Lady: Impossible (58 page)

‘Oh, Mills. What’s wrong with you? Who cares what he thinks? I told you not to worry about that comment.’

‘I care. I can’t help it.’

Baffled, she doesn’t appear to hear the doorbell when it rings seconds later.
 

‘I think that’s Lord Whittingstall at the door,’ I say, pushing back my chair.

She snaps out of it. ‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it. You stay here.’
 

I’m left at the table while she answers the door. Obviously it’s her house, so she’s perfectly entitled to be the one to receive her own guests. For my part, however, it’s yet another example of not being responsible for anything.
 

Abby shows the two men into the room, and Lord Whittingstall tips his bowler hat at me when he sees me. I’m not sure why he hasn’t taken it off now that he’s inside. Perhaps his bald spot has worsened.
 

The hat-tip isn’t enough, apparently. He comes over to my end of the table with his friend in tow.
 

‘Good to see you again, my dear,’ he says, extending his hand. He shakes my hand for barely half a second before slapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘How rude of me! Have you met Sir Francis Eldridge before?’

Sir Francis is not quite the carbon copy of Lord Whittingstall, but it’s a close call. Both are statesmanlike gentlemen with affable smiles, athletic builds and hair that’s going grey. Sir Francis in particular exudes an aura of calm, a state of being that I wish I could mimic.
 

‘No, I haven’t.’ I extend my hand and smile warmly. ‘Emilia Pembroke, but everyone calls me Millie.’

‘Then I shall call you Millie,’ he says, his voice loud and genial and his handshake firm. ‘And you shall call me Francis.’

‘Francis here is a polo coach,’ Abby says, walking over and placing the box of fabric on a chair.
 

‘Is that right?’
 

‘Henry’s polo coach, in fact.’ The mirth in Sir Francis’s voice makes the sentence sound like a song.

Lord Whittingstall blushes. ‘I hear my wife has been telling you how useless I am on a horse.’

I play dumb. ‘I don’t recall any such conversation.’

His Lordship laughs heartily. ‘Oh, you’re a darling. Isn’t she a darling, Francis?’

Even Abby seems to be finding me charming, smiling as she hangs back to rifle through the fabrics.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Sir Francis says to me. ‘By summer’s end, he’ll be able stay on a horse for more than five minutes, I assure you.’

‘I have no doubt whatsoever.’ I nod at their smart attire. ‘I see you two have been out on the town. Anywhere special?’

‘Just dinner,’ His Lordship says. ‘Lucy thinks I should stay out of the house so I don’t catch the lurgy.’

Sir Francis smirks and holds his hand up to his mouth, ready to tell me a secret. ‘She’s worried it would hamper his training regime.’

I laugh, but stop short when I lay eyes on his cufflinks.
 

They’re exactly the same as Blair’s – the ones with the horses etched into them that he wore the night we first got together.
 

It’s not exactly a memory that needs to be relived right this very instant but, for some reason, I’m ready to take this as a sign that I’m making the right choice.

When Sir Francis drops his hand, I also drop my gaze. Knowing this is rude, I rush to explain myself. ‘I have a friend with those very same cufflinks. What an uncanny coincidence.’

Wait – maybe that was the wrong thing to say. What if they’re a cheap pair? I can’t exactly tell someone their cufflinks are the same as my butler’s.

Fortunately, Sir Francis is buoyed by the comment, punching the air with delight. ‘Really? An Oxford girl, are you, Millie?’

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘No, I went to Cambridge, like Abby here.’

‘It’s true,’ Abby chimes in, rummaging through the box until she finds a fabric in the right colour. She brandishes the swatch. ‘Light Blues all the way.’

‘Even better,’ Sir Francis says with the same gusto as before. ‘Making friends. Dark Blues and Light Blues together. That’s what I like to see. Off the field, at least. Take Abby and Andrew, for example.’

‘Um, okay.’

It must be a habit of mine to zone out during conversations with people over fifty-five. I’ve clearly missed something, even though I feel completely alert.
 

Lord Whittingstall now looks as wistful as his friend. ‘Oh, the rivalry never dies, does it? Were either of you there last month?’

‘At…?’ I ask.
 

