Free Polly by M.C. Beaton Page B

of nothing to say, and so she began to cry. Her ability to burst into tears on any occasion had pierced the hearts of her admirers when she was a pretty debutante. She could never understand why it now made strong men run for cover but it was her favorite weapon and she still exercised it on all occasions.
    When she finally dried her eyes, it was to see, with intense irritation, that her son had fled.
    She racked her brains for a weapon to use against the impertinent Miss Marsh. A bottle of smelling salts on her table winked at her in the greenish gloom. She had it! Edward Blenkinsop’s wife! She would call on her without delay and enlist her help.
    Lady Blenkinsop looked at her butler with utter dismay. “The Duchess of Westerman? Are you sure?”
    “Yes, my lady.”
    “Oh, very well, I suppose I had better see her. Bring us some tea, Wilkins, and some of those little
choux
pastry things of cook’s.”
    Lady Blenkinsop raised herself from the chaise longue and then sank back again. Illness was sometimes a very good defense.
    The duchess sailed into the room bringing with her the strong smell of gardenia talcum powder, acrid sweat, and the added smell of something which Lady Blenkinsop’s maiden aunt would have designated as “much worse.”
    “My
dear
Lady Blenkinsop. Please do not get up. I myself know what it is to be frail and exhausted.” As indeed the duchess, who was prey to monumental hangovers, certainly did. “I am sorry to arrive so unexpectedly but I really must have your help. It’s about the Marsh girl.”
    “Indeed!” Lady Blenkinsop found the energy to sit up. “You must tell me
all
about it, Duchess,” she crooned sympathetically.
    Wilkins entered at that moment with a tea trolley laden with the pastry cook’s art. The tea was vulgarly strong and Indian. The duchess began to think that Lady Blenkinsop was really a very, very sympathetic and intelligent woman.
    She poured out her story the minute Wilkins had left, ending up with Polly’s infernal cheek, calling her a shopgirl, indeed, and how it looked as if Edward were smitten.
    A faint flush of color rose to Lady Blenkinsop’s pallid cheeks and she tried not to smile. Whatever else Polly Marsh might be, she was certainly no toady.
    But she murmured sympathetically, “My poor Duchess. What can one do? Sir Edward informs me that Mrs. Baines has left Mister Baines because he refuses to dismiss Polly, and the wicked Mister Baines is so delighted with his bachelor life that he has given the girl a raise. In fact, he lives in terror of her leaving in case his wife comes back to him!”
    “No! Fancy!” gasped the duchess, slurping her tea.
    “Yes. Fancy!” said Lady Blenkinsop, reflecting that Miss Marsh did give one a new slant on life. The duchess, for example, would certainly be classed as common were she not a duchess. And good God! The woman badly needed a bath.
    Lady Blenkinsop pretended to be thinking deeply. After some minutes she said in her gentle, tired voice, “I think your fears are groundless, Duchess. You must know that Edward is not at all susceptible. And now you tell me that Peter is as good as engaged!”
    “True,” snapped the duchess. “But I would like that little upstart’s pretensions depressed.”
    Lady Blenkinsop was overcome by a desire to meet the intriguing Miss Marsh and she suddenly saw a way in which it could be managed.
    “I would not do this for just anyone,” she began, “but I would like to help you. I shall invite Miss Marsh to tea. She has not been in the habit of socializing with ladies of our quality. I feel sure that I can persuade her that she would not ‘fit in.’”
    “Most obliged to you,” said the duchess, “but couldn’t I do that myself?”
    “By no means,” said Lady Blenkinsop firmly. “Miss Marsh would
expect
you to be antagonistic. Please leave it to me.”
    “Grrumph,” assented the duchess, her mouth crammed with pastry.
    Polly stared at the embossed card, her blue eyes