by Rebecca Dean
Wallis clutched the box tighter and with a pounding heart waited for him to cross the street toward her.
He did so at a negligent stroll, his hands in his trouser pockets, the June sun glinting on his tightly curling dark hair.
“Hi, Wallis,” he said as he walked up to her. “Where are you going?”
When she spoke, her voice sounded so unlike her normal voice it could have come out of a squeezebox. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday. I’m taking her a present.”
“Does she still live at number thirty-four?”
There were blue-black glints in his hair that she’d never been aware of before, and his eyes weren’t a straight brown, as she’d always thought, but a golden brown. Simply looking into them turned her knees to jelly.
“Yes.” Her voice was still a squeak. She paused, took a deep breath, and said, trying to sound as laconic as he did, “How is it you know where she lives?”
“My father is on the board of one of your Uncle Sol’s companies.”
Whether he had intended to walk down Preston Street she didn’t know, but that was what he did, walking along beside her so close she could smell the faint tang of lemon cologne. She wondered if he had begun shaving. He was a few months older than her, already sixteen. If he hadn’t, and if the lemon tang wasn’t from cologne, than it was from the soap he used. Whatever it was from, it was something she liked a great deal.
“Someone told me the other day you had a little dog.”
His hands were still in his pockets. She wished they weren’t. If his hands had been free she could have carried her grandmother’s present in her left arm and let her right hand fall down so that even if he didn’t take hold of it, the back of it would brush against the back of his.
“Yes. My stepfather gave him to me. He’s a French bulldog. His name is Bully.”
John Jasper chuckled. “I reckon that’s a pretty good name for a bulldog, Wallis. Why isn’t he with you?”
“My grandmother doesn’t like dogs. At least, she doesn’t like them in the house, and Bully wouldn’t like being tied up outside.”
John Jasper looked across at her speculatively. “How would you like it if I took Bully for a walk now and then? I like dogs and I’m pretty good with them. I used to have a Siberian husky. He was a great dog. He died last year, and I still miss him.”
“Why didn’t you get another?”
They were fast approaching number 34, and Wallis began walking as slowly as possible, not wanting to reach it, not wanting their time together to be over.
“My ma didn’t want another big dog. The dog we have now is a Pekingese. He’s kind of cute, but he doesn’t like going for walks. He sits on my ma’s knee whenever he can, and when she’s not around, he sits on the sofa.”
They’d reached number 34, and there was nothing for it but for her to come to a halt. She turned toward him. “You can take Bully for a walk any time you want, John Jasper.”
What she didn’t say, but what she intended, was that when he did so, she would go along too.
“That’s great, Wallis. I can’t wait.”
He made no move to continue on his way, and she made no move to climb the steps to number 34’s front door.
For a long moment they held eyes. Wallis’s heart was beating so loud she was sure John Jasper could hear it.
“You’re awful pretty, Wallis,” he said at last. “Would you mind if I touched your hair?”
She shook her head, her throat so tight she couldn’t speak.
He took both hands out of his trouser pockets and then slowly raised his right hand, gently touching her glossy, near-black hair.
They were standing very close now, so close that Wallis knew if anyone in number 34 saw them she would be in very serious trouble.
There was an expression in his golden-brown eyes that she recognized. It was the same heat-filled expression she had seen in her cousin Henry’s eyes the moment before he’d kissed her.
She raised her face slightly, letting John Jasper know by the expression in her eyes that even though it was bright daylight; even though they were on a public, but blessedly deserted street; and even though they were smack outside her grandmother’s house, if he wanted to kiss her, she wasn’t going to do anything to stop him.
He made a small sound that excited her immeasurably, and then he bent his head to hers, kissing her softly full on the mouth.
Compared to her cousin Henry’s kiss, it was a very chaste kiss, but Wallis didn’t mind because she knew it was a far more special kiss than the one Henry had given her. For one thing, she was certain that it was John Jasper’s first kiss, and for another she knew John Jasper wasn’t, within weeks, going to announce his engagement to a girl from Charlottesville.
