Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Darling, who knows best — you or mother?”

  Convicted thus of her own presumption, Monica had naturally found nothing further to say.

  “Her Presentation frock had a V-shaped neck … she’s rather inclined to collar-bones just at present…. Monica, hold yourself up. Put your shoulders back properly.”

  Monica hastily obeyed.

  She was feeling tired already, but two more dresses had to be tried on before her mother and the dressmaker finally decided to have one of them copied in white satin, with a V-shaped décolletage and a kind of stole or scarf of white tulle draped over either shoulder, to fall down the front of the dress and end in large tassels of silver cord.

  “What flowers is Mam’zelle going to carry? Roses?”

  “Lilies of the valley,” said Mrs. Ingram decidedly. “They look so pure and sweet, just as a young girl ought to look.

  “Now, as to cost. You know, I shall bring her here for other things if I’m pleased with this, so I hope you can manage rather a special price for me.”

  “I’ll get you out an estimate at once, Moddam, and keep it as moderate as I possibly can. You see, it’s the quality of the satin — you wouldn’t want anything but the very best — —”

  “No, certainly not,” said Mrs. Ingram. “Still —— Monica, darling, hurry up and dress, and then run along and wait for me. You can put your hat on in the shop.”

  Monica neither liked being told to run along, nor having to put her hat on in the shop, but there was no help for either. She did as she was told, and then waited for her mother. Mrs. Ingram did not keep her waiting very long. There was far too much to be done.

  Almost every day there were fittings, for one thing or another, and various purchases to be made, and orders to be given to tradespeople, and consultations with Lady Marlowe. Whilst these last went on, Monica was usually sent upstairs to find Frederica and Cecily; for it was always Mrs. Ingram who went to Lady Marlowe’s house in Belgrave Square.

  One afternoon, two days before the ball, Monica went up to the sitting-room shared by the sisters on the third storey.

  “May I come in?”

  “Hullo, Monica!”

  Frederica, moving awkwardly, got up and kissed her. Cecily kissed her also, but said nothing. She was like a pastel copy of her sister — pale where Frederica was brightly tinted, and with very light hazel eyes instead of dark-grey ones, and ash-blonde hair instead of chestnut. Both were very tall and stooped badly, both had curious dark shadows beneath their eyes, lax mouths that drooped a little, and long, pale, inefficient bands. Neither was ever wholly natural or free from self-consciousness, but Frederica’s constraint took the form of an aggressive self-assertion, and Cecily’s of an almost complete withdrawal into herself. They achieved a semblance of ease with Monica, provided always that their dominating and intensely vital mother was not present.

  “Can I stay here for a little while? Mother’s downstairs.”

  “Of course. Come and sit down. Are you getting excited about your first ball?”

  “Oh, very. I only hope I shan’t be a wallflower the whole evening.”

  “I’ll introduce as many men as I possibly can to you.” volunteered Frederica.

  “Thanks very much, Fricky, but I daresay I shall know a good many there already,” Monica retorted, her false humility vanishing in the light of Frederica’s patronage.

  “You’ve no idea how quickly men get all their dances booked up. Of course, I know they’ll have to ask us, on Thursday night, because we’re the daughters of the hostesses. But quite often a man has such a lot of duty dances to get through that he simply can’t ask one.”

  “He could if he wanted to enough.”

  “You haven’t been out long enough to understand.” said Frederica coldly.

  Cecily was twisting her hands about uneasily. Anything that seemed, however distantly, to threaten an emotional disturbance, had a most curious effect on her. She dreaded it to a degree that affected her physically, making her turn whiter than ever, and begin to shake.

  Monica was conscious, now, of tension in the atmosphere. It was almost always there with Frederica and Cecily, and more especially in their own home. Sometimes there seemed to be no specific cause for this, sometimes it was a cause so trivial as to be almost unbelievable. Very often, it was due to Frederica’s frenzied and possessive solicitude for her sister. Cecily was delicate, and Frederica would never let her, or anyone, forget it.

