by Joan Smith
The flow of monies going out was also high. He lived not only well but extravagantly. To do the man justice, I must admit large sums were given to charity and poor relations. Not less than four male cousins were being schooled at his expense, while several female relations received pensions as well.
The name of Lady Beaton was recognized as being amongst his beneficiaries. It occurred to me she lived high on the hog for a woman with no apparent fortune of her own. Though her address was Upper Grosvenor Square, the home had been substantial, and of course I knew she had traded her tilbury up for a phaeton, which indicated she was not an elderly female. On one occasion I opened one of her letters and was taken to task for it, though I had been told to open his post to save him time.
Her note did not arrive with the regular post, but was brought by a footman with the message that it was urgent. Philmot was out for the day. Whether he would be home for dinner was a moot point. This being the case, I tore open the message myself and read it. It was a plea for funds, couched in such terms as left no doubt as to the urgency of the matter.
The bailiff was even then in her saloon demanding payment of two hundred pounds for “those items he suggested she purchase from Rundell and Bridges.” This establishment dealt in silver and jewels, which told me the purchase was an extravagance for a lady on the dole, but as Philmot had suggested it, it sounded as though he intended to pay.
Perplexed, I stood contemplating what to do. There was no way of being in touch with him and no way of writing her a cheque without his signature. I took the decision to pilfer the cash box, which he kept in his desk for such emergencies. It usually contained about twice the sum asked for. I sent Lady Beaton a note explaining the situation, and enclosing the money. Of course I told him about it when he returned to change for dinner. I saw at once by his stiff face he was angry.
“I prefer to handle my personal correspondence myself,” he said.
“The messenger said it was most urgent, and indeed when I read the bailiff…”
“Yes, I understand, but in future any messages from Lady Beaton, however urgent, will please be held for me to open. Under no circumstance do I want you disbursing money without my authority. There would be too many ready to take advantage of your inexperience,” he added as a palliative.
“You always pay her bills,” I pointed out. “Should I
not have given her the money?”
He directed a look on me that could have pierced iron, so concentrated was it. Then he suddenly shrugged his shoulders and gave an indulgent laugh. “It hardly matters. Kate would have got it by hook or by crook. She always does.”
“She is an extravagant lady, buying herself trinkets at Rundell and Bridges, when it is you who must foot the bill. I think you should exercise a tighter rein on your expensive relations.”
The indulgent smile faded. A snowflake on a hot iron would not have vanished faster. I had presumed too far to criticize one of his relations, or himself. "I am not one of your schoolgirls to be instructed, Ma’am. Lady Beaton happens to have particular claims on me,” he condescended to add, before he turned sharply aside to look over some letters I had ready for him. “That will be all, Miss Fenwick,” he said, without looking up again.
I left to change for dinner, but the matter continued to nag at me. I knew from his accounts he gave the woman large sums of money, larger than to most of his hangers on. Her home, for instance, belonged to him and was used without paying rent. She had a boy enrolled at Eton for whom Philmot paid the bill. She had a regular allowance from him, not terribly large, but considering the other perquisites, it was more than adequate for a life of elegance.
Knowing nothing of her, it was easy to imagine her with some peculiar claims on him, some favor rendered in the past, or some fall of bad luck that evoked his sympathy. My interest in her stemmed from my having purchased her tilbury and seeing her home, perhaps. I had not even that much to do with most of these anonymous relatives with whom I corresponded.
Philmot dined at home that evening, as he occasionally did. I may have imagined it, but I thought his mood was softening somewhat. We had a lively discussion of poetry over our meal, with himself taking up the cudgel on behalf of the moderns, while I defended the oldsters. As Miss Millichope’s eyes had given out on her before the advent onto the scene of such rebels as Byron and Keats, she roundly condemned them without benefit of a trial. I thought Philmot might remain at home that evening, but he went out, as usual.
Chapter Fifteen
With the excuse that governmental duties kept him busy, Philmot shoved his social correspondence onto my shoulders, along with my other work. I answered his invitations, and when he decided to have a party himself, I was asked to write out the cards, from a list handed me by Miss Millichope. Her eyes again were held to be the excuse, though she did in fact read for hours a day at trashy magazines and novels. She was as lazy as a hound dog. Philmot returned one afternoon early to inform us of the party. I had mixed emotions, liking the idea of meeting some people, but not caring to hear that its preparations, to some extent, would be my chore.
“You will see to arranging for flowers and food, Miss Fenwick?” he asked, with some inflection that made it a question about whose answer there was no doubt. “I always tend to the wine myself.”
“How grand a do will it be?” I asked, to gain an idea what quantity of food and flowers were involved.
“A small party. Auntie will give you the list, and you can deal accordingly. Harding had a list of merchants he dealt with for these affairs. I’ll see if I can find it.”
I had arranged many small afternoon parties for my father at Bath, and saw no difficulty in doing another. After he left and Miss Millichope found her list, I learned his idea of a small party was over a hundred guests! I was in a complete dither, but not about to admit it after certain aspersions already cast on my managing a grand household, while I was at Synges. He found Harding’s book and gave it to me.
