the bubbles in her glass and listened to the pleasant chuckling of the river and paid not one heed to any of the conversational efforts of Mr. Lewis.
At last the picnic meal was over and the company rose from the tables. Philip excused himself from Hermione and drew Toby Anstruther a little to one side. Toby Anstruther’s long, fair and foolish face reflected its owner’s usual boredom.
“Look, Toby,” said Philip. “Would you mind squiring Hermione for a little? I want to have a brief word in private with Miss Montmorency-James.”
“Very well, laddie,” said Toby with a sigh. “Your parties are always so formal, Philip. No abandoned gaiety for you. You’re a relic of the last century, you really are.”
Philip expertly maneuvered Marjorie away from the rest of the company, watched by at least four pairs of jealous eyes.
“Will you walk a little way with me, Miss Montmorency-James?” asked Philip.
“To the ends of the earth,” thought Marjorie. Then she remembered her role as Hermione.
“You seem to be quite a heartbreaker, Lord Philip,” said Marjorie in an amused voice. He looked down at her in surprise and found the eyes turned up to his seemed to have grown smaller and shrewder. Her movements were quicker and brisker.
“You are managing to break some hearts yourself,” he said lightly. “Jeffrey Lewis seems quite smitten.”
“Oh, he’s just like a noisy puppy,” laughed Marjorie. “He reminds me of my dog, Mackintosh, when he wants to go out for a walk. Pant, pant, pant. I expect him to come bounding up to me with a leash in his mouth.”
“A very unkind observation,” said Philip flatly.
“And then you have dear Amy and Jessie pining after you,” went on Marjorie, too immersed in her role to notice the displeasure on his face. A
little breeze had sprung up and her lilac dress fluttered and whispered along the walk. “Ickle Amy is just dying for your company and dear, dear Jessie pines for an opportunity to tell you how two hearts can beat as one.”
“Miss Montmorency-James,” he said savagely. “I would like to talk to you. I have an awful feeling you are imitating someone and from the tone of your conversation that someone must be quite terrible …”
He broke off in consternation. Surely Marjorie could not be imitating Hermione? But the tone of the voice, the eyes, the brittle derision were all too familiar.
“I wasn’t imitating anyone,” said Marjorie in a low voice. “I was just trying to be fashionable. Everyone seems to talk that way.”
“Well, they shouldn’t,” said Philip, wondering in amazement how he had ever found such conversation amusing.
They had been walking along a paved path that was shaded on either side by trees. It ended abruptly and Marjorie half turned to go back when she gave a little exclamation.
“Look!” she cried in delight.
The sunlight filtered down through a small wood in front of them. A hazy blue, like smoke, curled round the boles of the trees. Bluebells! Masses of them. Unmindful of possible damage to her skirt, Marjorie edged forward through the trees until she found herself in the middle of a small clearing.
“Come!” she called back to Lord Philip. “Isn’t it beautiful!”
Lord Philip stood at the edge of the clearing and stared at her. She was completely absorbed in the scene around her, rather like a child looking at a Christmas tree. It was very quiet except for the muted murmur of the river. The sun struck down into the glade in long shafts of light and the air was heavy with the damp, hot smell of the woods.
Marjorie stood, young and graceful, among the bluebells, as exquisite in the pastoral setting as a figure in a Watteau painting.
Lord Philip all of a sudden wanted to kiss her although he did not stop to wonder why or what the results of such an unconventional action would be. With characteristic single-mindedness, he moved slowly toward her. And Marjorie instinctively knew what he was about to do and her heart seemed to stand very still.
“Bluebells!” screamed Hermione from the edge of the clearing and the spell was broken. Toby Anstruther followed, shrugging slightly as Philip looked at him to indicate that he had been unable to keep Hermione away.
“What fun!” Hermione was crying. “Aren’t they duveen! Just the color of that old gown Jessie’s wearing although we’re not supposed to know it’s old since she’s just had it dyed and altered. So proud of it too, poor little intense thing!”
And Philip, who had thought Marjorie’s imitation of Hermione an extreme caricature, now realized it had in fact been a faithful copy and found himself almost disliking his old friend and felt irrationally cross with Marjorie for having been the cause of it.
“Oh, don’t pick them,” wailed Marjorie as Hermione stooped to pick an armful of bluebells. “They die so quickly, you know.”
“Exactly like Jessie,” mocked Hermione with a wicked look at Philip. “Now she … er … dyes very quickly indeed.”
This sally was received with all the stony silence it deserved and Hermione gave a brittle laugh.
“I don’t want the stupid things anyway,” she said, throwing the bluebells to the ground and taking Philip’s arm. “Come along, my devoted cavalier,” she said, smiling up at him. “We are going to have a little dancing and you shall partner me.”
She and Philip led the way, leaving Marjorie to follow with Toby.
Marjorie looked sorrowfully back at the glade. The crushed bluebells that Hermione had thrown down looked like a shocking piece of vandalism. Marjorie was a very normal young lady and so she began to hate Hermione with all her heart and soul. She felt obscurely disappointed in Philip. How could he possibly prefer the company of such a female instead of someone warm and loving like herself?
“I hope you don’t expect me to partner you, Miss Marjorie,” said Toby languidly. “I never dance.”
