Miriam Hancock arose in the morning alone but feeling joyous and revitalised. But when her early toilet had been done her smile faded, and she frowned. On the dressing table lay the fat envelope she'd received that morning from the lawyers employed by Lady Diana. It enclosed a letter that was dreadfully succinct.
'... Our client as brought to our attention that her husband, Lord Chance-Barton, provided you with a substantial loan of money some time ago. Since no written agreement was made you mistakenly believed this loan to be a gift, however, we are instructed that this was never meant to be the case. Lady Diana regrets the misinterpretation and makes clear that it was not entirely your fault. She trusts you implicitly and without reservation, but to forestall any future misunderstanding she feels the loan should be now made formal, with the usual rates of interest applying. We therefore request that you sign and return to us the enclosed documentation ratifying this arrangement. Your co-operation in expediting this matter swiftly would be... blah, blah, blah, tum-ti- tum-ti-tum ...'
It was a message of doom as far as she was concerned. The last thing in the world she needed at that stage in developing Fairyfield Grange was to be shackled by a large debt, and the amount quoted was very large.
She'd read the letter intensely, weighing every word, searching for some clause that may have been fudged enough to allow her some hope of wriggling out from its consequences. Of course it was hopeless. Every condition was meticulously constructed and absolutely watertight.
She'd not signed anything yet. To sanction the debt would strip away her independence and make her a vassal to the aristocratic bitch-woman, but not to sign was certain to enrage Lady Diana and put the future of her school in jeopardy. It would also destroy any hope for the life of gentility she nursed. Who could she call-on for assistance if the matter were taken to law?
Initially she'd thought to seek some support from her sponsors, but she'd revised that idea and now hated it. They were a gutless load of mealy-mouthed wimps when reminded of the things she had arranged for them in Harrogate, and if she herself could scare them so easily their jittery nerves would undoubtedly crack under the kind of pressure Lady Diana could lay-on. She couldn't rely on any of them, and as for appealing directly to Lord Chance-Barton himself to take her side, of that she despaired. He had as much backbone as a blancmange when confronted by his wife, and while raising no objections to his perverse pastimes Diana overruled him in everything that encroached on her own interests.
There was something about Lady Diana that was deeply unlikeable, and she kept trying to think who she reminded her of. Various memories stirred and the image of Miss Cromwell, the headmistress of her first prep-school loomed. 'Ah, Miriam,' the woman had announced, having called her into her office one morning after assembly. 'I imagine they do things rather differently where you - er - come from, but here a cross draped about the neck is intended to draw attention to ones faith, not to ones bosom. There is an excellent underwear department at British Home Stores; kindly avail yourself of it.' Miss Cromwell herself clearly did; her own bra could have withstood a siege.
Then there was the lady chairperson of the Roundtree Hill Conservative Party. It was just after Miriam had married and when her husband declared an interest in becoming a Member of Parliament. That meant herself having to undergo scrutiny. The chairperson had expressed a wish to meet the young wife of their proposed parliamentary candidate, so Miriam Hancock had duly worn powder-blue and invited her to tea.
'It was refreshing...' the woman had said (she meant depressing), to have a wife with the common touch to accompany 'their' candidate on the hustings, especially one who dressed so elegantly ( she meant her skirt was disgustingly short, but no more than could be expected from a girl with a working-class background). And no doubt the Hancock family would soon be blessed with offspring - 'their' party was of course the party of family values ( in other words, start breeding Tories), and children are such invaluable anchors to a busy political life (they keep all the trollops at home changing nappies). Lady Diana was one of those creatures - a hybrid of women whose knives were sheathed in a smile. Selfish in her sinecure life she was intent on making Miriam Hancock a mere employee who she could dump if things went tits up.
Men were equally as disappointing, her failed marriage having confirmed her poor opinion of them long ago. The only positive thing to come out of the brief union with her husband had been her daughter - of course her son, too - but mostly Jennifer, every bit a mothers girl, who appeared to have inherited her own dominant streak and probably applied it even more stridently than she did herself. She never tolerated nonsense from anyone. Yes, in addition to everything else there was a certain amount of family pride teed up in being able to say no to Lady Diana - but, how could she do it without risking ruin? How? How to do it?
Showing little concern for the violation he'd suffered the previous evening Poppy presented himself in the sitting room at four minutes to eight the following morning. His encounter with Miss Hancock had been slightly traumatic at the time because it had been unexpected, but he was irrepressible and rather well experienced and always bounced back bright and shiny. There was no one else there, and since he lacked any instructions he turned his attention to arranging carnations in a vase, his nimble fingers snapping off the excess stems and pulling away unnecessary leaves.
When Jennifer joined him she was fascinated to see just how unruffled he was by his recent experience. He was dressed in a pale blue pinafore dress that had been left out for him, and it made him look like the Alice in a Lewis Carroll story. He'd scrubbed his teeth until they sparkled, and his hair shone like an autumn halo around his quiet face. There was something else too. There was the same rosy glow about him she'd sometimes noticed in girls after they'd been well and truly shagged.
Unspeaking for a moment she observed the talent the sissy showed in dealing with things of the earth, how daintily and how exquisitely he handled flowers until he'd created an arrangement of splendour. He'd placed the carnations in a vase of the best white china, bulbous at the bottom and slender at the top, and they formed a perfect bouquet.
"That's impressive. It appears you have an aptitude for something after all." she murmured tartly.
Poppy smiled. "You have to think about colours and textures with flowers. It's what's called 'harmony'."
When Miriam joined them she smiled at her daughter. "Be a love and find Poppy a few suitable chores, darling. We're supposed to be assessing his domestic skills as well as his - er - other talents."
She appeared slightly preoccupied, and Jennifer regarded her with suspicion. "It's out of character for you to delegate that kind of thing. Do you have something else to do?"
Her mother smiled. "I intend to have an evening out with Emma, and I'll need most of the day to make arrangements."
Jennifer suddenly looked agitated. As a younger girl she would have stamped her foot, but now she only frowned and paced the floor while glaring at the sissy. "Really mummy! You know very well I've already made plans to visit Monica Braithwaite in the village later. We can't both go out and leave this silly cock-in-a-frock alone in the house. He's not got the sense of a prawn."
Miriam remained unconcerned. "Poppy will be fine for a few hours by himself if he's given something to do, and he'll need to make preparations. I want him to practise some formal housemaid duties when Emma and I return. And I want you to go and see Monica. I want you to ask her to do a favour for me."
"A favour? That could be difficult. You banned her from the grounds recently so you're not her flavour of the month at the moment."
