The Proposal

The Proposal

Betty Neels

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CHAPTER ONE

THE HAZY early morning sun of September had very little warmth as yet, but it turned the trees and shrubs of the park to a tawny gold, encouraging the birds to sing too, so that even in the heart of London there was an illusion of the countryside.

The Green Park was almost empty so early in the day; indeed the only person visible was a girl, walking a Yorkshire terrier on a long lead. She was a tall girl with a tawny mane of hair and vivid blue eyes set in a pretty face, rather shabbily dressed; although her clothes were well cut they were not in the height of fashion.

She glanced at her watch; she had walked rather further than usual so Lady Mortimor, although she wouldn’t be out of bed herself, would be sure to enquire of her maid if the early morning walk with Bobo had taken the exact time allowed for it. She could have walked for hours … She was on the point of turning on her heel when something large, heavy and furry cannoned into her from the back and she sat down suddenly and in a most unladylike fashion in a tangle of large dog, a hysterical Bobo and Bobo’s lead. The dog put an enormous paw on her chest and grinned happily down at her before licking her cheek gently and then turning his attention to Bobo; possibly out of friendliness he kept his paw on her chest, which made getting to her feet a bit of a problem.

A problem solved by the arrival of the dog’s owner—it had to be its owner, she decided … only a giant could control a beast of such size and this man, from her horizontal position, justified the thought; he was indeed large, dressed in trousers and a pullover and, even from upside-down, handsome. What was more, he was smiling …

He heaved her to her feet with one hand and began to dust her down. ‘I do apologise,’ he told her in a deep, rather slow voice. ‘Brontes has a liking for very small dogs …’

The voice had been grave, but the smile tugging at the corners of his thin mouth annoyed her. ‘If you aren’t able to control your dog you should keep him on a lead,’ she told him tartly, and then in sudden fright, ‘Where’s Bobo? If he’s lost, I’ll never—’

‘Keep calm,’ begged the man in a soothing voice which set her teeth on edge, and whistled. His dog bounded out from the bushes near by and his master said, ‘Fetch,’ without raising his voice and the animal bounded off again to reappear again very shortly with Bobo’s lead between his teeth and Bobo trotting obediently at the other end of it.

‘Good dog,’ said the man quietly. ‘Well, we must be on our way. You are quite sure you are not hurt?’ He added kindly, ‘It is often hard to tell when one is angry as well.’

‘I am not angry, nor am I hurt. It was lucky for you that I wasn’t an elderly dowager with a Peke.’

‘Extremely lucky. Miss …?’ He smiled again, studying her still cross face from under heavy lids. ‘Renier Pitt-Colwyn.’ He offered a hand and engulfed hers in a firm grasp.

‘Francesca Haley. I—I have to go.’ Curiosity got the better of good sense. ‘Your dog—that’s a strange name?’

‘He has one eye….’

‘Oh, one of the Cyclopes. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Haley.’ He stood watching her walking away towards the Piccadilly entrance to the park. She didn’t look back, and presently she broke into an easy run and, when Bobo’s little legs could no longer keep up, scooped him into her arms and ran harder as far as the gate. Here she put him down and walked briskly across the road into Berkeley Street, turned into one of the elegant, narrow side-streets and went down the area steps of one of the fine houses. One of Lady Mortimor’s strict rules was that she and Bobo should use the tradesmen’s entrance when going for their thrice-daily outings. The magnificent entrance hall was not to be sullied by dirty paws, or for that matter Francesca’s dirty shoes.

The door opened onto a dark passage with white-washed walls and a worn lino on the floor; it smelled of damp, raincoats, dog and a trace of cooked food, and after the freshness of the early morning air in the park it caused Francesca’s nose to wrinkle. She opened one of the doors in the passage, hung up the lead, dried Bobo’s paws and went through to the kitchen.

