Olivia

by Joan Smith

  It was a place to which mistresses were brought by their patrons to be made elegant. My first impulse was to turn on my heel and flee, and how I wish I had done just that! But I did not. I needed a gown of the first stare of fashion, and I needed it very soon.

  We were invited to be seated, to await the ministrations of Madame Vigneault. “That is impossible. We are in a great hurry,” I said to the clerk. “If Madame is busy, I shall leave.”

  They were eager enough for our patronage that I was invited behind the silken curtain that set the waiting room off from the shop to speak to Madame at once. “You just have a seat and wait for me, Dorothy. I shan't be a moment,” I said. There was a strong inclination to say more; namely, don’t speak to that young buck who is ogling you, but as he was less than two yards from me, I could hardly do so. I leveled a cold stare on him that I thought would keep him in his place till my return.

  The upshot of it all was that my stare was ineffective. When I came out from behind the silken curtain after my colloquy with Madame some quarter of an hour later, Dorothy was gone. The buck was gone too, not a sign of either of them anywhere. Much as I disliked to speak to the female who drooped over a new issue of La Belle Assemblée, I had to do it.

  “The young lady? Oh, she left with a gent,” the woman said, as calm as you please.

  “The gentleman who was with you?” I asked her.

  “There’s no gent with me. I’m meeting mine here. I didn’t notice who she went with, to tell the truth. I went to the smallest room a spell, and when I got back she was just leaving. All I saw was a gent holding the door for her.”

  "I see. Thank you very much. You wouldn’t happen to know the name of that gentleman that was looking at her?”

  “‘Fraid I can’t help you, Mum,” she said in a lackadaisical way, returning to her book.

  There is no describing the commotion that was going on inside of me. The only time in my life I was ever so agitated before was once I was minding a neighbor’s child for her, and the toddler fell downstairs, becoming unconscious for full three minutes. I thought the child was dead, and I now thought a fate of equal horror had befallen Dorothy. My heart beat tumultuously, there was an eerie ringing in my ears, and a terrible heat in my head, as though the brain was on fire.

  The worst of it was that it was all my fault. I had brought an innocent young girl under my protection to this haunt of rakes and their mistresses and abandoned her. I was close to insane with worry and guilt and remorse. I began babbling foolishly, trying to discover who the man was, that I might go after him, and rescue Dorothy. The clerk had the names of the two gentlemen who were in the room, but did not know which one I was particularly interested to find, nor did she have any address for either one. “They pay cash,” was her unhelpful reply.

  With panic driving me to the edge of distraction, I dashed out, my plan being to go straight to Lady Synge to tell her what had happened, and let her decide how to recover her daughter, through Bow Street if necessary. It was too serious to allow me to think of protecting my own name. I had done wrong, and must do what I could to rectify the error, even though it meant certain dismissal.

  My tilbury dashed through town as though driven by a madwoman. I pushed my nags as never before or since. I actually passed a pair of bucks having a curricle race down Bond Street. They were not going much under fifteen miles an hour either. I pulled up in front of the house and leapt from my seat, flinging the reins behind me. The horses could bolt or run up the stairs behind me, just as they wished. Luckily, the butler sent a boy out to stable them.

  I entered the hall gasping, my hat falling from my head, to see Lord Philmot lounging against the door jamb of the saloon with a steely look in his eyes and a frown that would freeze fire. "Where is Lady Synge?” I asked, panting.

  “Out. Lucky for you, Miss Fenwick.”

  “Where is she? I must find her! The worst thing has happened!”

  “No, the worst thing has been avoided, no thanks to you. I have brought Dottie home. She is abovestairs this minute, sent to her room.”

  “Oh, thank God!” I sighed, and stumbled past him, trembling from head to toe, to sink on to a sofa. My state of agitation saved me from a blistering scold. His frown changed first to astonishment, then to an expression hovering on concern. Without another word, he poured me a glass of wine and handed it to me. I was shaking so I could not take it from him without spilling a few drops on my skirt. Upon seeing this, he pressed the glass to my lips.

