Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  Probably spooked by the atmosphere, she motions to leave. ‘I’ll let you finish eating in peace.’

  ‘Err, thanks.’

  I place the tray table back over my lap, all the while wondering what tomorrow will bring. Patience has never been my speciality.

  In fact, two hours later, Blair returns home and opens the front door to find me pacing around the main hall, waiting for him. I got tired of worrying alone and realised I needed someone to talk to. Of course, Blair doesn’t know that talking is my intention – he’s guarded when he steps through the door, probably thinking I want sex here and now.

  I stop in my tracks. ‘Hi.’

  I wince at how unnaturally bright I sound. There are rules about sounding too eager, and I’m already pushing them by waiting around for him.

  ‘Yes, hello, m’lady.’ He carefully shuts the door, juggling a bag of groceries and a new mop in the other hand. ‘I was given permission to use the front door, in case you were wondering. Bit tiring carrying all the shopping to the back door at times.’

  ‘Doesn’t bother me. Besides, I was waiting here and not in the kitchen.’ I step forward and point to the mop. ‘Do you need a hand with that?’

  ‘Um, no, thank you.’ He looks at me a little quizzically, just enough to indicate his discomfort.

  ‘I’m not asking for sex, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ It can’t hurt to admit this now. Saves us a stilted back-and-forth.

  He shoots me an unimpressed look. ‘Emilia, I’m working.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m not trying to have sex with you. I just wanted to hang out. While you’re working.’

  ‘Hang out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not getting anywhere near me while you’re wearing that,’ he says, cocking his head at my nightie. ‘I actually have to get things done. With your father arriving, I need to make sure this place is tidy.’

  ‘About that…’

  ‘Can we walk and talk? I’m trying to be efficient here.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ I pad after him as he strides down the corridor towards the service stairs. ‘Are you freaking out at all?’

  ‘Freaking out? I’m a grown man. I can deal with the presence of other grown men.’

  ‘But it’s weird, isn’t it? You work for my mother, and now her husband is showing up out of the blue.’

  ‘Well, as you so kindly pointed out to me last week, it is his house.’ He slows his pace when we get to the stairs. ‘Are you freaking out? It seems like that’s what you actually want to talk about.’

  I wrestle the mop from him, determined to assist. ‘I’m worried. I don’t think he’s coming here to deliver good news. Did my mother say anything to you in the car?’

  ‘Not everything she tells me can be openly discussed with you.’

  The line is delivered casually, but I get the feeling he’s privy to more information than he lets on. I’m left wondering about the extent of this knowledge. It’s possible that part of the reason my mother hired a new butler is so she has a new confidant. Certainly, none of the maids at the estate would be interested in keeping her secrets.

  Perhaps I’m reading too much into things.

  I follow Blair into the pantry and hover as he packs away today’s shopping. ‘She’s quite worried, isn’t she? She’s not herself.’

  He stalls, rearranging the tinned foodstuffs on the middle shelf. ‘Your observational skills are as good as mine.’

  I lightly prod his shin with the mop. ‘Blair.’

  ‘Lady Emilia, I would appreciate it if you didn’t dirty my suit. That mop has been trailing on the floor.’

  Chastened, I take a step back, almost bumping into the opposite shelves. ‘Sorry.’

  He finishes tidying tins and turns around to face me. ‘You must be anxious if you’re being this docile.’

  I shrug, feigning nonchalance. ‘I shouldn’t be poking you with cleaning equipment anyway. It’s practically harassment.’

  For whatever reason, he finds my attempts at being coy amusing. ‘If I didn’t know you, I’d describe you as adorable right now.’

  ‘I can be adorable.’

  ‘Yeah, of course you can.’

  ‘I sense sarcasm.’

  ‘Then you sense correctly.’

  He steps over and leans in for a kiss. I immediately let go of the mop, sending it crashing to the floor. As soon as our lips touch, I wrap my arms around his waist, moaning softly as he weaves his fingers in my hair. He could take me right here against the shelving if he wanted to.

