Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (12 page)

Sir Edward looked like a whipped dog, his bloodshot eyes turned pathetically up toward his wife. Lady Blenkinsop could feel her vitality draining away bit by bit. Her voice reached Bertie’s ears, the sad ghost of a whisper: “Our dreams are over. The time has come for us to go home.”

She moved down the stairs like an old woman and took her husband’s arm and went out with him into the snow without looking back.

Bertie Baines reflected that hearts did not break; nothing so physical happened. A piece of the soul had been torn out from him leaving a great gaping wound which would never heal. He looked down at his wife. “Come, Gladys,” he said gently. “If you hurry and change, I can take you to the office party. “Come, come,” he added, moving slowly toward her. “Dry your eyes, that’s my girl. There, there. We’ll talk about it all later. But not now. Please God, not now.”

The conference room managed to look grim and foreboding despite the gaudy paper decorations. Some optimistic soul had hung a large bunch of mistletoe on the chandelier but no one looked in danger of kissing each other—or even of speaking to each other. In the hope that the duke would grace it with his presence, the organization of the party had been allocated to Sir Edward who, on hearing of the duke’s refusal to attend, had done very little about it.

Not only had Sir Edward failed to put in an appearance, but he had provided nothing in the way of drink. The best crystal glasses were lined up at the end of the conference table but there was nothing to put in them. After the first quarter of an hour had passed in whispers and the chill of the musty room began to creep into the very bones of the guests, Mr. and Mrs. Baines arrived exuding all the jollity of a wake.

The directors clustered eagerly around Mr. Baines. What should they do? Damned fellow Blenkinsop had done absolutely nothing!

Mr. Baines gave a wild distracted look around the room while his subdued wife clutched his arm like an amorous gorilla. “The directors’ champagne,” he said. “Six crates were delivered just yesterday. You know, sirs, the stuff we keep for visitors.”

Splendid chap! Saved the day. The beautiful green bottles appeared as if by magic. Pop! Pop! Pop! And the directors’ wives started to talk to each other. More pops and the directors’ wives talked to the clerks’ wives. Still more pops and the directors’ wives complimented young Amy Feathers on her gown. She had made it herself! How cunning!

Polly stood ignored at the edge of the room. The directors’ wives had not forgotten the picnic. The girl was much too pushing, and the directors themselves did not want to talk to someone who was on familiar terms with the Westermans. The clerks were tired of Polly’s hoity-toity ways, and even Bob Friend felt that he had been snubbed once too often.

Polly tried hard not to mind. When Peter arrived they would all find that she was far above them.

The door swung open and Lord Peter Burley breezed in. He was warmly greeted and slapped on the back by the directors. He drank several glasses of champagne. He talked to Mr. Baines and drank several more. He flirted with the delighted clerks’ wives and drank many more. He glanced at the mistletoe and insisted on kissing Amy Feathers to roars of applause from the now well-lubricated party. Would he never notice her? He moved off into a corner with Mr. Baines and sat down, and soon the two men were deep in conversation.

Then he looked across the room and saw Polly and winked.

A small, cold hand of misgiving clutched at Polly’s stomach. There had been nothing loverlike in that wink. He was coming toward her; he was smiling. She gazed up into his glinting green eyes and wondered how she could have ever forgotten what he looked like.

“Darling Polly,” he said in a thick voice. “Bainsey-boy has told me of a splendid place where we can be alone.”

Polly was aware of Mr. Baines staring at her worriedly from across the room. “Come
now
,” whispered Peter. “Nobody’s looking.” He opened the door and pulled her outside into the corridor. Polly felt suddenly breathless and lighthearted. Everything was going to be all right.

Peter led the way to a showroom at the back of the office building and threw open the door. It was used to display all the splendors of the east to visiting buyers. Ivory, jade, and brass shone in the light, buddhas from China, many-armed goddesses from India, silks from Japan, peacocks’ feathers from Kashmir, tusks from Africa, coral from the West Indies, and piles and piles of Oriental rugs. Peter drew the unresisting Polly down onto a pile of these and took her hands in his. The moment had come.

She turned her head shyly away and stared at a small bearded peasant who endlessly poled his ivory boat across a sea of jade.

