be an acquaintance, is reluctant to risk upsetting one of Sir Fabian’s operatic friends.
‘Could you repeat your name for me, please?’
‘Angela Harper. Miss Angela Harper. And I am in rather a rush.’
‘I am so sorry for the delay. Sir Fabian will speak to you now.’
Fabian listens, the pleasant voice on the other end floods his staid and fusty room, and he quickly takes in the dilemma. He is not a man for beating about the bush, or for treating the ladies with anything less than delightful old-world courtesy, Winchester style, a trait which always rather amused the hirsute Helena.
‘Then it would seem perfectly reasonable, Miss Harper, providing that all four seats are not taken, that you join us for Rigoletto one week on Friday. I will leave the arrangements in the capable hands of my secretary Miss Hubbard who will speak to you now. Good afternoon.’
It happens sometimes. A company box is oversubscribed while there’s still space in another. It pays to be generous at times like these. One never knows when one might need to ask a favour in return. But who did she say she represented? Fabian scratches his head. She didn’t. If she had, he would have remembered.
A private party perhaps. With one guest too many. Easily done if one is not careful.
Ought he to know her?
Fabian is planning to go next week, accompanied by Honesty and a friend. They will enjoy a glass of cold champagne and a smoked salmon sandwich in the interval. He will wine and dine them afterwards, something he does not enjoy—the chat of the young today is so limited—but feels obliged to do so as Honesty seems to have no suitor of her own.
Has she ever had now he comes to think of it? All her evenings out she spends with her so called girlfriends. Isn’t that rather odd? After all, she’s a perfectly pretty girl, not outstanding, perhaps, but pleasing. The poor little twins will pose a different problem entirely, unless some miracle happens and they break like butterflies from their plain brown cocoons. Fabian knows that Honesty is very aware of fortune hunters, she keeps her men at arm’s length, on the other side of a tennis court or a good grumbling belly away, beside her on a horse. Distrust. One of the drawbacks of riches today, he muses. In his occasional sleepless nights even he has been tortured by thoughts of kidnappings, children buried in the ground in exchange for a ransom. Some men of his standing take precautions against such sickening outrages, but if you start doing that, where does it end?
Bodyguards. Sniffer dogs. Processions of cars. Cameras in the lavatories. That’s no life for anyone. The minute you capitulate and let your fears overwhelm you, that’s when disasters tend to occur. No, you just have to assume that these tragedies won’t happen to you, just as long as you are sensible.
All his staff are carefully screened. They come with excellent references. Take Estelle, his cook and housekeeper, for example, and a jolly soul. To look at her you wouldn’t credit it, but Estelle has cooked for queens and princes, in castles, palaces, and manor houses up and down the land. A few of the classier recipe books bear her name. Her choice of partner might be unfortunate, Murphy O’Connell is not the most savoury of characters, but it takes all sorts and he’s useful round the place to change plugs and carry suitcases. He used to be a driver until he lost his licence. They came with the house when he bought it which was a stroke of luck. The daytime staff are also carefully picked. They leave at five-thirty, unless there’s some social event taking place. But Fabian doesn’t like a packed London house… there has to be some privacy in family life and he doesn’t mind putting the odd piece of coal on the fire himself, there are servants enough to worry about when he goes down to Hurleston and every one of them sincerely believes they are underpaid. He considers himself a benign employer.
A likeable man. So
‘Could you repeat your name for me, please?’
‘Angela Harper. Miss Angela Harper. And I am in rather a rush.’
‘I am so sorry for the delay. Sir Fabian will speak to you now.’
Fabian listens, the pleasant voice on the other end floods his staid and fusty room, and he quickly takes in the dilemma. He is not a man for beating about the bush, or for treating the ladies with anything less than delightful old-world courtesy, Winchester style, a trait which always rather amused the hirsute Helena.
‘Then it would seem perfectly reasonable, Miss Harper, providing that all four seats are not taken, that you join us for Rigoletto one week on Friday. I will leave the arrangements in the capable hands of my secretary Miss Hubbard who will speak to you now. Good afternoon.’
It happens sometimes. A company box is oversubscribed while there’s still space in another. It pays to be generous at times like these. One never knows when one might need to ask a favour in return. But who did she say she represented? Fabian scratches his head. She didn’t. If she had, he would have remembered.
A private party perhaps. With one guest too many. Easily done if one is not careful.
Ought he to know her?
Fabian is planning to go next week, accompanied by Honesty and a friend. They will enjoy a glass of cold champagne and a smoked salmon sandwich in the interval. He will wine and dine them afterwards, something he does not enjoy—the chat of the young today is so limited—but feels obliged to do so as Honesty seems to have no suitor of her own.
Has she ever had now he comes to think of it? All her evenings out she spends with her so called girlfriends. Isn’t that rather odd? After all, she’s a perfectly pretty girl, not outstanding, perhaps, but pleasing. The poor little twins will pose a different problem entirely, unless some miracle happens and they break like butterflies from their plain brown cocoons. Fabian knows that Honesty is very aware of fortune hunters, she keeps her men at arm’s length, on the other side of a tennis court or a good grumbling belly away, beside her on a horse. Distrust. One of the drawbacks of riches today, he muses. In his occasional sleepless nights even he has been tortured by thoughts of kidnappings, children buried in the ground in exchange for a ransom. Some men of his standing take precautions against such sickening outrages, but if you start doing that, where does it end?
Bodyguards. Sniffer dogs. Processions of cars. Cameras in the lavatories. That’s no life for anyone. The minute you capitulate and let your fears overwhelm you, that’s when disasters tend to occur. No, you just have to assume that these tragedies won’t happen to you, just as long as you are sensible.
All his staff are carefully screened. They come with excellent references. Take Estelle, his cook and housekeeper, for example, and a jolly soul. To look at her you wouldn’t credit it, but Estelle has cooked for queens and princes, in castles, palaces, and manor houses up and down the land. A few of the classier recipe books bear her name. Her choice of partner might be unfortunate, Murphy O’Connell is not the most savoury of characters, but it takes all sorts and he’s useful round the place to change plugs and carry suitcases. He used to be a driver until he lost his licence. They came with the house when he bought it which was a stroke of luck. The daytime staff are also carefully picked. They leave at five-thirty, unless there’s some social event taking place. But Fabian doesn’t like a packed London house… there has to be some privacy in family life and he doesn’t mind putting the odd piece of coal on the fire himself, there are servants enough to worry about when he goes down to Hurleston and every one of them sincerely believes they are underpaid. He considers himself a benign employer.
A likeable man. So
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