Lady: Impossible (26 page)

‘I suppose Polly did make a good match. She wasn’t to know of these complications.’

Twenty-five minutes later, things become a touch more complicated. Blair is made to hang around so we don’t have to pour our own drinks, stoically taking his post at the edge of the gazebo. He could stand at any corner of the pentagon, but he chooses to stand in a spot where he’s directly in my line of vision.

Why is he doing this?

Abby pats me on the arm. ‘So, what made you think there was chemistry?’

‘Chemistry, right. Um, well… ’ Why does Blair have to watch me right this very instant? I feel like I’m explaining why I cheated on him or something. ‘Oliver comes across as self-assured, but not in an aloof way. He carries himself well is what I’m saying. You can see why he’s successful.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘And he has a sense of humour. He had this adorable rapport with the waiter at the Rivoli. Plus, he’s also watched La Bohème too many times. I think we might have similar tastes. Uh, what else? We joked about that B*Witched song. I mean, it was all very quick, and he was delivering a rejection, but I think I was justified in asking for a chance. He said he wants to go out with someone who isn’t a vapid doormat – that’s me, isn’t it?’

My mother nods. ‘I think you did well, dear. It’s not your fault your brother is a twit.’

‘Mills, you clearly made a positive impression,’ Abby says. ‘He might come back in a week or two. He might even need to see someone else first so he can realise his mistake. That’s what happened with Gillian and Nico – she thought he was only “okay”. Then she went out with that loser from Manchester and realised she was comparing him with Nico the entire time.’

‘Oliver’s not going to give me a second chance.’ I nurse my glass of whisky and try not to look at Blair.
 

There’s an extended silence where nobody seems to know what to say. I think we all know that Abby’s cautious optimism isn’t enough to warrant definite hope.
 

‘You should stop spending time with the Routledges,’ says my mother before raising her glass to her lips. ‘They’re bad luck. I don’t know why you tolerate Eliza.’

Abby pouts. ‘She always excludes me. Says I’m
new money
. Her definition of “new” must be 1920s.’

‘Abby, dear, she’s just jealous of your fortune.’

‘Do you really think so, Mrs P?’

‘I know so. Hadley has her on an allowance. It’s her mother who gives her money for clothes.’

‘How interesting.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’

They start cackling, forcing me to cut in. ‘Bad luck or not, I don’t think we should be laughing. Think of all the people who’d laugh at me if they knew about today.’

Abby waves me off. ‘Oh, don’t think like that. Things will turn around for you. I just know it.’

Blair steps forward to refill my mother’s glass, which she then raises. ‘Thank you, Blair. And thank you for making these sandwiches. Not only are they delicious, I imagine they’re soaking up the alcohol in my stomach.’

‘You’re welcome, m’lady.’ He scoops up some more ice for Abby’s glass. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like a slice of berry tart, Mrs Carrington? I can bring it out for you.’

Abby’s cheeks redden. ‘I might do, yes. It’s not that I don’t like the cakes you’ve brought out. It’s just that vanilla slice isn’t my favourite. And I’m picky about friands. It’s the butter.’

I snort. ‘That pretty much means you don’t like the cakes.’

‘Ha! I suppose it does.’

Blair smiles good-naturedly. ‘Well, I made the tart myself. Be sure to tell me if it tastes horrible. I’ll be back in a moment.’

I’m irritated when he leaves, mainly because I can’t tell if his sudden inattention towards me was a deliberate slight or not.
 

‘He didn’t top up my drink. My ice is melting too, you know.’
 

The complaint draws a quick reprimand from my mother. ‘Don’t be so snotty. He only made the tart because I told him it was your favourite. He insisted. Researched the recipe and everything.’

‘Well, how was I to know? He specifically said he was bringing it out for Abby.’

‘There you go again, opening that mouth of yours without thinking. Having a bad day is not an excuse to go back to your bad habits.’

Abby stays mum, probably holding back references to last week, when the hypothetical of me fucking Blair was all she could talk about.

I sigh. ‘Do you two mind if I excuse myself? I think I need to be alone.’

‘Stay for the tart, misery-guts,’ Abby says, ‘then you can go and hide.’

