Olivia

by Joan Smith

  While Dottie held the reins, I clambered down to investigate what had caused the horrid cracking noises, when my tilbury finally stopped rolling. The wheels were perfectly intact. It was the carriage itself that had broken, snapped in half like a straw, to form a v, the front and rear sticking up into the air, while the center sagged. I was broken-hearted, though I tried not to let Dottie see it.

  "How are we to get home, Miss Fenwick?” was her major worry. I was more concerned for the bruise on her left cheekbone. I could not like to take her home damaged, but she was not complaining of any pain at all. The rear end of the carriage had bumped her as it sped into the ditch.

  My worries soon turned to my dear tilbury. I was never so fond of any material thing in my life as I had become of it. Replacing it was well nigh impossible, for it had cost me dear. Yet I was loath to do without it.

  Getting home was the first item of priority, and to this end we looked about for the closest sign of life. There was a cottage in the distance, far away, a good mile across the meadow. We gathered up our skirts, I took the reins of my team, and we were off. We tramped for an age through the long wet grass, doing irreparable harm to our shoes and the hems of our gowns, for they would slip down from time to time.

  I will say that Dottie was a regular soldier, not whining or carrying on in the least as some girls would have done. Her cheerfulness was not easy to bear, but tears and vaporings would have been infinitely worse.

  “We must make the best of a bad situation, as you always say, Miss Fenwick,” she reminded me.

  The cottager had no carriage to loan us, but only a dog cart. It was impossible to go into town in such a low vehicle, especially when I had Dottie’s dignity as well as my own to consider. The solution was for the son of the house to take a message to Russell Square for Lady Synge to send a carriage after us, while the closest coaching house hauled away my tilbury. The cottager’s wife was very polite, serving us tea while we waited.

  I half feared it would be Philmot who came to fetch us, but it was Lord Synge who made the trip. He was highly displeased with the whole venture, asking a dozen times if Dottie had not been hurt, while he probed the bruise on her cheek with his fingers. He took positive delight in telling me the tilbury was ready for the scrap heap, and my team likely suffering from sprains as well. They were not, though one of them had got a cut on the foreleg that required a fomentation. Synge arranged all this for me. He had the foresight to bring a groom with him, who stayed behind to do the necessary.

  I was in disgrace at Russell Square. “So unlike you to have an accident, Miss Fenwick!” milady declared, amazed at this everyday occurrence.

  “To err is human, Ma’am,” I reminded her.

  She was not divine enough to forgive without remarking on the ruination of Dottie’s good green suit and kid slippers, to say nothing of her eye, that would very likely turn black from a bruise on the cheekbone.

  “I shall be happy to purchase new clothing for her, as it was my error,” I offered quickly, not without a thought to my blue slippers eaten by Toddles, and never replaced by the family. I made it a point to pay for the clothes, and her mama accepted the money, too, the skint.

  The next afternoon Philmot dropped around to gloat over the affair. "That's a bad looking bruise,” he said, looking for any trace of a mark on Dottie’s cheek. We had been fairly successful in concealing it with rice powder. He came to us in the parlor used for lessons on that occasion. "Sore?" he asked her, touching what he imagined to be the bruise.

  “Not on that side,” I had the pleasure of telling him. “The near-fatal bruise is on her left cheek.”

  “You escaped unharmed?” he asked me. I assured him I was unmaimed.

  “I went to have a look at your carriage,” was his next surprising statement.

  “Synge tells me it is beyond redemption.”

  “I’m afraid so. You might get a few pounds salvage for the wheels and seat. I happen to know of a good replacement going at a bargain, if you are interested. I shouldn’t think you would want to be long without your carriage.”

  “A tilbury?” I asked, knowing anything more to be utterly beyond me.

  "Yes. A friend of mine, Lady Beaton, has set up a high perch phaeton, and wishes to sell her tilbury.”

  “What price is she asking for it?”

  “A hundred guineas. I shall speak to her, if you are interested. It will be snapped up in short order.”

