Tilly (9 page)

The duchess was dressed in a tailored suit of a particularly noisy tartan. Her heavy face was free of its usual bristling hairs. Next to her on a Chesterfield sat Aileen, looking very jaunty in a sailor suit and a white straw hat embellished with red china cherries.

“Well, you haven’t changed, Tilly,” barked the duchess. “Still a mess.”

Tilly remained standing. “And how are you, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly. “Shaved, I see.”

“There’s no need to be offensive,” snapped the duchess, turning purple.

“Oh, really?” said Tilly, raising her brows. “You just were, you know.”

“This was a mistake,” said the Duchess of Glenstraith. “You always were an ill-bred girl and your present unhappiness does not excuse your rudeness.”

“Poor Tilly,” sighed Aileen. “I am engaged to Toby Bassett, you know. But perhaps in your present misery you do not wish to hear of anyone else’s good fortune.”

“What misery?” snapped Tilly. “What rot is this?”

“If you don’t know, Tilly dear, then I certainly shall be the last to tell you. There’s no
need for you to be so cross. We were in the neighborhood and only dropped by to hold your hand.”

Tilly marched to the window and stared out. A muddy traveling carriage was drawn up outside the house. “You didn’t drop in, you vultures,” she said, swinging around. “You traveled especially from London to relay some piece of spiteful codswallop. So out with it!”

“I wouldn’t
dream
of it,” said Aileen with her maddening silvery laugh. “Come, Mama! We are obviously not welcome.”

“Wait a bit!” said Tilly, standing squarely in front of them. “What about my wages?”

“Your wages!” gasped the duchess. “And you with all this. Oh, selfish child!”

Tilly pushed her chin forward until her face was almost touching that of the duchess. “You owe me wages,” she said coldly. “You will send them to me or I shall sue. It’ll look great in the newspapers… the great and charitable Duchess of Glenstraith won’t pay a working girl!”

“Come, Mama,” said Aileen again. “You must excuse Tilly. She is smarting at seeing her own name in the newspapers.”

Aileen and her mother moved toward the doors, which were quickly swung open by
Masters before they could reach them. The cook could be seen sliding quickly through the green baize door at the far side of the hall, and the black skirt of the housekeeper flickered nimbly along the upper landing.

The duchess paused in the hallway. “I just want to say one thing to you, Tilly. I—”

“Oh, make a noise like a hoop and bowl off,” snapped Tilly, turning on her heel and retreating to the drawing room. She slammed the doors behind her and stood with her back against them, feeling her heart thudding against her ribs. Then she saw the folded newspaper lying coyly on the sofa, where it had been left by her visitors.

It seemed to take her a very long time to walk across the room and pick up the newspaper. S
TRANGE
W
EDDING
N
IGHT FOR
P
EER OF THE
R
EALM
seemed to leap at her from the page.

She read it slowly and carefully and then read it again. Then she sat down and clutched her stomach.
I can’t bear any more of this pain
, thought Tilly.
I won’t!

The portraits of the Hepplefords stared down at her in disdain. Tilly raised her head and stared back. “No, damn you,” she cried, shaking her fist at their painted faces. “I’ll get
even with you Hepplefords yet.” She rose and rang the bell.

Masters appeared as imperturbable as ever.

“My lady?”

“I have a traveling carriage, I assume?” said Tilly, striding up and down the room. “A fast one?”

“There is his lordship’s Renault… his new motorcar, my lady. Gaskell, the chauffeur, handles her very well, but it is an open car, my lady, and the weather is inclement.”

“Blow the weather,” said Tilly. “I won’t melt. Get the car round.”

Tilly paced up and down the drive some fifteen minutes later, swathed in an ulster and with a yellow sou’wester on her head, fretting with impatience while Gaskell lit the acetylene lamps, for the day was dark.

Finally the engine was turning over and Tilly climbed in the back.

“London, Gaskell!” cried the Marchioness of Heppleford, hanging on to her hat. “And don’t spare the horsepower!”

Some thirty minutes later, the Duchess of Glenstraith’s carriage horses neighed and bridled as two speed-mad fiends hurtled past the carriage at thirty miles per hour.

“Maniacs!” yelled the duchess, thrusting
her great head and shoulders through the carriage window.

