A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [73]
I slept that night in a costly flat, my wall cupboards bursting with ridiculously expensive clothing, my ludicrously vast bed emanating the ghostly presence of a man’s cigars and a woman’s perfume, my new walls all but bare, my bath bereft of towels or soap, my kitchen stripped to the dish-washing soap.
The entire game was marvellously entertaining.
My new servants were named Quimby. I called them Q and Mrs Q, and I have no idea how they looked upon such flighty familiarity, because I never enquired. I had asked them to be in the kitchen at nine, and they were. I plunked down in a chair at the tiny table and waved them to the other chairs. They looked at each other and went gingerly to place their backsides on the very edges of their seats.
“Very well,” I began. “No doubt you’ve already guessed that I really haven’t the foggiest what to do with you two. I’m twenty-one, I’ve just inherited a packet, and I decided to find out what might be done with it. It’s no good pretending I’m used to a formal household; I’ve never had a ladies’ maid, a chauffeur, or a butler, so I’m sure to step on your toes a dozen times a day, answering the telephone, picking up the mail, fixing myself a meal—everything I’m not s’posed to do. I’ll drive you potty. If you’re willing to put up with me, I’m willing to give it a try. What do you say?”
None of that was absolutely true, but it fit the image and laid a basis for my future behaviour, which was to do whatever I damn well pleased, and not to be ruled by my servants. They looked at each other again, then Mrs Q stood up and began to unpack the large basket she had brought with her, which I was pleased to see included coffee, and Q eased back a fraction in his chair.
“It suits us, miss.”
“Grand. I’m sure we’ll muddle along somehow. Now, first things first. Mrs Q, we need food. Fortnum and Mason knows me; just tell them I’m here instead of Sussex. Q, do you know a decent wine and spirits merchant?”
“Indeed, miss.”
“Lay in whatever people like. Mixings for cocktails. You mix cocktails?”
“I do, miss.”
“Yes, I know, it’s a disgusting habit, but what can we do— people like them. And Q, if you’d rather wear a lounge suit, I don’t mind.”
For the first time, he looked disturbed, looked, indeed, as if I’d asked him to serve in a bathing costume.
“That will not be necessary, miss.”
“You see?” I said, and saw in his eyes that he knew instantly what I was referring to. Perhaps this was going to work, after all. “I have a hundred things to do today. I won’t take breakfast, but some of that coffee would be superb. I like it strong, by the way, with milk first thing in the morning but otherwise black. No sugar.”
“I’ll bring it in to you, miss,” said Mrs Q. “Shall I draw your bath first and help you dress?”
“I think I can just manage that today, thanks, and I’m sure you must have better things to do. Sometimes, though—do you do hair?”
“I started as a ladies’ maid, miss, before I married. I don’t know as how I’d be much of an expert with the short hair so many wear these days, but yours I can do, however you like.”
“A woman of many talents. And Mr Bell said you cook?”
“Not what you’d call haute cuisine, miss, but I’ve produced the occasional formal meal in my day. In fact, the Vicerene of India asked for a recipe.”
“Did she now? That’s very good to know. I shan’t be giving any formal meals for a while, though, so perhaps today you’d take care of getting the place running. Towels and things?” I spent a few more minutes explaining my preference in colours, my dislike of floral scents, and my convoluted dietary restrictions (I do not eat pork, if given the choice, nor shellfish, nor cream sauces on meat, nor half a dozen other things). We decided also that I was more apt to be out for meals than in, and if she had on hand the makings for omelettes and the like, I should be satisfied. I then sent Q out to