Molly (8 page)

“Leave the tea on the table and get out,” he moaned without opening his eyes.

“Wake up, you ass!” snapped the well-remembered tones of his host. “How can I plan a campaign with you lying there, snoring your head off?”

Roddy reluctantly opened his eyes. “What’s the time?”

“Eight in the morning.”

“Eight in the—I say it’s a bit much,” said Roddy, propping himself up against the pillows. “What do you mean by waking me at dawn?”

“Are you awake now?” demanded David. “Then listen. I blackmail the Maguire girl into driving out with me today and I go to ask Lady Fanny’s permission because I don’t want a chaperon. All is set. She smiles on me. Later she strides over to me as if she’s on the parade ground, fluttering like an effeminate sergeant major, if there is such a thing, and informs me that
you
are hell-bent on joining the expedition and are escorting Mary. How am I to murmur sweet nothings into her shell-like ear with you listening to every word?”

“I won’t be listening to every word,” Roddy pointed out, “for the simple reason that I hope to be muttering some sweet nothings into a shell-like ear myself. It’ll set the atmosphere for you, old man.”

“You may have something there,” said Lord David thoughtfully. “But I must confess to feeling a little nervous. She’s one of those strong, clear-eyed sort of girls who doesn’t seem to have any weaknesses. Do you think Miss Molly Maguire has a weakness?”

Fully awake now, the marquess bent his mind to the problem. “I’ve got an aunt who’s as tough as old boots but she loves romances. You know, sort of drivel women read. Find out what Miss Molly reads. Is there a library here?”

“Only one is in the post office. We’ll go down there this morning and ask Mrs. Pomfret what Miss Molly reads. Then we’ll bone up on it and find what sets her hormones dancing.”

Lord David had expected to have to approach the question of what Miss Maguire read in a roundabout sort of way but the postmistress was only too anxious to talk at length about her heroine. “She’s so brave and so beautiful,” said the elderly postmistress, clasping her hands to her thin bosom. “Just like someone in a book.”

“What books does Miss Maguire like to read?” asked Lord David.

“Miss Maguire has just finished this one,” said Mrs. Pomfret, picking a book from one of the shelves. “She told me she thought it was wonderful.” In her innocence Mrs. Pomfret did not realize that Molly had said the book was wonderful simply because Mrs. Pomfret had obviously thought so herself.

Lord David and the marquess gloomily surveyed the book. It was entitled
The Highland Heart
and showed a red-haired girl in a droopy sort of tea gown sawing away at a violin, against a background of hills and heather. A brooding sort of cove in a kilt was standing down left, staring at this girl with a sort of “Awakened Conscience” expression, all the while clutching an extremely chic blonde in his arms.

“May I take it?” said Lord David. He was obscurely disappointed in Molly.

“Oh, my lord,
of course
,” breathed Mrs. Pomfret, scenting a romance.

Lord David and the marquess walked in silence down to the little harbor of Hadsea. It was a beautiful morning with a fresh breeze scudding across the bay.

“Here, you have a look at it first,” said Lord David, handing Roddy the book. “I only need to know the passionate bits. Spare me the rest.”

“Right-ho!” said Roddy and bent his fair head over the pages of
The Highland Heart.

He read and skimmed and read and skimmed and then read and read. “Stop it,” said Lord David. “You’re not supposed to be enjoying it.”

“But it’s great stuff,” protested his friend. “Oh, well, I’ll give you the gist of it.

“There’s this laird called Angus who lives up somewhere in the Highlands and runs about the heather with his childhood sweetheart, Morag. Then he goes off to the fleshpots of London, after giving a final ruffle to Morag’s hair—”

“That won’t get me far,” Lord David put in gloomily.

“Don’t interrupt. The laird hasn’t got warmed up yet.”

“Why do lairds go to London?”

“I don’t know. To sell grouse or something. Anyway, this Morag scrapes away at her violin in the manse—she’s the minister’s daughter—and pines for Angus. Angus returns, but on his arm—oh horrors I—is his sinister, overly sophisticated, painted fiancée, Cynthia. Hey, that’s a coincidence.”

“My Cynthia is not overpainted. Stop digressing,” said Lord David.

“Oh, yes, where was I? Well, this Cynthia puts old Morag’s eye out, her with painted nails and Paris gowns—Cynthia, I mean. But the veil is torn from Angus’s eyes—”

“The veil? What’s the chappie wearing a veil for? Is he a pansy?”

