by Betty Neels
‘You will, of course, remain here on the evening of the party,’ said Lady Manderly. ‘I shall need someone to see that everything goes smoothly. You may have your supper here,’ she added graciously. ‘I’ll tell Belling to see that a tray is taken to the small sitting room for you. I don’t expect you to meet any of my guests.’
Jemima’s eyes sparkled with rage, she said gently: ‘Well, that’s a good thing, because I don’t believe I would wish to meet them,’ she ignored Lady Manderly’s outraged look and went on opening the letters. ‘There are three guests who can’t come,’ she pointed out. ‘Would you like me to send invitations to replace them?’ She handed them over to her employer, still dangerously plum-coloured, and picked up the list of guests from the desk. ‘There are several names you queried.’
The list was taken from her. ‘You may take Coco for her walk,’ said Lady Manderly, ‘I’ll decide while you are gone. Be back in an hour’s time.’
And for once Jemima was only too glad to be back in an hour; Lady Manderly had entirely overlooked the fact that it was drizzling with rain. She handed Coco, damp despite her tartan jacket, over to Belling and peeled off her own wet mackintosh.
‘It’s foul outside, Belling,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I used to like October in Oxford, but I don’t like it here—all wet pavements and umbrellas.’
‘There is a nice fire in Cook’s room, miss, if you could spare a minute.’ Belling gave her a fatherly look, ‘and I daresay a nice cup of tea.’
‘Oh, Belling, you are kind, but I’d better go straight up—there’s an awful lot to do, only do ask me again when I’m not busy, it sounds lovely.’
Belling watched her fly upstairs and went back to the kitchen with Coco. ‘That’s a nice young lady,’ he confided to Cook. ‘You don’t meet her sort these days. I only hope she stays with us.’
Cook nodded her head. ‘You’re right, Mr Belling, she’s worth a dozen of that young madam who’s always in and out with Professor Cator. Nothing between the ears,’ she added tartly.
‘Ah, but she’s got looks, and our young lady hasn’t,’ declared Mr Belling sagely, ‘and it’s looks that count with the gentlemen.’
‘And I’ll be so bold as to question that, Mr Belling. The Professor’s no fool, else he’d have married years ago. I’ve lost count of the pretty girls he’s brought here.’
Long before the first guest arrived, Jemima was worn out. She was a strong girl despite her small stature, but Lady Manderly was difficult, her forceful nature not in the least softened by the fact that it was her birthday, and she had spent the day finding fault with everything and everyone. Jemima had a number of cards to open and hand on to her and innumerable small parcels, but Lady Manderly had very little to say about any of them. Viewing a knitted shawl with dislike, she observed tartly: ‘Twice a year I am plagued, at Christmas and my birthday—they hope to be remembered in my will, of course.’
Jemima, who had debated whether to send her employer a card, was thankful that she had decided against it.
The guests had been invited for nine o’clock; there was to be general conversation—or so Lady Manderly had decreed—dancing, and at eleven o’clock a buffet supper.
Jemima was to stay until the last guest had gone in to supper and then was free to go home, something would be brought to her on a tray during the course of the evening, once the dancing had started.
Jemima, hearing this, had suggested that she might go back to her room and have her supper and return in good time before the first guest appeared, but Lady Manderly would have none of it; the idea was vetoed at once and in no uncertain terms, so there was nothing for it but to eat as much as she could at tea and hope that the dancing would start as soon as possible.
But as it turned out she had no time at all even to sneak a sandwich from the plates standing ready in the kitchen. Lady Manderly had taken strong exception to a floral arrangement in the drawing room which Jemima was ordered to rearrange at once, and then when the small band arrived it was discovered that the guitarist was in no fit state to perform. There was no time to get anyone to take his place. Jemima got him down to the kitchen where she plied him with hot black coffee until she was called away once more to another small crisis—one of the hired waiters had dropped a bowl of trifle. Jemima didn’t waste time looking at the mess. She suggested calmly that it should be bundled up in a newspaper and taken at once to a dustbin, out of sight, and that the floor should be cleaned just as soon as possible. The chance of Lady Manderly coming into the kitchen was remote, but that lady was unpredictable; if she chose to visit her domestic quarters in purple satin and diamonds, she would do so without warning.
