The Proposal

All of which sounded all right but in practice added up to ten hours a day of taking orders with Sundays free. Well, she was going to stay until Lucy had finished school—another four years. I’ll be almost thirty, thought Francesca gloomily, hurrying back with the suit; there were still the flowers to arrange and the diary to bring up to date, not to mention the letters and a last walk for Bobo.

It was pouring with rain the next morning, but that didn’t stop Bobo, in a scarlet plastic coat, and Francesca, in a well-worn Burberry, now in its tenth year, going for their morning walk. With a scarf tied over her head, she left Lucy getting dressed, and led the reluctant little dog across Piccadilly and into the Green Park. Being Saturday morning, there were very few people about, only milkmen and postmen and some over-enthusiastic joggers. She always went the same way for if by any evil chance Bobo should run away and get lost, he had more chance of staying around a part of the park with which he was familiar. The park was even emptier than the streets and, even if Francesca had allowed herself to hope that she might meet the man and his great dog, common sense told her that no one in their right mind would do more than give a dog a quick walk through neighbouring streets.

They were halfway across the park, on the point of turning back, when she heard the beast’s joyful barking and a moment later he came bounding up. She had prudently planted her feet firmly this time but he stopped beside her, wagging his long tail and gently nuzzling Bobo before butting her sleeve with his wet head, his one eye gleaming with friendliness.

His master’s good-morning was genial. ‘Oh, hello,’ said Francesca. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here—the weather’s so awful.’

A remark she instantly wished unsaid; it sounded as though she had hoped to meet him. She went pink and looked away from him and didn’t see his smile.

‘Ah—but we are devoted dog owners, are we not?’ he asked easily. ‘And this is a good place for them to run freely.’

‘I don’t own Bobo,’ said Francesca, at pains not to mislead him. ‘He belongs to Lady Mortimor; I’m her companion.’

He said, half laughing, ‘You don’t look in the least like a companion; are they not ladies who find library books and knitting and read aloud? Surely a dying race.’

If he only knew, she thought, but all she said cheerfully was, ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, and I like walking here with Bobo. I must go.’

She smiled at him from her pretty, sopping-wet face. ‘Goodbye, Mr Pitt-Colwyn.’

‘Tot ziens, Miss Francesca Haley.’

She bent to pat Brontes. ‘I wonder why he has only one eye?’ she said to herself more than to him, and then walked briskly away, with Bobo walking backwards in an effort to return to his friend. Hurrying now, because she would be late back, she wondered what he had said instead of goodbye—something foreign and, now she came to think of it, he had a funny name too; it had sounded like Rainer, but she wasn’t sure any more.

It took her quite a while to dry Bobo when they got back, and Ethel, on the point of carrying Lady Mortimor’s tray upstairs, looked at the kitchen clock in triumph.

Francesca saw the look. ‘Tell Lady Mortimor that I’m late back, by all means,’ she said in a cool voice. ‘You can tell her too that we stayed out for exactly the right time but, unless she wishes Bobo to spoil everything in her bedroom, he needs to be thoroughly dried. It is raining hard.’

Ethel sent her a look of dislike and Cook, watching from her stove, said comfortably, ‘There’s a nice hot cup of tea for you, Miss Haley; you drink it up before you go to your breakfast. I’m sure none of us wants to go out in such weather.’

Ethel flounced away, Bobo at her heels, and Francesca drank her tea while Cook repeated all the more lurid news from the more sensational Press. ‘Don’t you take any notice of that Ethel, likes upsetting people, she does.’

Francesca finished her tea. ‘Well, she doesn’t need to think she’ll bother me, Cook, and thanks for the tea, it was lovely.’

Lucy would be home at midday since it was Saturday, and they made the shopping list together since she was the one who had to do it.

‘Did you see him again?’ asked Lucy.

‘Who?’ Francesca was counting out the housekeeping money. ‘The man and his great dog? Yes, but just to say good morning.’ She glanced up at her sister. ‘Do you suppose I should go another way round the park? I mean, it might look as though I was wanting to meet him.’

‘Well don’t you?’

‘He laughs at me—oh, not out loud, but behind his face.’

‘I shall come with you tomorrow and see him for myself.’

On Sundays Francesca took Bobo for his morning run before being allowed the rest of the day free. ‘He’s not likely to be there so early on a Sunday …’

‘All the same, I’ll come. What shall we do tomorrow? Could we go to Regent Street and look at the shops? And have something at McDonald’s?’

‘All right, love. You need a winter coat …’

‘So do you. Perhaps we’ll find a diamond ring or a string of pearls and get a reward.’

Francesca laughed. ‘The moon could turn to cheese. My coat is good for another winter—I’ve stopped growing but you haven’t. We’ll have a good look around and when I’ve saved enough we’ll buy you a coat.’

Lady Mortimor had friends to lunch which meant that Francesca had to do the flowers again and then hover discreetly in case her employer needed anything.

‘You may pour the drinks,’ said Lady Mortimor graciously, when the guests had settled themselves in the drawing-room, and then in a sharp aside, ‘And make sure that everyone gets what she wants.’

So Francesca went to and fro with sherry and gin and tonic and, for two of the ladies, whisky. Cool and polite, aware of being watched by critical eyes, and disliking Lady Mortimor very much for making her do something which Crow the butler should be doing. Her employer had insisted that when she had guests for lunch it should be Francesca who saw to the drinks; it was one of the spiteful gestures she made from time to time in order, Francesca guessed, to keep her in her place. Fortunately Crow was nice about it; he had a poor opinion of his mistress, the widow of a wholesale textile manufacturer who had given away enough money to be knighted, and he knew a lady born and bred when he saw Francesca, as he informed Cook.

