Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1
Page 1
Also by the Author
CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS
LUCINDA
CORONET AMONG THE GRASS
THE BUSINESS
IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW
STARDUST
NANNY
CHANGE OF HEART
GRAND AFFAIR
LOVE SONG
THE KISSING GARDEN
THE BLUE NOTE
SUMMERTIME
DISTANT MUSIC
THE MAGIC HOUR
FRIDAY'S GIRL
OUT OF THE BLUE
IN DISTANT FIELDS
THE WHITE MARRIAGE
GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART
THE ENCHANTED
THE LAND OF SUMMER
THE DAISY CLUB
The Belgravia series
BELGRAVIA
COUNTRY LIFE
AT HOME
BY INVITATION
The Nightingale series
TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE
THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS
The Debutantes series
DEBUTANTES
THE SEASON
The Eden series
DAUGHTERS OF EDEN
THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS
The Bexham trilogy
THE CHESTNUT TREE
THE WIND OFF THE SEA
THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT
Novels with Terence Brady
VICTORIA
VICTORIA AND COMPANY
ROSE'S STORY
YES HONESTLY
Television Drama Series with Terence Brady
TAKE THREE GIRLS
UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS
THOMAS AND SARAH
NANNY
FOREVER GREEN
Television Comedy Series with Terence Brady
NO HONESTLY
YES HONESTLY
PIG IN THE MIDDLE
OH MADELINE! (USA)
FATHER MATTHEW'S DAUGHTER
Television Plays with Terence Brady
MAKING THE PLAY
SUCH A SMALL WORLD
ONE OF THE FAMILY
Films with Terence Brady
LOVE WITH A PERFECT STRANGER
MAGIC MOMENT
Stage Plays with Terence Brady
I WISH I WISH
THE SHELL SEEKERS
(adaptation from the novel by Rosamunde Pilcher)
BELOW STAIRS
For more information on Charlotte Bingham and her books,
see her website at www.charlottebingham.com
DAUGHTERS
OF EDEN
Charlotte Bingham
Contents
Cover Page
Also by Charlotte Bingham
Title page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One England in the Late Nineteen Thirties
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two England At War
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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Published 2004 by Doubleday a division of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Charlotte Bingham 2004
The right of Charlotte Bingham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 0385 606346
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In memory of ‘Jack Ward’ – patriot and gentleman.
‘This other Eden …
This precious stone set in the silver sea’
Richard II
(Shakespeare)
To dream of Eden is to dream of a quiet wooded valley where nothing but birdsong is heard, where the clean, clear waters of a river undulate in a peaceful ribbon on either side of which the grass is grown and cut for the simple pleasure of walking. Trees have been planted so that it takes only a gentle breeze to bend them forward to see their leafy reflections in the water below. And there is a house palely lit in early morning light, its window casements long and graceful, its classical Corinthian columns guarding shallow steps that lead up to vast, carved double doors.
Around the garden are grouped buildings of the same stone as the house, lodges and cottages, an icehouse, a gazebo for lakeside picnics. Further on a stable yard houses a clock with gold painted numerals, and a cobbled stone yard that once rang to the sound of thoroughbred hooves.
But no one lives at this other Eden now, no one that was born there that is. No one that once ran about its lawns, or pushed the old ridge-bottomed wooden boat on to its lake, or sat above the aqueduct listening to the waters rushing through below, now haunts its follies. There are no beautifully dressed women to be seen, gloved hands resting on the perfectly tailored sleeves of the men accompanying them, all of them laughing and talking, wondering at the beauty of some new day. Now all that can be heard are secrets being plotted in and around the walls of the old house, secrets that will shape lives and change the world, and Eden, for ever.
Part One
ENGLAND IN THE LATE
NINETEEN THIRTIES
Chapter One
Mrs Beaumont sighed with satisfaction as she put down The Times, for there in the engagement column was the announcement of her darling daughter Poppy’s forthcoming marriage. She patted the side of her hair, and then picked up the newspaper again.
Mr and Mrs Spencer Tynant Beaumont are pleased to announce the engagement of their beloved daughter Poppy Elizabeth to Arthur Basil Hetchett Tetherington, fourth Baron Tetherington.
