by M C Beaton
“I wonder how one gets quite killed?” asked the marquess, but the ladies were not paying any attention.
Annie was now adding insult to injury by placing the soles of her boots against the window so that she could swing out over the area railings in front of the house and land on the pavement.
The footman caught her just as she showed every sign of swinging back like a pendulum through the window glass.
Marigold and Aunt Agatha sat down again, their backs rigid. The door opened and Annie sailed in. Marigold waited triumphantly for her sister’s humiliation in front of the marquess. Annie looked disgustingly band-box fresh considering her perilous escape from her room. Marigold felt that Annie had come off the best at the hands of the dressmaker by not having her clothes chosen for her by Aunt Agatha.
Annie curtsied to the marquess, who had risen to his feet.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said lightly, bestowing a charming smile on her aunt. “I’m afraid the silly servants locked me in my room by mistake.”
“Then you were most enterprising to escape from it,” he said smoothly, with a smile lurking in his eyes. He was well aware that Annie had been locked up for some misdemeanor. For if she had been locked in by accident, she had only to shout or ring for the servants.
“I see you are ready to join me for a drive, Lady Annie,” he went on, “and since your sister does not favor the exercise, I fear you will have to put up with my company. With your permission, of course, Miss Winters.”
Annie looked pleadingly at her aunt. Marigold gleefully waited for the storm to break.
Aunt Agatha said mildly, “Of course you are free to go, Annie. I know his lordship to be a fine whip, so you will be in good hands.”
Marigold made a gulping, spluttering noise.
When Annie and the marquess had left the room, Marigold started to scream, “How could you? How dare she? I shall write to Mother… Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Shut up!” said Aunt Agatha. “Yes, it might do very well,” she went on slowly. “Torrance may be a rake, but he’s quite a catch. I must telephone Mrs. Burlington and tell her the news. She has been after him for years for one of those pasty-faced daughters of hers and she said only the other night that, as an unmarried lady, I would find it a disadvantage in getting you girls fixed up. Hah! Wait until she hears this!”
She sailed from the room, leaving Marigold to writhe on the floor in quite the worst fit of hysterical rage that that young lady had ever had.
Annie was too unsophisticated to realize that Miss Winter had some grounds for being so triumphant. The Marquess of Torrance had never at any time in his life shown enough interest in any young debutante to take her driving. He had kept a succession of demimondaine ladies, which was not to be held against him. Such behavior in a marquess was glamorous. In Mr. Joe Bloggs of Clapham, say, it would be considered disgusting and immoral.
Now that she had achieved the beginnings of her ambition, Annie felt quite shy and tongue-tied as she sat beside Torrance in the carriage. He was handling his pair of matched bays himself, and there was only one groom on the backstrap. The open carriage was well-sprung and bowled along with a gentle, swaying motion.
The sun sparkled on varnish and metal. “It’s—it’s a very nice carriage,” said Annie, at last.
“Yes, isn’t it,” he replied equably. “It’s a mobile map of the world in its way. The framework is made of English ash, the panels are Honduras mahogany, the footboards are American ash, the shafts are Jamaican lancewood, the wheels are Canadian hickory, and the spokes are English oak. There! I have furthered your education.”
“Yes,” said Annie, who could not think of anything else to say.
She slid a sideways glance at him under the shadow of her hat. He had a strong face in profile, and his long hands holding the reins seemed strong also, despite their whiteness and manicured nails.
But everything about him was too studied, too mannered. She wondered suddenly if he really cared very strongly about anything except his clothes and his horses.
“Would you like a motorcar?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s just a fad, or so Papa says.”
“I would. I’m thinking of buying one.”
“But what would you do with your horses?”
“Use them as well, for pleasant outings like this. Use the motorcar when I have to go to the country.”
“I can’t imagine anyone loving one of those contraptions the way they love their horses.”
