Charles came late and Daisy was glad about that. It would have been agony to have to stand in line with Elaine and Jack greeting the guests while he, in his well-mannered way, danced with other girls. Poppy, of course, had no such worries. The jazz-band boys, Baz, Simon, Edwin and George, despised music that wasn’t jazz, so they lurked among the potted palms just behind where Poppy stood on the end of the receiving row and made low-voiced jokes that only she could hear. Daisy envied her sister. She was so relaxed, so confident in Baz’s affection. Would things ever be like that between her and Charles? The thought had just crossed her mind when suddenly she saw him. He was alone but he came forward with great confidence, bowed gracefully to Elaine, shook Sir John by the hand and then looked at Daisy.
‘Dare I ask for a dance?’ His dark eyes were so warm in the bright light from the chandeliers overhead and his well-shaped eyebrows formed two such perfect arcs that for a moment she wished that she had her camera in her hand.
‘Yes, you girls run along; your aunt and I will receive the rest of the guests.’ Elaine whispered something into her husband’s ear and he gave Daisy and Poppy a paternal nod of approval while sending a keen-eyed look down the hallway that opened out of the ballroom. All the important guests – the people from the Indian Embassy and from the Foreign Office – had already arrived.
‘I purposely came late; I couldn’t bear to dance with anyone but you,’ Charles murmured into Daisy’s ear as he swung her on to the dance floor. The Ritz orchestra was playing a gloriously slow, languorous waltz and they moved to its rhythm, spinning down the length of the ballroom.
Daisy looked lovingly at him, though when he spoke it was only to say, ‘I love your dress.’
‘I love your costume too,’ she said. Charles was one of the few men who had come dressed up, but the churidar and dhoti suited his dark good looks, and Daisy thought that he looked very dashing compared to the rest of the young men who were wearing the same evening clothes as their own fathers.
‘Are you ever homesick for India?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said with surprise. ‘I love London – and,’ he added, squeezing her hand gently, ‘London has you and India does not.’
Daisy squeezed his hand back. She caught sight of Poppy and Baz exchanging kisses as they danced. Backwards and then forwards and then another kiss; it was a good job, she thought, that their father had refused all invitations to attend his daughters’ coming-out ball. Violet was frowning at Poppy in an exaggerated way, but Poppy just laughed when she met her elder sister in the dance.
‘Wonderful party!’ called out Annette as they passed. ‘I was just saying to Jeremy that I gave you the idea. Everything Indian is just too, too spiffing, my dear. I just adore everything about it.’
Daisy laughed and waved back. Perhaps, she thought charitably, the news that Annette was setting up a marriage-broker service as they have in India had planted the seed of an idea. In any case, she was kept too busy responding to all the compliments and the excited exclamations to worry about Annette. Charles had hardly looked at the girl; his gaze was fastened on Daisy’s face and his gloved hand pressed her fingers in a close, intimate grasp. She half shut her eyes, seeing the scene as a swirl of lights and colours – ruby-red, emerald-green, sapphire-blue, set off by the glitter of diamonds and the glow of pearls. She wished that she could dance with Charles forever, wished that so many young men, introduced by Sir John, had not implored her to put their names into her dance card.
They had grown so close, she and Charles, during the past few weeks. The permission to travel to and from the studio had opened up the relationship, thought Daisy. The daily journeys had been extended by walks in Kensington Gardens to admire the blossom and the spring flowers, followed by kisses on benches under the pale green-gold branches of a weeping willow tree; by strolls along the riverside, hand in hand; the month that they had known each other seemed more like a year. Never, she thought happily, were two people more suited to each other. They thought the same on every subject; she had only to voice an opinion for Charles to agree, immediately and enthusiastically, with her.
‘I’ll remember this all my life,’ she said to him as they came together again for the first dance played by the jazz band. No longer did she feel dreamy but full of energy, the beat stirring up feelings within her that she hardly knew she possessed. She looked across at Poppy, but her twin was gazing at Baz and oblivious to everything else so she looked back up into Charles’s eyes and wondered whether the tumultuous beat of her heart could be felt by his gloved hand between her shoulder blades.
Chapter Twenty
Thursday 8 May 1924
Rose gave a quick glance around the deserted press room at the Ritz Hotel, so well equipped with tables and telephones, then took a fat notebook from her brand-new evening bag. She perched on one of the Ritz’s gilt chairs and began to write:
Seldom have such spectacles been witnessed as tonight within the luxurious portals of the Ritz Hotel
And what a scene
This magnificent ballroom
Lord Toomanydrinks was witnessed swinging from the chandelier
Rose sucked the end of her pencil and then started to write rapidly again.
. . . The Honourable Alice Hinwonderland waltzed pensively with her looking-glass while the jazz band played a tango The Cake Walk
The whole evening was a scene of unbridled debauchery . . .
Rose picked up one of the telephones, but the sharp ‘Yes’ from the girl in the exchange startled her. She pressed two fingers on to the bar to cut off the sound and continued. ‘Social, please,’ she said, and began to dictate fluently and clearly, condescendingly spelling out words for the stenographer who would be typing her piece in the press room of the gossip newspaper and dwelling with satisfaction on the ‘quote, unquote’.
