For my friend Patricia Lyons of Tara Book Club with thanks for all her help, advice and encouragement throughout my years as a writer.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Prologue
The girl’s face was perfectly framed by the russet beech leaves. The early spring sunlight lit creamy-white skin, a Grecian nose, violet-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a curtain of shimmering black hair.
The camera clicked and clicked again.
‘Keep still!’ said the director’s voice. ‘Good! Now breathe in and smile – no, not like that. Think of something. Think of a line of poetry.’
‘Don’t forget,’ said the director as a look of boredom began to show in the lovely eyes, ‘once this film gets shown in a cinema you will have offers from Hollywood. Think of the money! There will definitely be enough for you to have a London season, to be a debutante and be presented in court. Think of shopping in Harrods!’
An expression as of one who sees heavenly visions came across the girl’s beautiful face. Suddenly it lit up, as she imagined the gorgeous ball gowns, magnificent jewels and well-cut riding clothes that could be bought with Hollywood money. The camera whirred as she moved her head, her eyes full of a burning ambition.
Chapter One
‘You can come out now, Violet.’ Sixteen-year-old Daisy Derrington lifted her head from the camera and looked across to the beech hedge which framed the face of her elder sister, Violet.
‘I’ve got all sorts of creepy-crawlies in my hair,’ complained Violet as she slid out from under the branches. Standing there, even in worn, darned riding breeches and an old short-sleeved shirt, she looked marvellous, thought Daisy. Violet had always been pretty, but now, at almost eighteen, she was annoyingly beautiful.
‘Don’t make a noise,’ Daisy said. ‘I want to film the horses while they’re still grazing peacefully.’ She picked up her small box-shaped camera and began to move towards the next field. ‘That’s what you are supposed to be looking at. I’m going to do that now until Poppy comes out with the horse food. When I finish filming the peaceful grazing scene, I want to film them galloping. Will you go and help Poppy, Vi?’
The Derrington family consisted of father, great-aunt and four girls. Violet was the eldest. One glance at those beautiful violet-blue eyes had been enough to give her the name of Violet. That had been understandable, thought Daisy. However, her mother (a woman of few ideas, obviously) had then gone ahead to give flower names to the next three girls. Poppy – well, it was obvious from the start that she had inherited her mother’s flame-coloured hair, so her name was appropriate too, and Rose, the youngest, had been a sweetly pretty baby with a wild-rose complexion, according to everyone.
But Daisy, Poppy’s twin, disliked her name intensely. Coupled with her appearance – slightly chubby, with cornflower-blue eyes and pale blonde hair – there was something childish and stupid about the name ‘Daisy’, and as far as she was concerned, it was hardly an appropriate name for a famous film-maker, which was what she intended to be.
The Derringtons lived in Beech Grove Manor – a tall, three-storey house made from honey-coloured sandstone and set amid magnificent beech woods in west Kent. The house had been built almost two hundred years previously with a stately dining room, drawing room, library and study on the ground floor and a dozen bedrooms, a picture gallery and a ballroom on the two upper floors. It had been a wonderful place to live in when there had been money to pay enough servants to keep it warm, well-cleaned and comfortable, money to do the repairs and money to renew the furniture when necessary. Unfortunately, the family fortune had lessened over the years and the present earl had made some disastrous investments, including sinking a large part of his fortune in a hugely disappointing gold mine out in India. By the early 1920s there were only half the servants needed for comfort and the furniture, carpets and curtains all needed renewing and repairing. There was no money for anything. No money to send the girls to school or even to afford the cheapest governess for them, no money for new clothes, no money for enough coal to heat the huge house properly, and certainly not enough money for Violet to become a debutante and be presented at court to the King and Queen, in the same way as other girls from the families that they knew.
Daisy kicked a pile of leaves in exasperation. Everything was so frustrating, she thought. The Derrington family was so poor, the four girls were supposed to ask for nothing, demand nothing, achieve nothing, and eventually marry someone rich and most likely boring. But they all wanted more than that. Poppy wanted to be a professional jazz player and singer, she herself wanted to be a film director and Rose wanted to be an author. Violet, however, was determined to find a rich husband and believed that if she made a good match, married a man with money – well, perhaps that would be the way out for her younger sisters. But to make the match she had to meet the men, and virtually the only way to do that was to have a season. Daisy, however, believed that the key to the future for herself and her sisters lay in the small box camera, complete with an enlarger, a positive film printer, a copier and a projector, all of which had been presented to her by her godfather, Sir Guy Beresford, a wealthy businessman with interests in the film industry. The moment Daisy had seen what Violet looked like on camera she had suddenly become fiercely ambitious to direct and shoot a film which could be sold to earn them some money which would be spent on a season for Violet. Violet was (she had to admit) unusually good-looking in real life, but when shown on film, she became something else. A real film star!
We all have ambitions, thought Daisy, and our first ambition is to get out of Beech Grove Manor.
Chapter Two
Daisy was busy with her film when the gong went for lunch. She pulled her head out of the dark cupboard in the dressing room off the bedroom she shared with her twin sister and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, colliding with Poppy, who was running in through the back door, her long red hair, freed from its usual thick braid, tumbling around her shoulders.