“Oh, but they do, I assure you. In some cases, more so. Take my friend Jeffrey Withers. Now he bought a Lanchester only last year and he’s had endless trouble with it. It always seems to be breaking down. But he loves it. Although he doesn’t think of it as an ‘it,’ if you take my meaning. He thinks of it as ‘she,’ just like boats. He calls his motorcar Bessie and he talks to it day and night.
“I passed him once on the Brighton road and he was cranking the engine like mad and saying, ‘Come along, Bessie, I know you can do it. Jeffrey loves you. Just give a little cough for old Jeffrey to show you’re alive.’”
“You either have strange friends or you are teasing me,” said Annie. “First you tell me about someone who shaved his head bald…”
“Bertie.”
“Yes, Bertie. And now there’s this Jeffrey who talks to his motorcar.”
“Never mind. Here we are. London at play.”
Annie studied the other carriages and their occupants with great interest as they drove around by the Serpentine.
Some of the women drove themselves. Annie twisted around to admire a pretty little blonde in a plethora of pink ruffles and pink maribou who was handling her whip like an expert. As she watched, the blonde looked fully at the marquess, gave him a saucy smile and the merest flicker of a wink, and then she trotted sedately past, the little parasol on the end of her whip, also pink to match the rest of her outfit.
“That pretty lady winked at you,” said Annie.
“She did? I’m flattered,” said her companion. “Now what is the name of that tree over there? I never can remember it.”
“Ladies don’t wink,” said Annie, beginning to feel cross although she could not understand why. Perhaps it was because the blonde had reminded her of Marigold.
“Elder, surely.”
“Than whom?”
“Not that elder. I mean, the name of the tree.”
“I don’t know,” said Annie, thinking furiously. Good manners meant that she could not pursue any subject that her companion wanted to drop.
Vague social rumors and bits of gossip began to drift through her head. About the Marquess of Torrance being a wild, young man-about-town. Of course he wasn’t young, but it seemed that all bachelors were young until they reached their dotage.
The blonde in the pink dress had been very pretty, very pretty indeed. But not a lady. Ladies did not wink, thought Annie, folding her soft mouth into a prim line.
“Have you indigestion, or have I said something to offend you?”
She realized with a start that her companion had been studying her face. “No,” she said. “No, my lord, I was thinking of something… well, something else.”
“And not me? Ah, well… there is Lady Trevelyn…” Annie bowed. “And there is Mrs. Wayling, a friend of my mother.” Annie bowed again.
“I somehow did not think of you as having a mother,” she said, as a chilly little breeze sprang up and a passing cloud cast its shadow over the waters of the Serpentine.
“You mean you thought I sprang fully armed in a natty gent’s suit from my father’s head, or something like that?”
“No. I mean, one does not think of older people having mothers.”
“Ouch!”
“I mean, not that you are old, just mature,” pleaded Annie.
“Well-seasoned like the English oak?”
“Not quite, my lord. I meant… Oh, it’s too hard to explain. Is your mother in town?”
“No, she and my father are in the country.”
>
“Yes, of course. Your father is the Duke of Dunster. Marigold and I looked you up in Debrett.”
“How thorough of you. Now, tell me how it came about that you were escaping from your room in that dramatic manner?”
“I told you. It was the servants. They locked me in by mistake.”
“So you did… tell me, I mean.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“What on earth gave you that idea, Lady Annie? I believe everything you say.”
Annie bit her lip. They were rolling toward the gates of Hyde Park again. She felt that she somehow had to get him to say something intimate. Something she could throw in Marigold’s face.
The day was clouding up, and she shivered slightly in the rising dusty wind.
They stopped in the press of traffic at Hyde Park Comer, and he reached behind her, pulled up a mohair carriage rug, and gently wrapped it about her shoulders. His face was suddenly very close to her own, so she could see the lazy smile on his mouth and the thick eyelashes veiling his eyes.
“Now you should feel warmer.” His voice held a caressing note.
“Thank you,” whispered Annie, feeling gauche and schoolgirlish. Marigold would have said something flirtatious and made the most of the moment. But, all at once, the traffic moved and he took up the reins again.
