Olivia Read online

  I was disappointed, but there was no one to complain to, so instead I settled down to business. I judged I had four hours before I would have to begin dressing for dinner. I intended to have the assigned work completed. It was not exactly interesting, though I was surprised to discover in how many commercial affairs he dabbled. Of more interest were the family matters; the number of relatives who found occasion to ask his help, either financial or to find a home or position for some wanting member.

  The letters were of all tones—an Aunt Martha wrote in great detail about the family, a Cousin Alfred came close to demanding his lordship’s intercession to find a post in London, another had a friend who wished to know if there were any country livings going. Some just plain asked for money. The replies varied as much as the requests. In some cases there was a scribbled yes or no on the margin, and nothing else to tell me what tone to adopt. I followed the clue given in each missive. The chatty Aunt Martha got a polite answer and fifty pounds. Cousin Alfred was invited to present himself in person and outline his skills, talents, and so on.

  After a few hours, my neck was cramped, my feet asleep, my fingers sore from the close work. I walked about to rest my eyes and stretch my limbs. From the hallway the sounds of tinkling glasses and feminine laughter floated towards me. The maiden-aunt chaperone entertaining. I could hardly go uninvited to her party, but I could at least have a cup of tea. When it was brought, there was no room for it on my paper-littered desk. I requested a small table to be brought to my room.

  The servant, a junior footman, was polite and friendly. When he asked if there was anything else I required, and said his lordship had asked that I be taken care of, I took advantage of the offer. “Do you think you could find me a more comfortable chair? This one is very hard.”

  He was soon back with a nice padded one, which was unfortunately too low to suit the desk, but it was retained for my tea break. As I sipped, it struck me the room was so spartan as to be unpleasant. No pictures on the wall, nothing but a linoleum on the floor. One could only wonder at this evidence of skimpiness in such a rich household. “Lord Philmot’s last secretary was no hedonist, was he?” I asked, with a disparaging look around at the surroundings.

  “Oh this is not the secretary’s office, Ma’am. This is just a storage room that was cleared out recently to make room for old files.”

  “I think I have been put in the wrong room,” I said, sure it must be the case.

  “No, Ma’am. His lordship particularly said to put you in this cupboard. Mr. Harding left some personal effects in his office which he’ll be picking up soon.”

  The idea was not slow in occurring to me that I had been put in this cupboard, aptly described, to be as uncomfortable as possible. Philmot had not liked having to apologize, or perhaps it was having his advances repulsed that had decided him to behave in this way.

  I finished my tea and returned to work. Compared to my teaching chores, this was slave labor. No one to talk to, no pretty surroundings, nothing but slogging through letters, first figuring out what they were about, then deciphering Philmot’s scrawls with regard to an answer, then to compose the reply in some tone that was appropriate.

  I was more than ready for my dinner. This at least would be a relaxing, civilized interlude in a dull, hard day. I would wear my blue silk. I wondered if there would be company for dinner. He had not said so. Indeed he had not said I would dine at the family table, but as I was to be called a guest outside of the walls, I could hardly be fed in the kitchen.

  My head ached when I finished the last letter, but I revived somewhat when I placed the neat stack on his desk. I felt he would be hard pressed to complain of his bargain. A man could not have done a better day’s work, I thought, with a sense of satisfaction at a job well done.

  After making a toilette grand enough to do justice to whomever sat at the table, I went belowstairs, to find Philmot was dining out—had already left, and I was to take my meal with his Aunt Marion, whose presence was to guarantee propriety to my working visit.

  I cannot imagine why he tolerated this female presence in his household. She was of that baneful species, the maiden aunt. Miss Millichope was her name. She was an imposing dame of statuesque proportions. Her gray hair was worn in a fringe across a broad brow. The cheekbones were broad, the eyes a pale blue, the nose childishly small and upturned. She wore a rose crepe gown of excellent cut, whose excellence by no means concealed her large size. When she spoke, she lifted her brows and looked down that tiny nose, as though assessing a particularly loathsome specimen from the lower animal kingdom. She wheezed when she spoke, as though the exertion caused her unsuspected effort.

