Debutantes

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘No it isn’t, Pappa,’ Emily protested. ‘I would have saved the day had I known, but I took the wrong advice.’

  ‘Oh – stuff and nonsense.’

  ‘I did, Pappa. If I hadn’t then none of this would ever have happened. But it isn’t too late. As soon as I can, I shall go back to England and marry the first decently rich man I meet, whoever he may be and whatever may be his history.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ her father repeated emphatically. ‘It was a rank bad idea in the first place to send you over with that woman in the hope of marrying you off. And as for all that nonsense they trumped up. We must have all had our heads turned. That’s what. All of us, we must have had our heads turned. You have your own life to lead, young woman, and if I’ve made a pickle out of mine that’s my fault and I’m the one who has to pay for it. Not you. D’you see?’

  ‘Can’t anything be done, Pappa? Nothing at all?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Bank’s frozen everything and these people need to be paid. Truly time to blow for home, I’m afraid. Time to blow for home.’

  Lord Oughterard suddenly and quite uncharacteristically squeezed Emily’s hand. Then as if to make up for this sudden show of emotion and to save them both some imagined embarrassment, he walked slowly away from her out of the hall and down the corridor, with his left arm out touching and feeling his way past a familiar object thankfully found, but then pausing as some old landmark was discovered to be missing and he drew a blank. As Emily watched him it seemed to her that the early evening shadows had lengthened, and that in this last chapter of his life her father had lost the thread of his story, and unlike Theseus in the labyrinth there would be no guiding string to lead him out of the darkness.

  AT THE STAKE

  Given the short space of time which Daisy Evesham allowed herself to organize the ball at Petworth Castle it was small wonder she had long earned the sobriquet of the Miracle Worker. In the sixteen days she had allocated herself she not only managed to make up the most eminent guest list possibly of the whole Season – a feat helped enormously by two factors, the presence of the Prince and Princess of Wales and the Old Fool’s cheque book – she also managed to persuade her guests to come in costume to an occasion which as soon as she began organizing it was rumoured likely to be the event of the decade. The setting of Petworth Castle also helped greatly, a wonderfully romantic and historic building kindly lent to Daisy by the owner who was himself an old admirer of the hostess, a venue which Daisy designed to be set and lit as if it was still in medieval times with the costumes of the three hundred guests, all of whom were to be sat down for dinner in keeping with the period. Naturally given the rumoured ostentation of the event it at once became clear to tout Londres that this was intended to be one of Daisy Evesham’s finest moments. Given this to be so some of her less well-disposed friends (of whom there were legion) preferred to describe it as Divine Daisy’s Adieu, since the pretenders to her mythical crown were already well out of the wings and on stage, most especially the alluring and considerably younger Lady Donegal. Daisy knew what the on dit was, and of the increasing influence of her rival, but she mocked them both, considering that words could never hurt her and that Lady Donegal, despite having already managed to attract the Prince and the Princess of Wales to Friday to Monday with her and Lord Donegal half a dozen times in the last five years, was as Daisy described her nofing more van a Society mare’s nest.

  Mostly however Daisy was determined that the party should be eternally memorable for the sake of Harry. Despite the fact that in her eyes he could do no wrong, Daisy knew perfectly well that in the circle in which they moved her son was not the most popular of men. Nor was the girl he intended to marry entirely the thing since her connection to the aristocracy was at best somewhat distant. But she was enormously popular and a well-known beauty, having won not just Society’s heart but the hearts of what Society liked to call the hoi polloi, that is the common folk. Ever since her presentation at the palace crowds gathered wherever it was rumoured she was next to appear and indeed even followed her coach as soon as it materialized in the streets around Hyde Park. Lovesick young men, not just gentry but ordinary young men of work who normally lost their hearts only at the Gaiety or Daly’s, would wait patiently in queues outside the Danby house in Park Lane where each and every day huge bouquets of flowers from admirers known and unknown arrived at regular intervals, just as each postal delivery brought proposals of marriage and not just from gentlemen in England either. For by now word of May’s famous beauty had spread abroad and many French and German aristocrats who favoured marriage into English Society either sent written proposals or in some cases arrived themselves in Park Lane to try to call on the wondrous Miss Danby in person. For these very reasons Daisy Evesham thought that since the engagement was practically as good as announced then by throwing what would inevitably be the most magnificent and talked-about party in social history for the most beautiful debutante in living memory (excepting of course herself) not only would her own stock remain buoyant but her son Harry’s would rise immeasurably. ‘Somefing always rubs off,’ she told her son. ‘Put a moderate horsewoman on a good horse and she looks a different rider altogether. Give an amateur singer a professional pianist and vey will sound better. Put a man wiff a beautiful gel and he will look even more handsome. Believe me, Harry darling, by ve time you and Miss Danby are betroved half of young London will be sporting ve Harry Lanford Look!’

