Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (11 page)

She walked quickly from the room, leaving him standing there feeling a strange mixture of anger and pain.

Polly did not reply to Peter’s letter. It was marvelous to think that he would be sailing for home before any reply of hers could reach him. But most of the pleasure of anticipation had gone. Every time she tried to conjure up his face, it was the marquis’s face that looked down at her, it was the marquis’s lips she felt. As the morning at Westerman’s wore on, her typing became more erratic. She had typed “Peaking, Pekking, Pekign” five times and torn up five letters before she had achieved the simple address of the office in Peking. She had arrived at the office that morning at the same time as Amy Feathers and Bob Friend. Bob had looked at Polly with his eyes glowing and Amy had looked at Bob.
Why, she’s in love with him
, thought Polly, wondering how on earth she had not noticed it before. She had given Amy a warm and sympathetic smile and received a cold stare in return for her pains.

Now all Polly wanted to do was to rush to Shoreditch and pour out the whole story to her mother. But she had a sneaking feeling that her mother would agree with the marquis. That letter! After the marquis had left the evening before, she had read and reread it until her eyes ached.

Some of the times it had looked like a pure and touching declaration of innocent love; at others, it seemed like a sleazy outburst of lust. If
only
she could remember Peter properly as she had known him. But every memory was soiled by the picture of the sneering marquis and the memory of his lips against her skin.

It was almost lunchtime when Mr. Baines ushered Lady Blenkinsop into her small office. Her ladyship was attired from throat to ankle in magnificent Russian sable, her face was delicately rouged, and a saucy little feather hat was perched on her newly curled hair.

“I shall tell your husband you are here,” said Mr. Baines with a deferential bow.

Lady Blenkinsop waved her hand. “No, please don’t. Are you by any chance, Mister Baines, the office manager?”

“I have that honor, my lady,” said Mr. Baines, desperately wishing that he had had time to remove his cardboard shirt-sleeve protectors and don his jacket. His braces were of a bright, lurid red and embroidered with small Scottie dogs—his one outward concession to dashing bachelor freedom—and he hoped Lady Blenkinsop would not find him frivolous because of it.

“Ah, Mister Baines. I have heard of you,” said Lady Blenkinsop, taking out a small lace handkerchief and releasing a gentle aroma of Fleurs d’Antan around the stuffy office. “I was just about to ask Miss Marsh to join me for lunch. Perhaps you would care to come as well, Mister Baines?”

“G—gratified! Hon—honored!” gabbled Mr. Baines, running a finger along the inside of his celluloid collar.

“Good! That’s settled,” said Lady Blenkinsop airily. “We will go to your usual luncheon place. It will be divine to see the City gentlemen at play.”

She swept regally from the office, not looking around to see if they were following her. Polly and Mr. Baines trotted breathlessly after her, pulling on their coats.

Mr. Baines was dimly aware of the astonished admiration of his friends at Spielman’s. The menu swam before his eyes and he automatically ordered the same as Lady Blenkinsop, as did Polly.

Polly desperately wondered why Lady Blenkinsop had called on her but she was never to know. Lady Blenkinsop turned the full battery of her attention on the bemused office manager and bombarded him with questions. Since these were all about his work and since Lady Blenkinsop had insisted on ordering wine with the meal, Mr. Baines slowly began to relax. The aura of admiration emanating from his friends acted upon his senses more than the wine. He felt himself sparkling as he had never done before. Hoary office jokes were treated by Lady Blenkinsop as the height of wit and her tinkling laughter rang out over the hum of conversation in the chophouse.

Polly began to glance nervously at the watch pinned to her bosom. Lady Blenkinsop was talking of the enchantment of Venice and the glory of Paris and Mr. Baines was sitting drinking it all in, his middle-aged features the happy ghost of the young and carefree man he used to be. At last Polly found a break in their conversation and reminded them of the time. Both looked surprised to see she was still there.

“Run along, my dear,” said Lady Blenkinsop. “I shall just sit here a little longer and talk to dear Mister Baines. I am sure Westerman’s can spare him for a little longer.”

Mr. Baines banished the thought of the piles of work waiting for him as Lady Blenkinsop said good-bye to Polly. “Do telephone me as soon as ever you can,” said Lady Blenkinsop, “and we’ll have such
long
chats.”

