Polly by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472100979
Publisher: Constable & Robinson

CHAPTER EIGHT

The office party was to be held two days before Christmas. On her latest visit to Stone Lane, Polly had found to her embarrassment that she was meant to spend Christmas at home. Now Polly fully expected to be spending Christmas with the Duke and Duchess of Westerman and was at long last faced with the necessity of telling Mrs. Marsh of her hopes and ambitions.

Mrs. Marsh had held out one pudgy, work-reddened hand for the precious letter. She popped a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose and sat down heavily at the kitchen table to give the matter her full attention. Joyce and baby Alf were asleep, Alf senior was in the pub, and Gran had gone with him to imbibe her weekly glass of port and lemon.

Her lips moving slightly, Mrs. Marsh carefully read from beginning to end and then dropped the letter on the table and wiped her hands carefully on her apron.

“You’re a fool, Pol,” she said heavily. “Yerse. A silly, little, snobby fool. That there Lord Peter ain’t got marriage in mind. ’E wants up your skirts, my girl.”

Polly blushed at her mother’s coarseness and became more determined than ever to escape from the working-class mud of Stone Lane. Her love for her mother vanished in a wave of fury.

“All everyone ever does is to try to keep me down,” she said icily. “I am leaving now, Mother, and I shall not return until I am Lady Burley. You will be sorry for your lack of trust.”

The small figure of Mrs. Marsh suddenly seemed formidable in the small kitchen. “Take yerself off, then, me girl,” she said slowly, “and finds it out for ye’self the ’ard way. God will punish yer for yer snotty ways, see if’e don’t.”

“Good day to you,” said Polly with awful hauteur.

“Ah, garn… yer bleedin’ little fool,” said Mrs. Marsh heavily. She moved to the fire and began to poke it heartily, keeping her back to her daughter, and listening to the angry rap of Polly’s heels as she descended the stairs and slammed the street door behind her.

Mrs. Marsh wiped away the angry tears from her eyes and lumbered over to the sideboard and extracted a few precious sheets of writing paper and a bottle of ink and a steel pen.

Sitting down at the kitchen table again, she bent her head over the paper and slowly and painfully began to write, “The Most Honorable Marquis of Wollerton, My Lord Marquis…”

The large conference room at Westerman’s had been set aside for the party. Staff were to be allowed one hour and a half to go home and change for the great event. The Duke of Westerman was not expected to attend, much to Polly’s disappointment, but she never doubted for a minute that Peter would be there. She had read in the social columns that his boat had docked at Southampton the day before. There had been no mention of any Miss Bryant-Pettigrew—not that she had expected any, Polly told herself firmly.

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