Chapter 28. Machinations
It wasn’t difficult to convince Miss Bottomley that she needed “a second opinion” in the matter of solicitors. “Why of course I do,” she said, “Someone who represents my interests to the best of my ability and who’s willing to explain to me what those are. But how to find him was my dilemma? Who to trust? When anyone learns out about this estate they become so overly deferential – I don’t know how else to explain it – I feel certain they’re disguising their true face. Dilemmas of the wealthy! Who’d have thought?” “I don’t actually know my solicitor’s partner,” said Scarlet, “but he works with my solicitor whom I like very much. Just use your instincts – we’ll interview as many solicitors as you feel you need to get a true perspective.” “How refreshing!” said her employer. “I love options! It’s such an extravagance!” “There’s been a development,” said Pelham meaningfully to Scarlet, after hands had been shaken all round. Bob Thomas looked more like a farmer than a solicitor with his round, cheery red-cheeked face and gleaming bald head, but Miss Bottomley seemed to take to him. Scarlet left them alone so that they could study the papers Miss Bottomley brought and transact their own business. Nick was decidedly fussy. Scarlet wasn’t sure he’d calm down enough for a conversation. He insisted on being the center of attention. Scarlet walked the floor with him, apologizing. “I’m interviewing nannies today.” “Think nothing of it,” said Pelham. “I’ve got four of my own. I’ll make tea while you settle him.” Fortunately, he did settle, allowing Scarlet at least sit down and look at the grainy black and white photos he spread before her. “As I informed you, we now have a detective of our own.” Scarlet gazed at the photos uncomprehendingly, as if these were stills from some bizarre English version ofLa Strada. A man, a woman, suitcases and parcels – a big house – Ian. Here was his unmistakable face – looking guilty. Rather an uncommon expression for him. Had she ever even seen it? Who was this dark-haired female with the too-tight skirt stretched over the too-big bottom? Then a face shot – expression unreadable beneath Cleopatra makeup. “Candi!” Scarlet gasped. “Moving in to your marital residence!” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “It’s really the greatest good luck for us. Your husband went back to town,” Pelham confided, “So I transferred our detective’s attention to her. I must say I do hope she’s planning a long stay.” Scarlet burst into tears, waking Nick, who wailed as well. Pelham was aghast. He rushed around the desk wielding a handkerchief. “You must think me an insensitive monster! I do apologize!” He threw open the door and called to his clerk, “Gotobed! Fetch a cup of tea and a baby bottle immediately.” Pelham sat in the other client chair and feebly patted Scarlet’s heaving shoulders. “There, there now,” he murmured. “You would think as a matrimonial solicitor I would be better prepared. I must do better – I assure you my heartlessness was purely thoughtless. It won’t happen again.” Gotobed produced a cup of tea and biscuit tin. “I’m sorry about the baby bottle”, he chuffed, but Scarlet had located Nick’s pacifier, what the English call a “dummy.” “That’s all right, Gotobed,” said Pelham. “But make a note to purchase – er – one of those things.” “Yes, sir.” They were alone again. Silence fell as Scarlet sipped the strengthening brew. “I think I’m the one who should apologize,” she said finally. “I really thought I had given up on my marriage. It goes to show I hadn’t. Please go on – what were you saying? Why exactly is this such good news?” But now Pelham was frightened by her. “Well,” he began nervously, “Your husband knew you were applying for employment in London. He had given his permission, correct?” “Correct,” agreed Scarlet, annoyed that she would need her husband’s “permission” to get a job. “With his girlfriend in residence, you’ve been evicted, so to speak. We shall argue that you can’t stay in a home where your husband has installed his girlfriend. Most judges I know of would agree. And you certainly can’t bring up an infant there!” “He’ll say she’s not his girlfriend.” “Our man Bogswell will get the goods on them. No one will be fooled.” “But I left first,” argued Scarlet, playing devil’s advocate. “Didn’t you come up to London to rent a flat and get a nanny under your husband’s advisement?” “Well, yes, I did.” “Is your room connected with your employment?” “Well, yes.” “Do we not have documentary proof that your husband was the first to transgress?” She thought of the Carpathian Hotel. “Quite true.” “Well there you are.” Scarlet sat silent for awhile, drinking tea while Nick sucked vigorously with an annoyed look on his face. He apparently already knew when he was being fobbed off with something not quite real. But those days are over for me, thought Scarlet. I won’t be “fobbed off” anymore. “Thank you,” she said gratefully to her solicitor. Pelham visibly relaxed. Gotobed inserted his head into the room as narrowly and as tactfully as it was possible for a human to do. The man had a head like a flounder; completely flat, with eyes on either side. “Lady Lechmere has arrived,” he murmured unctuously. Pelham vaulted upwards, helping Scarlet assemble her things. “Take Mrs. Wye to the Partner’s Room, please.” Lady Lechmere was so old and bent her gaze was permanently fixed on the floor. What could a woman that elderly possibly need with a matrimonial attorney, Scarlet wondered, wishing she could ask Pelham. But she did recall that Pelham’s specialty was said to be “marriage contracts” and Lady Lechmere doubtless had one of those. The intriguing possibilities would set any novelist or short story writer’s mind to spinning! Nick couldn’t settle, so as she walked him up and down in the waiting room she wondered how her own contract with Ian would read. Possibly that was the problem – she felt there wasa marriage contract – it had been explicated by the vows - but Ian felt otherwise. If he had told her what he really intended, she would never have married him. Would she? But deeply in love, hadn’t she been in the mood to risk anything? Ian probably was also. That was the hell of love. You might fall in together, but you fell out at different times, and under different circumstances. Before the sniffles got any worse, Scarlet betook herself and Nick to the Ladies Cloakroom, two flights down.