  However, he pulls away before things get to that stage, placing his hands on my shoulders to gently push me back.

  ‘I have work to do.’

  I resist, pressing my body into his. ‘You’re not sending me away, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I am. Now let go of me.’

  I sigh dramatically and release him. ‘Fine, I’ll let go, but please let me hang around. I’m going mental thinking about tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t tell you this… There could be a money problem. If my inheritance is in trouble, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘How about get a job?’

  I tilt my head to the side. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Look, this is obviously a family matter.’ He pauses, bending down to retrieve the mop. ‘It’s your mother who pays me – not your father – so, as far as I’m concerned, I’m going to continue doing what I’m doing. As for you, you’ll just have to wait patiently until tomorrow. Speculation will drive you mad.’

  ‘Perhaps speculation is prudent.’

  He stares at me for several seconds, tapping his fingers on the mop handle. ‘What are you going to do? Traipse down the London streets, dropping off your CV at every turn?’

  I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I do not traipse.’

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s probably not that bad. And if you have Abby’s driver ferrying over borrowed clothes because you don’t want to buy anything new, then you’re already being prudent, are you not?’

  ‘S’pose so.’ I tuck my hair behind my ears. ‘I should stop talking about it, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I can’t tell you what to do.’

  ‘No, please, give me something to do. I can fill up the bucket with water and detergent?’

  His eyes sparkle with mirth. ‘I will be hung, drawn and quartered if I let you do any housework. You can watch me. You might as well – you’re always watching me.’

  I follow him out of the pantry. ‘You watch me too.’

  ‘Yes, but there’ll be none of that tomorrow. Remember that.’

  I will remember to keep my eyes off him, but if my father’s news is truly terrible, then the first thing I’ll want to do is run to Blair – a problem in itself.

  Chapter 15:

  In a worrying sign, my father postpones his visit to Thursday – tomorrow – a move that prompts sheer panic here. No reason is given for the delay, so all Mother and I are left with are our own theories, most of which are dire and frankly more suited to a soap opera than our own lives. There are many ways to lose a fortune. Blackmail. Gambling problems. Extreme antiquing. Anything’s possible and, in the course of two days, we have driven ourselves to our wits’ end.

  ‘He’s afraid of us,’ she muses for the thousandth time. ‘So the news must be terrible.’

  I nod solemnly and try not to drop the tray of food I’m carrying. We’re having a cream tea beneath the gazebo in the garden, a solemn affair complete with appropriate weather: grey, cloudy sky and a chance of rain. As it’s Blair’s day off, we’re fending for ourselves. Never mind that the extent of our foraging was the discovery of pre-baked scones in the pantry – it still counts as self-sufficiency. I even whipped the cream myself.

  My mother sits herself down at the table. ‘Are you sure Eliza isn’t cross with you for rearranging your brunch?’

  ‘She’ll live.’

  I won’t leave my mother’s side while we’re in this purgatory. It woul
d be selfish to go out with my friends and leave her all alone to her fretting.

  ‘It’s not a matter of mortality. I’m worried she’ll start excluding you, as she does Abby.’

  ‘Really, she’s fine.’ I put a scone on her plate and pass her the cream and jam before taking a seat myself. ‘And if not, I’ll blame Al.’

  ‘Right, of course.’

  The weariness my mother exudes is astounding. She has dark circles under her eyes and rollers still in her hair, her choice of outfit – a creased, black shift dress – just as tired. This is taking an incredible toll on her. She even cried last night after leaving a pleading message on my father’s mobile. She’s not one to beg or pander, so I can only assume that in her heart of hearts she’s deathly worried that Andrew’s acquaintance is right.

  I, too, am starting to think along those lines. The only reason I haven’t resigned myself completely to them is because Blair keeps reminding me to stay calm for my mother’s sake.

  She frowns, the lack of make-up increasing her pallor and forlornness. ‘And you’re certain that Polly is okay with you not coming in until next week?’

