Debutantes: In Love

by Cora Harrison

  ‘It seems that it was the orphanage. And the funny thing is that they didn’t register me until I was almost three years old. I must have come into their care then. Perhaps my mum got herself another man and dumped me.’ He sounded depressed.

  ‘But you remember her – you remember her telling you about Kent, and singing songs to you about “born in June”, and telling you about your stylish middle name – it sounds as though she was fond of you,’ urged Daisy. ‘If I were you, I would go to that orphanage that registered your birth and try to find out some more details about yourself. Where was it?’

  ‘In Bethnal Green . . .’ began Morgan and then stopped as the butler came to the back door. ‘You’d better go,’ he said curtly.

  Well, at least Elaine didn’t put me in an orphanage, considered Daisy as she made her way back into the house. Her mind went to an earlier thought that she had had. What if Elaine, aged only seventeen at the time of the tragic death of the boy that she had loved, had gone to London and had her baby there under an assumed name. Would she have kept her, or would she perhaps have put her in an orphanage? Instead of being Lady Daisy, the daughter of an earl, she might now be Daisy the scullery maid.

  ‘Elaine,’ she said when she went in, ‘would it be all right if I phoned Father? I’d like to talk to him. He was very depressed when we left.’

  Without Michael Derrington’s generous offer to rear her as his own daughter, what might have happened to the child of a weak-willed, rather self-centred seventeen-year-old?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday 3 April 1924

  ‘Don’t look so disappointed, darling. Michael is always bad on the phone,’ said Elaine when Daisy put down the handset after a brief conversation. She gave a little laugh. ‘He thinks a phone is like a telegram – the more brief you are, the better.’

  ‘He does sound low.’ Daisy gave a sigh. It was hard to know what she could do. The phone call had seemed just to annoy him and he had seemed eager to finish.

  ‘Let’s go shopping, just the two of us. Shall we? It will be fun.’ Elaine looked at her so anxiously that Daisy felt guilty.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ said Daisy, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. It was true that the Earl was never very good on the phone – he tended to worry about the cost, not just to himself but to anyone that called him, and so he was tense and gave one-word answers. He had sounded depressed though, even for him, and she felt worried.

  And then there was Charles.

  She turned impulsively to her mother. ‘I really want to talk to you,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course, darling,’ said Elaine. ‘Just run upstairs and freshen yourself up and we’ll have tea at Harrods and then look at the clothes. It will be lovely to have a chat together.’

  Daisy did what she was told, and by the time she came back downstairs again, Morgan, very smart in his uniform, was at the door, ready to usher them into the car.

  ‘We’ll have some tea first before we exhaust ourselves,’ said Elaine as they got out of the car at the stately entrance. ‘Come back in couple of hours, Morgan.’

  She hardly looked at the chauffeur as she spoke, and Daisy, after a quick smile at him, followed her up the steps. It was odd, she thought, how dismissive Elaine and Jack were of Morgan. For a moment she half wished that he would join them over tea, wished that she could ask his advice, certainly about her father, and perhaps he might have some useful thoughts on Charles also. He might laugh at her though, for being interested in Charles. Instinctively she felt that Charles would not fit in well with the jazz-band boys.

  ‘So how was your morning, darling?’ asked Elaine as Daisy bit into a cinnamon-sprinkled piece of shortcake and sipped the fragrant tea.

  ‘Fun,’ said Daisy, after a moment’s pause. Elaine was but yet wasn’t her mother. Daisy wondered whether to talk to her about kissing Charles. Looking back on it, perhaps it did seem a bit fast. Elaine might be shocked at her behaviour. ‘Charles came to the studio too,’ she said after a minute. ‘He’d like to earn his living as a film star, I think.’

  ‘Funny idea,’ said Elaine. ‘I wonder why he would want to bother. I got the impression from Jack that he was one of those rich, idle young men. Of course, Jack and his mother are only second cousins – or even further distant; I’m not sure. Jack doesn’t have much time for Charles – they’re not very alike. Jack is so dynamic and so hard-working – but I always found Charles perfectly amiable. Do you like him, darling?’

  ‘Do you?’ countered Daisy.

