Olivia

by Joan Smith

  He wanted to laugh; I could see the glint of a smile lurking in his eyes. His pride, however, could not admit to being bested by a woman. “The law implies that in any given match, the husband is likely to be the wiser. The law must operate on probabilities, for there can hardly be a special decree laid down for every case.”

  “What have you to say to that, Lady Synge? Do you find it the general rule that the husband is of a superior intelligence to his wife?” I asked her with a rallying smile. I had realized for some time now that Synge was a bit of a fool.

  “Rubbish! That is what I say. I cannot think offhand of a single husband of my acquaintance who is one half so shrewd as his wife. I’ll say this, Miss Fenwick. They may have the advantage in law, but when the doors are closed behind us, we can manage them every time. I do just as I wish, and so does every other woman, unless she is a ninnyhammer.”

  “Take care, Sis. You are calling Miss Fenwick a ninnyhammer,” Philmot pointed out.

  “Nothing of the sort. She is not married.”

  “No, she is afraid to marry because she would be legally bound by her husband’s wishes. She is too great a ninnyhammer to manage a man, in other words.”

  “I am not afraid to marry!” I declared.

  “That was not what I meant in the least,” Lady Synge informed me.

  “I simply do not wish to be bothered having to manage a husband,” I explained. “I have better things to do.”

  “Yes, managing your two brats, Sis,” Philmot told his sister. “It seems a waste of so much cleverness on Miss Fenwick’s part to spend her talents thus. She should be running Parliament, or a business.”

  “I should dearly love to give it a try, but my skirts prohibit me from doing so. I could hardly make a worse mess than the cabinet in any case.”

  “Your talents would have to be broad indeed to make a mess in so many spheres as the cabinet does. It comes to seem it is trousers you ought to be wearing. You could have given the Almighty a bit of advice on which sex you preferred when He was creating you, if only He had given you your tongue before all else.”

  “Very true, but as He is always considered to be man-like, I daresay He would not have listened.”

  “No, no! Pray keep your accusations within bounds,” he said. “You must admit that when Miss Fenwick speaks, I listen.”

  “I’m afraid we are shocking your sister by speaking so loosely of our Maker.” He was looking so self-satisfied that I began to suspect he had come to draw me out before her, to prove my ineligibility for this job.

  I immediately set to repairing the impression I had just made, by mentioning my father’s position once again, and reaffirming my belief in the tenets of Christianity. Philmot sat throughout the whole with a sardonic smile on his lips. He knew exactly why I was adding these last remarks. I was extremely annoyed, the more so as I could not do a thing about it in front of my employer. I was ready to crown him when he clapped his hands at the end of my little spiel, and congratulated me on my “speech.” I left as soon as I could decently get away, but I did not forget that I had a score to settle with Lord Philmot.

  Chapter Eight

  My ex-pupil, Lady Strathacona, was mentioned daily in the social columns. Two days in a row her ball was written up as one of the great events of the Season. I looked forward to it with no small degree of pleasure, standing each night to admire my new gown before going to bed, and imagining myself in it, whirling under the blazing chandeliers of Strathacona House, with all of polite society around me.

  The ball, to be held in May, was to have a theme of May Day. I had dozens of ideas to decorate her place, bearing the theme in mind. Even a maypole erected in the middle of the ballroom, trimmed with twining ribbons and flowers, occurred to me as being novel, and possible of managing without interfering with the formal dances in such a large room as her house must have for dancing. A wishing well too would be quaint, and of course buckets of fresh flowers everywhere must be set out.

  As the date drew ever nearer—a week, then four days, then three, I concluded she had brought in a professional decorator. I did not mind really. It was more consideration than I looked for, for her to realize I was too busy to do it for her. In the past, she was not famous for her consideration.

  She was a scatterbrained, inconsiderate girl really, and it was nowhere more evident than in her neglecting to send me a card for her ball. Naturally it was expected I would go. I was practically one of her family after being a full year with them at Dawlish, but would the butler on service at the door know I was expected? The awful image once even popped into my head of being turned from the door because of Debbie’s neglect in not sending me a card.

