But when the vision that was the new countess joined them in the drawing room before dinner, it soon became evident that she had no intention of bothering her head over household affairs.
“I am sure you do it all so well, dear Margery,” she said languidly. “After all, what else do you have to do? Jimmy tells me he has paid for season after season but nothing happened.”
“No,” said Margery baldly.
“Such a waste of poor Jimmy's money,” said Desdemona.
She floated off into the dining room on the earl's arm before Margery could think of an answer.
Margery was proud of the fact that they kept a good table despite their straitened circumstances. Mulligatawny and turtle soups were followed by a salmon and a large turbot surrounded by smelts. This was in turn followed by a magnificent saddle of mutton, with a tongue, a ham, and two roast fowls.
“Such plain, simple country fare,” sighed Desdemona. “The flavor is a trifle odd.”
“It is perhaps because you eat our simple country fare so fashionably,” said Margery dryly.
It was the custom to make a selection of the good things on the table and then attempt to place a portion of each in your mouth at the same time. Desdemona's plate, for example, contained a slice of fowl, a piece of stuffing, a sausage, a slice of tongue, cauliflower, and potatoes, and she had somehow managed to arrange a piece of each on her fork. As Gronow was to say in his Recollections, “It appeared to me that we used to do all our compound cookery between our jaws."
Margery could not decide whether Desdemona was being deliberately malicious or if she was simply stupid.
Desdemona was so surprised that her Jimmy had such an old daughter. They had not yet been on their honeymoon, she explained, blushing prettily. Jimmy was going to take her to Paris now that that monster was safely in Elba. She was simply dying for some Parisian dresses.
A faint summer breeze blew in from the open windows and sent the candle flames streaming. The wavering light danced on Margery's diamond-and-ruby necklace and it flashed and burned like fire.
Desdemona clapped her hands. “Ooooh! What a gorgeous necklace. Can I have it, Jimmy?”
“No, you can't,” said the earl, rousing himself from a torpor induced by infatuation and wine. “Margery's mother left that to her. It's part of her dowry.”
“But she'll never get married,” said Desdemona, all pretty surprise. “And I want it.”
The earl was not a man much used to having his will crossed. He promptly forgot his infatuation in a burst of his old choleric temper. “Damme,” he said testily, “I've said ‘no’ and I mean no.”
A wisp of fine lace appeared in Desdemona's hand as if produced by magic. “You're howwid to me, Jimmy,” she sobbed. “Jimmy said he would get his baby anything she wanted.”
The earl flushed the color of his wine and looked hunted. “Yes, yes, m'dear,” he said hurriedly. “Dry your eyes now. We'll talk about it later.”
“I want to talk about it now.” Desdemona's voice had become increasingly shrill, and a firm L-shaped line had appeared along her jaw.
Margery and her aunt writhed in embarrassment. Never had either of them been subjected to such a vulgar scene, and never had either of them been so totally powerless to do anything about it. Desdemona was the new countess. This was now her home and she could do and say as she pleased.
“Drink your wine,” said the earl desperately.
“Shan't” screamed Desdemona. “I want to know, now. Now! Now! Now!” She was beginning to turn an alarming bluish shade and her breath was coming out in short bursts.
To Margery's horror, her father looked furtively at her and mumbled, “I say, Margie, y'don't suppose...”
“No,” said Margery coldly. “It is the only valuable thing I possess and I intend to keep it.”
“Buy you another,” said her papa sulkily.
Margery looked at him in surprise. “You couldn't possibly afford to buy me another!”
Desdemona paused in mid-gulp and looked at the earl, her pretty eyes narrowing into slits. “You've got money, lots and lots of money, you know you have, Jimmy. Tell her!”
“There, there,” said the earl, running a finger along the inside of his cravat. “Very rude to talk about money at table. Tell you after, what!"
He winked at his bride, who suddenly smiled back. Desdemona thought she had solved the problem. Naturally he did not want that dreadful daughter of his to know just how much he had.