  “I think Cecily’s starting a cold,” she said now, her face suddenly falling into exaggeratedly tragic curves.

  “I don’t think I am.” Cecily said. Her eyes looked terrified, as though the issue was one of great magnitude. It was, indeed, obvious that it was so to the sisters.

  “You always say that.” Frederica was suddenly tense with fury. “If only you’d say at once when anything was the matter — but you always go on and on, saying it’s nothing.”

  Cecily turned her scared gaze imploringly on Monica, as though to ask “Can you wonder at it?” But she said nothing.

  “Perhaps you can stifle it, if it is a cold, till after Thursday.” suggested Monica. She could see the relief on Cecily’s far too expressive face at this lightening of the subject.

  But Frederica could not let it go.

  “You don’t know what Cecily’s colds are like.” she said darkly. “You think it’s just an ordinary cold, that’s over in three days. But with her, it may go on her chest at any moment, and mean nights and nights of coughing — —”

  They couldn’t stop her, although both of them had heard her say the same thing many times before.

  Monica shrugged her shoulders, but Cecily looked as though she might be going to faint.

  There was a knock at the door, and the footman, young and trim in black livery with yellow facings, stood on the threshold.

  “If you please, her Ladyship wishes the young ladies to come to the drawing-room.”

  “Thank you, William. Is it a visitor?”

  “Yes, Miss Frederica. Mr. Pelham is here.”

  “Who’s Mr. Pelham?” enquired Monica, as William shut the door behind him.

  “Oh, he often comes to dinner. He’s a friend of mamma’s, a barrister. It’s very useful, knowing him, because he isn’t married, and she can usually get him when she wants an extra man.”

  “Mother says that Lady Marlowe is perfectly wonderful about men. She always has enough.”

  “I know.” said Frederica. She did not look as triumphant as she should have looked, and Monica dimly guessed why. Lady Marlowe, witty and vivacious, and still handsome, attracted men. That was why they came to Belgrave Square. Not for any other reason.

  “Do you suppose we’re all expected to go down?” asked Cecily.

  “William seemed to think so. But I should think you’d much better stay in one atmosphere. It’s much warmer in the drawing-room than it is up here, and you’ll only feel the difference afterwards.”

  “Come on,” said Monica impatiently. “The way you fuss, Fricky! It’s absurd. I can’t think why Cecily stands it. She ought to tell you to mind your own business. She’s old enough to look after herself.”

  Monica went out of the room, not looking at Frederica. She knew that to suggest rebellion on Cecily’s part was to attack Frederica where she was utterly and helplessly vulnerable. Her furious possessiveness could brook no hint of a possible thwarting.

  On the landing outside the double-doors of the drawing-room, all three paused for a moment and, quite unconsciously, assumed entirely new and artificial expressions before going in.

  Monica put her shoulders back, and raised her chin, the echo of countless adjurations to “hold up” returning automatically to her mind, as it always did in the presence of either of her parents.

  Frederica and Cecily did not do the same. Both were intensely conscious of their height, and stooped partly from the wish to minimize it, partly from sheer lack of vitality. They gave limp and chilly hands to the greeting clas
p of the visitor, and withdrew from the contact quickly, obscurely disliking it.

  Mr. Pelham was introduced to Monica.

  Already, before entering the room at all, indeed from the moment that she had heard he was unmarried, something that lay far below the layers of conscious thought, had asked the never dormant question: “Will he —— ?”

  Mr. Pelham did not look young. He was heavily built, with a dark moustache, thinning dark hair, and rather prominent brown eyes. Still, he was tall and smiled agreeably as Monica shook hands with him. She noticed that he did not smile at Frederica or Cecily.

  “Fricky, darling,” said Lady Marlowe, “I want you to go and send a telephone message for me. Go and fetch a half-sheet of notepaper and a pencil from the writing-table, and put down just what I tell you.”

  Lady Marlowe’s instructions were always explicit.

  She looked very smart and bright and sparkling in her green afternoon dress, with a diamond butterfly pinned to the front of it, and her brown hair curling neatly under the almost invisible mesh of the hair-net.