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Chapter 27. Sops of Wine
Scarlet gave Nick his bottle right at the table and still Miss Bottomley eagerly joined them. She ate like a starved person, which it turned out, she was. The bacon and cream Scarlet had seen in her refrigerator were for the exclusive delight of The King of Wessex. Scarlet determined to shift him to tinned cat food and begin charging groceries to Miss Bottomley as Pom suggested. Feeding the old lady and the cat would have definitely bankrupted her. “These apples are delicious,” said her employer. “What are they called?” “Sops of wine,” Scarlet told her. “Who could resist that?” “Most romantic,” Miss Bottomley agreed. Pom said he must be on his way and refused a lift. Miss Bottomley closely watched Scarlet change Nick. This became less embarrassing when her employer confided her nursing experiences from World War I. The things she’d seen were worthy of a memoir. Scarlet began thinking her new employer was starved for human contact, too. As soon as a clean Nick was stomach-down on the rug Miss Bottomley changed the subject. “I do like your Pom person,” said Miss Bottomley, whose still-sharp eyes apparently missed nothing. “Hiring a detective, indeed! Seems so drastic. Is that husband of yours a dreadful Heathcliff? A would-be tenant of Wildfell Hall?” “I’m no longer certain,” said Scarlet. “I thought I was in an equal marriage but he seems to have been playing a long game to maneuver me into a corner .” “Into his harem,” Miss Bottomley agreed. “Men often do that, I find. Their excuse is that they must decide for us because we’re so supposedly “emotional”. But in my interviews with Mr. Inkum he’s always the one to fly off the handle! After all these years if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned how to keep my temper, I can assure you.” “May I look at those documents the solicitor wants you to sign?” Miss Bottomley fetched a blue legal-looking folder, settled down by the kitchen fire and promptly fell asleep. Scarlet had discovered there was a telephone extension upstairs in the serving area and she put in a prompt call to Pelham D’Arcy at his home number. “Miss Bottomley’s inherited some dreadful solicitor pretending to represent her but as far as I can see he’s representing himself. He wants her to turn her estate into a trust with himself as sole trustee!” “Sounds most unsavory,” agreed Pelham. “Tell you what, Bob Thomas is our wills & trusts man – the old ladies love him. I happen to know he’s free tomorrow at ten o’clock.” “We’ll be there,” promised Scarlet. She had had enough excitement for one day. Chapter 26. The Detective
As they selected cheeses, cake, apples, biscuits and the components for what Pom described as a “strengthening soup”, Pom said, “I adore old-fashioned places like these. All the grapes and calves’ foot jelly.” “Thanks for reminding me,” said Scarlet, adding grapefruit marmalade and fish fingers to their hoard. “Fish fingers?” Pom questioned. “Everyone needs a fast, easy dinner,” said Scarlet. “That’s what freezers are for.” “I don’t have a freezer.” “But MissBottomley does. Quite an up to date one.” “And then there’s the problem that fishhaveno fingers.” “We call them ‘fish sticks’ in America.” “My, that does sound irresistible. A stick of fish. Such cleverness you Yanks have. I wonder what is the correct wine with “sticks”? Allow me to purchase for you a nice rosé. Or would you prefer champagne?” “No wine at work, thank you,” said Scarlet. “I need to keep my wits about me.” As soon as the grocer heard it was for Fourteen Norfolk Crescent he insisted on delivery. “She’s our landlady,” he told the astonished pair. “She owns everything round here.” Pom kept an admirably straight face during this disclosure. Scarlet carefully set up her own account and stressed that it was her responsibility alone. “Don’t be in such a hurry to pay for everything,” said Pom when they were safely back inside the Dorset. “Sounds like she’s rich as Croesus, much as she doesn’t look it.” “All the other interviewees thought she was the housemaid,” admitted Scarlet. “It just makes me all the more determined to do my very best for her. Those books of hers are just plain wonderful, and where else in the world would I ever get such a perfect job?” And she shared with him the dramatic tale of Miss Bottomley’s late-acquired wealth. “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “I didn’t even tell Ian.” Pom’s eyes widened. “I can keep a secret. Honored that you chose me. But are you certain the pair of you don’t need live-in bodyguards as well?” “I’m sure we do,” said Scarlet. “And heaven knows there’s room. Are you offering?” “I don’t think I’d be any good at that particular role,” said Pom. “I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley very averse to strangers,” said Scarlet. “Maybe as time goes on I’ll be able to talk her round. I’m currently in favor because I was the only one who’d actually read her books. She’s not used to money and she doesn’t like solicitors. I hope Pelham D’Arcy might offer assistance but we’ve got to give it time.” It turned out the grocer’s van had gone around to the kitchen entrance. Off the kitchen was a scullery with new-looking washer and drying machines. “They’ve got me running off my feet answering doorbells here and doorbells there,” complained Miss Bottomley as they brought the groceries in. “First it was that strange friend of yours -“ Scarlet seated Miss Bottomley to toast her toes by the gas fire. Pom almost sat on the King of Wessex. “Meet Ceawlain,” Scarlet explained. “Sue-Allen?” “No,” said Miss Bottomley and Scarlet both together, “Ceawlain, King of Wessex.” Scarlet inquired, “What strange friend was that?” Miss Bottomley considered. “Well, he was quite silly. He certainly didn’t guess he was speaking to an authoress of detective novels, because he used quite a transparent ruse to try to get into the house.” Scarlet and Pom stared at each other, appalled. “What did he say?” asked Scarlet while Pom said, “He could have simply thrust you aside!” “I’d like to see him try,” grumped Miss Bottomley. “I’d have skewered him with a hatpin and summoned help with my police whistle.” And she displayed these items for their inspection. “This is ghastly,” said Pom and Scarlet asked, “Doesn’t that door have a chain?” “Obviously one must take the chain off when one answers the door,” said Miss Bottomley. “And a peephole?” wondered Scarlet. “I’m too short for the peephole,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “The peephole is too tall for me.” “Here’s an idea,” suggested Pom, “An intercom. You won’t be run off your feet that way. You’ll be able to ask who it is and get them to describe themselves. Tell them to put a letter requesting an appointment in the mail slot.” “Oh, I dolike that idea,” gushed Miss Bottomley. “Takes a man to look at problems from the engineering point of view.” “I’ll look into it for you, shall I?” offered Pom, and Miss Bottomley seemed relieved. “But what did he look like?” Scarlet poured a tin of vichyssoise into a saucepan while Pom sliced cheese and pears. “Very smartly dressed, I must say. Bowler hat and all found. He said he was from an architectural publication and he wanted to take pictures inside the house. He wanted to see the Missus. I didn’t tell him I was the Missus, I just said no, no, and no.” “Did he give up?” “He most certainly did not. Tried slipping me a five-pound note!” “He really did mistake you for the housemaid,” laughed Scarlet and Miss Bottomley laughed with her. “I rejected it. Played along. Told him I valued my “position”. But he wouldn’t leave. He had his foot in the door.” “But this is a horror story!” Pom gasped and Scarlet said, “You should have used your police whistle.” “Perhaps I should. But then he started asking questions about you.” “Me?” “Yes. Wasn’t there a young lady in the house and when was she due back. I said, “Here she comes!” and when he turned to look, I shut the door!” “That was clever,” said