Tilly (2 page)

A brougham was drawn up at the gates, pulled by a spanking pair of glossy chestnuts. A liveried coachman in a spun-glass wig stared down at Tilly from his box.

“Open the gates, lad,” he called to Tilly. Tilly stood staring with her mouth open. Looking out of the window of the carriage was the exquisite and handsome Marquess of Heppleford.

“Come along,” said the coachman. “Damned inbreeding,” he added under his
breath, making the footman on the back strap snigger and Tilly turn as red as fire.

Tilly swung open the heavy gates and stood aside as the brougham rolled past. The marquess’s cold gray eyes stared indifferently at her and then, it seemed, through her.

Tilly swung the gates shut again and made her way slowly back to the lodge. Should she have told that cheeky coachman exactly who she was? But for the first time in her life, Tilly began to feel vaguely uncomfortable about her own appearance and a vision of the sparkling and lovely Lady Aileen flashed before her eyes. The coachman would never have mistaken Lady Aileen for a lodge boy. But then Lady Aileen would never have lowered herself to opening the lodge gates!

Worse was in store for the Honorable Tilly. As she walked around to the back of the lodge and into the kitchen, Mrs. Pomfret’s voice from the bedroom above carried down the stairs with fatal clarity. “I dunno that I should have let Miss Tilly open those gates, and that’s a fact, Fred. But then there never was any use in telling her anything nohow. She means well, but she do take up a body’s time, asking for tea, and me with the ironing to do and the kids to feed. Thinks she’s doing us a favor, Fred, and that’s a fact. Bessie Jenkins
down by the Five Mile says as how even when the king was here, she had Miss Tilly sprawled around her kitchen for a whole afternoon, telling her how to make seedcake—as if Bessie hadn’t been making it since the day Miss Tilly was born. And why don’t she dress like a lady?” Mrs. Pomfret’s voice dropped to a murmur and Tilly stood on the cold flags of the kitchen floor as if turned to stone.

She had felt she had been doing something worthwhile in visiting the tenants, thinking that they looked forward to her calls as much as she did herself. The kettle began to sing on the hob and Tilly gave it an agonized stare, as if it, too, were going to accuse her of time-wasting. She gave a little gulp and turned and ran from the lodge, up the graveled drive, cutting across the lawns to where the mellow pile of Jeebles lay basking in the morning sun.

There had been Burninghams at Jeebles for as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps in the days before the Norman Conquest there had actually been a Saxon called Jeebles to give the house its name, but if there had, there was not even a tombstone to mark his passing. The huge mansion was a conglomeration of different architecture that
time and ivy had blended into a harmonious whole.

Tilly scuttled quickly up the back stairs to her bedroom and then marched up to the long looking glass and stared at her reflection. She had a shapely, if immature, plump figure. Tendrils of carroty hair escaped from under her riding helmet and her wide, brilliant blue eyes, for once uncrinkled, stared back at her in dismay. She was blessed with a creamy English complexion, unusual in a redhead, but it was already unbecomingly and unfashionably tanned.

She slowly pulled off her riding helmet and gazed in disgust at the rioting mass of red curls, unfashionably soft and round, not frizzled like those of the ladies in the fashion plates.

“I don’t like me,” said Tilly miserably. “I look like a freak… I pester the tenants… I wish I were a man. If I were a man, Heppleford wouldn’t look at me. He won’t look at me anyway. Oh, I wish…” But all these new agonies were so bewildering that Tilly did not know exactly what she wished.

It was not as if Tilly had never contemplated marriage. On her eighteenth birthday, she knew she would be “brought out” and have a Season in London, like other girls of her
class. She would endure the hell of corsets and skirts until such time as some jolly good sort would propose, whereupon they would agree to give up all this London nonsense and retire to the country, where they would hunt amicably from morning to night. Tilly had been kissed after the hunt only the previous winter. Tommy Bryce-James, one of the local lads, had drunk too much champagne and had staggered with her behind some trees at the edge of the woods and had planted a wet kiss on her mouth. It had not been a particularly enjoyable experience, but Tilly vaguely gathered it was something that women either got used to or, if they could not, they shut their eyes and thought of the Empire.