  Any logistical inconvenience in getting there had been overcome long since. The Synges were going, taking Alice with them, and had invited me to share their carriage. I was grateful for it. It would show Debbie and Jack that I was not by any means a mere governess chez Synge. The only detail wanting attention was my invitation. What should I do about it?

  It was with great relief that I read next morning of the Marchioness of Monterne’s having arrived in town for her daughter’s ball. She was not so forgetful as Debbie: she would not only be sure I had my invitation, but would almost certainly call on me in person, or ask me to Strathacona House to visit her.

  It was the latter course she followed. Her arrival was enough of an event that I did not hesitate to ask Lady Synge for an hour off in the morning to pay the call. Permission was given most cordially. Certainly I must go and call on my cousin, and must feel perfectly free to invite her to return the call. Lady Synge would be delighted to receive her. There was no surfeit of marchionesses in milady’s saloon.

  The butler at Debbie’s place, who looked about as ugly and self-important as Lord Liverpool, deigned to admit me. He invited me to await her ladyship in a skimpy parlor that I am sure must have been set aside for tradesmen. I no sooner set foot inside the door of the closet than I resented his treatment.

  “If you will be kind enough to show me to my cousin’s ballroom, I shall await her there. Please hurry. I have another appointment,” I said in the snippiest voice I own. It is the only kind of treatment for these uppity butlers. He showed me most politely to the ballroom, and nipped off to call Lady Monterne.

  The ball was two days away, but already the general configuration of the decorations was visible. Very elaborate indeed. It must have been Jack who consulted with the decorator on the design. He had the same idea as occurred to me—a maypole in the center of the room, and a great deal else besides. The chairs round the room’s perimeter were set behind a white picket fence, with here and there a stile to enter the seating area. Potted plants were everywhere, and of course fresh blooms aplenty would be in evidence at a later date. A pale blue silk canopy was attached to conceal the beamed ceiling overhead, with a great sun made of golden paper and puffy clouds fashioned somehow to look very natural. A bucolic atmosphere had been created at some wicked expenditure. I envisaged ladies in panniered gowns like shepherdesses moving amidst the shrubbery. There were even a few stuffed lambs set in amidst the greenery, which probably gave rise to my notion of shepherdesses.

  I climbed one of the stiles and took up a position on one of the chairs behind the fence to see whether it were possible for the seated guests to get a good view of the ballroom floor. They would have a flat evening’s entertainment if they could not. The neck had to be craned to see around a potted tree, but a pot could always be moved an inch. Glancing at my watch to time my wait, I heard footfalls and voices from a door that stood ajar behind me. It was Debbie, with Lady Monterne, having a squabble about something. They were always at it. I had hoped Debbie’s becoming her own mistress might remove them from each other’s throat’s.

  “You certainly must ask her. It is inexcusable, Deb, after all she has done for you,” the mama was scolding.

  “She is such a bossy old scold, Mama. Jack hates her. She has been pestering us…”

  Before
more was said, they spotted me and came forth to greet me, postponing the argument about an unwanted guest at the ball till another time. I knew who they spoke of. There was an Aunt Erma in the family who made it her business to annoy them all. Deb had been warned to call on her, but apparently had not sent her a ticket for the ball.

  It was so nice to see my cousin again. I pitched myself into the marchioness’s arms and received a kiss, as if I were her own daughter. Debbie too was very happy to see me. She apologized profusely about not having returned my notes, but as I suspected all along, she had not realized I was anything but a governess at Synges.

  “No, no, I am quite a member of the family,” I assured her. “Lady Synge will be delighted to have you both call on me at Russell Square. She told me to be sure to ask you. I am more a guest than anything else at the house. Always dine with the family and their company and have twice gone to the play with them.”

  “I expect you are also on terms with Lord Philmot then,” Debbie said, with a sly smile. I remembered his saying Jack was a connection.