‘Great-Aunt Lizzie will have a fit if she sees your hair like that,’ hissed Daisy.
‘Oh, pish!’ Poppy gave herself an indifferent glance in the hall looking glass.
‘We must be the only girls in England who haven’t cut our hair,’ said Daisy discontentedly, conscious from the glass that her own hair was not too tidy either.
‘You cut your hair,’ pointed out Poppy.
‘Only a quarter of an inch at a time,’ said Daisy. ‘First thing in the morning I just slice through a curl at the end of each strand. I think if I do that every day Father won’t notice, and then after a year or so I’ll have a fashionable bob.’
‘He’s just totally unreasonable,’ said Poppy with a puzzled frown. ‘I can’t see what difference it makes to him.’
And she didn’t, thought Daisy with amusement. That was one of the things you had to accept about Poppy: she was totally incapab
le of looking at things from anyone else’s point of view. She couldn’t see that their father’s strict Victorian upbringing made him shudder with horror at the antics of the girls in London, with their short hair and their short skirts. She couldn’t see that it was better to coax him rather than to quarrel with him.
Of the four sisters, Daisy was by far the most accomplished at bringing their father round to her point of view. Michael Derrington was rather a difficult man. After his wife’s death in 1916 he had gone to war to fight in the trenches at the Somme, leaving his four young daughters in the care of his wife’s aunt. He had been severely shell-shocked during the war and returned to Beech Grove Manor physically well, but suffering from depression and severe headaches. You had to be gentle with him, thought Daisy.
‘One of these days,’ said Poppy darkly, ‘I’ll just take the scissors to my hair. Perhaps I should do it now – make lunch more interesting, wouldn’t it? Just imagine Great-Aunt Lizzie’s face if I arrived with a neat bob!’
‘Except that it wouldn’t be a neat bob.’ Daisy thought she should put a stop to that idea. Once Poppy took up a notion she never thought of the consequences. ‘Nothing looks worse than a bob that’s not properly done. You’d have to go to a hairdresser and that costs money. Come on, Poppy,’ she hissed, ‘let’s go in or we’ll be late.’
Violet and Rose were already sitting at one side of the large table in the dining room and the twins slid into their places opposite. Their father sat at the head of the table, frowning heavily over a letter that the butler had just handed him – another one of those bills, thought Daisy – and Great-Aunt Lizzie, a trim, upright figure, sat at the bottom and looked with disfavour at Poppy’s untidy hair and Daisy’s chemical-stained hands.
The dining room at Beech Grove Manor was gloomy at this time of day. Four of its seven windows faced west and the other three faced north, and not even the looking glasses that were hung on the walls opposite the windows brightened it up much. The battered old furniture was dull from lack of polish, the silver on the sideboard was sparse and bore marks of heavy wear, and the original red velvet curtains had faded to a threadbare pink. The place depressed Michael Derrington and mealtimes were never cheerful. It might have been jollier, thought Daisy, if they all just served themselves, or even fetched the food from the kitchen, but Great-Aunt Lizzie would never permit what she called a lowering of standards. Following the tradition of the past thirty years, the elderly butler accepted the dishes from the hands of a young parlourmaid and shuffled around the table trying to give an air of formality to shepherd’s pie, turnips and boiled potatoes.
‘I’ve had a letter from Cousin Fanny,’ announced Great-Aunt Lizzie once the meal had been served. Five pairs of uninterested eyes looked at her and four pairs then looked away again. Only their father continued to look at the elderly lady.
‘Drink your milk, Rose. Yes, Aunt. You were saying?’
Rose made a face. The girls’ mother had died of tuberculosis and because Rose was so skinny, her father continually forced pints of milk on her in the belief that it would strengthen her. ‘Delicate Child Force-fed Milk by Brutal Relations. Earl’s Mansion Hides Broken Heart,’ murmured Rose, who kept a scrapbook full of lurid headlines cut out from newspapers. She sipped a half-teaspoon of milk and curled her lip.
‘I was saying, Michael,’ Great-Aunt Lizzie’s voice rose to its shrill, well-bred heights, ‘that Cousin Fanny has written to me. She enquires whether Violet is to be presented at court this spring.’ She waited until Rose had swallowed a gulp of her milk and then continued. ‘She suggests that Violet’s godmother the Duchess of Denton may consider presenting her – she was such a great friend of dear Mary’s – and would perhaps allow her to share in her daughter Catherine’s coming-out party. We would, of course, have to take a house in London – at least for a month or so – and get the girl some decent clothes.’
Violet jerked her head away from the window and looked at her great-aunt; her eyes were blazing with excitement. Daisy stretched out and linked her little finger with Poppy’s under the table. They knew how much this meant to their sister – to be a deb one needed to be presented at court by someone who had been presented themselves, and their mother’s death had meant they didn’t have many options in that department. Great-Aunt Lizzie was too fragile and Cousin Fanny had her own daughter to present.
