A Bright Young Thing

by Brianne Moore

  “Who told you about that?” I demanded.

  “Millicent did, of course.” He retrieved an envelope from his inner pocket and held it out. “This arrived in the evening post yesterday. You’re lucky the maid collected it. I’d never have been able to pry that out of Jeffries’s hands.”

  I yanked the note out of the envelope.

  Dear Mrs. Weyburn,

  I feel it my duty to inform you that a most unsuitable person has been employed by your niece and is now living under your roof …

  “Good lord,” I murmured, leaving the sofa to put the note in the fire. Any residual thought of firing Reilly evaporated with it. Millicent would surely render her unemployable, and I couldn’t very well condemn the poor woman to a life of poverty.

  “Is she a socialist?” Toby asked. “Reilly, I mean.”

  “No, she just wants to see the decent thing done. I can’t fault her for that.”

  “Suppose not. Hopefully Millicent will be too distracted going after Dunreaven to send these notes to every home you visit.”

  “One can only hope.” I finished my cigarette and stood. “Now I’ve caught you up on the gossip, I have some work to do.”

  Toby laughed. “Better you than I!”

  * * *

  While I was away, the butler had brought some boxes of my parents’ things down from the attic and stacked them next to the baize-topped desk in Uncle Augustus’s study. This was a sad room, as neglected as my uncle’s memory. It smelled stale and felt stuffy, and there was a fuzzy blanket of dust over everything. The only piece of furniture that showed signs of having been touched in the last decade was the walnut cabinet, tucked away in a corner, where Toby kept his drinks. The room was all dark green and dark wood, hunting prints and reproduction busts of famous thinkers. I wondered if my uncle used to sit here, looking at those and reflecting on his shortcomings.

  I sighed and threw open the curtains, raising a choking cloud of dust, then knelt and began sifting.

  What a packrat my mother had been. It seemed like she’d kept everything, even dried-up posies from dances long past, each one marked with a date on a cream-colored card. One had initials as well: M.E.C. There were photo albums, three tarnished silver christening cups, babies’ lace caps, and birth certificates.

  And finally, buried underneath a silk scarf and Mother’s empty perfume bottles (still smelling faintly of Bellodgia), I found my father’s black leather diary.

  My heart beat harder as I sat, breathing in the ghostly perfume, turning the book in my hands. I brushed my fingers over the name stamped on the front in gold letters. How many times had I seen Father at his desk, scribbling away in this? I’d wondered what he wrote about, but had never dared sneak a look. Somehow, that had seemed like a terrible violation. Even now, I found myself hesitating. Reluctant, still, to intrude. I even looked guiltily over my shoulder before lifting the cover, as if the spirit of my father would be standing there, shaking his head and saying, “You disappoint me, Starling.”

  But there was no one there, of course. So I opened it and carefully turned the leaves. Perhaps I was expecting something dramatic, but it mostly seemed to be the brief, banal notes one would expect from a respectable, semi-fashionable gentleman.

  Sunny today. Wondering if the agapanthus needs dividing. Ask Lillian.

  But then:

  11 March: Astra’s friends all away now. Miss the noise already. Lillian off to Rosedale this week, so it’ll be even quieter. London for me, perhaps?

  Rosedale. Rosedale! A place, then. But what sort of place? Not the home of one of Mother’s friends, or anyone else we knew. A town? A village?

  I stood up, scanned the bookshelves, and pulled down an atlas. A glance at the index revealed no Rosedale. I thought about places my mother used to go and stay for any length of time. There were a few friends she’d visit, and her father (the vicar), down south. Maybe Rosedale was near one of them.

  I turned back to the diary, hoping for more clues.

  13 June: London—Edgry, lunch. Joined by a friend of his—Hatry. He has an intriguing proposition.

  Hatry. I remembered that name. That awful afternoon at Hensley. A quick glance and a half-formed question before Edgry yanked his ledger away.

  1 September: London—Lillian, Dr. Hartleby

  There he was, Dr. H. Like the ledger, the diary showed my mother and father visiting him regularly throughout the autumn. Nothing to indicate why, though.