“Shall you be at the Worthingtons’ ball tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Annie. “My aunt said nothing about what we were to do this evening.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find you’re invited,” he said easily. “Everyone’s going to be there.”
Annie remembered all the gilt-edged invitation cards stuck in the corner of the looking glass in the drawing room. She had not studied them, knowing the names would mean nothing to her. She had another ball gown that should have arrived that morning. It was the same leaf green as her blouse and would turn Marigold’s eyes the same color with envy.
“The Worthingtons are very grand,” he was saying. “Not only are we to have a ball but a fireworks display as well.”
“I hope we’re invited,” said Annie anxiously. “I’ve never seen a fireworks display.”
“What! Not even on Guy Fawkes Night?”
“We don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes in Scotland.”
“No November fifth! What a heathen country. Ah, here we are.” He called to his groom, who ran round and held the horses while the marquess escorted Annie to the door.
“Thank you for a very pleasant drive, my lord,” said Annie shyly.
“My pleasure.” He bent and kissed her gloved hand, smiling into her eyes in a way that left her feeling strangely breathless. Then he turned and climbed back into his carriage, cracked his whip, and moved off as Miss Winter’s butler opened the door.
Annie trailed into the drawing room, unpinning her hat as she did so and feeling strangely flat.
Aunt Agatha came sailing in, looking flustered. “My dear Annie, I have just had a telephone call from your papa, and such news! It appears that Crammarth’s second cousin, the disgraceful one that went to America, has died—he was older than your papa, so one must not mourn—and he has left your papa a vast fortune. Just think! Marigold is a wealthy, wealthy heiress. You, too, my dear. But, of course, Marigold’s child will be the heir because, naturally, she will marry first.”
“I might well marry before Marigold,” said Annie.
“Oh, my dear, you are pinning your hopes on the wicked Jasper. Well, I am afraid we were all a bit silly about that. I telephoned that horrid Mrs. Burlington to tell her that Torrance was quite smitten with you, for it seemed as if he must be since he never entertains debutantes, and she said that Torrance had said at the Trevelyns’ ball that you were ‘an amusing little thing.’ Now, I ask you, is that what a man with any serious intentions would say about a girl? And, of course, with a beauty like Marigold around, it’s amazing that he noticed you at all.
“I didn’t believe her, and said so, but Mrs. Burlington said that Torrance had said that to Bertie Ffrench, so I telephoned Bertie Ffrench. He was maddeningly vague but said, ‘Oh, you mean the gel with the hair like a pillar box? Jasper did say something fatherly.’ So there! You will just need to look around for someone more your weight. I have not forgotten your punishment, so you may finish your lines while I escort Marigold to the Worthingtons’.”
“Why can’t I go to the Worthingtons’?” asked Annie, in a bewildered voice. Her emotions were going up and down like a seesaw. There was so much to assimilate. Papa was very rich, which meant that she, as well as Marigold, must now be considered an heiress. The marquess had said that she was merely an “amusing little thing.” And she was not to go to the Worthingtons’.
“Well, you see,” said Aunt Agatha, “it was a teensy bit foolish on my part. I was so concerned with finding a husband for Marigold that when Mrs. Worthington told me about the ball, well, I only mentioned Marigold, and it would be too pushing to take you along because it would upset the supper arrangement to have one more, and the Worthingtons are such sticklers. So you see. And you are being punished anyway.”
“It’s just not fair,” said Annie, rebelliously.
“On the contrary, it is very fair. Despite your appalling behavior, I allowed you the treat of a drive with Torrance, so you have had quite enough for one day. Now go to your room and don’t let me hear another word!”
When Annie reached her room, she turned the key in the door. Marigold would no doubt be calling shortly to crow over her defeated sister.
Annie paced up and down, up and down. In her mind’s eye, someone, not necessarily the marquess, would propose to Marigold at the Worthingtons’, and she would have to take second place again as she had done all of her young life.