  Meanwhile as Daisy went about making the arrangements for her party Alice Danby wrote to Herbert Forrester to keep him abreast of developments and to make sure that everything which had happened was still in line with his wishes. She received a short reply which simply read: Splendid. This was far more than I could ever have hoped for. I would give an arm to be there.

  And while the Danbys were making ready for their coup, so too was Portia Tradescant’s Season about to reach its culmination. While she was considering Lord Childhays’ invitation to Cowes an engraved card arrived formally requesting the pleasure of Miss Portia Tradescant’s company on board Willoughby de Childhays’ yacht Medici to watch the racing and partake of luncheon on the final day of the week. With the Prince of Wales seemingly spending more time on the water than on dry land as the guest of people with whom normally he would not pass the time of day were they not the owners of some of the finest boats in the world, invitations to Cowes week, particularly from notable yacht owners, were like gold dust.

  ‘I still say he is a rake and a roué, Portia dearest,’ Aunt Tattie said, reminding her niece of her misgivings. ‘You really could do so much better for yourself with someone of your own age and inclination.’

  ‘Thirty-one is hardly old, Aunt Tattie,’ Portia replied, preparing to sit down and write her acceptance. ‘And Lord Childhays is of my inclination. As well as sharing the very same sense of humour, which is something you have always said to be imperative between a man and a woman, he happens to own one of the most famous racing yachts on the south coast.’

  ‘Supposing he asks you to marry him?’ her aunt sighed almost tragically, breathing in deeply and holding her breath at the thought of her beloved niece’s marrying one of Society’s well-known roués.

  ‘If he asks to marry me which I very much doubt, Aunt Tattie, then I suppose I shall have to think of an answer. In the meantime and if it is acceptable to you then I should very much like for us to go to the races at Cowes. I understand it is a wonderful event.’

  ‘I am not sure I can stand very much more of this, you know, dearest girl. But still, since you may never again be offered the chance, I suppose we really should go, or you would never forgive your poor aunt for the disappointment.’

  When Portia glanced round to where her aunt was sitting now dozing in her chair, she very nearly tore up her acceptance note and refused instead, so tired was Aunt Tattie looking. Then she thought again and considering that between now and the proposed day at Cowes they had no more pressing invitations and that the sea air might we
ll restore her relative’s obviously flagging spirits, Portia decided otherwise and having sealed the envelope accepting Lord Childhays’ invitation gave it to the hall boy to take to the post.

  * * *

  Across the Irish Sea and Ireland its very self, in the heart of County Galway Portia’s friend Emily was doing her level best to unalter the lives of herself and her family.

  ‘Well then, if there’s little point in my going back to have another crack at it, it’ll have to be up to one of yous,’ she lectured her three younger sisters. ‘Elisabeth, really it’s your turn now, and sure heaven knows you’re well pretty enough to win the heart of one of them rich young eejits across the water. Just because I puddinged it doesn’t mean you have to.’

  ‘You didn’t pudding it, Emmie,’ Elisabeth reassured her. ‘We’d all have done exactly the same thing, on that we’re agreed. Aren’t we, Cecilia? Connie? You couldn’t possibly marry someone who was just going to use you for what’s it called?’