  I wanted the carriage, but was not at all sure I could afford it. Between outfits and the incidental expenses involved in going to museums and so on, I was running short. If I bought the tilbury, I would be at about the bottom of my purse. Yet to be without one would curb my style sharply.

  He was regarding me in a questioning way. “Is it out of the question, financially?” he asked frankly.

  I was not about to admit I was so purse-pinched. “No. I am interested. Of course I should have to see it before making up my mind.”

  “I did not expect you, of all people, to buy a pig in a poke. I have a better opinion of you than that. We can go to see it now if you wish.” He glanced to Dottie, who arose, ready for the outing.

  “I’ll ask Mama if we may go,” she said, and sprinted out.

  “With luck, we may get away without her,” he said, wearing a peculiar expression. There was a smile in it, along with some tinge of embarrassment. Perhaps the latter was due to the way my lips fell open at the suggestion we were to go alone. In my astonishment, I said nothing for longer than was seemly.

  It was Philmot who broke the silence. “I was hoping we might have another chance to speak nonsense, as we did at the ball. It was the most enjoyable part of the evening, in my estimation. I shan’t put you on the spot by asking for any comparisons. Harmsworth, I know, found favor with his own brand of idiocy, which leads me to hope you are not overly demanding in your conversational partners.”

  "I found the whole evening pleasant in the extreme,” I told him, refusing to be drawn out into any more of this talk that bordered on flirtation.

  “You must promise to reserve me another half hour when you come to my ball. I shall be sending out the cards soon.”

  I was gratified beyond words. “Thank you. I look forward to it,” was the only reply I could think of.

  Dottie came pouncing back in, with her bonnet already on her head. I thought Philmot looked a little disappointed. I know I felt inordinately so.

  Lady Beaton lived on Upper Grosvenor Square, just at the fringe area of the town. I did not meet her at all. It happened she was out, but Philmot was well enough known to her that he took us around to the stable to view the tilbury. It was not dissimilar to my own, but was green rather than blue, with very ornate gilt panels down the sides. I thought it a bargain at the price, and agreed to take it on the spot. Philmot handled the whole transaction—took my cheque and promised he would see the rig delivered to Synge’s stables for me.

  “She must be a good friend of yours, to let you handle her transactions for her,” I mentioned as we sped homewards.

  “She is a connection of my family,” he answered, and said no more. I was curious to see the lady, the more so when I took the idea he did not wish to discuss her.

  Lord Synge was happy to remind me, every time I called the tilbury, to drive carefully. I feared he might forbid Dottie to drive with me, but it did not come to that.

  Once I had paid for it, a host of small bills came showering down on me. There was the matter of books ordered that I had given up on ever receiving, there was a modiste’s bill for a suit for Dottie. I had thought purchasing the material sufficient recompense for a muddied hem, but Lady Synge meant to exact the full toll. Enough other similar items requiring cash descended on me that I was soon at the very bottom of my purse. If I wished to continue any semblance of fashionable life, I must sell something.

  Gloves tore to shreds in a few weeks with handling the ribbons, shoes scuffed beyond repair while trekking through the meadow, hats seen too o
ften and such things had to be replaced somehow. I had a few trinkets I did not mind parting with, but was reluctant to go in person to lay them on the shelf. At the very least, privacy was required to do it.

  One afternoon when Lady Synge was free, I asked permission to call on Lady Monterne, planning to make a quick trip to a pawn shop en route, though I would certainly call on my cousin as well. Her not having called on me led me to fear she was ill.

  “It is certainly odd she has not been to call,” Lady Synge said. “Certainly you may go, Miss Fenwick, but don’t be late.”

  She would not have added that reminder before the accident. I had slipped a notch in her estimation to have landed my rig in a ditch. As she had said it, I omitted to call on Lady Monterne altogether and went directly to a pawn shop. I selected one I had passed a few times on Tottenham Court Road as being the closest one a female would dare to enter.