The Marquess of Heppleford had seen her attired in a bewildering variety of clothes, since, during a royal visit, it was forbidden for any lady to appear in the same ensemble twice. But he hadn’t noticed her. Drat it! Tonight, she would go down to the drawing room exactly as she was. Other fellows considered her a good sort. It was as much as she could hope that the marquess would think the same.

Lord Philip, Marquess of Heppleford, looked rather anxiously at his host from under drooping lids. Lord Charles was not looking very well, although the man was only around fifty. His hair was already gray and the skin of his face was crisscrossed with lines of red, broken veins. His clothes hung loosely on his slight figure and his blue eyes held a lost look like that of a stray dog.

“So I happened to be in the neighborhood,” said the marquess, “and thought I would drop in and see how you were getting along after Kingie’s visit. My father suffered one of his visits, you know, and the old bank balance was bloody well near zero by the time he left. Just as bad as having Henry the Eighth landing in on one.”

Lord Charles leaned forward eagerly. “And how did your father cope? The bank balance, I mean.”

“Oh, he had various stocks and things that came up trumps. You in difficulties, Charles?”

“Well, I am rather,” said Lord Charles gloomily. “I’ve already had to sell off the property in Scotland, and then the hunting box in Yorkshire had to go. Trouble is, I invested in all the wrong things and the
worse things got, the worse I invested. The king’s visit was the last straw.”

“You could have refused,” said the marquess lazily. “Told old Tum-Tum you’d turned Methodist or Christian Scientist or something. Freddie Barminster was threatened with the royal presence, so he sent a pile of tracts entitled ‘The End of the World Is at Hand’ and stuff like that to Buck House and informed His Majesty that he, Freddie, had found this splendid new religion and was just waiting for a chance to convert the monarch. Visit was canceled like a shot.”

“When the king of England honors me with a personal visit, I would think it unpatriotic and
caddish
to refuse,” said Lord Charles stiffly.

“I’m not turning Bolshevist, you know,” said the marquess mildly. “But with my father’s death, I inherited the title and the responsibilities. I’ve got a duty to my servants and tenants and I assure you, if His Majesty showed any signs whatsoever of honoring me with his presence, I would plead leprosy or anything else I could think of.”

“I envy you,” sighed Lord Charles. “But with old buffers like me, the monarch must always come first.” He looked up as the door opened. “Come in, my boy,” he said warmly.
“Here’s Lord Philip kindly dropped in to see us.”

Lord Philip turned and tried not to stare. It was the boy from the lodge… no, it must be Charles’s son… no, by God, it was that weird daughter of his. What was her name?… Tilly… that was it.

He rose to his feet and made Tilly a graceful bow. He took her small hand to kiss it and found to his surprise that his own was being wrung in a knuckle-cracking handshake. A pair of large, beautiful eyes looked up into his own and then Tilly’s unfortunate mannerism of crinkling up her eyes took over. The marquess led Tilly over to a sofa and set himself to charm. He prided himself on his social manners and, after all, he was fond of old Charles. He therefore smiled dazzlingly into what he could see of Tilly’s eyes and asked her in his light, lazy voice whether she was looking forward to her Season.

“Oh, I shan’t be out this year,” said Tilly, slumping into the chesterfield as if she wished its down-stuffed depths would hide her. “But I suppose I shall have to go through with all that rot next year.”

“Come, now,” teased the marquess. “Surely you will enjoy all the balls and parties and all the young men paying court to you.”

Tilly gave a loud, embarrassed laugh. “I’d really rather hunt than do anything,” she said, and then her face brightened. “I hear you are a capital huntsman. You must tell me some of your experiences.”

“Perhaps, later,” said the marquess gently. He privately thought women were a nuisance on the hunting field, always getting their long skirts tangled in the branches. Not that this specimen of English womanhood seemed to bother with skirts—and more shame to her! Eccentricity was all very well in the middle-aged. In girls, it was painful. He averted his eyes slightly and wished he had not come. And yet… there was a strange, restless magnetism about this impossible girl. It was a pity… But that was as far as his thoughts about Tilly went, for Lord Charles gently claimed his attention.

Tilly made her escape. She had decided to change the slightly bored look on Lord Philip’s face. She would put on her best shirtwaister for luncheon—for surely the marquess would stay for lunch.

