Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘They’ll like to portray it as an investment, my dear: spend ten thousand to make millions more. There’s a difference between ‘wealthy’ and ‘very wealthy’. I suspect the matchmaker’s has only prime candidates on its books?’

  I gasp. ‘Marcus Pembroke, Eighth Earl of Silsbury, are you betraying me?’

  ‘Betrayal is such an ugly word, Millie. I see this more as a reality check – emphasis on the ‘cheque’. The family fortune can only last so long. Without more income, there will come a time when we will have to sell our assets.’

  ‘You didn’t put her up to this did you?’

  He snorts. ‘Nonsense. That would involve a level of communication that is beyond us at this stage.’

  It’s hard to believe that they were once capable of having sensible discussions. Sometimes I even question my recollection of childhood times, thinking I merely invented their civility.

  ‘People who resort to matchmakers –’ I pause briefly with embarrassment ‘– there must be something wrong with them in the first place, don’t you think? I mean, why can’t they find anyone themselves?’

  ‘Some people are just busy, inaccessible to those with whom they should be socialising. Are you really this unforgiving about the whole thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Millie.’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘Are you frightened of commitment? Before Alastair left for the beginnings of his, um, escapades –’

  ‘You mean his super-sexy pirate parties?’

  ‘Who said anything about pirates?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who else would hang out in international waters? Mermaids?’

  ‘Hush. Before Alastair left a while back, he told me you had a tendency to only – Oh, what was that expression? He had to explain it to me… Ah, that’s it: “hook up” with men you knew you wouldn’t have to see again. Men you met on your travels, or men about to go travelling.’

  I bristle with the mortification of hearing my father say such things. ‘I hardly think you should listen to Alastair, especially when it comes to this stuff. I’m disturbed that he even knew anything about it in the first place.’

  What an arsehole Al is, undermining me from beyond the British border. If I knew where he was, I’d send him a very threatening postcard, one laced with a trace of mysterious white substance, which could be anthrax but is more likely to be talcum powder.

  My reverie is disturbed my father’s voice. ‘Well, at least you’ve always chosen Englishmen over foreigners,’ he says, sounding very relieved. ‘A string of foreign lovers would be ever so crass.’

  ‘Did he tell you that too?’ I’m mortified. ‘He really does have a network of contacts, doesn’t he?’

  Father changes tack. ‘What if there’s someone out there who hasn’t been able to meet someone, but whom is actually worth meeting?’

  ‘Emphasis on the “worth”?’

  He tries to placate me. ‘Just go along with it for now, lest your mother gets even more gung-ho about it. I doubt the initial consultation costs anything – they have to woo you as the client. It’s a two-way street, my dear.’

  Resigned to defeat, I mumble my surrender. ‘All right then.’

  For a change, his kind laughter does nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. ‘That’s the spirit.’ I imagine him lifting his glass of scotch, or maybe his pipe, in approval. If he’s feeling very jolly, he might even give George the thumbs up. ‘Now, what else is going on?’

  ‘Um.’ Honestly, I’m still floored by his quasi-support of the matchmaker proposition, but I have to tell him about the other thing. There’s no dancing around it. ‘Mother hired a butler for her stay here. Did you know?’

  His response is cutting. ‘I may or may not have told her that any help employed on this holiday of hers is to be paid from out of her own pocket.’

  ‘You actually put your foot down and said that?’ I ask, incredulously.

  ‘I did. She still has funds from her inheritance. Not the greatest amount, but enough.’

  I tread carefully, wary of his mood when it comes to Mother and money. ‘Well, here’s the thing. The butler is living here. I haven’t had a chance to ask how much he’s being paid and how much he’s being charged for board.’

  There’s a long pause. ‘Living there, in my house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what is your impression of this man?’ he asks, his voice lowering in the same way it does when he’s forced to comment on Al’s escapades.

  ‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that,’ I reply, panicking a little. ‘He’s my age – a year older, to be exact. He apparently had trouble with his flatmates, whatever that means. This is…‘ I trail off, trying to find the right words to assure him. ‘More convenient. I just thought I’d tell you, you know, for full disclosure’s sake. I don’t mean to kick him out onto the street or anything.’

  ‘Why do you sound nervous?’

  Because I’m talking about the hot butler, and I’ve just realised that I don’t want him to be homeless. ‘I’m not nervous.’

  ‘Well, if it’s nothing to get too worried about, then my disapproval only extends to the fact that a stranger is living in my house, albeit in the servants’ quarters in the attic, one assumes. He is staying in the servants’ quarters?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘He’s not being afforded any extra amenities or comforts that wouldn’t normally be given to in-house help?’

  ‘Well, it’s not like he can just take the car out whenever he wants.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He takes a moment to mull things over. ‘You should inspect the quarters on my behalf. I’m giving you the authority.’

  ‘I don’t need to do that.’ My voice falters. This isn’t what I wanted. ‘I’m sure he’s not stealing things.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? You’ve only known him for a few days, and I certainly don’t know him.’

  ‘You might’ve already met him. Mother poached him from The Savoy.’

  ‘Really? Then I’ll conduct a reference check with the one of the managers there. What’s his name?’