  As Frederica obeyed, an almost imperceptible nod and glance from her mother sent Cecily to sit by Mrs. Ingram, to make polite conversation about the ball.

  Monica realized that she, the visitor, was to be given the chance of talking to the only man present.

  Evidently he realized it too, for he made a slight gesture as of pushing forward one of the many small arm-chairs that stood about in pairs, between silk-shaded standard lamps, small tables crowded with framed photographs, and still smaller tables destined to support, at the most, a stray tea or coffee cup.

  Monica sat down, and Mr. Pelham sat down, carefully drawing up the knees of his dark-grey striped trousers as he did so.

  “Have you been to the Academy yet?” said Mr. Pelham.

  “Yes, twice. Have you?”

  “Not since the Private View. Were you there then?”

  “No. We went on the Opening Day. It was terribly crowded.”

  “I expect it must have been. It still is, I believe.”

  “Yes, I expect so. In fact, it was, the second time we went.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten days ago. My father took me. It was very crowded then. I mean, there were crowds of people there.”

  “I expect there were. Did you like any of the portraits?”

  “I liked the Sargeants,” said Monica, knowing that this was the right thing to say.

  “Yes, they’re good, aren’t they?”

  Mr. Pelham, at this point in the conversation, was obliged to get up and open the door for Frederica, who had received her mother’s instructions and was going downstairs to the telephone.

  Monica, glancing swiftly round, caught the gleam of approval in her mother’s tiny smile.

  She had succeeded in sustaining her conversation with Mr. Pelham without any of those pauses that might have indicated that he was finding her something less than interesting. Monica fixed her eyes upon him, as he closed the door behind Frederica, and tried to look as though taking it for granted that the break in their duologue had been a temporary one merely.

  But there was an empty chair next to Lady Marlowe’s corner of the sofa … he might go and take that. Monica redoubled her alertness of her gaze. Almost, she had her lips parted, as if just about to speak.

  Mr. Pelham closed the door carefully, turned round, hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then returned to his place next to Monica.

  She was careful not to glance away from him, but she could feel her mother’s imperceptible sigh of relief.

  Monica knew that her mother was pleased with her, and she was pleased with herself.

  It looked as though she might be going to turn out attractive to men.

  Chapter II

  On Thursday afternoon, before the ball, Monica was told by her mother to go upstairs and lie down.

  “Otherwise you won’t look fresh for to-night, darling. And the hairdresser’s coming at seven o’clock. He can do me first, and then you.”

  “I shan’t sleep,” protested Monica.

  “Never mind. You’ll be resting. Now let me see — —”

  Mrs. Ingram consulted a list. She had been entirely absorbed in lists during the past three weeks.

  “Let me see … cards for the dinner-table, yes, that’s done … speak to Mrs. Horben about the salted almonds … telephone to the Stores — now what was that for, I wonder — send round to Gunter’s about the ice-pudding — Monica, what are you hanging about for? I told you to go and lie down.”

  “Can’t I help you, mother?”

  “You can help me best by doing what you’re told, directly you’re told,” said Mrs. Ingram firmly.

  Monica went upstairs.

  She did wish that her mother would not talk to her as though she were still a child. Once, she had ventured to say so, in a moment of intimacy, and Mrs. Ingram had kissed her and answered gently: “To me, you can never be anything but my baby, even if you live to be a hundred.”

  To the irrational tenderness of such a declaration, no dutiful and affectionate daughter could make any reply.

  Monica’s bedroom was on the fourth floor, a flight of stairs higher than that of anybody else — except, of course, the servants, who didn’t count. They were at the very top of the house, next door to the boxroom. Indeed, Monica had a dim idea that the kitchen-maid actually did sleep in the box-room, but dressed and undressed with one of the other maids, in another room. Her window looked out on to the Square, and she gazed down for a moment at the striped awning already lowered over the balcony. It hid from her any view of the street, but she knew that another awning was in process of being put up, at the front door, and that strange men in dirty white aprons were hurrying up and down the steps, carrying in cardboard boxes and pots of azaleas and smilax.

