The Proposal. Бетти Нилс

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,