Tilly

by M C Beaton

  “How did the reading of the will go?” asked Toby indolently from the depths of a Thonet rocking chair.

  The marquess briefly outlined the terms.

  A look of unholy amusement enlivened Toby’s brooding good looks. “Famous,” he said. “Nice to see you embroiled in some human difficulties for once, Philip. Had it too easy all your life. Drifted through your exams as a boy, drifted into wealth, drifted into the title…”

  “It doesn’t disturb me now,” said the marquess lightly. “I shall drift into marriage just as easily. And who is going to refuse my title or fortune? I was pretty angry at first, and I’d still like to get back at those old tabbies of aunts of mine. I know they made Father put that ridiculous clause in his will.”

  Toby abruptly lost interest, two minutes being his normal attention span. “Who’s the Beast?” he asked. “Glenstraith’s girl keeps telling funny stories about her Beast.”

  “I don’t know,” said the marquess. “Probably someone she met at one of those society parties. You know, the latest thing. A mad artist or a tattooed boxer or something like that.”

  “Probably,” echoed Toby, adjusting his tie in the looking glass and pulling down his white piqué waistcoat. “Shall we go?”

  Tilly turned around in front of the long glass in her bedroom and considered that she looked as well as could be expected. The duchess had insisted on furnishing her with a new ball gown. It seemed very grand to Tilly, who did not know that the duchess had bought it at the Indigent Gentlewoman’s Annual Sale for a very small sum indeed, and only then because she was on the committee and felt obliged to buy something. Unlike Lady Aileen, who enjoyed the services of a French lady’s maid, Tilly had to rely on her own resources. So there was no one around to tell her that the dress was quite unsuitable for a plump red-headed virgin. The dress was made of coral velvet with a blue chiffon fichu that was tied with a black velvet bow at the back. The coral velvet, which clashed quite dreadfully with her red hair, was elaborately embroidered with pink roses and ended in a thick hem of fox fur.

  Having decided that her gown, at least, was elegant, Tilly plumped herself down at the dressing table and studied her healthy, tanned complexion in dismay. Since she had been given one of the guest bedrooms, there was an ample supply of unguents and lotions in front of her. “May as well do it properly,” muttered Tilly to herself and unscrewed a pot of white enamel that was the foundation base used by every lady from Queen Alexandria down. With a liberal hand, she began to apply it to her face until a white mask stared back at her. Much encouraged, she opened up the onyx powder bowl and liberally applied pearl powder—made from bismuth oxychloride—to her face with a large swansdown puff. Then she tried to blend rouge into her cheeks so that she would have the perfect fashionable doll’s face. She had put her hair up over pads so that it seemed at least a foot high. Tilly decided to frizzle her hair at the front with the curling tongs to complete her appearance.

  She set the tongs on their little spirit heater and then spat on them to make sure they were hot enough. She raised the tongs to her hair.

  “Mademoiselle!” came a sharp cry from the doorway.

  Tilly swung around with the curling tongs in her hand to see Aileen’s pert French maid, Francine, standing with her hands raised in horror.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Tilly. “Is anything up with Lady Aileen?”

  “No, it is you, mademoiselle,” said Francine. “The maquillage is so bad for you. All that white. It is bad cosmetic.”

  Tilly looked at her in surprise and then picked up the jar of enamel. “Seems all right,” she said. “It’s called Blanc d’Argent. Very pretty.”

  “But these creams have a base of lead, mademoiselle,” said Francine earnestly. “The lead, it eats away at the skin. Even your Jersey Lily, Lillie Langtry, she now have the dreadful skin from such stuff, so. And you must not frizz the hair. You have a natural curl. You have—”

  “Francine!” said Lady Aileen, tripping into the room. “You must not stand here gossipping and neglecting your duties.”

  “I was just telling mademoiselle that the maquillage, it is wrong for her.”

  “Nonsense,” said Aileen. “Let me look at you, Tilly. Why, I never saw you look so grand. You’re magnificent. Leave her alone, Francine, and run along, do. Honestly, Tilly,” she went on as the maid reluctantly left the room. “You look grand!”