  “You would be the gel helping Philmot with his letters,” she told me, after I had curtsied and gave her my name. “Peculiar way of carrying on, but he tells me you are clever, Miss Fenwick.”

  “Kind of him to say.”

  “Yes.” She wheezed again while surveying me for some seconds, then lifted one languorous hand to indicate I might be seated on a chair across from her. “You are one of these modem gels who reads and all that,” was her next charge against me.

  “I enjoy reading,” I confessed.

  “So do I. The young think they have discovered everything. I read a great deal in my youth. I would read still, but for the trouble with my eyes. Everything blurs after a while. It is likely a result of all the heavy reading of my youth.”

  “How very unfortunate.”

  “Not a complete misfortune. I have read everything worth reading. Now, in my more mature years, it is my intention to digest it, and to contemplate philosophy. Do you read philosophy?”

  “A little.”

  There was another of the painful wheezes, louder than any that had preceded it. The brows, tired of resting so high on her fore head, lowered, leaving behind deep lines. “You want to read Locke,” she advised me. “There is a deal of common sense in Locke. Hobbes ought to be banned. And what is your opinion of Mr. Godwin?” was her next question. She had been warned of me. I disclaimed all support of the wicked Godwin.

  “The likes of him are turning the world upside down,” she cautioned. “In my day gels were told where to marry. They made good marriages of convenience and had affairs of the heart. Nowadays the ladies marry for love and have affairs of convenience. One hardly knows which is worse. It is why I never married. Philmot tells me we have that view in common.”

  I disliked to admit holding any view in common with this one, but told her I did not view matrimony as the only style of life for a lady.

  "An independent life is not for everyone,” she told me, “but for those of us with fortitude and spirit, it is possible.”

  During the long meal, she told me a great many things. She informed me which authors, artists, architects and composers I ought to admire. She informed me any poetry written in this century was pernicious and ought to be burned. She explained in minute and totally incomprehensible detail why it was impossible for anyone with a logical mind to learn French. If they persisted in flying in the face of nature, they would eventually cause absolute deterioration of the mental faculties. French was held accountable for many of the modern world’s ills.

  I never listened to so much rubbish in my life, and to cap it all off, at the meal’s end she told me she was very pleased with me, and was sure we would be great friends as we thought so much alike. I had been too preoccupied to offer her any worthy contradictions.

  I did not anticipate an entire evening in her company with any great relish. This ordeal was spared me. She was going to hear a concert of antique music with some friends. “I know you will be occupied, for Philmot said you would not likely get around to his accounting till after dinner.”

  I had done more than enough work for one day. After Miss Millichope had left, I went back to my office to think of ways of making it more comfortable. Before long, I went to take a peek at Mr. Harding’s room. It was much finer than the cupboard in which I was expected to slave. It was a miniatu
re of Philmot’s own room. If the last secretary had left any personal items behind him, they were small enough to have been contained in the drawers of the desk. It was a weak excuse to put me in the closet. I opened the drawers to see a few papers and books, enough to fill a small carton, which they were soon doing.

  In the morning I would tell Philmot the real office was now empty, and ask if there was a particular reason why he wished to keep me in the cubbyhole. I would be interested to hear his answer. The remainder of the evening was spent in my chamber, fixing it to my liking. I found time to worry at Harmsworth’s not showing up with my money. With luck, he would come when Philmot was out. It would be uncomfortable to meet with him after the recent altercation between Philmot and myself, but one meeting was essential. I must get my money and my ticket to redeem the diamonds.

  Chapter Fourteen

  No hour had been mentioned as the one for beginning work in the morning. I went to breakfast at eight thirty and ate alone. Before nine, I was back in my office. While awaiting Philmot’s arrival, I began browsing through the files of correspondence, as he had suggested.