Then strong hands were forcing her head around and hot lips still wet with champagne were pressed against her own. She surrendered herself to his kiss wondering why nothing was happening to her senses. At last she drew gently away.

“Peter—you said you would discuss our future.”

“Later, darling,” he murmured impatiently, his lips against her hair. “I’ve waited so long.”

Polly once again let herself be drawn into his embrace. But where was the cool, dashing, young aristocrat she remembered? His face was flushed and his breathing ragged. His hands seemed to be everywhere, probing and stroking. He murmured endearments in a thick voice, as if they were obscenities. She felt a draft of cold air on her legs and realized, with horror, that he had lifted her skirt and one determined hand was crawling up the inside of her leg.

She jerked away and pulled her skirts down only to find that the other roving hand had slid down the front of her dress and was clasping her bosom. Terrified images flashed through her brain. “
’E only wants up yer skirts, my girl
,” said the voice of Mrs. Marsh. Then she seemed to be looking up at the painted ceiling of Bevington Chase, where the man with the horns and goats’ feet perpetually clutched a large white breast in one tanned and horny hand.

“Peter!” she wailed, pushing him away with all her strength. “Can’t you wait until we are married?”

Lord Peter’s clutching hands went suddenly still and he sat bolt upright. His champagne-glazed green eyes focussed on the flushed and furious Polly.

“Married!” he hooted. “Whatever gave you the idea that I would marry
you
. Good heavens, I’m engaged to a perfectly suitable girl, but that need not interfere with
our
future together. Come, Polly. You were
made
for fun.”

Polly’s dream world whirled and crashed. She got slowly to her feet, smoothing down her dress with trembling fingers, and backed away from him toward the door. “I thought you loved me,” she whispered.

“Of
course
I do,” he answered in an exasperated voice. “But you must see that marriage with one of your sort is strictly out of the question.”

Gone was the dream Polly, the debutante Polly, the gracious Lady Polly. Miss Marsh of Stone Lane raised her small hand and struck Lord Peter as hard as she could, right across his face, and then turned and opened the door.

The next minute, she was wrenched back and thrown down on top of the pile of rugs again and Lord Peter dived on top of her.

“You little hellcat! You’ll pay for that, my darling guttersnipe. I know your type. You led me on and now you’re going to pay the penalty. He forced his mouth down on hers. One minute Polly was struggling and biting and kicking—and the next she found herself looking up at Lord Peter, who seemed to be floating in midair.

The Marquis of Wollerton, who had picked his little brother up by the seat of the pants and the scruff of the neck, hurled him across the room. “Get out of here,” snapped the marquis to Polly. “Go back to the party and act as if nothing has happened. Do not leave without me.”

Polly fled. She blundered sightlessly along the corridors toward the noise of the party and then stopped and leaned her hot head against the cold wall. Waves of shame engulfed her. This is what came of despising her fellow workers and being ashamed of her family.

In her attempts to enlarge her education at the theater, Polly had attended a production of Mr. George Bernard Shaw’s
Man and Superman
at the Criterion. Now a passage from the play rang in her ears: “
We live in an atmosphere of shame. We are ashamed of everything that is real about us; ashamed of ourselves, of our relatives, of our incomes, of our accents, of our opinions, of our experience, just as we are ashamed of our naked skins
.”

She edged into the room but nobody seemed to notice her. She stood on the outside of a happy office world to which she could have so easily belonged. Amy was surrounded by a small court of admirers. Her thin face was flushed and her eyes were like stars. Now jealousy was added to Polly’s other burning emotions of anger and shame. She wanted to kill Lord Peter, she wanted to kill herself, she wanted to run away—all at the same moment.

The door behind her opened and the marquis came in alone. She watched him with dull eyes as he moved about the room, shaking hands with the staff, saying a pleasant word here and there. How he must despise her!

At last he came toward her, accompanied by Mr. Baines.

“Mister Baines was just agreeing with me that you should not go home at this time of night unescorted. The wives have their husbands and Mister Friend is accompanying Miss Feathers. I have suggested to Mister Baines that it would be a good idea if I saw you safely to your doorstep. Is that not so, Mister Baines?”

