Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘Here comes your mother.’

  ‘I mention the apocalypse and she arrives. How fitting.’

  I get up before she too can tell me off for lounging around and getting grass in my hair, though, by the snippy expression on her face, I can guess that she has bigger grievances than my apparent lack of haircare.

  ‘Abby, I wasn’t aware that you’d arrived,’ she says, striding up to the edge of the blanket.

  ‘Relax. I knew Blair was out.’ Abby waves her off without much concern. ‘His Lordship let me in.’

  Mother rolls her eyes, probably at the use of honorifics. ‘And what is this exactly? A champagne picnic?’

  ‘Funny you should notice – I was just about to open a bottle.’

  ‘At a quarter to four on Tuesday?’

  ‘Just a glass or two to calm Millie’s nerves.’

  The extended pause from my mother seems to indicate that, yes, maybe this nerve-calming strategy is legitimate, if risky. Too much alcohol and I might cry. Even more and I might get violent – smashing picnic foods against the house while Mrs Skene watches over the fence.

  Mother narrows her eyes at the bottle Abby has produced. ‘What is it?’

  Abby taps the side of the basket, where the Fortnum & Mason initials are printed. ‘A champagne that came in the hamper.’

  ‘Generic, is it? Can’t be worth more than thirty pounds.’

  ‘Which is why it’s only worth one glass.’

  Another pause and then a hurried shake of the head. ‘No, no. None of us should drink, especially not Millie.’

  I finally enter the conversation. ‘Why? Is a certain someone going to speak to me soon?’

  It’s a touch insulting that they’re both surprised by my interjection, as if having a say in my treatment is a sign of instability in and of itself. Even in my anxious state I believe I’ve been more productive than usual. I’ve left the house for outings rather than moping about in my room. I’ve brushed up my CV in preparation for job hunting and even looked into more affordable short courses to help update my skills.

  Obviously, my mother isn’t going to join our little picnic. Being my mother, however, she does offer her opinion, disguised as advice.

  ‘We’ve really rattled Blair’s nerves,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘And it doesn’t help that your father wants to stay – I just had words with him over his departure date. He’s going to leave tomorrow morning, but I think he’s expecting us to come back to the estate by the end of the month. He wants a last family hurrah there before putting it on the market.’

  ‘Odd separation you two are having, isn’t it?’

  She waves her finger at me. ‘Don’t start. I won’t have it, not when I’ve stuck my neck out to help you.’

  The fact I’m feeling a twinge of remorse means some of the bonding we did the other day must have stuck. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Has Blair said anything to you, Mrs P?’ Abby asks.

  ‘Nothing I’m at liberty to divulge,’ she says, with an air of mystery, before looking me in the eye. ‘Shall I try to give him a nudge?’

  Worried that her nudging will have the opposite effect and drive him away, I shrug. ‘Tomorrow’s Wednesday. He’ll probably bolt as soon as the sun rises.’

  Abby places her hand on my arm, patting me reassuringly. ‘Hey now, no panicking. Here, have some shortbread.’

  I stare at the shortbread that she’s holding out in her other hand. ‘Is that known to stave off panic?’

  My mother snorts. ‘It’s known to shut you up if you put enough in your mouth.’

  ‘I think that’s the case with most foods, not to mention objects. Or appendages.’

  ‘You’re regressing now, are you? Going back to mouthing off, all because he hasn’t made a decision?’

  I resist the urge to stamp and shout like a five-year-old, instead using words to explain my frustration. ‘What am I going to do if he says I’m not worth it? I’m terrified. I want to fight for him, but there’s only so much I can do. He has to want me, too.’

  Abby starts pouring the bubbly, downing a glass before handing me my own. Dealing with me must be very stressful.

  ‘Want one, Mrs P?’ she asks my mother.

  I answer for her. ‘A countess never drinks from plastic.’

  ‘It’s only plastic because I might smash the real thing when tipsy,’ Abby says, leaning back and looking supremely nonchalant. ‘The rest of the crockery here is real.’