‘That’s it; nighty-night,’ she said, remembering Poppy’s story.
And then she tore out the page from her notebook, placed it carefully beside the telephone and went off to gather new material.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday 8 May 1924
‘I say, Poppy, look what I got for you.’ Baz fumbled in his pocket and took out a small box, which he handed to her.
Poppy opened it and stared. The jazz band of King Oliver had just replaced the sedate Ritz band, but for once she did not listen to the opening chords of ‘Canal Street Blues’. King Oliver blew his cornet and Louis Armstrong his trumpet, Baby Dodds beat his drums, Johnny Dodds played heavenly notes on the clarinet, Lil Hardin ran her fingers over the piano keys, Will Johnson plucked the bass and Honoré Dutrey made the trombone sing, but Poppy just looked at what was in Baz’s hand.
It was a ring. The diamond was tiny; nevertheless it glowed within the broad band of gold and the ring slid on to Poppy’s third finger as though it had been made for her.
‘It was part of my inheritance from my grandfather – it was a man’s ring, b
ut I got it cut down for you,’ said Baz, flushing a deep red, but smiling down at her.
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him in the middle of the dance floor.
‘Oh, Baz,’ she said, ‘we’re engaged.’
Never had music sounded so beautiful to her. ‘It had to be you . . .’ she crooned into his ear as, hand in hand, they spun across the well-polished floor of the Ritz ballroom.
‘We’ll have five children, won’t we?’ he said later, as they sat together and shared an ice from the same plate.
‘Why five?’ Poppy licked the last trace of ice cream from off the china dish and smiled blandly at the wife of the Indian Ambassador.
‘Two girls to play the piano and the clarinet; and three boys to play the trumpet, the bass and the drums,’ he said.
‘Or the other way around.’ Poppy spoke absent-mindedly. Suddenly she wished for a decision, for permanence. Resolutely she got to her feet and crossed over to the bandstand. Lil had just sat back down at the piano, Louis was joking with Baby Dodds, and King Oliver was polishing the bell of his cornet with a silk handkerchief when Poppy touched him on the arm. She spoke briefly in his ear and there was a flash of white teeth in his dark face as he nodded and spoke to the band. And then he stepped to the edge of the stage and addressed the audience.
‘Ladies and gents,’ he said in his strong New Orleans accent, ‘the young lady whose coming-out dance this is tells me that she has just gotten engaged to the man of her dreams, and she wants us to play . . .’ he paused dramatically and then said emphatically, ‘ “Sweet Lovin’ Man”.’
As the first notes were blown there was a buzz of conversation, but then the other instruments came in and all the young people at the dance swept on to the floor, twisting, swaying, jitterbugging and clicking to the rhythm of the beat. Cameras flashed into the faces of Poppy and Baz and she smiled her wide sweet smile, put her head closer to Baz’s and turned him slightly towards the lenses that were aimed at them. Joan waved and beamed as she jigged her way past and then all the dancers were waving and smiling and laughing. Poppy was conscious of the appalled faces of Sir John and Elaine in the background and of how reporters were rushing to the door to get at the telephones, but she did not care. Baz gave a little wave to his mother and she waved back with a slightly amused smile. Baz, thought Poppy, was the youngest of eight eccentric children and his mother had had plenty of experiences to toughen her. She blew Lady Dorothy a kiss and then forgot about her. Daisy rushed up, flung her arms around Poppy and then went back to jitterbugging with Charles.
Suddenly Poppy was supremely happy. Everything was now out in the open. The words had been spoken in public and they could not be taken back. Her future was settled. She was going to marry Baz.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday 8 May 1924
Once the jazz band had taken over, the whole atmosphere changed. Daisy held on to Charles’s hand and swung to the beat. It was their first dance together for quite some time as several of Jack’s friends had claimed her for themselves or for their sons.
And then came the drama! Daisy had seen her sister go up to the bandleader and whisper some words in his ear, but nothing prepared her for the shock announcement. Poppy engaged! Engaged to be married! As the catchy rhythm of ‘Sweet Lovin’ Man’ mesmerized the dancers, she thought suddenly of Michael Derrington in his lonely home with the huge weight of his anxieties pressing down on him.
And yet, she thought – and it was a surprisingly new thought for her–perhaps...perhaps he would be relieved. He had been amazingly accepting of Violet’s engagement to a penniless lawyer; Baz might be a youngest son, but his family were wealthy. The young couple would not be allowed to starve even if the jazz club was not a huge success.
And then she realized that Charles was steering her over towards the potted palms. One of his hands was in the small of her back and the other grasped hers firmly.
‘It’s stupid, I know,’ he gasped when they were sheltered behind the greenery, ‘and I’ve told myself again and again not to rush things, to wait until I had some sort of position, some sort of income to offer you, but I can’t help asking you tonight . . . Daisy, would you, could you ever feel that you could marry me?’
