Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  I wring my hands from guilt. ‘Still, you brought it over.’

  ‘Yes, how dare you make me drive a whole ten minutes in my Rolls-Royce. Next time, reply to my lovely wife and leave me out of it.’ He chuckles and leans forward. ‘Though, I must tell you, she knows you went to Jane Fitzgerald’s lunch today. Reports were that you didn’t look well and didn’t talk very much, so I suppose your story adds up.’

  ‘Reports? Silly rich people have nothing better to do than talk.’

  ‘Speaking of talk, I’ve been meaning to contact you about something. It’s rather a blessing that Saturday night was cancelled – it’s not a matter I should discuss in public.’

  I’m taken aback. ‘You didn’t go to the Arts Club?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I was still blind drunk from the Derby. Once Abby said you couldn’t go, I thought she meant we weren’t going at all, so I didn’t bother pacing myself. She was furious.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He lifts his hand to his mouth as if he’s about to tell me a secret. ‘I drank too much the day before at the Oaks. She said I ignored her for my old schoolmates. That’s why she went shopping with you instead of going to the Derby. She might even boycott Royal Ascot in a few weeks.’

  I manage to smirk, even though I wish Abby had said something. She made no mention of trouble at the races. Now I have to take it in my stride and pretend it’s amusing.

  ‘Andrew Carrington. You are gossiping about yourself. Do handle your scandal.’

  ‘Says she who sent me an intriguing text by accident last week. When am I going to meet this lucky fellow?’

  I freeze, worried my mother is around the corner, loitering. That, and I really don’t want Andrew to ever meet Blair, because I’m sure he’ll comment on how young he is for a butler, and how it could be seen as inappropriate. He might even connect the dots, completing a picture of Blair and I together.

  Andrew furrows his brow. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. More like there is no lucky fellow. That text was… Please don’t say anything.’

  He breezes over my vagueness, employing his good humour again. ‘There’s nothing to say. Abby didn’t share a thing. Apparently she missed the telegram telling her all wealthy people are supposed to talk.’

  ‘Yes, and upgrade from using telegrams too.’

  ‘One step at a time, Millie. Change tends to scare the rich, especially when it sounds like revolution.’

  Mother returns before Andrew can tell me what he was supposed to on Saturday. It turns out, however, that he wants to share it with her too.

  ‘Thank you, Caroline,’ he says, accepting the cup of tea from her. ‘Listen, I was just telling Millie there was something I wanted to discuss, and I’m afraid it’s not all sunshine and roses. I’ve said nothing to Abby about this – I wanted to come straight to you.’

  My mother frowns and says nothing until she sits down next to me. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  He hesitates. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being indelicate by raising this matter, but I feel some sense of loyalty from my wife’s friendship with Millie.’

  I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Is this about Alastair? Because those rumours about money laundering can’t be true. Scotland Yard would’ve questioned us about his whereabouts – Interpol, too, if it was really bad. Al wants to have fun, not make money. He’s probably in the south of France working on his tan during the day and going to burlesque clubs at night.’

  My mother slaps my hand. ‘Millie!’

  ‘What? It’s probably true. And if we apply your food theory, well, he’s always liked French food.’

  ‘Ugh, you’re so tactless sometimes. Andrew, please continue.’

  He bites his lip, making me think there is some criminal element to this story.

  ‘No, it’s not that. Though I’ve heard those rumours.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘When people drink, they tend to talk about things they shouldn’t, and Saturday at Epsom was no different. I was in a private box with some very well connected people and was told something I shouldn’t have been told. Forgive me if I’m stepping over my bounds, but my intentions are honourable, and I assure you that I wasn’t drunk when the disclosure was made.’

  My mother and I exchange glances. She’s as worried as I am.

  ‘Do go on,’ she says to Andrew. ‘I recognise that you are trying to help.’

  I nod, so he knows I agree.

