Lady: Impossible (20 page)

When I get downstairs, my mother is dusting the mantelpiece in the sitting room. Dusting, of all things! True, the cleaners couldn’t come today for their weekly visit but, really, this is too much.
 

‘What are you doing?’
 

She whips around and gives me a sharp look. ‘What do you think I’m doing? No cleaners, no butler. I don’t want Andrew thinking this place is a mess!’

I shove my hands in my pockets. ‘I don’t think he’ll care.’

‘Men are judgemental creatures.’

‘So are women.’ I frown, realising that doesn’t exactly help my argument.
 

Sometimes I think about what it would be like to have a serious conversation with my mother, one void of sarcasm and petty jibes. All this matchmaker stuff – talk of marriage – makes me want to bring up the subject of her own courtship, in a sneaky attempt to point out that she really was enamoured with Father at one stage. I want to ask what it was like to go out with him and how she came to think he was ‘the one’. If she put her mind to it, she could deal with their problems head on and get through them. Admittedly, the same goes for him, but he’s not going to budge until she does.
 

Of course, I always bite my tongue and refrain from asking such questions. After all, I’m an active part of this stupid London charade. It’s entirely frustrating: she’s trying to set me up for life while pretending to be set free from her own. Maybe my infatuation with Blair is a manifestation of this frustration, an excuse to get out of the matchmaker game.

Or maybe I’m just obsessed with him.
 

I attempt to push these thoughts aside, when the doorbell rings. Mother fusses about and tells me to sit down in case I faint from too much exertion. Not wanting to argue, or faint from the arduous task of standing on the spot, something she already let me do for ten minutes, I sit down on the settee and let her answer the door.
 

A minute later, she leads a bewildered Andrew into the sitting room, my best guess being that she started chewing his ear off as soon as she let him in. Luckily for me, Andrew is perfectly polite about it, humouring her when she introduces me as: ‘the poorly one, who ignores her phone when unwell’.

He grins and hands over the container of soup to her. ‘Sounds like a phrase on a gravestone. Here lies Emilia, who should’ve answered her phone.’

I interrupt their laughter to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t returned Abby’s calls. I’ve not been quite myself.’

‘It happens to the best of us,’ Andrew says with a kind smile as he strides across the thick carpet to sit on the chair adjacent to me. Mother leaves to make him a cup of tea and to store the soup in the kitchen. It’s odd that I think he’s underdressed when I’m the one in pyjamas. I suppose it’s because whenever I see him he’s in a business suit, or at least has a blazer on. This whole short-sleeved-shirt-and-chinos look almost doesn’t suit him.
 

Once she’s well and truly out of earshot, he turns to me and cocks an eyebrow. ‘So, you really are poorly then? I thought you and Abby were fighting.’
 

‘I really am sorry. Thanks for bringing me soup.’

‘Don’t thank me until you taste it. It’s instant soup from a packet. It’s what I eat when I’m stuck at the office at night.’

I wring my hands from guilt. ‘Still, you brought it over.’

‘Yes, how dare you make me drive a whole ten minutes in my Rolls-Royce. Next time, reply to my lovely wife and leave me out of it.’ He chuckles and leans forward. ‘Though, I must tell you, she knows you went to Jane Fitzgerald’s lunch today. Reports were that you didn’t look well and didn’t talk very much, so I suppose your story adds up.’

‘Reports? Silly rich people have nothing better to do than talk.’

‘Speaking of talk, I’ve been meaning to contact you about something. It’s rather a blessing that Saturday night was cancelled – it’s not a matter I should discuss in public.’

I’m taken aback. ‘You didn’t go to the Arts Club?’

‘Heavens, no. I was still blind drunk from the Derby. Once Abby said you couldn’t go, I thought she meant we weren’t going at all, so I didn’t bother pacing myself. She was furious.’

‘Oh.’
 

He lifts his hand to his mouth as if he’s about to tell me a secret. ‘I drank too much the day before at the Oaks. She said I ignored her for my old schoolmates. That’s why she went shopping with you instead of going to the Derby. She might even boycott Royal Ascot in a few weeks.’