Lady Mortimor’s breakfast tray was being prepared and her maid, Ethel, was standing by the table, squeezing orange juice. She was an angular woman with eyes set too close together in a mean face, and she glanced at the clock as Francesca went in, Bobo under one arm. Francesca, with a few minutes to spare, wished her good morning, adding cheerfully, ‘Let Lady Mortimor know that Bobo has had a good run, will you, Ethel? I’m going over for my breakfast; I’ll be back as usual.’ She put the little dog down and the woman nodded surlily. Bobo always went to his mistress’s room with her breakfast tray and that meant that Francesca had almost an hour to herself before she would begin her duties as secretary-companion to that lady. A title which hardly fitted the manifold odd jobs which filled her day.

She went back out of the side-door and round to the back of the house, past the elegant little garden to the gate which led to the mews behind the terrace of houses. Over the garage she had her rooms, rather grandly called by Lady Mortimor a flat, where she and her young sister lived. The flat was the reason for her taking the job in the first place, and she was intent on keeping it, for it made a home for the pair of them and, although Lady Mortimor made it an excuse for paying her a very small salary, at least they had a roof over their heads.

Lucy was up and dressed and getting their breakfast. She was very like her sister, although her hair was carroty instead of tawny and her nose turned up. Later on, in a few years’ time, she would be as pretty as Francesca, although at fourteen she anguished over her appearance, her ambition being to grow up as quickly as possible, marry a very rich man and live in great comfort with Francesca sharing her home. An arrangement, Francesca had pointed out, which might not suit her husband. ‘I hate you working for that horrid old woman,’ Lucy had said fiercely.

‘Well, love,’ Francesca had been matter-of-fact about it, ‘it’s a job and we have a home of sorts and you’re being educated. Only a few more years and you will have finished school and embarked on a career which will astonish the world and I shall retire.’

Now she took off her cardigan and set about laying the table in the small sitting-room with its minute alcove which housed the cooking stove and the sink.

‘I had an adventure,’ she said to her sister, and over the boiled eggs told her about it.

‘What kind of a dog?’ Lucy wanted to know.

‘Well, hard to tell—he looked like a very large St Bernard from the front, but he sort of tapered off towards the tail, and that was long enough for two dogs. He was very obedient.’

‘Was the man nice to him?’ asked Lucy anxiously, having a soft spot for animals; indeed, at that very moment there was a stray mother cat and kittens living clandestinely in a big box under the table.

‘Yes—he didn’t shout and the dog looked happy. It had one eye—I didn’t have time to ask why. It had a funny name, too—Brontes—that’s—’

‘I know—one of the Cyclopes. Could you meet the man again and ask?’

Francesca thought about it. ‘Well, no, not really …’

‘Was he a nice man?’

‘I suppose so.’ She frowned. ‘He thought it was funny, me falling over.’

‘I expect it was,’ said Lucy. ‘I’d better go or I’ll miss the bus.’

After Lucy had gone she cleared away the breakfast things, tidied the room and their bedroom, and made sure that she herself was tidy too, and then she went back to the house. She was expected to lunch off a tray at midday and she seldom got back until six o’clock each evening; she arranged food for the cat, made sure that the kittens were alive and well, and locked the door.

Her employer was still in bed, sitting up against lacy pillows, reading her letters. In her youth Lady Mortimor had been a handsome woman; now in her fifties, she spent a good part of her days struggling to retain her looks. A face-lift had helped; so had the expert services of one of the best hairdressers in London and the daily massage sessions and the strict diet, but they couldn’t erase the lines of discontent and petulance.

Francesca said good morning and stood listening to the woman’s high-pitched voice complaining of lack of sleep, the incompetence of servants and the tiresome bills which had come in the post. When she had finished Francesca said, as she nearly always did, ‘Shall I attend to the bills first, Lady Mortimor, and write the cheques and leave them for you to sign? Are there any invitations you wish me to reply to?’

Lady Mortimor tossed the pile of letters at her. ‘Oh, take the lot and endeavour to deal with them—is there anything that I should know about this morning?’

‘The household wages,’ began Francesca, and flushed at Lady Mortimor’s snide,

‘Oh, to be sure you won’t forget those …’

‘Dr Kennedy is coming to see you at eleven o’clock. Will you see him in the morning-room?’

‘Yes, I suppose so; he really must do something about my palpitations—what else?’

