Lady Margery's Intrigues by Marion Chesney

glowing embers and the flames leapt up, sending eerie shadows wavering and dancing round the walls.
    “I have already apologized to you, Lady Margery,” said the marquess in a husky, hesitant voice. “I now feel I owe you another apology. I had damned you as an opportunist and I thought that you had no affection in your heart for any of my friends. But when I saw you look up at Toby this evening, I realized that your emotions were genuine. Also, it must be a bitter blow to be faced with losing one's home.”
    Margery felt tears start to her eyes at the unexpected sympathy in his voice. She longed to confide in him; to tell him that she didn't care a rush for any of his friends. But how he would despise her!
    “Perhaps,” said Margery, staring into the flames, “I loved Chelmswood too much. It is only bricks and mortar, after all.
    “There seemed to be no discomfort to cope with. I had Amelia's undemanding and uncritical friendship and I lived through the lives of my tenants.”
    The marquess listened silently, one long hand laid against his thin cheek. He had a feeling that she was talking more to herself than to him.
    Margery went on after a short silence. “Yes! That was it! I lived the lives of my tenants. Their marriages were my marriage, their babies my babies, their illnesses my illnesses, but ... oh ... all comfortably second-hand ... like reading a thrilling book. Father was mostly away from home. The only time I ever had to step into the real world was when I had to face another season. I enjoyed looking as unattractive as possible. That way I knew nobody would ask me to dance and I could therefore save myself from the pangs of rejection and failure. Each season was like a bad dream, to be endured with patience until I could return to Chelmswood and wrap myself in the minutiae of its domestic affairs and tenants’ problems. I wonder now whether it all kept me too young for my years.”
    “And you so ancient,” teased the marquess. “But,” he added bracingly, “ this will soon be your home.”
    Margery started and looked wildly round as if awakening from a bad dream. “This!” she said in a horrified voice, which seemed to encompass everything from the neglected park to the damp rooms to the elderly lord immured between the walls.
    “Of course,” replied the marquess, surprised. “You will naturally live in your husband's home. You did not think you could possibly get married and then simply return to Chelmswood?”
    Lady Margery raised her hands to her face. That was, in fact, just what she had thought. She began to wonder if there were insanity in the family. But ... but ... perhaps one of the other two suitors would not be so bad ... but ... but then he would expect her to share his life and ... and ... his bed.
    The marquess watched the changing emotions flickering across Margery's little face. She looked like an agitated pixie, her tiny figure perched on the huge settle and her slippered feet barely touching the floor.
    “You are in love with Toby, aren't you?” asked the marquess with sudden curiosity.
    Margery's eyes flew to his face and then dropped again in confusion. The marquess once again seemed a hard, cold stranger whose mocking eyes shone queerly in the dancing light of the flames.
    “You must excuse me, my lord,” she said, getting to her feet. “The hour is late.” She dropped him a curtsy and hurried off into the darkness of the staircase before he had realized that she had not answered his question.
    The marquess sat for a long time looking into the fire. He felt rather sad and ... and ... desolate ... that was the word. It must have been too much burgundy at dinner. How strange the workings of one's liver! How strange that a couple of bottles of Toby's best should make the world seem such an empty, endless desert! He would go to the library, where he had last seen a bottle of Mr. J. Schweppes’ soda water, and drink the lot.
    Margery awoke to blazing sunshine and a