  At nine-thirty, he came in. I showed him the pile of answered letters. He sat down to read them through quickly, with no complaints and no praise. “If you’ll seal these up as I sign them, I can frank them now and have done with it,” he said, in a businesslike manner. This busy interval left little time for talk, but he did say Miss Millichope had expressed approval of me.

  I was not at home enough to venture any derogatory remark. “She tells me we have some things in common,” I replied vaguely.

  "I thought you two would hit it off,” he said. “You always reminded me of Aunt Marion. How she must have been in her younger years, I mean,” he added.

  I was hardly more offended than shocked. How was it possible anyone saw a resemblance to me in that opinionated, foolish, fat woman? I sensed that, like my cubbyhole, it was intended as a slight to my esteem, a revenge for having put down his advances. I folded the letters in silence, refusing to rise to his bait. This done, we dealt with the morning’s mail.

  “In future you could open the letters before I arrive,” he mentioned, “to save me some time.”

  My plan of coming to the office at nine-thirty evaporated. The preceding day’s performance with the letters was repeated. They were run through rapidly, with directions for replying to each briefly noted. “I shall be out all day,” he said when we were finished. "If you get time, you could work on the accounts this afternoon. See if you can balance up my book. Nothing has been done to it since Harding left. It’s probably in a mess. There is a list of some cheques I have written somewhere.” He routed around in drawers, finally producing a scribbled sheet, very long, of sums spent. I was curious to get a look at it.

  The whole of his work took about an hour. By ten-thirty, he was arising from his desk, his day’s duty done. “If there are any questions, just ask. I hope you are quite comfortable? I told the servants to see to your needs.”

  “There is one point, Lord Philmot. Is there any reason I cannot use Harding’s office? The cupboard you had cleared out for me is cramped and uncomfortable. Warm in this season, you know.”

  “Unfortunately, Harding left his things…”

  "His papers and books have been put into a carton. I had some time left over after answering those few letters you gave me yesterday.”

  “Oh,” was all he said. “In that case there is no reason you should not use the room. I am happy to see you are making yourself at home, Ma’am. If you require anything else, I’m sure you’ll see to getting it for yourself.” The tone was similar to the words—ambiguous, but certainly capable of being interpreted as pushiness on my part.

  "Thank you. I dislike to bother you for every detail, for I can see you are busy.”

  “I have a bill being debated in the House, and without Harding to help me, I must do all that work myself. Now that we are getting caught up on this backlog, perhaps you will find time to give me a hand with my political work.”

  I could not foresee a single second free that day, so made no offer. All morning I read and wrote, while the ink seeped onto my fingers, destroying the white cuffs of my morning gown. Even Miss Millichope was out for luncheon. I ate alone from a tray in the office, feeling I had struck a poor bargain to have come here and be treated like a slave. When the servant came to remove my tray, he handed me a letter. It was heavy, encouraging me to believe Harmsworth had been to call. “A gentleman left this for you,” he said.

  “In future, I would like to be told when I have callers,” I informed him. I was relieved this particular one had come during his lordship’s absence.

  “Mr. Harding never had callers when he was working,” the footman told me, but in an apologetic manner, as one explaining a lapse.

  “I do not expect to have many, but if anyone comes for me, I would like to be told. Thank you.”

  When he left, I eagerly tore open the letter, the thought forming that I might take the money and leave Philmot’s house. Really it was inhumane the way I was being treated here.

  Oh, but my treatment at Harmsworth’s hands was worse! The wretched man had settled for thirty guineas for my diamonds, and then he forgot to include the chit that would allow me to redeem them when I had received my salary. He did not even mention the name of the dealer with whom he had left them. I was in a horrible quandary, for it was unlikely I would be running into Harmsworth again for an age. I had no notion where he resided, either, to send him a note, and could hardly enquire of Philmot for the information.