‘A fitting for two evening gowns at Estelle, lunch with Mrs Felliton.’

‘While I am lunching you can get my social diary up to date, do the flowers for the dining-room, and go along to the dry-cleaners for my suit. There will be some letters to type before you go, so don’t idle away your time. Now send Ethel to me, have the cheques and wages book ready for me by half-past ten in the morning-room.’ As Francesca went to the door she added, ‘And don’t forget little Bobo …’

‘Thank you or please would be nice to hear from time to time,’ muttered Francesca as she went to get the wages book, a weekly task which at least gave her the satisfaction of paying herself as well as the rest of the staff. She entered the amounts, got out the cash box from the wall safe and put it ready for Lady Mortimor, who liked to play Lady Bountiful on Fridays and pay everyone in cash. The bills took longer; she hadn’t quite finished them when Maisie, the housemaid, brought her a cup of coffee. She got on well with the staff—with the exception of Ethel, of course; once they saw that she had no intention of encroaching on their ground, and was a lady to boot, with a quiet voice and manner, they accepted her for what she was.

Lady Mortimor came presently, signed the cheques, handed out the wages with the graciousness of royalty bestowing a favour and, fortified with a tray of coffee, received Dr Kennedy, which left Francesca free to tidy the muddled desk she had left behind her and take Bobo for his midday walk, a brisk twenty minutes or so before she went back to eat her lunch off a tray in the now deserted morning-room. Since the lady of the house was absent, Cook sent up what Maisie described as a nice little bit of hake with parsley sauce, and a good, wholesome baked custard to follow.

Francesca ate the lot, drank the strong tea which went with it and got ready to go to the cleaners. It wasn’t far; Lady Mortimor patronised a small shop in Old Bond Street and the walk was a pleasant one. The day had turned out fine as the early morning had indicated it might and she allowed her thoughts to roam, remembering wistfully the pleasant house in Hampstead Village where they had lived when her parents had been alive. That had been four years ago now; she winced at the memory of discovering that the house had been mortgaged and the debts so large that they had swallowed up almost all the money there was. The only consolation had been the trust set aside for Lucy’s education so that she had been able to stay on as a day pupil at the same well-known school.

There had been other jobs of course, after learning typing and shorthand at night-school while they lived precariously with her mother’s elderly housekeeper, but she had known that she would have to find a home of their own as quickly as possible. Two years ago she had answered Lady Mortimor’s advertisement and since it offered a roof over their heads and there was no objection to Lucy, provided she never entered the house, she had accepted it, aware that her wages were rather less than Maisie’s and knowing that she could never ask for a rise: Lady Mortimor would point out her free rooms and all the advantages of working in a well-run household and the pleasant work.

All of which sounded all right but in practice added up to ten hours a day of taking orders with Sundays free. Well, she was going to stay until Lucy had finished school—another four years. I’ll be almost thirty, thought Francesca gloomily, hurrying back with the suit; there were still the flowers to arrange and the diary to bring up to date, not to mention the letters and a last walk for Bobo.

It was pouring with rain the next morning, but that didn’t stop Bobo, in a scarlet plastic coat, and Francesca, in a well-worn Burberry, now in its tenth year, going for their morning walk. With a scarf tied over her head, she left Lucy getting dressed, and led the reluctant little dog across Piccadilly and into the Green Park. Being Saturday morning, there were very few people about, only milkmen and postmen and some over-enthusiastic joggers. She always went the same way for if by any evil chance Bobo should run away and get lost, he had more chance of staying around a part of the park with which he was familiar. The park was even emptier than the streets and, even if Francesca had allowed herself to hope that she might meet the man and his great dog, common sense told her that no one in their right mind would do more than give a dog a quick walk through neighbouring streets.

They were halfway across the park, on the point of turning back, when she heard the beast’s joyful barking and a moment later he came bounding up. She had prudently planted her feet firmly this time but he stopped beside her, wagging his long tail and gently nuzzling Bobo before butting her sleeve with his wet head, his one eye gleaming with friendliness.

