The Fortunes of Francesca

‘I’m sure Miss Bowen will give consideration to your nerves in her future observations.’ He looked at Franny. ‘Is that not so, Miss—er—Bowen?’

‘Oh, I’ll be very careful.’ Franny smiled at them both. ‘I like working for Lady Trumper and I will do my best to keep a still tongue in my head.’

This forthright speech left Lady Trumper with nothing to say and the professor said easily, ‘Well, in that case, perhaps Miss Bowen might be allowed to go on with whatever she was doing while we have a little chat.’

Franny knew a hint when it was uttered. She picked up the invitation cards and went to her little cubbyhole of a room and closed the door. She had been dismissed—kindly, but dismissed, just as Elsie would have been dismissed.

And why should you mind? she asked herself. Remember that you are in a lowly position in this household. Not that it will be for always. Once Finn was a doctor with a splendid practice somewhere she would keep house for him and be respected as his sister. When he was married she would retire to a small bungalow and later live on her old-age pension.

That she had got a bit muddled in her plans for the future didn’t worry her. She spent a good deal of time making plans, most of them utter rubbish and highly improbable.

She wrote another half-dozen cards and paused, struck by the thought that it would be nice to marry someone like the professor. He had everything: good looks, a successful profession—at least, she supposed that he had—and a splendid motor car. Was he married? she wondered. And what exactly did he do? Professor of what? And why was he here in England when he had a perfectly good country of his own?

Inquisitive by nature, Franny decided to find out. Franny being Franny, if she had the opportunity to ask him she would, but that wasn’t likely. However a few casual questions in the kitchen over dinner tomorrow might prove fruitful…

She had finished the cards when she heard Lady Trumper’s raised voice, so she opened the door and said, ‘Yes, Lady Trumper?’

‘You have finished the cards? Stamp the envelopes and take them to the letter box and then come back here. I want you to take some documents to my solicitor. I do not trust the post. Hand them to the senior partner, Mr Augustus Ruskin, personally, and get a receipt for them. You are to take a taxi there. You may bus back.’

‘Your solicitor, Lady Trumper? Is his office close by?’

‘In the City. Please don’t waste any more time, Miss Bowen.’

‘It will probably be after five o’clock by the time I find a bus to bring me back here. Shall I go home, Lady Trumper? Of course, if I can get back here before then I’ll do so.’

Lady Trumper, who was conveyed by car whenever she wished to go out and had no idea how long a bus journey took, said severely, ‘Very well. I believe that I can trust you to be honest.’

Franny said nothing. There was a great deal she would have liked to say, but she wanted to keep the job. She stamped the invitations, then wrapped in her old mac since it was raining again, posted them and went back to collect the large envelope Lady Trumper had ready for her.

‘Barker tells me that taxi fares have been considerably increased. You will take ten pounds for the fare and for your bus ticket.’

Franny was soon getting into the taxi Barker had summoned and prepared to enjoy the ride. She considered that it was a lot of fuss about some papers or other; anyone else would have sent them by registered post. But since it allowed her an hour or two of freedom she wasn’t going to quibble about it. The driver was a cheerful Cockney, and they enjoyed a friendly chat as he took her into London’s heart. The evening rush hadn’t started but the City pavements were crowded, lights shining from the vast grey buildings.

‘This is where the money is,’ said the cabby. ‘Talking in millions behind them walls, I dare say. Pity they can’t use some of it ter do a bit of work on the ’ospital. Up that lane there, St Giles’. ’Ad me appendix out there—looked after me a treat, they did.’

Franny said with real sympathy, ‘Oh, poor you. Are you all right now?’

‘Right as rain. ’Ere’s yer office. Going back ter where I picked yer up?’

‘No, I’m to go home. I work there, but I live near Waterloo Station.’

She got out and paid him and gave him a handsome tip. ‘Thank you for a nice ride.’

‘A pleasure—enjoyed it meself. Mind ’ow yer go. Waterloo ain’t all that nice for a young lady.’

The solicitor’s office was in a large grey building with an imposing entrance and a porter guarding it. ‘Take the lift,’ he advised her. ‘Third floor—Ruskin, Ruskin and Ruskin.’