‘Will someone get me a big bowl,’ asked Jemima urgently, and stuck her neat head into the freezer. She addressed Cook, busy with canapés on the other side of the kitchen. ‘Mrs Betts, do you mind if I stay here for a minute and see if we can concoct something to look like a trifle?’
Mrs Betts dipped a very careful knife into caviare. ‘You go ahead, Miss Mason, take what you want.’ She glanced up briefly and smiled; a nice calm young lady, she thought, such a pity she wasn’t pretty.
Something looking like the ornate trifle which had been dropped began to take shape under Jemima’s hands. With a final topping of whipped cream, a sprinkling of glacé cherries and a nut or two, it looked moderately like the genuine article, although its inside—ice cream sponge cake, a couple of tins of fruit and a liberal dash of the cooking sherry in the cupboard—was going to taste different. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Jemima told Belling, ‘see that this one’s kept well away from Lady Manderly!’
She was washing her hands at the sink when one of the maids came hurrying in. ‘My lady wants you at once, miss, she’s in her bedroom.’
Jemima hadn’t been there before. It was a vast, high ceilinged room, furnished with enormous pieces in mahogany; the windows were draped in velvet with heavy pelmets and the bed had a matching velvet canopy. In the middle of this splendour stood Lady Manderly, upholstered in the purple satin and diamonds Jemima had been told about but had not yet seen. She presented an overwhelmingly impressive sight. Jemima gulped. ‘That’s a very handsome gown, Lady Manderly. You’ll be the centre of attraction.’
‘So I should be,’ said Lady Manderly sharply. ‘It’s my birthday party. Now go downstairs like a good girl and be sure to let me know the instant the first car stops in front of the door.’
Jemima went back down the staircase, wondering why Lady Manderly wasn’t going down to the drawing-room on the first floor to receive her guests, but there wasn’t much time to ponder the matter. Belling had taken up position in the hall and two of the maids hovered ready to lead the ladies above to the bedrooms allotted for their prinking. A moment later headlights swept to a standstill before the door and then a second car behind them. Jemima whisked up the stairs again.
‘Wait until I’ve greeted my guests,’ commanded Lady Manderly, ‘and then go along to the bedrooms set aside for the ladies and make sure that they have everything they require.’
She sailed off, and Jemima muttered a naughty word under her breath and crossed the landing. Half way there she heard Lady Manderly’s voice: ‘My dears, I should be in the drawing-room, but there’s been so much to attend to and really no one capable of doing the smallest thing right.’
There was a murmur from the staircase. The ladies would be arriving on the landing at any moment. Jemima, composing a letter of resignation in her mind, switched on all the lights, gave the three ladies a civil good evening and went down the back stairs to the kitchen. It might be Lady Manderly’s birthday, but that was no reason to belittle everyone around her. She hadn’t lifted a single beringed finger to aid those who had toiled to make the party a success and Jemima for one was going to say so. She flounced into the kitchen, her placid face so thunderous that Cook made haste to pour her a cup of coffee before accepting her help in arranging vol-au-vents on a number of silver dishes.
‘Been at you?�
� she asked sympathetically. ‘Don’t you take no notice, Miss Jemima. Born selfish, she was, and she’ll die the same way. ’Er own family find her a trial, I can tell you, you must be the sixth or seventh companion they’ve advertised for. ’Er own children keep well away, I can tell you—if it wasn’t for Professor Cator, no one would go near ’er.’
Jemima swallowed her coffee and began on the vol-au-vents. She said politely: ‘Really?’
