My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie

by Beaton, M. C.

  Wild applause in the court from everyone but Marjorie’s former friends who sat in white-faced silence.

  “Since Miss Ffofington is, I see, in court,” said the Marquess, “I think she should take the stand and explain how the whole affair began.”

  Hermione could have killed him, could have killed Marjorie. She made a very bad impression. She tried to laugh it off and her laughter rang shrilly in the silent court. Made worse by fear, she told of the poetry reading and by trying to make Marjorie look silly, she made herself appear a sort of Lady Macbeth.

  Then Lady Bywater took the stand. Miss Montmorency-James, she said in repressive tones, was a thoroughly nice middle-class girl who had had her head turned by a certain irresponsible element of British society. It was her first Season and it was unfortunate that she had been made the butt of some feckless young things’ practical joke.

  After Lady Bywater, there was the evidence that the “cakes of dynamite” in the bomb were in fact cakes of shoe blacking. “Poor Tony,” thought Marjorie irrationally. “He never could do anything right.”

  When she stood up to hear her sentence, she felt drained and tired. She really did not care what they did to her now. Her love for Philip seemed like a sick madness. With that gone, nothing else mattered.

  It was some time before she could take in the wild cheering in the court, which spread to the waiting crowds in the street outside.

  She was acquitted! The magistrate gave her a severe reprimand but nonetheless commended her bravery. He talked at length about the malicious and dangerous elements of London society who were prepared to ruin a life for the sake of a practical joke. He cited the case of Mary Abernethy who had been haunted the year before at Lord Glenwood’s country home as part of a practical joke and who had died of fright as a result of it.

  He reminded the court that Miss Ffofington and Lord Philip Cavendish had been members of that house party.

  Marjorie Montmorency-James walked from the court a free woman. She had all the fame she had dreamt of, all the adulation.

  And she didn’t want a bit of it.

  For the first time in her life, she wanted to play the role of Marjorie and never, ever try to be anyone else again.

  * * *

  The last trunk was corded, the last wicker hamper strapped down as the household in Eaton Terrace waited for the arrival of the Great Eastern Railway omnibus. Marjorie was going to Sandypoint.

  Four days had passed since the trial and the household had known no peace. Letters for Marjorie arrived by the sackload. She could not leave the house even for a moment without being besieged by reporters and the adoring public.

  “Get her out of town,” Lady Bywater had ordered.

  Mrs. Wilton, very subdued, very tired, very unlike her usual bustling self, was feeling her age as she carefully counted all the trunks and hampers for the umpteenth time. She had suggested Sandypoint because it was a quiet coastal backwater. It was full of elderly ladies like herself, a sort of Haddon Common by-the-sea.

  Marjorie would have agreed to anything that removed her from the staring gaze of curious London. Oh, the misery of having her pathetic adoration for Lord Philip made public!

  The three ladies were wearing their largest hats so that they would not be crushed on the journey.

  There came a peremptory rap at the street door and Mrs. Wilton sighed with relief. “That will be the omnibus, Jenkins,” she said. Lady Bywater’s carriage was to take Mrs. Wilton and Marjorie to the station while the servants and trunks piled into the omnibus.

  But it was Lord Philip Cavendish who stood on the step, looking very pale and handsome, his silk top hat held in his hands.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” he said, addressing Mrs. Wilton although he never took his eyes off Marjorie. “I would like a brief word in private with Miss Montmorency-James.”

  “Well, really,” said Mrs. Wilton bristling. “I think Marjorie has endured enough!”

  “Oh, let him have his say,” said Lady Bywater wearily. “And then let us thankfully close this most distressing chapter.”

  Mrs. Wilton reluctantly gave her permission.

  Marjorie was too surprised to protest. She quietly led Lord Philip to the back study and stood facing him among the shrouded furniture. The day had turned gray and cold and a wind moaned in the fireless chimney.

  “Well, my lord?” said Marjorie calmly.