Pom, and Scarlet said, “Worthy of Miss Clew.” And Miss Bottomley reddened with pleasure. “But who could it have been?” asked Pom. “It doesn’t sound like Ian.” “It’s that detective of his,” said Scarlet. “He took pictures of us last week and Ian threatened me with them. I explained to him that we’re only friends.” “Utterly uncompromising pictures,” Pom assured her but Miss Bottomley was nonchalant. “I should have known there would be a detective or two hanging about any modern girl,” she remarked. “Keeping me up to date!” Pom refused to shake off his anxiety. “You be sure to tell your solicitors,” he suggested. “Both of you.” “I’ll tell Pelham,” agreed Scarlet, thinking how lucky she was that Miss Bottomley wasn’t sufficiently intimidated by all this bother to choose another assistant, but Miss Bottomley scoffed. “Oh, my Mr. Inkum, he’s a perfectly dreadful man! Always trying to get me to sign documents and when I said, “Don’t I need a solicitor?” he answers, “I’m your solicitor. This is for your OWN GOOD.” “Funny how when people say that it’s never true,” mused Pom, as they settled at the table for a delicious meal. “That’s what I thought,” said Miss Bottomley. “I told him to leave the papers with me so I could think about them and he said, “Don’t think too long!” “Sounds like a threat!” gasped Scarlet. Nick’s cry made them all jump. Chapter 25. Miss Austen Entertains
While feeding Nicholas in the “ladies’ retiring room” Scarlet read in the available pamphlet all about the antique pub. Lady Catherine’s Garden was named after a character in Pride & Prejudice and was originally built by a fan of Jane Austen’s work. Chawton, the author’s last home, was situated nearby. Today the weather was too cold to sit in the garden but the glass tearoom built almost to the river’s edge offered a suitable summer illusion of swans and willows. From his collapsible stroller, an alert and cleaned up Nicholas seemed riveted by the sunlight playing on the tile floor. “It’s just good pub food,” Pom apologized in advance, “Though of course some people say that’s the best English cooking. But look at this view!” Scarlet looked. A snow-free water meadow spread out endlessly before them. “Seems like it’s always spring around here,” she agreed. They ordered tea and ham salad sandwiches. The waitress was very young and did not recognize Pom. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, there’s one fear that didn’t come true,” he said. “Tell me about the last time you visited,” Scarlet prompted. “Three years ago. There are charming rooms upstairs. We made use of every one of them but not – I hasten to add – on the same day.” “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen?” “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen.” He did not blub. “So, you thought she was a wolf and she turned out to be a dog.” “That’s not it. Because she was cheating on her husband I knew she was a dog. I just tried not to care.” “But you did care.” “I wanted what I wanted and I ignored every warning until finally I got a warning I couldn’t ignore.” “Was it a “shop closed” sign?” “Oh no. She was willing to continue after her wedding – which, by the way, she invited me to. I don’t know what I would have said during the, “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part, because I didn’t go.” ‘Did you try talking her out of it?” “Oh, yes. She tried completely humorlessly to clue me in on the deadly importance of cash and titles.” “Sounds like she’s some kind of third animal. The sharing kind. Or the devious kind? A cuckoo?” “She certainly took me for a cuckoo. She resented it like the plot of a Henry James novel. “He can’t last forever! We could enjoy his money together.” “Those novels always end badly,” she agreed, feeling Illiterate in Pom’s presence. Which James novel did he refer to? The Golden Bowl? “I can’t rid myself of the idea that I should have warned the poor old thing,” Pom said seriously. “The Catholic peer? Surely not.” “But what if he ends up dead? What if she gets her teddy boy to kill him?” “Oh, Pom! Do people really do that?” “Yes, Scarlet,” he said seriously. “They do. I actually don’t know of a single aristocratic family without a murder in its history.” “Good God!” Why was she surprised? Miss Clew wouldn’t have been! She brought herself into the conversation. “Very Turn of the Screw. Very reminiscent of my situation, that temptation. Why couldn’t having a castle and a flat in town compensate me for losing my husband’s fidelity?” “Oh, Scarlet, you American girl,” he said it admiringly. She felt a gush of gratitude. Was this the first time in England that “being American” hadn’t seemed a social liability? “How much were youactually tempted?” she asked him. “I’ll never know. I might have considered it if she hadn’t started going on about how much she “loved’ me. It was the first time she’d ever used that word.” “Traitor!” “Exactly how I felt. Stomped away in a wounded huff. That sort of thing.” “Haven’t contacted her since?” “I have not.” “And she?” “Total silence. I’m sure she replaced me. I did read about Her Ladyship’s wedding in Country Life. Couldn’t resist that.” “I can see it would be difficult.” Their food arrived. “In the spring they have watercress,” sighed Pom nostalgically. “This looks nice.” Nicholas’ eyes had drifted shut. “They’re very easy at this age.” said Pom. “He’s being particularly good today. I’ve heard they like traveling in cars. It’s the motion.” “So,” said Pom, “Now you owe me a story. You’re really going to have to tell me about how you and Ian met.” How long ago it seemed! Four whole years. How different she felt now from that long-ago girl. “I too ignored all the warnings. Ian was considered the prize at Oxford, a real heartbreaker.” “But you thought you’d be different.” “Hetoldme I’d be different. And then he married me so I thought I must be. I was so proud of having bagged him.” “One does tend to think in these big-game metaphors.” “It would be good to get over that,” she reflected. “And stop trying to “capture” people. It turned out he assumed I came from a rich family!” “Brits think all Americans are rich.” “It must be because we try to pretend we are. Everything new. We call it, Keeping up With the Joneses.” “There’s another thing we all have to get over,” agreed Pom. “This competitive furor.” “We call it the capitalist fervor.” “Obviously that has to go!” agreed Pom. They both laughed. Pom went on, “This is exactly why friendship is so important. Why I’m willing – I hope this won’t embarrass you – to wait for you.” It did embarrass her. She blushed as dark as her name. Pom went on smoothly, “You know, I never had female friends at college. Coming out of an all boys’ school of course it’s different. Girls seem so exotic. Did you and Ian share a tutor? Or did he see you from afar and think – rare species? I’m sure the big game metaphor operates here as well.” “I doubt it. He made me work for it. We shared editorship of a student literary publication – lasted a mere three issues – the St. Euphrosyne Review.” “Good Lord! There was a Saint Euphrosyne?” “It’s a bad joke. I think the joke was on us female students – apparently St Euphrosyne disguised herself as a man to become a monk. That’s the legend.” “Irksome.” “I’ll say. We Americans don’t put up with that sort of thing. We’re coeducational all the way. I was always wrestling with Ian to get him to respect my poetry – we just didn’t have the same taste. He really felt “female poet” was a contradiction in terms.” “But suddenly he stopped wrestling?” “Suddenly he let me win. I should have known.” “I’m sure he was in love.” “As much as he could be, I think, which isn’t enough, I’m afraid.” “They do say people can only respond to another’s depth to the extent of their own.” “Means there’s a lot of shallow people in the world.” They smiled at each other. The sandwiches were delicious. Scarlet produced the advertising brochure she’d been reading. “Know what it says here?” “Remind me.” “Jane Austen’s house is nearby and I’ve never been.” “Must you arrive in London at any specific time?” “No. How about you?” “Never anyone to please but myself.” “What a fortunate state of affairs!” “It has its highs and its lows. Shall we go then?” “Do let’s.” There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood! With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking. “I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.” “Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.” “I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet. “I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.” They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture. “Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?” “She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.” Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.” “Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.” “I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.” “The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.” “That’s just what my husband said.” Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.” “You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.” Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side. “I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?” “Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.” “Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.” “I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand. “Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.” “You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor. “I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.” Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf. “Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.” “And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.” Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said. “I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.” It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot. “Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked, “I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.” Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.” “And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.” When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.” Chapter 24. Paradigm Shift
She and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!” She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.” Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.” A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless their marriage. And they were off. At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load. “Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded. “I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself. “And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt. “Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.” Scarlet gulped, unable to speak. “I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.” English roundabouts – considering everyone was driving dementedly - were particularly nasty. “It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice. ‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?” Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing. “What was that about?” “He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.” “That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera? “Don’t you have any luggage?” He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?” “I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls. “Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.” Scarlet burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.” He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.” “It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed. “Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.” “You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about him. He reliably boosted her spirits. “You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.” “What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?” His face turned serious. “Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.” “That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.” “Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?” She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?” “Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.” “Dubious.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears. “Spill.” He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.” “My husband said you were a poofter.” “His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?” “I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can’t surprise me.” “All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years - with a woman who was married to someone else.” When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?” “And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.” “A paradigm shift.” “Exactly.” “You didn’t know about – the other fellow?” “I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.” “Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.” “Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning - I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred.” She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings. “Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.” “Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.” She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him. “It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.” “Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.” “He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.” He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.” “I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.” His eyes seemed to plead a question. “Are you so certain?” She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.” “All men? Or just English men?” “Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really menhave as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.” “How Victorian.” “Is it?” “Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.” “The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.” “D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.” “He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.” “He’s aware you’re leaving him?” “Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Addictive, even. “You know that solicitor you sent me to –“ “Bob Thomas?” “Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.” “I’m glad.” “The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.” “They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again. “I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“ “They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.” “Well, stop it. We need clear heads.” “Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.” “Ian had us followed.” As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in. “He had US followed? But there is no us!” “I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.” “Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent. After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.” Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?” “Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.” “I’m honed to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.” She hoped she could ignore this last remark. “It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.” “The Kensal Green lady?” “No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.” He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!” “I was!” “Who is she?” “Esmé Hope Bottomley.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?” “She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!” “Candi has a husband?” “Sad to say.” “What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?” “She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.” “And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.” “I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold. But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“ “Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?” “I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.” “I only hope you know what you’re doing.” She felt a flicker of panic. Another subject change was called for. “Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?” “I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.” “One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.” “That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.” “Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.” “It’s a well-kept secret.” “Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”. “See how deceptive language can be?” “Truly. One needs a native guide.” “Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed. “I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.” “Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.” Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.” “Got an idea where we’re going?” “I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.” “You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying. “We’ll all blub together,” agreed Pom. Chapter 23. Packing
