by Joan Smith
“Not so very different from the thing Alice was reading the other week. The Monk, was it not?”
“She did not get it from me. I do not consider The Monk a suitable literary diversion for young ladies. A depraved cleric who carries on with wantons and his penitents and ultimately strikes a bargain with Satan himself is not what was considered suitable when I was in the schoolroom.”
“You achieved this familiarity with the book after you were out of it then, and your taste already formed, I must conclude. Unless, of course, you are so superficial as to judge by hearsay.”
“I usually know what I am talking about before I venture an opinion.”
“Except, of course, on Vanbrugh,” he pointed out, with a superior smile. “I have kept you unconscionably busy, I know, but thought the redoubtable Miss Fenwick would have discovered her way to my library before this time. If it is the fact of its being adjacent to my bedchamber that has kept you out, let me assure you there is no adjoining door. Merely I found I had need of more rooms downstairs, and more than enough bedchambers. I like to have my books near me at night, when I do most of my reading. I thought I would encounter you there some evening.”
“I am usually asleep well before three or four.” I replied, to let him know I was aware of his late hours.
“All that beauty sleep would account for your bright eyes and pink cheeks. Come, I shall show you where it is. In future, you will have more free time to indulge your taste for chapbooks. We are well caught up on business.”
I looked to Miss Millichope, to excuse myself. She was deep into her tome, her face wearing a fatuous smile. Peering over her shoulder, Philmot read, “‘The Landlord Well Paid by the Handsome Tenant.’ One of her favorites. We shan’t disturb her.” He offered his hand to help me arise.
As we went towards the stairway, I said, “I suppose you are on your way to some ball or rout party?”
“Gadfly that I am!” he agreed, with a tsk. “The fact is, I have been trotting too hard, and am on my way to bed. My friends at dinner this evening were kind enough to tell me I looked burned to the socket. Even gentlemen need their beauty sleep, you must know.”
“Surely you are not going to bed at nine-thirty!”
“I am, unless you have something better to suggest. Some nice quiet pastime it must be, Miss Fenwick. I am practically an invalid. The wretched truth of the matter is, I had a few rounds with Jackson this afternoon, and got hit such a blow in the liver I nearly collapsed.”
“I wish I might have seen that!” I said, and meant it too.
“You still harbor some resentment of my abominable behavior the day you came here. You must at least give me credit for improvement. I have not backed you into any dark corners for an age. It took some self control, too, I can tell you,” he added, with a smile, to show he was joking.
“I trust your library is well lit, Sir?”
"It always was at night when Harding was with me, for he spent his time there. As Miss Fenwick has not even discovered the room, however, I cannot vouch for it.”
“Oh Harding! I am coming to dislike him nearly as much as... He was clearly a paragon. I do not hope to match Harding in anything.”
“You are much prettier,” he said with a bow.
I accepted the compliment with a curtsey and we proceeded into the library (well lit). Four walls were lined with shelves, the shelves lined with books. There was a long table with a dozen chairs in the middle of the room, but no free standing stacks. The shelves had that untidy look that hinted at their being used often, with gaps here and there where a book was out.
“Yours are not so carefully arranged as your sister’s. You have got the browns and blues and reds all mixed up,” I quizzed him.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You discovered her trick! A marvelous touch, don’t you think? We know someone who judges a book by its cover, eh Miss Fenwick?” he said, leaning his head close to mine.
“Someone other than myself, you infer?”
“You are sensitive. The greater part of my books are at my country place. I don’t have time for any serious study when I am in London. You will find the left wall useless for your purposes. It is made up of books pertaining to my work in Government. The chapbooks are...”
“I read something other than chapbooks. I notice how well you are supplied with marble covers. They will be blamed on your mama, I daresay. You can no longer pass Miss Millichope, who reminds you so forcibly of myself, off as an intellectual who reads gothic tales. We have her number.”
“Lady Synge is the culprit. She would have frisked them off to Russell Square, but they did not match her decor. I must confess I took some pleasure from The Monk and The Castle of Otranto in my youth. Walpole was a friend of the family. Of course I more usually read…”
“Yes of course. You would much prefer to read Philosophy, in Latin or German if you could find it,” I
told him.
“Let us concede between us we would each prefer Metaphysics to anything else ever written, but as we have it all off by heart, we shall put ourselves to sleep with a good novel. Just this one time, of course! We shan’t repeat the vice till tomorrow night.”
After we had each made our selection, carefully looking to see what the other had chosen and confirm it was nothing else but escape reading, we turned to leave. I wondered whether he would revert again to some quiet pastime for an hour before retiring. Cards or chess occurred as likely amusements, at either of which I might acquit myself passably. I did not intend to raise the matter if he did not, however.
“Did you happen to mention to Lady Beaton the day and hour of the party?” he asked suddenly.
“I believe she asked the day of it, and I told her. Not the hour. Are you set against her coming?”
The question seemed to surprise him. His brows lifted in astonishment, but his reply was not informative. “I prefer to invite folks to my home when I wish to entertain them.”