  I was happier than I ever thought I would be to see Lady Synge, when she dropped around that afternoon. My first question must be for Dottie’s progress. When I heard she was coming along satisfactorily, I asked for Alice, which led easily to enquire whether Harmsworth was still amongst her court, and where he lived. I learned he had rooms at Alvanley, a superior residence where many gentlemen hired rooms.

  "He is certainly on the verge of offering for Alice. I hope the silly chit has the wit to accept. He is riddled with duns at the moment, poor soul, but will be coming into I don’t know how many thousands when his uncle dies. She shall not be allowed to accept her captain if I know anything. Enough about her. She gives me the migraine ten times a day with her stupid behavior. I wish I had hired you last year, Miss Fenwick. How does this job you are undertaking for Philmot go on?”

  “Very interesting,” I lied, brightly.

  “You’ll not want to come back to us. Quite a holiday you are having,” she answered merrily. “Your own pretty office, just like a lady of business.” After a fifteen minutes’ chat, during which I felt I ought to be back at my work, she arose to go.

  “Here are Philmot’s invitations for Alice’s ball—his and Marion’s, and of course your own, Miss Fenwick,” she said, handing me the white squares. “You will not want to miss it. You may be back with us by then, for Dottie will be recovered before the date, but I brought it along with the others.”

  I thanked her very heartily, and felt a pang of lonesomeness when she left. Was it possible I was coming to like Lady Synge? I liked her better than Miss Millichope in any case. If she was an ignoramus, she at least did not put on the air of being blue.

  The days unrolled at Lord Philmot’s home, the one not much different from another. My unwilling body became accustomed to sitting for hours at a stretch, cramped over a desk. Of course there were breaks in the monotony. Callers came, and if Philmot was out, I had sometimes to deal with them personally, following my employer’s instructions if the call was anticipated, and improvising when it was not. I received no complaints for my work, never a word of reprimand, and never one of praise. He was determined to treat me as if I were a male secretary.

  My being more ornamental than Harding was not referred to again. Had I had to look forward to a lifetime of such drudgery, I would have revolted, but it was for only two weeks, and already one was up. I could take another week without breaking.

&
nbsp; I had an answer to my note to Harmsworth, enclosing the pawn shop ticket and explaining that thirty guineas was the highest the man would go. As I needed the money, he thought it best to take what he could get. I disliked it, but accepted it.

  With the correspondence caught up, there was less letter writing to be done. Philmot gave me some government reports to read and summarize, but this was not a success. I could make neither head nor tail of the jargon those learned gentlemen employed, and told Philmot so. “It is half Latin and half nonsense,” I told him.

  “Have we reached the boundaries of your competence so soon?” he asked, smiling with glee. “Strange, I seem to remember hearing you bruited as a particular dab in politics.”

  “An interested observer only, Sir. I make no claim to comprehending the incomprehensible. It seems to me they obscure their meaning unnecessarily in a sea of heretofores and provisos. It is as bad a jumble as philosophy.”

  “No lover of philosophy either, Miss Fenwick? My aunt will be disappointed in you. Has she not recommended you look into Locke?”

  “She has given me Locke to peruse in my spare time, of which I do not have very much.”

  “Harding usually managed a couple of hours off every afternoon, and he handled a good deal of government work for me as well.”

  “You were unfortunate to have lost such a prodigy.”

  “He had too good a brain to waste in being a mere copier of letters.”

  Perhaps this was not intended as an insult, but it was not difficult to read into one. “Have you any more letters for me to copy?” I asked with a pointed stare.

  Without batting an eyelash, he turned to his correspondence and handed me a pile.

  I eventually got around to the account books. A major tally had not been taken since Harding’s departure. It was a revealing job, to see what sums of money poured into his pockets. The annual rental from his tenant farms was not the half of it. He had stacks of consols, collecting their five percent, shares in manufacturing companies, houses and commercial buildings all over London.