‘All right, fine.’ I open my mouth to apologise for being such a sad sack, but she gets in before me.

‘No explanation needed. I know how you operate. I even told my driver I wouldn’t be more than an hour. Your mum and I will keep chatting –’

‘Drinking,’ is my mother’s correction.

‘– And then I’ll go home.’

It really is heart-warming to have her support. ‘Thanks. I mean it.’

She frowns and turns to my mother. ‘See, what we need is a man who understands her like we do.’

‘Agreed. Hopefully the second suitor is the man we’ve been looking for.’

When Blair returns, I’m even more eager to leave. He’s brought out the entire tart, with Abby and my mother each agreeing to have a slice. I’m not hungry, but at the same time I don’t want to be rude, causing me to ‘um’ and ‘ah’ with indecision.

He’s unruffled. ‘It’s no trouble, m’lady. I can serve it tonight with your supper.’

If it’s an apology tart, then I definitely have to eat a bit at some stage. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I promise to scoff the lot.’

‘Well, I don’t want you getting indigestion. Let’s take it one slice at a time.’

My mother chuckles. ‘He’s funny, isn’t he, Abby?’

‘Very funny.’ I know she’s dying to look at me, but she doesn’t dare. ‘Where do I find a funny butler that bakes?’

‘I don’t know, but you’d better find one if you ever intend to feed members of this family. That soup Andrew brought over was arse-in-a-Tupperware-container.’

‘Ha! Lady Silsbury said “arse”! And “Tupperware”!’

They’ve never got on this well. I suppose there’s no point arguing, not when I’m walking around in a cloud of conflict and scandal. The more I open my mouth, the more pitiful I seem.
 

The two of them start raving about how great the dessert tastes. Meanwhile, I try to sneak a glance at Blair, who’s returned to his post on the fringes. I want him to know that I’m all twisted up inside, confused as to how to act around him. Maybe if I throw a meaningful look his way, he’ll understand that I didn’t mean to hurt him by not telling him about Oliver.
 

He mouths what I think is the word ‘later’, though I can’t be a hundred per cent sure. It’s only when I’m in bed forty minutes afterwards that he sends me a text:

I’m ready to talk, whenever you feel up to it.

It’s not a handwritten letter, but I get the same butterflies. And it’s because of those butterflies that I don’t acknowledge receipt of the message until much, much later, after a long nap and even after he’s served me supper in bed.
 

While I want to talk to him, I begin to yearn for the freedom I felt when he fucked me, the unadulterated pleasure that made me forget all my troubles. Deep down, I might even be glad Oliver rejected me.

Knowing I’m not in the right frame of mind, I go to bed at ten and hope tomorrow will be a better day.

***

Tomorrow comes along, but not in the usual way. I wake at one in the morning, probably stirred by my own deep longing for Blair. It’s a thought that prompts me to laugh quietly – and bitterly. Deep. Blair absolutely knew how to fuck me deeply.
 

Frazzled, I sit up with some effort and open the top drawer of the bedside table. It’s still there: the list of questions asked by my mother and typed by Blair. If I read these, maybe I’ll remember my focus.

What qualities do you look for in a man?

What has been your longest relationship to date?

Have you even been in love?

Do you tend to value sex over companionship?

Are men objects to you?

Do men take you seriously?

Do men want you for sex, not companionship?

What flaws do you need to work on?

Why do your friends all have partners/husbands and you don’t?

Do you say
‘
you’re not looking
’
to disguise the fact nobody wants you?

The list goes on.

Unfortunately, the questions bring on a wave of self-pity rather than the motivation to improve myself. I take a pen from the drawer and tear off the blank part of one page, using a nearby book as a writing ledger. I won’t have time to dip the paper in tea for that olden-days look, but I suppose using a blue biro was always going to ruin the effect.

Dear Blair,

I’m so confused right now, and I can’t stop thinking about things I shouldn’t. However, we do need to talk. Let’s talk today after you return from driving my mother to the National Gallery.

