Number 99 Knightsbridge was a conspicuous house. It rose a full story
higher than its neighbours and spread a whole window wider than any
other private dwelling from the Hyde Park Hotel to the Guards’ Barracks.
You could see it half-way down Sloane Street, thrusting its crammed and
costly window-boxes into the dimness of the London colour scheme. Each
of the fifteen front window-frames had had the Georgian sashed panes
removed and was now filled with a sheet of plate glass, bevelled into an
ebony frame and veiled inside with curtains of the richest lace; each of
the rust-brown bricks of which it was built was now surrounded with the
best mortar, so white that Gillian felt it must be enamelled. The
wrought-iron balconies which hung across the first and second floors
were painted black and enhanced by a gilded boss wherever the pattern
made it possible to apply one, and the tall black railings which fenced
the ground floor from the street had their tips gilded to match the
balconies. In the midst of them the decoration of an ornate gardendoor
twisted and whirled around what was evidently a bicycle-wheel with a
golden tyre, the hub of which was formed of the letters W. M. in
monogram. Gillian had often rejoiced in the opulent charm of this
exterior without supposing that the dwelling behind it would ever admit
so plain a worm as herself to tremble at its more intimate
magnificences. Now, as she pressed the amethystine button of the
bell-push at the gate she felt like a goose-girl in a fairy-tale at the
moment when she comes to the magician’s cave. It was rather a shock to
find the door opened by a perfectly plain butler; a tall, grave,
clean-shaven man who received her with a melancholy kindness which
belonged to more anciently established, less insistently plutocratic
surroundings. The pathway from the street to the house-door was flagged
with porphyry and malachite under a glass roof supported on pillars up
which crimson-ramblers, their roots in huge porcelain vases, were
twined. Baskets of scented geraniums hung at intervals from the arches
of this processional way, and tubs of blue and pink hydrangeas stood in
the garden spaces on either side of the path. The hall into which she
followed the butler up a flight of three marble steps, occupied the
whole floor and was lit by two tall windows on the street side, and by
glass doors opening on to the long garden which led down to the Park. It
was full of very brightly burnished suits of armour each embowered in a
separate grove of palm and fern. In the midst of these, enormous pink
begonias trained round sticks in a barrel-shaped design, occupied the
four corners of a sunken fountain which was playing above the rather
agitated home-life of several corpulent goldfish. At each corner of the
staircase there were life-size figures representing Nubian slaves (boy
and girl alternating) in coloured raiment bearing trays in either hand.
On one tray stood a vase of flowers, on the other a lamp. The cumulative
effect of passing three of these chromatic statues after a glimpse of
the suits of armour below, had stunned Gillian a little and, by the time
the drawing-room door closed upon the butler, leaving her alone with its
amazing splendours, she had ceased to be keenly receptive.
But the drawing-room was worthy of the keenest appreciation. Like the
hall it covered the whole floor. It had three windows looking on to
Knightsbridge, and three on to the Park. Its walls were panelled in
hand-cut velvet brocade, electric-blue on a mauve background: each of
the two fireplaces was enriched by an overmantel, all-white balustrades
and mirrors, supporting or reflecting innumerable shelves and brackets,
no shelf without its flower-vase, no bracket without its statuette.
Between the windows were more mirrors, framed in Dresden china frames
from which candle-holders curved out like pink and gilded horns and bore
not candles but china imitations carrying electric lights and silken
shades which mirrored themselves again in the glass. The room was full
of electric-light bulbs. From the heavily moulded ceiling mauve and blue
ribbons hung in slings and from each sling a gilded Cupid stretched down
a torch-filled hand, and in each torch a bulb. This amorous army of
illumination circled round a very beautiful Venetian glass chandelier
which, with the Aubusson carpet that spread its blue medallion and faint
roses over the parquet-floor, seemed to indicate another mind feebly at
work under the overmastering influence which had clearly directed the
main ornamentation of the house.