She did not know that Tilly was hell-bent on reaching the Glenstraith town house before the duchess arrived home.

Some four hours later Gaskell was moodily polishing the lamps of the car outside the Duchess of Glenstraith’s house and wondering whether his mistress was mad. He was soaked to the skin, but had refused to go indoors to dry himself at the kitchen fire. He loved the Renault more than anything in his life and shuddered to think what might happen to it if he left it alone for a minute. The rain had stopped, but black and heavy clouds piling up behind the buildings promised a deluge to come. “It’s all right for her ladyship,” grumbled Gaskell to himself. She was partly protected by the hood at the back, but he had to brave the elements unprotected in the front.
Funny
, he mused,
I wouldn’t have thought her ladyship would be thoughtless where servants were concerned
He broke off his musings as the door of the mansion opened and Tilly appeared, followed by a young female who was carrying a battered suitcase.

“Home!” said Tilly triumphantly.

As if in answer the heavens opened and Gaskell steered the car through the glistening streets, feeling as if he were piloting a ship on a stormy sea.

But he got a surprise one mile outside the limits of the city. Tilly called to him to stop at a large and comfortable-looking inn. Then she issued brisk instructions. Gaskell was to pay the ostler to look after his beloved car by putting it somewhere under cover. Then he, Gaskell, was to go directly upstairs to the bedchamber that Tilly would reserve for him, divest himself of his wet clothes, and give them to the chambermaid to dry and she, Tilly, would send him up a substantial meal.

Having seen to these arrangements and having brushed aside the startled and voluble thanks of the delighted Gaskell, Tilly settled down in the inn parlor and looked with satisfaction at her companion.

“Won’t that old trout be as mad as fire when she finds you’ve scarpered,” she said.

Francine stared at her severely. “You must not use such schoolboyish expressions, Tilly.”

“Oh, don’t change me
now
,” wailed Tilly. “Wait until we get home. But, tell me again, Francine. Do you think you can do it?”

Francine looked at the flushed and earnest
face opposite her. “Of course,” she said calmly. “I, Francine, am the best lady’s maid ever. It will be… how you call it…? a challenge. But you must do everything I say, my lady.”

“I’d rather you call me Tilly, like you used to,” said Tilly shyly. “I’ve been pretty lonely.”

“No,” said Francine, “it would not be
comme il faut
What if one of your servants should hear me?”

“Oh, all right,” said Tilly, crinkling up her eyes.

“
That
will have to go for a start, my lady,” said Francine. “That trick with the eyes. You have very pretty eyes, but how can anyone see them when you twist them so?”

“You’ll do,” said Tilly happily. “I’ll change, you’ll see. Philip won’t recognize me when he comes home… if he ever comes home.”

Rebellion had arisen in Tilly’s much humiliated breast after she had read the newspaper item. The blood of her battling ancestors had seemed to course in her veins. She was not going to go down without fighting. It had struck her that perhaps Francine’s undoubted genius could transform her in some way. The startled Francine had
agreed. There was, she had said, enough raw material to work on. And the clever Francine knew that by the time she was finished with Tilly, then she, Francine, would be famous among ladies’ maids.

She suddenly looked sympathetically across at Tilly, who was eating huge slices of fruitcake as if they were going to be her last (
Which they are
, thought Francine), and said, “I can promise you beauty, my lady. I cannot promise you love.”

“Just give me the one,” said Tilly, “and I’ll just see what I can do about the other.”

The Marquess of Heppleford was suffering from burnt-out passion and a guilty conscience. He sat at his desk in the apartment in the Avenue Foch and stared moodily at the pile of unopened correspondence on his desk. He had just spent what should have been two glorious weeks with his mistress in the South of France, but the whole thing had been haunted by Tilly’s hurt face and accusing eyes.

As his man unpacked his trunks he opened the first letter with a sigh. It was from one of his aunts, Lady Mary Swingleton. Pinned to the top of the letter was that cutting from the newspaper. Underneath, Lady Mary had given
vent to her lacerated feelings: That the marquess should marry this freak of a girl was bad enough, but that he should have the family name dragged through the columns of the gutter press was outside of enough!

The marquess crumpled it and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He picked up the next one and opened it.