Annie’s very dull and sheltered upbringing had kept her very emotionally immature. First a nanny, and then a governess, who favored Marigold no matter what she did, had made her very bitter toward her sister. She burned with hurt and a desire for revenge. Somehow, she just had to get to that ball.
The door handle turned, then stopped. “Let me in!” called Marigold.
“Go away,” said Annie, furiously.
“Oh, you silly cat. You’re just mad because I’m going and you’re not.”
Annie took a deep breath, then said loudly and clearly, “Of course I am furious. I had hoped to be allowed to spend some time with my fiancé.”
“What!”
“You heard me.”
“You can’t mean Torrance. Oh, it’s too stupid. You’re such a liar. I’m going to tell Auntie.”
Marigold’s footsteps could be heard retreating rapidly down the corridor. Annie slowly went over and unlocked the door. She had just told one terrible lie. And, somehow, she knew all at once that she was going to go on telling it.
Aunt Agatha opened the door and walked into the room. “Now, what’s all this tarradiddle, Annie?”
“Send her away first,” said Annie grimly, pointing to Marigold, who was hovering in the doorway.
“Oh, very well, but if this is another of your… Go away, Marigold. Now, Annie!”
“Well, he did propose to me,” said Annie defiantly. “I didn’t tell you because he said he would be writing to Papa and that he would be calling to see you tomorrow.”
Aunt Agatha sank into a chair and stared at Annie with a bewildered look on her face. “One would almost think you were telling the truth,” she said slowly.
“I am,” said Annie, “and if you don’t believe me, well, there’s an easy way to find out.”
“Which is…?”
“Why, telephone him,” said Annie, sending up a silent prayer that her aunt would react as she expected her to.
“No. I couldn’t possibly do that. It would be questioning his honor. If you are lying, then it would make a terrible fool of me. And if you are not, then he would think me extremely rude.”
“In that case,” said Annie, trying to keep her voice level, “do you not think that the best i
dea would be to take me with you to the Worthingtons’? Jasper said he was looking forward to dancing with me.”
“Oh, very well. I shall telephone Mrs. Worthington and tell her to expect an extra guest. I shall say nothing to Torrance unless he chooses to speak to me. But if he ignores you, if his manner proves that he has not the slightest interest in you, then you will be sent home.”
With that, Aunt Agatha left the room, leaving Annie in a misery of anxiety. To follow her aunt and apologize, to say that she had made the whole thing up, would mean that she would be sent back to Scotland anyway.
Even the sight of her new green ball gown spread out on the bed did nothing to allay her fears.
Marigold was nearly dancing about with glee before they got into the carriage that was to bear them to the Worthingtons’.
“Of all the awful lies,” she whispered. “Won’t it be fun seeing Torrance’s face when I tell him.”
“You won’t,” said Annie, hopefully. “Aunt will stop you.”
“So it is a lie,” hissed Marigold, as the steps to the carriage were let down.
“If you choose to think so, then that is your affair,” retorted Annie, in what she hoped was a chilling voice.
“Please let him not be there,” she prayed as the carriage bore them inexorably nearer to the Worthingtons’.
The Worthingtons lived in a large mansion in Princes Gate, so the drive, unfortunately for poor Annie, was very short.
Again the red carpet, the canopy, the police, the stairs, and the hostess. Again the gentlemen bowing and scribbling their names in her card. Again Mr. Russell with his moustache and sideburns begging her for the supper dance.
“I’m surprised you didn’t try to keep a dance for your fiancé.” Marigold tittered from behind her fan.
“I did,” said Annie defiantly. “The last. That’s the one he asked me to keep.”
(“Please, oh please, don’t let him come.”)
Aunt Agatha leaned across Marigold and addressed Annie in a threatening whisper, “Mind, young lady. No engagement, and back to Scotland you go. Oh, I just know you’re lying. Why did I ever listen to you? Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
“Who wants to be like her?” muttered Annie, but Miss Winter mercifully did not hear, and Annie’s partner approached to claim her for the first dance.