  Mother doesn’t seem to have the patience for this. ‘Honestly, I’ll be drinking moonshine from a hip flask if I can’t get you to cheer up,’ she says to me. ‘Should I use affronting language in order to communicate with you? What’s that expression you used the other day, Abby? The one I frowned upon?’

  Abby sits up as if she’s been called upon in class. ‘Calm your tits?’

  ‘Yes. I won’t sully my mouth by repeating it, but you get the idea.’

  ‘I don’t need any interference – helpful or otherwise – thank you,’ I say, feeling defensive. ‘I’m okay, honestly. Anyone in my position would be worrying just the same.’

  ‘Maybe he’s looking for signs that you’re being proactive.’ Abby punctuates her deep thoughts by swirling the replenished champagne in her glass in my direction. ‘You know, not being a bad role model?’

  ‘I can’t very well leave my CV lying around for him to see.’ I raise my glass at my mother. ‘And Her Ladyship here has expressly banned any actual job hunting, lest it gives away our financial position and makes us look desperate.’

  Mother is clearly unapologetic about the ban, which I can understand in the circumstances. ‘I suppose in the meantime you can do something else productive. It doesn’t need to be a soup kitchen, but it should show that you’re not a burden to be carried by any man who wants you.’

  ‘Couldn’t have been blunter myself,’ I say, though not unkindly.

  ‘Maybe you can come over tomorrow and shadow me,’ Abby says as I take a fizzy sip. ‘I have to pick a venue for an event in August.’

  Mother pulls a face. ‘I’m not sure Blair will think it gritty enough.’ She shrugs. ‘Well, we can’t expect you to build houses for the poor, I suppose. It’s a start.’

  I nod appreciatively at Abby. ‘Might as well learn the ropes before I panic and use them as a noose.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she says, and then pales. ‘The learning bit, not the noose bit.’

  ‘And on that note, I shall take my leave now.’ Mother shoots me a warning look. ‘Try not to get drunk.’

  I salute her with my free hand, a gesture she frowns upon immediately. I forget that noble folk are hardly ever in the military these days.

  ‘Aw, she loves you,’ Abby says once we’re alone again.

  ‘Let’s not get sentimental here. She’s probably off to regale my father with complaints about our casual clothing. Shorts are for summer in the Riviera, remember?’

  ‘We should go on holiday. You, me, Andrew – and Blair.’

  ‘Careful, Abby. I believe hope is sprouting from your ears again.’

  She grins. ‘I do hope it’s contagious.’

  ‘Yes, because nothing says “summer” like a contagious ear ailment.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t hear you. Too busy being optimistic.’

  ‘Right.’

  In an effort to relax, I lie back down and return to the task of cloud analysis, eventually concluding that people who see entertaining shapes in cloud formations are victims of their own overactive imaginations. When I attempt to share this theory with Abby, I find she isn’t listening, which I take as a sign that I’m boring her. That is, until she pokes me in the arm and says, with a sense of urgency in her voice: ‘Um, somebody else is coming this way.’

  ‘Really?’ I don’t bother turning my head, despite having already written off the clouds. ‘First my mother, now my father. You’d think this was a public thoroughfare. Tell me, does he look happy or unhappy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, because
it’s not him. It’s Blair.’

  ‘What?’

  I sit up with enough force to give myself whiplash and immediately look towards the house, confirming with my own eyes that it is in fact Blair. He shouldn’t be here, but he is, and now I’ve made it plainly obvious that I’m in a panic.

  ‘I thought you said he’d be running errands for at least two hours?’ Abby is practically flailing. This is the closest I’ve seen her to frantic in some time.

  ‘Well, that’s what I was told! When my mother said she’d give him a nudge, I didn’t think she meant immediately.’

  The frenzied look in Abby’s eyes tells me she’s on the verge of panicking too. ‘Oh my God. Should I excuse myself?’

  ‘No, act natural.’

  Quickly, I get into a more ladylike position than just sitting with my legs outstretched in front of me. After tucking them to one side I look over at Abby, who has apparently chosen to freeze herself into an unnaturally stiff pose.

  ‘That’s not natural.’