Desdemona set herself to please. She told a host of on-dits which Margery recognized as the gossip belonging to the season before last. The earl laughed at all the old stories as if he had never heard them before.
He was a large, beefy, jovial man who had once dazzled the salons of eighteenth-century London with his manly graces. Now in his middle fifties, he showed all the marks of an indulgent life of long hours of drinking and gambling. Margery's mother had died giving birth to her, and since then there had been no one to curb the earl's excesses. His new bride seemed to be in a fair way to encouraging them!
When Desdemona was in good humor, it was all too easy to see what had fascinated the earl, apart from her extreme youth. She was as pretty and dainty as a Dresden figurine, and had her family had enough money to launch her on a London season, they would not have looked twice at a middle-aged earl.
By the time dinner was finished, Margery felt she had been put through a wringer. Any remarks Desdemona addressed to her seemed to be made to the necklace that flashed and burned on Margery's bosom. Margery was beginning to see her home as it appeared in the eyes of this supercilious newcomer. For the first time she noticed the bare patches in the rugs and the worn upholstery on the chairs. The ceilings, which were blackened in the winters by gusts of smoke from the great fires, were badly in need of painting. She prayed silently that Papa would remove his bride to Paris as soon as possible.
She had not long to wait. It appeared the bridal couple were to depart on the following morning. Desdemona deposited an icy peck on her cheek before climbing into the great traveling carriage and leaving the earl alone to have a word with his daughter.
“You know, Margie,” said the earl, shuffling his feet in the pebbles of the drive. “No one's denying you ain't a good housekeeper. But a man wants something more in life than just that. Seems to me you could do with a bit of training from a girl like Desdemona. She'd soon catch you a man, heh!”
Margery took a deep breath. “Your wife has been extremely unkind to me, Papa. She has made a great many cutting remarks, and I am surprised to hear you taking her part. The one thing you have never suffered before is ill-bred manners under your own roof.”
“Hoity-toity, miss. You're just jealous,” said the earl infuriatingly. “You'll get over it.”
He gave his fulminating daughter a hearty slap on the back and plunged into the carriage. As the carriage lumbered off, Margery heard Desdemona titter, “What a dragon of a daughter, dear Jimmy! More like a mother-in-law,” and heard his hearty laugh in reply.
* * * *
Summer mellowed into autumn and still the earl showed no signs of returning home, leaving his daughter to cope with one financial blow after another. The first bad news was that the earl had sold his estate in Yorkshire for a considerable sum and had taken up permanent residence in an elaborate mansion in Grosvenor Square. News of the earl and his new countess's excesses filtered down even to the quiet backwater of Chelmswood.
Margery and Lady Amelia could only be thankful for small mercies. They had been left alone to pursue the quiet tenor of their country days unmarred by the demanding presence of the new countess, whose daring Parisian wardrobe and magnificent jewels were said to be the talk of London.
As the first snow began to fall, the earl's man of business, Mr. Harold Jessieman, arrived unexpectedly from London, demanding to see Lady Margery.
He could hardly wait for the elderly butler to take away his muffler and greatcoat before he burst into speech.
; “My dear Lady Margery, I trust you are not one of those young ladies who are prone to fainting fits?” was his unauspicious opening.
“No,” said Lady Margery. “Please tell me your news.”
The little businessman straightened his wig with chalky-white fingers and looked at her anxiously. “Perhaps it would be wise to call Lady Amelia ... ?"
“My father!” gasped Lady Margery. “Speak up, man, for heaven's sake, or I will have an attack of the vapors."
“There is nothing physically wrong with your father,” said Mr. Jessieman. “I almost wish that there were.”
“Come now,” said Lady Margery in what she hoped were bracing tones. “Let me fetch you some mulled wine to warm you. If father is well, there can be little wrong.”
“I am not in the habit of making a journey in the middle of winter to discuss trivia,” said Mr. Jessieman sharply. “The long and the short of it is that your father has squandered his inheritance at the gaming tables of St. James's in order to support his wife in a style of living to which she has become all too rapidly accustomed. I informed him that he must retire to the country and retrench. He simply laughed in that guilty way of his and told me not to be such an old stick and to find a buyer for Chelmswood!”