Much to his surprise, his father’s will fell out, accompanied by a brief note from his steward explaining how the will had been found. The marquess read it slowly. “‘A most ingenious paradox,’” he quoted bitterly. Then he picked up the will again. “Let me see,” he muttered. “Who gets the moneybags if I don’t comply with the terms? Cyril Nettleford! My god, over my dead body.” Cyril Nettleford, his nephew, was a spotty youth with doubtful sexual tastes and worse manners.

I shall contest it
, thought the marquess,
though I don’t think it’ll do much good. I’m supposed to show evidence of an heir within twelve months! What will my beloved wife say to that? Probably
, “
Oh, rats!
”

He leaned back in his chair and called to his man, “Pack the bags again. We’re leaving for home.”

Home.

He had a sudden vision of Chennington with its quiet rooms and cool lawns. Then the picture was marred by a vision of Tilly. His home was no longer his own. He now had to share it with a tomboy who would no doubt rebuke him for his well-broadcast infidelity in the language of the stables.

His gentleman’s gentleman, Lennox, coughed discreetly. “Does your lordship wish to apprise her ladyship of our return?”

“No. Oh, damn it,
yes.
”

Had Tilly seen the newspaper? he wondered. No doubt some well-meaning friend would tell her. Yet, after all, he had nothing to feel guilty about. They had a business arrangement. But he should never have caused her such humiliation. He would make it up to her, he decided.

And then he remembered that he had to produce an heir.

“He’s coming home,” cried Tilly, dancing into the drawing room and waving a marconigram. “He’s coming home!” She smiled and crinkled up her eyes, and received a glass of iced water straight in the face.

As she choked and sputtered Francine put down the glass and said grimly, “I had to do
it, my lady. Shock tactics. You must never again twist the eyes up so.
Jamais!
”

“Oh, Francine, you are a slave driver,” moaned Tilly, dabbing her eyes with the towel that Francine had handed to her. “I’m absolutely starving, my eyes are sore from reading, my back is sore from sitting up so straight, I’m tired of mock dinners and mock tea parties, and I’d like to go riding.”

“Not yet,” was all Francine would say. “It is time for your rehearsal, and you must pretend it is real.” She rang the bell on the wall beside her and a group of ten servants, including Masters, the butler, and Mrs. Judd, the housekeeper, came in.

“Now,” said Francine, smoothing down the folds of her new black silk gown, “you must all pretend you are actors and that I am your producer. Lady Tilly, this is your house party and you must work the imagination and pretend these are your guests. Now, begin!”

The servants enjoyed these mock parties immensely and played their parts with gusto. Mrs. Judd made a formidable duchess; Mr. Masters a boring elder statesmen; and James, the second footman, a wild young man whose conversation showed an alarming tendency to become too intimate. Among them they managed to represent all the social embarrassments
that Tilly might meet, while Francine carefully listened and schooled Tilly’s replies.

Francine looked at her protégée with some complacency—as well she might. Rigorous dieting and the right sort of exercise had melted away Tilly’s puppy fat like magic, leaving her with a slim figure, rounded in the right places. Her red hair was brushed until it shone and fell in soft, natural waves on her forehead. Her skin was creamy with only a faint blush of pink on her cheeks, which owed nothing to art. She was wearing a high-collared dress of smoky-blue tulle that emphasized the blue of her eyes. Her gown had the latest thing in hobble skirts, the narrow hemline, as the lady’s maid pointed out, being an excellent device for curbing Tilly’s long mannish strides.

At last the rehearsal was over and Tilly was flushed with success, for Francine had hardly had to correct her at all.

“Now we will have a
real
house party for his lordship’s return,” said Francine.

Tilly’s face fell in disappointment. “I—I wanted to be alone with him,” she said shyly.

“And what good would that do?” asked the lady’s maid. “It is better that he sees you in a crowd of people first. The men, they always
want what is elusive. And we shall ask the duchess and her so-horrible
fille
.”

“Oh, no!” wailed Tilly. “Anyone but them. Anyway, they won’t come.”

“Yes, they will,” said Francine. “They will want to see exactly how your marriage has failed.”

“Mr. Toby Bassett,” announced Masters.

Francine whipped up her workbasket, escaped to a chair in the corner of the room, and then bent her black head over her work, looking the very picture of a correct lady’s maid.