Lucy’s engagement ball was to be held at the Balfour-MacGregor home in Regents Park. Caterers, footmen, and florists had been bustling backward and forward all day. With the exception of the Marysburghs, everyone who was anyone had been invited and had accepted. The Balfour-MacGregors were all the rage. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor was the wittiest man in London and his daughter, the most beautiful.
Lucy lay resting in her room before the great event. Her mind roamed restlessly around and around, tortured by guilt. She felt guilty about her neglected parents, guilty about her false name and position, and guilty at tricking her fiancé. Sometimes she thought of Didi’s white face lying below the surface of the lake, and shuddered. That would be one way out, indeed.
Andrew never seemed to notice her silences or any of the times when her eyes had filled with tears. He had chattered on in his usual blithe way. Lucy began to wonder if her beloved were perhaps unnaturally insensitive.
The fact is that Andrew Harvey had indeed noticed her distress but had not taken it seriously. Like most young men of his age and class, he had been brought up to consider women as frail and beautiful ornaments who were always troubling their pretty little heads over trifles and bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. It never dawned on him that his beautiful bride-to-be was suffering the tortures of the damned. He was still highly amused by Lucy’s deception and thought that she was acting out some little feminine comedy of sighs and tears before getting around to telling him the truth.
Andrew had learned to stifle sensitive thoughts when he was in the army. There was no place in a soldier’s mind for pity, compassion, or fear. And at times, when the fighting had been at its worst and the long battle was over, he and his other friends would think of women. Women to relax with after the long day … with their silly little voices, pretty little laughs; heads delicately bent under the weight of frill and feather; bosoms encased in priceless lace; tiny waists firmly lashed into long corsets; and dimpled legs concealed beneath long flowing skirts. And all to be removed one glorious night, one by one, like unwrapping some delicious present.
The fact that one of these delightful creatures could burn with the same emotions as a man never once crossed his mind.
Lucy did not understand any of this. Her love for Andrew was being overshadowed by a longing to make a clean breast of everything.
Her new lady’s maid, Brothers, entered the room and began to move about quietly, collecting the necessary garments for the great evening ahead. She was a middle-aged woman with impeccable references. She worked long, hard hours and had been shocked to the core when Lucy had suggested that she take some extra time off from her duties. The excellent Brothers was born to serve and Lucy had to admit guiltily to herself that it was all very comforting.
Lucy had firmly refused to join her future in-laws for dinner before the ball. The evening would be an ordeal enough on its own.
The smell of perfumed bath water floated into the bedroom from the bathroom next door and Brothers’s discreet cough sounded in her ear. It was time to go on stage.
When she finally dressed in an ornate gown of white satin embroidered with gold thread and seed pearls, MacGregor called to see her.
He looked very grand in his black-and-white evening dress.
“It’s going to be the most lavish event of the Season,” he crowed. “No expense spared!”
“It looks as if I’ll have to pay a visit to the casinos again,” said Lucy wearily. “We must have spent about three fortunes already.”
“We have that,” said the ex-butler cheerfully, “and made ten.”
He laughed at Lucy’s startled face. “There’s more than one gambler in this family, you know. I made a tremendous killing on the stock exchange. You brought a lot of money out of the casinos, Lucy, but, if I hadn’t invested it properly, it would have run out a long time ago.”
“Hancroft Engineering,” said Lucy dryly.
“Aye, that and a few other tips I picked up. Cheer up, Lucy. Your days at the casinos are over. I know how much you hated it.”
“I hate all this,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish we had never started this pretense.”
“It’s just nerves,” soothed MacGregor. “Take my arm, now, and let’s go and meet our guests.”
It was a glittering event. All the titles and notables of English society mounted the red carpeted stairs to the ballroom to make their bows and curtsies before the ex-butler and the ex-lady’s maid.