“You can hardly turn her from the door. A relative of your family.”
“A connection only,” he replied.
A connection would imply she had married a relative, but Miss Millichope had already denied this. I sensed he disliked Lady Beaton, but could not imagine why he was so generous to her, if that were the case. “Perhaps she won’t come,” I said.
“Probably not,” he agreed.
Until the subject of Lady Beaton had arisen, we were going on famously. Such interchanges as this had been foreseen by me when I agreed to come. They had been delayed by his perfectly wretched behavior on the first day, but gradually the resentment on both sides had dissipated. “Well, I am for bed,” he said, hefting the book and looking at it.
“I feel a little tired myself,” I said, to hide my disappointment at the loss of further doings that night.
“I have worked you too hard. You should go out more.”
“I have my tilbury. I could…”
“No!”
“I don’t always drive into a ditch, Philmot!” I said, thinking he objected on that ground.
“I would like you to drive with me, tomorrow.”
I was flattered, yet his objection had been rather violent. I was left with the distinct impression he did not wish me to drive in my tilbury, which was very odd, considering it was himself who had led me to buy it. “We’ll arrange the time tomorrow morning. Goodnight.”
He turned towards his room, and I turned down the hall towards my own, curious as to why he was so much friendlier than before, and a good deal more curious about Lady Beaton.
Chapter Sixteen
Philmot’s early night did him a world of good. He was in his office the next morning before I was, myself, and had already opened his mail.
“Nothing of any importance,” he told me, handing me four or five letters. I took them into my office, which I had spruced up slightly since taking over occupancy. I had formed the habit of snitching a few flowers when they came in and arranging myself a small bouquet.
&nb
sp; The picture of some ancient king standing in ermine robes with a staff in his hand had been hidden behind the desk and replaced with a French country scene purloined by a willing footman from a room seldom used abovestairs. A few of my own favorite bibelots brought from Synges rested on top of a cabinet.
The door adjoining Philmot’s office was left open, for he was so seldom in the room I kept an eye on it. Visitors, for instance, would enter there, and if I could not see them, they might leave unattended.
I sat down to answer the letters, thinking I would be finished inside of an hour, and have time to see the housekeeper and butler about the party the next afternoon. I noticed a couple of times Philmot was not at his desk, but standing near the window, looking out, apparently thinking about something. Twice when I looked up, he had turned to look through the door at me. It is disconcerting to think you are being watched as you go about your business. I decided to close the door, and in order to do it without seeming to resent his watching, I made the excuse of requiring the address book, carefully closing the door after me.
I had scarcely resumed my seat when the door opened and Philmot stuck his head in. “I forgot to tell you, I paid ninety-five pounds to Tattersalls on settling up day, last Monday. Will you enter it in my accounts?”
“Certainly,” I said, then went on writing. When he left, the door remained open, vexing me slightly, but I did not again look towards the window, where he was still stationed.
When the letters were completed, I gave them to him and looked about for his account book. With only one item to record, I did not bother to remove it, but made the entry in his office. Glancing up, I noticed he was regarding me intently, in a manner that was beginning to set my nerves on edge. I left quickly, before feeling prompted to make a bold comment.
I planned to go to see the butler. Philmot asked me, very politely, if I would mind looking over a speech he planned to make in the House. I could hardly refuse, though my opinion would be of little enough use. The subject had to do with the price of corn. As I read, he took up a position behind me to read over my shoulder. I am not an imaginative person. In any case, I was not imagining that Philmot was following me that morning with his eyes, and in many cases his whole body.
In a moment, he reached over my shoulder to finger a passage for careful scrutiny; when he lifted his hand from the page, he placed it in a careless way on my shoulder. It felt like a hot iron, so conscious was I of his touch. I pretended to notice nothing amiss in this behavior, but in fact was astonished.
This was not the brash, disrespectful sort of freedom indulged in on that other infamous occasion. It was tentative, hesitant, waiting on his part to see my reaction. He could not know the words jumped in a senseless way before my eyes, with nothing registering on my brain, could not hear the wild beating that was going on inside my breast. After a breathless while I turned to face him. He looked at me a long minute, into my eyes. We seemed transfixed.
“That—that’s very interesting. I could hardly understand more than a half of it,” I lied.
“Thank you. I consider that high praise, Olivia,” he said, and took the speech back. It was the first time he had called me by my Christian name, except for that one occasion I preferred to forget. “Are you free now for our drive?”
“I was going to oversee a few details for your party. My employer, you must know, is so clutch-fisted he has saddled me with a dozen odds and ends, in case I should ever find a moment free of writing.”
“I would not want your house management classes to have been in vain. Did you learn anything from my sister’s housekeeper, by the by?”
“I hope you will not be disappointed in the way I have arranged things.”
“Oh no, I have gotten over my fit of being disappointed in you. Come and show me what you have
done.” He held the door, then came with me to view the saloon.
“You will see I have saved you a few guineas by removing your palm trees to the corners, thus cutting down on the baskets of flowers.”
