Sally Read online

  “But you must have her address,” said the marquess eagerly.

  Mr. Barton shook his head reluctantly. He did not know where Sally was working now, but he felt sure she was still sharing diggings with Miss Frimp and Miss Fleming.

  His loyalties lay with Sally, and Sally had not wanted the marquess to know her whereabouts.

  “I don’t even know where she’s working,” said Mr. Barton, glad to be able to tell part of the truth. “I warned her that jobs were hard to find in Fleet Street.”

  “But her home?” protested the marquess. “Her parents?”

  “Don’t know,” said Mr. Barton. “I really don’t know. She never spoke of them.”

  The marquess finished his beer. Another dead end. He began to wonder if he would ever see her again.

  At that very moment Sally was, in fact, not very far away, working at her job and hating every minute of it.

  She was the household editor of the London Gentlewoman, a small glossy monthly magazine that did not have the distinction of being on Fleet Street or even beside it but was down one of those back alleys near Blackfriars Underground Station.

  Sally had accepted the job because it was the only one she could get on short notice, the pay was reasonably good, and they did not know she had been previously employed as Aunt Mabel, Mr. Barton having given her a glowing reference as having been employed by him as household editor.

  She discovered she was not a very domesticated girl, but she was a conscientious journalist and worked hard to supply her readers with hints on everything from the gentle art of poti-chomania—oriental-vase painting—to ornamental buttonwork.

  She had just finished an article entitled “How to Make a Summer Decoration for Your Fireplace.” She had raked up every idea she could, from simple fire paper—“Green is the best color for brightening up a room”—to shredded tartalan with a myrtle wreath. The magazine was read by an audience of ladies who would not dream of leaving their fireless fireplaces naked in summer, and who felt compelled to dress them up with paper, material, looking glasses, or rustic fenders, and who loved to drape their mantels in snowy folds of point lace.

  Sally was faced with working on her first knitting pattern for a cardigan. To Sally knitting was of the same vein as higher calculus—totally incomprehensible. A wool company had supplied her with some information, and she was laboring over the instructions, which meant nothing to her at all, but which she hoped her readers would be able to transform into a cardigan.

  It was only after she had translated the first page of the wool company’s instructions that Sally realized she had lost the second. She looked at the clock frantically. It was six-thirty on a Saturday evening. The company would be closed, and the article had to go to press that night. Now, the editor, Miss Huntley, was a stickler for method, discipline, and accuracy, and loved hinting that any suggestion of a lack of them would result in dismissal, and so Sally decided to do the best she could. Had the directions been “repeat this row forty times” or had they said fifty? Perhaps eighty? One hundred on the other hand sounded like a good round number, and it was only a sleeve anyway, and sleeves were surely not desperately important—and—Oh!, who cared anyway when one’s heart was one large ache and the days dragged their weary length along.

  She finished it quickly, through half-closed eyes, feeling that if she did not look very closely at what she was writing, it would somehow turn out all right. After all, the magazine had a small circulation, and she had never seen anyone actually reading it.

  The marquess wandered into the library of Banjahar Palace, wondering what he was doing, moping uselessly about his parents’ home.

  Mr. Worthing, the secretary, was engaged in dealing with the day’s correspondence with his usual admirable patience, since most of it was what he considered privately a waste of time. The duke had been in one of his complaining-about-everything moods since he had recovered from his latest infatuation, and had sent long and very boring letters to every dignitary in the county, complaining of everything from the state of the roads to the decline of the lesser-crested grebe. The people who had received his complaints had written back equally as long and boring explanations, to which the duke in turn had dictated long and boring replies, which, Mr. Worthing felt sure, would elicit even more boring and longer letters, and so it would go on until the duke fell in love with someone else.

  Mr. Worthing was glad to see the marquess, who always had a pleasant word for him and who would sometimes sit down and pass a quiet hour or two discussing books. He was the only member of the household who seemed at all interested in the family library. Now Mr. Worthing was watching the marquess pacing up and down restlessly, and it dawned on him that his lordship had been troubled and upset for some time.

  Mr. Worthing communed with himself briefly. He wondered whether to remark on his lordship’s demeanor, and then decided it might be taken as stepping out of line. After some moments he contented himself by asking, “Can I be of assistance?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say that,” snapped the marquess. “It reminds me of Aunt Mabel. That was her stock phrase.”

  “I found Aunt Mabel a very pleasant old lady,” ventured Mr. Worthing.

  “I can’t get her out of my head,” said the marquess, suddenly sitting down and burying his head in his hands.

  Mr. Worthing had felt that his post at Banjahar Palace had placed him beyond shock, what with the eccentricities of the marquess’s parents and their various houseguests, but he had to admit to himself that the marquess had shocked him. Imagine such a handsome man as Lord Seudenham pining over an old lady! Well, George IV had had a penchant for older ladies, and there was…

  The marquess looked up suddenly and caught the expression on the secretary’s face and smiled ruefully. “No, Mr. Worthing. It’s not what you think. Aunt Mabel was, in fact, a young girl called Sally Blane, hiding under a white wig and behind a clever set of rubber wrinkles and false eyebrows.”

