Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus Read Online Free Page B

hard bowler hat, for he was to take Polly in a hansom to the railroad station.
    “Come along, girl,” said Mr. Marsh, holding out his arm. “Cor, it feels like I was father of the bride!”
    They made their way downstairs and out into Stone Lane, where all the friends and neighbors had gathered. They sent up a resounding cheer as Polly appeared on the arm of her father. And Polly, who had meant to be very
grande dame
indeed, felt her eyes filling with grateful tears, and smiled and thanked them all instead.
    Alf saw Polly into a third-class compartment when they arrived at the station. “Don’t speak to any mashers, now,” he cautioned. “And ’ere, these are for you,” he added gruffly. He pulled a bag of bull’s-eyes out of his pocket.
    It was a strange present to give such a well-dressed young lady but Polly remembered how, when she was a child, her father would always sneak up to her room when she was in disgrace and give her a bull’s-eye—one of those gigantic sweets that lasted for hours and changed all colors of the rainbow when you sucked it.
    She gave him a fierce hug. The whistle blew and Alf climbed out of the railway carriage.
    “Keep the window closed,” he said, as the train began to steam out of the station, “or you’ll get soot all over that dress.” The train gathered speed and she clung onto her hat as his last words faintly reached her—“And don’t damage that there dress o’ Edie’s or I’ll cut yer ’eart out.”
    Polly was alone in the compartment. She had taken a later train than the rest of the office party. She gave the leather strap a jerk and pulled the window up and then sat back on the worn seat, watching with dreamy eyes as the houses of London Town swept past to be replaced by green rolling fields.
    The train puffed on, belching a great column of black smoke that rolled and writhed across the summer fields.
    By the time Chelmsford was reached, Polly of Stone Lane had been left somewhere along the line and that well-known debutante, Miss Polly Marsh, shook the dust of the third-class carriage from her French heels and moved along the platform to take her rightful place in society.
    Soon she was seated in the open brougham with her pink parasol unfurled as the carriage clattered over the sun-dappled cobblestones of Chelmsford.
    Shortly after, the carriage had left the old town and was traveling along a succession of long green lanes, their hedgerows so high that it was like plunging into cool green tunnels. The leaves still had the fragile, translucent green of spring. White bramble flowers starred the rough grass on the steep banks and the air was heavy with the smell of lime and lilac.
    The carriage came to a stop before a square lodge house and the lodge keeper ran out to open the gates. Polly bowed her head in a stately manner and the gatekeeper touched his forelock. She settled back in the carriage with a sigh of pure pleasure.
    The two glossy brown horses clopped up the long avenue of limes. An ornamental lake came into view with swans floating elegantly across its smooth surface. Then the trees disappeared and the driveway came to a fork. One road led to a huge mansion. Polly blinked. It was like a palace.
    The once elegant Palladian mansion had grown considerably since the Westermans had taken over the younger son’s riches and added on service wings, bachelor wings, vestibules, and porte cocheres with careless abandon.
    The other road led to a white-and-red-striped marquee with tables spread out on the lawns. The whole of Westerman’s was already gathered and Polly’s sharp eyes could see no sign of any ducal personage, young or old.
    A footman in claret-and-silver livery stood at the fork of the road. His task was to make sure that the members of the office party went toward the marquee and that the duchess’s guests went to the house. His practiced eye took in the glossy brougham and the fashionable young lady. “Straight ahead to the house,” he