  ‘Oh, of course; he is charming. And you have such strength of character. They talk about marrying someone like yourself, but I always think that the secret of a happy marriage is to marry your opposite. Look at us! We are so happy, Jack and myself!’

  ‘And do you think that Charles and I would be happy?’ Daisy asked, trying to laugh. She suddenly found herself feeling very self-conscious. Elaine seemed to have jumped to conclusions very quickly, she thought, and wondered guiltily where she had given herself away.

  ‘What do you think, darling?’ asked Elaine, holding Daisy’s hand affectionately. She looked closely at her daughter. ‘You’re blushing,’ she said with an amused smile. ‘Don’t say that—’

  ‘I did kiss him,’ whispered Daisy, ‘but . . .’

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Elaine. ‘You modern girls. I must say that was very quick. Don’t tell Jack that. He’ll be shocked!’

  Daisy giggled and after a moment Elaine giggled too. It was almost as if they were two girls out together, talking about young men. There was, thought Daisy, not much more than seventeen years between them.

  ‘Tell me about my father, Elaine,’ she said softly. ‘Did you adore him from the moment that you met, or did you just gradually grow together? You would have grown up with him, wouldn’t you? You were at Beech Grove with your Aunt Lizzie and he was over at Staplecourt. Justin Pennington used to stay at Staplecourt, too, didn’t he? He was Clifford’s nephew. I remember him telling us about it.’ She prattled on, waiting until Elaine’s colour came back. Perhaps, thought Daisy, I should not have mentioned my father like that, but we have never spoken of him and we should. She could imagine, though, the shock that it must have been to a pregnant seventeen-year-old to hear the terrible news that the boy who was father to her unborn child had been killed on the hunting field. She poured another cup of tea from the delicate china pot and handed the cup to her mother.

  ‘You mustn’t make the mistake that I made,’ said Elaine after a minute.

  Which mistake? wondered Daisy. Was it the mistake of allowing herself to be loved by someone, to become pregnant by him, or was it the mistake of giving her baby away and allowing her aunt to force her into a loveless marriage in order to stop the gossips’ tongues?

  ‘It’s just been a kiss,’ she said after a minute.

  ‘A kiss can lead to other things – sometimes very quickly,’ said Elaine with a sigh. ‘I suppose that is why girls have to be chaperoned so closely.’ She bit her lip and stared with unseeing eyes across the restaurant.

  ‘It’s natural at your age to think that people like Great-Aunt Lizzie fuss too much,’ she said after a minute, ‘but don’t forget that these rules and regulations are there for a purpose. When you meet a new young man, don’t be too forthcoming, Daisy, will you?’

  ‘I suppose you saw a lot of Charles in India,’ said Daisy, suddenly desperate to change the subject. ‘Did he have a girlfriend there?’ She could tell from her mother’s expression that Elaine did not want to talk about Clifford Pennington, and in any case, she was interested in the answer to that.

  Elaine brightened. ‘Not that I remember,’ she said. ‘He’s about twenty-four, I think. A perfect age for marriage,’ she added jokingly. ‘He’ll probably want to settle down soon now that he is back in England. And don’t say anything to him, but Jack feels that he might be able to do something for him. I’m sure that if, well . . . if there is any question of an engagement, then Jack will move heaven and earth to
get him a position in the Foreign Office. Jack,’ she said earnestly, ‘thinks it’s very bad for a man to have nothing to do, no matter how wealthy he is.’ Then she looked at her daughter with a smile. ‘And are you really interested in Charles then, darling?’

  ‘Well,’ said Daisy, trying to sound as though it were all a joke, ‘since he looks like a Greek god, kisses like . . .’ she ran a quick check of male film stars and ended with, ‘kisses like Douglas Fairbanks, is incredibly rich and will be found a position in the Foreign Office by Jack – how on earth could I resist him?’

  That, she thought, had struck the right note. Elaine laughed and said, ‘How wonderful it is to have this time to chat with you. Now let’s go and look at some frocks. We need to think carefully about what you will need for your season.’

