Short Stories

Crowns and Coronets

Winifred voiced softly as she slipped into Lady Bracknell's maroon velvet, impeccably tailored, suit. 'There's no harm in it...'

`No harm at all.' She clipped the elaborate gold chain firmly around her neck and caressed proudly the shinning rubies encased in it. Then turning first one side then another she admired herself in the full length mirror.

Pity she had to slip the matching earrings, the soft mink hat and delicate suede shoes inside the expensive briefcase with the Bracknell's crest upon it that Lady Charlotte had given her for the course of her duties. Pity too, she thought, that she had to cover herself in her quite ordinary raincoat in order to leave the house.

`Ah, Winifred dear,' Lady Charlotte called as she met her young secretary in the hall. `I've asked Wilson to call a taxi for you.'

`Thank you, Lady Charlotte-' Winifred answered clutching her raincoat around her with the hope no tell-tale maroon velvet would show beneath it.

`Visiting your mother again?'

`Yes, M'Lady.'

`Then do tell the driver when to return for you... rather inconvenient not having Robbins available.' Lady Charlotte moved her walking stick in front and placed both her hands on it. `Hopefully next week Robbins will be over his influenza and we can dispose of our own driver again.'

Winifred smiled, Lady Charlotte was such a thoughtful employer, and had treated Winifred more like a daughter than a secretary, playing bridge, having meals together. Even their social lives had mingled and Winifred had accompanied her employer most willingly to concerts, dinner parties, and the theatre. Winifred had studied Lady Charlotte in every detail and had learnt how to behave just like a lady herself. She had learnt from Lady Charlotte how to use the various cutlery on any occasion, and how to choose the correct glass, sip from it and hold it to perfection. She knew now the secrets of unfolding a napkin and exactly where to place it. It was things like that which now distinguished her from the rest of the secretaries that roamed around London, Winifred thought proudly.

`I'll walk to the bottom of the drive, Lady Charlotte. There's not much point in having a stranger come right up to the living quarters.' Winifred said deceitfully, alluding to Lady Charlotte's attachment to privacy, knowing full well that was not the reason Winifred didn't want the taxi to pick her up at the door.

She felt mean deceiving Lady Charlotte in this way, but Winifred found this opportunity irresistible. This time it was even better than all the other times she had impersonated her employer. On other occasions Robbins would drive her to Victoria station with the excuse of catching a train South where her mother lived. Naturally, Winifred had to wear her old shoes and raincoat in the car before she could change at the ‘Ladies ‘ in Victoria. And she longed for the chance of being driven from Bracknell Hall, all the way through London, as Lady Bracknell herself! Even though Lady Bracknell was older, she was the same height and build as Winifred, and from a distance no one could tell the difference.

`As you prefer,' Lady Charlotte said agreeing to Winifred's proposal. `Do have a nice day, my dear.' As Winifred waved, she moved down the drive as fast as she dared do without raising suspicion that she was desperate to arrive before the taxi did. One furtive glance outside the iron gates and Winifred breathed her longest sigh of relief yet. Hidden by the huge, sheltering oak, out came the elegant shoes, ruby earrings and mink hat, and with a few swift movements, in went the raincoat and flat shoes. She had managed to close the briefcase just in time when a shimmering navy blue Mercedes stopped carefully beside her.

`Lady Bracknell?' the tall, driver said suddenly standing promptly in front of her. Winifred gazed at the young man's deep brown eyes and nodded. As he opened the car door the sleeve of his stylish grey suit slipped upwards revealing obviously expensive gold cuff-links. His head bent slightly towards her as she entered and for a moment Winifred wavered. What a cab driver! she thought feeling herself blush a little.

`Victoria Station, Ma'am?'

`Victoria Station...?' she repeated sheepishly whilst taking a quick glance in the rear mirror to ensure her fair hair was positioned neatly on her shoulders.

`Those were Wilson's instructions Ma'am.

`Ah, Wilson!' she said, suddenly remembering Lady Charlotte had asked the butler to order the taxi. `Poor Wilson, he probably misunderstood. No, I'm not going to Victoria Station.' She paused for a moment, where on earth could she go and feast on her new identity. `The Tate Gallery er...'

`Peter, you may call me Peter if you have no objections.' A bit too friendly she thought. Surnames were more fitting for a lady of her rank.

‘Surely, you possess a family name, do you not?’ she half snapped.

‘Smith’ he answered drily. ‘My surname is Smith.’

‘Quite a common name, is it not, Smith?’

‘It’s the only one I possess Ma’am.’

‘Indeed, it will have to do then, Smith.’