There was one book in the room: _The Golden Treasury_, bound in blue
leather, with a wreath of purple violets encircling the name “Winona”
tooled on the cover. On the top of the grand piano, a Broadwood in a
painted case, there stood an army of photographs each in a silver frame.
Most of these photographs were of the same person. These were all signed
“Winona” in a flowing hand and showed the signer in various forms of
evening dress from full panoply of Court train, veil and feathers, to a
relatively simple gown of what was probably black velvet enhanced by
ropes of pearls. Here and there the series was broken by portraits
signed “Reginald”; but Gillian could not discern a “Toby” among them.
As she waited and wondered if the personality of their owner were veiled
or revealed by all these effigies, the door opened and the butler
reappeared carrying a silver tray covered with an embroidered
tray-cloth.
“Her ladyship wishes you to take a glass of milk, miss,” he said,
depositing his burden on an inlaid table, “and will be with you
presently.”
There certainly was a glass of milk, an engraved glass in a silver
holder, on the tray before her, but it took Gillian some time to locate
it among the dishes of fruit, sandwiches and cake with which it was
surrounded. Winona, Lady Bottomley, was evidently kind to others as well
as lavish to herself, though Gillian, who had not been brought up to eat
between meals and was also a little nervous that morning, could not obey
the command to drink. She was counting the layers of marzipan that
separated the rich substance of an iced cake out of which one wedge had
been hewn in evident consideration of her need when the door opened once
more and Lady Bottomley stood revealed.
“Good morning, Miss Macfarlane, pray be seated,” she said in a measured
and stately voice as she seated herself in the exact centre of a
slippery and magnificent settee.
Gillian, a little surprised at the form of address, managed to control
herself from correcting it by the thought that it would be time enough
to do so if and when it turned out that she was to take up any duties
for the lady.
There was a pause. Gillian tried not to stare too hard at the marvellous
auburn wig, the Roman nose, the small dim eyes, the imposing figure, the
ringed hands folded over the plush of a lace-flounced gown which
presented themselves to her consideration for some time before the
spirit which informed them spoke again. When the silence was broken it
was with another surprise.
“My daughter-in-law, the future Marchioness of Fulham, has spoken to me
of you,” said Lady Bottomley. “She assures me that, happily, most
happily, you do not possess any shorthand.”
Gillian, to whom the very existence of any such person as the future
Marchioness of Fulham had, until that moment, been unknown, and who was,
moreover, bewildered by the receding phantom of that “Toby” on whose
account she was to conceal her own relationship to Lilac, murmured that
unfortunately she did not practice shorthand.
“Fortunately, Miss Macfarlane,” said Lady Bottomley, growing more
imposing with each syllable, “I consider that a knowledge of shorthand
renders its possessor unfit for the post of secretary to a lady of
title. I shall require you to take all my letters down in your own
handwriting, and to copy them out in an imitation of mine.”
“Won’t that be like forgery?” asked Gillian, forgetting her nervousness
in the novelty of the demand.
“No,” said Lady Bottomley with slow decision, “it will not. It must be a
poor imitation of my handwriting, and I shall sign the letter myself.
The quotations from _The Times_ and _The Guardian_ with which I enliven
my letters to those Abroad, you will add in your own handwriting; but I
like my own remarks to appear in a style which will not clash with my
signature.”
Gillian remembered Mrs. Barraclough’s admission that old Winona seldom
had the same secretary for many weeks at a time, and wondered whether a
tendency in handwriting to clash with the august signature were
responsible for the failure of the relationship, or if other and even
more probable reasons were to be revealed.
“You will also,” went on the lady, “you will also prepare lists of
suitable concerts which on those afternoons when I am not accompanied by
my daughter-in-law or my son Sir Reginald, the third baronet, you will
attend with me. Concerts of classical music.”
“And matinées?” said Gillian hopefully. This part of her duties sounded
easier than imitation scripture.
“No matinées,” said Lady Bottomley, “only bazaars. I disapprove of the
stage.”
“Not even charity matinées?” said Gillian.
“Only those acted by amateurs in Halls. I do not ever go inside a
theatre. When the cause is good I buy tickets and give them to others.”
