So promptly at four-thirty, Marjorie set out on foot in all the glory of a blond lace tea gown, shady straw hat with large silk tea roses and primrose-yellow gloves.
She found to her surprise that she was the last to arrive—not knowing that the others had been invited a half hour before to plot her downfall.
She was aware of a rather constrained atmosphere in the drawing room, however, and an absence of male guests. Lord Philip was certainly there but there were no other men, only Amy and Jessie and a tall, flamboyant, rather stagy-looking woman who reminded Marjorie slightly of Lady Bethons.
The newcomer was introduced as Joanna Tyson, “the famous poetess.” She was wearing a long, angry-looking dress that seemed to have lots of little things bristling on it. It was trimmed with prickly black feathers at the neck and ornamented with sharp little beads. It had a strange pattern of pointy fairies with sharp eyes, long sharp noses, pointed feet and very pointed nails.
Her wide black hat was ornamented by what looked like a whole pile of glittering steel things that all looked vaguely like some sort of weapon of defense but were not. It must have weighed a ton and perhaps that explained the discontented droop of the poetess’s mouth and the black circles under her eyes.
She bowed slightly to Marjorie and then turned her whole attention to Lord Philip. And he? He seemed to be absolutely enraptured. Not one glance did he spare poor Marjorie who sank dismally into a chair.
“Have some more tea,” offered Hermione, coming up to Marjorie.
“I’ve had nothing yet, so I can’t take more,” said Marjorie crossly, unconsciously echoing Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
“I’ll get you some, dear,” whispered Hermione, surprising Marjorie very much by giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze.
Hermione returned with a cup of tea and drew a chair up next to Marjorie.
Hermione had, of course, urged Philip to court the poetess in order to see what Miss Montmorency-James made of that role.
“Isn’t it too bad,” whispered Hermione, while Marjorie stared dismally at Philip over the rim of her cup. “Philip adores anyone who can write poetry. When that wretched woman is around he just doesn’t see anyone else. In fact, he is having a poetry reading at his home tomorrow—at his mother’s, you know—and we’ll need to listen to all that rot.”
“Will they be her poems?” asked Marjorie curiously.
“Mostly, I suppose,” said Hermione. “The only reason Philip doesn’t marry Joanna is because she is simply too old. Lord help us all if some young and beautiful thing shows a talent for writing poetry! You don’t write any, I suppose?”
“No-o-o,” said Marjorie slowly. “I’ve never tried.”
“Well don’t,” replied Hermione with a toss of her head. “Philip will just fall head over heels in love with you if you do.”
“Oh!” said Marjorie blankly while she sipped her Lapsong Suchong.
The rest of the visit was agony for Marjorie. She quite warmed toward Hermione who was being so sympathetic.
“I might try,” said Marjorie at last.
“Try what?” asked Hermione eagerly.
“Well,” hesitated Marjorie. “I might try to write some poetry. Oh, it’s not that I’m interested in Lord Philip. It’s just … well … I think I might.”
“Oh, do,” breathed Hermione. “I hate to see Joanna monopolizing Philip. I would rather it was one of us.” And she squeezed Marjorie’s hand again and Marjorie liked her more and more. It was a small comfort. Philip never once looked at her. Never once noticed the ravishing tea gown or the pretty hat, not to mention the primrose-yellow gloves. He stared into Joanna’s eyes and hung on every word. “Tomorrow he will look at me like that,” vowed Marjorie, and longed to get away and begin composing.
But after the tea was over, there was a ball to prepare for, then the ball to attend and Philip was not there but Mr. Lewis was and what sort of inspiration was that?
But at last, the indefatigable Lady Bywater allowed Marjorie to go home. She kissed her grandmother goodnight and fairly fled to her room.
She fidgeted and fumed until the maid had gone through the ritual of brushing her hair and bringing her hot milk.
At last the house was quiet and, hunched in her kimono, Marjorie crept down to the drawing room and carefully sat down at the small writing desk in the corner. She arranged several sheets of blank paper in front of her, dipped her pen into the inkwell and thought hard. She thought and thought and thought until, at last, as the sky began to grow lighter outside and the birds began to chirp from the rooftops, she began to write.