  ‘Nefarious purposes,’ Emily sighed. ‘Though heaven only knows what on earth they are. But really I should have, you know. What’s a mouldy auld marriage compared to our lovely Glendarven?’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean, Emmie,’ Cecilia said, taking her sister’s hand. ‘But sure no-one here blames you. In fact everyone thought it a hoot you being sent home in disgrace like a child from the village school or something. And anyway as everyone knows, you wouldn’t have done anything. Just as they know what a lot of great fibbers they are over there.’

  ‘And to think that they call us the storytellers,’ young Constance sighed.

  ‘What about Mamma?’ Emily enquired. ‘Does Mamma think I misbehaved?’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t, but you wouldn’t get much sense out of her now, Emmie, because poor Mamma is not at all herself,’ Elisabeth said, dropping her voice, although there were just the four of them in the little sitting room at the side of the house. ‘It’s all come as a shock to her, and she’s started repeating herself. And when she does and you tell her she’s just told you the selfsame thing she gets dreadfully upset and then a few moments later starts up all over again. For an instance, she keeps going on and on about how bad Pappa’s sight has become and then she asks for Riordan to come round to take her into town only for someone to have to tell her that poor Riordan has gone to America.’

  ‘Yes – and then we have to explain why all over again,’ Connie piped up. ‘We have to say that he hadn’t been paid any wages for weeks and weeks—’

  ‘At which point she turns to Pappa and asks him if this is true—’ Cecilia chipped in.

  ‘I know!’ Connie cried. ‘I was just going to tell Emmie that!’

  ‘What does poor Pappa say?’ Emily wondered.

  ‘Oh sure poor Pappa always says the same thing, too,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘But then you can’t really blame him. I mean anyone would run out of different things to say to always the same old questions. So he just sighs and mutters, that’s about the size of it and then, well there you are then. Time to blow for home, I’m afraid. I think if she’s not very careful Mamma might drive him insane.’

  For a moment they all fell to silence, looking out of the long sash window onto their once beautiful gardens.

  ‘What do you think will become of us?’ Cecilia asked. ‘I mean where do you think we’ll go? Rumour has it that the estate has been so badly managed that by the time all the debts are paid off there’ll be nothing left.’

  ‘Even Miss Hannington has gone, Emmie,’ Elisabeth said. ‘We don’t even have a governess now. But before she went she was in such a pique she said that because of our change in fortunes we should all look to our manners even more because we might all have to become governesses!’

  ‘Can you imagine?’ Cecilia cried. ‘The likes of us all as governesses? I should rather hang myself from a tree.’

  ‘I’d rather go back to London and join the demi-monde,’ Emily said bravely.

  ‘You would not,’ Elisabeth said in a shocked tone. ‘Never.’

  ‘I would so,’ Emily replied. ‘Anything rather than be a governess.’

  ‘What’s a demi-monde?’ Connie asked, only to be told at once that she was far too young to understand.

  ‘Mr Kilgannon is still asking after you,’ Cecilia said helpfully. ‘He called by only the other week and said that if you returned unencumbered, I think was how he put it—’

  ‘He would,’ Emily interrupted, preferring to remember her rides out in Hyde Park dressed up to the nines with her friend Portia Tradescant. ‘Just the mention of him makes me want to go back and join the demi-monde even more.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Elisabeth enquired carefully once again. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ Emily said with a sudden brave smile. ‘It’s just – well. What do women do if they’re single and penniless? And without a roof over their heads?’