“Oh,” said Gillian, and wondered if she and Lilac would ever be counted
as others.
“How old are you?” Lady Bottomley was forsaking instruction for inquiry.
“Twenty-three—that is I shall be twenty-four next birthday.”
“And when is that?”
“In April,” said Gillian, conscious that this was only July.
“That’s very young. Still it may mean that you will prove more docile
than those of riper years.”
Gillian hoped she was docile.
“We shall see. But if you come to me I must stipulate that you do not
marry.”
“Never?”
“Not for three years. My last two secretaries—no, my last three,” Lady
Bottomley checked them off on her fingers, “all married within a few
months of joining my circle. I am now engaging only such as will take a
vow not to marry for three years.”
“But suppose I left you—or you sent me away for some other reason?”
Gillian ventured.
“In that case you would be free to marry. Not otherwise. Have you any
intention of marrying?”
“Well,” said Gillian with complete candour, “I’ve no intention of _not_
marrying, but I don’t suppose I shall marry for a long time. I don’t
feel old enough yet.”
“You are quite old enough to marry,” said old Winona visibly annoyed,
“twenty-four is amply old enough. I was married at twenty for the first
time. Have you anybody in particular in view?”
“To marry? Oh, no. They all want to marry Lilac, not me?”
“And who is Lilac?”
Gillian felt the hot blood creep up her neck, over her chin, into her
face and fill her eyes with tears. This was exactly what Lilac had
forbidden her to do.
“Oh, just a sister of mine,” said she, trying to make as light of the
matter as possible.
To Gillian’s relief Miss Macfarlane’s sister was a person to whose
identity Lady Bottomley attached no significance whatever, and, after a
few more questions, they passed on to a mutual exhibition of
handwriting, and an attempt on Gillian’s part at that not too faithful
reproduction of the Bottomley script on which so much depended. Greatly
to her own surprise she was able, by the simple device of using a broad
J nib, to write a hand with which the signature “Winona Caroline
Bottomley” did not clash, and before long she was walking down Sloane
Street, a little unsteady in the knees, but with an odd new steadiness
in her mind. Lady Bottomley had engaged her at what seemed to Gillian a
fabulous salary, and unusual though the conditions of her new employment
appeared to be, she had a premonitory feeling of security in them quite
unlike the apprehensions which had filled her after her first interview
with Mrs. Lysaght. Eccentricity was to Gerald Armstrong’s daughter far
less terrifying than regulated convention.
Not until she was opposite Cadogan Gardens did it occur to her that she
had been engaged as Miss Macfarlane, a friend of the future Marchioness
of Fulham: whereas, now that the gate of No. 99 Knightsbridge was closed
behind her, she realized how completely she was nothing of more
consequence than Gillian Armstrong, a tenant of the Mordaunt Club, on
whom its secretary, plain Mrs. Barraclough, had taken pity.
It was possible that even now Miss Macfarlane, bearing a coroneted
introduction, was pressing the amethyst button of the electric bell, and
that she, Gillian, would in a few moments be convicted of fraud and
disgraced in a way which would annoy Lilac quite dreadfully. Should she
go back and confess to old Winona, or forward and confess to Mrs.
Barraclough. Both confessions would have to be made with as little delay
as possible. But, seeing that by this time she was nearer home and Mrs.
Barraclough than she was to Knightsbridge, Gillian, who usually took the
more difficult alternative from a sense of self-discipline, hurried on
and walked straight across the courtyard and knocked at Mrs.
Barraclough’s door before going up to face Lilac in their own flat.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Mrs. Barraclough. She was eating her
luncheon with the _Morning Post_ propped up against a large
Sheffield-plate cruet-stand which gave to the whole of her small and
rather austerely furnished room that sense of having a storied past
behind it which was so lacking in the Armstrongs’ flat.