  “Have a sip. It will help you. Come now, it is not the end of the world. Dorothy is fine, not nearly so upset as you are yourself.”

  I heard disjointed, babbling sounds coming from my lips, and was too upset to stop them. “I was so worried when I found her gone... No one knew the man’s address... I had no idea... Are you sure she’s all right?”

  He assured me she was, but I still wanted to see for myself. I ran upstairs, just peeped in her door to see she was really there, then I could begin to recover my composure. Oh dear, and begin to face the music!

  Before returning below, I went to my room to remove my hat and gloves. What a sight greeted me in the mirror! No wonder Philmot had looked surprised. Hair all blown awry, dust powdering my hat and face, and the after effects of shock robbing my cheeks of any color. I looked a perfect nightmare. I repaired such of the ravages as were reparable, then went below to thank Lord Philmot, from the bottom of my heart. Naturally I wished it could have been anyone but he who had rescued Dorothy, but much better he than no one.

  He sat, waiting patiently, sipping on a glass of wine, and preparing a lecture that would do justice to my heinous crime without casting me into another spasm of shock. “You are feeling better now?” he asked, with more hope than concern. Oh yes, he was eager to get on with the scold.

  Hoping to take the wind out of his sails, I entered at once on my apology, liberally laced with gratitude. “Much better, thank you. And thanks to you, Lord Philmot. To see Dorothy home safe is all that matters.”

  “I must disagree. To realize she was taken to such a den as Vigneault’s and left quite alone matters a good deal to me. It will undoubtedly not please her mother much either.”

  “I had no idea what sort of a place Vigneault’s was. Lady Synge recommended her to me only yesterday. I dropped off some material to have made up into a gown while Dorothy and I were out driving. I was not away from her much above ten minutes.”

  “My sister recommended her?” he asked, his brows rising slightly.

  “Yes, I asked her for the name of a good modiste, and she recommended Vigneault.”

  “But why on earth did you go to her, instead of having her come here?” he asked.

  “This is not my home, milord. I work here. I meant to do no more than drop the material off. I was never so horrified as when I came out and saw Dottie gone. But how did you discover her? Did she tell you why she went off with that man? He must be a friend of the family I expect. She should not have gone off without leaving me a message. That was ill done of her, to frighten me out of my wits for nothing. It shows a lack of consideration I would not have expected in her.”

  Philmot’s stern frown softened to an expression of defense as I spoke. I was not slow in tumbling to what had happened. He had not plucked her from some roué's clutches, as I originally thought. He had entered the shop and carried her off himself. Furthermore, if he had not done it to embarrass and frighten me, it was more than I could believe. It hardly needs mentioning, I think, that Dottie's lack of consideration was strongly emphasized.

  "I removed her from the shop. She ought not to have been there, and neither should you,” he said.

  “You took her away!” I exclaimed, as though astonished. “I see.” I sat a moment wavering, wondering whether my position were strong enough to launch an attack of my own, as I was much inclined to do. He who hesitates is lost. During my indecision, he struck out at me.

  “It was imperative to get her out of that place at once. You ma
y imagine how I felt, to enter a room and see my niece, seventeen years of age, chatting to a gazetted fortune hunter and a libertine I would not let into my stables, let alone my drawing room. I acted a little rashly not to leave you word but the circumstances—so extraordinary!—must be held my excuse. I am sure you agree I did the correct thing.”

  I did not contradict him with words, but let the scathing glance I bestowed on him deliver some notion of my feelings. “At least no real harm was done. I have learned a good lesson, and will speak to Dorothy about making up to strange gentlemen. Thank you for your—help in this matter. Naturally I shall tell Lady Synge the whole unfortunate tale.”

  “Do you think that a wise step?” he asked.