  ‘I did see, as we came up the stairs, a lovely tea gown in black and silver . . .’ Daisy knew her mother would be happier shopping for clothes than discussing serious matters – especially if they involved past history, and so it proved. They had a wonderful afternoon, with Elaine flushed and animated, and there were dozens of boxes for Morgan to load into the car by the time that they finally finished.

  Poppy arrived home about half an hour after they did. She had Baz in tow, of course, and Daisy heard them arguing in the hall as she came down the stairs.

  ‘You do it,’ Baz was saying.

  ‘Don’t be stupid; you have to do it,’ hissed Poppy. ‘It’s your mother.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ retorted Baz, and there were muffled giggles from both of them.

  ‘Shh,’ said Daisy, coming on to the landing and putting her finger to her lips. She pointed at the yellow parlour, where the sound of Jack reading a newspaper article to Elaine boomed through the doorway.

  ‘This is what The Times says: “It is time that those antics ceased. Those Bright Young People and their ridiculous parties are giving London a bad name with their . . .”’

  ‘Go on, go in,’ muttered Poppy, and gave Baz a firm push from behind as he hesitated on the threshold. Daisy followed, trying not to giggle at Baz’s expression of horror. On their entry Jack laid aside the newspaper with a slight expression of annoyance crossing his handsome face, but Elaine seemed glad to see them and Daisy suspected that she was tired of being lectured.

  ‘Card from my mother,’ Baz muttered, after prolonging his greetings for as long as he could. He held out a gold-bordered card with his mother’s name and address on it and then quickly reversed it so the handwritten message on the back could be seen.

  Elaine scrutinized it carefully and Jack looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of your mother to invite the girls.’

  ‘It’s just a supper party on Monday – very small affair,’ stuttered Baz. ‘Nothing formal – no chaperones,’ he ended, giving Poppy the despairing look of someone who had forgotten his lines.

  Elaine looked at him with surprise and Jack with suspicion.

  ‘You must call on Lady Dorothy, my dear, of course,’ Jack said to Elaine. ‘It would be better to thank her in person.’

  And find out what’s really happening, thought Daisy, hoping that Joan would manage to prime her rather indulgent mother before Elaine called.

  ‘What’s this party, then?’ she asked Poppy as soon as they were alone upstairs.

  ‘Small, informal supper at Lady Dorothy’s town house,’ said Poppy demurely, adding, ‘Why don’t you bring your camera? You know you want to make a film about the Bright Young People.’ Joan will tell you all about them – she’s one of them; she knows all about the treasure hunts and the parties in a swimming bath and things like that. Me and Baz won’t do anything like that though, of course.’

  Daisy gave her a suspicious look but decided it might be better not to know too much. Things could not get too wild if it really was a party held by Lady Dorothy.

  ‘Would it be all right if I asked Charles de Montfort?’ she asked casually. ‘He doesn’t really know many people in London and I think he would enjoy it.’

  And then, as Poppy looked at her suspiciously in turn, she threw her arms around her and whispered in her ear, ‘He kissed me and it was heaven!’

  ‘Who?’ Poppy sounded startled.

  ‘Charles, of course,’ she said trying not to blush.

  ‘Charles?’

  Daisy looked at her with annoyance. ‘Well, who else?’ she asked. She could hear her voice sounding defensive and that irritated her. Who was Poppy to sound so dubious? After all, she, Daisy, had never said a word against Poppy’s plans to marry Baz, though personally, she could not ever visualize spending the rest of her life with someone who seemed so immature and unintelligent.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’ she asked defensively.

  ‘You’re not just falling in love with him because he’s rich, are you?’ Poppy gave her a penetrating look.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘It’s not about the money at all. I truly am falling in love with him.’ She couldn’t understand why Poppy seemed unable to see how gorgeous Charles was, but she supposed her sister was blinded by her love for Baz.

  ‘It’s just that it all seems a bit sudden, but as long as you like him . . .’

  Of course, Poppy and Baz had known each other for all of their lives and had only recently fallen so deeply in love that they were thinking about marriage. Perhaps her feelings for Charles were a bit sudden. Two days as compared with seventeen years.