  I try my best to remain patient. ‘It was her idea, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was. Sorry.’

  Forgetting the details of my matchmaking journey is another sign she’s out of sorts. I called Polly back on Monday with the intention of buying some time. I was planning to say I was traumatised by Oliver’s rejection and needed another week or so to get over it – an excuse to confirm my financial standing before proceeding with another match. But she was the one to advise patience, claiming we should give Oliver time to reconsider. For some reason, she’s convinced he’s still grappling with the decision to cancel on me. Despite my scepticism on this point, I agreed to wait and see, thereby securing the time I so desperately need.

  ‘Millie?’

  I look up from my untouched scone. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘If we are in trouble, we should take Andrew and Abby out for dinner. Apologise to Andrew for claiming he was mistaken.’

  ‘We can certainly do that, Mother. But we don’t know anything yet. Let’s try to stay positive, shall we?’

  She drops her knife with a clang, flecks of whipped cream mottling her dress. ‘And another thing – when I hired Blair, I promised I’d look after him. Whatever happens, I will make sure he won’t suffer because of us. I’ll sell my jewellery if I have to.’

  I sit back in the chair. ‘Did you hire him because you felt sorry for him?’

  Her eyes are focused on something far away, like she’s straining to see hope in the distance. ‘You should be nicer to him. Had luck been on his side, he would’ve been running The Savoy, not serving there.’

  ‘He does seem very switched on.’ I refrain from saying more, not wanting to let on that I’ve been closer to him than I should have.

  Several minutes pass as we pick at our scones silently. It’s excruciating, this morose mood. I can’t stand it. I push my food around until my plate is a mess of cream, jam and the baked good formerly known as ‘scone’. It’s just mush now, really.

  Suddenly, a female voice pierces the laden atmosphere. ‘Yoo-hoo! There you are!’

  We look over in the direction of the voice and find our neighbour, Mrs Skene, poking her head over the fence. She must be standing on a box or something, because she’s certainly not that tall.

  My mother is scandalised, scowling in disgust. She hates it when people raise their voices. As for yelling to your neighbours over the fence, well, she would say it’s all rather common.

  I jump out of the chair and jog over to the fence, fighting against the lethargy that comes with feeling down. ‘Hello, Mrs Skene.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you, dear. The postman delivered it to my house by mistake.’ She waves her hand in the air as if she’s trying to flag down a plane. ‘It’s a postcard.’

  ‘Postcard?’

  She stops her flapping and holds it out for me. ‘It’s for you, darling.’

  ‘Me?’ I take the postcard and almost fall over when I recognise Al’s handwriting. ‘You didn’t read it, did you?’

  Mrs Skene giggles. ‘How would I, dear? It’s in another language. Everything after ‘Millie’ is garbled.’

  I look down at the postcard. ‘So it is.’ Keep it together, Millie. Keep it together. ‘Thanks for passing this on.’

  ‘I must’ve rung the doorbell ten times. Tried calling your landline too. I thought you’d run away with that strapping new butler.’

  I force laughter. ‘Oh, Mrs Skene, you’re so funny. Running away with the help…’

  Little does she know that I’ve imagined such a scenario. It’s all part of the psychosis that comes with the sense of impending doom.

  ‘I can be quite the comedienne.’ She offers me a final wave. ‘See you later! I have to get back to my yoga DVD. I need to improve my downward dogging.’

  ‘Ha, don’t we all.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about, but there’s no point asking for an explanation. ‘Thanks again.’

  Once she’s out of sight, I run back to my mother and ask for a pen, adrenalin running through my veins.

  ‘Pen pen pen pen penny pen pen!’

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asks.

  ‘Al Al Al!’

  For the first time in days, the colour returns to her face. Now she has reason to get riled up, to pass judgement instead of being judged.

  She pushes her chair back and stands up, bumping the table in her haste. ‘Why do you need a pen? Read the damn thing – I want to know what that troublemaker has to say!’