The shock struck Daisy dumb for a moment, but she recovered quickly when she saw how sheepish and embarrassed he looked. It was a huge surprise, but yet, since their walks, their kisses under the trees in Kensington Gardens and their time next to the orange-blossom bush by the river, she had half expected this. After all, how else could his words about working together, about having their own studio, be explained?
She flung her arms around him. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she said, and that was all that was needed because he suddenly covered her hands and then her face with kisses.
‘But no surprise announcements,’ she said breathlessly when she finally extricated herself from his arms. ‘Elaine and Jack will drop dead if that happens again. We’ll keep it to ourselves until we can talk to our relations and make it clear that we are not rushing into anything.’
He laughed then. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think Poppy has been enough for one evening. In any case, we must talk to my mother before we tell anyone. I couldn’t do anything without her blessing.’
Lady Cynthia, thought Daisy dreamily, had a very high opinion of Sir John and was always trying to flatter him. Surely she would agree. In any case, Charles was over twenty-one and his own master. She looked across at Poppy and saw her own happiness reflected in her sister’s face.
This is the most wonderful evening of my life! The words were in her mind as she whirled around, exchanging smiles and jokes with the many friends that they had made since they came to London. She seemed to be floating in a kind of brightly lit, gaily coloured paradise, and looking across at Poppy she could see the same shining happiness in her face. Although it was three o’clock in the morning before the taxis arrived and they all left the Ritz, it seemed to her as though the evening passed in a flash.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday 9 May 1924
‘And may I ask whether your father, or your uncle and aunt, know about this extraordinarily sudden engagement?’ Lady Cynthia glared at Daisy, and Daisy glared back. The preliminaries had gone well, but now the gloves were off. Lady Cynthia had not wasted any time on Charles and his tentative explanations but had fixed her eyes on Daisy.
Daisy had been wondering whether she would need to be honest about her illegitimate birth and had steeled herself to talk to Elaine about it, but this antagonistic reception had stiffened her backbone and now she was determined not to yield an inch to this woman. What business was it of hers anyway? Presumably Charles had his own fortune.
It was Charles, however, who answered, and his voice, to Daisy’s bewilderment, sounded conciliatory and a touch apologetic.
‘No, not yet, no, we haven’t told anyone yet. We wanted you to be the first to know, Mama, dear,’ he said.
‘And will your father make a substantial settlement on you, Daisy, may I ask?’ Lady Cynthia ignored her son.
‘No,’ said Daisy, ‘but—’
‘And may I enquire whether Charles has told you that he is utterly and completely dependent on me for every penny? Even his tailor’s bill arrives addressed to me.’ She waved a piece of paper under their noses and Daisy saw Charles flinch. She suppressed a gasp. This was a shock. She had thought that Charles had private means. Elaine had said – what was it exactly that Elaine had said? It was only, thought Daisy, that she had the impression that Charles was rich. And Charles himself had seemed to be a young man of fortune.
‘We’ll earn money,’ said Daisy defiantly. ‘In the last few weeks I’ve earned fifteen pounds. If I can keep that up it will amount to more than the average wage of an English worker.’ Her godfather had told her that and she prayed that he was correct. The silly little film about the hens had sold to almost every cinema in England – had started off with children’s matinee performances and then had moved
on to evening showings. Sir Guy was keeping a nice little sum for her. At some stage, she thought, she would tell Charles about Elaine, but she refused to do it while everything was so uncertain. It’s my business, she thought, tightening her lips resolutely.
‘Ten pounds a week is what I should be able to reckon on if I go on having success,’ she repeated firmly.
Lady Cynthia, however, did not query her figures.
‘And Charles?’ she asked with a sarcastic note in her voice. ‘How much has he earned?’
Daisy was silent. As a matter of fact, the film The Rajah and the Lady seemed to be doomed to failure. She had hoped that Hollywood might buy it, might be seduced by some of the scenes showing the beauty of the two leads, but that had not happened. In fact, even the thousands of English cinemas, even the ones that had bought her short films, were busily rejecting this particular film. Charles’s future as a star of the big screen was uncertain, to say the least.
‘We’ll have a breakthrough soon,’ she said defensively.
Lady Cynthia looked at her closely. It was a long and a penetrating look and Daisy bore it as bravely as she could. After a few minutes the woman said abruptly, ‘Charles, go and wait in the dining room. I need to talk to Daisy in private.’
He went without a backwards glance and Daisy felt sorry for him but at the same time ashamed of his lack of courage.
Once he had closed the door, Lady Cynthia sat down abruptly and signalled to Daisy to sit by her side on the sofa.
‘I’ll be very honest with you; I don’t want this marriage to take place,’ she said curtly. ‘Charles must marry wealth and that is the end of it. I’m a widow and I need my money for myself. I spent enough on him with this India business and he hadn’t the guts or the brains to make something of it. Marriage is the only answer – he has the looks – but not to you, my dear. Your father has nothing. His property is entailed. I hear that he has managed it badly and that his heir is after his blood. Not only will there be no money for your settlements or dowries but you will, all three of you, be left without a home or means to support yourselves. But that is not all.’ She drew in a deep breath and looked stonily down at Daisy.
Debutantes: In Love Page 14