Running Away to Love. Barbara Cartland
spoke, she thought that if she was going to run away, it would no longer matter to her what happened.
Because Nanny expected it, Ivana went downstairs to the small dining room.
She had once suggested that, as Nanny did the cooking, she could sit in the kitchen.
Nanny would not hear of it.
“So long as I’m here you’ll eat in the dinin’ room, like the lady you are and behave like a lady and no nonsense about it!” she had asserted tartly.
Ivana helped herself to the cold chicken salad that Nanny had prepared for her earlier in the day.
She could not help wondering, when she was no longer a ‘lady’, if she would eat in the servants’ hall.
She did not say so to Nanny, however, because she knew how much it would upset her.
She finished most of the salad even though she was far too agitated to be feeling in any way hungry.
Then she ran upstairs to put on the pretty bonnet she had worn when they went walking in the morning.
Nanny was a great believer in fresh air. She had always insisted on Ivana walking in the Park at some time during the day.
As Ivana came downstairs, she found that Nanny had also put on her bonnet and her grey shawl was draped over her shoulders.
“Now, put your best foot forward,” Nanny urged her. “The walk’ll do you no harm on such a nice day.”
“No, of course not,” Ivana agreed, “but I wish we could do it in the country.”
She paused before she added,
“I suppose, Nanny, we could not just – disappear into the country and find a tiny cottage ‒ where we could be on our own?”
“And how would we pay the rent?” Nanny enquired.
There was no answer to that and she went on,
“The only country we knows, you and me, is Huntingdonshire, where we were so happy when you were a child. And you may be quite sure if you’re missin’, that’ll be the first place your stepfather’ll look.”
“Yes, of course, I did not think of that,” Ivana admitted in a small voice.
They walked briskly because, although Nanny had turned fifty, she was still very fit.
It took them nearly three-quarters of an hour to reach Mount Street in Mayfair.
It was not difficult to find Mrs. Hill’s Domestic Agency, which was on the first floor of No. 19.
There was a shop window in the front and beside it there was a door, which was open, revealing a narrow stairway.
Nanny stopped and Ivana asked her a little nervously,
“Are you coming in with me, Nanny?”
Nanny shook her head.
“That’d be a mistake,” she replied. “Them as is lookin’ for employment don’t take their Nannies with them! Now you go up, dearie, and try not to be nervous. I’ll be in the street lookin’ in the shop windows.”
Feeling as though she were very small and unprotected, Ivana climbed up the staircase.
There was a small landing and on one door there was a sign, which read,
MRS. HILL’S DOMESTIC AGENCY.
She opened the door and saw that there were several wooden benches inside against the wall.
On them were seated two rosy-cheeked young girls obviously up from the country. She guessed that they must be in search of suitable work like herself.
There was also an elderly man who might have been a coachman who was getting too old for his job.
At the far end of the room there was a high desk that had been painted in a dull beige colour.
Seated at it was an elderly woman wearing a red wig and blue spectacles. She looked so strange that Ivana stared at her, thinking that this surely could not be Mrs. Hill?
If she was staring, so was Mrs. Hill.
After a moment she said in a somewhat high-pitched voice,
“This way, madam, if you please.”
Ivana realised that she was speaking to her.
Then, as she walked towards the desk, she understood.
Mrs. Hill had mistaken her for a would-be employer, who was visiting the Agency and not an employee.
This idea was confirmed when, as she reached the tall desk, Mrs. Hill, looking down at her, asked,
“And what can I do for you, madam? I suspect it’s a lady’s maid you’ll be wanting?”
With an effort Ivana made herself speak,
“No,” she replied, “I am not wishing to engage anyone but to be engaged.”
Mrs. Hill drew a deep breath and there was a different expression in the eyes behind the blue spectacles.
Her voice had now sharpened as she asked,
“What sort of position do you require, might I ask?”
“I was wondering if you had a vacancy for a reader or perhaps a secretary.”
Mrs. Hill gave a disdainful sniff before she opened a large ledger that was lying on the desk in front of her.
“I would very much doubt if we have any position like that available for you,” she then said in a pointed tone.
“Oh, please, try and find one,” Ivana insisted. “I am very eager to find employment and I have been told that you are not only the best Agency in the whole of London but you are also brilliant at finding applicants what they require.”
As she spoke, she felt that she was almost being prompted by someone mysterious on what she should say.
There was no doubt that the flattery was succeeding.
Mrs. Hill turned over two or three pages and then said in a more conciliatory manner,
“Well, I’ll have a good look, but I’m not that optimistic.”
It was then a woman appeared from behind the desk.
She was in every way very different from Mrs. Hill. She was small and looked somewhat crushed. Her hair was grey, turning white, and she obviously made no effort to disguise her age.
In a low rather humble manner she suggested,
“I think, perhaps, you should look at page number nine, Mrs. Hill.”
Mrs. Hill flipped over the pages impatiently.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Hetty,” she said. “You know as well as I do they’re looking for a man.”
“We haven’t been able to find one,” Hetty replied, “and I just thought this young lady might be able to speak French.”
“I think that’s unlikely,” Mrs. Hill snapped.
“On the contrary,” Ivana interposed. “I speak French fluently. In fact as well as I speak English.”
Mrs. Hill stared at her.
“If you’re telling me a lie,” she threatened ominously, “I’ll not forgive you in a hurry.”
“I am telling you the truth,” Ivana said. “I was brought up with some French children and therefore I really am very fluent in French.”
“I suppose you’ve forgotten,” Mrs. Hill said as if she must have the very last word, “that they’re our enemies! We should have nothing to do with the French or that monster Napoleon Bonaparte!”
Ivana was