When he raised his head from hers, his cheeks were flushed and he looked very pleased with himself.
“I’ll be seein’ you then, Wallis,” he said, belatedly shooting a glance up at number 34’s windows to make sure no one had been watching. “Tell Bully I’ll be coming for him soon.”
“I will.”
He turned away, beginning to walk back down Preston Street the way they had come, his hands back in his pockets.
As she ran up the steps to the front door, her heart singing with happiness, she could hear him begin to whistle. It sounded as if he were whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
When her grandmother’s black butler opened the door to her, she walked into the house with a smile on her face so wide it reached from one side of it to the other.
Her grandmother was in the drawing room, seated in her favorite rocking chair. Her Uncle Sol was standing a foot or so away from her, smoking a cigar.
Her grandmother liked cigar smoke and often asked Sol to blow it in her hair so that she could enjoy the fragrance of a Dutch Masters Palma long after he had left the room. Wallis, too, wasn’t averse to something she thought of as being distinctly manly.
To celebrate the fact that it was her birthday, her grandmother wasn’t wearing black bombazine but a gown of far more expensive pure silk, her only jewelry a jet mourning pin.
“Thank you, Bessie Wallis, dear,” she said, accepting the present Wallis gave her. “Your uncle has something very like a present for you, too. Don’t beat about the bush, Solomon. Tell Bessie Wallis what it is you have in mind for her.”
Sol blew a plume of blue smoke into the room and then said in his usually stiff manner, “You will be sixteen in a week or two, Wallis. It’s time to be thinking about your eighteenth-birthday debut—and how, over the next two years, you will be preparing for it.”
That her uncle was already talking about her debut sent a thrill of anticipation down Wallis’s spine, though she wasn’t quite sure what he meant by her preparing for it, for the preparations would, surely, all be done by him.
“You’ve been a good scholar at Arundell,” he continued, turning to one side so that he could flick ash from the end of his cigar into the empty fireplace, adding as an afterthought, “apart, of course, for mathematics.”
Wallis remained wisely silent.
“I’m not sure, though, that there is anything to be gained by your staying on at Arundell until you are eighteen.”
Alarm flared through her. “But what about my graduation, Uncle Sol? Everyone stays on for graduation. If I don’t, everyone will think it’s because … because …”
“Because I no longer wish to pay your fees?”
It was so exactly what she had been going to say that Wallis flushed scarlet.
“There will be no fear of them thinking that, Wallis. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”
Sol crossed the room and crushed the butt of his cigar out in an onyx ashtray.
“Two years at an exclusive finishing school will be of far more use to you than another two years at Arundell,” he said, when he again turned toward her. “It isn’t as if you need another two years of schooling. You are never going to have to work for your living. Your aim, like all young ladies of y
our social class, must be a good marriage to a wealthy young man of illustrious background.”
There was no way Wallis was going to disagree with him. A finishing school would be wonderful. To the best of her knowledge, there wasn’t one in Baltimore. The nearest was Oldfields, at Glencoe—and Glencoe was quite a distance away. If her uncle had Oldfields in mind, it would mean her becoming a boarder—and being a boarder, living away from home, would be a terrifically exciting adventure. Oldfields, however, was known to be the most expensive and fashionable finishing school in Maryland, and the fees would be colossal.
She dug her nails into her palms, wishing as hard as she could that she would get the right answer to her next question. “Which finishing school did you have in mind, Uncle Sol?”
“Oldfields. I’ve already paid it a visit. You will be a boarder, of course, but a boarder in exceptionally genteel surroundings. The school itself is a large mansion set in several hundred acres of woodlands, and students are housed in a large wing that has been added onto the main house. There is a large ballroom with crystal chandeliers for dancing lessons. Deportment is practiced on a magnificent grand staircase. The drawing rooms are hung with silk. Altogether, I couldn’t find fault with anything. If you are happy to make the transition there, I will put it in hand straight away.”
The thought of the ballroom made Wallis’s head spin.