India’s Christmas package arrived on the same day as a flat rejection from Nigel, the magazine was “going in a different direction.” Had Ian spoken with him? Scarlet couldn’t put it past him. Inia’s little gifts were nostalgic food items like pfeffernusse and an unexpected present for Baby Nicholas – a collection of the sisters’ broken-backed, well-loved books from childhood. Scarlet pushed Ian’s gift aside (a joke tie probably, considering India had never liked Ian) and stroked the worn book covers sadly. So much imagination in childhood when it seemed the power of youth and yearning itself was magic. She had not even bothered to set up a tree but Ian could hardly expect one now. Perhaps she could make an effort for Miss Bottomley – see what the old dame thought about Christmas. Some people disregarded the holiday – others actively hated it, after bad experiences. Ian and Scarlet’s last apartment – where the Pourfoyles now lived - had been too small and Ian’s family had always focused more on stockings and tiny gifts. Ian was quite comfortable leaving it all up to his wife, all the effort and all the blame. It was always the wife’s jobs to meet everyone’s expectations, grumbled Scarlet, even those of her husband’s family whom she didn’t know while men sat comfortably aside and ordered grog. What a different plan she’d had for Nicholas’ childhood than the desolation that lay before her! But what was her alternative? Ian hadn’t noticed Scarlet sexually or romantically since Nicholas’ birth. He had chosen a different bed. She was in this utterly alone. Could he possibly expect her to compete with his “bit of fluff?” She wouldn’t imagine it in a thousand years. The very thought made her want to enter a Turkish steambath and turn herself inside out in an effort to get clean. The church ought to offer a ceremony for this – instead they acted as if menstruation and childbirth were the defilers instead of a husband’s reckless dalliances and pernicious prevarications. She was done with all of them. What would happen now? The future was impossible to guess at or see into. She now saw that any belief that she couldsee into it had wrong-footed her from the start. There were too many other players. Likely life would always be more surprising and unaccountable than she expected or counted on. The most important question was, could she ever trust anyone again? How teach Nicholas about a universe where no one could be trusted? Favorite Egyptian Tales of Mystery & Magic– Scarlet had loved this particular volume so much it had lost its cover. For years after reading it she told people she wanted to be an “Egyptologist”. After that it was “archaeologist” until she fell in love with literature and poetry in high school and literature and poetry seemed to love her back. Would those, too, let her down? So much depended on the frail elderly shoulders of Miss Bottomley. She turned the pages slowly, remembering every illustration. Here was the hippopotamus Ammit – “devourer of hearts” - waiting for Anubis to throw him the heavy, most evil hearts for eat. In this religion, only the light-hearted were worthy of heaven. Not a bad idea! When she thought about the challenges ahead, she did feel her heart lighten. She had Pom on her side, and D’Arcy and Miss Joringel and Miss Bottomley. Ian had Candi and Margalo and whatever drunken buddies he could find to applaud him at the pub. But those were meretricious relationships in the fullest meaning of the word. They were based on Ian NOT showing his true self. Based, really, on his never finding it but remaining content to swim with whatever school he found himself in. Scarlet had always resisted this. She understood perfectly that art required an audience and patrons, but the first requirement was that it be Art. Utterly fresh and new. The time it took to temper the artist – not to mention imagine, create and complete the work - meant finances couldn’t be a consideration. She was being tempered and it was bloody uncomfortable. But seriously, what produced good Art? Seeing Ian no longer caring about courting her – because she was good and captured, she was “history” was like seeing the world with its skin off. It was losing part of herself. But she had gained a new part too, with Nicholas. She was seeing how the world really worked. Promises weren’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough. The question was what you did when people showed their true selves – because that told you what YOUR true self was. I WANT to know the truth, thought Scarlet. There really isn’t any point going forward if you didn’t know the truth. Obviously people preferred sentimental fictions, chocolate box prettiness. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She must move forward. Thank God Miss Bottomley had written works she could admire. Think how grim this would be she was editing one of those writers – sadly, there were many of them, some very famous – whose work she despised. Well, she wouldn’t take such a job. She’d return to America if things got that bad. She wanted Nicholas to know his father, but she didn’t want to tempt Ian to behave as badly as he was able and he was showing himself quite able. Pelham D’Arcy was right, make a plan and stick to it like adults. That was the model for Nicholas. That proposed a future he could rely on. Ian had come to America before; he could again. Were there any warning signs that Ian would suddenly treat her so cavalierly? He had repeated (with so much relish!) the wedding vow to forsake all others and cleave only to her - wouldn’t that have been a good time to mention that mature British males never actually followed that plan and he didn’t intend to, either? What would she have done if he had? Well the wedding would have come to stop, that’s for certain! But he had consistently represented himself as wanting what she wanted. Truthfully, after their marriage she had had some doubts. She had felt some “pulling away”. It made her a little scared and sad – after all she was in a foreign country – but it hadn’t seemed unnatural or unexpected. They were carving out individual lives as well as one joint future. Vows were meaningful to her. She had been especially careful to extract the word “obey” – after all it didn’t appear in his! She repudiated the expectation that all accommodations ought to be up to the wife as not what “modern” people thought. She could tell his parents were a bit offended. They would be bound to blame her now, taking it for granted that it was somehow her “non-traditional, American” ideas that were “at fault” for their breakup. And weren’t they? The coming days would be consumed with sensitive, difficult negotiations. The law would try to bring her down and Ian would enjoy the spectacle of her humiliation. For Nicholas’ sake she must not allow it. Enough daydreaming. She forced herself up to her study to pack up all her papers – all her hopes