Barbara Cartland: Running Away to Love

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 wondering what to reply.

Mrs. Hill, however, after almost glaring at her, looked down again at the ledger.

“It’s been on the books for almost two weeks now,” the woman called Hetty whispered, “and we still haven’t found anyone to send them.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Hill said. “Be it on your own head and don’t blame me if this young woman’s turned away with a rude message.”

“If it is a question of speaking French,” Ivana intervened, because she thought that Hetty was being crushed, “I promise you that the lady or gentleman who requires a reader to speak French will be perfectly satisfied.”

Mrs. Hill sniffed again.

“ Pride goes before a fall !” she quoted loftily.

She wrote something down on a card that she had in front of her, paused and then handed it to Ivana.

“That’s the address,” she said, “and this is who you should ask for on arrival. If you’re not accepted, it won’t be worth your while coming back here.”

“I understand,” Ivana said. “Thank you very much for being so kind. I am very grateful.”

She smiled at the woman called Hetty and said to her,

“And thank you so much too. ”

Holding the card in her hand, she walked across the room to the door.

Two more older-looking servants had come in while she had been talking and taken their seats just inside the door.

One was a man and, as she approached, he rose and opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” she said, thinking he looked like a butler.

“Good luck!” he muttered and she smiled back at him.

Going down the stairs, she stepped out onto the pavement and looked round for Nanny.

For one frantic moment she thought that she had disappeared. Then she saw her a little farther down the road, admiring some expensive china in a shop window.

She ran up to her.

“Nanny! Nanny !” she cried. “I’ve been told there is someone who needs a secretary who can speak French.”

“Well, that’s somethin’ you can do, dearie,” Nanny smiled. “So where is it?”

Ivana then looked down at the card in her hand for the first time.

Then she stared at it with an expression of surprise on her face that made Nanny ask,

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I-I suppose it is – all right,” Ivana said hesitatingly, “but – where we have to go is to the War Office – and ask for the Earl of Lorimer.”

“Are you sure?” Nanny queried.

She inspected the card for herself and then commented,

“Well, as it’s the War Office, I suspect they wants secretaries who can speak French to translate messages and speak to the French prisoners.”

“Oh, of course!” Ivana then exclaimed. “And they’ll want people to translate the secret documents they capture on the battlefields and things like that.”

“I don’t suppose that’ll be too difficult a task for you,” Nanny said, “but I don’t like to think of you workin’ alongside a lot of men.”

“Why not?” Ivana enquired of her. “You can hardly expect the War Office to employ only women!”