Ginny (6 page)

“That is not what I meant,” snapped Gerald.

Ginny looked at him with patent bewilderment. “Then what did you mean?”

It was as well for Gerald that Cyril Booth chose that moment to appear and begin his courtship.

“I-I wonder—would you care to take a walk around the grounds, Miss Bloggs?” he said, gazing intensely into her eyes.

Ginny shook out her crested napkin and stood up.

“What a simply lovely idea,” she said, taking Cyril’s arm. “Good-bye, Lord Gerald. Thank you for a most interesting conversation. Where shall we go first, Mr. Booth? The rose garden is simply beautiful, is it not, Lord Gerald?”

“Very,” said Gerald, his face flushing slightly as he remembered the events of the previous night.

Cyril and Ginny wandered off arm in arm while Lord Gerald watched them go, his brain in a turmoil. He felt the most complete and utter fool. His amour propre had been cut to the quick. He would go in search of Alicia.
She
never made him feel like an idiot.

And then he wondered if he really was as clever as he had thought, or if all his friends were equally as stupid. Were people telling him the whole time that he was clever and witty simply because he had a title and was very rich?

He simply must have a word with Alicia.

Ginny gazed around the rose garden and smiled reminiscently. Encouraged by the smile, Cyril decided to go “all out,” as he put it to himself. He reminded himself that the lady poet had thought highly enough of his charms to give him diamonds.

“I s-say, Miss Bloggs… or may I call you Ginny?”

“You may call me Ginny.”

“Ginny, then,” he said, seizing her hand.

“I—”

“No,” said Ginny, admiring the sunlight sparkling on the dew-laden roses.

“No, what?” said Cyril crossly.

“No, I won’t marry you,” said Ginny.

“I wasn’t going to ask you!” said Cyril, too angry to stutter.

“Oh, in that case we can be comfortable,” said Ginny, giving him a brilliant smile. “You know you should get angry more often, Mr. Booth. You don’t stammer at all when you’re angry.”

Seething rage and the sudden thought of all his debts and the creditors waiting on his doorstep in London brought out a thin film of sweat on Cyril’s forehead. He forced a laugh. “What an unusual girl you are, Ginny,” he said, catching hold of her hand and swinging it playfully. “Ddo you th-think my stammer is affected?”

But Ginny did not seem to have heard. Her eyes were once again expressionless, and it seemed as if the rose garden held no more charm for her.

The sound of Lord Gerald’s horses’ hooves could be heard in the distance, clattering down the driveway. Ginny bent her head to one side—two sets of horses’ hooves. Alicia had probably gone with him.

“We had better go back,” said Ginny, gently withdrawing her hand from Cyril’s. “Your relatives will be waiting for you. I gather that Miss Briggs, Miss Bloomington, Mr. Beardington-Smythe, and yourself are to help bring me out—until I am married.”

“Yes,” said Cyril. “Look here, Ginny. You were r-right, you know. I d-do most awfully want to marry you.”

“I don’t think you love me,” said Ginny.

Cyril gave a gay mocking laugh and tossed his hair back from his forehead—a gesture that had fired the passions of the lady poet. “I’m wild about you, darling,” he cried. He seized her in his arms. “Kissums for Cyril,” he said.

Ginny did not struggle. She simply stood still in his embrace and looked over his shoulder. “It’s funny,” she said. “You really should look. That must be—let me see—the study window, which overlooks this garden. The blind is pulled down, but if you look carefully, you will see three pairs of eyes peering under the blind. Fascinating! They look like a row of pebbles lying on the windowsill.”

Cyril released her and turned slowly around.

“Oh, what a pity. They’ve gone,” said Ginny. “Yes, I really think we should go back.”

Three days had gone by since the failure of Cyril’s proposal of marriage. The house guests had been sent on their road, with the exception of Alicia, in the good old-fashioned English way—that is, each guest found a railway timetable placed in his or her room with the fastest and soonest train out neatly underlined in red ink.

Ginny had seemed impervious to every snub or social setdown. Cyril had been enraged to find on climbing into bed on the night after the rose garden episode when he stretched his feet down under the cool sheets that they were sinking into something hideously sticky and cold and wet. He had flung back the sheets to find that someone had poured a whole can of Tate & Lyle’s Golden Syrup over the foot of his bed. He had cursed and accused everyone in sight in the morning and had ended up gulping when Ginny had confessed to being the culprit. Tansy had told her she must learn to be a good sport when it came to practical jokes, she had explained sweetly.