  ‘Blair Baxter. Unusual, I know – Blair was apparently his mother’s maiden name. I tried calling him Mr Baxter yesterday, but that didn’t go down well.’

  Because my father obviously needs this level of detail.

  ‘Let’s hope the hotel attests to his good character.’ Father doesn’t sound too hopeful, but then again he’s naturally cynical when it comes to people. ‘So he’s not too young, then? A year older than you, you said?’

  ‘Yes. He’s also very good-looking. Listen, I don’t want people to talk. Maybe you should tell her not to entertain here?’

  ‘Trust me, I already made that point clear. As for the handsome aspect, you sound nervous about that.’

  ‘Do I?’ Shit. I’m the worst actress in the world. I should win the opposite of a BAFTA. An ATFAB, they should call it. ‘I’m just frazzled when it comes to the opposite sex at the moment, that’s all. I feel very self-conscious.’

  ‘Listen, dear, don’t get worked up about this matchmaker business. It’s all very confidential anyway. These places operate with the utmost discretion.’

  ‘Still, I don’t want anyone to see me walking into the building.’

  ‘Wear a hat, but not one so over the top that it draws attention to you. Sunglasses might do the trick. A long coat might look suspicious in summer.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I’m not so easily convinced. I can see the tabloid headline now: Pembrokes go for broke: Desperate Millie pays £10,000 for a date!

  ‘If you’re really worried about it, request to meet somewhere else.’

  ‘But then people might overhear whatever is said at these appointments.’

  ‘There’s a risk to everything these days, Millie, that’s just how it is.’ He says with a sigh. ‘Now, is there anything else?’

  There’s no point whining about the underdressed-for-dinner issue, nor is there any point whingeing about the dinner suit
Blair wears after six in the evening. I’m only half convinced he wasn’t trying to kill me by wearing it – it really was too much for me to bear.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Then be sure to take care of yourself. Hopefully I will see you soon.’

  ‘Within two months, I hope.’

  ‘Is that your standing prediction on how long this excursion will last? I’ve been hearing whispers from London, saying that Alastair’s reputation continues to reflect badly upon your mother. Apparently people think he takes after her, personality-wise. Who would’ve thought it?’

  Oh, there’s that cutting tone again. ‘So, I shouldn’t expect too many invitations?’

  He laughs haughtily. ‘I’ll get George to forward you my invitations. There might be something you’d like to go to. Who knows, if you meet someone, maybe I’ll be inclined to grace London with my presence.’

  I gently encourage him to be more social. ‘You’re not attending any Diamond Jubilee events next week? It is the Queen, you know. Sixty years on the throne.’

  ‘You know I’m not too fond of fanfare. Besides, I celebrated her last two jubilees. That should suffice.’

  ‘Ohh, how about Viscount Weller’s sixtieth? It’s coming up in July. You said you’d go to that.’

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. I’ll wait and see if the House is debating anything interesting.’

  ‘Okay.’ Can’t say I didn’t try.

  ‘Well, like I said, look after yourself, dear. I will speak to you another time.’

  ‘Yes, have a good night. Say hello to everyone for me. Is George there with you right now?’

  ‘How did you know? He says “hello”.’

  ‘I’m one with the estate, Father.’

  ‘Then do me a favour and try to increase your value.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha.’

  ‘It’s only a joke, dear. Goodbye for now. Let me know how things go.’

  ‘I will. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I can’t help but frown as I end the call. I guess only Abby understands how insulting and demoralising it is for me to have third parties looking into my love life for me. My other friends don’t know my parents as well as she does and, frankly, the fewer people who know, the better.

  As for the butler issue, at least my father was tough enough on this occasion to give my mother proper warnings about money before she left Yorkshire. I’m also relieved I didn’t get Blair kicked out of the house – I really could’ve stuffed up there. As for the thought of inspecting the attic, I think it would well and truly freak him out to have me in his personal space, no matter who really owns the place.

  I sit in the armchair and try to clear my brain by looking once again at the walls, picturing my father in the house as I do so. But the tension and unease broiling inside me just won’t be quelled.

  An idea comes to mind. I quickly text Blair: Millie here. Are you able to fix me a drink? Please.

  I’ve never sent a text to request anything before. There are enough members of staff at the estate to ensure that someone is always available. Moreover, I don’t think George knows how to text and, as for the rest of the staff, I think some of them still use handsets dating back to when mobile phones first came out.

  If walls could talk, I would ask the house for Blair’s reaction right now. Is he rolling his eyes? Is he doing his best to stay positive? He was in a relatively good mood when he delivered my luggage to my room, but after that he seemed subdued again. I just can’t figure him out.

  Thankfully, he replies within a minute. Any longer and I would begin to read into the delay, like any woman does when a man doesn’t text back.

  Do you mean an alcoholic one, Lady Emilia?

  I make a mental note to tell him not to be so formal in his texts. It’s a little weird. Then again, he’s probably doing it deliberately to make a point about respect. I mean, I didn’t stare at him during dinner service, but maybe he could tell that I wanted to. Badly. In fact, I’ve probably been staring at him most of the time.