“Oh yes, please, Uncle Sol,” she said ecstatically, running toward him to give him a kiss on his cheek. It was a gesture she knew always pleased him and, as she now had genuine affection for him, one that came easily to her.
“Oldfields?” Pamela stared at her, not sharing in her excitement. “Good for you Wally, but I won’t be traipsing after you there as I traipsed after you to Arundell.”
They were walking back to school from the Gymnasium on Charles Street, hanging back from the rest of their classmates in order to have a little privacy.
“But why not?” Wallis was genuinely baffled. “Your father always lets you have your own way over everything. If you said that you wanted to go to Oldfields, he’d let you go there like a shot.”
“That’s true—but only because he doesn’t care where I am, or where I go.” She gave a bitter smile. “He only brought me with him when he left England because he thought he was giving my mother grief. He’s never truly got over the fact that instead of giving her grief he played right into her hands, as she no more wanted me around than he did.”
Wallis had known almost from the beginning of their friendship that even though Pamela lived a life surrounded by riches, she was far poorer than herself in that she didn’t have even one parent who loved her and was interested in her. Now was not the moment to express sympathy, though. Not when something more important was at stake.
“Oldfields,” she said again. “Why don’t you want to go there? It’s very exclusive. Everyone there will come from a really wealthy privileged background.”
“Well, of course they will, Wally.” Pamela rolled her eyes in exasperation. “But they won’t be from my kind of wealthy privileged background. When it comes to a finishing school, I won’t be going to an American finishing school. I shall go to a Swiss finishing school, just like every other girl who will be in my debutante year—and when you hightail it to Oldfields, I’ll hightail it to Switzerland.”
Pamela had always said that when it came to her coming-out year, she would come out in London, not Baltimore, but it had never occurred to Wallis that Pamela would be leaving Baltimore two years beforehand. She was sensible enough to know that she would make new friends at Oldfields, but she also knew that when she did, none of the friendships would be as close and as necessary to her as her friendship with Pamela.
She stopped walking, saying with deep passion, “Even though you will be in Switzerland and then London, we will still be friends, won’t we?”
Pamela’s eyes held hers. “Always, Wally.”
Both of them were wearing straw school hats, and Pamela’s was held in place by a long hatpin. Not taking her eyes away from Wallis’s, she removed the hatpin.
“To show us both how much we mean what we say, we should seal our promises in blood. Are you game?”
Wally nodded, and, as she held her breath, Pamela scored a deep line with the hatpin across her own wrist, drawing blood, and then, as Wally gritted her teeth, she took Wallis’s hand and scored a deep line across Wallis’s wrist.
“Now we mix our blood,” Pamela said fiercely.
Wallis watched, transfixed, as Pamela pressed their bleeding wrists together.
“There.” As their blood mixed there was high satisfaction in Pamela’s voice. “Now we’re blood friends—and nothing can part blood friends, Wally. Blood friends are friends forever.”
Chapter Seven
On Wallis’s first day at Oldfields, Edith Miller rushed up to her in delight. “Bessie Wallis! You do remember me, don’t you? We were in the same class at Miss O’Donnell’s on Elliott Street.”
“Of course I remember you, Edith.”
For the first time it occurred to Wallis to wonder if other of her classmates from her early school days were at Oldfields.
“I’m not called Bessie Wallis any longer,” she said firmly. “I’m just called Wallis.” She allowed Edith to link her arm with hers. “Is there anyone else from Elliott Street at Oldfields, Edith? Mabel Morgan, for instance? Or Violet Dix?”
To her vast relief Edith shook her head. “No. Mabel’s mother told my mother Mabel was going to go to a finishing school in Virginia. I don’t know whether Violet will be going there as well, but she probably will be. Mabel and Violet nearly always went everywhere together. Shall I show you round, Wallis? I’ve been here two months now, so I feel quite at home.”
Wallis nodded, happy to have someone who could introduce her and speed up the process of making new friends. At Elliott Street Edith had never been a particular friend of hers, but that had only been because Edith had been quiet and mousy and she had found her dull company, not because she was unlikable, as Mabel and Violet were unlikable.