With this aid, the job became less impossible. Gunter, the pastry cook, Holbein, the florist, and several other tradesmen were sent for to consult with and take orders. From them, I learned indirectly how his lordship liked a party done up. In the first style was how. It would put a good dent in his pocketbook, but I cared nothing for that.
Two days before the party, the florist brought arranged baskets of blooms to the house. I was engaged in placing them about the saloons when I at last made the acquaintance of Lady Beaton. I had been busy all morning consulting with the servants on the minutiae of the party. The butler stood with me in a small parlor, exclaiming over the arrangements.
“This seems very expensive,” I said to Holbein, tallying up his figures. “We are using our own palm trees for the corners, you recall.”
Before he answered, the housekeeper came in. “Miss Fenwick,” she began.
Busy as I was, I called over my shoulder without looking, “Just leave the list there, Mrs. Rogers. I’ll see to it in a minute.” She was to bring me a list of the servants and their specific functions at the do, so that no detail would be overlooked.
“It’s company, Ma’am,” she said. I turned to see standing beside her the most exquisite creature ever seen outside of a frame. She was a Gainsborough lady come to life, with the skin of that incredible translucent quality, as though light shone from somewhere within her.
She was tall, willowy, draped all in a dusty blue color from head to toe. She wore a small turban, the headgear more usually assigned to aging females. How very well it showed off her oval-shaped face. There was nothing to detract from the exquisite planes of the cheeks and nose. I wondered that more young ladies were not pushing their curls up out of sight. Certainly it darted into my head to do so, as soon as I got up to my room. The edges of her pelisse were trimmed in narrow swathes of some fur that had been dyed to match the outfit. Even her reticule and shoes were blue, the whole orchestrated to blend with a patterned gown in blue and white that peeped out beneath the pelisse. She smi
led, a somewhat icy smile, and said in a world-weary voice, “Miss Fenwick, I presume?”
“Lady Beaton,” the housekeeper informed me.
“Lady Beaton!” I exclaimed involuntarily, in a more surprised tone that I had intended employing.
“Your surprise is not greater than my own,” she replied, regarding me with an assessing glance. “Philmot did not tell me you were turned housewife, to oversee his domestic arrangements. A woman to write up some letters for him is what he said.”
“Wait for me. I’ll be right back,” I said to the man from the florist, then turned again to Lady Beaton, wondering what in the world to do with her. Miss Millichope was out, or I would have turned the caller over to her.
“Lord Philmot is not in,” I said, as we walked into the hallway. “Nor his aunt either. Could I take some message for you?”
“I did not come to see Phil or Marion,” she answered, turning towards the front of the house. I followed along, full of curiosity to hear why she had come. “I came to see you,” she told me.
“Oh,” I said, with a great lack of ingenuity. We turned left into a small parlor, sat down like any two ladies contemplating a pleasant visit.
She examined me a moment in a haughty way, then gave her decision. "You are not what I expected.”
“Am I not? I must confess I had formed a different picture of you as well. I had no idea you would be so beautiful.”
She recognized the compliment by a barely visible nod of the head. “What has Philmot told you about me?” she asked.
“Very little. I bought your tilbury from you, if you will recall. That is how I come to know your name. And of course from your letter…”
“I see.” She leaned back, her elbow on the arm of the sofa, and went on regarding me, staring boldly in a manner never adopted by any lady to her equal. “Just exactly what is your position here, Miss Fenwick?” she condescended to enquire when she was done looking.
I adopted her own trick of the bold stare. “I am a house guest, Lady Beaton. As Lord Philmot’s secretary has left suddenly, I am doing a little correspondence for him. Are there any more questions?”
“A great many, my dear, but I think I would prefer to put them to Phil. It seems to me you were not engaged in correspondence when I arrived, but in running the house.”
“Just helping out with the arrangements for the party.”
“What party?” she asked sharply.
My mind went spinning back to the list, to determine whether her name had been on it. I could not recall addressing a card for her, but it was odd her name had been omitted. Surely she, a close connection of the family, ought to have been included. It was easy to believe Miss Millichope, not a keen worker, had overlooked it. “An afternoon party,” I said.
“When is this great do to occur?”
"The day after tomorrow.”
There was a glow in her eyes, half malevolence, half intrigue. She made no mention of a card, nor did I volunteer any reason for the omission. She sat a moment thinking in silence, then arose suddenly. She reached into her reticule and handed me a letter.
“Please give this to Philmot,” she said in a bright, offhand way. “It is personal, Miss Fenwick. Philmot likes to handle his personal correspondence himself, I believe? I expect we shall meet again soon.”
I understood all her insinuations. I accepted the letter and followed her out, without speech. “How is my old tilbury holding together?” she asked, to give an appearance to the servants of civility.
“Fine. I am happy with it.”
“Too old-fashioned for me, I am afraid. We are all driving high perch phaetons nowadays, Miss Fenwick. If you wish to be in style, you must have Philmot buy you one."
“I buy my own things, Ma’am,” I told her.
“Ah—did I say buy? I meant find, of course.” A trill of laughter wafted back over her shoulder as she was shown out.