They had resumed their conversation before Polly had left the table.

The long City afternoon wore on and still Mr. Albert Baines did not return, but Joe Noakes, one of the messengers, told Amy who told Bob Friend who told Polly, that Mr. Baines had been seen departing in Lady Blenkinsop’s carriage and that, as the staid office manager had helped her ladyship into her carriage, he had
squeezed her hand
. Work at Westerman’s had ceased while this delicious piece of gossip was mulled over. Why didn’t Polly join them?

But the haughty Miss Marsh merely replied that she
never
gossiped about her
friends
and the much subdued Mr. Friend took that flea in his ear back to the more congenial company of Amy Feathers.

The office party was to be held two days before Christmas. On her latest visit to Stone Lane, Polly had found to her embarrassment that she was meant to spend Christmas at home. Now Polly fully expected to be spending Christmas with the Duke and Duchess of Westerman and was at long last faced with the necessity of telling Mrs. Marsh of her hopes and ambitions.

Mrs. Marsh had held out one pudgy, work-reddened hand for the precious letter. She popped a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose and sat down heavily at the kitchen table to give the matter her full attention. Joyce and baby Alf were asleep, Alf senior was in the pub, and Gran had gone with him to imbibe her weekly glass of port and lemon.

Her lips moving slightly, Mrs. Marsh carefully read from beginning to end and then dropped the letter on the table and wiped her hands carefully on her apron.

“You’re a fool, Pol,” she said heavily. “Yerse. A silly, little, snobby fool. That there Lord Peter ain’t got marriage in mind. ’E wants up your skirts, my girl.”

Polly blushed at her mother’s coarseness and became more determined than ever to escape from the working-class mud of Stone Lane. Her love for her mother vanished in a wave of fury.

“All everyone ever does is to try to keep me down,” she said icily. “I am leaving now, Mother, and I shall not return until I am Lady Burley. You will be sorry for your lack of trust.”

The small figure of Mrs. Marsh suddenly seemed formidable in the small kitchen. “Take yerself off, then, me girl,” she said slowly, “and finds it out for ye’self the ’ard way. God will punish yer for yer snotty ways, see if’e don’t.”

“Good day to you,” said Polly with awful hauteur.

“Ah, garn… yer bleedin’ little fool,” said Mrs. Marsh heavily. She moved to the fire and began to poke it heartily, keeping her back to her daughter, and listening to the angry rap of Polly’s heels as she descended the stairs and slammed the street door behind her.

Mrs. Marsh wiped away the angry tears from her eyes and lumbered over to the sideboard and extracted a few precious sheets of writing paper and a bottle of ink and a steel pen.

Sitting down at the kitchen table again, she bent her head over the paper and slowly and painfully began to write, “The Most Honorable Marquis of Wollerton, My Lord Marquis…”

The large conference room at Westerman’s had been set aside for the party. Staff were to be allowed one hour and a half to go home and change for the great event. The Duke of Westerman was not expected to attend, much to Polly’s disappointment, but she never doubted for a minute that Peter would be there. She had read in the social columns that his boat had docked at Southampton the day before. There had been no mention of any Miss Bryant-Pettigrew—not that she had expected any, Polly told herself firmly.

One of Lady Jelling’s evening gowns was pressed and ready in the small room in the hostel. Polly now lifted it over her head, shivering slightly as the cool silk touched her skin. It was of a deep kingfisher-blue, cut daringly low on the bosom and opened down the front to reveal an underdress of snowy flounces of lace. Polly’s small looking glass told her that she had never looked more beautiful but in her heart she felt ugly. The Christmas presents for her family lay wrapped under the bed but she had not had the courage to return to Stone Lane and face her mother’s angry disdain.

She thought wistfully of the cosy flat in Stone Lane. The kitchen would be redolent of all the smells of Christmas—plum pudding, turkey, brandy, hot chestnuts, tangerines, and the tangy smell of pine from the tree—and little Alf’s face would be shining as he sat by the fire and tried to stay awake to see Santa Claus. Every rattling loose slate on the roof would be the sound of a tiny hoof, every drunken laugh from the pub at the corner, the jolly laugh of the Christmas saint. Her ambition had removed her from it all and she felt immeasurably young and vulnerable as she collected her stole and fan and hurried out into the wintry streets to look for a cab.