  Ugh. I’m obsessing.

  I reply before my paranoia gets worse: Yes.

  Only your mother has the key to the drinks cabinet. She’ll ask why you need a nightcap.

  My devastation knows no bounds. Seriously. If I was to even attempt to find the bounds, I would be stumbling in the dark for a very long time.

  I think I’m going to cry.

  Of course, once I hit the send button I realise how pathetic I sound. As if the butler would care whether or not I cry. He’d only care if he was required to fetch me a hanky.

  Surprisingly, Blair does reply: I’m going to Waitrose, then Sainsbury’s, in half an hour. I can purchase something for you, if you’d like?

  In that case, I’m coming. I don’t know what I want yet.

  He’s going to kill me. I just invited myself on his supermarket run.

  Where are you?

  Mural room.

  I’ll be there in fifteen. Just finishing a task in the library.

  What task could he possibly have to do in the library? Is my mother making him read books so he can relay the condensed, simple English version to her over tea?

  Impatient and curious, I jump up and head for the door. After checking to ensure the corridor is Mother-free, I stealthily make my way to the end of passageway, where I find the oak doors of the library slightly ajar.

  I knock, out of politeness, though not too loudly. The last thing I need is to be accused of causing a racket while wearing indecent clothing.

  ‘Come in,’ he calls.

  The library already exudes magnificence, with its oak panels and shelves of old leather-bound books. Adding Blair to the picture makes me want to faint, all so he can carry me to the fainting room. Yes, really, there’s a fainting room on this floor, near the stairs. It’s a Victorian thing – for treating female hysteria – don’t even get me started on that.

  He’s sitting at the centre table, facing the doorway, and typing away on Alastair’s old desktop computer. His dinner jacket hangs from the back of his chair. He’s rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, showing off his forearms in the best possible way. And then there’s his hair – ever so slightly untidy, like he’s just run a hand through it… It’s as if he knows what gets me going.

  ‘Desperate, are we?’ he asks, looking up at me with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  Oh my God. I’ve been caught out. He knows I was fantasising about him.

  He stares at me, firstly with what seems like a look of disbelief, which then quickly becomes one of irritation. ‘For a drink, m’lady?’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. That.’

  Instant awkwardness. They should sell my magic at the supermarket for eleven pence a packet. Might as well, as Blair’s probably about to ban me from ever accompanying him to Sainsbury’s. Maybe I can persuade them to take me on while I’m there with him tonight, I’ll suggest the same to Waitrose and hopefully the two supermarket chains will get into a bidding war. Do you know how valuable awkwardness is? It practically guarantees cringeworthy silences and shuffling on the spot. It’s the perfect social weapon.

  I throw my hands up in the air, at a loss as to how to coexist with him peacefully. ‘You know, I’m just going to lock myself in my room and not come out.’ I feel the onset of hysteria – perhaps there’ll be a need for the fainting room after all. Blair also seems to be sensing this, because now he’s staring at me like I’ve really lost it. ‘When it’s time for my kidnapping, knock on my door three times and at that point I will come out, all in black, ready to mourn the loss of my dignity.’

  He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Actually, now that you’re here, I can show you what your mother has requested me type up for you.’

  I drop my arms. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A list of questions to help you prepare for the matchmaker meeting. All her ideas, of course.’

  I’m too scared to go over to him. I know the list is only going t
o infuriate me further. ‘I don’t think I want to read them.’

  ‘Well, you’re not coming to the supermarket unless you read them.’

  I do not react well to people talking to me like that. ‘Are you telling me off?’

  He gives me a pointed look before returning his attention to the screen. ‘I don’t have the authority to do such a thing.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Blair laughs in disbelief. ‘Unbelievable,’ he mutters.

  I tell myself to chill out and forget about it. He’s not challenging me. He’s frustrated because I’m difficult to deal with.

  On the other hand, this can’t be healthy for either of us. I’d rather he yell at me – something I admit I deserve. We’ve had brief moments where we’ve seen eye-to-eye, so coexisting in the long term can’t be completely impossible.

  ‘Okay, I think you and I need to have it out. Because it’s day five and this whole sweeping-Sunday-night-under-the-rug thing isn’t going to work.’

  He hesitates and looks up from the screen. ‘I was out of line with my comment just then. I’m sorry, m’lady. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Blair. Drop the formalities for a minute and talk to me like I’m not your employer.’

  He tenses, keeping so eerily still you’d think I had frozen him with my words. Moments later, he accepts the freedom and meets my gaze with equal intensity, not taking his eyes of me as he pushes back his chair and stands. ‘At least close the door so your mother doesn’t overhear.’

  ‘Fine.’

  I whip around and close the heavy doors, barely getting them shut before he speaks.

  ‘Stop looking at me like you want me to rip your clothes off. There, I said it.’

  I turn to face him. He steps out from behind the table and slowly stalks towards me, stopping a few feet away from me. He looks deadly serious and mighty pissed off.

  I don’t deny I’ve been inflicting unwanted attention on him. ‘Sorry.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘You apologise all the time. How about acting on the supposed remorse you feel?’