by Joan Smith
"You paid him, I hope? You did not let Philmot pay?”
“I hadn’t the cash on me. I am to make arrangements to pay him after I get home to my bank.”
This distressing news was digested. “We can go home tomorrow,” I said. “The money can be sent back next day. I shall pay you back by installment from my own money. In fact, I can sell my tilbury.”
“Philmot says you cannot continue driving it.” He cast a wise, sorry look at me.
“He told you why?”
“I heard the whole. Shocking way to carry on. He says those days are over for him, however.”
If this were true, it was superfluous of Philmot to have bothered raising the point at all. I could not but wonder whether the matter of character had arisen with regard to another offer to myself. Papa did not say so, nor did I have the courage to inquire.
There was no company to dinner that evening, just the household and the Fenwicks. After dinner the scene in the small parlor to which we adjourned held very much the air of a family gathering. The gentlemen perused the newspapers, the ladies sat across from them talking, sipping tea, and peeping from time to time to see if the men’s cups wanted filling.
“I see Reverend Crombie is speaking this week,” Philmot pointed out to my father. “Two evenings from now, at the Theological Society. You ought to stay and hear him, Mr. Fenwick. He has some interesting views on…” he took another look at his newspaper, “on the matter of double and treble livings. A bad business, that.”
“So it is. I think you want to appoint a new minister for that living you spoke of. I could recommend half a dozen to you. Crombie, eh? I would like to see him. I have known him any time these thirty years.”
"We ought to be getting home,” I reminded him.
“So we should. Two evenings from now, you say, Philmot?”
“Yes, only two. It would be a pity to miss him. I think you should stay.”
“I would certainly like to see him.”
“You cannot be thinking of leaving already!” Miss Millichope declared, incensed. “You said a week at least, Philmot. I have cancelled everything for a week. Doris and I have a drive planned for tomorrow afternoon. She wants to see Carlton House and the cathedral. She has never seen Carlton House, imagine! It would be a shame to come to London and not see the cathedral.”
“You want to see the Tower of London and Whitehall while you are here,” Philmot added, turning to converse with the elder ladies. “There are any number of famous sights to see. The mint…”
“We couldn’t begin to do it in one day,” Mrs. Millichope pointed out.
“No, no. A week at least.”
No amount of private persuading could prevent Papa and Doris from their course. The ladies were off to see the sights, and Papa to see Dr. Crombie, who had soon drawn him into a group of visiting churchmen who had many activities to be shared. I was left alone to indulge my frustration to the top of my bent.
We were falling deeper and deeper into Philmot’s debt with the passing of each day. Of all the people in London, he was the last I would wish to be indebted to. I went out a few times with the Synges, mère and filles. I sat alone over coffee one morning after Doris and Miss Millichope and Papa had left. Philmot was nowhere about. I wondered whether he was still in bed, or had left.
“His lordship would like to see you in his study when you are finished, Ma'am,” the servant told me.
What a wave of memories washed over me as I knocked at that tall oaken door. I wondered if he had got a new secretary. If not, I might be of some help to him in the interim, to reduce our debt of gratitude to him. The door into Harding’s and my old office stood ajar, showing me an empty chair at the desk.
“Come in, Olivia,” he said.
I entered, expecting to be offered a chair. Instead he strolled to the back windows, with the uninteresting view. I walked along with him. “I know you are upset over this business of repaying me for the diamonds, and I have a solution to suggest. How would you like to sell me back Lady Beaton’s tilbury?”
“I would be happy to be rid of it. Has she smashed up her high perch phaeton, or do you have another lady in mind to receive it?”
“Another young lady,” he replied nonchalantly, but he could not quite keep a smile from peeping out.
“Congratulations. That didn’t take long.”
“Oh she’s not my mistress. Did your father not tell you I am all reformed? It’s for Alice. She will want to be setting up a little carriage now she is to be a married lady. I’ll have it painted to disguise its lurid past and give it to her as a wedding gift. I can return your hundred guineas.”
“No, no. You must keep them to pay for the necklace.”
“Well yes—that was my meaning. I’ll be happy to take the nags off your hands as well, if you like.”
“Excellent. I’ll have them sent from Bath. I am sorry we are imposing so long on your hospitality.”
“No apology is necessary. I know you have changed some of your thinking lately, but I hope you have not lost the use of your wits for all that. You know it was my doing that you come here, and stay for a while. You cannot be in the dark as to my reason for doing so.”
“I realize you are trying to re-establish me to respectability. I am thankful, but it is not at all necessary.”
“I don’t want to marry a scarlet lady,” he said, reaching for my hands. I walked quickly away from the window towards the desk.
“You have made this offer before, Philmot. You know I…”
“Not this one,” he said, coming quickly towards me. I retreated behind his desk, with his lordship in hot pursuit.
“I made a damned presumptuous ass of myself in Hans Town. You quite rightly swatted me down. This time I have a different proposal to make.” I continued retreating, till I hit the corner. “Don’t bother looking over your shoulder. There is no escape,” he said, “unless you mean to crawl into the cabinet and bolt the door behind you.”
“I’ll take these in custody, for my own defence,” he said, closing his fingers tightly over mine. “I never was slapped by a woman before. It infuriated me to such an extent…”
“You deserved it.”
“Yes, a just dessert I agree. But isn’t it time for the savory yet, Olivia?” he asked, drawing my hands around his waist. Before I had time to remove them, I was crushed in a merciless embrace. I had to open my eyes once to confirm it was really the aloof Philmot performing with such boyish enthusiasm, then I could participate more fully. After a long and passionate kiss he lifted his head and smiled.
"Very competent,” he congratulated me. “I would have to give that an A grade. As I should have expected.”
“Of the clever Miss Fenwick,” I added.
Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry in January, 1981
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.