Yours faithfully

I stop, pen hovering over the page. Will he take ‘yours faithfully’ the wrong way? Why did I even write that? It sounds like I’m promising I belong to him. I also don’t know how to sign off – am I Lady Emilia, Emilia or Millie?

I shake my head at my paranoia, signing as ‘Emilia’ so he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable. I then grab my torch, jump out of bed and carefully exit the room, making sure I don’t slam the door or trip over anything.
 

The journey upstairs to the servants’ quarters is not one I’m used to doing during the day, let alone at night, but it should be fine with the added light. It’s just unfortunate that I have to walk by the main staircase in order to get to the attic’s staircase at the end of the corridor. Every day I walk over the scene of the crime. I stop at the top of the main staircase and point the light downwards, as if I’m a forensics officer with a UV light, expecting the word ‘strumpet’ to be revealed at the top of the stairs.
 

I flush from the memory, the need for a man’s touch not so easily suppressed. Worried I’m going to get sidetracked, I quickly scurry down the corridor to the other staircase and make my way up to the men’s dormitory door.
 

The door creaks noisily, the hinge wailing at me as if it’s unhappy at being exercised. Wincing, I open it just enough to be able to squeeze through into the passageway. The first thing I see upon entering is a pool of yellow light at the other end. Blair must be awake.

My heart is thumping now. I should really turn back, but he probably heard the door, so he’ll know I came up here and then ran away. Placing a hand on the wall, I tell myself over and over that all I’m doing is delivering a note.
 

I tread carefully, slowly but steadily progressing, passing door after door. Blair’s door, it seems, is half open. When I finally push myself into the light, practically stumbling in my shakiness, I turn the torch off and knock on the door.

Blair doesn’t turn his head straight away. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in the same t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he wore when we bumped into each other in the kitchen last week. I bend down, placing the torch on the floor, before then wondering if I can get away with merely leaving the note just inside the room.

It’s wishful thinking. Blair turns his head, his eyes weary. ‘Lady Emilia.’

I push the door open further and hold the piece of paper up, now feeling foolish. ‘I was just dropping off this note. I didn’t think you’d be up. But you are.’
 

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Neither can I.’

He holds his hand out. ‘Is this going to make my insomnia worse, by any chance?’

‘I don’t know.’ I tighten my grip on the note, wondering if I should rip it up and run. ‘Probably. Everything about me seems to upset you.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’
 

‘Isn’t it? Have you ever been happy with me?’

He takes a deep breath and drops his hand. ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’

‘Are you really not sure, or are you just saying that so I won’t be offended?’

‘The answer is complicated.’ He nods at the door. ‘Close the door so we’re not overheard. Not that your mother is directly beneath us or anything.’

It’s true – this end of the floor is on the opposite side of the house to my mother’s room.
 

‘Okay.’

‘I’m not trying to entrap you. It’s a precaution.’

I smooth down my nightie – a white dress with spaghetti straps and a frill hem. Ironically, it screams ‘virgin’. ‘I know.’

Despite my words, the click of the door when it shuts does make me nervous. I’m not locking myself in, but it kind of feels that way. Blair and I are now in our own little bubble.

I step over and hand him the note, backing into the wall opposite him once he’s taken it. It’s a small room, so there’s hardly two feet separating us. I slide down the wall to the floor as he reads my message, conscious that standing may look like an authoritative stance. I tuck my legs to the side and wait for his response.
 

He seems to be reading the message over and over – it doesn’t take this long to read it once. I continue to wait, looking around to see if anything has changed from when I stormed up here last week. The main difference is the boxes that stood at the foot of his bed are no longer here. I presume he’s unpacked and settled.

Blair finally looks up from the note, the fire in his eyes having returned. ‘I admit it. I’m a coward. Like I said in my note, I should’ve spoken to you about all this earlier.’

I take a moment to mull over his declaration. ‘Coward is a strong word.’

‘So it is.’ He lowers his gaze momentarily. ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to insist that you wear something over that flimsy dress of yours.’

I huff, even though I agree with him on the flimsiness. ‘A coward wouldn’t be so forward.’

He gets up and walks around the bed, taking one of his suit jackets off its hanger. ‘I’m not going to risk ogling you. I’ve done that before and failed miserably.’