and dreams all fit neatly into one brass bound trunk. She resisted the urge to burn her poetry. It seemed so insipid now – “idiotic” wouldn’t be too strong a word. She mustn’t make such cataclysmic decisions while she was in this emotional state. Some brave new world must lie on the other side of this devastation – some universe she couldn’t see – what form would it take? Maybe learning how to proceed without hope – was the “putting away of childish things” of which the Bible spoke. When she opened this trunk again what kind of person would she be? She pushed the thought away: now she must concentrate on her job and on Nicholas. That would more than fill her days. Three suitcases, three boxes of books and a trunk – that was all she had to take with her. Goodbye for the present to the beautiful desk – the loveliest thing Ian had ever given her. Except for Nicholas. Even the huge, ornate pram that had been Ian’s family’s gift was much too large to take in the station wagon – luckily more practical India had sent a folding stroller – just the thing for vehicle transport. She saved India’s letter to read at tea – but it was not the treat she had expected. Naturally, it had been written before her news of separation and new address had arrived but even the usual sisterly comforts were not on offer. India’s big news was she had decided to be “psychoanalyzed.” She, too, felt the need of a “responsible life partner” just like Ian and someday, a child - just like Nicholas! She said she needed to get to the bottom of the mental blocks she assumed were standing in her way. Psychoanalysis required making herself “unavailable” to others and making no “radical life decisions” for three years. Luckily Scarlet was “in a good place” for that! She might be coming to England in July – but now it was up to her psychoanalyst – if she was “ready.” She was currently deep in their childhood - issues of toilet training and sibling rivalry. Scarlet didn’t like the sound of this. She knew she couldn’t blame the psychoanalyst entirely – India hadn’t enjoyed the trouble-free childhood that was Scarlet’s legacy – if only because she hadn’t had an elder sister to cushion the parental blows. Now that India was making herself vulnerable to this rather irritating sounding man – a Dr. Weitzkopf – it would be up to Scarlet to “support” her. Scarlet wished she hadn’t written that woebegone letter of – could it have been as recent as yesterday? She must write immediately and soft-pedal her own changes. Clearly, she couldn’t rely on India. It was a brave new world in every respect. Chapter 22. A Letter Home
The upstairs of Number Fourteen, Norfolk Crescent, was as majestic – and clean - as Scarlet could possibly have desired. There was a long reception room facing the square - empty of furniture as if expecting a ball – with a small serving area – complete with ice chest, warming trays and tea kettles - that could actually serve as a Scarlet’s kitchen. A dumbwaiter probably connected it to the kitchen downstairs. There were four bedrooms and a big bathroom. Scarlet chose “the green room” for her own – it was smaller but she liked the old-fashioned chintz pattern of pear trees in blossom. There was even space enough for a nanny if the thought of strangers in her house didn’t unsettle Miss Bottomley. The furnishings were solid, perhaps a bit duller than the magnificence on display downstairs – mahogany and teak – and the upholstery could do with a freshening - but the portraits were interesting. Scarlet studied the faces, wondering about the sudden disappearance of “the Pursuivant line.” It was a lucky thing people couldn’t see into the future, Scarlet decided. She remembered herself at her own wedding and her excitement at news of her first pregnancy – what if she had foreseen what would REALLY happen? It would have been too cruel. She had been spared from knowing the sadness that lay ahead – just as these people had been. It was better not to know. Miss Bottomley was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “And when shall we be able to get to work?” “How about day after tomorrow? That gives me one day to pack.” “Perfect. I shall enter it into my datebook.” Scarlet reached out to shake her new employer’s hand, only to be presented with a key. “I sleep badly, so I dislike being disturbed before eleven,” said Miss Bottomley. “I want you to be able to freely come and go.” “Thank you, Miss Bottomley,” said Scarlet warmly. And she meant it. She telephoned Mr. D’Arcy from a callbox at the station. “I’ve got a job and it comes with a place to stay,” she told him. “And there’s room for the baby but I’m worried Ian won’t let me take him.” “Don’t ask him about that yet,” cautioned D’Arcy. “Tell him about the job, then insist on getting the name of his solicitor. Make him hire someone and I’ll negotiate with that fellow.” “Ian will probably use some college crony. Or possibly somebody connected to the BBC.” “Whoever he chooses, let’s hope he isn’t honest with them,” D’Arcy said blandly. “Giving us considerable advantage.” Scarlet thought about it. “I’m not sure he knows what honesty is.” At the station, Scarlet purchased a writing block so she could begin the letter to her sister immediately. “Dear India – I have both sad and wonderful news,” she began. How lucky that she had waited to write until this unexpected uptick in her good fortune. Frankie stopped his taxi by the garage so that Scarlet could see the stained glass rondo hanging in the window. He was bursting with pride. “Looks perfect,” agreed Scarlet, barely able to contain her laughter. Nicholas was eager to nurse but Scarlet was out of milk. She gave him a bottle as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t what she had promised him or herself but, it couldn’t be changed. She kissed his forehead as he suckled. As soon as he was asleep she knocked on Ian’s library door. “Come in,” he called. He was listening to the BBC but turned down the radio as she entered, watching her face warily. She was grateful that she could be so calm. “I got a job,” she said, “Ten pounds a week working with Miss Esmé Hope Bottomley.” She knew he wouldn’t recognize the name and he didn’t. “She has a flat in London, in Norfolk Crescent. I can stay there with her.” She deliberately neglected to mention the baby. “Dogsbody?” His brows creased. “Doesn’t sound like you.” “Editing a novel series for Coltsfoot & Briggins.” His brow cleared. “That’s wonderful then. But there’s no reason we can’t share the flat the way we share Nicholas. Be reasonable. There are two floors – I’ll take the downstairs if it makes you more comfortable. I won’t ask you to entertain.” No, Candi and Margalo would compete for that honor. She could see his mind working: glamorous young couple with baby, two important jobs, country place AND he had the freedom he craved, which appeared to be mastering a harem of gullible girls. What could suit him better? “My solicitor is Pelham D’Arcy in Maida Vale. He needs the name of your solicitor so that they can talk.” “My solicitor? So they can ratchet up the bills? Darling, ask me for what you want. We can get the life we need. Talk to me.” She looked at him, more confident and handsome now than when she had first met him. Yet he really was a total stranger. She could imagine him doing literally anything, now. You could never trust, or rely, on a person like that. “I’d rather do this through solicitors. I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.” “That’s too bad,” he said coldly. “It’s silly to break up over a bit of passing fluff, especially when it means there’s that much less cash to go around.” He turned up his radio as if preparing to ignore her. She raised her voice. “So? You think you’ll use Harry?” Naming an old college friend. “I’ll talk to Margalo.” He turned away from her decisively. She knew this was supposed to frighten her, suggesting the massive power of the BBC ranged formidably against her but she thought of Pelham D’Arcy and didn’t feel scared. “One more thing: when does your job start?” “I’ll be going up to town tomorrow.” He hadn’t really answered her question but the information was sufficient. “Are you taking the car?” she inquired. “Would you rather I leave it for you?” “Yes, I would, really. I’m going to have a lot of luggage.” “I can take the train. Sure, you wouldn’t like the come along? Settle things about the flat?” “No thank you. I need to go up soon myself, I’m not sure when. I’ll let you know. Through my solicitor.” He sniffed. “Mind that you do.” She was amazed that he never mentioned Nicholas once! He obviously didn’t expect that he would have to concern himself with the child. Clearly he assumed the system would always work to his advantage and grant him whatever he asked; a child when he wanted one, no concerns or responsibility when he did not. She could see that this habitually forgetfulness about his son and heir meant Ian was still taking his wife for granted. As she had once taken him. Suited her perfectly. Having the car would be helpful: ideal, in fact. She went upstairs to organize Nick’s and her belongings so that packing after Ian’s departure would be a breeze. Chapter 21. Our Miss Clew