  Lord Philip did not know quite how to begin. She looked much older, much more composed. He had suffered at the hands of the press and the public. He had been lampooned as a “masher.” He had never been unpopular in his charmed life and he felt he could not stand one more day of it. He had callously informed Hermione that the only thing he could do to allay public feeling was to marry Marjorie. To his horror, Hermione had burst into tears and threatened to sue him for breach of promise. He had not stayed to dry her tears but had presented himself at Eaton Terrace as soon as he could.

  He smiled winningly at Marjorie and took her hand. “I feel I have behaved so badly,” he said in a low voice. “Can you forgive me?”

  Marjorie removed her hand. “It is not a question of forgiving you, my lord,” she replied in a dead voice. “I am concentrating at the moment on forgiving myself.”

  “But we … I … was very cruel,” he went on intensely. How pretty she looked! It might not be so bad after all. He took a deep breath. “Marjorie,” he said, “I wish you to become my wife.”

  “No,” said Miss Montmorency-James. “Why don’t you ask Hermione? You are well suited.”

  He masked a feeling of irritation. “Ah, you are angry,” he said, moving closer to her and trying to take her in his arms. “But there was a certain evening, if you remember, when you were not so cold to me.”

  Marjorie’s eyes were as flat as steel. “I am also trying to forget that sordid little episode,” she said in measured tones. She put out her hand and rang the bell.

  “Jenkins, Lord Philip is just leaving. Good day to you, my lord. We shall not meet again.”

  It was then that Lord Philip Cavendish realized to his horror that he really loved her and wanted her.

  “I say, Marjorie …” he began desperately but Lady Bywater appeared behind the butler’s shoulder, her eyes quickly scanning Marjorie’s face.

  “You must excuse me, Lord Philip,” she said, “but the carriage is waiting. Come, Marjorie. I shall be following you after all. Mrs. Wilton tells me there are marvelous card parties there! Lord Philip, I do urge you to remember that Marjorie’s destination must be kept secret. The editors of the papers have agreed, with the exception of that Liberal rag, the Morning Bugle, so if there is a reporter outside we know he comes from that paper and the footmen can deal with him. Thank goodness, the public have begun to leave us alone! Do remember! Not a word.” She bustled him before her to the street door.

  The Great Eastern Railway omnibus stood outside pulled by its two enormous horses. In front stood Lady Bywater’s carriage. Mackintosh yapped and danced on his leash with excitement but he would not go to Marjorie, opting to travel with the servants instead.

  Lord Philip stood miserably on the pavement, still hatless. The last he saw of Marjorie was her averted face.

  He walked sadly home, wondering what to do. He was to wonder even more when he found Hermione and her parents, Colonel and Mrs. Ffofington, waiting for him.

  In vain did he deny that he had made any formal offer of marriage to Hermione. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Hermione bitterly. “He’s just proposed to Marjorie.”

  The Colonel’s choleric eyes flew to Lord Philip’s face. “Is this true?” he demanded.

  “Of course not,” said Philip with a light laugh. “I only said that to tease Hermione and get a bit of my own back because she has put me in such an impossible situation.” He gave Hermione a warm smile that melted her bones. “Come, Hermione, you know me better than anyone. Would I propose to Marjorie? Now, would I?”

  “No, Philip, of course not,” said H
ermione with a relieved laugh. “You are such a tease.”

  “You naughty young things!” said the Colonel, wagging an indulgent finger. “I know you and Hermione want your fling but we shall expect to see you engaged this year, you know.”

  Philip smiled warmly but did not commit himself.

  Hermione knew his hand must not be forced so she quickly changed the subject. “Where has dreary Marjorie gone to?” she asked.

  “A place called Sandypoint, I think,” said Philip. “But it’s all deadly secret. Lady Bywater has made all the papers with the exception of the Morning Bugle agree not to print anything about her whereabouts.”

  “Sorry you had that bit of embarrassment,” mumbled the Colonel. “But gels of that class can’t take a joke.”