The four conspirators now had the house to themselves to plot in. Alicia had gone out riding with Gerald, and Ginny had gone back to Bolton for two days. She had surprisingly announced at breakfast that she must see that the coal business was running smoothly.

Barbara had been horrified. The very idea. Ginny was ruining her social career by associating herself with trade. But Ginny had merely looked puzzled and had pointed out that it was a very successful coal business that had been left to her by her father.

This news had made the four wilder than ever. The thought that Ginny should have inherited a thriving business as well as Mr. Frayne’s fortune was almost too much to bear.

“If she won’t have you, Cyril,” said Tansy, “then we must compromise her.”

“Compromise?” said Barbara faintly, her massive lace-covered bosom heaving. “That’s going too far. Anyway, females don’t seem to worry about that sort of thing these days, and it isn’t as if she has parents to worry about.”

“Lord Gerald would worry about it,” said Tansy. “He’s supposed to look after her and,” she added shrewdly, “he’s a very old-fashioned type underneath all that modern nonsense.”

“D-do I have to?” moaned Cyril. “I can’t b-bear the thought of t-touching her again.”

“No, not you,” said Tansy. “Jeffrey’s the one. Think your blood pressure will be up to it, Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey looked at them and a slow smile spread across his fat features. “I wouldn’t mind touching her,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t mind doing a lot more than that.”

Tansy averted her eyes. “You don’t need to
do
anything, Jeffrey. We just want her locked away somewhere with you so that it
looks
as if something has happened.”

“Badger’s cottage over by the five acre is empty,” said Barbara suddenly. “She wouldn’t know anything about old Badger dying.”

“She’s been locked up in the estate office for the last two days,” said Tansy.

“Pooh!” said Jeffrey. “That’s all for show. She can’t tell one end of the books from the other. Do you know,
I don’t think Miss Bloggs can read
. I looked in the window to see what she was doing and she was drawing little stick men on the blotting paper.”

“Well, that’s that!” said Tansy briskly. “Badger’s cottage it is. The evening after she comes back, you go down to The Green Man in the village, Cyril, and telephone and say Mr. Badger’s been taken ill. Then we will tell her that as the lady of the manor, she’s expected to call on him.”

“What if she calls for a doctor first?” asked Barbara.

“Cyril will tell her that that has already been done,” said Tansy. “I will offer to take her over in the governess cart, and I’ll pretend to have to look at the horse’s hoof for stones or something so that she will go in alone. You will already be there, Jeffrey, lying in bed, to make sure she gets right inside the door. Then I will slam the door and drive off and leave you to it.”

“And I,” said Jeffrey triumphantly, “will play the Big Bad Wolf and pull Little Red Riding Hood into bed with me.” He gave a singularly dirty laugh and the other three looked at him in disgust.

“I
told
you, Jeffrey,” snapped Tansy, “that you don’t have to do anything. Just keep her there for a few days.”

“Are you sure Gerald’s going to swallow all this?” asked Barbara anxiously.

“We’ll drop dear Gerald a few hints to the effect that Ginny’s sweet character is a bit misleading,” smiled Tansy. “Imply she’s a bit of a girl, and all that.”

“Make sure the cottage is stocked up with plenty of provisions,” said Jeffrey, rubbing his hands. “I’m all set for a long, long stay.”

“It must be nice for you to be home and among familiar surroundings,” said Mrs. Betsy Pearsall in a comforting voice.

Mrs. Pearsall was the wife of Ginny’s Bolton business manager and also considered herself Ginny’s substitute mother. “It sounds so grand,” Mrs. Pearsall went on, “what with the big house and all the guests. But now that you’ve seen it all, dear, don’t you think you would be better back here with folk of your own class?”

“No,” said Ginny.

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Pearsall, sighing. “There’s no use me trying to tell you you’re wrong. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours. I hope all that money you paid to that Miss Chatterton for elocution and etiquette lessons was worth the money.”

“Every penny, I assure you,” said Ginny.