His master’s good-morning was genial. ‘Oh, hello,’ said Francesca. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here—the weather’s so awful.’

A remark she instantly wished unsaid; it sounded as though she had hoped to meet him. She went pink and looked away from him and didn’t see his smile.

‘Ah—but we are devoted dog owners, are we not?’ he asked easily. ‘And this is a good place for them to run freely.’

‘I don’t own Bobo,’ said Francesca, at pains not to mislead him. ‘He belongs to Lady Mortimor; I’m her companion.’

He said, half laughing, ‘You don’t look in the least like a companion; are they not ladies who find library books and knitting and read aloud? Surely a dying race.’

If he only knew, she thought, but all she said cheerfully was, ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, and I like walking here with Bobo. I must go.’

She smiled at him from her pretty, sopping-wet face. ‘Goodbye, Mr Pitt-Colwyn.’

‘Tot ziens, Miss Francesca Haley.’

She bent to pat Brontes. ‘I wonder why he has only one eye?’ she said to herself more than to him, and then walked briskly away, with Bobo walking backwards in an effort to return to his friend. Hurrying now, because she would be late back, she wondered what he had said instead of goodbye—something foreign and, now she came to think of it, he had a funny name too; it had sounded like Rainer, but she wasn’t sure any more.

It took her quite a while to dry Bobo when they got back, and Ethel, on the point of carrying Lady Mortimor’s tray upstairs, looked at the kitchen clock in triumph.

Francesca saw the look. ‘Tell Lady Mortimor that I’m late back, by all means,’ she said in a cool voice. ‘You can tell her too that we stayed out for exactly the right time but, unless she wishes Bobo to spoil everything in her bedroom, he needs to be thoroughly dried. It is raining hard.’

Ethel sent her a look of dislike and Cook, watching from her stove, said comfortably, ‘There’s a nice hot cup of tea for you, Miss Haley; you drink it up before you go to your breakfast. I’m sure none of us wants to go out in such weather.’

Ethel flounced away, Bobo at her heels, and Francesca drank her tea while Cook repeated all the more lurid news from the more sensational Press. ‘Don’t you take any notice of that Ethel, likes upsetting people, she does.’

Francesca finished her tea. ‘Well, she doesn’t need to think she’ll bother me, Cook, and thanks for the tea, it was lovely.’

Lucy would be home at midday since it was Saturday, and they made the shopping list together since she was the one who had to do it.

‘Did you see him again?’ asked Lucy.

‘Who?’ Francesca was counting out the housekeeping money. ‘The man and his great dog? Yes, but just to say good morning.’ She glanced up at her sister. ‘Do you suppose I should go another way round the park? I mean, it might look as though I was wanting to meet him.’

‘Well don’t you?’

‘He laughs at me—oh, not out loud, but behind his face.’

‘I shall come with you tomorrow and see him for myself.’

On Sundays Francesca took Bobo for his morning run before being allowed the rest of the day free. ‘He’s not likely to be there so early on a Sunday …’

‘All the same, I’ll come. What shall we do tomorrow? Could we go to Regent Street and look at the shops? And have something at McDonald’s?’

‘All right, love. You need a winter coat …’

‘So do you. Perhaps we’ll find a diamond ring or a string of pearls and get a reward.’

Francesca laughed. ‘The moon could turn to cheese. My coat is good for another winter—I’ve stopped growing but you haven’t. We’ll have a good look around and when I’ve saved enough we’ll buy you a coat.’

Lady Mortimor had friends to lunch which meant that Francesca had to do the flowers again and then hover discreetly in case her employer needed anything.

‘You may pour the drinks,’ said Lady Mortimor graciously, when the guests had settled themselves in the drawing-room, and then in a sharp aside, ‘And make sure that everyone gets what she wants.’

So Francesca went to and fro with sherry and gin and tonic and, for two of the ladies, whisky. Cool and polite, aware of being watched by critical eyes, and disliking Lady Mortimor very much for making her do something which Crow the butler should be doing. Her employer had insisted that when she had guests for lunch it should be Francesca who saw to the drinks; it was one of the spiteful gestures she made from time to time in order, Francesca guessed, to keep her in her place. Fortunately Crow was nice about it; he had a poor opinion of his mistress, the widow of a wholesale textile manufacturer who had given away enough money to be knighted, and he knew a lady born and bred when he saw Francesca, as he informed Cook.

