Sally (6 page)

At last she was free to retire. A servant conducted her to her room, which was in fact more of a young apartment, boasting a sitting room and bathroom as well as a bedroom.

The lace curtains at the windows floated in a light breeze. Down below, a swan cruised majestically over the watered silk of the lake.

Sally undressed and took off her heavy whalebone corsets and gave herself a good scratch, which was what she had been longing to do since she left London.

At first she did not want to lie down at all, but the bedroom looked very cool with its blinds pulled down and the bed itself tempting with its pretty white lace canopy. A pile of French novels, their pages uncut, lay on a table beside the bed.

She lay down on the bed and picked up one of the novels and stared at it, unseeing. Suddenly the effort of reaching for the paper knife and cutting the pages seemed too much, and in no time at all she was fast asleep.

Sally awoke with a guilty start just as the dressing gong rang somewhere in the great house. She scrambled from the bed to find that a maid had entered while she was asleep and had carefully taken away her dinner gown, had it pressed, and laid it out.

Well, it was a bit hard to put on frumpish lilac silk of an antique cut, ornamented with swirls of jet embroidery, and step back into that pouter pigeon corset. It would have been so splendid to have worn something really pretty and to have gone as herself.

Dinner was a surprising affair. In the first place, the food was remarkably pedestrian, considering this was a ducal mansion and this the heyday of the gourmet. It reminded Sally forcibly of her nursery days as she worked her way through courses consisting of such delights as stewed mutton, watery cabbage, boiled potatoes, shriveled smelts, and treacle pudding.

Across the table from Sally, Miss Margery Wyndham blazed in all her glory. Her beauty was almost luminous, decided Sally, and her large, expressive eyes were shining with dreams.

I believe she is in love
, thought Sally.
Drat it! If the duchess’s son wants her, then I can’t see her refusing him
.

Miss Wyndham was dressed in apricot silk, cut low to reveal an excellent pair of white shoulders. Her hair that evening was fashionably dressed and frizzed and threaded with apricot silk roses.

Sally was flanked on one side by Peter Firkin and on the other by Sir Sydney Chelmsford. Sir Sydney was a taciturn gentleman who gave his whole attention to his food. Peter Firkin addressed a few almost unintelligible remarks to Sally and then devoted his attention to Mrs. Stuart, who was placed on his other side.

She soon lost interest in the general conversation, which concerned people she did not know and had never heard of. Sally studied the room instead. Its walls were decorated with delicately painted panels, and Sally’s wandering eyes rested on one of them, and then she felt herself begin to blush.

It was a peculiarly graphic portrayal of the Rape of Lucrece. Lucrece’s large bosom spilled over the tanned and ravishing hands of Sextus, son of Tarquinius Superbus.

Sally hurriedly averted her eyes and stared at another panel. In it Iphigeneia was dying in all her voluptuous naked glory, sacrificed at the altar to Artemis, so that the Greek ships should have a fair wind to the Trojan war.

So she stared at her plate instead.

She wondered what the Watch Committee would make of it all. But then art and antiquity excused all.

“Jolly good that, what?” said Peter Firkin suddenly, pointing with his fork at the sacrifice of Iphigeneia. “Jolly ships, what? Look as if they could sail right out of the picture, don’t you know, eh, what?”

“It is a very bold subject,” said Sally in her most repressive Aunt Mabelish voice.

“Eh, what?” Peter stared blankly at the picture. “Oh, yes, haw, haw, haw. Hot stuff!” He let out a great bray of laughter, turned beet red, and buried his nose in his wineglass.

He’s rather old to be a friend to Paul
, thought Sally, observing him out of the corner of her eye with some irritation. She began to wonder about her forthcoming interview. She wondered what this rakehell young man would make of having Aunt Mabel brought in to advise him against marriage to the beautiful Miss Wyndham.

And how could she possibly put it into words? As the duchess had done? Miss Wyndham is too good for you?

All too soon the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. The duchess immediately drew Sally aside. “Come with me,” she whispered. “Paul is home. I will have him sent to you.”

With a rapidly beating heart, Sally followed the duchess back through a bewildering array of rooms and found herself in an enormous library, which looked down the drive at the front of the palace.