“It was Winnie Roehampton who told me that her late mother-in-law was
out of secretaries again. She married Roehampton after she’d killed Jim
Bottomley. He was her first husband and she made him hunt before he
could ride. She’d always wanted Roehampton, but she couldn’t afford him,
so she took Jim Bottomley first and married the other, six weeks after
the accident, on her jointure.”
“Well,” said Gillian, “if she’s that kind of person I shouldn’t think
Lady Bottomley would engage a secretary who came through her.”
“No, you wouldn’t, but Winnie’s a sensible girl. Her heart’s always in
the rich place,” said Mrs. Barraclough. “She’s always kept friends with
old Winona who’d never really cared for Jim. He was only her stepson,
and she was delighted that her Toby could have it all. And when Winnie
married into the peerage, well—wait and see. You’ll understand soon
enough.”
“Well, but what about Miss Macfarlane?”
“That’s you, Miss Armstrong. All her secretaries are Macfarlanes. She’s
very obstinate about names. Winnie Roehampton says she always calls Hyde
Park Corner the Marble Arch.”
“Goodness,” said Gillian. “Doesn’t it make it very difficult to know
what she means?”
“I dare say it does,” said Mrs. Barraclough. “But you may get used to
it.”
“And is ‘Toby’ the third baronet Sir Reginald?”
“He is,” said Mrs. Barraclough. “Old Bottomley was the first, poor Jim
was the second and Toby is the third—all in ten years. Old Bottomley was
one of the Coronation honours. He did something very handsome for
Belfast Harbour. You’ll hear all about that, too.”
“Then you really think I am quite honestly engaged?”
“Quite honestly,” said Mrs. Barraclough, “and I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if you kept the job. Anyhow you have my blessing and I’ll tell
Winnie Roehampton to tell her late mother-in-law you’re a treasure.”
Gillian left Mrs. Barraclough comforted and relieved. Odd though it all
sounded, it was not a terrifying oddness. Winona, Lady Bottomley, was
more like the first chapter in a new book than a problem of existence.
You felt there were answers to all her sums. You were astonished at, not
dismayed by her; and Gillian enjoyed astonishment.
“Lilac,” she called, bursting into the outer of the two rooms they used
as living-rooms.
But the little room was empty. The black Cromwellian table that stood
under the window was not laid for luncheon, and William had unfastened
the latch of his cage and, perched on the back of one of the three
chairs they had bought at Heal’s to match the table, was thoughtfully
manicuring his claw with his beak.
“Hillo!” said William. “Kiss cocky! Kiss cocky!”
“Lilac! Lilac!” called Gillian and went through the door into the inner
room which was lined with bookcases and furnished with an enormous
red-leather chesterfield, Sophie’s gift to the young flat-holders, and
so huge that there was hardly space for another seat in the room.
But Lilac was not in the book-room, nor in the larger single room on the
north side of the building looking into Gwynne Street which they used as
a bedroom. Lilac had evidently gone on to some occasion of her own when
she left Gillian at the top of Sloane Street, which was like Lilac, who
had many private affairs to attend to though she usually kept Saturday
morning free for flat-keeping and was in to lunch. And this was Saturday
morning or Gillian would not have been free to go looking for work as
she had done. Gillian, in solitary disgrace, was still correcting the
July examination papers in the mistresses’ room at Pelham House all the
other days of the week.
So Gillian took off her hat and washed her hands and went and ate bread
and cheese and lettuce with William and read _The Song of Honour_ in a
little yellow-paper book with a rather smudgy woodcut on its cover which
she had bought at the Poetry Bookshop the Saturday before. William, who
adored crusts with butter, sat on one claw on the back of her chair and
held the crusts she gave him in the other, occasionally dropping one
while he stood on both feet in order to stretch a long neck to turn over
a page for Gillian. He didn’t tear the page, but he often turned it
before Gillian was quite ready, and she had to turn back while William
was climbing down to pick up his crust from the floor. She did it as
quietly as possible in order not to hurt his feelings. William was
really tiresome when his feelings were hurt. He would chatter and scream
and flap his wings and require whole-hearted, undivided attention for
quite five minutes if he felt neglected or snubbed, and Gillian had to
be very careful because the Countess had already complained of the noise
he made.