So anxious was Marjorie about the poetry reading that she arrived at the Duchess of Dunster’s a full hour before the event was to take place.
The butler informed her that Lord Philip had stepped out for a few minutes and that Her Grace was not expected home at all. But if miss would wait in the morning room he would bring her tea.
Marjorie nervously sat down at a table by the window in the morning room and tried to will the minutes to go faster as a fat pot of tea cooled in front of her and the thin cucumber sandwiches slowly dried. She was so intent on her worries that she failed to hear the door opening. A slight cough from behind her made her swing around in her chair, nearly oversetting the tea tray.
“Philip!” she cried with shock and delight. Before she knew what she was doing, she had leapt to her feet and kissed him on the cheek.
And then turned as red as fire with embarrassment.
For the tall gentleman standing before her was not Philip. He certainly was as tall as Philip and had the same handsome face and tawny hair. But where Philip’s eyes were blue, his were hazel, almost gold, with curved Oriental lids that gave his face an almost Oriental cast.
“I thought you were in France,” said Marjorie, trying to recover her poise. The family likeness was strong and she realized this must be Philip’s brother, the Marquess of Herterford.
“I am only back on a fleeting visit,” he said in a light, amused voice. “I am Philip’s brother, Robert, as you have guessed, but you have the advantage of me.”
Marjorie shyly introduced herself and explained about the poetry reading.
The Marquess’s thin eyebrows raised in surprise. “Philip! Poetry!” he exclaimed. “You must be joking.”
“No, indeed,” replied Marjorie anxiously. “He is very interested in poetry.”
“Really? I would have thought ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, his trousers were on fire’ was about Philip’s level.”
Marjorie’s eyes hardened. She decided she did not like Robert, Marquess of Herterford at all. He was callous, insensitive, and did not understand his brother.
“You do not understand your brother,” she said, voicing the last of her thoughts aloud.
“Do you?” he mocked. “I wonder. I must rush to my next appointment, my dear, or I would stay to hear this fascinating recital.” He seemed to tower over her and she shrank back a little.
“But before I go,” he went on, “let me return the compliment of your initial greeting.” Before she could guess what he was about to do, he had leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“How dare …” began Marjorie only to find that he had gone. Insufferable man! She hoped he stayed in France for the rest of his life and made no more “fleeting visits.” What an irksome brother-in-law he would make. With her glove, she scrubbed her cheek where he had kissed her, wondering as she did so why she felt so breathless and upset.
The butler entered at that point to tell Miss Marjorie that Lord Philip had returned.
The poetry reading took place in a small salon on the ground floor of the house in Park Lane.
Joanna took her position at a small lectern and proceeded to declaim.
Marjorie’s heart lifted. Why, her poetry didn’t even rhyme. One didn’t even grasp what the woman was talking about. The audience was composed of the crowd who had been at the river party. Lord Philip cleared his throat and explained
that Miss Tyson had to leave them, and had any of them any poetry they would like to read? Trembling with nerves, Marjorie raised one pink-gloved hand and was rewarded by a rapturous smile from Lord Philip.
“Now, here’s a surprise,” cried Philip. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James.”
A vision in pink tulle, Marjorie walked nervously to the lecturn. She had not read the poetry she had written in the early hours before leaving her home. Now she wished she had.
But Marjorie was possessed of a great deal of courage. In a clear firm voice, she began to read.
“‘My Doggie,’ by Marjorie Montmorency-James,” she began, pleasurably aware that every eye was riveted on her.
“I have a little Scottie dog
His name is Mackintosh,
He guards me in the London fog
And barks, and all that tosh.”
“Is that it?” asked Lord Philip in a curiously muffled voice.
“Oh, no,” said Marjorie. “That was the end of that poem. I have others.”
“Do go on,” urged Philip, sitting down in his chair next to the lectern and putting a hand to his brow to shield his face.
So, much emboldened, Marjorie went on.
* * *
“‘The Sky at Evening.’
