Debutantes

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘That’s fascinating, Aunt Tattie,’ Portia said. ‘You know so much about family names. Do you actually know the family?’

  ‘I know of them, of course,’ Aunt Tattie replied, pushing her now famous hat slightly back from over her eyes where it had come to rest. ‘Great reformers to a man, very vigorous anti-slavers, inordinately rich and Lord Childhays himself owned the winner of last year’s Derby. They say he is quite a roué.’

  Portia laughed suddenly out loud. ‘How on earth did you know about the Derby, Aunt Tattie? You have no interest whatsoever in horses let alone horse racing!’

  ‘Louis told your uncle it was sure to win because he knows Lord Childhays’ butler. He has a house near Newmarket. That’s how I know, dearest.’

  As their carriage arrived Portia glanced back over her shoulder in the faint hope of catching one last sight of the tall and elegant man who had caught her eye, but he was long gone upstairs and into Lady Medlar’s salon. So instead all she could do was dream a little of him as the carriage drove her and her aunt home, of his grey-blue eyes which were the second thing she had noticed about him, the first being the length and elegance of his legs. And yet it had to be admitted that his eyes were the feature which stayed most firmly fixed in her mind, good-humoured eyes, wide eyes with slightly heavy lids which gave them not a dreamy look but a determined one, a broad forehead, and – and this had been to her mind what was so attractive about him – the two lines that ran down either side of his nose and mouth, as if nature having drawn a face a little too handsome for its own good had turned back and drawn in those lines to temper the perfection of the rest. At any rate that was how Lord Childhays’ already fading image presented itself to her as the carriage swung back up into Park Lane, a lean face, an intelligent face, but above all a preposterously handsome face.

  At least, Portia reminded herself as she watched the fashionable riders trotting and walking by on Rotten Row, that was the man he seemed to be from his face, but then that was all she knew of him.

  ‘Take us around the park if you will, please, Plumb!’

  Aunt Tattie’s call to their coachman awoke Portia out of her reverie.

  ‘It’s a fine day now, Portia, the first real day of spring I would say, so let us do as everyone else seems to be doing and take a turn around Hyde Park.’

  Portia was all for the notion, since the sun was out and the day grown warmer. Perhaps it was the improvement in the weather but it seemed when they turned into the park that the whole of Society had been tempted to step out of doors and into its carriages to take a spin. The superb equipages made a truly wonderful sight with their deep dark paintwork contrasting with the flash of the brass on the horses’ bridles and the harnesses in turn reflecting the sheen on the magnificent high-stepping carriage horses. Even more eye-catching, at least most certainly to Portia, were the ladies riding in Rotten Row. She had seen fine carriages before but never the equal to such equestrian ladies. Seated on side-saddles, their figure-hugging riding habits, according to Aunt Tattie, cut either by Busvine or Lamier, they were a most glamorous sight, and to judge from the superior looks of disdain on the faces beneath their wide-awakes or plumed hats as they walked, trotted or cantered gently past, their military style boots just showing beneath their tailored riding skirts, they knew it.

  ‘How many hours have gone into preparing not just their horses and their saddlery, Aunt Tattie, but their own appearance?’ Portia wondered. ‘I do not suppose anything more perfect could be found.’

  ‘Yes I know, dearest,’ Aunt Tattie sighed, almost dolefully. ‘I agree. You would think they had something better to do, wouldn’t you? Which most of those ladies most certainly do not.’

  ‘And as for the gentlemen,’ Portia continued, choosing to ignore her relative’s non sequitur. ‘Look at their boots! They’re like mirrored glass! And how dashing they look in their uniforms! And do look at that rider there, Aunt Tattie!’ Portia pointed out a flame-haired woman riding a magnificent bright chestnut and wearing a dark green habit with gold frogging which looked almost exactly like the uniform worn by the officer in the Hussars accompanying her. ‘Do you not find that she looks quite wonderful?’

  ‘Hmmmph,’ her aunt nearly snorted on seeing the lady and she immediately turned to look the other way. ‘Are not the flowers and the blossom quite lovely for the time of year?’