Despite the announcement’s having been made some months before, and the wedding’s being about to take place – Westminster, the Savoy and all the usual trimmings – Oralia Beaumont still loved to start off the day by once again reading that announcement
in the now yellowing copy of the Thunderer. It was the knowledge of the apoplexy with which the rival mothers of other debutantes would have greeted the announcement that gave her such particular pleasure. She could hear them moaning to each other on their telephones, or from under their hats over lunch at the Savoy.
‘Poppy Beaumont of all people. I mean, of all the girls out this Season, you would never think that she would be snapped up by a baron. And not just any baron – not some ropy old Irish peer – but a rich English baron. Owner of a vast estate, a house in Eaton Square, everything you could wish for – and she as plain as a pikestaff, and wears spectacles.’
Oralia stared with quiet pride around her bedroom as the maid came in to take away her breakfast tray. Poppy might not be a beauty, but she obviously must have something special to attract such a handsome, amusing, and elegant man as Basil Tetherington. For why else would he have snapped Poppy up after only three balls and a luncheon?
He was so generous, too. Nothing would do but he must buy her a new motor car, which Poppy hoped one day to be able to drive, but in which he now drove her. With all the talk of war, by necessity it had been a whirlwind romance, but a romance it most certainly was, for Mrs Beaumont was sure that Poppy was quite as happy to marry Basil as he was to marry her.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Out again, do I see?’
Poppy peered round the door at her mother, who was now preening herself in front of a silver hand mirror. The ostrich feather trimming of her bedjacket caused Poppy to sneeze suddenly and vehemently as she drew close.
‘Yes, Mother. I am just going out, to meet Mary Jane Ogilvy for lunch.’
Oralia replaced her hand mirror on the pink satin quilt.
‘I expect her mother is spitting nails, isn’t she, my dear?’
Poppy pushed her spectacles further up her nose and stared at her beautiful, elegant Southern Belle parent with a puzzled expression.
‘I am sorry, Mother?’
Mrs Beaumont stared back at her daughter with barely concealed impatience.
‘I mean, about your engagement, Poppy darlin’,’ she said slowly. ‘Since Mary Jane is not engaged to anyone at all, and you are engaged to Lord Tetherington, one imagines she will be spitting nails.’
Poppy sighed inwardly. She simply did not understand her mother’s competitive nature. She herself had never felt competitive with anyone, and with good reason. Born with what her dear old Irish nurse always called a stigmata in her left eye, Poppy had unfortunately been forced to wear glasses – or spectacles, as her mother insisted on calling them – from a very early age.
Sure and she’ll never marry now, Nanny Beaumont had used to say with some satisfaction to the other nannies when Poppy was walked in the Park. Gentlemen are simply not attracted to girls who wear spectacles, as everyone well knows.
Even at children’s parties little boys would make it quite obvious that they couldn’t wait to leave her side and sit beside some other little girl, who did not wear pale pink spectacles whose wire ends pulled her ears forward, making them stick through her hair.
Fortunately she had been educated at home, so her mother and father had been only too happy to leave her to her own devices, as well as to the kindly if sporadic attentions of the servants, so that Poppy grew up with her books as friends, and her dogs for company. As long as she had books and dogs, however, she was happy, and would have remained so, living an oddly solitary existence on the upper floors of her parents’ town and country houses, if her mother had not suddenly decided it might be fun for her – if not for Poppy – if Poppy were to do the Season as a debutante.
For Poppy it was of course the very opposite of fun – it was agony. Every single moment of her Season was torture, from the fitting of the coats and skirts, the day frocks and the evening gowns, to the trying on of the hats. Hat after hat after hat she had to try, all of them making her look more and more ludicrous, on account of her round, plastic-framed spectacles. At least they were now a sombre black rather than the vivid pink of her childhood, but inevitably, of course, as was only to be expected, it was Poppy’s beautiful mother rather than her plain daughter who attracted all the attention from both people and press.
The beautiful Oralia Beaumont again stunned the assembled company in a two-piece by Lablanc, all topped off by a chapeau de chapeaux – a hat of such elegance that no one could match it. If mothers of debutantes could win prizes for the Season, then Mrs Beaumont would surely win the Gold Cup.
As her mother flourished, so Poppy wilted, as poppies so often do when plucked out of their natural environment. Seated on the side, dance after dance after dance, she became inured to feeling isolated and ridiculous. Sometimes it seemed to her that the wretched Season – with its endless banal chatter covering up none too successfully her fellow debutantes’ obsessive pursuit of a diamond engagement ring – would never end. It actually threatened to last for ever, just as sitting out dance after dance on some wobbly gilt Gunter’s ball chair was also a perpetual hell, until with Ascot Week finally over – and only two or three balls to endure – she realised with ever increasing relief that the end was actually coming into sight.