Lady Margery stood very still. The wind sighed gently through the great trees outside and the powdery snow whispered against the windows. She looked with wide eyes around the cozy, shabby room.
“Sell!”
“I appealed to him,” went on Mr. Jessieman, looking at her nervously. She had turned as white as the snow drifting gently outside. “I reminded him that Chelmswood had been in his family for generations, and for a minute he seemed to be moved. Then Lady Desdemona came into the room. She immediately demanded to know what we were talking about, and the earl told her. She simply laughed in my face. Laughed! Said that ‘her Jimmy’ would be better off without that great barn of a place.
“I reminded her that it was your home that was being sold from under you.”
“And what did she say to that?” asked Margery faintly.
“My lady suggested that Lady Amelia should find employment as a paid companion and that you, my lady, should go to London and become her companion. I assure you, Lady Margery, at this point your good father did try to protest, but she ... she...”
“Go on!”
“The countess sat down on your father's knee—right in front of me—and wound her arms round his neck and persuaded him that it was all for the best and that she would find you a suitable husband.”
“To which my father answered?”
“To which your father answered...” Here Mr. Jessieman hesitated and eyed his young hostess nervously. He then seemed to gather courage. “To which he answered,” said Mr. Jessieman, “'My clever little puss, I never thought of that. Margery will be delighted.'”
Margery looked out of the windows at the falling snow. It was all too dreadful and all too true. She could just picture Desdemona cajoling her naïve father and persuading him that Margery would be ecstatic over the idea of living as a companion under the cat's-paw of Desdemona.
There was nothing Margery could do or say. She noticed that Mr. Jessieman was looking fatigued after his journey and rang the bell so that the butler could show him to his rooms.
Left to herself, she paced the room nervously and wondered what on earth or how on earth she was to tell Lady Amelia. The wind moaned in the chimney like a cry from her heart.
Never in her life before had she felt so weak or so feminine. She suddenly longed for a pair of strong masculine arms to comfort her and for a strong masculine shoulder to cry on. She thought fleetingly of the Marquess of Edgecombe and then laughed at her fancy. The elegant marquess was the type of man to complain that she was ruining his jacket if she ever cried on his shoulder.
Lady Amelia bustled into the room, bringing with her a gust of cold air from the hall that sent the worn tapestries on the walls shaking.
“Chuffley tells me Mr. Jessieman is here. No bad news of the earl, I trust?” asked Lady Amelia, studying her young friend's strained face.
In a halting voice, Margery told Lady Amelia of their fate as planned for them by the Countess of Chelmswood.
Lady Amelia clutched onto a chair back for support. The chair skidded on the floor and crashed into a music box, which threw up its lid and sent its silly tinkling Georgian love songs through the shadowy room. Lady Amelia had been rescued from a life of genteel poverty by the haphazard generosity of the earl. She was all too well aware of the drudgery of a paid companion's life.
Her plump hands fluttered helplessly to her face. “Is there anything we can do? Oh, my dear, if only you had made an advantageous marriage ... Oh, forgive me...”
“I shall.”
Lady Margery had spoken the two words so quietly that Lady Amelia wondered if she had imagined them.
“Did you say something, Margery? Or was it the wind in the chimney.”
“I shall ... marry, that is,” said Lady Margery in a firm voice.
“But my dear,” wailed Lady Amelia, “just think. All those seasons...”
“I only endured all those seasons to please Papa,” said Margery in a grim voice. “I shall marry the first man who asks me, provided he is prepared to save my home.”
“But how shall you achieve this m-marriage?” stuttered Lady Amelia.
“By military strategy,” said Margery with a sudden infectious grin. “I shall amass my feminine weapons and attack.”
“But the expense of another season,” wailed Lady Amelia. “Where shall we find the money?”