  ‘I’m flustered!’ She’s talking out of the corner of her mouth, which is also unnatural. ‘He’s important to you.’

  I don’t bother correcting the understatement because there’s simply no time. Blair is walking towards us bearing a silver platter. He’ll be here within seconds.

  Jesus, I think I’m breaking out into a cold sweat. This is different to encountering him at mealtimes, when I’m with my family. It’s not like he’s out here to talk to Abby. Or maybe he is, I don’t know. She’s the guest – perhaps he’s just trying to be hospitable.

  Instinct tells me to run. What else can I do with this sudden rush of adrenalin?

  Unfortunately, it’s too late for that. Stony faced and stoic, he arrives at our picnic spot, his blue eyes trained on Abby.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Carrington.’

  Abby plasters on her best fake smile, the one reserved for when we’re both in trouble. ‘Good afternoon. Yes. Hello.’

  There’s a long pause. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  Oh shit. There’s a clear edge to his voice. I think he’s read into her odd behaviour and concluded that she, too, knows about us. Even his posture has changed slightly – it’s more defensive than deferential.

  Ever so slowly, he turns his attention my way and, for the first time in days, makes proper eye contact with me.

  ‘Your Ladyship.’

  I’m dying. Absolutely dying. It’s like a million deaths in one, followed by a million reincarnations and a million deaths again, all happening in the exact moment of rebirth. It is the circle of life on acid. I can only assume that the painful push and pull in my chest is my own life force freaking out.

  I have to respond. How do I respond? ‘You’re back from your errands early.’

  Seems like a sensible enough comment. If I could just silence the sound of blood pounding into my head, I might be able to survive this conversation.

  ‘My trip to Waitrose was unexpectedly efficient,’ he says. ‘Same goes for the post office.’

  ‘How… marvellously expedient.’

  Marvellously expedient? What the fuck is wrong with me?

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’ He clears his throat, lowering the silver platter by holding it out in one hand. ‘Anyway, Her Ladyship advised me to give this to you.’

  ‘Oh, I was wondering why it looked empty,’ I say, reaching for the colourful piece of card. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I believe it’s a postcard from your brother.’

  I laugh. ‘Can’t remember the last time anything of Al’s was treated with this much respect.’

  The uncomfortable silence that follows is a bizarre one, because it makes me feel like I’m the madwoman who doesn’t understand that this is how letters are normally delivered. I take the card, with its picture of the Olympic mascot, and set it on the blanket.

  ‘I’ll read it later,’ I manage to say, now wondering if he’s simply taking the piss with the whole silver platter thing. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, m’lady. And it was Her Ladyship’s idea to deliver the card this way. She thought it would be ironic.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I was wondering.’

  He nods, a hint of self-satisfaction pulling at his lips. Or is he merely twitching out of annoyance? ‘I could tell.’

  I spend the next five seconds dying again, and by the time I recover, he’s gesturing at Abby and her champagne.

  ‘Would you like an ice bucket for that, ma’am?’

  She hands the bottle to him, entirely too happily for having consumed barely two glasses of it. ‘Actually, yes, that would be nice.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll be back shortly.’

  He leaves abruptly, not staying to ask if we need anything else. That’s what he would usually do, duty-wise. Does this mean he’s as affected as I am, emotionally? Or is he simply too incensed to be around me for more than a minute at a time?

  My stomach is definitely churning. ‘Why d’you agree to that?’ I ask Abby under my breath. ‘You don’t need an ice bucket.’

  ‘Well, now you can follow him inside,’ she says, pointing at Blair’s back. ‘Did you see how lovesick he was? He must be going mad.’

  ‘That’s not what I saw.’

  ‘That’s because you’re you. Now get up and follow him.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘You can and you will. Otherwise I’ll have to send him back with all sorts of requests until you do so. Serviettes, a cheese knife, a tea towel –’

  ‘We do not need any of those things. And, even if I wanted to follow him back into the kitchen, how would I explain my purpose?’

  Her eyes suddenly light up. ‘Say you forgot to ask for a melon spoon.’