  * * *

  On board the Medici, Lord Childhays’ fine ocean-going yacht, the conversation was altogether different. No-one in the select party which had been invited to enjoy the day’s racing worried about things such as money and none of them would ever have given a thought to the possibility of homelessness. Penury and vagrancy were not in their canon, only as the contrary and unfamiliar terms for opulence and abundance, with the exception of course of Aunt Tattie and Portia both of whose consciences were a long way from being stultified by the trappings of affluence. This did not in any way diminish the pleasure of the day, however, since the Tradescants had never been proselytizers, particularly not that most unappetizing of sorts who readily accept invitations from the wealthy only then to castigate them for the style in which they live. In fact to their relief and particularly that of the beauty-loving Aunt Tattie most of the guests on board the Medici belonged to an entirely different social echelon from Daisy Evesham’s boorish Marlborough House set. Many of them, particularly the womenfolk, were people after Tatiana Tradescant’s own heart since they belonged to a group who actively despised the wilful philistinism of the Marlborough House brigade, preferring to cultivate the qualities of sensitivity, art, courtesy and good manners. They were known collectively as the Spirits, a title which had been awarded them because it was said they spent so much time talking about spiritual matters, a group name which as one of them told Portia they privately abhorred because they considered themselves far from effete, enjoying boating, tennis and bicycle riding as actively as they enjoyed their conversations. Thus the presence among Lord Childhays’ guests of many of the most famous Souls such as the Borrowdales, the de Trescoes, the Chesterblades, Lady Flexborough and Letty Chatterton made Tatiana Tradescant’s day, and indeed the very visible pleasure she derived from her encounters with them led Portia to conclude it was most probably the highlight of her entire existence so far.

  Moreover she was introduced toa singularly melancholic-looking gentleman called Patrick Shore whose manner Aunt Tattie soon discovered was the very opposite of his looks. He was in fact a man of singular wit and erudition who besides writing plays and poetry was also held to be the very best tennis player in the Marlow Court set, which was the name by which the Spirits preferred to be known, Marlow Court being the country home of the Flexboroughs and the epicentre of the group’s social activities. Aunt Tattie took to him at once as indeed he did to her, and although they moved freely among all the other guests on board soon imperceptibly they became as one, sitting next to each other at luncheon and then afterwards as everyone settled down to watch the races.

  Portia had been quite ready to condemn Lord Childhays and indeed had arrived prepared to be disappointed in him, but within minutes of being back in his company she found him as readily charming as ever and his hospitality as immaculate as his yacht. After the early races a six-course luncheon was served on deck by a full complement of servants, an exquisite repast cooked especially by the legendary chef Fernando Cittanova whom Lord Childhays had engaged especially for the occasion. As a memento of the day wra
pped up in their table napkins each lady received a small gold brooch in the likeness of the Medici and the gentlemen a pair of cufflinks made up in like fashion. Before they sat down Lord Childhays spent as much time as was politely possible with Portia but since she and her aunt were easily the lowest in social rank for once she found herself not sitting next to him at table but placed in the centre, with Mr Patrick Shore on one side of her and on her other a gentleman called Mr Richard Assherton who although most charming seemed to spend an alarming amount of his lunchtime gazing devotedly at Lady Desborough.

  Afterwards everyone was settled into large comfortable wicker chairs on deck to watch more racing, with particular interest on the main race of the day, the Royal Challenge Trophy for which their host’s yacht the Belvedere was one of the favourites. It was the most perfect of summer afternoons, with high cloud, crystal clear air and a fair breeze for sailing. There was a positive armada of boats in the Solent, the greatest gathering of yachts according to all present any of them had ever seen.

  ‘The most luxurious ones are now practically all American owned,’ Lord Childhays told Portia as he settled himself into the chair beside her. ‘They tend to keep them here all year now, to avoid American registry and having to pay their crews more. While that yacht there—’ He pointed to a distant craft, handing Portia his spyglass at the same time. ‘That is Kaiser Wilhelm’s. It’s a great deal of fun, you know, watching all the comings and goings on these private yachts. More fun than the races sometimes. Particularly since the Prince of Wales is so intent on preventing his nephew Wilhelm from becoming the boss of Cowes, as the Americans will have it. At the moment I would say the prince holds a slight advantage, but it’s nip and tuck, Miss Tradescant, nip and tuck all the way.’

  As indeed was the main race of the afternoon, Lord Childhays’ schooner crossing the finishing line in an apparent dead heat with an American yacht owned by one of the famous Bennett family. Only after a long deliberation was the race awarded to the American yacht, a decision which provoked much debate everywhere until the situation was defused by a subsequent report that the winner had in fact passed the wrong side of a marker buoy when turning for home.