  It was a dismal place. The very dregs of society were there—fops and dandies bartering their watches for a guinea, actresses peddling paste necklaces, and pickpockets keeping a sharp eye on the door. In I went, feeling as out of place as a rose in a turnip patch, to stand in line with these rejects from the polite world. I kept a tight grasp on my reticule and my back to the door, lest anyone passing by should recognize me.

  The proprietor eventually took my nice garnet brooch and emerald ring in his dirty fingers, shook them a moment, and quoted me a price of a pound. A single pound mind you, twenty shillings, for genuine family heirlooms. He did not know the difference between precious stones and glass. When I pointed out to him that emerald in my ring was close to a carat, he hunched his shoulders.

  "A pound. Take it or leave it.”

  "I shall leave it. Thank you very much,” I replied icily, and held out my hand for my jewelry.

  "Make it a guinea,” he offered.

  I did not deign to reply to this insult, but walked briskly to the door.

  Had I stopped to consider it, I suppose the person I would have liked least to see me in such a place after Philmot must have been Lord Harmsworth. It will come as no surprise to you then that I met one of these gentlemen coming in as I walked out. It was Harmsworth. I was ready to blush at being discovered in such a predicament, till it struck me he was in as tight a strait as I was myself, without showing anything but delight at having met me.

  "You have come a cropper, too, Miss Fenwick,” he said, making light of it. So well bred. He did not wish to cause me any embarrassment.

  “I have had a run of bad luck,” I told him. I told him in a quiet aside as well that he would be fleeced if he meant to leave his watch here.

  "There is no such thing as a good bargain when you are in the suds, Ma’am. They are all alike. What is it you are pawning?”

  My unhappy glances towards the proprietor let him know I did not wish to talk here. We went outside, where I showed him my baubles.

  “Pretty little trinkets, but you will not get more than a guinea for them anywhere in the city,” he told me. I explained about my wrecked tilbury, and the matter of my being short of cash till quarter day, still some time hence. “What you must do is hawk those diamonds you had on the other night,” he advised me.

  "I could never do that. They belonged to my mother—family heirlooms.”

  “I know a fellow will hold them for you till quarter day. He is reliable. Unfortunately, it is not the sort of a place a lady can well enter.”

  “How much do you think I would get for them? You have seen the necklace.”

  “Perhaps fifty guineas,” he said consideringly.

  “Only fifty? Surely they should bring a hundred at least!”

  “They are worth more of course, but as you will be redeeming them, you see, it is only a loan with your

  diamonds standing as collateral.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said. Certainly I meant to redeem them when I got my next quarter’s salary. This was the expensive season. Once summer came, my expenditures would sink sharply, but for the present I did wish to keep up a good appearance, and continue socializing.

  “Let me do it for you, Miss Fenwick. I will be happy to help you out of this tight corner. We paupers must stick together.” He laughed as he spoke. Lord Harmsworth certainly did not look like a pauper, and Philmot himself had said there was money in the family. “I shall be dropping by Russell Square tomorrow morning,” he went on. “Slip them to me then, and I’ll return you your money the next day.”

  I hastily considered this solution. A lord who came calling socially on my employer was not the sort of person whose character one could mistrust. I was happy too that he was not the toplofty sort who exhorted me to live within my means and be thrifty, as my papa was wont to do. Mama, on the other hand, who was connected with the aristocracy, had a much freer attitude towards money. A sort of noble contempt for it, like Harmsworth.

  "Very well. You are very kind, Lord Harmsworth. I’ll slip you the necklace tomorrow, and await my fifty guineas. Meanwhile, the world will be deprived of a sight of my diamonds. I must sink to pearls till I retrieve them.”

  "You'll not be the only lady in such a pucker,” he said, smiling. “Now I shall go in and lay my watch down. It thinks it lives there. Spends half its life on one pawn shop shelf or another.”

