Hasty Death

Her parents left the room. ‘Pray be seated,’ said Harry.

Rose sank down gracefully into an armchair by the fire. He sat down opposite and a little frown creased her brow. Shouldn’t he be getting down on one knee?

‘I have come up with a solution to your problem,’ began Harry.

‘I do not wish to marry,’ said Rose, but she gave him a little smile and her long eyelashes fluttered.

‘Of course you don’t,’ said Harry cheerfully. ‘You want to be a working woman and I am here to help you.’

Rose’s face hardened with disappointment. ‘What is your plan?’ she asked.

Harry outlined his idea but without saying that the merchant banker would be paid to employ her, merely saying he knew of two typing vacancies at the bank.

‘And my parents agreed to this?’ asked Rose faintly.

‘Yes, they are anxious to leave for Nice.’

‘I suppose I must thank you,’ said Rose, feeling depressed. It was one thing to dream, another to face going out in the cold winter to work.

‘Very well. If you come across any difficulties, please let me know. My card.’

Rose felt an odd impulse to burst into tears as she took his card.

‘Remember, you must be sure not to betray your real rank. You must wear ordinary clothes and be known simply as Miss Summer. And modify your accent. I am sure Daisy will tell you how. I suggest you buy cheap clothes. I am sure that even your oldest ones will betray your rank. No furs.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then you will be a good daughter and go with your parents to Nice, and then, I suppose, to India, which is the destination these days of all failed debutantes. Your parents do not seem too anxious to pay for another season.’

‘You are blunt, too blunt.’

‘I call a spade a spade.’

‘Indeed! Are you usually so cliche-ridden?’

‘Good day to you, Lady Rose.’

‘Infuriating woman!’ said Harry to his manservant, Becket, when he returned to his Chelsea home that evening.

‘Do you think Lady Rose will actually go ahead with it, sir?’ asked Becket, placing a decanter of sherry and a glass on the table next to Harry.

‘Oh, I’m sure she will. Stubborn as a mule!’

Daisy chewed her thumbnail and glanced nervously at her mistress. If the weather hadn’t been so cold! Also, she had become used to lavish meals and pretty clothes. And to think that she had almost persuaded Rose to go to Nice after she had learned that Captain Cathcart intended to holiday there. But the captain had cancelled his plans for a vacation, becoming embroiled in setting up his new business. Daisy thought the captain would make Rose a very suitable husband, and she herself was fond of the captain’s servant, Becket. Her face lit up as an idea struck her.

‘I saw the captain’s advertisement in The Tatler the other day. He’s just started that detective agency. Maybe he needs a secretary. Be more exciting than working in a bank.’

‘What a good idea!’ exclaimed Rose. ‘And I could help him to detect like I did last year. We will go out tomorrow to say we are looking for working clothes and we will go there instead.’

On the following day, Miss Jubbles looked up from her typewriter at the beautiful creature facing her flanked by her maid. ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

‘I am Lady Rose Summer. I wish to speak to Captain Cathcart.’

‘I am afraid Captain Cathcart is not here. What is it about, my lady? I can take notes.’

‘That will not be necessary. I am here to offer my services as a secretary.’

Miss Jubbles looked at her in horror. Then her sheeplike face hardened and the two hairs sticking out of a large mole on her chin bristled.

‘But he does not need a secretary. I am his secretary.’

‘But the captain and I are friends,’ said Rose.

Miss Jubbles rose to her feet. This spoilt beauty was trying to take her job away from her.

‘I work here,’ she said, ‘because I need to work for money, not on a whim. You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to take the bread out of my mouth. Get out before I throw you out!’

Daisy moved forward, her eyes blazing. ‘You and who else?’

Rose strove for some dignity. She put a restraining hand on Daisy’s arm. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said. ‘Come, Daisy.’

Half an hour later, Harry came back. ‘Fog’s coming down, Miss Jubbles. Anyone call?’

Miss Jubbles gave him an adoring smile. ‘No one at all, sir.’

‘Right.’ Harry went into his office.

Miss Jubbles looked possessively around her little empire: her meticulous files, her kettle with the bone-china cups arranged beside it, the tall grimy windows, the battered leather sofa and the presence of the adored boss behind the frosted-glass inner door. All hers. And no one was going to take it away from her.

Rose would not admit to Daisy or even to herself that she was frightened. Pride would not let her back down. After the disastrous visit to Harry’s office, of which she was now thoroughly ashamed, they went to Bourne & Hollingsworth in Lower Oxford Street and Rose began to choose suitable ready-to-wear clothes for both of them. Rose had never worn ready-to-wear clothes in all her young life. Ladies did not.

Daisy advised her that they should limit their wardrobes to two tweed costumes for winter and two serviceable lightweight dresses for summer. ‘Well, we don’t need to buy new underwear,’ said Rose. ‘We can wear what we’ve got. No one’s going to see that!’

‘Unless whoever runs the business women’s hostel decides to snoop in our rooms,’ pointed out Daisy.

‘We’ll take one of the old steamer trunks, one with a good lock on it,’ said Rose, ‘and use that for underwear. Surely I can take one fur coat?’

Daisy shook her head. ‘Tweed with a bit of fur at the neck is all we can get. Two pairs of boots and two pairs of shoes. Two felt hats and two straw.’

At last all their purchases were wrapped and ready. ‘Send them to . . .’ Rose was beginning when Daisy screamed. ‘What is it?’ demanded Rose.

‘I’ve lost my bracelet. I think it’s over there.’

Rose made a noise of impatience and followed her across the shop. ‘You can’t have them sent to Eaton Square,’ hissed Daisy.

‘Oh, yes I can,’ said Rose and marched back. ‘Send my maid’s clothes to this address,’ she said, producing her card.

‘You are too cautious,’ she admonished Daisy when one of the earl’s carriages was bearing them home.

‘You can’t be too careful, my lady,’ said Daisy.

‘And you had better begin by practising not to call me my lady.’

‘I think I’d better find that business women’s hostel for us myself,’ said Daisy.

‘Why? I think I should decide on our accommodation.’

‘You’re still too grand. You can’t go arriving anywhere in a carriage with the earl’s crest on the panels and dressed in furs. Let me do it.’

‘Very well,’ said Rose after a show of reluctance to hide the fact that she was relieved. A weak little Rose Summer, deep inside her, was beginning to wish she had never wanted to be a working woman.

Miss Harringey, proprietor of the Bryant’s Court Hostel for Businesswomen, ushered Daisy into what she described as her ‘sanctum’, an overcrowded parlour on the ground floor, stuffed with furniture and framed photos, and where a small yellow canary in a cage looked out dismally through the barred windows at the London fog which was beginning to veil the streets.

Daisy was wearing one of the tweed suits purchased that day under a tweed coat with a beaver-fur trim. She was aware of Miss Harringey’s small black eyes studying her and wished she had bought second-hand clothes instead. Daisy’s own clothes back at Eaton square were mostly second-hand, but they were clothes that her mistress had usually worn only once and had taken a dislike to. She was sharply aware that