  ‘That is precisely the kind of riding habit I should like to wear if I had the choosing of it,’ Portia went on, ignoring her aunt’s flattening tone.

  ‘I would advise you never to wear such a habit, and what’s more to stop staring, dearest, and do as I say, admire the spring flowers instead, which are altogether more wholesome.’

  Portia coloured quickly as she suddenly realized why her aunt would rather she stop admiring the glamorous woman who had just ridden by. She was what Aunt Augustine would call definitely not one of us. In fact the lady in question, she of the flame-red hair and green riding habit and gold-laced frogging, was not just not one of them, she was a member of what Mr Louis always referred to as the demi-monde. These ladies were neither married nor single, nor were they respectable or rich, these ladies did not reside in the gracious squares or great houses in which people such as her aunt and uncle lived but in houses of a very different sort, houses whose rents were paid for by gentlemen who visited them in exchange for what Portia understood to be politely known as ‘favours’.

  Portia could not be sure, but she thought she knew, at least in outline, of what such favours consisted, and since servants were not as fond of euphemisms as their employers, she had definitely gathered that ‘favours’ were something to do with romance rather than baking scones. Facts were facts, as Cook had always been proud to announce, and the plainer the better. Around the kitchen table there was little dissembling and precious little hinting, unless of course it was gossip in which they were indulging themselves, when hinting was considered half the fun. Below stairs ladies of easy virtue were called tarts or jessies, and members of the so-called demi-monde weren’t considered a whole lot better, although they were sometimes rather more graciously referred to as kept women. But while Portia had a rough idea of biology and knew that prostitutes and the demi-monde lived on the proceeds of sex, or what Peter, one of the footmen, always graphically described as the ‘cardinal act’, she considered a rough approximation was all that was desirable at her age and so had gone no further than was necessary with her preliminary investigations.

  So it was that long before she had come to London, and unlike gently reared young ladies who like her had been brought up in the country but unlike her had never ventured beyond the green baize pass door let alone spent any length of time below stairs, Portia had been more than a little aware of the existence of the demi-monde.

  Yet she had to acknowledge that though knowing is one thing seeing is quite another, and the memory of the lady in green on the bright chestnut stayed with her for many hours after they arrived home.

  Later she returned to the subject after she had joined Aunt Tattie before dinner.

  ‘Can anyone ride in the park on any day of the week with anyone they wish?’ she asked, hoping like anything that Aunt Tattie would not catch on to the optimism in her voice.

  ‘In principle yes, of course one can,’ Aunt Tattie agreed, ‘but in reality one must still be a little careful. After all Society is changing, and while I grant you that riding is one of the few accomplishments that does not require a young, single lady to be chaperoned, even so one must just choose advisedly. I have to say, dearest, that it must be one of the quirks of our Society that it is considered perfectly acceptable that young unmarried ladies may ride anywhere they choose unaccompanied even by their grooms. It is just a fact.’

  ‘In that case, Aunt Tattie,’ Portia ventured carefully, ‘do you think it would be possible to arrange it so that I could ride out in the park?’

  * * *

  Mr Plumb arranged it all perfectly, as was his wont. He found out where the
best hirelings were to be found and had half a dozen horses tried out in front of him before he made his final selection.

  Meanwhile Aunt Tattie had let it be known to Lady Medlar that Portia was keen to join some other girl friends whom she had met at Medlar House out riding in Rotten Row but of course was short of a suitable riding habit. At once the message came back that Portia was to proceed with all speed to Busvine’s and get herself fitted out posthaste and the account sent to Medlar House. One week later Portia found herself as well dressed as she was horsed, and riding out with the beau monde along Rotten Row where, as it happened, she herself did not go unnoticed.

  LISTS

  Around this time Lady Medlar announced her intention of calling on Aunt Tattie at the Tradescant house in Curzon Street. Out of necessity it had fallen upon Portia to take over the task of running the London house just as she had Bannerwick, especially because now she was in London her aunt’s interests seemed to lie elsewhere, that is mainly in art galleries, concert chambers and museums, while her uncle absented himself from Curzon Street for most of the day having, according to Mr Louis, become wrapped up in the highly publicized trial of Mr Oscar Wilde at the Old Bailey. Due to Portia’s long experience of running Bannerwick the Tradescants’ London house was a model of both beauty and efficiency, with perfectly selected and arranged flowers, immaculate servants (Mr Louis had even been able to engage some new and fine-looking young men as temporary footmen), and a truly excellent table.

