sent packing?’
‘I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.’
There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.
Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.
Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.
‘Are you happy here, Mr Jarvis?’ Rose asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘You have worked for my father for five years now. Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?’
Matthew looked shocked. ‘Not in the slightest, my lady.’
‘Your family, do you visit them?’
‘Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.’
‘Very good. Oh, Mr Jarvis?’
‘My lady?’
‘I believe Captain Cathcart is with us, but so far I have not seen him. Where is he?’
‘To my knowledge, he is working in a downstairs room in the east wing.’
‘At what?’
‘I am afraid I could not say.’
Curiosity sent Rose on a search of the east wing. It had been added on to the main Tudor building in the days of Queen Anne. It was usually where the guests were housed when the earl and countess held a party.
She found the captain in a little-used room at the end of a corridor on the ground floor. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ he asked angrily, when she walked in on him.
‘You forget. This is my home. I have no need to knock. I see you have a quantity of sticks of dynamite. Are you going to blow up the king?’
‘No, I am going to create a couple of explosions. I have already written several anonymous letters to the newspapers warning them of a Bolshevik plot against the king.’
‘The Bolsheviks do not advocate terrorism. It was in their manifesto.’
‘Didn’t stop them killing Tsar Alexander the Second.’
‘That was the last century. That was the Nihilists. The Bolsheviks have eschewed terrorism in their new manifesto.’
‘Well, according to me, they haven’t. Now, if there is nothing else . . .’
Just one thing. You should wear gloves.’
‘I did not know there was a drawing-room etiquette to deal with dynamite.’
‘You must be careful of sweating.’
‘My dear goose, I am as cool as cucumber sandwiches.’
‘I didn’t mean you. I mean the dynamite. Sweating is a problem with nitroglycerine material. If it gets absorbed through your skin, you will get a nitroglycerine headache.’
Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor beside the cases of dynamite and percussion caps, rose to his feet. ‘Has it never occurred to you, Lady Rose, that your knowledge is unwomanly?’
‘Not in the least. I see you are as stupid and old-fashioned as the other men in society. You would feel more comfortable were my conversation limited to discussion of the latest Nell Gwyn hat, the Camille Clifford coiffure, the Billie Burke shoes and the Trilby overcoat. Good day to you.’
I hope she never marries, thought Harry savagely, or her husband will wring her neck. But he put on a pair of gloves.
* * *
He decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. The sound of voices came from the paddock at the
‘I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.’
There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.
Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.
Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.
‘Are you happy here, Mr Jarvis?’ Rose asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘You have worked for my father for five years now. Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?’
Matthew looked shocked. ‘Not in the slightest, my lady.’
‘Your family, do you visit them?’
‘Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.’
‘Very good. Oh, Mr Jarvis?’
‘My lady?’
‘I believe Captain Cathcart is with us, but so far I have not seen him. Where is he?’
‘To my knowledge, he is working in a downstairs room in the east wing.’
‘At what?’
‘I am afraid I could not say.’
Curiosity sent Rose on a search of the east wing. It had been added on to the main Tudor building in the days of Queen Anne. It was usually where the guests were housed when the earl and countess held a party.
She found the captain in a little-used room at the end of a corridor on the ground floor. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’ he asked angrily, when she walked in on him.
‘You forget. This is my home. I have no need to knock. I see you have a quantity of sticks of dynamite. Are you going to blow up the king?’
‘No, I am going to create a couple of explosions. I have already written several anonymous letters to the newspapers warning them of a Bolshevik plot against the king.’
‘The Bolsheviks do not advocate terrorism. It was in their manifesto.’
‘Didn’t stop them killing Tsar Alexander the Second.’
‘That was the last century. That was the Nihilists. The Bolsheviks have eschewed terrorism in their new manifesto.’
‘Well, according to me, they haven’t. Now, if there is nothing else . . .’
Just one thing. You should wear gloves.’
‘I did not know there was a drawing-room etiquette to deal with dynamite.’
‘You must be careful of sweating.’
‘My dear goose, I am as cool as cucumber sandwiches.’
‘I didn’t mean you. I mean the dynamite. Sweating is a problem with nitroglycerine material. If it gets absorbed through your skin, you will get a nitroglycerine headache.’
Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor beside the cases of dynamite and percussion caps, rose to his feet. ‘Has it never occurred to you, Lady Rose, that your knowledge is unwomanly?’
‘Not in the least. I see you are as stupid and old-fashioned as the other men in society. You would feel more comfortable were my conversation limited to discussion of the latest Nell Gwyn hat, the Camille Clifford coiffure, the Billie Burke shoes and the Trilby overcoat. Good day to you.’
I hope she never marries, thought Harry savagely, or her husband will wring her neck. But he put on a pair of gloves.
* * *
He decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. The sound of voices came from the paddock at the
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