The rain was falling steadily outside and pattering on the leaves of the sooty laurels in the garden. Inside, the fire crackled cheerfully in the polished grate and the lamplight glowed on the vast clutter of carefully polished objects that covered every flat surface—photographs in silver frames, shell boxes, music boxes, wax fruit, and albums of photographs. The heavy, red rep curtains and the plush red upholstered, overstuffed furniture seemed oppressive to Ginny.

She had a sudden picture of Courtney with its light, spindly furniture and long airy rooms, and of a tall young man with thick fair hair and black, black eyes looking down at her with a puzzled expression.

Mrs. Pearsall was wearing a black leghorn straw that she had ornamented with two stuffed blackbirds that swooped on either side of the crown and glared at Ginny with their bright glass eyes. Her stout figure was encased in black satin, and her bosom heaved with the strain of repressed curiosity. She was just about to burst, judged Ginny, and got to her feet.

“Where are you going?” exclaimed Mrs. Pearsall.

“Back,” said Ginny. “Back home.”

Mrs. Pearsall shook her head in dismay. “There you are thinking of that great place as home. It won’t do, Ginny. God gives us our stations in life when we are born and we must stay in them. It’s flying in the face of Providence to step outside of your class. Oh, some fine young gentleman will marry you for your money but he’ll let you know he remembers your origins as soon as he’s got you safely married.”

“But what if he has a lot of money of his own?”

“Then he won’t want you, Ginny Bloggs. He might want a bit o’ slap and tickle, but that’s all.”

“What about all the members of the aristocracy who’re marrying showgirls?” asked Ginny.

“That’s different,” said Mrs. Pearsall darkly. “They always has been a few wild ’uns who’ve married actresses and always will be. Now, you aren’t any actress! There, now! Whatever have I said to make you smile?”

“Nothing,” said Ginny vaguely. “I really must catch my train.”

“If you must go, you must,” sighed Mrs. Pearsall. “Everything’s ticking over here nicely and Mr. Pearsall’s opening up a route at that new housing development outside of the town. I’m glad you’re taking that uppity maid of yours away, all the same. My Martha says the very sight of her face do give a body a turn.”

“Yes, Masters’s face gives me a turn as well,” said Ginny thoughtfully.

Masters’s horselike face was still registering disapproval as the train steamed out of Bolton Station on its way south. Really! What common, vulgar people. If only she could make her mistress see that it was
not the thing
to associate with such low types.

She became aware that her mistress had put aside her copy of
Queen
magazine and was staring at her in an irritatingly vacant manner. Masters shifted restlessly on the seat. At times Miss Bloggs looked downright half-witted, she thought.

Ginny’s question when it came surprised her.

“You speak French, don’t you, Masters?” said Ginny, still with that vacant stare.

“Yes, of course, madam,” said Masters, simpering. “All good lady’s maids speak French.”

“Who paid for the tuition?”

“My parents, madam.”

“Then,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “your parents were ambitious on your behalf. They wished you to better yourself.”

Masters saw her chance. “We must all better ourselves when we get the opportunity, madam,” she said righteously.

“And once having bettered oneself,” said Ginny, “one should of course not forget the people who have been kind to us and who have given us our chance.”

“Oh, no, madam,” said Masters smugly. “That would be unchristian.”

Was there a hardness creeping into Ginny’s beautiful eyes, or was it only a reflection of the gray day outside?

“Your father, I believe, is a linen draper in Maidstone,” said Ginny.

“In trade,” she added, as Masters remained silent.

“Yes, madam,” said Masters in a low voice.

“And when did you last see him?”

Masters flushed miserably. Miss
couldn’t
know that she, Masters, had spent her last holidays with a friend who was also a lady’s maid.

“Last holidays, madam,” she mumbled.

“Then I am giving you a week’s leave to see him after we arrive,” said Ginny. “And Jobbins, the second footman, will take you over in the dogcart and leave you right on your doorstep. I shall tell Jobbins not to leave until he has made sure that you have met your father. I may even go with you.”

The rest of the journey was passed in silence—placid on Ginny’s side and seething embarrassment on Masters’s. Somehow the idea of regaling the servants’ hall with all the delicious stories of Miss Bloggs’s low connections had suddenly palled. Masters was only too worried about her own. She had had hopes of walking out with Jobbins one day, since Jobbins shared her own snobbish views of life. Now Jobbins would see her father’s poky, dark little shop in the narrow side street.