Sally (11 page)

When they finally arrived at the stables, Sally was making a great effort to control the shaking of her knees. She felt battered and bruised all over.

The marquess held up his arms to lift her down, and she fell heavily against him. But not for worlds would she let him know what a physical wreck she felt, and so she smiled up into his eyes with a flirtatious twinkle in her own so that he would think she had collapsed deliberately against him.

After a slight look of surprise the marquess held her very close and then released her, turning away to shout something to the head groom, Sanders, and therefore sparing himself the sight of his fair partner reeling like a drunk as her weak and trembling legs fought for balance.

By the time he had turned back, she had recovered enough to walk with him to the palace without staggering or falling. Much as she loved him, all Sally longed for was a hot bath. But…

“Good Heavens! Teatime already,” said the marquess, pulling out his half hunter and staring at it. “Don’t bother to change. We are not very muddy. Only rather wet.”

Sally groaned inwardly. As he led her through the hall she caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass and almost started in surprise. Apart from the missing buttons on her waistcoat, she saw in amazement that she looked possibly more elegant and assured than she had ever done in her life. The black topper was remarkably becoming, and, underneath it, not even a strand of hair had come loose from its moorings.

Quite a surprising number of people were assembled in the large drawing room, drinking tea. The Guthrie sisters descended on the marquess with little chirping cries and bore him off, one on either side. He cast an anguished look of mock despair over his shoulder at Sally, which every lady in the room noted, hating Sally accordingly.

With relief Sally saw the trim and upright figure of Miss Fleming and headed in that lady’s direction.

“I’m dying,” she muttered as Miss Fleming handed her a cup of tea. “I’d never ridden a horse before, and never, ever will I ride one again.”

“I say, Lady Cecily,” said a voice at her elbow, “allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Firkin, Peter Firkin. Just heard Paul telling everybody about your marvelous jump. Jolly good, haw. You’ll show us all at the meet on Saturday.”

“I don’t think—” began Sally weakly.

“Everyone’s turning out to see you go through your paces, don’t you know. You must tell me all about the time you went pigsticking.”

“You
what?
” interposed Miss Fleming.

Sally suddenly put down her teacup with a hand that shook. “Later, Mr. Firkin,” she said.

“Miss Fleming, please come upstairs with me. I do not like to stand around in all my dirt.”

Miss Fleming cast a longing look toward a plate of cucumber sandwiches and decided to make the best of it. She collared a footman and asked that their afternoon tea be served to them in their rooms and bore Sally off.

Sally managed bravely until the door of her room closed behind her. Then she threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.

“He didn’t… he
couldn’t have
,” exclaimed Miss Fleming, who always believed that men were only after one thing.

“No! No!” wailed Sally. “I hurt all over, and I was so frightened, and now I am to go hunting.”

Miss Fleming sat on the edge of the bed and took Sally’s limp hand in her own.

“Look here, Sally,” she said. “Have you paused to think what on earth you can possibly
do
even if the Marquess falls head over heels in love with you? By the ball tomorrow night, he will only have known Lady Cecily a short time. A man like that does not propose on such short notice. And what if he does? You will then need to tell him that you are not Lady Cecily Trevelyn, a duke’s daughter, but plain Sally Blane of Bloomsbury, who works as Aunt Mabel.”

“Oh, don’t!” wailed Sally. “I know it’s all been such a mistake. I fantasized that he would forgive me when I told him… but now I’ve already deceived him further by pretending I can ride.”

“Then let us make our excuses and leave,” said Miss Fleming briskly. “If we hurry, perhaps we can catch the seven o’clock train from Bath.”

Sally sat up and dried her tears, looking mulish. “And leave him in the clutches of those Guthrie girls? Never! I’ve gone through all this to go to this ball, and go I jolly well will!”

“And on the stroke of midnight you’ll have to turn back into Aunt Mabel,” pointed out Miss Fleming.

“Oh, I don’t need to turn into Aunt Mabel until after the hunt,” pointed out Sally, looking considerably more cheerful.

“You can’t possibly go on that hunt. You can’t even ride. You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“I can read a book on the subject,” said Sally, all mad reason.

