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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Alysse AallynArchives
November 2021
Categories |