I manage to smirk, even though I wish Abby had said something. She made no mention of trouble at the races. Now I have to take it in my stride and pretend it’s amusing.
 

‘Andrew Carrington. You are gossiping about
yourself
. Do handle your scandal.’

‘Says she who sent me an intriguing text by accident last week. When am I going to meet this lucky fellow?’

I freeze, worried my mother is around the corner, loitering. That, and I really don’t want Andrew to ever meet Blair, because I’m sure he’ll comment on how young he is for a butler, and how it could be seen as inappropriate. He might even connect the dots, completing a picture of Blair and I together.

Andrew furrows his brow. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, no, it’s not that. More like there is no lucky fellow. That text was… Please don’t say anything.’

He breezes over my vagueness, employing his good humour again. ‘There’s nothing to say. Abby didn’t share a thing. Apparently she missed the telegram telling her all wealthy people are supposed to talk.’

‘Yes, and upgrade from using telegrams too.’

‘One step at a time, Millie. Change tends to scare the rich, especially when it sounds like revolution.’

Mother returns before Andrew can tell me what he was supposed to on Saturday. It turns out, however, that he wants to share it with her too.

‘Thank you, Caroline,’ he says, accepting the cup of tea from her. ‘Listen, I was just telling Millie there was something I wanted to discuss, and I’m afraid it’s not all sunshine and roses. I’ve said nothing to Abby about this – I wanted to come straight to you.’

My mother frowns and says nothing until she sits down next to me. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

He hesitates. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being indelicate by raising this matter, but I feel some sense of loyalty from my wife’s friendship with Millie.’

I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Is this about Alastair? Because those rumours about money laundering can’t be true. Scotland Yard would’ve questioned us about his whereabouts – Interpol, too, if it was really bad. Al wants to have fun, not make money. He’s probably in the south of France working on his tan during the day and going to burlesque clubs at night.’

My mother slaps my hand. ‘Millie!’
 

‘What? It’s probably true. And if we apply your food theory, well, he’s always liked French food.’

‘Ugh, you’re so tactless sometimes. Andrew, please continue.’

He bites his lip, making me think there is some criminal element to this story.
 

‘No, it’s not that. Though I’ve heard those rumours.’

I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Then what is it?’
 

‘When people drink, they tend to talk about things they shouldn’t, and Saturday at Epsom was no different. I was in a private box with some very well connected people and was told something I shouldn’t have been told. Forgive me if I’m stepping over my bounds, but my intentions are honourable, and I assure you that I wasn’t drunk when the disclosure was made.’

My mother and I exchange glances. She’s as worried as I am.

‘Do go on,’ she says to Andrew. ‘I recognise that you are trying to help.’

I nod, so he knows I agree.

‘Okay, well, where to begin? I suppose I should just say it.’ He looks around the room for a moment, as if he’s worried there are eavesdroppers about. ‘I heard that your family is having serious financial difficulties, and if that is the case, I’d like to offer my help – whether it be my services in financial planning, or putting up capital in order to ease the strain. If she knew of the situation, I have no doubt Abby would tell me we need to help, especially with the estate on the line. Now, I know this is awfully forward of me, and I understand there is pride involved, but whether it’s advice, investment or a loan, I am here without judgement.’

I stare at Andrew in disbelief. He cowers just a little, his hand shaking when he lifts his cup of tea. My mother must be looking at him with the same intensity, not that I dare look at her myself.
 

Part of me wants to laugh at what he’s saying, especially as I try to keep up to date with the finances. I can, however, see that Andrew is sincere. It’s just unbelievable that he’s even said anything, in front of my mother too, who is probably confused as to whether to respond as a potential divorcee or as the loyal wife of an earl whose estate is said to be in danger.

I open my mouth to respond, but it takes me a full ten seconds before I can verbalise anything. When I do speak, I sound completely awestruck. Not angry, just shocked. ‘A drunk man told you we’re well on the path to bankruptcy? With all due respect, I wouldn’t be so quick to believe him.’