“It’s a pity you can’t marry the man,” said Miss Fleming acidly. “You would fit in very well here. They’re all mad. That Mrs. Stuart was telling everyone before you arrived that ‘poor old Freddie’ was due to pop off any minute, and the man just stood there looking like a silly sheep. And for your information, Miss Wyndham is not in love with your Paul. The poor girl is head over heels in love with that ass, Peter Firkin.”

Sally opened her mouth in surprise, but at that moment two footmen arrived, bearing their tea.

“Oh, splendid!” cried Miss Fleming. “Hot muffins and strawberry jam. Come along, Sally. There is nothing like a muffin and a good cup of tea to restore anyone to sanity.”

But Sally could barely wait until the servants had left before she burst out with, “But
how
can Miss Wyndham be in love with Peter Firkin when Paul is around?”

“No accounting for taste,” said Miss Fleming, her mouth full of muffin.

“I had better go and tell her,” said Sally, decidedly. “I thought she was talking about Paul. And Peter Firkin is in love with
her
, for he told me so.”

“You’ll need to wait until you’re Aunt Mabel again,” pointed out her friend.

Sally sighed and resigned herself to tea. She thought over her behavior of the afternoon and decided after much hard thought that she had been too bold, too independent. Everyone knew—for hadn’t Aunt Mabel counseled her readers so?—that gentlemen liked soft, feminine, helpless women. She should not have put up such a brave front. She should have told him she felt weak and shaky. She must change her strategy. She still felt sore all over. She would tell him prettily that very fact this evening.

And she had every opportunity to do so. For Lady Cecily had been given that much-coveted place next to the marquess at the dinner table.

The Guthrie sisters tittered behind their fans and wondered what Paul could see in such an insignificant creature. The duchess looked at Sally speculatively and rather liked what she saw. Sally was looking her very best, courtesy of the Annual Sale on Behalf of the Society for Indigent Gentlewomen. She was wearing a blond lace blouse that had a pretty neckline. Her masses of fine hair had been prettily dressed over her forehead in the very latest fashion by Miss Fleming, who showed unexpected expertise with the curling iron. The dog collar of pearls clasped around her neck emphasized the creaminess of her skin. Her new pink corset created that necessary effect of the monobosom, since it was downright indecent to betray the fact that a woman possessed two breasts.

Sally was prepared for the awful food and had the advantage in that respect of the other guests. She had eaten a great deal of cakes and sandwiches at tea, remembering that tea was excellent, while dinner was foul. She was therefore at leisure to pick at her food and start her campaign of persuading the marquess that she was a frail and helpless female.

Sally prettily, and with many deprecatory giggles, complained of her aches and pains and received nothing more than a blank look of disinterest from the marquess, who, after listening politely to her complaints, nodded in a rather bored way and then turned his attention to a ravishing redhead on his left, leaving Sally to the dull conversation of Sir Sydney Chelmsford, on
her
other side.

Sally bit her lip, wondering what she had done wrong. Now, Sally had acquired quite a fund of wisdom through her job as Aunt Mabel, but it was all in the abstract, so to speak, and there was nothing quite like firsthand experience. She was too young to have realized the sad fact that the most attractive and charming men were unfortunately the kind who, after the first fine, careless rapture was over, were the very ones to go into a sulk if one was sick, crashing the breakfast tray on one’s knees with a contemptuous look. But God help one if
they
were ill themselves. A slight cold would be interpreted as influenza, and acute indigestion as cancer. And unless one was resigned to that hard fact and stopped being weak and clinging and expecting the strong man to give one sympathy, then the man would be apt to up and off with some female with a face like a boot and a soul like whipcord.

But Sally did realize that the marquess had smiled on her when she was being bold and brave, and so she lent an ear to his conversation with the dashing redhead, seeking for an opportunity to recapture his attention.

When he at last turned to her again Sally said brightly, “Tell me, do you think a modern woman should have a career?”

“Indeed, yes,” said the marquess, showing interest again. “I think every woman should have some sort of job before she is married.”

“What do you do for a living?” asked Sally in a mocking voice.