“Of course not. That’s poetic, that is. And how is the veil torn? Angus comes upon Cynthia beating a kitchen maid with a riding crop. ‘Awa, wi’ ye,’ he cries to the fair Cynthia.

The veil has been tore frae ma eyes.’ See?”

“And Morag throws away her violin and rushes into his arms, I suppose,” yawned Lord David.

“Not a bit of it. She’s a strong lass, is Morag. ‘Ye cannae get roond me, ye wi’ yer seductive London ways,’ she says, throwing her head back and staring him straight in the eyes. Morag does a lot of that, by the way. Angus strides about the heather in agonies. He remembers all sorts of endearing things about his Morag. How they ran about the braes together and all that. Oh, and he remembers her tending the broken wing of a sick grouse.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” howled Lord David. “Any decent Highland lass knows exactly what to do with a grouse with a broken wing: wring its neck and pop it in the pot.”

“You have no heart,” said Roddy severely. “How are you going to charm Miss Molly if you won’t listen? Now all seems hopeless for the laird, but the fair Morag has a dog called Hamish—”

“Dear God.”

“—called Hamish,” repeated Roddy firmly. “Well, this lovable mutt falls in the River Door, which is in spate. The one thing the redoubtable Morag cannot do is swim. She watches in horror as her mutt is swept downstream. But picking up his kilts—what do lairds wear under their kilts?”

“Nothing.”

“Filthy beast! Anyway, Angus plunges in at great risk to life and limb and rescues Hamish. He walks toward her, clasping the dripping-wet dog in his arms. ‘Oh, Angus,’ says Morag. ‘Och, Morag,’ says he, and clasps her in his strong arms and presses her dear, curly head against his manly bosom.”

“How the bloody hell can he clasp Morag with a great wet mutt between them? What happened to the dog?” asked Lord David testily.

Roddy scanned a few pages with a puzzled eye. “That’s funny. This writer can’t be a dog lover. He presses his firm masculine lips against her soft yielding ones and… curtain. That’s it.”

“But doesn’t he ever—”

“No, he doesn’t. Just kisses her-and after all that!”

“Here, give me that book,” said Lord David suddenly. “Now let me see…”

He read for some time. Roddy watched him with amusement, wishing he had brought a camera. The sight of Lord David Manley poring intently over
The Highland Heart
was a sight worth seeing.

“I’ve got it!” said Lord David at length. “There’s a lot of crushing to bosoms goes on in this. Strong, silent stuff. That’s obviously what appeals to Miss Maguire. You must lure Mary away somewhere this afternoon and leave me alone with Miss Molly to do some strong, silent crushing.”

“Right-ho,” said Roddy amiably. “But don’t be surprised if she slaps your face!”

* * *

Lord David Manley was brooding exactly like Angus. The foursome of himself and Roddy and the sisters Maguire were seated in a perfect sylvan setting. The sun slanted through a stand of tall, slim birch trees, the river tumbled and sparkled between large boulders. Shy clumps of speedwells and ragged robins peeped out from the shady undergrowth. Bees hummed around the white bramble flowers and birds sang merrily overhead. There was nothing to do on this lazy afternoon but sit and watch the servants unpacking the picnic things.

The servants!

Lord David Manley had not counted on those. Flushed with the triumph of having both protégées escorted by two of England’s most eligible bachelors, Lady Fanny had decided that they must have a picnic. The girls could not possibly sit on the grass in their new gowns. Table and chairs must be provided. And so the charming little open carriage bearing the happy foursome had been followed by two carriages of footmen with all the necessary accessories.

The only strong, silent crushing going on was made by the army of footmen as they moved around the small sylvan glade, breathing heavily through their noses, and trying hard, without much success, not to bump into each other.

“Why don’t you all go and take a walk somewhere?” David heard Roddy saying to the head footman. “Come back in a couple of hours.” Several coins changed hands. The head footman gave a satisfied smirk and soon the carriages bearing the servants could be heard creaking off at a comfortable distance.

Lord David poured out the wine thoughtfully provided by Lady Fanny and set himself to please. Both American girls, he realized with amusement, had easily adopted the speech and manners of their English counterparts. But there was something about them that was still undoubtedly American, apart from the younger one’s slight lapses in grammar. He decided it was their open friendliness. There was also a freshness about them and an almost seductive smell of lavender soap and clean linen. He realized with a little shock that some of the debutantes of his acquaintance were not as clean as they might be.