With the help of one of the housemaids, she managed to get into her corset, her skirt and her blouse with its uncomfortable high-boned collar. With great daring, she heated up the curling tongs and frizzled the front of
her hair. Then she was liberally doused in something the housemaid referred to as Oh-Dick-Alone, and smelling exotically of cologne and burnt hair and walking gingerly on the unaccustomed height of a pair of French heels, Tilly made her entrance into the dining room. But of the elegant marquess there was no sign. Her father sat at the head of the long mahogany table, the dappled sunlight from the garden outside playing across his face. His face!

It seemed to have slipped oddly to one side. Tilly stopped and stood very still, her heart beating fast. The room was very quiet. Suddenly a thrush bounced up and down on the branch of a rosebush outside the open window and poured his vital, throbbing spring song into the silence.

“Papa,” whispered Tilly. Then louder, “Papa!”

But Lord Charles was dead.

The marquess had declined lunch and had left Lord Charles alone with his debts and his worries. Lord Charles had fretted over the new idea that had he not endured the royal visit, then he would not be in this horrendous financial mess.

He would have to sell Jeebles.

He had looked around the graceful room,
at the silk panels on the walls, cleaned and restored in honor of His Majesty’s visit, at the graceful Hepplewhite chairs, and then through the long windows to the calm English vista of lawns and old trees and all the bursting life of spring. The realization of what it would mean to him to lose his family home had struck him like a blow over the heart. He had a massive stroke and died almost instantly, the tired look of pain and loss and bewilderment fading from his eyes.

Tilly stretched out a trembling hand to ring the bell for the butler. After all, one always rang for a servant to sort out one’s troubles. But this was one trouble that no retinue of servants could cure.

The Honorable Matilda was now alone in the world.

And penniless.

“‘Stand back, I tell you, or I may trounce some of you, even as I have him whose carcass, without his head, lies in yonder glade! There, dogs! Take it and glut your eyes with the trunkless head of him who had a stouter heart than any hound among ye!” So saying, he threw the gashed head of Sir Guy into the Baron’s arms, who as instantly threw it among his men with a roar of terror, as if it had been a ball of red-hot iron; none of them were more eager than their lord to retain possession of it, and it fell to the ground to be kicked from one to the other.

The sound of carriage wheels outside made Tilly start and she dropped her penny dreadful on the carpet. Lady Aileen was back from her calls! Tilly hurriedly picked up
Robin Hood and Little John; or The Merry Men of Sherwood
and stuffed it under the sofa
cushions. She then picked up a copy
Manners for Women
by Mrs. Humphry, and pretended to read.

With a sigh of relief, Tilly realized that Aileen had gone directly upstairs to her rooms, probably to lie down.

Her hand stole under the cushions to retrieve the penny dreadful, and then stopped. No, it was not the time for escape. It was time to carefully go over this horrible change in her life and try to see how she could make the best of it.

It was a year since her father had died, a long, weary year of watching every bit of her home finally going under the hammer until Jeebles itself, with all its lands, had been sold to a foreign count. Every penny of the sale had gone to pay off Lord Charles’s staggering debts, leaving Tilly with a small annuity from the residue of fifty pounds a year; a genteel amount that would suffice if she were prepared to waste her life away in some small boardinghouse full of equally indigent gentlewomen.

And then, like an angel from heaven, Lady Aileen had arrived with her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Glenstraith. Lady Aileen had prettily explained their concern for poor Tilly. She, Aileen, was about to embark on her
first Season and had come to offer dear Tilly a post as paid companion. “Of course, we will
really
be friends, Tilly,” Aileen had explained, and her fond parents had beamed at this superb example of their daughter’s magnanimity.

The duke and duchess hardly ever visited their estates in Scotland, preferring their town house in Grosvenor Square, London.

Tilly had been suitably grateful, and in no time at all it seemed her life had changed, but in a singularly unpleasant way, for Aileen’s motives had been far from pure. She seemed to enjoy the ridiculous social spectacle presented by her gauche companion and gained herself a small reputation as a wit by describing some of the “Beast’s” more gauche remarks. She cleverly built up a new character for the naive and unsophisticated Tilly—that of a bumbling Victorian dragon. “Oh, I couldn’t go
there,
” she would explain prettily to her court of young men. “Tilly wouldn’t let me.”