“Quite,” said Mr. Baines in a dull, flat voice.

“And as it is snowing quite heavily, I suggest we leave now.”

Polly bowed her head in assent and took his offered arm. Now everyone was watching her—Miss Marsh leaving with a marquis. Polly would rather have had the comforting escort of Bob Friend.

They climbed into the carriage in silence and in silence moved through the glittering white streets of the City. The snow had ceased to fall. Down Ludgate Hill the carriage trotted as its occupants sat in either corner, each wrapped in their miserable thoughts. “
If that is love
,” Polly was thinking, “
all that heavy breathing and panting and fumbling, I want nothing to do with it
.”

The marquis was feeling that he ought to make some apology on behalf of his family, yet did not know quite how to begin. The thick snow muffled the horses’ hooves as the carriage rolled silently along the Strand. The raucous cries of the merry-makers under the flaring gaslights and all the particular smells of the Strand—cigars and patchouli mixed with beer and roasting chestnuts—seemed a world away.

By the time they reached Euston the soot from London’s thousands of chimneys was already speckling the snow with black.

The marquis was becoming alarmed at the intensity of his feelings. Polly Marsh had surely received no more than she deserved. But he had an overwhelming longing to take her in his arms and kiss away the hurt. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to marry her!

He was so amazed at the insanity of the idea that it took him a few minutes to realize that Polly was trying to say good-bye.

“Polly,” he said gently, unaware that he was using her first name. “Wouldn’t it be better to go home?”

“Home? I
am
home,” said Polly, waving her fan toward the hostel.

“I mean Stone Lane. If you would like to collect your belongings, I can take you there.”

Polly wanted to escape from his company. But she also longed for home. “All right,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll be very quick.”

She sprang lightly from the carriage and ran into the hostel.

In a surprisingly short time she reappeared carrying a small trunk and a shopping bag full of Christmas parcels that she shyly handed to the footman.

The carriage jerked forward and the two occupants sat in silence again.

At last the marquis said quietly, “Talk about it, Polly. Talk about Peter. Don’t keep it all inside.”

She shook her head dumbly and he could see the glint of tears in the corner of her eyes.

“You are not the only one who has these humiliating experiences. Shall I tell you about mine?” He went on without waiting for her reply.

“I was just seventeen and had finished my studies at Eton. One of my best friends was a youth called Gerald Parkenshaw. He had a twin sister called Penelope and all us boys adored her. She was tiny, elfin, with masses of glossy black curls. We teased her and called her Madcap Penny but we were all secretly in love with her.

“Well, the twins’ parents were giving an end-of-term party and all Gerald’s Etonian friends were invited, including me. I knew the other boys had all planned to bring Penny silly, funny gifts, like stuffed animals or love poems, but I decided to steal a march on them and be grown-up and different. My parents were ridiculously generous about my allowance and I had saved up enough to buy a small diamond ring. I was going to lure Penny into the conservatory at the party, present the ring, and declare my love on bended knee. All this I told to brother Gerald.

“The big night arrived. Penny was all in white and had never looked more lovely. When it came my turn to dance with her, I was trembling with nerves but, plucking up my courage, I suggested that the ballroom was too stuffy and that it would be a jolly idea to stroll in the conservatory. She said, ‘What fun!’ and led the way with singularly unmaidenly enthusiasm. Undeterred however, I sank to one knee and seized her hand. I told her all sorts of rot. I said she was a goddess and that I was only fit to kiss the hem of her gown—which I did. I then begged her to be my wife. I rose to my feet and presented her with the tiny diamond ring. And what did my love say? She said, ‘Oh, you
silly
chump, Eddie!’ and burst into peals of laughter. And out from behind the palms came all my old school chums, laughing fit to burst.

“I felt I would die with shame and humiliation. I felt the whole world was staring at me and jeering. But next day everyone had forgotten about it—except of course Gerald, because I took him aside and punched his head for telling his sister about my plans.

“I saw Penny only last week. She has turned into a fat, bullying woman with a strident voice and her husband—she married a merchant banker—spends as much time abroad as he possibly can.