‘Why, the Varsity Polo Match, of course.’

Abby shakes her head. ‘We stopped attending the polo after we graduated. Sorry. We only go to the rowing now.’

‘Oh ho!’ If we were back in medieval times, Sir Francis would probably be pointing a sword into the sky. ‘That cannot be! Millie, what did your friend have to say about this blasphemy?’

‘Sorry, what friend?’

What on earth is he talking about? Maybe he’s senile and thinks he told me something when clearly he hasn’t. Trying to figure this out is like clicking on a broken website link. It’s all ‘Error 404’ and no helpful information.

Luckily, he’s patient with me. ‘Why, the very friend who was given a pair of these cufflinks for representing Oxford so well in a Varsity Match.’
 

Wait, what?
 

I’m immediately flustered. ‘Oh, they mustn’t be the same pair then. Or maybe they are and someone gave them to him.’

He’s immediately dismissive. ‘I don’t know who would give these away. They’re a gift from a benefactor of the university. Not given out every year, I must add. What’s your friend’s name?’

I’m going to faint. Of course, there isn’t a fainting room in this house. Maybe I should take a step back and faint into table so I look like Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
when she falls asleep in that field of deadly poppies. After I wake, I’ll click my heels three times and be transported back home to Silsbury Hall. There’s no place like home, even if it will be up for sale in a month or two.
 

I look over to Abby for guidance, a completely nonsensical move. She has no idea what my problem is.
 

‘Well?’ she says.

Dizzy from shock, I slowly turn back to Sir Francis. ‘Oh, you probably don’t know him…’ I look like a fool hesitating like this. I just need to know for sure. ‘His name is Blair.’

I don’t dare look at Abby in this moment.
 

‘Ah, Baxter,’ Sir Francis says, shaking his head with clear sadness in his eyes. ‘It was sad when he dropped out. Give him my regards. Tell him he’s still the best player to ever come out of Harrow. They were trounced this year by Eton. Terrible.’

Oh. My. God.

This cannot be real.
 

But it is real. Suddenly a whole heap of things make sense and, while I may not be able to compute every little thing this instant, I know enough to know the revelation is real.

Somehow, I manage an even reply. ‘I will pass on your regards when I can.’

Sir Francis nods, seemingly lost in a memory. ‘Please do.’

Lord Whittingstall checks his pocket watch, opening and closing it with a perfunctory snap. ‘Sorry to cut this short, but we must be off. My chauffeur has had a long day.’

Abby steps forward and does her hostess thing. I’m not even sure if she’s reading my shock correctly. This is more than plain surprise to me.

‘Thank you both for coming over to drop off the samples. I’ll see you to the door.’

Both men nod at me and say their goodbyes. I smile and wave, words escaping me. I find myself still waving limply when they’re gone. It’s only when I hear the distant roar of the car engine that I drop my hand, my own thoughts and judgements now screaming at me.

I’m numb but I’m not numb. The shock has completely overtaken me, and yet I’m feverishly awakened by the memories and clues now replaying in my mind.
 

Abby hurries back, the gallop of her heels prompting me to imagine Blair in his past life.
 

‘So that’s where we’ve seen him before!’ she says, her proclamation ringing in the space as she re-enters the room. ‘My God, that was ages ago. Can you believe it? Andrew must be too old to have known him at uni. Wait! How old is Blair? One year older than us. But when did he play then? Must’ve been when Al was at Cambridge and we tagged along!’ She pauses, her scandalised excitement now giving way to concern. ‘Mills?’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t know.’

I fight off the urge to hug myself. I do not need comfort. I need to bolt over to Blair – God knows where he lives – and confront him on his former privilege.

No wonder he won’t fight for me. He’s already lost everything.

‘It’s not something he would’ve wanted known,’ Abby says. ‘Though I bet your mother knew all along.’

I look at Abby, imploring her to understand without me having to explain. After all the years of friendship, she must be able to pick up on what’s wrong. Yes, I don’t tell her things because I think I’m always right, but I’m begging her to read between the proverbial lines.

‘Oh. My. God. No, you didn’t.’ She’s shaking her head like it can’t be true. ‘No, no, no, no, no. This is my fault! I planted the idea in your head. I told you to go there.’