  Even so as the day of Aunt Augustine’s visit drew near, Aunt Tattie suddenly seemed to lose her interest in art galleries and become anxious. No amount of reassurances seemed to calm her, and Portia started to dread that Aunt Tattie would return to the bad old ways of her decline, with wanderings and mutterings, and no sense to be got out of her from morning until night.

  ‘You do not know your Aunt Augustine, dearest,’ was all Aunt Tattie would reply with increasing foreboding when yet more attempts were made to reassure her. ‘She is always up to something, she is never, ever up to nothing. She is always on the prowl, an Indian tiger ready to snatch and run off into her particular part of the jungle. No amount of bonfires alight will frighten her off. This wretched visit is uncalled for.’

  The visit might well have been uncalled for, but it certainly did not go unnoticed. Lady Medlar lived only a matter of a few hundred yards away around the corner in Piccadilly, and yet she chose to arrive in her finest carriage drawn by the smartest pair of matching greys in the most expensive and detailed harness that Portia had yet seen, with two coachmen and two footmen up and a blackboy tiger running on behind. Such was the sight that sophisticated as the Mayfair population was none the less most of the street still came to a standstill to watch the spectacular arrival.

  ‘Lists,’ Augustine Medlar announced once settled, straight backed and grim faced on a sofa in the drawing room. ‘Lists, Tatiana, lists.’

  ‘Thank you, Augustine,’ her hostess replied, ‘but I did hear you the first time.’

  ‘I take it you do have a list prepared, do you not?’

  Portia, who had seated herself slightly behind Aunt Tatiana and facing Aunt Augustine in case it were necessary to present a united front, wondered to what particular lists her Aunt Augustine was referring. Aunt Tattie seemed to know well enough, however, because having agreed that indeed she had a list prepared she produced a Limoges porcelain porte à lettres which she carefully opened while Augustine equally carefully opened a leather folder bearing upon its cover the Medlar coat of arms in gleaming gold, both women behaving as if they were about to reveal state papers of the utmost secrecy.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to go first, Augustine,’ Aunt Tattie said. ‘I am sure your list is a great deal fuller and more interestingly annotated than my own. After all, when you and I were doing the Season, I seem to remember you were a positive encyclopedia of begats, ancient begats, future begats, who begat whom for what reason and who did not. Why, did you not know you were even known as “Augustine Begat”? Before that is the Prince of Wales suggested to John that he should marry you?’

  Portia nearly fell off her chair in horror at her aunt’s boldness. She had never in her life heard her talk to anyone in such a manner, let alone much feared Aunt Augustine. She sat back and held her breath. Even she knew that the famous Lady Medlar had a notorious temper. There was every chance that if she did choose to take exception Aunt Augustine would up and out of the house there and then and have nothing further to do with Portia, her debut into Society, or indeed her presentation at a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, all of them events which Portia discovered she would actually now regret to miss, not because she wished to advance herself, or had the slightest hopes of marrying well, but simply because, and quite contrary to expectations, she was beginning to realize how exciting London might be, smells and all.

  Fortunately, after slowly raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows to give her hostess a long hard stare, Augustine Medlar simply made a small noise of disapproval and returned to examining the papers in her hand.

  ‘If we may return to the lists, Tatiana.’

  ‘Of course, Augustine,’ Aunt Tattie agreed. ‘But first do tell us, how exactly is Daisy Lanford that was? Is it true she has remarried? And if so, is it considered a success?’

  Again, although Portia had no idea as to why, this new question also seemed to stop Augustine Medlar in her tracks. She lowered her list to look at Aunt Tattie stone-faced.