It smelled slightly of leather, potpourri, and stale tobacco. Serried ranks of books mounted up to the painted ceiling. Sally quickly lowered her eyes from the ceiling. Goodness knew what might be up there getting raped or sacrificed.

A footman came in silently after them and set a decanter of whisky and a soda siphon on a low table near the windows, which were flanked by two high-backed easy chairs.

“Now,” said the duchess, with a surprisingly girlish giggle, “I will send my bad boy along. Won’t he be surprised!”

“But doesn’t he know…?” began Sally desperately, but the duchess had fluttered off.

Sally clasped her hands together. Outside on the terrace a peacock strutted past silently. A faint smell of thyme drifted in from the gardens.

What shall I say to him
? wondered Sally.
Her Grace has planned this as a surprise. He’ll probably sneer most dreadfully. And what rank does a duke’s only son hold anyway? Marquess, I think
.

The door opened, and Sally remained where she was, quite still, seated in one of the armchairs beside the long windows looking out into the darkness of the gardens.

“Surprise!” came the duchess’s voice from the door. “Paul, darling, this is Aunt Mabel of
Home Chats
. Aunt Mabel, my son, Paul, Marquess of Seudenham. I’ll leave you two together!”

Sally tried to struggle to her feet, but a deep voice said, “Please, don’t. I shall join you.”

Resplendent in black-and-white evening dress, the Marquess of Seudenham sank into the armchair opposite.

Sally gazed at him, unbelieving. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen, from his thick black hair to his bright, mocking blue eyes, set in a tanned face, to his lithe, muscular body. And he was no adolescent. She judged him to be in his middle thirties.

The marquess looked curiously at the little old lady who was staring at him so intently. Her face looked rather stiff and odd, he thought, and she was very wrinkled indeed. Only her large gray eyes seemed to be alive. He helped himself to a whisky and soda, frowning as he realized no other refreshment had been set out suitable to an old lady like Aunt Mabel.

He waited for her to speak, but she was still gazing at him helplessly, so he said, “Aunt… er… Mabel? Which side of the family?”

“Home Chats
,” croaked Sally.

“Home
…? Oh, no! You’re not one of those ladies who give advice to the lovelorn?”

“Yes,” mumbled Sally, suddenly helping herself to a whisky and soda.

“Mama has really gone too far this time… er… Aunt Mabel. Who am I supposed to be lovelorn over?”

“Miss Wyndham.”

“Really? My mother knows more about it than I do. Does she want me to marry the girl?”

Sally took a large gulp of her drink and looked at him shyly. “The duchess doesn’t want you to marry her at all.”

“Your words surprise me. Miss Wyndham is young and beautiful and rich. All the things to gladden a mother’s heart. What’s up with her?”

“Nothing,” said Sally weakly and then again,
“Nothing
,” in a stronger voice as she gathered the mantle of Aunt Mabel about her. “Your mother thinks she is too good for you. Her Grace thinks you need a lady with a little more vice in her.”

He put down his glass and leaned back in his chair and laughed loud and long while Sally stared at him with adoring eyes.

At last he finished laughing, and Sally adjusted her expression to one—she hoped—of rather prim wisdom.

“And so the decision, I gather, is to be left to you? I think that must be why Mama sprang this surprise on me.”

“I should think so,” quavered Sally, very much Aunt Mabel.

What
is
your decision?”

Sally bent her head and appeared to concentrate. Actually she had made a lightning decision. This handsome marquess should really marry no one else but Miss Sally Blane. How it was to be achieved, she could not even begin to imagine. But she had wanted to work on Fleet Street—and she did. All things were possible if the modern Edwardian career woman put her mind to it.

“I think you should only marry for love,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “And what makes you think I am not in love with Miss Wyndham?”

“You are too detached,” said Sally.

“Love, in my opinion,” said the marquess, “is only a fleeting fancy. I am heading rapidly for middle age. I am thirty-five years old, which must not seem much to you”—Sally winced—“nonetheless, it is time I settled down.”

“Have you never been in love?” asked Sally curiously.