  Tilly was surprised and gratified to see actual tears of emotion in Aileen’s eyes. She did not know that Aileen was trying to suffocate a delighted burst of giggles. The Beast had surpassed herself. She was too, too utterly marvelous. Just like a clown!

  “You look marvelous yourself, Aileen,” said Tilly warmly. Aileen did indeed look like an ethereal vision. Her dress was of delicate layers of chiffon in sweet-pea colors and she carried an enormous ostrich-feather fan with diamond-studded sticks.

  Despite the unexpected warmth of the evening outside, Tilly was happy and excited when she climbed into the Glenstraith’s victoria, which was to convey them to the ball at the Quennell’s mansion in Kensington. The victoria lurched dangerously like a ship on a stormy sea as Lady Glenstraith heaved her great hairy bulk into the carriage. Then they were off.

  The London Season had begun. From house after house the music of the eternal waltz sounded out into the pale-blue evening—“After the ball is over, after the dance is done…”—as they trotted past other carriages with their ladies wearing high headdresses and their gentlemen in white waistcoats. Soon they were joining the other traffic under the yellow lights of Marble Arch.

  Lady Glenstraith was leaning forward to say something to her husband, so Tilly took the opportunity to whisper, “Aileen. I’m so looking forward to this ball. Please… oh, please don’t make fun of me!”

  Aileen’s beautiful eyes opened wide. “Make fun of you, my dear Beast? I never do. But you must call me ‘Lady Aileen’ when we are in company, you know.”

  “And you must call me ‘Tilly,’” pleaded Tilly, still in that urgent whisper, “and not Beast.”

  “Oh, that!” was all Aileen would say, shrugging a pretty shoulder.

  Tilly sat back in the carriage and bit her lip. She had a sudden aching longing for the freedom of her days at Jeebles. Her evening gown already felt unseasonably warm and her skin itched under its layers upon layers of undergarments.

  She miserably reflected that her duties as companion to Lady Aileen were indeed light compared to the lot of other paid companions. She did not need to read books or magazines to her mistress, nor had she a dog to walk. But in some cruel way her presence was always expected, as if Aileen were in need of a perpetual clown. It was an age in which society delighted in jokes, usually at some poor person’s expense.

  Minor poets, boxers, jockeys, wrestlers, and mediums all found themselves raised to the glittering levels of court circles in order to be prodded and stared at and laughed at, and then just as suddenly, to be dropped back into oblivion.

  And poor Tilly blundered about this society like some great immature moth perpetually burning its wings against the glittering flames of the wit of the top ten thousand.

  The heavy scent of lime from the trees in the Kensington gardens reminded Tilly of the green oasis that had been Jeebles.

  The carriage lurched to a stop outside a great square white mansion. The blinds were drawn and shadows waltzed across them, dipping and swaying.

  As Tilly mounted the red carpeted stairs to the ballroom, she began to feel her first twinge of unease, her first inkling that all was not well with her appearance.

  The Quennell’s debutante daughter, who was waiting at the top of the stairs to receive the guests with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Quennell, was attired in the same soft pastels as Aileen. One look into the ballroom after she had made her curtsy was enough to confirm Tilly’s worst fears. All the young girls of her own age were attired in pink or white or a soft mixture of pale pastel colors. Their faces were free of paint and most had only u
sed papier poudre to take the shine from their noses.

  Despite long windows opening onto a terrace at the opposite end, the ballroom was uncomfortably warm and Tilly stared down miserably at the fox fur edging her gown and knew, with a sinking feeling, that she had done it again. She was wearing the wrong gown and looked like a freak. Without any prompting she took her place with the chaperons against the wall and miserably hung her head. Someone once said that there is no emotional growth without pain, and in that first painful hour against the wall, watching the glittering, chattering dancers, a little of the gauche, overgrown schoolgirl that was Tilly began to disappear. It was with a young woman’s eyes that she glanced across the room in time to see the entrance of the Marquess of Heppleford.

  Her heart began to beat uncomfortably against her ribs and something seemed to have happened to her breathing. His hair shone like polished gold in the gaslight of the ballroom and his evening dress was tailored to swooning point.