  ‘You wish to hear about Daisy Lanford that was, do you, Tatiana? Might I ask if it is for any particular reason? If you find it odd that one asks, it is because Society gossip has hardly been meat and drink to you, Tatiana, these last years. One would have thought you to have been more interested in other things, trials of certain personages, things of that nature.’

  This time it was Aunt Tattie’s turn to look dumbfounded, and for a moment she was indeed rendered totally speechless, before she breathed in very deeply and to Portia’s muted horror began for the first time for months to hold her breath.

  ‘Aunt Tattie?’ Portia enquired, half rising. ‘Are you feeling quite yourself, is there perhaps something I can get you? Such as your sal volatile perhaps?’

  After a long moment and much to Portia’s relief Aunt Tattie suddenly exhaled, managing to make the exhalation sound like an expression of considerable indignation.

  ‘I was simply enquiring about Daisy Lanford that was, Augustine, because it might have some not inconsiderable bearing on our lists, that is all,’ she eventually replied frostily. ‘It was not in any way intended as a slight or a provocation.’

  For a moment Portia wondered why any such enquiry about this third party might be considered by her Aunt Augustine as a slight until she remembered exactly who this third party was. She had been much discussed around the kitchen table at Bannerwick, as indeed had the infamous episode of the Medlar love letters. Moreover, now that she knew to whom precisely they were referring she thought she understood why her Aunt Augustine might take her father’s sister’s remark amiss, since Lady Lanford as she then was had apparently been a not altogether innocent party in the love letters episode. The only thing Portia could not quite fathom was why her normally peaceable and beauty-loving Aunt Tatiana should so uncharacteristically have chosen to go on the offensive. But even this was to be explained in a matter of moments.

  ‘Very well, Tatiana,’ Augustine Medlar decided after a moment. ‘Since you wish to hear about Daisy Lanford that was, then I shall tell you. Not just because you enquire but because as it so happens she is of interest to me at this moment as well. You are quite correct that she has remarried. She is now the second Countess of Evesham, and as a consequence her fortunes are quite restored, although such cannot be said to be likely of her husband who is of an age and apparent decrepitude which has to be marvelled at, since he has taken it upon himself to remarry, but then it seems there are only two alternatives in this world, to marry either wisely or well, and Daisy Lanford has chosen both.
Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

  ‘I was not being merely curious, Augustine, as I have already explained,’ Aunt Tattie stated, and she sat a little further back in her chair and regarded her adversary carefully. ‘I had it in my mind that there was a son by her first marriage, and it seemed to me that if this was so he would be of an appropriate age, that was all.’

  ‘As it happens you are perfectly correct, Tatiana, and had we been allowed to attend to the matter in hand, you would have learned that the Lanford boy is in fact on my list as he is indeed on everyone’s. Harry Lanford is his paternal grandfather’s heir, most of the vast Lanford fortunes being entailed directly on him, a most fortunate situation given his own father’s propensity for gambling and most particularly baccarat. George’s father entailed everything on Daisy’s son being not one bit enamoured of his own, suspecting that he might well turn out to be a wastrel and a spendthrift, which indeed as we know now proved to be all too much the case. So taking all things into account we must at least consider him.’

  ‘But what of the boy’s character, Augustine? Is the young man sensitive or insensitive? Cynical or sentimental? A braggart or a soul?’

  ‘A soul, Tatiana? And what kind of person should we understand to be a soul?’

  ‘If the Lanford boy is to be included at all, Augustine, we must fully consider his character. Suppose for the sake of argument he were say to become betrothed to our beloved Portia, then both Lampard and I should require to know his mettle. And for your information, a soul is someone with a profound depth of feeling, something which speaking personally must be considered of far greater value to a woman than a person’s financial worth.’

  Augustine Medlar’s mouth tightened as she regarded her hostess. She had long considered what she called ‘Tatiana’s whimsicality’ to be intolerable but had always been able to deal with it by sheer force of her personality. Today, however, she sensed the display of something a little more steely in her adversary’s character and at the present time she knew neither what had occasioned it nor quite how to cope with it. She therefore decided to attempt a diversion, hoping to distract Aunt Tattie’s attention from the real purpose of her visit by boring her with details of her list of eligibles.