Truly, she didn't object, and under normal circumstances she would have lavished the name “Peter” on him. But as he was far too handsome to pass over any opportunity to get to know him better, she decided to do as he asked `There's a special exhibition of the Pre-Raphaelites that I am keen to see...erm ... Peter.'

`"Helen of Troy", or "The Lady of Shallot"?' He said without batting an eyelid that she had dropped the “Smith” bit.

‘”Helen of Troy”, or “The Lady of Shallot”...’ she mumbled. What on earth was he on about she thought mystified. Then it dawned on her, he was quoting the titles of the paintings.

`I'm not quite sure...,' she began unsteadily.

`At a rough guess, you look like a "Helen of Troy" type, fair hair, dreamy blue eyes, soft lips...' Could this man really be talking about her she wondered flattered. `But I bet you'd choose "The Lady of Shallot." He continued intrigued.

`Yes, yes, I think I would.' she agreed readily as it seemed the easiest option.

`Of course you would ma'am. It's unquestionable that you would choose only the real thing.'

Although she thought his speech a little flippant when considering whom he was talking to, she let it pass. She was far too concerned in getting herself out of that artistic tangle she had just, so foolishly, let herself into. Her knowledge on art was nothing to boast about and the Pre-Raphaelites were only vague reminiscences of her school days until a few days earlier when she saw the big boards full of languid ladies advertising the exhibition.

`Excuse me... Why do you say that I would only choose the real thing?' she ventured, thinking at this point, it was the only sensible thing to ask. He laughed, however not too audaciously.

`You would certainly not pass over a Hunt for an Evelyn de Morgan, now would you Ma'am?'`

No, of course not.' Winifred answered as casually as she could, hoping he was referring to Pre-Raphaelites painters as she had assumed. At least now, thanks to this unusual specimen of a taxi driver she remembered "The Lady of Shallot" was painted by Hunt, as faint memories of the history of art came back to her, she deducted, "Helen of Troy", had to have been painted by this lesser mortal Evelyn de Morgan, or whatever her name was.

As the car neared London Bridge, Peter turned swiftly and glanced at her momentarily. `May I make a suggestion Ma'am?'

`Yes of course.' She blushed a little seeing his face again. A tuft of dark hair fell haphazardly across his forehead. `I've seen the exhibition and I would only be too happy to give you a guided tour. I'm an art enthusiast myself.' As he paused she sought desperately for an answer. She'd love to have him give her a guided tour! But then she thought how risky it would be, her knowledge on the matter was so thin, she would soon give the game away for sure. How dreadful it would be if he discovered she was a fake! For a moment she felt like tearing her velvet suit off and put on her shabby rain coat. She wanted to be herself, her real self again!

`Certainly Peter,' she said thinking of the risk she was taking, but on the other hand she couldn't bear to waste such an opportunity to be near him. `I should be delighted to have a guided tour.'

As they climbed the steps to the exhibitions rooms Peter occasionally placed his arm around her waist to guide her in the right direction, with a subtle “this way Ma’am” to justify his action. His touch was decidedly welcomed she thought. However would he be so charming, so attentive if he was escorting a mere secretary, she wondered with doubt. It was obvious he was impressed by her, but she was tormented because she was sure that impression would become obliterated if she were not "Lady Charlotte".

`The first room contains a collection of paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti,' Peter said as Winifred gazed at the languid, dreamy faced ladies of the painter. `Strangely enough the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were pledged to be true to nature, but as you can see from these dreamy looking ladies Rossetti was anything but realistic.' His arm lingered gently around her waist as he beckoned to take a closer look.

`Perhaps,' Winifred ventured,’ sharply moving away from him as if annoyed by the “liberties” he was taking, `Rossetti realized that we are all dreamers at one time or another, and therefore I suppose that, in itself is a reality.'

`At times we are not what we seem.' he said with a smile, placing his arms behind his back out of temptations way. How right he was, Winifred thought as she bit her lip nervously, praying he wasn't referring to her... sorely regretting she had made him put his arms behind his back.

But she needn’t have worried, his arms were back in the normal position again and the pressure of his hand became even stronger as he led her into the next room. This time she did nothing to stop him, Lady Bracknell or no Lady Bracknell. `And here is your Lady of Shallot by William Holden Hunt.' He proclaimed triumphantly. Winifred was not impressed. She wasn't keen on all those fussy details that surrounded the tall figure standing bare footed in profile wearing what seemed to Winifred the pink, gathered curtains of Lady Bracknell’s lounge.

`I suppose the woman's hair is the salient point of this painting,' Winifred offered as she looked at the woman's head bent slightly, revealing a flurry of hair flowing in the wrong direction, that is upwards towards the ceiling. `What did you say the Pre-Raphaelites were pledged to?' she asked seeking confirmation to her doubts.