The sky at evening is pale and green and lies o’er London city.
The day is done my dog is dead and that is such a pity.
I weep and mourn and clutch my brow I don’t know what to do.
Till answer comes
from the healing stars …
Buy yourself another dog.
“I couldn’t quite find a rhyme there,” explained Marjorie with simple pride, “but I think the rest of it is not bad. Why, Hermione, I declare you are quite moved! There are tears in your eyes. Perhaps I had better not read any more …”
“Oh, do go on!” chorused her audience.
Marjorie blushed with pleasure and went on.
“‘Lilacs.’
I love the lovely lilacs
So purple and so blue
And when I see the lilacs
It’s then I think of you.
“Their scent is sweet and heavy,
They stand so tall and true,
And when I smell the lilacs,
My darling, I smell you.”
* * *
Marjorie had meant to deliver the last line to Lord Philip but had not the courage. It seemed rather fast to do so.
“We have a special award for you,” said Lord Philip, getting to his feet, his face strangely wooden. “Just wait there. Come along everyone. We’ll all go to fetch Miss Montmorency-James’s award.”
After a polite applause, the company filed out, leaving Marjorie with stars in her eyes.
After the company and Lord Philip had shut themselves into a back study and laughed themselves silly, Lord Philip picked up a magnificent basket of roses and said, “We had better get back to our new poetess.”
“But what’s it all about?” demanded Mr. Lewis, already feeling disloyal at having laughed at Marjorie. “Yes, what’s it all about?” chorused Toby while Guy Randolph and Lord Harry Belmont added their questions.
So Hermione told them.
To a man, the gentlemen were disappointed in Marjorie and thought her a very silly girl. They were disappointed, of course, because Marjorie had done it all for love of Lord Philip. Hermione was quick to point that out. Lord Philip still felt amused in a pleasurably malicious way. Anyone who wrote rubbish like that deserved all the ridicule in the world.
No one knew that Marjorie’s pathetic silliness was caused by finding herself the center of attention in aristocratic circles, by being genuinely and deeply in love and by having been frozen in her early adolescence in the backwater of Haddon Common. She was still very much a schoolgirl.
Nonetheless, Lord Philip presented the basket of roses with great grace and charm and Marjorie left his house, her feet barely touching the ground.
It was the last she was to see of him for a whole seven days.
Although she assiduously visited the opera, Ascot, Goodwood and Henley and every fashionable ball and party in London, Lord Philip was unaccountably absent and her courtiers of the river party, strangely lukewarm.
She began to think Philip might be ill and at last sent a poem enquiring after his health to his home. It was a really terrible poem but somehow Marjorie’s innocent love and yearning shone through the doggerel, and Lord Philip felt he had gone much too far and suffered pangs of conscience accordingly.
“It’s not your fault,” said Hermione to whom he unburdened himself. “She was simply asking for it. I can remove her interest from you for a breathing space if you would like. You can’t go around missing the fun of the Season because she embarrasses you.”
“How can you do that?”
Hermione tapped a silver pencil against her teeth and frowned. “I’ll think of something,” she said, savoring with delight the renewal of their old closeness and friendship. “I’ll find her someone else to emulate—someone, say, who belongs to one of those weird societies in Bloomsbury. That should keep her out of circulation for a bit. Shall I?”
Lord Philip hesitated. Something was wrong somewhere. He felt ill at ease and blamed Marjorie’s pursuit of him for it. He had not been in the way of examining his own conscience and actions and he didn’t feel like starting now.
“Oh, very well,” he said languidly.
And with those three little words, he nearly killed Marjorie Montmorency-James.
Chapter Four
The weather blew hot and cold like Marjorie’s fluctuating emotions. Her inflated ego had merely been a balloon balanced on the top of very little self-respect. Secretly, Marjorie did not think much of herself and was therefore liable to wild swings of mood, from elation where she felt like the prettiest girl in London to deep depression where she was plain Marjorie from the middle class—an upstart—with only her fortune to make her attractive to this glittering throng of loud-voiced, hard-eyed, self-assured people.