“I shall sell my necklace to the highest bidder,” said Margery bitterly.
“And then, dear Amelia, I shall sell myself!”
CHAPTER THREE
When Lady Margery set up her establishment in Berkeley Square, London, she discovered with some relief that her father and his bride were in Paris, where they planned to spend several months.
She had spared herself the expense of hiring new servants by shutting up Chelmswood and bringing the country servants to town. In that mysterious way that servants have of finding out the deepest-laid plans of their employers, everyone from the elderly butler to the knifeboy knew of Lady Margery's scheme for saving her home.
Lady Margery was sitting one morning in the back drawing room, surrounded by bales of cloth and back numbers of La Belle Assemblée, since she had plans to make this season's wardrobe herself. The butler, Chuffley, had laid the tea tray on a table in front of the fire, but he still hesitated, standing first on one foot and then on the other.
“You have something to report to me, Chuffley,” said Lady Margery, recognizing the familiar symptoms. “One of the servants has been misbehaving?”
Chuffley cleared his throat and looked from the ceiling to the floor. He finally addressed himself to a Chinese pagoda on the wallpaper.
“It's like this, my lady. Me and the others, well, we know why you are in London, my lady ... to find a husband.”
Margery looked amused. “Is that not the ambition of every young lady who embarks upon a season?”
Chuffley looked even more embarrassed. “It's like this, my lady. We all wish you well and ... well ... we had the idea that you were planning a sort of campaign. Now, if you were to furnish me with the names of the gentlemen your ladyship was interested in, then me and the other servants could find out interesting things about them which might be useful to my lady.”
Margery blushed and accused, “You have been listening at keyholes, Chuffley.”
The butler drew himself up. “Chelmswood is an old house and voices carry,” he said stiffly. “However, if your ladyship feels I have been impertinent—”
“No, no,” said Margery quickly, suddenly touched by this show of loyalty. “We have known each other long enough, Chuffley, not to have any secrets. Servants’ gossip about the gentlemen I hope to wring a proposal from would be very useful indeed ... if you could arrange it in a way that would no
t put me to the blush.”
“Don't be afeared of that, my lady,” said Chuffley, his face breaking into a rare smile. “It's our home we'll be saving, same as yours.”
Lady Margery crossed to a small escritoire and took out a thick book. “Come here, Chuffley, and I will show you my plan of campaign. Here are three names. First is Viscount Swanley. He is a shy, poetic type of man. Other than that, I don't know much about him. The next is the Honorable Toby Sanderson, a sportsman. I suppose I shall have to learn all about driving a four-in-hand and the art of fisticuffs.”
“I shouldn't think so, my lady,” said Chuffley. “These sporting gentlemen, for all their tall tales and bluster, are often terrified of the ladies. Mr. Sanderson would perhaps like a lady who was very gentle and feminine and who made him feel very strong and powerful.”
“And what about Viscount Swanley?”
Chuffley scratched his powdered head, which, as usual, was itching under its stiff plaster of flour and water. “Poetic gentlemen,” he said slowly, “now, they like a sort of managing female. Not bossy, mind, but the type of female who can get a chair in a thunderstorm and make him feel like he's done it himself. Oh ... and who gives him the impression that all the other ladies are jealous of her for catching him."
“What a font of wordly wisdom you are,” laughed Margery. “Now to the third. Mr. Freddie Jamieson, who seems to be a drunk, pure and simple.”
“That's difficult, that one,” said the butler. “Gentlemen who imbibe too much are always coming across ladies who tell them so and want to reform ‘em. I've no advice there, my lady, except to humor him when he's in his cups and speak to him in a soft, gentle voice any time before five o'clock in the evening.”
“How ruthless we sound,” sighed Margery.
“Not ruthless,” said Chuffley. “Practical-like. Why, there's great lords marrying cits’ daughters to save their homes. These three gentlemen are as rich as Golden Ball, my lady. But there is another one I might mention ... the Marquess of Edgecombe.”
Lady Margery's Intrigues Page 2