When the guests had gone, Lady Mortimor went out herself. ‘Be sure and have those letters ready for me—I shall be back in time to dress,’ she told Francesca. ‘And be sure and make a note in the diary—Dr Kennedy is bringing a specialist to see me on Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. You will stay with me of course—I shall probably feel poorly.’

Francesca thought that would be very likely. Eating too much rich food and drinking a little too much as well … She hoped the specialist would prescribe a strict diet, although on second thoughts that might not do—Lady Mortimor’s uncertain temper might become even more uncertain.

Sundays were wonderful days; once Bobo had been taken for his walk she was free, and even the walk was fun for Lucy went with her and they could talk. The little dog handed over to a grumpy Ethel, they had their breakfast and went out, to spend the rest of the morning and a good deal of the afternoon looking at the shops, choosing what they would buy if they had the money, eating sparingly at McDonald’s and walking back in the late afternoon to tea in the little sitting-room and an evening by the gas fire with the cat and kittens in their box between them.

Monday always came too soon and this time there was no Brontes to be seen, although the morning was fine. Francesca went back to the house to find Lady Mortimor in a bad temper so that by the end of the day she wanted above all things to rush out of the house and never go back again. Her ears rang with her employer’s orders for the next day. She was to be earlier than usual—if Lady Mortimor was to be ready to be seen by the specialist then she would need to get up earlier than usual, which meant that the entire household would have to get up earlier too. Francesca, getting sleepily from her bed, wished the man to Jericho.

Lady Mortimor set the scene with all the expertise of a stage manager; she had been dressed in a velvet housecoat over gossamer undies, Ethel had arranged her hair in artless curls and tied a ribbon in them, and she had made up carefully with a pale foundation. She had decided against being examined in her bedroom; the chaise-longue in the dressing-room adjoining would be both appropriate and convenient. By half-past nine she was lying, swathed in shawls, in an attitude of resigned long-suffering.

There was no question of morning coffee, of course, and that meant that Francesca didn’t get any either. She was kept busy fetching the aids Lady Mortimor considered vital to an invalid’s comfort: eau-de-Cologne, smelling salts, a glass of water …

‘Mind you pay attention,’ said that lady. ‘I shall need assistance from time to time and probably the specialist will require things held or fetched.’

Francesca occupied herself wondering what these things might be. Lady Mortimor kept talking about a specialist, but a specialist in what? She ventured to ask and had her head bitten off with, ‘A heart consultant of course, who else? The best there is—I’ve never been one to grudge the best in illness …’

Francesca remembered Maisie and her scalded hand a few months previously. Lady Mortimor had dismissed the affair with a wave of the hand and told her to go to Out-patients during the hour she had off each afternoon. Her tongue, itching to give voice to her strong feelings, had to be held firmly between her teeth.

Ten o’clock came, with no sign of Dr Kennedy and his renowned colleague, and Lady Mortimor, rearranging herself once again, gave vent to a vexed tirade. ‘And you, you stupid girl, might have had the sense to check with the consulting-rooms to make sure that this man has the time right. Really, you are completely useless …’

Francesca didn’t say a word; she had lost her breath for the moment, for the door had opened and Dr Kennedy followed by Mr Pitt-Colwyn were standing there. They would have heard Lady Mortimor, she thought miserably, and would have labelled her as a useless female at everyone’s beck and call.

‘Well, can’t you say something?’ asked Lady Mortimor and at the same time became aware of the two men coming towards her, so that her cross face became all charm and smiles and her sharp voice softened to a gentle, ‘Dr Kennedy, how good of you to come. Francesca, my dear, do go and see if Crow is bringing the coffee—’

‘No coffee, thank you,’ said Dr Kennedy. ‘Here is Professor Pitt-Colwyn, Lady Mortimor. You insisted on the best heart specialist, and I have brought him to see you.’