‘It is so not your fault.’
 

She can’t seem to process the magnitude of what I’m admitting. If she shakes her head any more vigorously, not only is she going to end up with a chronic neck ache, her head might just spin off.
 

Abby begins fanning herself with both hands, her breathing becoming scarily like those breathing exercises for women in labour.
 

‘Don’t panic on me,’ I warn, finally stepping forward to grab hold of her arms. ‘I can’t take it.’

She reciprocates by taking hold of my shoulders. ‘You’re going to break things off with Oliver… so you can sleep with your butler.’

‘It’s deeper than that.’
 

‘Oh, Millie. It always feels deeper with the hot ones. You’ve got to separate sex from the rest of it.’

‘What? No, no, no! I didn’t mean that in a dirty way.’

Her panic is contagious. I need to calm down. I need to have enough composure to get into the car and drive to Kilburn without getting into an accident.

She digs her nails into my shoulders. ‘I take back what I said about seducing him. Things are different now. You can’t trade a potential marriage to a good man for a bit of butler banging.’

Oh, was that the wrong phrase to invent.

‘Abigail Louise Carrington, don’t you ever refer to what I’m doing as butler banging.’

She gasps and steps back, hands covering her mouth.

‘Don’t make me say it,’ I say, pleading. ‘Just try to understand.’

She drops her hand and makes a sound akin to a squeak – too feminine to be a squawk and too emotional to be a mere hiccup. ‘You really like him?’ She steps forward so she’s inches from my face. ‘No! You think you’re in
love
?’

‘I have to go,’ I say, hurriedly reaching for my handbag. ‘I need to find where he lives and talk to him.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes, now. It’s important.’

‘But Millie…’ She hugs herself, clawing at her own forearms in distress. ‘I don’t mean to play devil’s advocate, but –’
 

‘I know. He’s the butler, and my family already has to suffer enough scandal.’
 

‘And when the estate sells, even if it sells quietly, there will be talk. It’ll be in the press, too. You know this.’

‘Talk is cheap, which is why rich folk like it so much.’ I take her hands in mine and try to communicate how important this is to me. I need to leave now. ‘I’ll let you know how this goes.’

She shoots me a nervous but benevolent look, something I read as her blessing, however reluctant. ‘Okay, go, but –’

‘I won’t get lost! I promise.’

I hug her and then flee from the house. She’s probably too stunned to chase me to the front door. It’s fine – I can fill her in later when I know for certain what’s going on. Racing to the car, I jump into the driver’s seat and try to make a mental calculation of how to get to Blair’s part of London.

Mental calculation fails. I curse the lack of GPS, and instead whip out my phone to check which main roads to take.
 

He has to see me. I tell myself this throughout the journey to Kilburn. Unless he went to Harrow and Oxford on scholarships, he had money when he was younger. He doesn’t have that money now.

My heart aches for him. He’s already lost so much. I will not add myself to that list.

I turn right off Kilburn High Road when I near the McDonald’s there, thinking it’s a landmark that locals will know. It’s dark, yes, but there are a few people about. Impatient, I park behind a line of cars on a side street, quite possibly in a loading bay. My best guess is that there is nothing to deliver at nine o’clock on a Thursday night, though I suppose I’m not quite versed in the workings of the real world. Who knows? Maybe it
is
common knowledge that beef patties need to be dropped off now, in which case the delivery van will just have to suck it up and park elsewhere.
 

I turn off the ignition and try to call Blair.
 

Not surprisingly, he doesn’t pick up. Not wanting to leave messages, I hang up and call back about nine times before I get a text from him.

Stop calling me.

I could punch through the window in frustration. He’s so infuriating, once again not giving me a chance. He’s lucky that punching my own car window would make me look mental, as would taking out my anger on a fast food outlet and scaring the McJesus out of strangers.
 

I unclench my fist to text him back.

Listen up, Oxford boy. I want to see you right now. I’m outside your local McD’s, so please tell me where you are before I start crying on this street corner.

It takes a full minute for a response, which is understandable considering my complete lack of sensitivity. It occurs to me that he might be too ashamed to let me near his family’s home, in which case I’ll have to convince him to meet me somewhere neutral.