Andrew sits up a bit straighter, steadying his grip on the teacup. ‘He’s an upstanding individual. Not prone to exaggeration, even when inebriated. I understand it’s shocking to hear that someone would dare speak of such a private matter, especially in such circles –’

My mother interjects in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Is this going around London or is it an isolated conversation?’

‘I believe it was merely a slip of the tongue. Completely isolated.’

‘Let me tell you something about estates like ours, Andrew. The Pembrokes are lucky to have survived with this much property intact. Many an estate was sold off last century, some from the crippling effect of inheritance taxes and some due to divorce. I understand that we are asset-heavy. Estates don’t make money like they used to: there’s no agricultural income like in the days of yesteryear. Liquid money is a problem for old families, and I’m sure you’ve seen the sale of country houses in recent times in order to free up funds, hence your concern.
 

‘To hear talk of financial difficulty is thus not a complete surprise. It is a surprise, however, to hear that someone has told you that we’re in dire straits and in need of an immediate bailout. While it is awfully nice of you to offer your help, we are not at that point. And I hope whoever told you all this wasn’t simply insinuating financial difficulty because of divorce talk. I would never demand a settlement designed to force the sale of any property, whether it be the manor, this house or any inherited chattel. Understood?’

Andrew nods, chastened. On the other hand, I’m still gaping, this time because it’s the most reasonable speech my mother has ever given. The only thing wrong with it was that she kept up the divorce facade – she would never demand a settlement, because it would never come to that.

It’s my turn to say something, as Andrew has been silenced. It really is generous of him to want to help us.
 

‘Yes, I agree with what my mother says. Thank you, Andrew, but it’s not quite at that point.’

‘I apologise. I was under the clear impression it is at that point.’ He sets the teacup down on the coffee table. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

My mother continues to be kind but stern. ‘Yes, please do, but trust that I’m only letting you do so because I’m too shocked to stand, and because our butler is on holiday.’

He stands, nodding once more. ‘Thank you for the tea, Lady Silsbury. And for your understanding. Trust that I use your title in respect and not in jest.’

‘Understood.’

I feel horrible that he has to leave on such a sour note after being so benevolent. ‘Thanks for the soup. I can walk you to the door if you’d like?’

My mother apparently thinks that’s a step too far. ‘He can manage, Millie.’

He smiles at me apologetically. ‘I can indeed. Get well soon.’

With that, he exits the room and, soon, the house.
 

It’s like we’ve been hit by a whirlwind. My mother and I sit in silence for about five minutes afterwards, still blown away by the fact that someone would say we’re in deep financial peril. Maybe this person thought it would go hand in hand with rumours about Al. Yet Andrew vouched for his acquaintance, which is certainly interesting. Perhaps it’s all a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity put forward by an honest man.
 

It’s my mother who breaks the silence. ‘Do you know what’s terrible?’

I turn to her. ‘What?’

‘All I kept thinking is: why couldn’t he have met you instead of Abby? Look at how bold he was about this. He’s wealthy, decent-looking and well bred, and cares about his wife so much that he’ll go out of his way to save her friends, even without her knowing. Such terrible luck that you missed out.’

The idea is so preposterous, I feel sick even imagining it. ‘Look, I agree that he is a good man and that Abby is lucky, but you can’t just fall all over him because he has money and called you Lady Silsbury once. A little perspective, Caroline.’

Her rebuke is so pointed, I feel like I’m being poked in the chest with each sentence. ‘This had better be an isolated incident, Millie. It’s not funny. If you want to keep the estate, get married. If you’re happy without it, then wait around until we have no cash to hand. We’ll have an auction.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘So you’ll be around at that point? You’re not actually divorcing Father?’

She ignores the question, which is somewhat a relief considering I asked it without thinking. This situation has put me in a strange mood.
 

‘I think you and I should be diligent and make enquiries into our finances.’ The look in her eyes is deadly serious. ‘We can never be too careful. Your father is a very proud man, and even though it’s highly unlikely, there’s a small chance that Andrew’s friend was given that impression by something your father said or did in recent times. Do you understand?’