  Really, the ball might almost have been taking place at Mrs. Ingram’s own house. But it was only a dinner-party before the ball.

  Monica slowly drew the green blind half-way down between the rose-pink silk curtains, filling the room with a soft, summery gloom.

  The pink silk eiderdown quilt had already been turned back over the brass rail at the foot of the bed, and the crisp, smooth linen sheet folded a little away from the pillow. Evidently Mary, the housemaid, had guessed that Miss Monica would be told to rest, before the tremendous excitement of the evening. Slowly Monica began to undress. Sometimes, in order to save herself trouble, she tried to lie down without taking off her stays, but it was never endurable. In the same way, it wasn’t worth while trying to avoid the business of taking one’s hair down. The hairpins hurt, and sooner or later they fell out, and, in any case, it had all to be done again as soon as one got up.

  So Monica went to the dressing-table, and took down her hair altogether, laying the thick black hairpins, and the thin “invisibles” into two tidy little heaps beside the pad that supported her sausage-curls. Hastily she brushed back her hair, wishing that it were longer — it only reached to her shoulders — and plaited it in a small tail. For a moment or two she gazed earnestly at the reflection in the glass.

  The Viyella nightgown — her mother did not think anything but Viyella really ladylike — thick things in the winter and thin in the summer — made her look very childish, with its little frills at neck and wrists, and neat row of buttons down the front. It was cut so as to fall in ample folds, and reminded Monica of a choir-boy’s surplice. Moved by a sudden, incomprehensible impulse, she drew it tightly round her from the back, until the outline of her figure — rounded breasts, flat waist, and curving hips — was startlingly visible.

  Shame assailed her, and she released the flannel folds abruptly and sprang into bed.

  Anxious not to analyse her own immodest impulse, and indeed to forget it as quickly as might be, Monica looked round her room, consciously dwelling on the decoration, the arranging and furnishings that she and her mother had decided upon together as soon as Monica “grew up.”

 
The wallpaper was a pattern of pink roses, crawling luxuriantly in and out of a silver-grey trellis work. Monica was not entirely satisfied with it. Her first idea had been to have a yellow room, but neither her father nor her mother had thought that at all a good idea, so that it had had to be abandoned. Still, after all, pink was pretty.

  The china on the wash-stand was pink — little bouquets of roses tied with pink ribbon, on a white background — and the mats of the dressing-table were of pink Roman satin, covered with white spotted muslin. One lay beneath each of the bottles, brushes, trays, and boxes belonging to the embossed silver “dressing-table set” that Monica’s father had given her on her sixteenth birthday. The back of each silver piece showed a raised reproduction of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ “Heads of Angels.”

  The furniture itself was all painted white, so was the narrow little mantelpiece on which stood the collection of china animals, dating from nursery days. The pictures were framed in gilt — mostly “copies from the flat” of Swiss scenery, and Italian peasantry, but there were also reproductions of one or two “really good” pictures. These had been given to Monica from time to time, usually on birthdays, and she always felt that she ought to have liked them much better than she really did.

  Her books, in a small open bookcase by the bed, she viewed with a much more real satisfaction. There was a set of Dickens, a set of Scott, a set of Ruskin, and several volumes of poetry. The storybooks — she was a little bit ashamed of all the L. T. Meades, and the Fifty-two Stories for Girls series — Monica still kept in the schoolroom. She was allowed, now, to read the books from Mudie’s in the drawing-room, provided that she asked her mother’s leave first, as to each one. The most individual thing in the room, Monica always felt, was the large coloured picture of the Emperor Napoleon that hung over the fireplace.

  She had bought it with her own money, after deciding that Napoleon was her favourite hero. Mrs. Ingram had not, at first, been very pleased at this act of independence. She had not, however, forbidden the hanging of the picture, saying only: “It’s a phase, darling. All girls go through it, I suppose.”