“Harding never thought of that stunt,” he congratulated me. "What are we to eat? If you have not ordered my favorite petits fours from Gunter, I shall either cry or beat you.”
“I never thought you would have a sweet tooth!” I was surprised into saying.
“You are judging by my astringent taste in females, I collect? If you are trying to please me, which of course I do not believe for a moment, you will find me not averse to a little sweetness, to lighten the vinegar.”
“I did not order any vinegar, Philmot.”
"The question is, did you order the petits fours?”
“Four dozen. It is the quantity Harding ordered last time for a party of similar size, so I made sure it was
the optimum quantity.”
“Poor Harding. I have made you despise the man, sight unseen, and he is really an excellent fellow. That’s what happens when we praise someone too much to a person who does not know him. Or her. You know, I think, which her I am referring to. I daresay if you ever met him, you would be looking as hard as you could for a flaw.”
“I would not find one, to judge by what you have told me.”
“You can always find one, if you look hard enough. No one is perfect, not even the clever Miss Fenwick, despite the rumors that preceded her arrival.”
“It is well you had Lord Strathacona’s opinion of me to balance the scale. I would have given an ear to know what he said.”
“It don’t bear repeating,” he replied, in a teasing way. “All true, too. Well, perhaps I would not agree you are the most managing female ever born, but then Strathacona never met my Great Aunt Matilda. Aunt Marion’s mama, if you are unaware of it. The daughter’s managing capabilities have fallen off since her brain is rotted with trying to learn French. She used to take better care of me.”
"Why do you have her live with you, if you dislike managing women?”
“Oh, I did not say anything about disliking them. It is Strathacona who mentions his abhorrence of the breed every two minutes. Between the two of us, I think he and Deb could use a manager.”
“If that is a hint I should apply for the job...”
“You already have a job. And do it very well too, to my infinite chagrin. I had hoped you would not, you see, so I would be justified in all the trouble I have caused you. This tangled conversation is in the nature of an apology, Olivia, in case even your superior abilities fail to recognize it for one.”
As his treatment of me had been harsh, I did not bother with the insincerity of asking what he apologized for. “I made my share of errors,” I admitted, with a memory of having left Dottie untended at the modiste’s shop.
Philmot remained home to luncheon on that day, after which we went for our drive. I was not displeased when it was his open curricle that was drawn up in front of the house, not displeased either when our route was to the busiest section of town, Hyde Park, where we were seen by all the ton, I sitting next Lord Philmot in his carriage. We stopped at the barrier, where I was introduced to several eminent persons as “my house guest, Miss Fenwick,” with never a word about secretaries, governesses or anything else.
“You are a friend of Lady Beaton, are you not?” one gentleman asked me. “I think I have seen you driving
her carriage.”
“Not really,” I began to explain, but was quickly outspoken by Philmot.
"You are mistaken, John,” he said abruptly, then began to talk about some other matter.
As we drove on, he said, “I made an error in leading you to buy Lady Beaton’s tilbury. My groom has been taking a close look at it, and has discovered the wheels to be badly skewed.”
“It runs quite smoothly.”
“It could be dangerous. You must not drive it till he has got it fixed. You will dislike being without it, but must feel free to borrow something of mine till it is repaired. Something other than this curricle and greys, that is to say,” he added. He was out of reason proud of his unmanageable te
am of goers.
“How long will it take?” I asked, sorry to be losing my tilbury just when it seemed I was to gain a little
free time.
“Not long. I’ll let you know when it is ready. Meanwhile use my chaise. I don’t use it in good weather.”
I had not the least objection to being carried about the city in Philmot’s crested carriage, and spent the next moments trying to think of some destination worthy of it.
I knew from handling his correspondence that Philmot was promised to a ball that evening, and thought I would be dining with Miss Millichope alone again, sharing an evening by the cold grate. With this idea in my head, I made no elegant toilette, but came to the saloon before dinner in my simplest gown, a bronze sarcenet. Miss Millichope was with her nephew when I came down.
“This is a surprise, Philmot,” she said. Then she smiled at me, and went on, “Perhaps Miss Fenwick would like to come with us. She likes music.”
“I am accompanying my aunt to a musical evening at a friend’s home after dinner,” he explained. “An Italian tenor and a string quartet. Does Miss Fenwick like music enough to endure such an outing?” he asked, smiling. "Lady Varley is having the do. I know little of her taste in music, but can vouch for the quality of her spouse’s cellar. If it gets too rough, we can always sneak away to a parlor and drink.”
“Are you not going to the ball?”
“Ball?” he asked. “Oh, you refer to Elgin’s do. No, the fact is, this liver is still acting up after its torture at Jackson’s hands. I am fit for nothing but a quiet evening sitting down, and have offered to accompany my aunt to hear the tenor. We would be happy if you would come with us.”
I was pleased to have been included, but could only wonder he would go out at all if he were feeling unwell. The wounded liver did not interfere with his taking a good dinner. I wondered if it were possible he had changed his plans so that I might be included in the outing. Was it ineligible for him to take me, uninvited, to a ball, whereas the less formal concert could more easily accommodate the uninvited?