  Then:

  20 September: Hatry arrested. Fraud. Investment gone.

  30 September: London—Pearl

  Pearl? Who on earth was Pearl? Now it was Rosedale, Hartleby, and Pearl? What next? What on earth had they been up to, my seemingly devoted, quiet parents?

  I thought back to those months before the accident. Tried to recall some warning signs of change in them, but there was nothing. I’d been away most of that time, visiting friends. Attending dances and concerts while my father was dumping what money we had into some fraud and this Pearl creature. And every time I’d come home, he had greeted me with a twinkling eye and “Hullo, Starling. What sort of mischief have you been up to?”

  I felt the bitter creep of bile even as I thought of it. Mischief indeed! What else had he been concealing? Were there things that he hadn’t even dared consign to the diary?

  I helped myself to a drink and returned to the drawing room. Toby was still lying on the sofa. I shoved the diary in his face, open to the first page that mentioned Pearl.

  “Who’s Pearl?” he asked mildly.

  “I’d very much like to know that myself.” I helped myself to one of his cigarettes as he slowly pulled himself upright and paged through the diary.

  “Steady on, darling, I’m sure it’s nothing to get worked up over. Your father wasn’t the type to step out.”

  I thought of the man living at Hensley now, putting on a respectable front while squiring a chorus girl around London. Did all married men do that after a certain point?

  “Maybe I don’t know what type my father was at all,” I spat, dropping like a sack of flour into the armchair. “Smiling and cheerful and all the while wasting money on useless ventures and keeping these little secrets.”

  “Everyone got swept up in that investment boom,” Toby said with a sigh. “That’s why the Crash made such a racket. Maybe Pearl was something else your father was looking into. I mean, do you really think he would be writing about meeting another woman in a diary he kept where your mother could easily find it?”

  No, probably not. Father might have been foolish, but he wasn’t completely stupid.

  I threw back the remainder of the drink and took an agitated puff of the cigarette, trying to sort out the mess churning in my mind.

  Toby raised an eyebrow. “You’ll want to separate those two, you’ll set yourself alight.” He gently pried the glass out of my hand. “Listen, darling, discovering our parents’ secrets is all part of growing up. Why, when I found that drinks cabinet in Father’s study, it was fully stocked, bless him. Much as we may think otherwise, our parents are human. They’ll have made mistakes and kept secrets just like the rest of us.”

  He took my hands and squeezed them. “You and I both know your parents were devoted. Barrett and Browning all over again. That diary is full of evidence of it. Your father could hardly bear to do anything without Aunt Lillian’s input.”

  “But why didn’t they ever want my input?” I wondered. “Why were they keeping these things from me? We could have managed it all together, and then I would have been prepared. They didn’t trust me. It’s as though I was still just a child to them.”

  “We’re always children to our parents.” Toby shrugged.

  I sighed and flipped the diary open again: Lillian off to Rosedale.

  Rosedale. Well, that was something I might be able to get to the bottom of. I stood, handed the cigarette to Toby, and went to the telephone in the hallway.

  “Yes, can I have West Lulworth, please, or whatever exchang
e is nearest?” I asked the operator as Toby strolled over and leaned against the doorway of the drawing room.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Detective work,” I answered.

  “Lulworth here,” an officious woman informed me.

  “Can you connect me with Rosedale, please?”

  The line crackled, then a polite voice said, “Good afternoon, Rosedale House.”

  My heart was beating so fast I was feeling a little lightheaded. “Good afternoon. My name is Astra Davies. I believe my mother, Lillian Davies, was known there?”

  A pause. Then, “Yes, Miss Davies. May I say how sorry we all are for your loss.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Is this about Raymond’s fees?”

  Raymond?

  “His—his fees?”

  “Yes.” The voice on the other end sounded uncomfortable. “It’s only that they haven’t been paid for some time now.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure everything’s paid immediately.” This Raymond, whoever he was, had been important to my mother. This was the only bill she’d paid promptly. I should respect her wishes. “Is he … well?”

  “He’s very well,” the voice answered, sounding relieved to have the awkward conversation out of the way. “He’ll be so happy to hear his sister was asking after him.”