Fortunately for Hermione, Marjorie was in a depressed mood, six characters looking for an author, and ripe to hide what she felt was her colorless personality behind the role of emulating someone more interesting.
Her grandmother, Mrs. Wilton, and Lady Bywater had become engrossed in a series of bridge parties and for once Mrs. Wilton failed to notice that there was something the matter with her granddaughter.
Marjorie had been invited to go on a boating expedition on the Thames but the fickle English weather had made one of its abrupt changes and had decided to emulate a November day with all the skill of a Marjorie Montmorency-James.
The sky was low and leaden and a chill breeze scurried furtively through the London streets.
The boating expedition had been canceled, Lady Bywater and Mrs. Wilton were off at one of their bridge parties and Marjorie was left alone to sit and brood.
Why had he not replied to her poem? Marjorie paced restlessly up and down. There was a small shelf of books over in the corner and she studied the titles looking for something to pass the weary day. She at last drew out a slim volume, the poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It had been ages since she had read any poetry other than her own. Miss Browning had written a poem to her dog, Flush, she noted. She began to read, “Therefore to this dog will I/Tenderly not scornfully/Render praise and favor.” It was good, it was very, very good. A slow burning blush swept over Marjorie’s pretty features. She rushed to the desk and drew out some of her own poems and scanned them hurriedly. They were simply awful! She must have been mad. Oh, God, how they must have laughed at her!
In the middle of all this mortification, the telephone rang in the hall. After a few seconds, Rose entered the drawing room. “Miss Hermione Ffofington on the instrument,” she said primly as if Hermione were performing on the flute in the hall.
Marjorie gingerly picked up the earpiece and the heavy stand. Mrs. Wilton had not had the t
elephone installed at Haddon Common and it still seemed like a strange and unnatural device. “Are you there?” she said cautiously.
“Oh, Marjorie,” came the brittle tones of Hermione. “Where have you been hiding yourself? You’ll never guess what has happened. Philip has gone entirely off poetesses. He did say however that yours were jolly good …”
“He did?” gasped Marjorie. A great feeling of love for Hermione swept over her.
“Yes, he did. I say, are you all right? Your voice sounds jolly funny.”
“No, I—I am perfectly all right. It was kind of you to call, Hermione.”
“Not at all,” came Hermione’s disembodied voice. “Look, I have some simply fascinating news about Philip. I’m dying to tell you. Can I come round?”
“Of course,” said Marjorie. “I would love to see you.”
“Be with you in two shakes. Toodle-oo!” said Hermione cheerfully and rang off.
Marjorie returned to the drawing room and bravely rang for the butler and ordered tea. Lady Bywater’s butler, Jenkins, was so elderly and imposing that Marjorie felt it was rather like commanding an archbishop to fetch tea.
Mackintosh came bounding into the room, his stubby tail beating a tattoo of pleasure on the carpet as he stared adoringly up at Marjorie with his leash in his mouth.
“No, I am not taking you for a walk, you silly thing,” snapped Marjorie.
Mackintosh whimpered slightly and put his square muzzle dismally between his front paws.
Jenkins gave a discreet cough. “I am about to take the air, Miss Marjorie,” he said, “and I would be delighted to take the little doggie with me. Rose may serve the tea.”
“Thank you,” said Marjorie, suddenly feeling shabby as Jenkins’s austere face actually broke into a smile as he bent over Mackintosh.
“Are you coming a walk with me, Scottie? Are you? Good. Come along now!” Mackintosh picked up his leash and bounded after the butler, throwing a reproachful look over his shoulder at Marjorie.
A beautiful new life opened up for Mackintosh. Jenkins did not tug him impatiently along as his mistress did. Jenkins did not look embarrassed when he wanted to sniff at a particularly delicious lamppost. But most of all, Jenkins took him into that well-known servants’ pub, The Duke of Clarence. Oh, bliss! There were footmen with poodles and butlers with corgis and spaniels and grooms with Yorkshire terriers, other Scotties and West Highlands. Jenkins and Mackintosh settled themselves in a cozy corner by the coal fire to enjoy the afternoon.
My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie Page 6