‘Yes—it’s ’im ’oo advertises for the companions and takes a quick look at ’em first. We none of us thought you’d do, but I must say you’ve got a way with you. That’ll be you living at Oxford,’ she finished ingenuously. She added to make it quite clear: ‘Educated, aren’t you? Some of the others weren’t—didn’t know ’ow to go with folk.’ She accepted a dish from Jemima. ‘I’m sure we all ’opes that you’ll stay, Miss Jemima.’
Which, seeing that Jemima had made up her mind to go, was a bit unsettling.
Guests were arriving thick and fast. Jemima, leaping around from kitchen to bedroom, had time to do no more than glimpse them as she supplied pins and combs and hair sprays, wondering as she did so why so many of the women arrived lacking these small necessities.
‘And who are you, my dear?’ asked one elderly lady as Jemima pinned the hem of her gown. But before she could answer a thin young woman with a cross face said sharply: ‘She’s Lady Manderly’s paid companion. She must be at least the sixth in the last year.’ Her cold eyes surveyed Jemima. ‘And from the look of her, there’ll be a new one in no time at all.’
Just as though I’m not here, thought Jemima, and pinned the rest of the hem any old how, then turning a deaf ear to the thin woman’s cries for aspirin, she went out of the room, shutting the door behind her. As far as she was concerned the evening was not being a success.
It seemed a very long time before the guests were all safely in the vast drawing-room. Jemima arranged the mountains of fur coats tidily so that their owners could find them easily and went hopefully to the small sitting-room. Cook and Belling had done her proud. A tray had been arranged on the desk—soup, fragrant in a covered pipkin, a plate of dainties; smoked salmon, some of the vol-au-vents she had helped prepare, pâté and hot toast, lobster patties, a salade Niçoise and some strawberry tartlets topped with whipped cream, and by way of accompanying these delicacies, there was a glass of white wine and a thermos jug of coffee.
Jemima sat down at the desk and took a sip of the wine. She was tired and cross, but her supper was such a pleasant surprise that she was beginning to feel better already. She had the soup, the pâté and toast and was about to start off on the lobster patties when she caught sight of the Daily Telegraph on the table by the window. She found a pen, turned to the crossword and started on it between mouthfuls of patty. That left the smoked salmon and salad. She finished the wine and began on the salmon. It was getting on for eleven o’clock; she would be able to go home very shortly now. Everything was going well. She had taken a look at the dining-room, spread with the buffet supper, and agreed with Belling that it looked splendid and the birthday cake was a masterpiece. She had popped down to the kitchen to see if anyone needed a hand, and found them taking their supper in relays; no ladies had needed pinning up or calming down. She finished the salmon and attacked the tarts.
She was lifting the first one to her mouth when the door opened and Professor Cator came in. Jemima, her mouth slightly open to receive the tart, stared at him over its mound of cream.
He stood for a moment looking back at her and then sat down on the arm of the chair his aunt invariably sat in.
‘Why aren’t you downstairs with the guests?’ he wanted to know.
Jemima took a defiant bite. From a slightly full mouth she said: ‘I’m not a guest, that’s why.’
‘An error on the part of my aunt, for which I apologise. You have organised it all very well.’
She licked a crumb away with the tip of her tongue. ‘Well, I’ve done it before, you know, at home,’ she said ungraciously. ‘You don’t mind if I finish my supper? I may go home at eleven o’clock.’
His cold eyes flickered over the almost empty tray. ‘I hope Belling saw that you had sufficient of everything.’
‘Oh, he did, thank you.’ She poured a cup of coffee and took an appreciative sip and eyed the remaining tarts.
‘I should finish them,’ suggested the Professor blandly. ‘Tell me, are you being paid for these extra hours?’
‘I don’t know, but I should imagine not. Companions don’t have regular hours.’ She remembered the thin young woman’s remarks about paid companions and frowned heavily. ‘I intend to give in my notice tomorrow,’ she told him.
He was much too discerning. ‘Because of something someone said? Or has my aunt been worse than usual?’
Jemima bit into the last tart. ‘Both.’
‘You have another job in view?’
‘No.’
‘I have been talking to my aunt this evening and suggested that she should stay for a while at her house near Stratford-on-Avon. Do you know the town?’