Andrew led Lucy onto the floor for the opening dance. How beautiful she looked, he thought. And what a tremendous joke it all was! All of London society raving about Lucy’s aristocratic beauty! And how especially attractive and feminine she seemed when she looked up at him with that lost, pleading look in her great green eyes.
He delivered her into the arms of her next partner with a careless bow and went off to do his duty by dancing with the other ladies present, in strict order of precedence, of course. The women were jealous of Lucy, the men teased Andrew about catching such a beauty. He had never felt in better form.
There was a roll of the drums. That was the signal for the formal announcement of his engagement. He sought out Lucy again and, drawing her arm through his, led her to the rostrum in front of the band while everyone else clustered around.
But before the announcement could be made, there was a scuffle at the doorway and heads began to turn. MacGregor, standing beside Lucy on the rostrum, drew in his breath in a sharp hiss.
The crowd parted as Lady Angela marched across the ballroom. In front of her she pushed the bewildered and embarrassed figures of Miss Jones, Miss Johnstone, Lucy’s former teacher, and Mrs. Balfour, Lucy’s mother.
Lady Angela’s high arrogant voice carried to every corner of the ballroom. Pointing straight at Lucy, she said; “That girl is an imposter … and so is that man. You know them as Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and his daughter, Lucy. Allow me to introduce you. The man is Hamish MacGregor, my former butler. The girl—Lucy Balfour, my former lady’s maid.”
There was an electric silence and all eyes turned from Lady Angela to the rostrum where Lucy stood, white and trembling, beside Andrew Harvey.
Lady Angela had worked hard. She had managed to catch a glimpse of Lucy when the girl had returned home from her visit to Andrew’s parents. With eyes abnormally sharpened by jealously, Angela had not only recognized Lucy but MacGregor as well.
“I have complete proof,” she went on. “Mrs. Balfour"—here she pulled Lucy’s mother forward—"identify your daughter.”
The small, wiry figure of Mrs. Balfour stood directly beneath Lucy in front of the rostrum. She looked at Lucy for a long minute. She said clearly and distinctly, “I have never seen that young lady before.”
A great rushing wave of whispering broke from the crowd.
“Silence!” screamed Angela. “Here is her former schoolteacher. Miss Johnstone! Step forward!”
Miss Johnstone gave Lucy a brief indifferent look.
“She’s a very bonny lassie and a grand lady. Lucy Balfour was a scared wee bit of a thing. With all due respect, my lady, I think you’re daft.”
A delighted ripple of laughter ran around the watching crowd. This was tremendous! Who would have believed that the statuelike Lady Angela could burn with such jealousy!
“It’s a plot!” yelled Angela. “They’re all in it together! Miss Jones, I command you to identify Lucy Balfour. And remember, your job depends on your honesty.”
Miss Jones took her place below the rostrum. She peered mistily up at Lucy, her face twitching with all its old familiar nervousness.
Finally she dropped a curtsy. “Forgive Lady Angela, miss,” she said at last. “She does not know what she is doing.”
Angela took the lady’s maid’s arm in a painful grip. “Do you mean to tell me that you refuse to say that that is Lucy Balfour standing up there?”
Miss Jones gently disengaged her arm. “But I don’t refuse, Lady Angela,” she said mildly. “I knew Lucy Balfour very well. That very distinguished young lady is not she.”
Lady Vivian sprang forward and began to hustle Angela from the room. But Angela shook her off and marched out with her head held high.
But the sensations of the evening were not yet over, however, for Miss Lucy Balfour-MacGregor had fainted dead away.
* * *
The engagement ball over, MacGregor said good-bye to the last of the guests, including Andrew, and hurried up the stairs to Lucy’s private sitting room. He found her lying on a chaise longue. On chairs drawn up beside her were her mother, Miss Johnstone, and Miss Jones.
MacGregor grinned cheekily. “Well, this calls for champagne all ‘round. You did a splendid job, ladies.”