“Oh, hundreds of times.” He paused, momentarily taken aback by the strange look of pain in the expressive eyes of the old lady opposite, who was now gulping her whisky as if it were water. “It never lasted. Can I get you another drink? Perhaps something milder? Sherry, perhaps?”

“No,” said Aunt Mabel grimly, “whisky will do very well” Made bold by the spirit, she addressed him earnestly. “My dear lord, I have had great experience in matters of the heart. If you marry some girl simply because you think she will make a suitable wife, then your marriage will be doomed from the start. And then think of the children—the sticky, jammy, screaming,
awful
children,” said Sally with sudden drunken fervor, thinking of Emily’s noisy brood.

He crossed one elegantly tailored leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. Sally studied his handsome profile in the lamplight and sighed.

“I am beginning to think you do not approve of marriage at all,” he said. “Are you, or have you been, married yourself?”

“No, my lord.”

“In that case—”

“But I must assure you, as a detached observer, I have great insight into the problems of matrimony,” said Sally.

He looked at her curiously. It was almost as if, by some trick of the light, a young and beautiful and intense girl were superimposed like a phantom over the wrinkled and aged features of Aunt Mabel.

Then he noticed that the hand holding her glass was trembling slightly and gently took the drink from her and put it on the table.

“We will discuss this further tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think you should rest. It is very late.”

Sally allowed him to help her to her feet.

“Would you assist me to my room?” she quavered. “I do feel shaky.” And in truth, she did, not being used to hard liquor.

Ah! The benefits of being old
,? thought Sally as the marquess put one strong arm around her. She leaned against him gratefully and moved as slowly as possible so as to prolong this delicious experience.

He felt the old lady tremble slightly and experienced a qualm of anxiety. She was a queer old bird, and it was certainly long past her bedtime.

He escorted her to the door of her sitting room and politely held the door open for her, receiving a blazing look from a pair of glowing eyes.

Naughty old thing
, thought the marquess, much amused.
I believe she’s got a crush on me
.

Sally carefully sponged her rubber wrinkles in the morning, wishing heartily that she could tear the whole mess from her face. But the role of Aunt Mabel had to be kept up, the pouter pigeon corset to be struggled into, and the stuffy, hot old ladies’ clothes to be put on.

It was going to be another very long day.

She drank her tea—brought in by the maid—and ate her Osborne biscuits and found that her stomach was still rumbling, and so she went in search of the breakfast room, eventually being guided to it by a footman.

It transpired that everyone else, with the exception of Peter Firkin, was breakfasting in their rooms. Sally helped herself to a generous portion of bacon and grilled kidneys from the enormous array of dishes on the sideboard and sat down primly opposite Mr. Firkin, whose nose was buried in the morning paper.

She hoped he would not trouble to engage her in conversation, but no sooner had she begun to eat than she became aware of one large hazel eye surveying her over the top of the newspaper.

“Aunt Mabel?”

Sally put down her knife and fork with a little sigh. “Yes, Mr. Firkin?”

“I say, do you give chappies advice as well as the gels?”

“Oh, yes, especially after I have eaten something and woken up properly,” said Sally repressively.

“Haw, jolly good,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing aside the newspaper so that it fell across the marmalade. “Fact is, I’m awfully much in need of someone to natter to about
things
.”

Sally sighed. “Natter away, Mr. Firkin,” she said.

“Well, haw, haw, it’s jolly awkward getting it out, ’specially as I’ve always been one of the strong, silent types, don’t you know, eh what, haw. Fact is… I’m in love.” And with that admission Mr. Firkin blushed like a schoolboy and buried his nose in his coffee cup.

Sally surveyed him with some amusement, took several hasty bites of her breakfast, and urged, “Do go on.”

“Don’t know how to begin,” said Mr. Firkin, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his legs, and swinging one foot so that it smacked up against the underside of the table, sending a small wave of Sally’s tea cascading over her breakfast plate.

“Try,” said Sally, resolving to try to eat breakfast when Mr. Firkin was in a less energetic state.

“It’s like this,” he said in a rush. “I’m most awfully, frightfully,
terribly
smitten with Miss Wyndham.”

Lovely Mr. Firkin! Brave Mr. Firkin! Splendid Mr. Firkin!