  She suffered her first pangs of envy as she watched him walk quickly to Aileen’s side and begin to scribble his name in her little dance card.

  Tilly watched the marquess and Aileen performing the lancers and tried to imagine herself in Aileen’s place. After the dance finished, the gentlemen were allowed to walk with their partners until the next one was announced. It was a marvelous opportunity, as even Tilly knew, for unchaperoned flirtation, and the marquess walked with Lady Aileen straight through the long windows and out onto the terrace and down the marble steps into the gardens. Tilly’s heart sank. Her heroes of the comics had no answer to this situation. What would Deadwood Dick or Jack Harkaway do in a situation like this?

  The marquess, who had planned to further his acquaintance with the enchanting Lady Aileen, was annoyed to find that the garden was already full of groups of young people enjoying the warm night air. He was just about to compliment Aileen neatly on her appearance when the couple were accosted by a noisy group of young men and women. “How’s your Beast?” cried one. “She looks a regular guy tonight and oh, my stars, that dress!”

  “Dragonish as ever,” said Aileen, smiling. “I am sure she will pursue me any minute to find out what I am doing in the moonlight. I am sure my Beast thinks that moonlight is such a lot of rot.”

  Her audience laughed appreciatively with the exception of the marquess. “Who is this Beast?” he asked.

  Aileen waved her long ostrich-feather fan languidly back and forth. “Oh, it’s my companion, poor Tilly Burningham. She’s called the Beast because she’s too frightful-looking for words. She follows me around like a dog, and if I’m not too terribly careful, she’s apt to slap me on the back and call me a jolly good fellow.”

  “You’re wicked!” shrieked a girl with an admiring look. “Hasn’t the Beast got any feelings?”

  “I suppose so,” said Aileen, enjoying her audience. “Who knows what passions lurk in the Beast’s bosom. Do you know she actually reads all those penny dreadfuls? If you look under the sofa cushions in our house, it’s simply stuffed with them. Oh, my dear Lord Philip, how you scowl! You must think me very cruel to my poor Beast.”

  “Yes,” said the marquess. “Isn’t Tilly Lord Charles’s girl? Is she a guest of yours?”

  “No, no!” cried Aileen, all mock horror. “Tilly is my paid companion. And very well paid she is too.”

  “Your next partner will be waiting for you,” said the marquess, listening to the opening chords of a quadrille.

  Lady Aileen moved very close to him. She was wearing a perfume called Jordan Water, bought at ten guineas a flask at Madame Rachel’s beauty salon in Bond Street, and she wanted to make sure he received the full benefit of it. Visions of being married and a marchioness, and all at the beginning of her first Season, danced before Aileen’s eyes. “I shall look forward to our next dance then… Philip,” she breathed in the husky accents of her favorite actress and then, with what she believed was a killing, seductive movement, she drew the feathers of her ostrich fan across the marquess’s face.

  He looked down at her with a slightly stunned expression on his face at her effrontery, but Aileen thought Cupid’s arrow had pierced his heart and went off with her next partner, well-satisfied.

  Having no partner for the next dance himself, the marquess went off in search of the bar and found his friend, Toby, drinking champagne with single-minded absorption.

  “Found a wife yet?” asked Toby, his heavy-lidded eyes looking sleepier than ever. “Saw you mooning off with the Glenstraith chit.”

  “Little tart,” said the marquess succinctly, helping himself to champagne. “Spends all her time mocking that lumpy companion of hers.”

  “Doesn’t make her a tart,” commented Toby, fairly.

  “No, but she called me Philip and wiped that bloody fan of hers across my face.”

  “Oh, I say, that’s going a bit far,” said Toby, showing rare animation. “Well, there’s lots of other girls.”

  “I’m tired of the whole thing,” said the marquess. “I think I’ll go and give the Beast a dance.”

  “Which beast?”

  “Tilly Burningham. Aileen’s companion.”

  Tilly had reached that hypersensitive wallflower state where she felt the eye of everyone in the room was on her. She ached to be allowed to go home, to scrub the makeup from her face, and to indulge in a hearty cry. Tilly had not cried for a long time, not even after the death of her father. There had been too much to do, what with the funeral to arrange and then the exhausting months of winding up her father’s convoluted and bankrupt affairs.

