Lord David Manley and the Marquess of Leamouth were getting ready for the ball. Both men had also been invited to the preball dinner. “Do you think,” said Lord David, wrestling with a recalcitrant collar stud, “that the ladies realize what we have to go through? Do they for one minute consider the hell and discomfort of a collar stud?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Roddy, lounging elegantly in a chair. As usual, his evening clothes looked as if they had been molded to his form. “Think of what the girls have to go through themselves, what with stays and all that.”
Lord David suddenly thought of Molly and undergarments, and the thought seemed to be doing something to his breath. “I hope I don’t have to go around punching anyone in the head tonight,” he said. “How did you manage with young Bingham, by the way?”
“I did what you told me,” said his friend simply. “I appealed to his better nature.”
“Well, I couldn’t appeal to Cuthbert’s better nature,” said Lord David, pulling on his white gloves. “He hasn’t got one. Don’t worry. That was a master stroke of yours… about me having tuberculosis, I mean. I don’t anticipate any difficulties this evening.”
But as he and Roddy walked up the long drive toward the Holden mansion, he was once more aware of that feeling of heady excitement. What would she be wearing? Would she look at him so? Feathery pink clouds were spread across the heavens, and the formal gardens of Lady Fanny’s estate blazed with color behind their rigid borders of shells.
The band could be heard rehearsing in the ballroom. There came the sweet, lilting strains of a waltz, and Lord David’s nostrils were filled with all the evening scents of the garden mixed with the exotic smells of French cooking from the kitchen: wine and roses, sweet-smelling stock and garlic, herbs and dew-laden grass, and damp leaves. Lord David experienced a sudden feeling of tremulous anticipation. He wanted suddenly to stay where he was, in the driveway, experiencing this novel feeling, being aware of every scent and sound of the summer’s evening. “I never realized before,” he said quietly, “that England was so beautiful.”
With strange reluctance he followed Roddy into the house. And there she was. He reflected briefly that Lady Fanny was a genius when it came to choosing clothes for the Maguire sisters. Instead of dressing Molly in debutante white, Lady Fanny had chosen a dress for her in deepest crimson chiffon. It was cut low at the bosom, emphasizing the whiteness of her neck and shoulders. It was swept up at the back into a saucy sort of bustle reminiscent of the 1870s, and her glossy curls were dressed high on her head without any of the fashionable frizzing to spoil them. One deep-scarlet rose was placed behind her ear. Her eyes were like sapphires and just, he noticed with a start, as hard.
A devastatingly good-looking young man appeared at her elbow and led her away. He was about to follow when a well-remembered voice said, “Darling!”
One little word and the enchantment fled, leaving him standing in an overfurnished house, wondering how soon he could escape.
He turned around, and Lady Cynthia Whitworth stood smiling into his eyes. She was nearly as tall as he and built on Junoesque lines. Her blonde hair was worn fashionably low on her brow, her skin was like an enameled rose leaf, and her gown screamed Paris with every stitch. She was all his—and he was suddenly miserable.
He became aware that she was speaking. He had forgotten how ugly her voice was. She had a high, affected drawl.
“Glad to see you back from the land of the dead, darling,” she was saying. “I sent the notice of our engagement to the papers. Now, aren’t you thrilled?”
“Devastated,” he said politely, kissing her porcelain cheek. “There goes the dinner gong.”
“You must tell me all about the Maguire sisters,” drawled Cynthia as they walked toward the table. “Quite characters, I imagine. Is that them? How very dark, to be sure, but I’ve heard it said that a lot of those American girls have Negro blood in them.”
“Nonsense,” said his lordship with a cutting edge to his voice. “Whitest skins I’ve seen in years. Anyway, the latest rage of Paris has Negro blood in her. Skin like honey. All the fellows are mad about her.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Cynthia, raising her penciled eyebrows. “How democratic you have become. It must be the American influence.”
Roddy moved behind Lord David to find his own seat. “Her with her painted nails and Paris gowns,” he murmured in Lord David’s ear. Lord David let out a sudden unmanly giggle and Cynthia looked at him with narrowed eyes and then focussed her attention on Molly, who was seated across the table from her, next to Giles.