“What did you think of Miss Nan when you came for your interview, Wallis?” Edith asked as they began on a tour of Oldfield’s lavishly furnished drawing rooms and study rooms. “Did you like her?”
“By Miss Nan, do you mean Miss McCulloch?”
Edith nodded. “Yes. She’s the sister of the Reverend Duncan McCulloch, who founded Oldfields. She’s very strict, but also very nice.”
“She reminds me of Miss Carroll, my headmistress at Arundell.” Wallis paused to look at a large notice very prominently displayed. It read, Gentleness and Courtesy Are Expected of Girls at All Times.
She quirked an eyebrow, and Edith said without a glimmer of humor, “Miss Nan thinks it very important all Oldfields girls have a well-developed sense of gentility and grace. The same notice is posted on the doors of the dormitories, and the school’s two basketball teams are called Gentleness and Courtesy. I’m on Courtesy. Let’s go up to the dormitories and I’ll introduce you to Ellen Yuille. She’s from North Carolina and very lively. I know you’ll get on with her. Her father is something very big in Duke Tobacco.”
Wallis met Ellen and immediately liked her. She also met Beatrice Astor, Alice Maud Van Rensselaer, and Phoebe Schermerhorn. All, like Ellen, came from exceptionally wealthy families. Wallis was soon firm friends with them.
A few weeks later she wrote to Pamela,
… some things at Oldfields are a bore, but not many—and the girls here are swell. Of the boring things, we are only allowed two at-home weekends in addition to regular vacations—it’s not much, is it? How many are you allowed at Mont-Fleuri? Other things are fun. I love the dancing lessons in the ballroom and the deportment and etiquette and flower arranging lessons. The first person I ran into when I arrived was Edith Miller, from our Elliott Street days. She’s not quite the mouse she used to be, but she still plays by all the rules and never risks getting into trouble. Other girls are more lively—especiall
y Phoebe Schermerhorn, who regularly sneaks out of Oldfields after lights-out to meet up with a beau!
A letter from Pamela speedily winged its way across the Atlantic in response.
Dear Wally,
Edith Miller was so quiet in class I barely remember her! Phoebe sounds much more fun. Compared to Oldfields, Mont-Fleuri is relaxed and we get to go down into Geneva nearly every Saturday. Lots of the girls here have a secret beau and we are all—every last one of us—in love with Hans, our ski instructor. (Hans, of course, is only in love with me!) I’d like to stay in Switzerland for Christmas (otherwise how will I get a present from Hans?) only, after years of maternal neglect, my mother is now suffering a season of guilt and insists I join her and Tarquin in Norfolk. (I don’t think the guilt will last for long. By the time vacation is over I doubt we’ll be on speaking terms.) What would make it all worthwhile would be an invite to Sandringham which would give me the chance to flirt with Prince Edward again (if, of course, he is there at Christmas). There’s no chance of Sandringham, though, as King George and Queen Mary are going to be in India nearly all the winter celebrating their Coronation Durbar.
Wallis didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed that Pamela stood no chance of being a guest at Sandringham during the Christmas holidays. In not hobnobbing with royalty, Pamela wouldn’t be able to score over her socially—and she was pleased about that. On the other hand, if Pamela became a friend of Prince Edward’s, then as she was Pamela’s best friend there was a chance that one day Pamela would be able to introduce her to him—and that was something that not even Beatrice Astor, Alice Maud Van Rensselaer, or Phoebe Schermerhorn could hope for.
In the first month of 1913 Pamela’s royal name-dropping continued.
You’ll never guess who my new roommate is—the daughter of the shah of Persia! She’s sensationally beautiful in a dark-haired, dark-eyed kind of way (not as beautiful as me, naturally). I just love being able to say I have a friend who is a princess of the House of Persia. It sounds so exotic. You’ll hate me for this Wally, but I’m sooooo glad I’m at Mont-Fleuri and not Oldfields. Mont-Fleuri is very sophisticated. Nearly every royal house in Europe sends a princess or two here, and most of them will eventually become crowned queens.