  ‘Okay, well, where to begin? I suppose I should just say it.’ He looks around the room for a moment, as if he’s worried there are eavesdroppers about. ‘I heard that your family is having serious financial difficulties, and if that is the case, I’d like to offer my help – whether it be my services in financial planning, or putting up capital in order to ease the strain. If she knew of the situation, I have no doubt Abby would tell me we need to help, especially with the estate on the line. Now, I know this is awfully forward of me, and I understand there is pride involved, but whether it’s advice, investment or a loan, I am here without judgement.’

  I stare at Andrew in disbelief. He cowers just a little, his hand shaking when he lifts his cup of tea. My mother must be looking at him with the same intensity, not that I dare look at her myself.

  Part of me wants to laugh at what he’s saying, especially as I try to keep up to date with the finances. I can, however, see that Andrew is sincere. It’s just unbelievable that he’s even said anything, in front of my mother too, who is probably confused as to whether to respond as a potential divorcee or as the loyal wife of an earl whose estate is said to be in danger.

  I open my mouth to respond, but it takes me a full ten seconds before I can verbalise anything. When I do speak, I sound completely awestruck. Not angry, just shocked. ‘A drunk man told you we’re well on the path to bankruptcy? With all due respect, I wouldn’t be so quick to believe him.’

  Andrew sits up a bit straighter, steadying his grip on the teacup. ‘He’s an upstanding individual. Not prone to exaggeration, even when inebriated. I understand it’s shocking to hear that someone would dare speak of such a private matter, especially in such circles –’

  My mother interjects in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Is this going around London or is it an isolated conversation?’

  ‘I believe it was merely a slip of the tongue. Completely isolated.’

  ‘Let me tell you something about estates like ours, Andrew. The Pembrokes are lucky to have survived with this much property intact. Many an estate was sold off last century, some from the crippling effect of inheritance taxes and some due to divorce. I understand that we are asset-heavy. Estates don’t make money like they used to: there’s no agricultural income like in the days of yesteryear. Liquid money is a problem for old families, and I’m sure you’ve seen the sale of country houses in recent times in order to free up funds, hence your concern.

  ‘To hear talk of financial difficulty is thus not a complete surprise. It is a surprise, however, to hear that someone has told you that we’re in dire straits and in need of an immediate bailout. While it is awfully nice of you to offer your help, we are not at that point. And I hope whoever told you all this wasn’t simply insinuating financial difficulty because of divorce talk. I would never demand a settlement designed to force the sale of any property, whether it be the manor, this house or any inherited chattel. Understood?’

  Andrew nods, chastened. On the other hand, I’m still gaping, this time because it’s the most reasonable speech my mother has ever given. The only thing wrong with it was that she kept up the divorce facade – she would never demand a settlement, because it would never come to that.

  It’s my turn to say something, as Andrew has been silenced. It really is generous of him to want to help us.

  ‘Yes, I agree with what my mother says. Thank you, Andrew, but it’s not quite at that point.’

  ‘I apologise. I was under the clear impre
ssion it is at that point.’ He sets the teacup down on the coffee table. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  My mother continues to be kind but stern. ‘Yes, please do, but trust that I’m only letting you do so because I’m too shocked to stand, and because our butler is on holiday.’

  He stands, nodding once more. ‘Thank you for the tea, Lady Silsbury. And for your understanding. Trust that I use your title in respect and not in jest.’

  ‘Understood.’

  I feel horrible that he has to leave on such a sour note after being so benevolent. ‘Thanks for the soup. I can walk you to the door if you’d like?’

  My mother apparently thinks that’s a step too far. ‘He can manage, Millie.’

  He smiles at me apologetically. ‘I can indeed. Get well soon.’

  With that, he exits the room and, soon, the house.

  It’s like we’ve been hit by a whirlwind. My mother and I sit in silence for about five minutes afterwards, still blown away by the fact that someone would say we’re in deep financial peril. Maybe this person thought it would go hand in hand with rumours about Al. Yet Andrew vouched for his acquaintance, which is certainly interesting. Perhaps it’s all a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity put forward by an honest man.