`Truth to nature.'

`Hum... With hair flowing in the wrong direction? Incredible, quite incredible!' she uttered ambiguously, giving Peter the chance to draw his own conclusions on that remark. She noticed Peter smiling to himself as if he had suddenly found something quite humorous to ponder on.

After seeing "Helen of Troy" looking at herself in the mirror, which Winifred could find nothing to say about except that the hair, this time, was flowing in the right direction, they made their way out. Peter suggested some coffee. Winifred agreed willingly, she wanted to return to possessing some sense of normality again.

It seemed that not many people needed the services of the Gallery's cafeteria on a Tuesday morning and Peter escorted her to an empty table in the corner of the room. He held out the chair for her to sit down and stood impeccably behind it. In the past Winifred would have relished at such display of attention but now here with Peter, nothing seemed more nauseating.

`What are you doing?' she snapped, desperately wishing she had never started this whole facade.

‘Surely your Ladyship does not want to stand in the queue for coffee...’

`That's precisely what I do want. I am quite capable of fetching my own coffee, and sit on a chair without any help from someone else.' Her true colours were now coming to the surface, but she didn't care. In fact she wanted him to have a taste of her real self. `And what is more,' she concluded, `I don't want you waiting on me hand and foot, thank you!' Peter stood back in silence half grinning to himself as if her display of temper had given him endless pleasure.

`After you,' he said as he let her go forward.

Coffee had never tasted so bitter-sweet before. Here was this incredible taxi driver, with adoring eyes sitting opposite her... a fake Lady Charlotte! She cursed the moment she had took off her raincoat and stopped being Winifred. She could feel Peter wanting to get closer to her and holding back. Yet she continued to torment herself with the doubt that had she been the plain secretary, Peter would hardly find her fascinating. During the drive back to Bracknell Hall, the sense of remorse seemed to explode in her. This would probably be the last time she would see Peter. Even asking for his cab phone number would be pointless since he had met her as Lady Charlotte and in his eyes that is who she would have to remain. She vowed that she would never be Lady Charlotte again, not with Peter, not with anyone! By her own foolishness she had lost the chance of ever knowing if that kind, superior specimen of a male that she had become so attracted to could ever like her for herself.

She had been so immersed in her thoughts that only too late did she notice the gates of the drive open. Winifred panicked. Where on earth could she take off her mink hat, put on her raincoat and change her shoes without Peter or Lady Charlotte seeing her?

The car stopped at the main entrance. As she stepped out, her heart thundering, she remembered the side door.

`I'll go in the back,' she said quickly. `I don't want to bother Wilson.' As she slipped away, his arm brushed against her body. Although she desperately wanted to, she didn't dare look back and darted to the side of the building where she was able to slip up to her room unseen.

As she took off Lady Bracknell’s clothes and put on a warm sweater and jeans she breathed deeply. Suddenly she felt an immense relief in being herself again. She made her way downstairs to the lounge to greet Lady Charlotte with a sense of regret and bitterness at having lost Peter... weighing down her spirits.

Downhearted she turned the handle to the lounge. Lady Charlotte was sitting in the armchair facing the door. Someone was sitting in the chair opposite. `I'm sorry Lady Charlotte, I didn't know you had visitors.' Winifred apologised, not being able to see who was sitting in the chair with his back facing her.

`Don't go Winifred,' Lady Charlotte beckoned. `There's someone I want you to meet.' The man in the armchair stood up.

`Peter!' Winifred gasped as he turned

`Winifred, this is my grandson Peter Lawson.' Lady Charlotte said with some sort of twinkle in her eye. `But it seems you already know each other?'

`Indeed, we do...” Peter said to his aunt and then turning towards Winifred with a glow of complicity said, ‘After you practically disappeared,' he held out his hand to her,’ I didn't have the chance to ask you if I could see you again, so I came in to see my aunt.'

He knew, he knew I wasn't Lady Charlotte! Winifred thought in desperation... `Actually, I have a confession to make,' Peter began...

`You have a confession...? Winifred interrupted.

`I'm not really a cab driver. And as you can see my name is not Smith either. I asked my aunt if I could replace Robbins so I could have a chance to get to know you.' Winifred blushed with happiness. `Will you forgive me for all this deceit?' he added in all earnest.

`Forgive you... but...?' Winifred mumbled incredulous. Peter winked and beckoned her not to say anymore.

`Her day off is Tuesday.' Lady Charlotte volunteered as Peter held Winifred's hand tightly.

`And I'm also free every evening after six.' Winifred whispered blissfully.

2,770 words

@Eva Ulian