  “His sister?” I shrieked. My stomach doubled up, tangled itself, and then tried to leap into my throat. Sister!

  Toby stood up straight, mouth agape.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to say. “Just to be clear—did you just say that Raymond is my brother?”

  “Oh yes …” The voice on the other end of the line seemed to have realized she’d blundered, but it was too late to go back now. “Yes. Raymond is Lillian Davies’s son.”

  Chapter Six

  “A brother!” Toby breathed.

  Two drinks each had done nothing to calm or order our minds, and now we were sitting side by side on the sofa, staring blankly ahead. What can one say after a thing like that? On top of everything else, my parents had been hiding a brother from me. Why on earth would they do such a thing?

  We heard the front door open, and Aunt Elinor swirled in, complaining between coughs about the rudeness of the taxicab drivers and how intolerable the traffic was now.

  “I’ve always said it: the automobile is a curse.” She came into the drawing room and was met with a pair of pale, bewildered faces. “What’s wrong with you two?”

  “I’ve just telephoned Rosedale House,” I announced.

  Now she, too, was pale. Her eyes dilated and she sank into the armchair.

  “No, no, you didn’t,” she murmured. “Dear God, you did not.”

  “I did. And they told me about Raymond.” My shock was being replaced by a harsh, hot anger. “You knew about him, then?”

  “Of course I knew!” she blazed. “I told Lillian not to get mixed up in the matter, but she never listened to me.”

  “Mixed up? He was her son!” I cried.

  “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that!” she bellowed. “Never! Do you know what that place is? A madhouse! He’s a gibbering idiot. A blot on our lives. If anyone knew, none of us would be invited anywhere again. You, Astra, would never find a husband. ‘Tainted blood,’ they’ll say. Even your mother, softhearted fool that she was, knew that. No one else must know. You must forget all about it.” She punctuated this with a hacking cough.

  But I couldn’t forget about it. How could I? Even if he was deranged, he was still my brother. And my responsibility.

  The fees! In the shock that followed my telephone call I’d neglected to telephone Edgry and tell him to pay Rosedale’s fees. I stood and moved toward the telephone.

  “Where are you going?” Aunt El demanded, following me into the hallway.

  “I need to speak to Edgry. The fees haven’t been paid.” I picked up the receiver.

  “My dear”—Aunt Elinor snatched at the hand holding the receiver—“think for a moment. It is a great deal of money. It would be much better for all of us if you simply sent him to a public facility. He was your mother’s burden. He shouldn’t be yours.” She tried smiling, attempting to ingratiate me.

  I stared at her in shock. “He’s my brother!” I cried. “He’s not a pauper or an inconvenience to be disposed of!”

  The smile vanished. “Do you want a future or don’t you?” she shrilled. “Do you want to go back to Hensley or don’t you?”

  I paused, just for a moment, and considered that. Yes, paying these fees would make it harder for me to save money and go home. But I couldn’t simply abandon this man to life in some lunatic asylum. God knows what those sorts of places were like. I imagined a Dickensian horror, all filthy cells and straightjackets and maggoty food.

  I slipped my hand out of hers, looked her in the eye. Harnessed that chilly tone of mine. “The fees will be paid. He stays where he is.”

  She pursed her lips and her eyes blazed. “Foolish girl,” she spat, coughing. “Foolish, willful, wicked girl!” She stomped upstairs.

  * * *

  There was a heavy feeling in the house after that, and Christmas was a dour affair, with no tree and few gifts or decorations (“Disgraceful waste of money,” Aunt El sniffed). There was cake, though: a dense creation that looked like a brick and tasted like a punishment. We ate it anyway, and I played carols on the piano while Toby dozed and Aunt El knitted something useful and unlovely for a poor child. I had quietly sent a Christmas card to Rosedale, hoping Raymond would like the picture on the front, even if he didn’t understand the meaning.

  I was sorely in need of a distraction, so Porter’s New Year’s Eve fancy dress couldn’t have come at a better time. Reilly and I managed to concoct a credible Queen of the Night disguise from a black velvet gown, a length of cheap black gauze and some spangles. The effect was striking: I glittered with every step.