  It’s my mother who breaks the silence. ‘Do you know what’s terrible?’

  I turn to her. ‘What?’

  ‘All I kept thinking is: why couldn’t he have met you instead of Abby? Look at how bold he was about this. He’s wealthy, decent-looking and well bred, and cares about his wife so much that he’ll go out of his way to save her friends, even without her knowing. Such terrible luck that you missed out.’

  The idea is so preposterous, I feel sick even imagining it. ‘Look, I agree that he is a good man and that Abby is lucky, but you can’t just fall all over him because he has money and called you Lady Silsbury once. A little perspective, Caroline.’

  Her rebuke is so pointed, I feel like I’m being poked in the chest with each sentence. ‘This had better be an isolated incident, Millie. It’s not funny. If you want to keep the estate, get married. If you’re happy without it, then wait around until we have no cash to hand. We’ll have an auction.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘So you’ll be around at that point? You’re not actually divorcing Father?’

  She ignores the question, which is somewhat a relief considering I asked it without thinking. This situation has put me in a strange mood.

  ‘I think you and I should be diligent and make enquiries into our finances.’ The look in her eyes is deadly serious. ‘We can never be too careful. Your father is a very proud man, and even though it’s highly unlikely, there’s a small chance that Andrew’s friend was given that impression by something your father said or did in recent times. Do you understand?’

  It’s hard not to be defensive. ‘I ask Father about the finances all the time. Even if I was suspicious, I wouldn’t be able to check anything from London.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looks away momentarily. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘What does that mean? Are you going to ask him? Or are you going to hire a private investigator?’

  She waves me off. ‘You just worry about finding a husband. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you the soup which, by the way, smells like feet.’

  I tend not to eat when upset, and this comes under that category.

  ‘I might just fast until Blair returns.’

  ‘It’s terrible not having a butler. Do you want to abduct him from Kilburn? He’s staying with family.’

  ‘Kilburn?’ There are dodgier places to live, but I still can’t picture him being there.

  ‘Relax, I won’t actually send you there, it might not be safe.’

  I’m very fortunate when compared with a lot of people, not just Blair and his family. No one is going to sympathise if my family has to sell property to free up cash – we’re lucky enough to have property in the first place. I look around the room, surveying this part of my family’s heritage, and get even more nervous about the dwindling cash reserves.

  If money makes the world go round, it’s certainly giving me motion sickness.

  Chapter 11:

  On Wednesday, I get the first lucky break I’ve had in a while. I’m able to see Polly a day early, due to a last-minute cancellation. It’s perfect timing. Had she not called, I would’ve had to endure the agony of Blair driving me to Tilton & Bree tomorrow, as per the original schedule.

  I’m not ready to see him. The more I think about it, the more afraid I am that I’ll have an extreme reaction on his return. I spent the whole of yesterday visualising our reunion, scripting what I would say and pre-empting his line of argument. In some versions, I’m yelling at him for leaving without having finished our conversation, a move I call cowardly and cruel. In others, I’m crying and begging him to give me his attention, whether sexual or otherwise. I’m a dramatic person with a big mouth – things may very well play out this way if I’m not careful.

  In light of this risk, it’s very fortunate that I’m now moving forward with the Tilton & Bree-approved dating. Being here is giving me a renewed sense of purpose. I’m doing something active. Yes, I may be developing a bit of a gold-digging complex but, as Polly reminded me, it’s about security and trust. The shock of Andrew’s visit has only made this more pertinent, no matter how misguided his information.

  To be honest, I’m not even sure that Polly believes in half of the things she says, and it’s wholly possible she said trusts, not trust. However, I’m trying to get my head in the game, and if this means believing in her sugar-coated phrases, then I will play along for now.

  I sit forward in my chair like I’m on a game show and about to answer the million-pound question, though, in this case, one million is not going to be enough. ‘As predictable as it may be, I’m going to go with Prospective Husband Number One.’