When the guests had gone, Lady Mortimor went out herself. ‘Be sure and have those letters ready for me—I shall be back in time to dress,’ she told Francesca. ‘And be sure and make a note in the diary—Dr Kennedy is bringing a specialist to see me on Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. You will stay with me of course—I shall probably feel poorly.’

Francesca thought that would be very likely. Eating too much rich food and drinking a little too much as well … She hoped the specialist would prescribe a strict diet, although on second thoughts that might not do—Lady Mortimor’s uncertain temper might become even more uncertain.

Sundays were wonderful days; once Bobo had been taken for his walk she was free, and even the walk was fun for Lucy went with her and they could talk. The little dog handed over to a grumpy Ethel, they had their breakfast and went out, to spend the rest of the morning and a good deal of the afternoon looking at the shops, choosing what they would buy if they had the money, eating sparingly at McDonald’s and walking back in the late afternoon to tea in the little sitting-room and an evening by the gas fire with the cat and kittens in their box between them.

Monday always came too soon and this time there was no Brontes to be seen, although the morning was fine. Francesca went back to the house to find Lady Mortimor in a bad temper so that by the end of the day she wanted above all things to rush out of the house and never go back again. Her ears rang with her employer’s orders for the next day. She was to be earlier than usual—if Lady Mortimor was to be ready to be seen by the specialist then she would need to get up earlier than usual, which meant that the entire household would have to get up earlier too. Francesca, getting sleepily from her bed, wished the man to Jericho.

Lady Mortimor set the scene with all the expertise of a stage manager; she had been dressed in a velvet housecoat over gossamer undies, Ethel had arranged her hair in artless curls and tied a ribbon in them, and she had made up carefully with a pale foundation. She had decided against being examined in her bedroom; the chaise-longue in the dressing-room adjoining would be both appropriate and convenient. By half-past nine she was lying, swathed in shawls, in an attitude of resigned long-suffering.

There was no question of morning coffee, of course, and that meant that Francesca didn’t get any either. She was kept busy fetching the aids Lady Mortimor considered vital to an invalid’s comfort: eau-de-Cologne, smelling salts, a glass of water …

‘Mind you pay attention,’ said that lady. ‘I shall need assistance from time to time and probably the specialist will require things held or fetched.’

Francesca occupied herself wondering what these things might be. Lady Mortimor kept talking about a specialist, but a specialist in what? She ventured to ask and had her head bitten off with, ‘A heart consultant of course, who else? The best there is—I’ve never been one to grudge the best in illness …’

Francesca remembered Maisie and her scalded hand a few months previously. Lady Mortimor had dismissed the affair with a wave of the hand and told her to go to Out-patients during the hour she had off each afternoon. Her tongue, itching to give voice to her strong feelings, had to be held firmly between her teeth.

Ten o’clock came, with no sign of Dr Kennedy and his renowned colleague, and Lady Mortimor, rearranging herself once again, gave vent to a vexed tirade. ‘And you, you stupid girl, might have had the sense to check with the consulting-rooms to make sure that this man has the time right. Really, you are completely useless …’

Francesca didn’t say a word; she had lost her breath for the moment, for the door had opened and Dr Kennedy followed by Mr Pitt-Colwyn were standing there. They would have heard Lady Mortimor, she thought miserably, and would have labelled her as a useless female at everyone’s beck and call.

‘Well, can’t you say something?’ asked Lady Mortimor and at the same time became aware of the two men coming towards her, so that her cross face became all charm and smiles and her sharp voice softened to a gentle, ‘Dr Kennedy, how good of you to come. Francesca, my dear, do go and see if Crow is bringing the coffee—’

‘No coffee, thank you,’ said Dr Kennedy. ‘Here is Professor Pitt-Colwyn, Lady Mortimor. You insisted on the best heart specialist, and I have brought him to see you.’

Lady Mortimor put out a languid hand. ‘Professor—how very kind of you to spare the time to see me. I’m sure you must be a very busy man.’

He hadn’t looked at Francesca; now he said with grave courtesy, ‘Yes, I am a busy man, Lady Mortimor.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘If you will tell me what is the trouble?’

‘Oh, dear, it is so hard to begin—I have suffered poor health every day since my dear husband died. It is hard to be left alone at my age—with so much life ahead of me.’ She waved a weak hand. ‘I suffer from palpitations, Professor, really alarmingly so; I am convinced that I have a weak heart. Dr Kennedy assures me that I am mistaken, but you know what family doctors are, only too anxious to reassure one if one is suffering from some serious condition …’

Professor Pitt-Colwyn hadn’t spoken, there was no expression upon his handsome face and Francesca, watching from her discreet corner, thought that he had no intention of speaking, not at the moment at any rate. He allowed his patient to ramble on in a faint voice, still saying nothing when she paused to say in a quite different tone, ‘Get me some water, Francesca, can’t you see that I am feeling faint? And hurry up, girl.’

The glass of water was within inches of her hand. Francesca handed it, quelling a powerful desire to pour its contents all over Lady Mortimor’s massive bosom.

She went back to her corner from where she admired the professor’s beautiful tailored dark grey suit. He had a nice head too, excellent hair—she considered the sprinkling of grey in it was distinguished—and he had nice hands. She became lost in her thoughts until her employer’s voice, raised in barely suppressed temper, brought her back to her surroundings.