“We didn’t do it for you, ye auld scunner,” said Miss Johnstone. “You’re the one that talked Lucy into this charade.”
Mrs. Balfour also looked at him with cold disfavor. “I’ve just been saying good-bye to Lucy. Do you think I could have stood in front of all those great folk and said my ain daughter had been living all those months with a man she wasnae even related to? You’re a disgrace, Mr. MacGregor.”
“I’m going back on the night train with Mrs. Balfour,” said Miss Johnstone. “I tried to write to Lucy. I knew from the names in the paper that it was probably yourselves. Balfour-MacGregor, indeed! I’ll tell you now, Lucy, what it was I wanted to say in my letter.
“You’re not going to have a very happy marriage, my dear, unless you tell your young man the truth.”
“He would never marry me if he knew the truth,” said Lucy flatly.
“Then you would be better off not married at all,” said Miss Johnstone roundly. “Now, we must be off for our train. Neither Mrs. Balfour nor myself have quite got over the shock of being hustled down here by Lady Angela. Oh, she didn’t tell us the ploy until she’d got us safely in London. Just said something dreadful was happening to Lucy and we could stop it if we went to London with her.
“No, Hamish MacGregor. I will not say goodbye to you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re an auld devil.”
She moved to the door and waited for Mrs. Balfour. For one minute Mrs. Balfour looked as if she might change the habits of a lifetime and hug her daughter, but then she stiffened her spine. “Goodbye, Lucy,” she said grimly and inevitably. “You have made your bed, you must lie on it. And may God have mercy on your wicked soul.”
Lucy watched her small, spare figure leave the room. She had not expected anything more from her mother. She leaned back on the chaise longue and wearily closed her eyes. Then she remembered Miss Jones.
The spinster was sitting timidly on the edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room.
MacGregor rang the bell. “I’m sure Miss Jones would be glad of a bottle of champagne and I could certainly do with a whole bottle to myself.”
Miss Jones made faint ladylike noises of protest. "I must be going, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor. So kind … must go.”
“Now, just sit down,” said MacGregor. “You won’t have any job to go to after tonight.”
“Oh, but I shall!” said Miss Jones with surprise. “The Countess of Marysburgh is a very indulgent mother but she has no reason to believe her daughter’s terrible lies.”
“Lies?” asked MacGregor, cocking a cynical eyebrow.
Lucy caught the faint glimmerings of a rusty expression, not used for a long time, flit across the face of the lady’s maid. Miss Jones was smiling.
“Of course it was all lies,” she said. “Who could possibly think the esteemed Balfour-MacGregors were once servants?”
“Your mistress for one,” said MacGregor heavily. “She’s going to come to have a look-see, if I know her.”
“I never thought of that,” said Miss Jones faintly.
“I’m going to tell Andrew the truth,” said Lucy suddenly sitting up.
“What!” gasped MacGregor. “After all our work?”
“I tell you,” said Lucy firmly, “I cannot go on pretending to him.
“I shall write him a letter and then leave for France for an indefinite stay. I shall visit Mr. Jones in Dinard. He invited me after he had finished reorganizing the plumbing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”
There was a frantic silence while Jobbons entered with the champagne. “Leave it on the table, man,” said MacGregor curtly. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
He loosened the wires and twisted the cork neatly out of the bottle. “Years of practice,” he remarked when Jobbons had closed the door behind him.
“Now, Lucy,” he said, turning to the girl. “I don’t mind where I live so long as I live in comfort, which I can now do thanks to you and the advice of a few financial wizards. Tell Harvey, but ask him not to tell anyone else. And he won’t. Think of the people you’ll be hurting apart from yourself if the truth gets out. There’s me, your parents, Miss Johnstone … and there’s Miss Jones. Which brings me to you, Miss Jones.
“Why don’t you come with us to Dinard as Miss Lucy’s companion? Think about it. No more bullying. No more stitching and sewing till your eyes drop out.”