Mary was flirting prettily with Roddy, but Molly seemed unable to relax. Lord David noticed that she kept watching her sister with a little worried expression behind her eyes.

He decided that the time for the strong, silent treatment had arrived. “Miss Molly,” he leaned forward. “There is a very pretty path along by the river. Would you care to see it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly with depressing enthusiasm, “let’s all go!”

“Oh, you two go on,” said Roddy languidly. “Miss Mary and I will sit here and admire your energy.”

After a slight hesitation Molly allowed herself to be led away.

“What a strong character your sister appears to have,” said Roddy idly, his long fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. “But I suppose she’s really very romantic.”

“I suppose so,” said Mary doubtfully.

“You don’t seem too sure,” teased Roddy. “I’m quite certain that your sister would really fall for the strong, silent, masterful type of man.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Mary. “I guess Molly will always want to help lame ducks. A strong, masterful man would probably just seem like a bully to her, I reckon.”

“What about
The Highland Heart
?” demanded Roddy. “Mrs. Pomfret assured me that Miss Molly adored it. Had a look at it, you know. Well, the chappie in the book, Angus, you know, seemed to spend his time either brooding or crushing young ladies to his bosom.”

“Wasn’t it
awful
.” said Mary, failing to note the slightly stricken look on the face of her companion. “Of course Molly did not want to hurt Mrs. Pomfret’s feelings so she told her it was marvelous. But how we laughed at that terrible book. She said that Angus obviously had something up with his liver and that if she ever met a man like that, she would be tempted to punch him on the nose.”

Roddy stirred restlessly on his seat. They were, of course, correctly seated at a picnic table. Lady Fanny had recently seen the famous painting of
Un Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
and had since considered picnicking on the grass the next thing to immorality.

Roddy got to his feet. “Come along, Miss Mary. A walk by the river is just what we need to wake us up after lunch.”

Mary was disappointed. This handsome marquess had, until a few minutes ago, seemed perfectly happy to have her all to himself. But she docilely tripped along beside him, trying to match her small steps to his great strides. It was not so much a stroll beside the river, she decided, as a race.

Roddy hoped fervently that Lord David had not gone in for any strong, silent crushing.

Lord David had not yet made any move but was about to do so despite the so far tepid response from his companion. The narrow path had become tortuous and rocky, and there were excellent opportunities for helping her over small obstacles with a strong hand. Molly had looked at him crossly several times and had said something like, “I can manage by myself,” but with the noise of the rushing stream he couldn’t be sure. There was a large boulder blocking the path. “I had better lift you over that,” murmured Lord David seductively.

“What did you say?” demanded Molly.

“I said I’d better help you over that,” roared Lord David, beginning to feel like a fool.

“I am perfectly able to manage myself,” said Molly for the umpteenth time. “Anyway, I think we had better be getting back.”

But Lord David decided to take the plunge. Women usually melted in his arms, didn’t they? He was reaching out to grasp Molly by the waist when he heard his name being called.

He swung around, cursing under his breath. Roddy and Mary were hastening up to them, and Roddy’s large eyes were signaling warnings for all they were worth.

“I wouldn’t exert yourself, David,” yelled Roddy. “Remember your condition.”

“My condition,” repeated his lordship stupidly.

“Yes,” roared Roddy, above the noise of the rushing water. “After all, you have got tuberculosis.”

“But I thought he was cured,” said Molly, staring in amazement at the healthy, tanned face of Lord David.

“Not a bit of it,” said Roddy. “Doctors say he could pop off anytime.”

Lord David was about to howl that he was perfectly fit when he saw that Molly was looking up at him with a glowing, tender expression.

“We had better go back,” said Molly, this time taking Lord David’s arm in a comforting clasp. Lord David shut his mouth and allowed Molly to lead him slowly back along the path. At the picnic table she fussed over him like a mother hen, her beautiful eyes wide with sympathy. It was all very pleasant.

He felt a bit of a cad, but Molly’s sympathy for the dying man had brought out her feminine side. She had never looked more beautiful. Every line of her strong young body seemed to have grown soft and seductive. As she bent solicitously over him, pouring him a glass of wine, Lord David stared in fascination at her rounded bosom and thought how splendid it would be to put his head down on it and sleep, and hear that gentle American voice cooing in his ears.