  “Yes indeed. We usually have an argument at least once a week, for he is so toplofty there is no bearing it. I never knuckle under to him, but you must not tell his cousin, or Jack will carry tales on me.”

  "Jack is not his cousin,” Debbie told me. "Jack's sister is married to some relation of Philmot’s.”

  “I thought he said he was a cousin.”

  “No, only a slight connection. Philmot will be happy to hear you have made a mistake, Olivia. He says you are always catching him out in his errors.”

  “Does he indeed? It comes as news to me. He has never admitted to being in the wrong yet.”

  “You two have something in common,” Debbie said, joking me, for there had been a few items regarding her wedding over which we had disagreed. Jack, for example, had wanted a small wedding, but Lady Monterne wished to make much of the affair, and I tended to agree with her, while Debbie, of course, supported Jack.

  “I have nothing at all in common with Philmot. I suppose he comes to your ball?”

  “Of course. He and Jack are very good friends. They are together three or four days a week. I like him excessively.”

  I had not realized they were so close. It was strange Debbie had not asked me to any of her smaller parties when she was so close to my employer’s brother. The relationship must have brought me to mind is all I mean, and Philmot could have let her know in short order that I was free to go about socially in the evenings. But there—I would not put it a straw past him to have given her just the opposite idea on purpose to deprive me of pleasure. “He mentioned attending your musical afternoon,” I said.

  “He told me you dropped by that afternoon, Olivia. Had I known you were here, I would have asked you to stop in and hear Madame Franconi.”

  “Signora Franconi, Debbie,” I pointed out. “The lady is Italian, not French. It is a pity you had not known I was here, but there is no harm done. Your butler might have told you I was here. He is very disagreeable, is he not? I would not tolerate his impertinence a moment if he worked for me. You are too soft by half.”

  “He has worked for Jack’s family for several decades,” she told me.

  “I can only stay a moment," I said. “Your ball is to be one of the great occasions of the Season. I am looking forward to it. I think you have got that picket fence about six inches too high, by the way. Other than that, your decor is very nice. I expect all the ballrooms are done up as gardens this month.”

  She remembered then that I still had not got my card, and went off to get it for me. Her mama explained away her negligence. "Debbie is so busy, and you know what a sad scatterbrained creature she is, Olivia. Very naughty of her not to have sent it sooner. I gave her a good talking to, you may be sure.”

  “I think Debbie needs a secretary, Cousin. With her busy schedule it is a wonder she remembers to attend her own parties.”

  We went to sit in a private parlor, had a good cose about the old times, and a cup of tea. Debbie, so busy with her ball, could not rejoin us. I saw her for a moment again on my way out. Some callers had caught her and were wasting her time, when they must have known how much she would have to do. But Deb would rather gossip and gab than do anything else except ride. I did not see Jack. I expect he was out.

  I returned to Russell Square in high gig, my invitation tucked into my reticule, soon to be tucked into the corner of my mirror as a constant reminder of the happy evening awaiting me.

  Now at the height of the Season, we saw little of Alice. Her being so often out pitched Dottie and myself into an even closer alliance. The child developed a fondness for me that was quite striking. I often noticed her using my expressions, or physical gestures. Even a little something of my own phrases and tone of voice crept into her talk. She quoted me often to her mother, who never tired of hearing what new tricks she was learning at my expensive elbow.

  “Dottie will make an excellent wife for some fortunate gentleman, Synge,” she said to her husband one evening over dinner. It was one of the few occasions when there was no company to share the table with us.

  He made the humphing sound that passed for conversation with him when he did not wish his eating to be interrupted.

  “Salmon again, Mama!” Dottie exclaimed when the fish was set on the table. “It is still scarce and expensive in May. Miss Fenwick says it is more economical to buy the foods that are in season.”

  “April, Dottie,” I corrected her. “Salmon is in season in May.”

  “Oh it must have been last month you were complaining of our having it three times a week,” she said.