A light snow had been falling for the past hour and as Polly clattered into the City the tall buildings were etched with white and the cobbled streets were silent and deserted. A chill feeling of dread clutched at her heart and she wondered for the first time whether Peter Burley would come.

The duchess put down her planchette after unsuccessfully trying to raise the spirits of the dead and stared in open dismay at her eldest son.

“Westerman’s party? But Peter said nothing of it to me! We have all sorts of people coming to dinner including some of the Bryant-Pettigrews’ relatives. He
can’t
go.”

“He already has,” said the marquis grimly, crumpling Mrs. Marsh’s letter in his hand.

“Well, don’t just
stand
there, Edward. Go and fetch him back.”

“Peter is not a child, Mother, and he does work for Westerman’s. There is nothing I can do about it.”

“I know it’s that Marsh girl. I just know it,” wailed the duchess. “Edward,
please
. Peter has been doing so well and not a breath of scandal must reach the ears of the Bryant-Pettigrews. As I told you, their relatives will be here tonight and they’re due here next week!”

“It is Peter’s affair, not mine,” said the marquis testily. “How do mothers expect their children to grow up if…” He broke off as he remembered the pathetic plea from Mrs. Marsh in his hand and sighed heavily. “All right, Mother. I’ll go and bring him back.”

Despite the speed of his new Sunbeam Mabley motorcar, the thickening snow finally reduced him to a crawl. By the time he had changed motorcar for carriage at his town house—not trusting modern transport to cope with winter conditions—he estimated Westerman’s party must have started an hour ago.

Perhaps Peter would not be there after all.

Lady Blenkinsop yawned and stretched like a cat and slowly opened her eyes. For a minute, she could not remember where she was as her sleepy eyes roamed over the small overly-furnished bedroom. Then they came to rest affectionately on the knobby bones of Mr. Baines’s back as he turned up the gas.

“You look funny naked,” she giggled. “You still look as if you’ve got a sort of bumpy white City suit on.”

Albert Baines blushed. He could feel the blush rising from his hammertoes to the top of his bald spot and hurriedly put on his long woollen combinations. He could never become accustomed to Jennie Blenkinsop’s lack of inhibitions, unaware that Lady Blenkinsop was quite amazed at it herself.

“I must go to the office party,” he said, carefully averting his eyes from her small naked bosom that was emerging from beneath the covers.

“Can I come too?” she asked lazily.

Mr. Baines looked startled. “But Sir Edward is bound to be there…”

“So?”

“So—I will be terribly embarrassed and probably lose my job,” he said with some vigor.

“No you won’t, my darling office slave. And anyway, I’ve got lots of money. Why don’t we run away together to somewhere splendid?”

Albert struggled into his boiled shirt. “Because I would feel strange, Jennie. I’ve been a working man all my life. I’m not used to your world.”

“It’s much the same as yours,” said Lady Blenkinsop. “Anyway, I’m coming to your party. I want to gossip to the beautiful Miss Marsh. You must help me dress, you know. I could not possibly bring my maid, although this haven of Hampstead respectability would no doubt appeal to her.”

Mr. Baines looked at her with baffled adoration. He would never understand her. He would never stop loving her.

When they were finally dressed, they descended the oaken stairs. Albert suddenly stopped and wrapped his long, bony arms about her and held her close. “You won’t let anything happen to spoil this, Jennie?” he said. “I suddenly feel afraid.”

“My poor Bertie,” she said, kissing him affectionately. “Always the worrier. Now what could happen on this beautiful Christmas?”

As if in answer, the doorbell clanged. The small parlormaid ran to answer it. Mr. Baines opened his mouth to tell her not to but no sound came out. The door swung open, and a cloud of snow swirled in from the Heath and settled on the shiny parquet of the hall floor. Gladys Baines and Sir Edward Blenkinsop stood on the doorstep.

The Baines’s cook had written to inform her mistress of “the dreadful goings-on” and Gladys had immediately enlisted the aid of Sir Edward.

There was a long silence while both couples confronted each other. Then Mrs. Baines began to sob. The large, domineering women was softened by her vulnerability and tears, reminding Bertie of the young, slim girl he had married so long ago when the world was young and the Heath stretched all the way to Samarkand.