Brothers? wondered Franny, stepping gingerly into the lift and pressing a button anxiously. Or grandfather, son and grandson? Cousins…?

The lift bore her upwards smoothly and she nipped out smartly. She disliked lifts, so going back she would use the stairs.

The office was large, thickly carpeted and furnished with heavy chairs and a great many portraits—presumably of dead and gone Ruskins—on its walls. Franny made herself known to the severe lady sitting behind a desk facing the door and was asked to sit. But only for a moment, for after a word into the intercom she was bidden to go through the door behind the desk. It had MR AUGUSTUS RUSKIN in gold letters on it and when she peered round the door she saw him behind a vast desk. He must be a grandfather, even a great-grandfather, she thought. He stood up politely and she saw that he was quite shaky. But there was nothing shaky about his manner or his voice.

‘Miss Bowen? You have an envelope for me? Lady Trumper informed me of it.’

He sat down again and held out a hand.

‘You are Mr Augustus Ruskin?’ Franny asked. ‘I’m to give it only to him. Lady Trumper’s orders.’

He fixed her with a sharp old eye. ‘I am indeed he. You do quite right to query my identity, Miss Bowen.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Franny, and handed the envelope over. ‘Do I have to take any messages back?’

‘Thank you. No.’ He stood up again and Franny bade him a hasty goodbye, fearful that all the getting up and sitting down wouldn’t do someone of his age much good. The severe lady inclined her head without looking up as Franny went past her and ran down the stairs and out into the street.

It was well past five o’clock now, and the pavements were packed with people hurrying home. She didn’t know the City well and made for the nearest bus stop. There was a long queue already there and the bus timetable was miles away. If she attempted to go and look at it, the people in the queue would think that she was trying to get on first. She walked on, intent on finding someone who could tell her which bus to take, but there were no shops and no policemen. She stood on the edge of the pavement on a corner, waiting to cross the side street. She would have to take the Underground.

There was a steady stream of cars filtering from the side street into the main street, and she waited patiently for a gap so that she could dart across, thinking longingly of her tea. Finn would be hungry, he always was, and Auntie wouldn’t have bothered to eat much during the day. She would make a cheese pudding, she decided, filling, tasting and economical…

Professor van der Kettener saw her as he edged his car down the lane, away from the hospital. There she was, this very ordinary girl in her shabby mac, obviously intent on getting across the street. She looked remarkably cheerful, too. As he drew level with her, he leaned over and opened the car door.

‘Jump in quickly,’ he told her. ‘I can’t stop.’

Franny did as she was told, settled in her seat, fastened her safety belt and turned to look at him. ‘How very kind. I was beginning to think that I would be there for ever. If you would put me down at the next bus stop? You don’t happen to know which bus goes to Waterloo, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid not. Why do you want to go to Waterloo?’

‘Well, I live fairly near the station.’

He drove smoothly past a bus stop. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Oh, I had to take some papers to Mr Augustus Ruskin, Lady Trumper’s solicitor. Such a dear old man; he ought to have retired years ago. There’s a bus stop.’

The professor said impatiently, ‘I can’t pull up here. I’ll drive you home.’

‘No, I don’t think so, thank you. You sound cross. I expect you’ve had a busy day and you’re tired. The last thing you would want to do would be to drive miles out of your way. I’m quite able to get on a bus, you know.’ She sounded motherly. ‘Look, there’s a bus stop—if you’ll stop just for a minute.’

‘Certainly not. Kindly tell me where you live, Miss Bowen.’

‘Twenty-nine Fish Street, just off Waterloo Road. You have to turn off into Lower Marsh. You can go over Waterloo Bridge.’ She turned to smile at his severe profile. ‘You can call me Franny, if you like.’

‘Tell me, Miss Bowen, are you so free with your friendship with everyone you meet?’

‘Goodness me, no,’ said Franny chattily. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t dare be friendly with Barker.’

‘Ah, you don’t count butlers among your friends?’ observed the professor nastily.

She refused to be put out. ‘I don’t know any, only him. At least…’