‘Very well—we used to go over to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre regularly.’
‘My aunt has a house on the outskirts of the town; she has a number of acquaintances living in the area, you would have a good deal more time to yourself. You would have to live there, of course.’ He gave her a long hard look. ‘You look as though you could do with a holiday.’
Jemima put down her coffee cup. ‘How long for?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A month, six weeks. If at the end of that time you still feel you must leave, it would be easier to make the break before returning here, wouldn’t it?’ He added thoughtfully: ‘You would be near enough to Oxford to spend some time with your friends there.’
‘I had decided to leave.’
‘Yes, I know, but would you stay, as a favour to me?’
She opened her lovely eyes wide. ‘Why on earth should I do you a favour?’ and then, ‘Oh, because you gave a home to the little cat…’
‘No, that hadn’t entered my head. It may surprise you to know that I’m quite fond of my aunt; you are the only girl so far who has come to terms with her. All the others either grovelled or were pert. You merely speak your mind in such a reasonable manner that she accepts it. And don’t look at me like that—she has told me this herself.’
Jemima poured herself a second cup of coffee. There was no reason at all why she should oblige the Professor; he had never been particularly nice to her, although he had been kindness itself towards the little cat, and there was no getting away from the fact that Lady Manderly was a difficult employer. On the other hand, she needed to earn her living and if possible save a little money; enough to keep her while she took a course of shorthand and typing, or found a shop job, and that wouldn’t be easy. She wasn’t the type of girl to work in a boutique or fashionable dress shop, she wasn’t pretty or smart enough; she liked books, but she had a vague idea that one needed to have some kind of a diploma before getting a job as a librarian or in a decent bookshop. It would have to be something dull like stationery or groceries…
‘Well?’ asked Professor Cator impatiently. ‘You’re taking a long time to make up your mind. If it’s money you are worrying about, your salary will be the same, so it will cost you nothing for lodgings. You’ll be able to save some money.’
She gave him a cold look. He had a nasty way of stating facts too baldly. She doubted if his lovely Gloria had ever been spoken to like that, and what exactly did he mean? Was she to save for her old age, or because no one would want to marry her? If she saved any money at all, she would spend every farthing on something quite unsuitable, like a holiday in the South of France, or a complete outfit from Harrods—there had been a skirt and blouse and matching jacket in the window—a rich, very expensive green…
‘For God’s sake, Jemima, stop your dreaming and give me a sensible answer!’
The impatience in his voice brought her up short. He had
got to his feet and was towering over her, so close that she couldn’t look up at him without leaning backwards in her chair. She was aware of his elegance; he looked good in a dinner jacket. She had never thought much of grizzled hair before, but now she had to concede that it added a certain distinction to a man past his first youth. She wondered how old he was and because the wine had loosened her tongue from the discipline she imposed upon it, she opened her mouth to ask him, but catching his hard eye, said instead, quite meekly: ‘Very well, Professor Cator, if Lady Manderly wishes me to go with her to Stratford-on-Avon, I will, on the understanding that I’m free to leave when she returns here, if I want to.’
‘Good girl! I will take you home.’ He frowned when he had said that because of the stricken look on her face—the girl hadn’t got a home, had she?—but there was no need for him to feel sorry for her; he had cheerfully seen all the other companions go their solitary ways without a moment of regret.
‘Thank you,’ said Jemima with dignity, ‘I can see myself back to my lodgings.’
He opened the door for her and followed her downstairs. The party was going well, the volume of noise deafened them as they reached the hall. Jemima said goodnight and went to the little cloakroom to fetch her coat, and when she came out he was waiting for her.
Belling, appearing in his silent way, opened the street door and the Professor followed her through and walked beside her in silence until she reached the shop entrance. Mrs Adams had given her a key for the night, and he took it from her, opened the door, switched on the light and stood aside for her to go past him. Just for a moment she thought that he was going to say something, but beyond a brief goodnight, he was silent.