  “Quite,” said Philip while his mind plotted and planned how to get hold of Marjorie. He had always got what he wanted. Never in his life had he been thwarted before.

  Mrs. Ffofington rose to her feet, saying, “We’ll leave you two young things together. It is teatime, after all.” Tea time was about the only time a gentleman could be alone with a lady, unchaperoned.

  Lord Philip wanted rid of Hermione as soon as possible so when her parents had left, he smiled at her in a conspiratorial way and said, “My head aches like the devil, Hermione. Do you mind trotting along. I’ll see you later.”

  Hermione pouted. “Why didn’t you say so before? I could have left with mummy and daddy.”

  “Because I wanted to do this,” he said pulling her into his arms. He kissed her very passionately and Hermione looked up at him with a blind, shaken expression on her face.

  “That should keep her quiet for a while,” thought Philip.

  “Philip, darling …” Hermione began but the door opened and the Marquess of Herter-ford walked in. Hermione disliked Philip’s brother even more than he disliked her. So she shook out her skirts in a brisk way and picked up her reticule.

  “Hallo, Robert,” she cooed. “I was just leaving. Bye-bye, Philip. I’ll see myself out.”

  Hermione shut the door firmly behind her and paused in the hall and stared at herself in the mirror. Philip was a poppet. And he loved her or he would never have kissed her like that. She straightened her hat and fished a packet of papier poudré from her reticule, tore off a leaf and began to powder her nose.

  The deep tones of the Marquess of Herter-ford’s voice carried through the closed door and out into the hallway with dreadful clarity.

  “I just met old Lady Bywater,” he said. “She had just been seeing Mrs. Wilton and Marjorie off at the station. She plans to follow them tomorrow. But that is not the point. She told me that you had offered for Miss Montmorency-James. Can’t you leave the girl alone?”

  “It was the only thing I could do,” said Philip in a low voice. But Hermione heard what he said for her ear was now jammed to the drawing room door. “Everyone’s treating me like some sort of monster. Seemed the decent thing to do.”

  “Can’t take your medicine, eh?” said the Marquess in a lazy voice. “I hope she refused you but I suppose there’s not much hope of that.”

  “As a matter of fact she did,” Hermione heard Philip reply.

  “Well what are you moping for then?” remarked the Marquess with heartless cheerfulness. “You didn’t really want her anyway.”

  Hermione pressed closer to the door and just caught Philip’s muttered, “I love her,” and the Marquess’s answering, “Oh, my god. You fool!”

  Hermione walked very stiffly to the street door and opened it oh so quietly and closed it oh so quietly behind her. She felt as if a sudden movement, a sudden noise would break her in two. She walked all the way from Park Lane to Eaton Square, oblivious to the sights and sounds around her. She had cried once today. She did not want to cry again. Gradually her misery was alleviated by a pure burst of hate for Marjorie Montmorency-James. If she, Hermione, could find out where those damned anarchists were hiding then she would gladly give them Marjorie’s direction.

  But if the whole of Scotland Yard couldn’t find them, then how could she?

  She walked into the hallway of her home and stood staring at the telephone on its little cane table.

  Slowly she walked forward and picked it up.

  “Are you there?” she said primly to the operator. “Please get me the Morning Bugle, will you?”

  * * *

  The Duchess of Dunster’s butler was an avid newsreader. He read every morning paper published and contrived to read every scrap of news throughout the day. He was, however, conscientious in his duties so it was not until evening that he opened his second-last paper, the Morning Bugle.

  There on the front page was emblazoned a story, “Anarchists Threaten the Life of Miss Montmorency-James.”

  “A certain Society lady,” he read, “telephoned our offices yesterday to relate the information that our heroine Miss Marjorie Montmorency-James who …” here followed a rehash of the whole business … “is now holidaying at Sandypoint to escape reprisals from the Camden Town Anarchists who as yet have not been found. ‘I know they are bound to want to kill her,’ our informant said. ‘They must be furious with her for spoiling their plot and for having in a way caused the death of their leader.’”