“You won’t object to me speaking across the table, will you, Miss Maguire?” she said sweetly. “My fiancé informs me that you Americans do not believe in our stuffy English conventions.”
The word “fiancé” pierced Molly’s heart like a knife but no trace of what she felt showed on her face.
“You make me nervous,” said Molly equally sweetly. “You see, Lady Cynthia, I have learned that in English society, if anyone begins by referring to the free and easy ways of the Americans, it usually means they are about to take some terrible liberty.”
Lady Cynthia’s mouth curled up in a thin line. That explains the mystery of the Mona Lisa, thought Molly suddenly. Leonardo da Vinci had probably just fallen on his palette knife or tripped over his easel.
“But I know a lot about you, you see,” said Lady Cynthia. “And I do admire you so—working away like slaves in that little shop in Brooklyn. And to make your family fortunes by inventing a cough syrup with that hilarious name ‘Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew.’” She gave the sort of laugh that is usually described as tinkling.
From the head of the table Lady Fanny emitted a low groan.
“I say,” said Giles suddenly. “Did you really? By Jove, I think that’s marvelous. Takes brains and guts. Tell us about it.”
And to Lady Cynthia’s chagrin that is exactly what Molly did. She mimicked the accents of Dolores and Jimmy perfectly. The whole table rocked with appreciative laughter. How English society loves a character, and if that character is very rich and very beautiful, then near adoration sets in.
Lady Cynthia realized bitterly that instead of ruining the Maguire sisters as she had, of course, planned, she had set their little footsteps well on the path to the most successful London Season two young ladies were ever likely to experience.
Lord David watched Molly’s usually mobile face for some signs of shock or hurt at the news that he was engaged. But Giles’s handsome head was bent over her in an irritatingly possessive way and Molly was laughing appreciatively at something he was saying.
At least Cynthia had done her no social damage. He found himself wanting to explain something about his relationship with Cynthia to Molly, but the conventions forbade it and he did not quite realize why he wanted to do any explaining anyway.
Suddenly Cynthia gave that terrible little tinkling laugh and raised her glass. “I think we should all drink a toast,” she said, “to David’s complete recovery.”
Molly’s face showed nothing but genuine delight. “When did you get the news?” she cried. Mary was smiling at him as well and something seemed to have happened to his voice.
“Oh, David knew ages ago, didn’t you, darling?” said Cynthia.
Why couldn’t he say anything? For one second both the Maguire sisters were expressionless as if they had been wiped with a sponge. Then Molly turned and began to chatter to Giles, and Mary turned her shoulder on Roddy and gave her full attention to her other neighbor.
What a bloody rotten country England was, reflected Lord David. He knew instinctively that the Maguire sisters would never forgive the deceit unless he did something very dramatic. Soon the ballroom stretched before him like a piece of polished eternity. Cynthia was always at his side, one gloved hand securely grasping his arm, basking in compliments on her beauty and congratulations on her engagement. And Molly was dancing and dancing with Giles, always on some other part of the floor.
He finally escaped into the garden and communed moodily with the night flowers. He heard the murmur of voices behind a low hedge and was about to retreat. He was then stopped in his tracks by the unmistakable sound of Roddy’s voice: “Oh, Mary! I am most awfully in love with you.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the unmistakable voice of Miss Mary Maguire. “Well, now you’ve said your party piece, can we go back in?”
“But Mary! I’m asking you to marry me.”
“No, you’re not,” came Mary’s transatlantic twang, very pronounced. “You’re playing at proposing to me in the way that that friend of yours pretended to be a dying man to trick my sister. Bet you both had a good laugh about it.”
“But we didn’t—”
There was the quick swish of a dress. Lord David tried to retreat but it was too late. In the pale light of the moon, he could see Mary’s eyes glistening with contempt.
“Eavesdropping, my lord?” she said coldly. He put out a restraining arm only to find that Mary had whisked off and that he was clutching Roddy.
Both friends glared at each other. Both said in unison, “It’s all your fault.”
“We won’t get very far by quarreling,” said Lord David. “We’re really making asses of ourselves over a couple of quite ordinary girls. Come, now, Roddy! How many times have you been in love before and got over it?”
“It was never like this before,” said Roddy, shaking his head.