  “She must be told. I have no wish to hide my error from her. Indeed it would be quite improper.” I looked hopefully to see if he had some good refutation for my speech, for of course I was not the least bit eager to tell my employer of the afternoon’s escapade.

  “It seems a shame to tattle on Dorothy. She will be in deep disgrace. My sister is adamant about such things. It is hardly the child’s fault really…”

  “I don’t plan to put the blame on Dorothy! It was my error.”

  "It was Dottie who was making up to Mr. Holmes.”

  “Her mother must be told. Only think if someone else should tell her, if she should hear it from a friend, she would think me out of reason deceitful.”

  “None of the persons in that establishment are her friends. She is unlikely to hear it from anyone.”

  “Madame Vigneault herself might... though she would have no way of knowing it was Miss Crowell

  with me.”

  “Madame Vigneault is a reasonable woman, exclusive of the prices she charges. She will not mention it,” he said, very confidently. “We are all three culpable to some extent: you for taking her there, Dottie for flirting with Holmes, and I for not leaving you a message. Let us keep our errors amongst ourselves. Least said, soonest mended.”

  “If you really think it is for the best,” I answered uncertainly.

  “I do. Allow me to pour you another glass of wine. You are still pale. I’m afraid I gave you quite a fright.”

  “I was horrified,” I admitted, holding my glass out for a refill.

  “This whole business arose because of a misunderstanding. My sister intends you to treat her house quite as a home. Have the modiste come to you when next you have need of one.”

  “I shall discuss it with her, certainly. I had not realized the difficulties that would arise in this position I have got myself into.”

  “It has been inexplicable to me from the start why a young lady who obviously does not have to hire herself should do so,” he said, with a face that strongly invited an explanation. I was not about to satisfy his curiosity. The fact was, I did need the job, but felt my treatment would be better if that fact remained my own secret.

  I proceeded immediately to another subject. “I have friends, close friends, in town, for instance, who would like to call on me I am sure, but feel they should not. Yes, you are correct, Lord Philmot. I must discuss my situation with your sister.”

  “These friends you mention—is it Lady Strathacona and her husband?”

  “Why yes, my Cousin Deborah and Jack. Do you know them?”

  “Very well indeed. Jack is a connection of mine."

  “You will be attending their ball then,” I said, wondering if there might be a drive there for me. If Lady Synge was not invited, I was in a pickle, for of course I could not drive my tilbury to a ball. This ball loomed as the highlight of the Season for me. I had some hopes it would ease open the door to other similar do’s.

  “Yes, I shall. Will you attend, Miss Fenwick?”

  “I plan to. I expect to be in touch with Deborah about arranging the details of it. She has little experience in such matters. One trembles to think of her trying to decorate a ballroom,” I added, with a little laugh.

  “Have you decorated many such ballrooms?” he asked, being a touch ironical, I suspected.

  “Oh yes. I always worked with her mama, the Marchioness of Monterne, in planning the family balls at Dawlish. The Duchess of Tavistock too considered me her favorite assistant in that line. Of course we shan’t have anything so elaborate as the Duchess’s last do,” I answered in an offhand way.

  “How extremely convenient for Lady Strathacona,” he said, with a mocking, tight smile at the corner of his lips.

  “It is rather. She is a famous tomboy, you must know. I dropped in on her musical party yesterday afternoon, just taking an hour off from Dottie’s lessons you know, and poor Deborah had hired herself a very inferior pianist to accompany the Italian soprano that was singing for us. I enjoyed the Scarlatti though.” I saw no reason to tell him I had enjoyed it from the hallway, as Debbie would certainly have asked me if she had known I could get away.

  “I didn’t see you there, Ma’am,” he replied, with a quizzing look. I felt a perfect ass, as a blush brightened my face.

  “How should you indeed! I did not enter the concert room, but only listened for a moment at the doorway, for I could not take more than a moment off from my work here.”

  “That would explain why you mistook Haydn for Scarlatti,” he said. “Nothing was played but the works of Haydn.”