  He left, and I returned to my tilbury, insensibly pleased with my outing. It was well to have a few friends from the ton, to lend one a hand in life’s difficulties. What with Lord Philmot procuring me a carriage at a good price and Lord Harmsworth taking care of my diamonds, I was becoming quite a grand lady. The business took such a short while I decided to drop in on Lady Monterne after all. It was well I did, for I made a shocking discovery. She was on the point of departure, to return home to Dawlish.

  “I’m so glad you dropped by, Livvie,” she said. “I had hoped to get over to see you before leaving, but in the end had to write a note instead. Here it is, you might as well take it. It has a bit of news of the family from home. Deb and Jack are so busy I cannot keep up the pace. They haven’t left me a moment free to go and see you. I will be happier back in the country.”

  “Where are Deb and Jack?” I asked, thinking a sight of me might remind them I was occasionally free to join in their frolics.

  “They are having their water party this afternoon. It is what finally made me decide to leave. I detest water parties, with the sun and flies and people splashing and making a great racket. Just the sort of do you would hate, for we always felt exactly the same about such things. And Livvie, my dear, if things don’t work out at Synges…”

  She stopped and cast a commiserating glance at me.

  "Why should they not work out? I am very happy, doing useful work and enjoying myself into the bargain.

  “Yes, but if things become less pleasant, you know I will always welcome you at Dawlish. Sylvia is becoming a rare handful. I could use you very well. And now I really must be off. Write me a line once in a while.”

  I left with my head in a spin. Why had she intimated I would be unhappy at Synges? I suspected the fine hand of Jack in this affair. He had never cared a great deal for me. I was beginning to think he had exerted some influence over Debbie to exclude me from their parties.

  This was bad enough, but as he was a friend of Philmot, I was concerned what he might have said in that quarter. From Philmot it would not be long passing to Lady Synge. A sense of resentment, once born, has a way of spreading. Soon I found myself resenting that Lady Monterne had never once called; that she was leaving without so much as telling me beforehand. Even her offer to go to Dawlish had a slight in it. She could use me. If she cared to use me again, she would find the price had risen from zero to four hundred guineas per annum.

  When I returned to Russell Square, Lady Synge asked me how my relatives were. I told her I had seen Lady Monterne. “She is leaving today, which is why I particularly wished to see her.”

  “How did you know?” she asked, with an astute look on her face. “She has never once been to cal
l on you. How did you know she was leaving today?”

  I had her letter in my hand. "She dropped me a note and asked me to go to her, as she was too busy to come to me,” I answered.

  The wretched woman reached out her hand and took the note, to look at the seal to ascertain it was indeed from Lady Monterne. She hadn’t even the common decency to look ashamed when she saw it was.

  “She most particularly begged me to return to Dawlish with her, but of course I told her I was committed to you for a year,” I said.

  “Dottie is waiting for you abovestairs,” was her answer. “Perhaps you ought to stay in today and teach her something. I cannot believe racketing around the streets and having accidents is the way to instruct a young lady.”

  "Clever Miss Fenwick” had taken a deep plunge in prestige. “Have you any suggestions, Ma’am?” I asked boldly. “About the curriculum I mean.”

  “How the deuce should I know? It is your job. I am paying you enough to do it,” she retaliated, and flung into her saloon before I could give her an answer.

  When I entered the schoolroom, Dottie was sitting at her desk in a perfectly ladylike posture, reading Voltaire, in French. My heart lifted to see how much progress she had made since my coming. I well remembered her sprawl on that day, and her sister’s reading matter. I saw the improvement, even if her own mama did not.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” I said, to encourage her use of French. After a few exchanges in that language, we reverted to English. “What is new?” I asked her.

  “Nothing. Uncle Phil was here, in a wretched mood.”

  I suspected at once his visit had to do with carrying tales about myself, which would account for his sister’s attack of venom. “What caused his mood?” I asked.

  “His secretary has left him, and he had to write his own letters.”

  "Is that all?”

  “That is enough to put him in a pelter. His temperament is rather unstable, don’t you think, Miss Fenwick?” she asked.