“Yes, it was, because that is exactly what you say each time,” said Lord David. “The Maguire sisters are, after all, just like any other girls. Well… they are… aren’t they…?”
Mary went in search of her sister and eventually found her standing in the shadow of the curtains at one of the long windows overlooking the garden. Her large eyes were bright with unshed tears. Mary put an arm around her waist and both girls stood silently, listening to the music and watching the moving patterns of the leaves on the moonlit lawns.
“They’re all so cruel,” said Molly in a hard, flat voice. “I wish we were back in Brooklyn.”
“We’ll leave then,” said Mary eagerly. “Right now.”
Molly looked at her sadly. “That’s just what I want to do. But I can’t. I’m stubborn and I’m human enough to want revenge. Lord David Manley is going to wish that he never set eyes on me by the time I’m finished with him.”
“Oh, well,” sighed Mary. “I’ll stick it out. I’ve just refused the marquess, so that’s a bit of revenge.”
“Why?” asked Molly. “I thought you were sweet on him.”
Mary wrinkled her brow. “I dunno,” she said at last. “I felt he was playing a game just like Lord David. I thought that by the morning he would be laughing and saying he had never said a word.” She turned her face away to hide the look of hurt in her large eyes from her sister.
“You did the right thing, Mary,” said Molly, giving her a hug. “Some of them here can be pretty nasty about Americans. One woman asked me my real Christian name and I said, ‘Molly.’ ‘Oh, that’s a nickname,’ she giggled. ‘You Americans are so weird. Frightfully so, don’t you think? There was a chappie from New York called Harry and he had been christened Harry. He didn’t even know his real name was Henry.’ ‘So what?’ I asked. ‘I can see it is of not the slightest use trying to talk to you,’ she said, giggling. ‘You speak a different language. My God, the French are easier to understand.’ Then she told me that Molly was only a nickname for Mary and that we were both called Mary.”
“Well, no one in New York would understand them,” said Mary warmly. “Have you heard the latest baby talk? ‘Is oo having a deevie time?’ Pah!”
“Anyway,” said Molly. “I’m so glad you turned down the marquess. I think he was acting all along, Mary. I’m downright proud of you for being so sensible. Now, why are we looking so dismal?” Her voice changed to its new English accent.
“After all, what a frightfully jolly, ripping evening!”
“Quite,” said Mary, and then both girls giggled despite their hurt.
Molly wound her arm around her sister’s waist. “Onward, Miss Mary Maguire! Let’s go back in there and knock ’em in the aisles!”
Heads high, fans waving, skirts swinging, the Maguire sisters returned to the ballroom and broke more hearts that evening than they were ever likely to know.
Lady Cynthia swung around in Lord David’s arms and watched the sisters’ success from under her eyelashes. They had no right to be so successful. Little upstarts! What had happened to the English aristocracy? Lady Cynthia had tried to drop a word in Lady Fanny’s ear but Lady Fanny had refused to listen. “Vulgar manners? Nonsense!” she said roundly. “The little one’s grammar was a teensy bit strange at first, I’ll admit. But they are both kind-hearted gels with a great deal of charm. And so disciplined! They are always so fresh and clean and energetic. And lots of Americans come from good British stock.”
“Not the Maguire sisters,” Lady Cynthia had acidly pointed out. “Their father is Irish and the mother is Polish.”
Lady Fanny had surveyed Lady Cynthia with an uncomfortably shrewd look in her pale eyes. “How well informed you are, my dear,” she had said sweetly. “I didn’t even know that and I have met both parents, but then I didn’t think it important enough to find out.”
Lady Cynthia had been obliged to spend quite some time smoothing down Lady Fanny’s ruffled feathers. After all, she, Cynthia, wished to stay on as a house guest. She had expected Lord David to return with her to London in the morning, but that infuriating man had said that the air of Hadsea was good for him and showed every intention of spending several more weeks in this provincial backwater. Certainly Lord David had been flatteringly attentive and had held her very close indeed every time he danced past Molly Maguire.
Somehow, somewhere, decided Cynthia, she must take the limelight away from the Maguires, even if it meant suffering the life of this poky little town. She would wait and watch and snatch at any opportunity that presented itself.