Scarlet took a long, thoughtful walk. She wanted to call Pom and thank him for sending her – by whatever circuitous route – to Pelham D’Arcy, but she needed to think about what had transpired. The one thing she found most distressing about the encounter was D’Arcy’s advice to avoid heart to hearts with her new best friend. Did telephone calls count? She had the uncomfortable notion he’d tell her that they would– but she didn’t plan to tell him. Guilty conscience? Ian’s detective couldn’t be listening on phone calls – that was spy stuff. And how could she explain any of this to Pom without enmeshing them still further – think how embarrassing THAT would be. Suddenly her greatest fear seemed to be that Pom, because their timing was “off”, would simply begin avoiding her – then she would have no friends at all. Yet how could she fear that be if what she wanted was to discourage him? Maybe Ian was right about loving two people at once…in different ways. No, it was more than Ian used to be her confidante, her best friend, and he’d disqualified himself. The loneliness was unbearable. But D’Arcy said needing any male confidante was dangerous. And intimacy of any kind might give Pom the wrong idea before Scarlet even knew what the right idea was. Yet what was the “wrong” idea when Scarlet had so much trouble figuring out the objective truth? She resolved to send a nice long letter to India telling her the facts without any false shame. It was awkward considering the distance but maybe India could be her confidante. India had said she was contemplating a summer visit – perhaps she could be talked into moving up her dates. By the time Scarlet checked her watch she was in a completely unfamiliar part of London and it was almost 3:00. This was Thursday – last day she could visit Mysterious Employer before the weekend. Checking in at a sweetshop for the nearest cab stand she was told, “I’ll call one for you, miss.” She thanked the helpful man but the cab took fifteen minutes to arrive and Fitzrovia seemed far away. Scarlet was feeling increasingly desperate to the point where she had to force herself to stop checking her watch. As they pulled up to the address and she sorted out a payment the door of # 14 opened and an obviously irate man in a bowler hat and muffler stormed out clutching a dispatch case. Scarlet buttonholed him – because what if he himself were The Mysterious Employer? She questioned, “Excuse me, but were you here about the job?” “I don’t think there is a job,” he protested huffily as he stomped away. Having no time to think about it Scarlet rung the bell. The door was answered by a tiny, very old woman wearing a faded dress, a dirty apron and an annoyed expression. She seemed awfully old to be anyone’s housekeeper. “I’m here about the job,” said Scarlet hopefully. The furrows between the woman’s brows deepened. “It’s almost four o’clock,” said the woman. “I was just about to have my tea.” Although she looked like the housekeeper her voice was imperious. Scarlet jumped to conclusions. “Don’t let me stop you,” said Scarlet, stepping boldly into the house, “I can tell you about my qualifications while you prepare.” “There’s only enough for one,” admonished the woman in a school- mistressy voice. “Perfectly all right,” Scarlet lied desperately. “I’ve had my tea.” “Very well then,” said the woman. “Follow me.” She led Scarlet through several ornate reception rooms filled with magnificent Belle Epoque and Directoire furniture that seemed completely unused, as if this were some sort of museum. As they passed through the dining room Scarlet noticed papers on the table – this must be where candidates had been interviewed. The front door bell sounded again. “Too late!” said the woman triumphantly. “It’s four o’clock!” and they passed through baize swing doors into a small, muggy kitchen. Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle. The cat opened one eye. “That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again. The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically. “I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices. “So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.” Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation. “If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.” “I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.” Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?” The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. “Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?” Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle. “Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzleright now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?” The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry. “You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?” “Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?” “No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.” Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed. “Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.” Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.” “Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet. But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers. “Dear Madam,” it said, “We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1stallowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties. Nigel Mountjoy Editor in Chief” “How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?” Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.” “I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?” “I don’t know whatthey will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.” Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust. “I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult. “You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.” Scarlet had to agree. “What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet. “I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?” “Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly. “Sixty pounds a week?” “No – for the whole three months.” “Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet. “That would be acceptable.” Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications. “You live in the country?” “Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.” “There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.” “But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“ Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?” “Six weeks.” “Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?” Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon. “Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.” How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation. “Have you always lived in this house?” “Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.” “Tontine?” “Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.” And the story spilled out. Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her to be a hanger-on of rich county families –some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world. Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s new novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity. Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship - were completely out of the question. Prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church. Therefore it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”) She never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – who preferred foreign travel to a life at home. One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring. “Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.” “Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?” “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit myconvenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.” Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brushoffs! Something was very wrong there. Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor. Chapter 20 - The Solicitor
Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale. “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp. She displayed it. “Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his lovely red coat! Matches the foxes’ coat! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. Put it in the window of the garage.” Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls. “That would be fine by me,” she said. Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce. “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling if she had any strength she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I used to think wedding vows would be enough! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help would a contract be? She feared the worst about this solicitor, but at this particular moment she was far too tired to seek further. She summoned up as much strength as she could manage and explained her situation. “Yes, I am afraid as a matter of law the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third.” “I don’t have any income,” said Scarlet faintly. “And your husband’s income, if I may ask?” “I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.” “Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?” “Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?” “Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.” Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some top secret document. “I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity. Come round.” It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her? “I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“ “Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?” “Separation,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.” “Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet rapidly was losing patience with this troglodyte. He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then he seemed to seize control of himself, stiffen the upper lip, think of England, and muster up the effort to stay calm. “I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.” “I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.” “I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.” “The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.” D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?” “Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly. D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“ “Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we rain into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.” “I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.” “Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.” “Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that Idon’t trust you,” he emphasized the word - the question is what a judge might think.” “And what might he think?” D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.” She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing. “You mean if we both have affairs?” “If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.” She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were - but she knew that wouldn’t help. “I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy. “You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.” “I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.” Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all? “Exactly. And I want no part of it.” “How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers. “American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled. “It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I may say my wife shares your view.” Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all. “Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?” “I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.” “Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?” D’Arcy raised a blocking hand. “Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.” “Why a will?” “It’s part of establishing the trust. This allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.” “I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed. “I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?” Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed. The session ended warmly on a handshake. “I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news.” “Sounds smart,” said Scarlet. Yes, it did. Chapter 19. A Mysterious Employer
On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers – unable even to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice. She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in. “I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked. “What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?” She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off. “We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.” “Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.” Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was his fault it was the world’s fault. How could she explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.” “No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.” “Well, he’s a fool then. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best - and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.” “Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’ “I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off. Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve. When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor. Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him on the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey? Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard. However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body? All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram - not to assault you with. She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant. Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it - a boxed advertisement in the top corner: Editorial Ability – Temporary. Possibly, thought Scarlet. “Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to: 14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.” No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions. She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly trust to represent her well. She was too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browserand explained her difficulty. “I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly. “I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?” “I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.” “Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.” So comforting. “We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.” “Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.” |
Alysse AallynArchives
November 2021
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