  Lady Synge smiled and said to her husband, “These two have been making up lists of what foods are in season in each month, to cut down on Cook’s costs. I wish Alice could spend more time with Miss Fenwick, but she is become such a rage she is never free.”

  “Miss Fenwick says there is a shocking amount of waste in the kitchen,” Dottie continued. “We saw a mutton shank bone tossed into the garbage with half a pound of meat still on it, that would have made an excellent soup stock. The vegetables too that were hardly wilted a bit were tossed out.”

  “Seems to me it is you ought to be taking lessons from Miss Fenwick,” Synge said, with a surly look at

  his spouse, who passed the look along to me.

  “You know you won’t touch mutton soup,” she told him.

  It did not seem the right moment to tell her such leftover meals are for servants. Instead, I upheld her position, for I always had more to do with her than her husband, and it is only common sense to be on terms with one’s employer.

  “In general, there is more money to be saved in the stables than the kitchen, Lord Synge,” I said. “Most homes have roughly twice as many horses as they require. Some extravagant men even keep horses stabled at the changing posts along the well-traveled routes.”

  Lady Synge laughed merrily. “She has got you there, Synge! My husband keeps a team stabled at Reading, Miss Fenwick. I daresay they cost more than the shank bone my cook threw in the garbage.”

  “Some men even stable their governess’s horse free of charge,” Synge informed me, with an angry eye.

  Had I realized Synge had a team at Reading, I would have selected a different example, for there was no point in antagonizing him. To calm him down, I said, “If one practices good economy in other areas, he can well afford to indulge his passion—horses, or whatever. Paying one’s debts promptly to avoid interest, not gambling…” I was about to continue with more sensible rules of conduct, but it was clear from Synge’s glare that he followed none of these rules, so I asked for the hot mustard instead, and ceased speaking of household management altogether. That would be restricted to the schoolroom in future.

  Unfortunately, Lady Synge did not follow my lead. It was at about this time she began to pester him about his spending. I don’t know if they were short of funds or what, but I know she often gave hints of an economical nature to him, prefacing them w
ith the words, “Miss Fenwick says” more often than I liked.

  “When I want a governess’s opinion on my bookkeeping, I shall ask her for it!” he exclaimed angrily.

  I decided on the spot I would take dinner in my room for a few days, till the air cleared. It was more pleasant than eating with the Synges en famille, but when they had company, I would join them.

  The night of the Strathacona’s ball, they had a good deal of company. Six couples dined with them, including Lord Philmot and his current flirt. Mrs. Dexter, she was called, a widow lady of very dashing appearance and uncertain years, but certainly not on the sunny side of thirty. She had jet black hair and wore a black point de gauze gown with Brussels appliqué that made my mint green, of which I was so proud, look like an outfit for afternoon. She called him “Dahling,” and looked as if she would like to eat him.

  Chapter Nine

  There had been some suggestion at the time of Deb’s marriage that I should go to live with her and Jack for a year or so, to put her in the way of holding house. I did not care for the idea in the least, knowing what a third foot I would be in a household of newlyweds. I came to realize at the ball that Debbie stood in need of a few lessons. Her manners had deteriorated into something not much improved from what they were when I first made her acquaintance. Her raucous, hunting voice had reemerged. You could hear her bellow a room away. She was very remiss in her social duties too. I knew no one at the ball except her family and the Synges, yet she did not trouble her head to introduce me to a single, solitary soul, nor even to see that Jack partnered me for a dance. Such were the manners of one of the chief scions of society.

  I sat for a full forty-five minutes against the wall with the Marchioness of Monterne and a clutch of dowagers, trying to see over the picket fence that was too high. When the elderly dames arose to make tracks for the card parlor, I determined not to join them, and was sunk to looking about for Alice, a mere child, in hopes of joining her set. There wasn’t a gentleman in it older than myself, but one hoped they would have the charity to ask me to stand up. Getting on to the floor was the real problem. Once one got up for one dance, others would observe I was not of the class of spectators, and would, I hoped, ask me to partner them.