Lady Eleanor Smith - A Short Story Collection

By Lady Eleanor Smith

Lady Eleanor Furneaux Smith was born in Birkenhead, Merseyside in England on the 7th August 1902 into a privileged family steeped in titles and politics.

Part of her education was at Miss Douglas's school at Queen's Gate. Here she met and befriended several other young women that the British tabloid press would later call the ‘Bright Young Things’, a group of bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

Smith's paternal great-grandmother, was said to have been a Gypsy, and this sparked an early and life-long interest with the Romani people, she even went so far as to learn to read and speak the language, which she called ‘musical and broken.’

Her life was full of adventure and mishaps. A mistaken encounter with a man she thought could help her into the film business turned out to threats of marriage and death from a man wanted for the murder of his father. She was even arrested twice. Once for listing her career as a journalist and another, in Rome, for walking around in a sleeveless dress.

Smith began her career writing society gossip columns for various newspapers but later received an offer to write for the newly-formed Great Carmo Circus, with which she travelled for several years and was the source material for many of her books.

Her first novel, ‘Red Wagon’, was published when she was 28 and it was an immediate bestseller. A prolific writer several of her works were also adapted for films.

Smith also wrote ghost stories and others flavoured with evil. Her support for the Conservative party may be forgiven but her attributed quote to be a ‘warm adherent of General Franco’ less so.

Lady Eleanor Furneaux Smith died on the 20th October 1945 in Westminster after a long illness. She was 43.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miniature Masterpieces
• Release date: Feb 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781835474334

Book preview

Lady Eleanor Smith - A Short Story Collection

Lady Eleanor Furneaux Smith was born in Birkenhead, Merseyside in England on the 7th August 1902 into a privileged family steeped in titles and politics.

Part of her education was at Miss Douglas's school at Queen's Gate.  Here she met and befriended several other young women that the British tabloid press would later call the ‘Bright Young Things’, a group of bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

Smith's paternal great-grandmother, was said to have been a Gypsy, and this sparked an early and life-long interest with the Romani people, she even went so far as to learn to read and speak the language, which she called ‘musical and broken.’

Her life was full of adventure and mishaps.  A mistaken encounter with a man she thought could help her into the film business turned out to threats of marriage and death from a man wanted for the murder of his father.  She was even arrested twice.  Once for listing her career as a journalist and another, in Rome, for walking around in a sleeveless dress.

Smith began her career writing society gossip columns for various newspapers but later received an offer to write for the newly-formed Great Carmo Circus, with which she travelled for several years and was the source material for many of her books.

Her first novel, ‘Red Wagon’, was published when she was 28 and it was an immediate bestseller.  A prolific writer several of her works were also adapted for films.

Smith also wrote ghost stories and others flavoured with evil.  Her support for the Conservative party may be forgiven but her attributed quote to be a ‘warm adherent of General Franco’ less so.

Lady Eleanor Furneaux Smith died on the 20th October 1945 in Westminster after a long illness.  She was 43.

Index of Contents

One O'Clock

Whittington's Cat

Mrs Raeburn's Waxwork

Tamar

Satan's Circus

One O’Clock

Women are notoriously inventive in moments of crisis.

Exactly as the clock struck eleven Marian Winter came out of her bedroom, pausing for a moment on the threshold to pin a spray of gardenias upon the shoulder of her black nun-like dress. The notes of the lacquer clock were delicate, mellow, unflurried. She thought, as she had thought many times before, how much she liked that clock, and then, recollecting that it was a gift from Robert, she turned her back upon it and went across to the window. Her little flat was warm and quiet and pleasant. It glowed with comfort. Her fire leaped purring and crackling in the grate, her dull gold curtains shed a bronze radiance upon her flowers, upon the blanched masses of her lilac, the tropical bird-like brightness of her tulips, upon the fair shimmering purity of a sheaf of daffodils more palely radiant than the golden hair of children.