Miss Jones’s face became suffused with a faint pink. “I accept,” she said very hurriedly. “Oh, what fun we will have!”
“Yes,” echoed Lucy dismally. “What fun.”
Social London awoke the next morning to find the Balfour-MacGregors gone.
The first caller on the doorstep at Cheyney Street was Andrew Harvey, who stared at Jobbons as if he could not believe his ears. Already the great house had the deserted air of a stage set when the actors have left.
“Miss Lucy left a letter for you, my lord,” said Jobbons, handing over a thick envelope and schooling his features into the correct impassive mold, although he was burning with curiosity.
Andrew quietly took the letter and walked with it into the morning room. Jobbons tactfully withdrew and Andrew sat down at a small Chippendale table near the window and slowly opened it.
“Andrew,” he read. No “dear” or “darling,” he thought with a sinking heart. Just “Andrew.”
Lady Angela spoke the truth last night. My name is Lucy Balfour and I was her lady’s maid. My ‘father’ is Hamish MacGregor, who was butler at Castle Inver.
I know you will find this almost impossible to understand, Andrew, but please try. There are two kinds of servants. There are those of the majority, represented by my maid, Brothers, and my mother and father, who firmly believe that they were put on this earth to serve their betters. Then there is a small rebel force, represented by Mr. MacGregor and myself, who find the work humiliating—the work of upper servants at any rate. A house-maid and a scullery maid can put in a very hard day’s work without ever having to endure the whims of their masters. This is not so with the lady’s maid and the butler. Their whole lives and personalities have to be submerged so that they may serve their masters better.
So, you may wonder, why do we not find other jobs more in keeping with our Bolshevist tendencies?
Andrew, who had been thinking just that, read on grimly.
Jobs, in Scotland in particular, are very scarce. It is very, very rare—almost impossible—to break out of one’s class, particularly if one has been born in a small West Highland village.
One night Mr. MacGregor found out that I possessed uncanny luck at baccarat. He suggested that we travel to France and put this luck to work for us at the casinos.
I held out because, at the time, I was still proud of having obtained the post of lady’s maid—no little achievement for the daughter of lower servants. But the house party at Castle Inver—do you remember?—changed my views.
I had to slave long hours, fetching and carrying, cleaning and dusting, stitching and sewing with never a word of thanks or appreciation. I felt I could not endure one other day. I was too young and too new at my job to search for a kinder mistress. Sounds as though I was a dog, doesn’t it?
I watched you and Lady Angela dancing at the ball. I found I was watching a world to which I could belong. I agreed to go to the Continent with MacGregor. Once I had left Marysburgh, there was no going back.
I have not enjoyed tricking you, Andrew. My deception has cost me endless sleepless nights. I am sorry our engagement must end.
As for the love you said you had for me—if there is a little bit of it left—please do not send a notice to the papers immediately, terminating our engagement. Society might guess that Lady Angela had spoken the truth and then the people who aided me in my deception would be hurt, particularly my mother and father who would lose their jobs as Castle Inver.
I suggested to my mother that she might like to retire, and my father too, now that I have the money to support them, but she refuses to touch a penny of it.
Good-bye, Andrew. Try not to think too badly of me.
Lucy
Andrew slowly put down the letter. He had never been so angry in all his life. Had she mentioned one word of love, he would gladly have forgiven her. But now he felt he saw it all. The lady’s maid and the butler had not needed his money. They had wanted his name, one of the oldest in England. All this ridiculous whining about work! Good God! They were being paid to do it. Bolshevist tendencies was right! But he would not rest until he found her again; until he had confronted the pair of them and told them exactly what he thought of them. He rang the bell.
Jobbons glided silently into the room.
“Where have they gone?” asked Andrew abruptly.