  Promptly at ten on New Year’s Eve, Toby and I joined the throng streaming into Porter’s grandiose palace on Park Lane. We flowed up the stairs and into the ballroom, which rose the entire height of the house and was designed for grand entrances. Guests strolled along the balcony that wrapped around the room, then processed down a sweeping gold and silver staircase to the main floor.

  Toby and I paused on the balcony and looked at the throng below. The crème de la crème of the see-and-be-seen crowd was already dancing to the music of an orchestra concealed behind a wall of potted palms. Dowagers bunched and gossiped. Husbands wondered how long before they could escape to the leathered embrace of their clubs, so blissfully free of jazz and plotting women. Far above, Bacchus smirked from the skylight he adorned, surrounded by centaurs with pipes and naughty-looking putti.

  It was a bright scene—bright as could be—and yet I couldn’t help but feel there was a certain desperation to it all. That we were all dancing, drinking, laughing, calling for the band to play another tune, but faster and louder, so we could drown out the ominous scratching of the wolves at the door and the rumble of thunder in the distance.

  Or maybe that was just me.

  “Right, then.” Toby helped himself to two champagne flutes from the tray of a passing footman and handed me one. “Here’s to putting 1930 behind us.”

  I tried to set aside my dark turn of mind. “I’ll certainly drink to that.” We clinked and sipped, and I finally spotted Cee below, dressed as Maid Marion. As she looked up, I waved. Her bright smile increased its wattage and she bounded up the stairs, threading through couples attempting to make a dignified descent.

  “Darling!” She threw her arms around me and kissed both cheeks. “Happy New Year! Oh, you look splendid, really spiffing. Hello, Toby, how are you?”

  “Gracious lady.” He bent over her hand. “The world is always that much brighter when you’re near.”

  “Oh, you.” She giggled and blushed. “Isn’t this wonderful? Joyce has really outdone herself. She says there are going to be fire
works at midnight! Oh, and she promised Lord Dunreaven would be here.” She smiled and nudged me.

  I sipped my champagne with studied nonchalance even as I felt an unbidden thrill. But then I thought of Aunt El. No one must know! Tainted blood, they’ll say! And Joyce, shrugging. Not much money. The champagne churned painfully in my stomach.

  “There is some bad news, I’m afraid,” Cee continued. “Millicent’s decided to come. But we won’t let it spoil our evening, will we? She’s been in quite a good mood lately anyhow. Dunreaven came for tea yesterday and then took her for a walk in the park. She’s preened over it ever since.”

  “I’m sure she has,” I snorted, realizing, to my annoyance, that the mental image of Millicent and Dunreaven strolling arm in arm through Hyde Park irritated me.

  “Oh, Astra,” Cee chattered on, “You’ll never guess who Lord Beckworth is dressed as: Robin Hood! Imagine that!” Her cheeks blossomed.

  “Yes, imagine that,” Toby parroted with a conspiratorial wink at me. That costume had been our doing, of course. As soon as Cee told me her costume, I had Toby suggest Robin Hood to Beckworth. “He’d been considering dressing as a rubber duck,” Toby had reported. “I mean, really. You did the poor boy a favor, Astra.”

  “You two make the perfect pair, then,” I said to Cecilia, who blushed deeper.

  “He looks quite dashing,” she admitted.

  “Right. I must circulate. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” Toby gave us both an ingratiating smile before departing.

  Cee and I linked arms and wound down the twinkling staircase. At the bottom, Joyce (as Cleopatra), David (Mark Antony), and Porter (Henry VIII) greeted guests.

  “Ahh, lovely to see you, Astra.” Joyce greeted me with a cheek kiss. “I’ll tell Jeremy to look for the lady who dazzles tonight.”

  “Don’t go telling him anything, Joyce,” I said.

  “Quite right, we should make him work for it,” she agreed. “But not too hard, or it’ll put him off. We’ll talk later, Lovely—on to David and Daddy with you.”

  I shook hands with David, then faced Porter.