  Polly is amused, smiling knowingly from across her desk. Now she can get on with the dating arrangements.

  ‘You mean Oliver.’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  Prospective Husband Number One is probably the safest bet out of the four profiles Polly thinks are suited to mine, at least on paper anyway. He’s a high-flyer at JP Morgan, and his excuse for being unlucky in love is that he lets himself get swept up in work. While he dutifully attends many business-related functions, he only appears at other events when he’s not drowning in investments. At thirty-four, he’s thinking it may be time to settle down, hence the involvement of Tilton & Bree.

  This is not to say I have no reservations. There’s a possibility that this guy is a stressed-out workaholic. I’m also concerned that I’m mimicking Abby in the direction I’m taking, as if I’m trying to emulate her comfortable lifestyle by securing the same kind of man that she did. I should be guided by what’s best for me, not what has worked for my friends.

  But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. Prospective Husband Number One seems like a very sensible choice, and I wasn’t quite convinced by the other three. Two of them aren’t even in the country at the moment – a definite deal-breaker. The longer I wait for a date, the longer I have to endure the torture that is being obsessed with Blair Baxter.

  Polly starts flicking through her diary, which by virtue of its pale-blue pages and luxurious leather cover must be by Smythson. It’s not the same diary I saw on her desk last week, so I’m assuming it’s a gift from Mr Wright. Then I remember that Polly can afford things such as this without depending on other people. Unlike me, she has a job.

  ‘Right, how does a night at the opera with him on Saturday sound?’ She doesn’t look up. ‘Splendid.’ And there goes the perfunctory click of her pen, like she’s never been surer about a decision. ‘I’ll make the arrangements.’

  ‘Which opera?’

  She chuckles. ‘Does it matter? If it’s boring, you can leave and have a drink instead.’

  ‘Ha! That’s generally the plan if your date is boring.’ When she nods slowly instead of laughi
ng, I move the conversation along. ‘Is there dinner with this opera? How am I supposed to get to know someone during a performance?’

  ‘Hmm, dinner.’ She twirls the pen once or twice before pointing at me to emphasise her evaluation. ‘My gut feeling with this one is that we can’t put him under too much pressure. We don’t want to scare him off –’

  ‘You mean you don’t want me to scare him off.’

  ‘This is a team effort, Millie. I’m just as responsible as you are. Now, I think a pre-function will work very well. Have a drink, a few canapés. Tapas, perhaps.’

  I nod, agreeing to the plan. I even make a mental note to eat properly during the day so as not to gorge on the canapés in front of him or get tipsy off one flute of champagne. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re enthusiastic.’

  Throughout the meeting, there’s been a slight undercurrent of suspicion, presumably at my enthusiasm. Now Polly is regarding me with a keener eye, as if she can sense something is not quite right. Even with her pep talk, I shouldn’t be this keen. Before coming here, I sprayed myself with perfume to hide the scent of desperation, but perhaps I was too light with the spritzer.

  ‘I just feel that time is of the essence.’

  While not terribly convincing, it’s technically not a lie. Time is definitely of the essence. I can’t have my mental state deteriorate any further. Last night, I took a stroll around the house to stretch my legs, only to zone out and trip over the Fifth Earl’s umbrella stand on the ground floor. If I can’t find a husband, I might have to sell that umbrella stand, along with a whole host of other heirlooms, in order to pay for the upkeep of the estate. The least I can do is not let my infatuation with Blair damage any antiques.

  And if Andrew’s acquaintance is right – though I’m sure he’s not – such sales may only be the beginning.

  Polly purses her lips for a moment before brightening suddenly and answering the question I asked some time ago: ‘La Bohème at the Royal Opera House.’

  I’ve seen La Bohème performed by at least half a dozen different companies. But this is hardly the point, I try to remind myself. ‘Should be great. You’ll tell me where to meet him? Or will he pick me up? Probably not the latter if we don’t want to spook him – I suspect my mother may want to take a look at him.’