Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [83]
“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 sheep-like 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. %u 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 in to his office.
Miss Jubble looked possessively around her little empire: her meticulous files, her ketde 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 offi ce 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 businesswomen’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 businesswomen’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 Businesswoman, 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