  “Is that so? With Dottie chattering my ear off, I did not notice the difference. They are rather similar, don’t you think?”

  “I have never thought so. You know my sister is not such a tyrant as you believe. She would be happy to have you broaden your own cultural experiences, for the benefit would be sure to rub off on Dottie and Alice eventually.”

  “A good point. Even your generous sister is not so broad-minded as to excuse me from the schoolroom entirely, and I have been away from Dorothy long enough. Again thank you for your help. I expect I shall see you at the Strathacona’s ball, if not before.”

  “Before then, surely. Do you not attend Debbie’s rout party tomorrow evening?”

  “No! No, I am too busy,” I answered, with a strong feeling of resentment that I had not been invited. I could not but wonder why Debbie had not replied to my notes.

  “What a pity. They will be disappointed. So am I. I looked forward to the pleasure of dancing with you. I suppose you will be rooting around Mrs. Ledwell’s larder, finding new and expensive items for Synge to purchase. How does the Bodley Range perform?”

  This topic was not chosen at random. The Bodley Range had proved unpopular, as Philmot knew very well. Till Cook got on to its whims, she served the meat very poorly cooked. It came either overdone or underdone. Such inconveniences did not pass unmentioned at the Synge table. His lordship never failed to measure a scowl out to me, along with my meat, as he inveighed against the waste of hard-earned money. I cannot imagine it taxed him unduly to place his money in the funds to earn interest, but it sounded better describing it as “hard-earned.”

  "The Bodley Range continues to be the scourge of the kitchen. I must try to find an evening free to go down and see what Cook is doing wrong.”

  “She will certainly appreciate that,” he answered, and arose to bow himself out, wearing his customary smiling sneer.

  Chapter Six

  Dottie received her scold; I reprimanded myself very severely indeed; Philmot got away before I thought to enquire what he was doing at Vigneault’s in the first place (as though I didn’t know!), and Lady Synge remained totally in the dark about our misadventure on that afternoon.

  When my gown arrived, I felt it was worth every guinea and every second of that harrowing afternoon. It was a fairy’s outfit, so dainty, so beautifully made, so well fitting. When I hung my mother’s little set of diamonds around my neck, I felt ready for anything, even a party at Carlton House with the Prince Regent’s set. I was becoming anxious for the receipt of my invitation. I dropped Deborah another note telling her I was very busy, but could spare her a Sunday afternoon, if she wished to hear my suggestions regarding decorating her ballr
oom. I believe she must have gone out of town for a few days, however, for she did not reply.

  Neither did she come to call. I had consulted with Lady Synge and received delighted permission to have callers, providing they be such stellar callers as my cousin, Lady Strathacona. "I didn't intend inviting the green grocer’s wife to visit me,” I replied playfully, to let her know I read her meaning, subtly as it was phrased.

  The week wore on. We were busy in the schoolroom and around town studying architecture. I decided to give the girls an inkling of the difference between Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Renaissance, and so on. I believe I was fairly successful in this venture, for Dottie had not the least difficulty in selecting Westminster Abbey as an outstanding example of Gothic, while Alice discovered and could name the style of a little jewel of early Norman architecture that was quite unknown to me. This was the Chapel of St. John in the White Tower in the Tower of London. Once we spent a rainy afternoon sketching classical columns, adding a pediment or wall behind to complete the balance of the sketch. The girls could now distinguish a Doric from an Ionic from a Corinthian order.

  Eager to show off their new knowledge, they took these sketches down to the saloon to show their mama, who was entertaining Lady Roberts again downstairs. Far from being annoyed at an interruption from the schoolroom, Lady Synge was delighted. I was a trifle disconcerted myself to discover Philmot was of the party. I had not seen him since the fracas chez Madame Vigneault.

  “I was about to send for you,” Lady Synge said. “And what has our clever Miss Fenwick been teaching you two girls now? I swear these daughters of mine are going to be bright blue by the time she is finished with them.”