  To her horror, she felt the treacherous prick of tears behind her eyelids and was concentrating so much on pulling herself together that it was a few minutes before she realized that the marquess was standing in front of her and that he had said something.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Burningham?” he said again. Tilly rose awkwardly to her feet. She did not offer him her dance card, since it was empty of names. Feeling as if she had been raised from the depths of misery into some warm and delicious dream, Tilly mutely allowed herself to be borne off into the steps of a waltz, gloved hand holding gloved hand. Tilly was an awkward dancer, moving clumsily on her high heels, and the marquess found he had to be extra nimble on his feet to avoid being trodden on. He did not bother to talk, feeling he had done enough in asking her to dance and, as for Tilly, she was too overcome by the thrill of being held in this magnificent man’s arms to open her mouth.

  “Beauty and the Beast!” said Aileen, giggling, as she floated past in the arms of her partner. Tilly did not hear her but the marquess did and he steered Tilly as far away from Aileen as possible.

  Somewhat to his annoyance he found it was the supper dance and led the bemused Tilly toward the long room where refreshments were being served. Tilly felt as if she were being led into some magic palace. Each table had its lamp with a canopy of tight red silk, its pale, plump quail, its mountain of strawberries, and its bowl of gardenias floating in their own private arctic of ice.

  “Are you enjoying the dance, Miss Burningham?” asked the marquess politely.

  “Oh, yes, awfully… awfully jolly, I mean,” said Tilly. “I mean ripping people and all that.”

  “Quite,” said the marquess, privately wondering how soon he could make his escape. “I was distressed to learn of your father’s death.”

  “Well, it was rather awful,” said Tilly, suddenly and embarrassingly conscious of the interested stares being directed at their table. “I mean, having to sell up as well. But I’m lucky to have a job.”

  “It’s an unusual job for so young a girl,” said the marquess.

  “I s’pose so,” said Tilly. “But Aileen’s a jolly sort of girl. Absolutely ripping,” said Tilly, resolutely banishing other nastier thoughts of Aileen to the back of her mind. After all, if it weren’t for Aileen, then she wouldn’t be sitting here talking away to the catch of the London Season!

  “So,” went on the marquess, neatly dissecting a quail w
ith the precision of a surgeon, “you must be enjoying your life in London. All the balls and parties.”

  “I miss Jeebles, you know,” began Tilly. “Oh… rats!”

  She had been trying to copy the marquess’s dexterity with her knife and fork but the treacherous quail skidded wildly and landed on the floor.

  “Leave it,” said the marquess, trying to block out the delighted giggles of Aileen and her court. A liveried footman appeared suddenly and deftly slid another bird under Tilly’s blushing face. She looked at it miserably.

  “Go on,” said the marquess gently. He was suddenly reminded of a time when he had had to entertain a friend’s schoolboy son to dinner. “Jeebles. You were saying how much you missed it.”

  “Yes, I suppose I’m a country girl at heart. Jolly ripping in the country,” said poor Tilly, suddenly amazed at her own lack of vocabulary, her inability to find the right words to conjure up a picture of all her beloved home had meant to her. Any minute now, thought the marquess, she’s going to say, “Yes, sir, please sir,” just like a schoolboy.

  “Doesn’t the duchess find it odd that her daughter should want such a young companion?” he asked. “And you are not eating anything.”

  “I shall in a minute,” said Tilly. “No, Aileen—I mean, Lady Aileen—told her parents she was doing it as a sort of favor cos I didn’t have any money.”

  “Has the duchess given you any duties?”

  Tilly looked at him in innocent surprise. “No, I mean, why should she? I’m Lady Aileen’s companion.”

  “She will,” said the marquess dryly and then could have bitten off his tongue, because Tilly was looking at him in bewildered amazement. Aileen would soon tire of her Beast, he thought, and the duchess would take Tilly over and then this odd, awkward girl would find that her life consisted of trotting around after the formidable duchess to endless committee meetings.