  “My lord!”

  “And not content with that, she masqueraded as Lady Cecily at the ball.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Mr. Worthing faintly, remembering how cleverly Aunt Mabel had extracted the invitation from him.

  “Exactly. And now I can’t find her.” Suddenly the marquess found it a relief to unburden himself and went on to tell the secretary about his search for Sally, his finding of the real Lady Cecily, and the dreadful day when he had embraced Miss Frimp.

  Mr. Worthing hesitated and then said gently, “I would have thought, my lord, that a private detective could perhaps have found your young lady for you. She is probably working on some other publication in Fleet Street.”

  “But I don’t know if I want to find her, dammit,” said the marquess, getting to his feet and beginning to pace up and down again. “She lied to me. I’ve made such a fool of myself. What if she does not care for me? She can’t, or she would have managed somehow to get in touch with me.”

  “Unless, of course,” said the secretary, “the young lady was aware of your dislike of liars.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, she is… because I told her. I even told her about that fake African explorer and said next time I came across a faker, I would turn him over to the police—or her.”

  “Then I should think that’s the reason—”

  “I don’t know if that’s the only reason. She may be engaged. She may not want me.”

  “I think,” said Mr. Worthing cautiously, “that the young lady went to a great deal of effort and risk to engage your interest. Surely it would do no harm to find her and ask her. I know a very discreet inquiry agent—”

  “Oh, forget it,” said the marquess, his pride, as always, holding him back from another search. “I simply cannot bear to make a fool of myself again.”

  Mr. Worthing shook his head sadly, debated for a moment whether he should try to find the whereabouts of the mysterious Miss Blane himself, and decided against it.

  “Why should she plague me so?” burst out th
e marquess. “Women are all the same. Celibacy is my trouble, pure and simple, and that can soon be remedied. I’m damned if I will waste any more time breaking my heart over some girl who doesn’t care a rap for me.”

  Sally’s monthly column appeared, and after three weeks had passed and no irate letters arrived from knitters, she breathed a sigh of relief. The knitting pattern must have been right after all.

  Sally ploughed on with the household hints, learning for the first time what it was like to be tied to a job one detested.

  And then the blow fell.

  Miss Huntley, the editor, summoned her.

  Sally opened the door of Miss Huntley’s office timidly, feeling rather like a schoolgirl summoned to the headmistress’s room.

  Miss Huntley was holding with trembling fingers a crested letter, her face quite puce with anger.

  “Miss Blane!” she commanded in terrifying accents. “Sit down!”

  Sally complied, glad to sit down, as her knees were trembling.

  “I have here,” said Miss Huntley, “a letter from none other than Her Grace, the Duchess of Dartware.”

  “She doesn’t know my name!” squeaked Sally, turning quite pale.

  Sally’s name did not appear at the top of the household column, which was by-lined “By a Lady of Quality.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” said Miss Huntley awfully.

  “Of course Her Grace does not know your name. I will read her letter to you.

  “‘Dear Editor, I followed your knitting pattern in the June issue and take leave to tell you that your so-called “Lady of Quality” is a moron. On completing the knitting pattern for the cardigan, I found the sleeves had been designed to accommodate an ape. They trail along the floor when I put the garment on. I hold you entirely responsible for a waste of time, money, and artistic effort. I shall tell all my friends that your publication is not to be trusted.’”

  “Oh, dear,” said Sally faintly.

  “You have brought shame on my journal,” said Miss Huntley wrathfully. “You will report to accounts and take your week’s pay and never darken my door again.”

  “But I shall write to Her Grace—”

  “Don’t you dare!” screamed Miss Huntley. “To be found out! To be accused of irresponsible journalism. And by a duchess!”

  Sally got to her feet. She found she did not much care. She hated the job anyway. Admittedly, she felt guilty because she should have told Miss Huntley that she did not understand the first thing about knitting, but it was very hard to tell the Miss Huntleys of the world things like that.

  Without so much as a nod, she left the room.

  All of a sudden Sally had a longing to go home to Emily. She felt she had failed to conquer London. She felt beaten and crushed by the perpetual weight of unrequited love. She longed for her mother. It was time to admit that she could not cope with life and to retire from London and hide in Emily’s shadow.

  Which shows how very miserable Sally was.

  She had forgotten completely about the children.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  August in London was broiling hot. The aristocracy fled to the coast, to France, to anywhere fashionable that guaranteed select company and cool breezes—with a few exceptions.

  For example, the Marquess of Seudenham was still in town, seemingly unable to tear himself away despite the fretting protests of his new mistress, a certain voluptuous widow who had hoped for a free holiday in Deauville at least.

  He was walking down Piccadilly one morning on the black blocks of shadow cast on the pavement by the shop awnings. He realized with a certain feeling of satisfaction that he had not thought of Sally Blane for one whole hour, and surely if he persevered, that hour could become a day and then a week, and the week could become…

  “Paul!”

  He looked down and found himself confronted by the small figure of his mother.