  I look at her dumbly and gesture at the basket. ‘We’re not eating any fruit.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s cutlery code for “I need to speak with you”.’

  ‘Is this how you courted Andrew?’

  ‘Hurry up and get in there.’

  She leans back and kicks me in the thigh, which ends up being my breaking point. I have no doubt that she will pester me until I do something, so I might as well suck it up and try to approach Blair before I end up bruised and battered.

  ‘Your sandals hurt.’ I frown as I get up.

  ‘Stop talking. Go.’

  I rush up the garden steps to the conservatory, only realising once I’m inside that it would’ve been much quicker to use the servants’ entrance. Shaking that thought aside, I make my way down the service stairs, my heartbeat accelerating with each step. If time is of the essence, then I must get going.

  Finally I get to the kitchen, where Blair is adding ice to the silver bucket. He stops, clearly having heard me, but apparently not ready to face me. This prompts me to draw nearer, until I’m only three feet away from him on the same side of the table.

  I’m about to open my mouth when he turns to me and speaks.

  ‘Was there something else you needed, m’lady?’

  The tension between us is so pronounced that there might as well be a banner hanging on the wall: I don’t want to talk about this now.

  I fight the urge to wring my hands, keeping them at my sides as if they’re locked in place. ‘Yes, I, uh, forgot to ask for…’

  His trepidation becomes clear when he looks away to add more ice into the bucket. Normally, I would snap at such insolence, but again, this is not a normal situation.

  ‘A melon spoon,’ I declare in a stronger tone.

  His shoulders instantly relax. He must know I was thinking of asking for his answer.

  ‘Yes, right away, m’lady.’ He walks off to the adjacent storeroom, where the silver is kept.

  I wish I could see his face, not so I can attempt to read him, but so I can stare at him until his defences give way. There’s now something thoroughly irritating about the wait. All this time I’ve been deferring to him, an approach I still believe to be correct. The thing is, if his answer is no then he really ought to put me out of my m
isery so I can stop teetering on the precipice of a breakdown and just get on with it.

  The relief appears to have made him buoyant, because there’s a bit of pep in his step when he walks back to the table.

  ‘Did you require two?’ he asks. ‘One for you and one for Mrs Carrington?’

  I find it impossible to hide my displeasure. A clipped tone is better than no tone at all, as my mother would say.

  ‘No, one is fine.’

  I hold out my hand and try not to shake with irrational anger, barely containing the emotion as he steps forward. He must sense this, because the spoon is dropped into my hand rather gingerly, as if he’s worried it’ll be the catalyst for a more violent reaction.

  The last time I gripped a spoon this tightly, I was in year four and competing in an egg-and-spoon race for sports day. This makes me think of eggs, which then leads to me imagining egg on my face.

  I am not one to be embarrassed. If I am being rejected then I need to hear it and then wear it.

  My eyes feel like they’re burning, stinging from the focus. I’m so worked up that if I don’t say something now, I will likely be found huddled in a ditch, my vocal chords damaged from screaming my lungs out.

  ‘Please do me the courtesy of rejecting me to my face rather than making me read into your confusing and erratic behaviour.’

  Fuck. Four days is the apparent limit to my patience. I tried so hard to bite my tongue, and now this.

  I look at the floor before facing a now seething Blair.

  His features are gnarled by his fury, like someone has etched lines of rage into his face. ‘Do you think this is what I wanted? For you to go running to Mummy and then force a decision upon me?’

  ‘I did what I had to do. I’m trying to make you happy.’

  ‘And you’re responsible for my happiness, are you?’

  ‘Somebody has to be, and that person is obviously me, because I love you even though you keep claiming that I am the worst thing that has ever happened to you!’

  I should’ve known that I’d end up saying those three little words in an argument. Damn Blair – the stupid, impossible love of my life who always has to make things difficult.

  Moments ago I was wondering about his defences and, as it turns out, for some situations he appears to have none. He’s nearly in tears. I can see how overly bright his eyes are and the drawn way he’s holding his mouth, as if to stave off his own breakdown. He steps back, clearly ashamed, one hand on his hip and the other partially covering his face.