He looked at her in surprise. “Why, the same as your brothers,” he said. “How is John, by the way?”

Sally gulped. “Very well. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him since my return.”

“Hardly surprising,” said the marquess, “since he is in the West Indies.”

“Yes,” said Sally, deciding not to elaborate any further.

“You know,” went on the marquess, “it’s those eyes of yours. They remind me of something.”

“What?” breathed Sally, agog for a compliment.

He studied her for some moments. “Aunt Mabel,” he said.

Sally hurriedly lowered her eyes to her plate.

“Yes,” he went on. “Now, there’s a career woman for you.”

“Who on earth is Aunt Mabel?” asked Sally, following the question with what she hoped would be a rippling laugh, but it came out more as a croak.

“You
have
been out of touch,” he mocked. “Aunt Mabel is the lady from
Home Chats
who answers all our problems.”

“Oh, I don’t understand how people can demean themselves by writing to a complete stranger for advice,” said Sally, anxious to disassociate herself from Aunt Mabel.

“You surprise me. I would have thought you had more understanding,” he said lightly. “There are an awful lot of people who would rather ask a complete stranger for advice than their immediate family. And don’t let my mother hear you say so. She invited Aunt Mabel down here to ask her advice.”

“What about?”

“About me. Mother thought I was going to marry Miss Wyndham, and she thought the young lady was too good for me.”

“Quite right,” said Sally, and then realized her mistake, as he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I mean,” she rushed on, anxious to cover her gaffe, “I am sure your mother knew what was best for you.”

“I am not a child, Lady Cecily,” he said, and turned his attention back to the redhead.

Blast!
thought Sally. But then she remembered the duchess saying that the marquess liked his women to have a bit of vice in them. She must be bolder.

To her extreme irritation Sir Sydney Chelmsford turned out to have heard of her pigsticking exploits and was prepared to cap them with several very long and boring stories of his own.

Sally could only be relieved when the duchess rose to her feet, indicating that the ladies should leave the gentlemen to their port.

In the drawing room, Sally was extremely alarmed when Miss Fleming pointed out that it was a miracle that none of these ladies turned out to have known the real Lady Cecily. This was a snag that Sally had not even considered, and so she lurked in Miss Fleming’s grim shadow, expecting at any moment to be exposed.

Apart from the Misses Guthrie, there were a number of good-looking girls with their hopeful mamas, and the Duchess was surrounded by quite a court of females trying to ingratiate themselves with Her Grace.

All the ladies were dressed in their best, and very few had learned that diamonds were considered vulgar in the country. Sally felt her dog collar of pearls, which had looked so handsome in the privacy of her bedroom, pale into insignificance beside the blaze of diamonds and rubies and emeralds and sapphires.

At last they were joined by the gentlemen, and it transpired they were going to play charades.

By some sort of unspoken agreement, the ladies had decided to exclude Sally from the festivities, and Sally was too frightened of exposure to put herself forward. Therefore she had the doubtful pleasure of watching the marquess playing Romeo to Dolly Guthrie’s Juliet and thought sourly that these silly, childish games would go on forever. But at last the charades were over, and the guests were urged to give an impromptu concert. Again the Guthrie girls were to the fore, singing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan with weak, little voices and amazing aplomb.

The evening was saved for Sally by the Honorable Freddie. Screwing his monocle in his eye, he announced, despite groans of protest, that he was going to recite.

Undeterred by his wife’s loud and acid comments, he rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and declared, “I am going to recite one of the finest and most moving bits of poetry I’ve ever read. It’s by a Scotch scribe-chappie called William McGonagall, entitled, “The Tay Bridge Disaster.”

“He’s got to go. He’s really got to go,” observed Mrs. Stuart to the world at large, but with the exception of Sally, they thought his wife meant he had simply to leave the room, whereas Sally alone knew that Mrs. Stuart meant leave the planet.

The guests politely listened to the first verse in amazement and then began to talk loudly and rudely among themselves. William McGonagall was, after all, an acquired taste. That Victorian poet never troubled his head with meter or form. As long as each line of verse rhymed somehow with the one before it, he was perfectly happy and expected his readers to feel the same way.