The Transatlantic Lady Carisbrooke

Chapter 3 of 58 - Baroness Fremsley

It was a beautiful early summer morning. Mrs Mulcock brought Lady Carisbrooke’s morning papers and gin up to her and then, out of the corner of her eye, noticed a beautiful dragonfly on the balcony. So unusual for the centre of London.

“Lady Carisbrooke! Look! It’s a dragonfly.”

“Kill it!” said Lady Carisbrooke, without looking up.

“But Lady C, it’s a dragonfly.”

“Kill it anyway. Stamp on its head. And don’t call me Lady C.”

After Lady Carisbrooke had received the post, she burnt most of it as usual, but kept one card propped up on the mantelpiece. A couple of days later she summoned Mrs Mulcock and asked her to fetch it.

“Do you know what that is, Mrs Mulcock?” she enquired.

“It’s an invitation, Ma’am.”

“Your retarded powers of deduction do not deceive you, Mrs Mulcock,” observed Lady Carisbrooke, graciously. “But it is no ordinary invitation. Go and get Clarice for me immediately.”

“But, Lady Carisbrooke, Clarice is on holiday this week. She’s still getting over that accident.”

“Clarice is on holiday because I could not stand her drab little face being around the place any longer. I sent her on holiday. I can call her back. She isn’t doing anything. She’s in her wretched little house in Wiltshire. She hasn’t the imagination to go anywhere. She hasn’t got any friends. Get her now. And call Captain Morgan for me. Bring the bottle up this time.”

Clarice was rather excited when Lady Carisbrooke called her back from her holiday. She likened it to being recalled for parliament. Apparently they were going away somewhere. The last time they had gone away, to Charnwood Forest, was hugely exciting; they had gone fishing, had some lovely dinners, and Clarice had won the clay pigeon shooting tournament. Unfortunately, Lady Carisbrooke had accidentally shot their host, Baroness Fremsley through the knee.

Baroness Fremsley was one of Lady Carisbrooke’s oldest and closest friends. Naturally, they detested each other.

Mrs Mulcock found it a terrible nuisance packing for when Lady Carisbrooke went away. There were so many things to remember. There had been a terrible outburst when she had brought the wrong binding of some book by a Roman fellow called Lucretius on the trip to the Langhe. Mrs Mulcock had not heard such language, even in her years at the Carpathian Brothers’ Circus.

When Clarice arrived back at Old Burlington Street, she could not contain herself:

“Lady Carisbrooke, I’m so excited. Where are we going? No, let me guess. Is it to Sir William’s estate in Argyll? Oh, no; of course, he’s still in prison. What about Lord and Lady Mallering – are they back from Cuneo? Oh, it’s unbearable. You’ll have to tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

Lady Carisbrooke reacted with admirable restraint: “Clarice. You are paid a perfectly adequate stipend to be my companion. Which means behaving in a dignified, respectful and sober fashion at all times. Not exhibiting the comportment of a five-year-old having a tantrum. The next time this happens, I shall harm you. Do I make myself clear?”

It appeared that, despite the unpleasant incident with Baroness Fremsley’s knee on the weekend away in Charnwood Forest, they had still received an invitation to Fremsley Hall in Norfolk. Unfortunately, however, there were certain counties that Lady Carisbrooke refused to travel through. This meant heading south into Surrey, then into Berkshire and North into Buckinghamshire. She had to be heavily sedated in order to get through Bedfordshire, and would only go through Cambridgeshire with one of Mahler’s more depressing pieces on full blast in the back of the Bentley.

During the journey, Clarice was overcome with the wonder of the landscape.

“Are we there yet?’ she burbled. “How much further is it? Oh, this is wonderful. Look at the colour of those trees. Isn’t the English countryside beautiful? My word is that an Arts and Crafts style building…?”

Lady Carisbrooke only ever hit Clarice when she felt there was a good reason for it, and if she had a suitable weapon to hand. On this occasion, the shooting stick seemed to fit the purpose. Clarice began to weep; however, Lady Carisbrooke remained pragmatic:

“Oh for pity’s sake, woman. Stop blubbing. It’s only a flesh wound. Put some Armagnac on it.”

“I’m sorry,” sniffed Clarice. “I was getting over-excited. Perhaps Mrs Mulcock could pass me a glass of sherry.”

“Anything to improve the quality of your driving,” commented Lady Carisbrooke. “Right, there should be a signpost up here. Don’t crash into it this time.”

When they got to Fremsley House, it was as if the weekend’s activities had been designed specifically for Clarice. Dinner on Friday night, followed by Bridge. Then, on Saturday, a fishing party in the morning, and lunch cooked by Oswald, Baroness Fremsley’s eldest son, who’d just arrived back from his charity work helping underprivileged women in Eastern Europe.

In the afternoon, there was horse-riding in the dunes. Not for Mrs Mulcock of course; she had to stay behind and make sure the car would be pristine for the return journey. Lady Carisbrooke, too, opted out of the equine adventures, mentioning “whinnying, snorting creatures with their evil hooves and their ghastly teeth” in such a way that the casual listener would not have known whether she was talking about horses or the Fremsleys.