  ‘It’s written in code. We used to do this all the time as kids, remember? So you and Father wouldn’t be able to decipher our secret, diabolical plans.’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ She comes around to my side of the table and yanks my arm, leading me in the direction of the house. ‘Well, this is not the time for ciphers and hijinks!’

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Consider it payback for the twenty hours of labour you put me through.’

  I can run in wedges, but staying upright while being dragged along is a completely different skill. ‘How is that relevant to the current situation?’

  ‘Code? Honestly. I should’ve waited until after the Cold War to have children.’

  ‘It’s not espionage. It’s a postcard from Al.’

  ‘Yes, Judas himself. Let’s see what that communist dolt has to say.’

  ‘You’re mixing biblical times with the Cold War. Judas wasn’t a communist.’

  ‘How would you know? Maybe he was.’

  ‘More importantly, how would you know? If you were walking the earth during Jesus’s time, that would make you at least two thousand years old.’

  ‘I know when Jesus was born.’

  ‘Really? Then tell Santa I want a pair of Lanvin ballet flats for Christmas.’

  All frenzied, and probably unsure as to whether we’re in Nazareth, Moscow or London, the two of us aren’t sure where to find a pen once we enter the house. This room, that room. Mother even calls Blair.

  ‘Blair’s not here,’ I remind her. ‘Look, why don’t you go and relax in the sitting room and I’ll find you when I’ve deciphered the message?’

  ‘Relax?’ Her focus is sharp now, her hands back on her hips. ‘You want me to relax? In the sitting room with the Second Earl?’

  ‘He’s not going to lecture you or anything. He only does that on Thursdays.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so funny. Who needs money when we have your wit.’ She throws her hands in the air and stomps off, calling over her shoulder: ‘Hurry up. I want to know exactly what that nonsense means.’

  Shaking my head, I rush to the study and grab the first pen I come across. Unfortunately, it’s a display pen only – a fountain pen that belonged to the Third Earl. Ridiculous. I scrabble around in the writing desk drawers and finally find a pencil to begin marking up the postcard, knowing the key to the code is always c
ontained in the first six letters after my name – in this case P L O O L H. These are the letters that translate to M I L L I E in the code, so after figuring out the alphabet placement, I’m able to get the whole message.

  Dearest Millie,

  [Ploolh!] It may interest you to know that I have settled my debt with Oliver. Scoundrel seems keen to go out with you. I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Meanwhile, I checked my Cambridge email and read your messages from April. I’m sorry for being away. I’ll visit soon, probably in a few weeks.

  Best, Al

  I huff in disbelief. Who does he think he is, sending messages like this?

  I’m infuriated by his casual words. He has never understood the difficulties he’s caused us, even when Father disinherited him. The only saving grace from this postcard is the part about Oliver. I’m cautiously happy about the settlement, because it must mean that Polly is right: Oliver is still interested. I get a little rush of joy, my cheeks flushing from the attention. He likes me enough to make peace with my brother.

  However, there were other matters to think about in the postcard. He claims to want to visit in a few weeks – a completely preposterous notion. I think he gets a kick out of making us worry in anticipation. He’s notorious, infamous. Just the way he likes it. Knowing him, if he was to visit, he would tip off the tabloids, telling them to camp outside so they can bear witness to his return to Pembroke property. It’s mid June now, so ‘a few weeks’ is early July – too soon for the press to be fully distracted by the Olympics.

  The likelihood of this visit probably depends on what he’s doing now. Is he in Switzerland? France? Still in Greece? The postmark is usually the first thing I check, but I got all sidetracked by Mrs Skene’s downward dog talk.

  East Yorkshire. This was sent from East Yorkshire.

  He can’t possibly be at home can he? Is this why Father delayed his visit?

  ‘Mother!’ I race to the sitting room, where I find her standing in front of the Second Earl’s portrait, apparently engaged in some sort of glowering competition.

  ‘I feel like he’s judging me.’

  I whack her arm with the postcard. ‘Forget about that. They’re all judgemental.’