“I don’t expect anything,” snapped Marjorie, glaring at the couple in front. How close their heads were together. Hermione was whispering. What was she saying?
“There’s no need to be so rude,” replied Toby, roused to rare animation.
“You were the one who was rude,” argued Marjorie, roused to rare spirit by misery. “It was very conceited of you to think I might be panting to dance with you.”
“I did not think anything of the kind,” said Toby. “I am not a social animal. I do not care for these affairs.”
“Then why come?”
“Because life is so utterly boring that it really doesn’t matter what I do.”
Marjorie took a deep breath. Hermione’s teasing laugh floated back to her. “Only boring people find life boring,” she said in a sweet voice. “I agree it doesn’t matter what you do just so long as you do not inflict your boredom on anyone else.”
“I say,” gasped Toby, who felt as if she had just poured a bucket of cold water over him. “One does not talk like that in society, Miss Marjorie. One is polite at all times.”
“Oh, really,” said Marjorie nastily. “I hadn’t noticed to date but then I have had such bad models, you see.”
“Wait a bit,” said Toby with a sudden laugh that transformed his normally vacuous features into something approaching good looks. “This is all wrong, you know. I tell you what. We’ll begin again. Let me introduce myself. My name is Toby Anstruther and you are Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Isn’t the weather hot for the time of year?”
“Very hot, sir,” said Marjorie, her bad temper melting. How charming he was when he smiled.
“And may I compliment you on your blouse? Very fetching.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” said Marjorie demurely, although noting the fact that she must remember that one said “bloose” and not “blouse.”
“In fact,” went on Toby in his lazy drawl, “I believe we are to have some dancing and although I do not normally dance and certainly not as a rule on someone’s damp lawn, I would very much like to dance with you, Miss Marjorie.”
Marjorie glanced shyly up at him from under the shade of her parasol. His face was animated by a very sweet smile.
“Please say you will,” he went on. “I know that rude fellow who was talking to you a few moments ago and saying things about he never danced may have put you off. But we’ve got rid of that fellow now, haven’t we?”
“I hope so,” said Marjorie, smiling warmly at him. “And I should very much like to dance with you, Mr. Anstruther.”
“Now, what is that infuriating girl up to?” thought Lord Philip angrily as Marjorie danced under the trees in the arms of Toby Anstruther. Not content with ruining his pleasure in Hermione’s company with her damned childish mimicry, she now seemed hell-bent on seducing his best friend. And succeeding very well too, if that fatuous look on Toby’s stupid face was anything to go by. Funny, he had never before noticed how really stupid Toby looked!
Philip was overcome by a desire to flirt with Hermione just to show … just to show … well, just to show someone something. Anyway, he, Philip, didn’t really go in for all these broken-down social barriers instigated by Kingie. It was all very well for His Majesty to be so liberal, but the aristocracy remained the aristocracy by keeping their distance and not letting any encroaching little shopkeepers’ daughters disturb the status quo.
He whirled Hermione round and round in a waltz until she was giddy and fell breathlessly against him. He held her to him for a minute, smiling warmly down into her eyes. His acting was very good, driving that consummate actress, Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James, to greater efforts. She dazzled, she charmed, she flirted, made bold by hurt and rage. Jessie and Amy glowered on the sidelines as the gentlemen with the exception of Lord Philip nearly fought with each other over which one should have the honor of partnering Marjorie for the next dance.
Phili
p had just told Hermione that Marjorie’s latest impersonation had been of her and she was thirsting for revenge.
Marjorie had never enjoyed such male adulation before and began to manage to forget Lord Philip’s presence for whole minutes at a time.
The party ended to the strains of the Merry Widow waltz as the sun burned down over the river and a faint chill crept through the air.
The party piled into the carriages, all saying loudly and quite ferociously what a ripping time they had had.
Hermione was strangely silent. The glimmerings of an idea of how to get even with the infuriating Marjorie was dawning in her brain.
She would speak to Philip about it.
Now, Lord Philip Cavendish might not have listened to any idea of revenge but at that moment he twisted his head round to look at the carriage behind. Miss Montmorency-James, carried away by social success and champagne, was performing the part of Lord Philip Cavendish to perfection, egged on by admiring whoops from Mr. Lewis and malicious titters from Amy and Jessie. He would not have recognized himself—whoever does?—had not a treacherous breeze wafted Mr. Lewis’s exuberant comment to his listening ears. “By Jove,” he howled. “If that ain’t Philip to the life!”
Hermione had also heard Mr. Lewis’s remark and had noticed the angry, tight look on Philip’s face. Her glimmering of an idea had formed into a fully fledged plan. She leaned forward toward Lord Philip and began to whisper earnestly.
Next day Marjorie was delighted to receive an invitation from Hermione to tea that very afternoon. She did not like Hermione but she felt sure Lord Philip would be there. Marjorie felt quite drunk with power. She had only to bat her eyelids and men fell at her feet! It would not be long before Lord Philip joined the queue.
The Ffofingtons lived in Eaton Square, just around the corner, and Marjorie wondered whether to drive the short distance and arrive in style, but Lady Bywater would not hear of her carriage being used for such a short journey.
My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie Page 5