Polly by M.C. Beaton Read Free Book Online

said Sir Edward, who had paid for his knighthood.
    His wife smiled faintly. “I knew you would do what was right. But do let me know more about this Polly female.”
    The eyebrows went up again. “Good God, woman. Don’t go concerning yourself about a female who is nothing more than a… than… a—a—
tart
.”
    “Oh, absolutely,” drawled Lady Blenkinsop and sank back into her customary torpor.
    Amy Feathers took off the black-and-white-striped poplin dress that she had worn to the picnic and hung it in a closet with sad, reverent movements of her thin, freckled arms. She could almost have been laying it to rest. She had had such hopes of that dress!
    Before Polly had arrived, everything had been marvelous. Bob Friend and the other chaps from the office had teased her about how smart she looked. She had had quite a little court around her. Then Polly Marsh had arrived and they had all lost interest, particularly Bob Friend, who had looked at Polly with a lost, hungry look.
    Amy unfastened her Liberty bodice and popped her serviceable flannel nightgown over her head. How could any girl compete with someone as dazzling as Polly? But Polly had no eyes for Bob Friend… only for that young Lord Peter.
    All she could do, reflected Amy sadly, was wait until Polly Marsh had well and truly broken Bob Friend’s heart and then, she, Amy, would be right on hand to pick up the pieces. Damn Polly Marsh, thought Amy, with unaccustomed venom. She hoped Lord Peter ruined her!
    Polly and her mother were left alone in the kitchen in Stone Lane. The battle was over.
    Polly had announced her decision to move to the businesswoman’s hostel in Euston. Father Marsh had told his eldest daughter roundly that there was only one reason why single girls left home and had told Polly that one reason in very graphic terms. Then he had stomped off to the Prince Albert, Stone Lane’s public house, to drink his fill with all the enthusiasm of the stag at eve.
    Joyce had shouted at her, “You ain’t nuthin’ but a rotten snob,” and had gone out, clutching little Alf, who was crying because of all the loud, angry voices. Through all the rumpus, Gran had carried on a long monologue about the shames and diseases that could befall any young maiden hellbent on taking the primrose path, ending up with a lugubrious saga of a young girl called Rita who had once lived in Stone Lane and who had plunged into such a life of vice that “’er whatsit fell off.” She finally ambled off to bed after throwing her teeth, with a resounding clash, into a water glass by the sink.
    Mrs. Marsh eyed her scarlet-faced daughter and took a deep breath. “I’m a-lettin’ you go, Pol. I knows why you’re doing it. Cos you’re ashamed of yer ’ome.”
    “It’s not that, Ma,” lied Polly desperately. “I’d just like a bit of independence.”
    “Well, let’s hope you know wot to do wiff it,” said Mrs. Marsh heavily. She suddenly felt very old and her feet hurt.
    “Remember this, my girl,” she said, struggling to her feet. “The good Lord above ain’t going to give you any more until yer learns to appreciate wot you’ve got.”
    • • •
    Hampstead Heath swam in the dusky blue twilight of a perfect summer’s evening but Mrs. Gladys Baines was blind to its beauty. For once, the solid comfort of their villa overlooking the Heath with its heavy, highly polished mahogany furniture and dark, red plush portieres between the rooms did little to ease her anger.
    She paced their sitting room with much the same lumbering, choleric gait as Sir Edward Blenkinsop, stopping occasionally to address the bald spot on top of her husband’s bent head. Mr. Baines crouched forward in his armchair, miserably cracking his knuckles. “For the last time,” grated his wife, “why won’t you get rid of that girl?”
    “I’ve told you and told you,” sighed her husband. “The girl is good at her job. The Westermans certainly seem to have forgiven her. It would cause