One particular evening she was sitting in her usual state of abandonment on the sidelines of the ballroom, watching as her mother was whirled past her in the arms of an admiring young man, when a masculine voice interrupted her bored thoughts.
‘I wonder if you would do me the honour of having this dance?’
Poppy looked up in undisguised surprise at the speaker.
‘I am sorry,’ she stammered in confusion. ‘But what did you say?’
The man looking down at her was extremely handsome, with fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a surprisingly serious expression.
‘I said I wonder if you would do me the honour of having this dance?’
Poppy stared up at him, still unable to quite believe her ears.
‘You do mean me?’ she said, putting a hand on the bodice of her dowdy ball dress to indicate herself.
‘Since all the other chairs either side of you are empty, I really think I must.’
Poppy stood up.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, putting out a hand to introduce herself, only to find it being firmly taken in her unknown admirer’s left hand and herself being led out on the dance floor.
‘I’m – I’m Poppy Beaumont,’ she stammered, already being waltzed around the floor.
‘I know. And I’m Basil Tetherington.’
‘How do you do?’
‘Rather bored as it happens. Up until now. How about you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was a bit – um – a bit, well, yes, bored as well, as it happens,’ Poppy admitted.
After a few more turns of the ballroom, Poppy danced so close to her mother that she could not help noticing the look in her eyes, a mixture of shock and obvious irritation. Poppy smiled at her, realising that the first thing that must have crossed her mother’s mind was the fact that someone had actually asked her to dance, and not just someone, but someone extremely handsome. As she waltzed on she saw the shock was so great that her mother had actually stopped dancing altogether, staring in some amazement at the sight of her plain daughter being danced around the ballroom by one of the catches of the Season. As Poppy passed by her yet again, she leaned forward as if to ask her something, but Poppy was gone before she could begin to say anything.
‘Why don’t we go on the balcony,’ Basil suggested. ‘And perhaps cause a scandal – if we can, that is.’
Poppy nodded, only too happy to leave the oppressive atmosphere of the ballroom where everything was noted and commented upon. It was as if she were a pet poodle and she had suddenly escaped her lead. She allowed herself to be led by the hand off to one of the many balconies that overlooked the Park outside.
‘God,’ Basil sighed, leaning back against the stone parapet, casually lighting a cigarette. ‘I hope you hate these affairs as much as I do?’
‘Good heavens yes. And, you know, with p
retty good reason too.’
‘The reason being?’ Basil raised his elegant eyebrows and looked at her.
‘Because – well, I suppose because I’m not exactly a huge success at these things. In fact I’m a complete flop.’
Poppy pushed her glasses nervously back up on to the bridge of her nose as Basil continued to stare at her.
‘What was that?’
‘I said I was – you know – not exactly a huge success. Sorry – why?’
‘I’m sure no one as honest as you can be accounted to be a flop, Miss Beaumont.’
‘I don’t mind being a flop, as it happens. It’s not as if I set out to be a raging success. So you don’t have to feel sorry on my account. I mean, that wasn’t why I said it. Said what I did, I mean. If you see what I mean.’
‘I see perfectly what you mean.’
‘My mother – and my aunt, for instance,’ Poppy continued, now taking off her glasses and holding them up, checking their cleanliness to cover her shyness. ‘Both my aunt and my mother are much more successful with the young men than I am. But I really don’t mind. I don’t mind sitting it out. Sometimes I actually prefer it. Sometimes it can actually be quite interesting – sometimes. Although most times to be absolutely honest – most other times I’d much rather be home in bed with my dogs and a book.’
‘You are not enamoured of the social life, obviously.’
‘I think books are usually more interesting than most people I meet. Particularly at things like this. Except that was rather rude – I really didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘You weren’t being rude at all – particularly as I happen to agree with you. I far prefer a good book any time to having to endure the appalling boredom of events such as this, but I always come to London for the Season, as did my father, and my grandfather, and his father, and his father, and so on.’
Basil smiled at her. It was neither a very big smile nor a very warm one, but – as Poppy concluded – it was a smile none the less. Most men, on the rare occasions any had danced with her, returned her to the sidelines without so much as another look in her direction.