  “Shopping,” said his mother with a vague wave of her hand. “I’m buying wool—to knit you a jersey for Christmas.”

  “In August?”

  “Why not? Believe me, it will take all that time to get it finished. And the charlatans who are producing knitting patterns cannot be trusted.”

  “Dear me,” said the marquess vaguely. He did not often listen to anything his mother said.

  “Yes. I was absolutely furious. I followed a knitting pattern for a cardigan in a magazine, and the woman who produced it must have been quite mad. The sleeves were a mile long when I finished.”

  “Dear me.”

  “Don’t just stand there saying ‘dear me’ in that maddening way,” snapped Her Grace. “I’m telling you about this knitting pattern.”

  “I’m listening now,” said the marquess impatiently.

  “I was saying that I followed this knitting pattern in the London Gentlewoman, and it was quite, quite nutty. I wrote to the editor and complained bitterly.”

  Knitting, thought the marquess with a reminiscent smile. Knitting and snow and the train.

  “It’s nothing to smile about,” said his mother angrily. “Can you imagine any woman who has not the first idea about knitting calling herself a household editor?”

  The marquess’s gaze became suddenly intent. “What was the name of the magazine?”

  “I’m glad to see you’re taking an intelligent interest,” said his mother acidly. “The London Gentlewoman.”

  “I must go,” said the marquess abruptly. “’Bye, Mother.”

  “Paul! Aren’t you even going to take me for tea?”

  But the marquess was already striding off down Piccadilly. He bought a copy of the London Gentlewoman at a newsagent’s stand and studied the address. He hailed a cab and directed the driver to Blackfriars, suddenly impatient, suddenly filled with hope.

  It was a slender chance….

  You could have hired a detective if you really wanted to see her, nagged his mind. You’re better off without her.

  But nonetheless, despite the urgings of his intelligence, his emotions soon had him seated in Miss Huntley’s office. That lady’s face soon changed from a smile of gratified welcome to one of angry dismay when he explained he had come to discover the identity of the household editor of whom his mother had complained.

  “You may tell Her Grace,” said Miss Huntley, compressing her lips, “that as soon as I received her letter, I dismissed the household editor on the spot.”

  “That was very harsh of you,” commented the marquess, taking a sudden acute dislike to Miss Huntley. She had a face like a sanctimonious sheep, and she needed a shave badly.

  “Not at all! Not at all!” said Miss Huntley, quite agitated. “The integrity of this magazine must be upheld.”

  “Quite. Your household editor was not, by any chance, a certain Miss Sally Blane?” The marquess leaned forward, staring at Miss Huntley so intently that she shrank back a little in her chair.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, she was.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Miss Huntley repressively.

  In the slow, measured tones of a man nearing the end of his tether, the marquess said, “Dear God! Everyone employs this girl without ever finding out her address!”

  “Not in my case,” said Miss Huntley huffily. “I demand that all employees furnish me with a full background.”

  “Then…”

  “It is confidential information.”

  “Miss Huntley,” grated the marquess. “I plan to marry Miss Blane, if she will have me. Now, run along and get me the information, or I will take your office apart… piece by little piece.”

  Miss Huntley opened her mouth, took one look at his face, and closed it again. Without a word, she scurried out of her office, returning shortly with a slip of paper.

  “Now, my lord…” she began, but the Marquess of Seudenham was already off and running.

  He drew a blank at the Bloomsbury address.

  He would need to travel to Churchwold in Sussex.
/>   But at Emily’s prim villa a trim housemaid informed him that the family—including Miss Blane—had gone to Brighton for their annual holiday. She furnished him with the address of their rented house. The marquess drew a deep breath. Surely nothing could stop him from finding her now.

  Sally was sitting among the pebbles on Brighton beach. The early evening light was turning the sea to pale gold. They had already had tea, but Emily was a great believer in keeping the children out in the fresh air as long as possible.

  Baby Marmaduke had fallen asleep, his head lying on a pillow of sharp pebbles. Sally wondered whether to point out to Emily that it would be a good idea to give the baby a pillow, and then decided wearily that it didn’t matter. Baby Marmaduke had fallen on his head so many times that his scalp must surely be as tough as leather.

  The rest of the children were having splendid fun down at the water’s edge, trying to drown each other. Sally hoped they would succeed.

  Emily sat beside Sally, placid and content, her great cowlike eyes gazing out to sea.

  Sally could never remember feeling quite so miserable in all her life. She berated herself for having given up her career so easily. She cursed the marquess for constantly invading her mind. The only bright spot on her horizon was the fact that her brother-in-law, George, had taken himself off somewhere and was not hanging around as he usually did, trying to find out the extent of her savings and asking her to hand them over.

  Emily suddenly roused herself from her torpor and said, “You know, Sally, it’s about time you thought of getting married. All this,” said Emily with a sweep of her arm that encompassed beach and sea and children, “could be yours.”

  Sally looked thoughtfully to where Peter was kicking Paul, who had just hit Peter on the head with a rock. Mary and Joseph were sitting side by side in the water in their sodden clothes, crying dismally.