When I returned to the flower arranging, my mind was only half on it. My curiosity was burning to know what was in that letter, but I could not open it. I stuck it into the pocket of my skirt, and went on with my work. About ten minutes later, I noticed the odor of musk that followed me everywhere. Even above the scent of the flowers it was evident. I soon realized it came from my pocket.
When Philmot returned, he came to look in on his party arrangements. "Any difficulty?” he asked.
“Not at all. Lady Beaton was here during your absence,” I said.
“She came here?” he asked, staring.
“Why yes. Is there some reason why she should not? I thought she must have been here any number of times.”
“No, she has never been here,” he answered.
It was difficult indeed to know why he should be angry. He looked at me in a peculiar way. Had I not known him better, I would have said he looked almost apologetic. “What did she want?” he asked.
I handed him the letter. “She said she wanted to see me, but all she did was to give me this letter for you. She uses a very strong scent, does she not?”
“Yes, too strong,” he agreed, looking with noticeable distaste at the letter.
I smiled to see him so vexed. “What’s the matter, Philmot? Afraid she wants another two hundred pounds?” I asked, teasing him, as he was in an approachable mood. I felt strangely relieved myself. I had some feeling, when I found her to be such an Incomparable, that there might be some romance between her and Philmot, in whom I still had some proprietary interest. The matter was perfectly clear to me now. The obvious answer was that the lady was chasing after him, but his scowls as he looked at the letter told me how slight were her chances of success.
“Probably,” he admitted, with a rueful smile.
“While we are on the subject of Lady Beaton, I must tell you I am in a bit of a pickle. It seems her name was not on the invitation list, and I am wondering whether I ought to send her a card. Your mentioning she has never been here…”
“No,” he said, very quickly, very firmly. “No, Kate would not enjoy the do.”
I think Kate would have enjoyed it very much, but what he meant of course was that he would not enjoy to have her here. I was forming the idea Lady Beaton was not quite the thing. Her manners were somewhat ragged, to be sure. An impoverished widow, living on the fringes of society—very likely she was on the lookout for a patron, for if it were a husband she was after, I do not think she would have been excluded from Philmot’s exclusive circle.
I was curious enough that I broached her name to Miss Millichope on the next occasion we were alone together. “Lady Beaton was here this afternoon,” I mentioned in a casual way. “Your nephew seemed upset by the visit.”
“Lady Beaton?” she asked, frowning. “I don’t know any Lady Beaton, Miss Fenwick. What is she like?”
“Why, she is some connection of the family. A young widow—very pretty.”
“We are no kin to the Beatons,” she told me. “But a widow—I would know her maiden name, no doubt. You don’t know what she was called before her marriage?”
“No, I don’t. Kate is her first name.”
“Kate,” she said pensively, her broad brow creasing. "I don’t know who she could be. I used to know all the cousins and nieces and nephews, but as I grow older, I forget everything. I used to know the first two chapters of my brother’s Latin text by heart.”
When she made these foolish assertions, I could not but remember Philmot’s saying I reminded him of her, and be angry. What on earth could be the point of her having memorized two chapters of Latin?
“Everyone was very impressed at my knowledge,” she went on, with no consciousness of revealing her stupid vanity. “My friends were used to say I should have been a man, for when I was younger I was ready to tackle anything.”
At the moment, she was tackling a cup of tea and a broadsheet picked up during her outing. The subject matter of the latter had to do with a sensational crime of passion that was widely read by the lower orders.
“Had I been twen
ty years younger, Miss Fenwick,” she assured me, “you would not have had to come and help Philmot. I would have done it for him, but I am too old now for that hard work.”
“The work is not hard, Ma’am, only tedious.”
“I would not have liked that, for I always preferred a hard mental challenge,” she said complacently, setting aside the broadsheet to pick up an old chapbook of Dicey’s to try her brain. She had a collection of these. I had not seen them in ten years, and had never before in my life seen one in a polite saloon, but only in maids’ rooms and such places. I picked up another that lay on the table. As I flipped through it, I saw it consisted of many crudely executed woodcuts and a minimum of actual print.
“The Intriguing Wife and the Sharping Gallant” was the longest story in the book. The rest was filled in with ballads and childish sermons. I was too tired after my deal of real labor to arise and find something more interesting. As Miss Millichope was by this time deeply into hers, I sat perforce glancing through mine.
We were together, our heads bent over the books, when Lord Philmot came in, returned early from a dinner party. “The picture of domestic bliss,” he said, smiling from the doorway. “My two blue ladies studying their Latin and literature. What is it you are reading, ladies?”
I positively blushed to be caught out at such a low pastime. Miss Millichope was too engrossed in her story to be interrupted.
“I was just glancing at this little antique book your aunt was showing me,” I replied, trying to maintain my dignity. “Interesting to see how tastes have changed.” I lay it aside, as far from his view as possible.
He advanced to the table, and with innate perversity picked it up to flip through. “I do not see that tastes have changed much,” he disagreed, with a mocking look. “I make sure Alice would like this very much. I must confess, though, I had thought Miss Fenwick would be better employed.”
“I am not reading this! Just glancing at it. It is always of interest to know what was read and enjoyed in the past,” I pointed out.