Jobbons thought he would die from curiosity. So miss hadn’t even told her fiancé! But he said in his usual colorless voice, “I regret to say, my lord, I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of Mister and Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
Jobbons recoiled slightly before the blaze of anger in the blue eyes but held his ground. He was getting old and his dreams of retiring to a nice little country pub were getting closer. He could see it in his mind’s eye. He would call it The Prince of Wales Feathers. It would have a rustic garden at the back and he would serve the beer in pewter tankards to add to the old world charm.
Andrew took out his wallet and extracted a five pound note. It was a new one and the thin white paper crackled in his long fingers.
“Come now, Jobbons,” he said. “Think again.”
Jobbons thought furiously, while his little boot-button eyes stared at the five pound note. The pub sign creaked in the gentle breezes of his imagination and white ducks swam lazily in the village pond. “What’ll it be, squire?” I will ask genially, he mused. “Your usual, sir?”
“I believe they have gone to France, my lord.”
Andrew held the note slightly toward the butler.
“Dinard, I believe, my lord. A Mister Jones.”
“Ah, the plumbing expert,” said Andrew. The note changed hands. “Thank you, Jobbons.”
With many bows, Jobbons saw his lordship off the premises and was just heading for his pantry when the doorbell rang again.
Lady Hester swept past him and went straight into the morning room, just vacated by Andrew. She had heard the tale of Lady Angela’s accusations. Society had put it down to Angela’s jealousy. Hadn’t the Blair sisters been running around all morning saying they had nothing to do with “howwid” Angela and that she had been like a madwoman with jealousy? But shrewd Hester had remembered the mysterious “other” daughter and had felt the time ripe for a little blackmail. Since her return from Andrew’s parents’ home, Lucy had been unaccountably unavailable. Hester judged that she would now be recovering from the ball and hoped to catch her at home.
Master and miss were not at home, Jobbons informed her coldly, and then held open the door of the morning room, patiently waiting for Hester to leave.
“What do you mean ‘not at home’?” said Hester. “Do you mean they don’t want to see anyone?”
“No, my lady,” said Jobbons. “They are not in residence.”
“Then where the deuce are they?”
“I am not at liberty to say, my lady.”
Hester looked at Jobbons and Jobbons looked impassively back at Hester. She slowly opened her reticule and extracted two five pound notes and held them against her cheek.
“You are sure you don’t know?”
Jobbons sighed. In his mind, the squire had just taken up his pint and was turning to welcome a newcomer. “Sir Reginald!” the squire cried. “So you’ve found this charming little spot as well. Best bitter in all England. Jobbons, you’re a marvel!”
Jobbons sighed again.
“Dinard, my lady, now that I come to think of it. A Mister Jones.”
The money changed hands.
After Lady Hester had gone, Jobbons did not head for his pantry but stayed expectantly beside the front door.
He had not long to wait.
The bell jangled merrily.
“Good morning, Mister Brent, sir,” said Jobbons gleefully, leading the way into the morning room.
“Miss Balfour-MacGregor at home, Jobbons?”
“No, sir. Neither Miss Balfour-MacGregor nor Mister Balfour-MacGregor are in residence.”
Jeremy bit his lip. He had heard the news of the ball and his brain had started to work feverishly. He was desperately in need of cash. If he could get to Lucy and swear to keep quiet about the mysterious sister in return for Lucy’s system at baccarat, then surely he could repair his fortunes.
“Where are they?” he asked Jobbons.
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Jeremy drew out one five pound note. Jobbons’s face did not change. Jeremy was desperate. He drew out two more.
“Fine looking gel you’ve got there, Jobbons,” said the squire. He would have a serving wench, of course, with one of those Elizabethan costumes with a laced bodice showing lots of … er … neck.
“Dinard, sir. A Mister Jones.”
Jeremy walked slowly down the front steps, turning plots and plans over in his mind. He heard a strange sound from behind the closed door of the Balfour-MacGregor residence. It sounded as if someone was doing a mad dance in the hall. Couldn’t be. He shook his head and walked off down the street.