‘Impossible! You know that perfectly well. I can’t afford anything of the sort.’ The Earl avoided his daughter’s eyes. ‘Maybe next year, if times are better,’ he added. Bateman the butler looked distressed and poured a little extra water into his master’s glass, perhaps wishing that it was wine as in the affluent days. Michael Derrington swallowed it down and glared angrily around the table.
‘Next year I will be too old, Father!’ wailed Violet.
‘Hollywood,’ mimed Daisy, but it was no good. Violet got up from the table and went out, slamming the door behind her. Rose took advantage of the disturbance to tip the rest of her milk into a low bowl of spring flowers, but failed to avoid Great-Aunt Lizzie’s eagle eye or a lecture about deceit and wastefulness, and Poppy absentmindedly tapped a rhythm on the table. Michael Derrington made the sound of a man who is driven to madness by his unreasonable family.
‘Great-Aunt Lizzie is so stupid. Why talk to Father about hiring a house? She knows he won’t do it,’ remarked Poppy in an undertone as they left the dining room together after the disastrous lunch.
‘Stupid is the last thing she is,’ said Daisy with a chuckle. ‘She never does things without thinking about them. I bet that business about Cousin Fanny was all carefully calculated. Now, if she manages to get the Duchess to offer to present Violet and to invite her to share the coming-out ball with her daughter, Father will be so relieved that he doesn’t have to pay for it he will say yes straight away.’
‘Gee, man, you sure do have some brains!’ said Poppy appreciatively, trying to put an American twang into her voice.
‘She’s probably in the drawing room at this moment sitting in front of her desk and writing a letter to the Duchess,’ said Daisy confidently. She thought for a moment and then added, ‘I wonder if it would be better if Violet wrote – perhaps just to tell her that her eighteenth birthday is next week. What do you think, Poppy? Would it work?’ Daisy wasn’t sure. Could Violet write the sort of letter that asked for something without really spelling it out? Violet wrote a lot of poetry, but poetry was probably not the best way to get to the Duchess’s heart. ‘I suppose that it might sound like she wants a present,’ she finished.
‘I’ve got it,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll take a photo of her and it can be a birthday portrait. She send it to the Duchess. Nothing wrong about that, is there? It’s the other way round: Vi is sending the Duchess a present, not asking for one.’
‘I suppose it’s an idea,’ said Poppy indifferently.
‘It’s brilliant!’ Without another word to Poppy, Daisy turned and ran into the hall, opening the door to the drawing room quietly and closing it gently after her.
She had been almost right. Great-Aunt Lizzie was in the drawing room and she was sitting in front of her desk. The drawer filled with sheets of stiff white writing paper was open and the inkstand was pulled forward, but she wasn’t writing. Her gaze was fixed on the magnificent portrait of the girls’ mother which hung over one of the two fireplaces in the room.
Mary Derrington had been a beauty. Her colouring had been the same as Poppy’s – red hair and amber eyes – yet her face and figure were more like Violet’s, with perhaps a look of Rose about the slightly hooded eyes. This portrait had been painted when she was first married and she looked so young and so happy that Daisy could hardly bear to look at it.
‘I was wondering, Great-Aunt Lizzie, whether if I took a photograph – a sort of portrait – of Violet to celebrate her eighteenth birthday,’ began Daisy and then, as she saw a slightly impatient look come into the elderly woman’s eyes, she rushed ahead. ‘I thought it might make a nice
gift for Violet to send to her godmother,’ she ended demurely, trying to sound innocent of any scheme.
‘What a good idea!’ Great-Aunt Lizzie’s troubled face cleared after a moment’s thought. ‘Yes, Daisy, I think that would be a very good idea. I don’t think Her Grace has seen Violet since she was about twelve or thirteen years old.’
‘I’ll get Morgan to rub down a thin piece of wood and I’ll stick the photograph to it and Violet can do some of her fancy lettering underneath . . .’ It would be useless, she knew, to ask for the photograph to be properly framed.
‘Lady Violet Derrington on Her Eighteenth Birthday.’ Great-Aunt Lizzie was nodding energetically.
‘I’ll make it look really professional,’ said Daisy earnestly. ‘At least, I’ll try.’ Suddenly she knew this was the moment to ask for something that she had wanted for quite some time. ‘The trouble is that I need plenty of space to develop and print a big picture like that. It’s a bit difficult developing things in that cupboard in our dressing room,’ she went on. ‘Do you think that I could use the old dairy pantry?’
Her aunt opened her mouth as though to say no – her usual response to making any changes in the house – but then thought of the portrait and shut it again. ‘I don’t see why not, but have a word with Mrs Pearson,’ she said after a moment.
‘Yes, Great-Aunt,’ said Daisy politely and edged her way out of the room before any more could be said. Mrs Pearson, the housekeeper, was an amiable woman, far too old to run the household with half the number of staff needed for a house of the size of Beech Grove Manor, but, like the elderly butler, still bravely struggling on in a poverty-stricken environment for which they were both quite untrained. She wouldn’t care what Daisy did as long as it didn’t make more work for her and the maids. In fact, she was snoring loudly as Daisy passed the housekeeper’s room on the way down to the basement. Daisy decided to leave her in peace and get on with her plans.
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