It was three o’clock when Lilac came in. She was flushed, but it was
with excitement quite as much as with heat.
“Have you got the job?” she asked from the doorway. Gillian felt she
dared not have answered “No.”
“Yes. I think so, though she wants someone at once,” she replied,
wondering why Lilac’s eyes were so blue and her hair so curly at the
sleepiest hour of the whole week.
“That’s all right. You can go to her on Monday,” said Lilac, taking off
her hat and pushing the damp curls from her forehead with the third
finger of her left hand. “I’ve fixed it all up with Mrs. Lysaght.”
“Lilac!”
“Yes. I have. I took the Putney bus and I called on her.”
“Goodness!” said Gillian.
“And gracious!” said Lilac, “I do wish, dear Gillian, you would not
swear so blasphemously.”
“All right then. Damn!” said Gillian, “but hurry up.”
“Yes, I did. I called at _Mon Repos_. What a woman! Does she always
screw that little gold pencil in and out?”
“Always!” said Gillian, “particularly when she’s angry. Was she angry
with you?”
“Oh, very.” Lilac sat on the table and swung her buckled shoes up and
down in the sunlight that came through under the green rush sunblinds.
“At first. But it’s all right. You’re to correct those abominable
children’s papers at home till the end of the term, and she’ll pay you
your full salary. A person, you really couldn’t call her a girl, called
Jane Bird, who lives on the other side of the Albert Bridge, will
collect and deliver them day by day.”
“Bird,” said Gillian. “How on earth——”
“She came here, while you were at school on Tuesday,” said Lilac, her
eyes hard and her mouth narrow. “After what she said I arranged what I’d
say.”
“What did she say?”
“She said—she stood in the doorway—she’s a great creature, Gillian—she
said, ‘Your sister is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. She’s no
good to Madame Bowdler.’ I asked her who Madame Bowdler was and she said
that was Mrs. Lysaght’s spiritual title, and then she told me that the
whole school was boiling over about your being in disgrace. You never
told me that they sent up your lunch and tea.”
“And it’s been Irish stew with the chill off all this week,” said
Gillian. “I didn’t tell you because it is all so horrid I’d rather not
talk about it.”
“_I_ talked about it,” said Lilac. “I felt I must play a father’s part.”
“But, Lilac, suppose Lady Bottomley hadn’t wanted me?”
“You’d have had to find someone who did,” said Lilac. “You’d have had to
do that in any case. I was determined you shouldn’t go back there any
more. I told her you weren’t safe to associate with ordinary people
because of the unfortunate purity of your mind. I admitted,” Lilac
paused ruefully, “I admitted that it was a disadvantage, especially in
school-work. I very nearly said that I supposed no head mistress could
hope to see God.”
“Oh, Lilac, you didn’t!”
“No—only nearly. It was a thing I thought of saying. Jane Bird said it
to me.”
“How did she find you?”
“She asked Miss Fairfax if you had any family, and Miss Fairfax told her
there was a sister. She said she hadn’t supposed that anyone so
wide-eyed as you could possibly be anything but the youngest of a
family. I told her that to all intents and purposes you were.”
“Well,” said Gillian, “nobody who saw you would suppose I was younger
than you.”
“Not until they knew us,” said Lilac darkly.
* * * * *
So Gillian wrote to Lady Bottomley to say that she could begin work for
her on Monday, and the sisters went out to post the letter in time to be
delivered at 99 Knightsbridge that evening, and then walked along the
Embankment to Chelsea Bridge and back by Battersea Park, and Gillian
confessed to Lilac that she had told about her after all.
“Did she take any notice?” asked Lilac.
“Not the slightest.”
“It’s all right then, for the present,” said Lilac. “It’s really Toby I
mind. And he mayn’t find out just yet. Did you see him?”
“No,” said Gillian, “only his photograph and that was called Reginald.”
“Yes,” said Lilac. “I know. Isn’t it a pity?”