  The rest of the story developed into a political harangue against the Tories who allowed such nests of anarchists to go unscathed.

  The butler reread the story. Funny, he thought, it’s almost an encouragement to these anarchists to go and get her. Perhaps he should tell Lord Philip. But the poor young master had had enough of his troubles with them nasty papers. Better let his brother, the Marquess, see it. If anything had to be done, then he would know what to do.

  The Marquess was not at home so it was not until the following day that he found the cutting from the Morning Bugle, lying with his morning post.

  He read it quickly and then swore savagely. He was sure the “Society Lady” was Hermione. He wanted to shake that girl until her teeth rattled.

  He sighed. He knew where his duty lay. He must travel to Sandypoint and tell Mrs. Wilton about the article. It was more than likely she had not seen it. Surely the anarchists would not dare come near Marjorie. She had given exact descriptions of them to the police. But there was a chance that they might. It was no use consulting Philip. He would simply dash off and propose again and the girl had said she didn’t want him.

  In another part of London, Toby Anstruther was staring at the same article, which had reached him in almost the same way, although in this case it was his housemaid who read the Morning Bugle and not his butler.

  He frowned. He remembered Marjorie at the river party and how she had dazzled him and made him laugh. He had thought her very silly after the poetry reading and had lost interest in her. But now he could not quite get her out of his mind. She was never boring. Perhaps some sea air was just what he needed …

  And in a quarter of London called Lime-house, what was left of the Camden Town Anarchists sat in a small room above an opium den and stared down at a tattered copy of the Morning Bugle.

  Phyllis and Joseph were all that was left. Charlie and Bernie and Jim had fled to Germany to try to find work in the shipyards.

  Phyllis mourned Tony’s death. She hated Marjorie with a terrible savagery. Marjorie in Belgravia was one thing. But Marjorie in some small seaside town was more accessible.

  “Let it be,” said Joseph wearily. “I’m tired of running and we’ll only come unstuck again. Look at that bomb! Days of work and then it turns out that shyster sold me blacking instead of dynamite.”

  “You should have tried it out first,” snapped Phyllis obtusely.

  “What! And blown us from here to kingdom come! Have a bit of sense. I’m not going anyway.”

  “Well, I am,” said Phyllis. “You’ve got to get me money.”

  “How?”

  “In the usual way, eejit,” grated Phyllis. “Go and rob someplace.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like this
dump.”

  “Now I know you’re mad. We’d be the first persons that heathen would think of. I don’t want a lot of Chinamen wrapping me up in piano wire and dropping me in the river.”

  “Get it anyhows,” ordered Phyllis. “I need to get clothes for a disguise and I need forged references. You know where to get those.”

  “Usual place,” replied Joseph gloomily. He wished he had left with the others but he was afraid of Phyllis.

  “All right,” he said getting to his feet. “I’ll do it. What kind of references was you wanting?”

  “Servant. Housemaid. Nothing grand. I wouldn’t know the work.”

  “Righty-ho!” said Joseph. His face looked strangely naked as he had shaved off his beard and had had his hair cropped by Phyllis into a short military cut. “And if I do this for you, you’ll leave me alone?” Joseph demanded.

  “Course,” snorted Phyllis. Joseph left feeling happier than he had done for days. He would not have felt at all happy had he realized the plans Phyllis had for him.

  General Hammer was happily boring a friend of his in the middle of platform 9 at Liverpool Street Station. The friend was shuffling from foot to foot. General Hammer became more boring with the passing of the years, he thought. Just then the General ended his usual diatribe against Women’s Suffrage to point to a young soldier who was trailing along the platform in the wake of a dowdy-looking maid.

  “See that poor fellow?” he said. “See how sad and miserable he looks? Know why? ’Cos no one respects him, that’s what. That’s the trouble with this country. Anarchists running all over the place, trying to kill the King and that poor blighter is treated like mud. And know why? Heh? Heh? I’ll tell you why, it’s because there isn’t a war on …”