This was followed by dinner, the climax of which was a recital of light opera. Not, as it turned out, appreciated by Lady Carisbrooke.

“Me heckling that fat, talentless Countess Almaviva,” she opined, “was the least of her worries. If I’d just been able to reach that crossbow.”

On Sunday morning, Clarice’s favourite: the clay pigeon shooting tournament. Lady Carisbrooke was particularly annoyed about the Clay Pigeons. It wasn’t the shooting itself, but the prospect of Clarice winning that seemed to upset her.

Clarice enjoyed a hearty breakfast of grilled bacon, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and plenty of pepper, lightly done toast and a number of cups of tea. She was surprised when Lady Carisbrooke suddenly appeared from behind a Sunday newspaper and said:

“Would you like another cup of tea, Clarice?”

“Oh, Lady Carisbrooke, that is so kind. I should be serving you. That really is most exceptionally thoughtful and…”

“Shut up, Clarice.”

Clarice had won the last three clay pigeon tournaments organised by Baroness Fremsley. This time, however, once out in the fields, she began to feel unwell and asked if there was a nearby public convenience. Lady Carisbrooke, who had been observing, was at her practical best:

“Into the bushes with you, Clarice. There should be plenty of dock leaves in there. Mrs Mulcock. Tanqueray please.”

Clarice came last, scoring no points. Normally, Lady Carisbrooke would have been furious at Clarice not winning the clay pigeon tournament. But she hadn’t appeared this happy since she had heard that Mrs Thanington-Without’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniel had had a leg amputated.

Clarice was mortified:

“I’m so dreadfully sorry. I’ve let you all down. I don’t know what came over me.”

Lady Carisbrooke was uncharacteristically sympathetic:

“Never mind Clarice. Have this glass of Courvoisier. Settles the stomach, calms the nerves. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you. Look at the Fremsleys all gathered together to wave us off. Hypocritical bastards.”

Just then, Clarice noticed something slinking along behind the conifers by the croquet lawn:

“Ooh look, Lady Carisbrooke! A fox!”

Lady Carisbrooke acted quickly:

“Mrs Mulcock! Pass me the shotgun.”

When they got home, Clarice was exhausted and went to bed. Lady Carisbrooke summoned Mrs Mulcock to her drawing room.

“A successful weekend, Mrs Mulcock.”

“Under the circumstances I thought it went very well, Ma’am.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot Baroness Fremsley again, Mrs Mulcock.”

“Of course not, Ma’am. You were aiming for the fox.”

“Exactly. Did they find her index finger?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Carisbrooke.”

“Never mind. She won’t miss it. She’s left handed isn’t she?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Oh dear. Oh well, can’t be helped. Did you know she was trying to blackmail me?”

“Really Ma’am?”

“Yes. She told me that if Clarice didn’t allow that odious son of hers, Oswald, to win the Clay Pigeon shooting, she would tell Clarice all the dreadful secrets about her father. I could not allow that to happen.”

“Oh quite right too, Ma’am. It would destroy her. You were absolutely right to protect her.”

“Protect her? Not at all. I’ve been waiting to tell her for years myself. I’m not letting Fremsley spoil my fun.”

Mrs Mulcock shifted from one fluffy turquoise slippered foot to the other and eventually plucked up the courage to enquire how Lady Carisbrooke had managed to persuade Clarice to lose the tournament.

Lady Carisbrooke looked scornfully at her, before deciding to answer: “I didn’t. She would have been too stupid to lose it on purpose. No. I spiked her breakfast tea with laxative. I may have put a bit too much in. I’m not sure. I didn’t bother to read the instructions.”

After a good night’s sleep, Clarice was ready to face the world and look forward to her next adventure with Lady Carisbrooke. As she brushed her teeth, she thought: “She is such a dear thing, so unbelievably kind and generous”, and made a note to remember her in her prayers.

Back in the drawing room, Lady Carisbrooke continued:

“Mrs Mulcock, it goes without saying. Not a word about this to Clarice.”

Mrs Mulcock curtsied. “Of course not, Ma’am.”

Before leaving the room, Mrs Mulcock turned and said:

“Incidentally, Lady Carisbrooke, I have just received a message from Baroness Fremsley’s housekeeper. We have been invited to return to Fremsley Hall in September; unfortunately, Clarice will be unable to join us; she will be on the QM2 on the way to New York.”

Lady Carisbrooke stood rooted to the spot. Then, staring straight ahead, she strode towards her private bar, kicking over an occasional table as she did so. Grasping, and then draining a large glass of vodka, slightly tainted with tonic water, she turned to Mrs Mulcock.

“It is decided. We will not go to Fremsley Hall. We will go to New York with Clarice. Book tickets immediately.”

Mrs Mulcock turned to go, but was summoned back by Lady Carisbrooke:

“Oh, and one more thing, Mrs Mulcock. It was a wasp, not a dragonfly. You may leave the Jamesons on the table.”