Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [80]
“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. I’ll get my secretary to make the arrangements.”
Daisy darted back up the stairs to Rose’s bedchamber. Rose was lying in bed, reading a book.
“We’re going to Nice!” said Daisy, pirouetting around the room.
“What? When?”
“As soon as possible. Just think! Sunshine and adventures.”
Rose smiled at her maid’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re happy. Why should they decide on Nice?”
Daisy looked at her. If she told Rose about Captain Cathcart, Rose might tell her mother and then they wouldn’t go.
“Dunno,” she said.
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HASTY DEATH
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Don’t when offered a dish at a friend’s table, look at it critically, turn it about with the spoon and fork, and then refuse it.
-ETIQUETTE FOR WOMEN
BY ONE OF THE ARISTOCRACY
Winter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper and the housekeeper blamed the first footman and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.
Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some businesswomen’s hostel in Bloomsbury with her maid, Daisy.
The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.
Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense. “For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.”
“I don’t think I want to get married,” said Rose.
“Then you should have told us that last year before we wasted a fortune on your season,” roared the earl.
Rose had the grace to blush.
Lady Polly tried a softer approach. “We are going to Nice. You’ll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.”
“I want to work.”
“It’s the fault of that ex-chorus girl maid of yours,” raged the earl.
Daisy Levine, Rose’s maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit. Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a lady’s maid.
“It is my idea, Pa,” said Rose. “We’ve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.”
She walked from the room and closed the double doors behind her very quietly—much more effective than if she had slammed them.
“What are we to do?” mourned the earl, huddling further into his bearskin coat, looking like a small, round, wounded animal.
They sat in gloomy silence. The doors to the drawing room opened and two footmen entered, one carrying coal and kindling and the other a basket of logs.
“At last,” said the earl. “What took you so long?”
“There was such a shortage of fuel in the city, my lord,” said the first footman, “that we sent two fourgons out to the country to Stacey Court.” Stacey Court was the earl’s country home.
“Well, get the fire started,” grumbled the earl.
As the resultant blaze began to thaw the room, the earl felt that even his brain was beginning to thaw out. “I know,” he said. “We’ll ask that Cathcart fellow. What’s he doing now?”
“Lady Glensheil tells me he has opened a detective agency. Very American. Like Pinkertons.”
“I’ll try anything,” said the earl.