Too many flowers, she thought suddenly, and carried the daffodils back into her bedroom. When she had done this she returned to the living-room and pulled aside the window curtains. Outside a sullen night raged most drearily. Heavy rain dripped jet-black upon the panes and gusts of moaning spiteful wind twisted the distant trees of Berkeley Square until they seemed no longer trees, but black and smutty witches, bowed in the distorting measures of some obscene and sinister pavane. The streets were empty, save for a policeman all darkly shining in his water-proof cape; and once a taxi scurried by with grinding brakes, and then the rain hissed devilishly and the narrow fashionable street was empty once more, and Marian pulled the curtains, and returned to her fire.

It’s too bad a night; he won’t come. And she sighed with an obscure relief. She stayed some moments by the fire, warming her thin hands, that looked transparent and shell-like as she held them to the blaze, and she wondered whether perhaps it would not be better to drink a weak whisky and soda and go to bed, as she so much wanted to do, and then she could read the new book about the Prince Consort, or Princess Pless’ Diary, and postpone this crisis until the following day.

At half-past, if he hasn’t come then, I'll not see him. But I'll wait until then. And I pray God he won't come.

She pulled out her vanity-case and examined herself in the little mirror. The heavy shadow of her

dark grey eyes made her face look white and tiny, like the face of a delicate child, and the ash-blonde of her gravely dancing hair was almost paler than her cheeks.

But her thin and pointed mouth was a scarlet sword-thrust contradicting the lilac fragility of that smooth narrow face that was so small, and whiter than a waxen-taper. Her mouth was sullen, always afire. It made her seem older. Her lips were hungry, not for love, but for the good things of this life. Her mouth gave her away, and for once she did not care much, for the evening was so melancholy, and she wanted, not a scene, but her own comfortable bed, and a pleasant book, and forgetfulness, if only for twenty-four hours.

The lacquer clock struck the half-hour.

But as she turned with an air of serene triumph toward the bedroom, the bell of her front door shot

through the silence with a sharp shrillness that disconcerted her, and she was not easily disconcerted. But she was in no mood for a scene, and she was quite certain that Robert intended to make one. She hesitated for a moment, perhaps only for the fraction of a moment. Then she opened the door.

Robert kissed her.

He was in a dinner-jacket, and his greatcoat swung over his arm in the swashbuckling, piratical manner that she secretly admired, although she believed it to be affected. As she returned his kiss, she avoided looking at his dark, thin, eager face with its slanting eyebrows and twisted, reluctant smile. Far better, she thought, never to see him again. But she did not say so. She asked instead:

Have you lost your key?

No. I left it behind. I’m sorry to disturb you.

She knew then, definitely. He was not the sort of person who forgot keys.

Give me your coat, and mix yourself a whisky and soda, will you?

"Thank you, Marian. It’s a terrible night. Can I get you a drink—but, of course, you never touch

whisky."

Never.

She lighted a cigarette and went to sit before the fire. She said no more. It was for Robert to break the silence. This he did by observing, as he fidgeted with the soda syphon: Marian, you must forgive me for neglecting you this week. I’m almost ashamed to come here. Did you understand?

She was determined not to help him.

Of course. I know how difficult things are when your father is in London.

Good, he said absently. He left the syphon and came to sit upon the sofa, but he sat as far away from her as possible, and stared into his glass. She continued to smoke in silence.

‘What a seductive dress, Marian."

You’ve seen it before. In fact you’ve had the bill for it. Do you really not remember?

I think I do now. I wish fair women would always wear black. You look better in black than in colours.

Cigarette, Robert?

Thank you, he said vaguely, and did not light it.

She propped her chin on her hand and waited.

How old are you, Marian?

"Twenty-nine, in public. To you thirty-two.

Why?"

I’m thirty-four, you know, he told her.

Quite a marriageable age, Robert.

It was done. She had helped him, she thought, because she really could not bear any one who looked so much like a pirate to stammer and blunder as Robert was so obviously about to do. For that reason and no other. But she had helped him. He turned his head swiftly, and she felt his dark eager slanting