  Daisy shrugged. Love at first sight was more romantic anyway, she thought, and certainly more cinematic.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monday 7 April 1924

  Poppy snuggled in close to Baz and then sighed as she heard Joan’s voice from upstairs. The town house belonging to Baz’s family was very tall and narrow with numerous flights of stairs, and the large and noisy family were always tramping up and down them and calling to each other continually. All of Baz’s family, except he and Joan, were married and had their own homes, but as soon as their mother came to London they all seemed to congregate at Belgravia Square.

  ‘Sometimes I almost wish that we were back at Beech Grove,’ she said, moving away from him reluctantly. Soon all Joan’s friends would be arriving for this ‘informal supper party’ and then they would have no opportunity to be alone.

  ‘Not taking a dislike to London, are you?’ Baz sounded worried.

  ‘No, not to London. If only we could just move into your little house – with no fuss, no plotting and planning. Planning makes my head ache. I just want to play music and to be left in peace.’ She stared moodily ahead and drummed her feet on the ground. ‘I’m so tired of telling lies and making up excuses,’ she said apologetically as his arms went around her again. Daisy, she thought resentfully, seemed very happy. She spent most of her days at the film studios and no one questioned that because of Sir Guy being her godfather and a great friend of the Earl; certainly no one asked whether she was going there because of her ambitions to make a film or because she would be with Charles de Montfort. Poppy heard a lot about Charles de Montfort in nightly talks – all about the new film that Daisy was making about India, in which Charles was an Indian rajah, and Violet a young girl just arrived from England. Daisy, thought Poppy, was perhaps a little jealous of her elder sister’s being so close to the wonderfully desirable Charles.

  And then she forgot about Daisy as she felt the soft pressure of Baz’s lips on hers.

  ‘Oh, I say! Too, too shy-making . . . shall I go out and come in again? I can even cough in a tactful way and then tap on the door,’ said a voice from behind them.

  ‘Oh, go away, Joan.’ Poppy pulled herself away from Baz. She quite liked Joan when she was in the mood for comedy, but just now she wanted to be alone with Baz. Everyone treated them like a pair of kids. She scowled at Joan, and then her eyes widened. For a small, informal party, Joan was very dressed up.

  She wore a straight shift of midnight blue, lightened by three panels of iridescent sapphire shimmering against
the background of the darker colour. Circles and half-circles of dark and light blue ornamented the bodice, and the hem dipped on both sides and rose well above the knee in the middle. On her head she wore a close-fitting elfin cap with circles of blue beads stitched into the silver lace. It curved around her forehead, finishing in two points on her jawbones, enhancing the colour of her eyes and giving her face an innocent and childlike expression.

  Poppy glared at her. She and Daisy were just wearing ordinary tea gowns – after emphasizing how small and informal the gathering was going to be, neither had liked to dress up too much.

  ‘I say, cheer up,’ said Joan. ‘There was a poem that governess of ours was always quoting: “To be young is very heaven”, something like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s a lie,’ said Poppy fiercely. ‘To be young is very hell. Why should we be bossed and bullied and hemmed in with rules and regulations? We’re adults. I stopped growing four years ago. Why can’t we be treated like grown-ups?’

  ‘Can’t say it bothers me.’ Joan yawned.

  ‘Well, you’re lucky then,’ snapped Poppy. ‘You just want to get married to a rich man and your mother wants that for you too so you have no problems.’

  ‘And have some fun, while I’m waiting for him to turn up,’ said Joan, peering at herself in the mirror and rubbing gently at a spot of excess colour on her right cheekbone. ‘Too, too sickening, making up one’s face in daylight,’ she murmured. ‘Why can’t sun be more like electricity?’ She blinked her mascara-coated eyelashes several times, then shut each eye in turn and peered at the navy-blue lid with satisfaction.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said brightly. ‘Trust me. I will take your affairs in hand and bring them to a satisfactory conclusion. Do you know that Annette is thinking of setting up as a marriage broker? They have them out in India. She says that she has got three clients already. I shall be her rival.’

  ‘Oh, go away, Joan,’ Baz groaned.

  ‘Joan!’ Her mother’s voice called from downstairs. ‘Here come some of your young people. Do come down, dear; I never know which is which. These girls change their appearance so quickly.’