‘This one, dear,’ she said firmly and picked up the first photograph. ‘The other one, that you all like, should be hung in the gallery.’
‘That’s not the best one – you’re right about that,’ said Poppy as a disappointed Daisy wrapped Great-Aunt Lizzie’s choice in tissue paper and placed it in a cardboard box and Violet penned a little note to her godmother.
‘I don’t care as long as she invites me to London,’ said Violet. She folded the piece of stiff, embossed writing paper and placed it on top of the portrait. ‘I just want to be presented and have some fun like other girls. And marry someone rich,’ she added. ‘I don’t think that I could bear to be poor again. I’m just so sick of it. And if you and Daisy help me, then I’ll find husbands for the two of you when you come out in 1925. I promise,’ she added.
‘And me?’ asked Rose.
‘And you,’ Violet assured her. ‘But I have to get away from this place or I’ll go mad. I just can’t stand it – nothing new, everyone talking about being poor, and it’s so cold and damp.’
‘That’s because you weren’t born to it,’ said Daisy wisely. ‘You can remember times when Father and Mother were rich and there were fires in every room. Poppy and I can’t really remember those times – neither can Rose.’
‘Ah, but I have an imagination,’ said Rose. ‘I can feel in my bones what it must have been like. I think that Violet should make the ultimate sacrifice for her sisters. She must marry money. Otherwise I may fall into a decline and fade away.’
‘I would, like a shot,’ said Violet broodingly. ‘The only trouble is that so far I don’t think I’ve met anyone with money. When I asked Great-Aunt Lizzie for money to post this parcel, she went to her desk and handed out stamps one by one. Look at them – rows and rows of penny stamps from the time of Queen Victoria. I’d be embarrassed to take this to the post office. I’ll ask Morgan to take it for me.’
‘Tell him not to pay any extra for it himself though, if that’s not enough,’ said Daisy.
‘Let’s choose you a rich husband,’ said Rose. ‘It’s a shame that Great-Aunt Lizzie has given up having magazines delivered. Still I’ve cut lots of society pictures out from The Lady. Wait! I’ll get my scrapbook.’
By the time the penny stamps were all glued on to the parcel, Rose was back with her cuttings scrapbook.
‘What about the Earl of Charleforth?’ she asked.
‘He’s bald,’ said Violet, glaring at the picture in Rose’s scrapbook.
‘He’s probably even balder now,’ said Rose cheerfully. ‘That picture must have been taken about five years ago. He’s still in uniform. He’s rich though. It talks about him going back to care for his extensive estates. I found that newspaper on a shelf in the linen cupboard.’
‘Father’s got extensive estates, but he’s poor,’ pointed out Daisy.
‘That’s because of dastardly Denis; the ’orrible heir,’ said Poppy knowledgeably. The shortcomings of the unpleasant heir to the Derrington estate were a popular topic during their father’s more garrulous moods. ‘He won’t allow Father to sell the woodland and so all of the trees are falling down in storms and we’re as poor as church mice. The Penningtons have sold another farm – Morgan told me that.’
‘If only you were a boy,’ said Violet irritably to Rose. ‘Then you would be the heir. Everybody was sure you were going to be a boy before you were born. I remember Nanny talking to us about a ‘little brother’. If you were the heir you could agree to Father selling the trees and a couple of farms and then I could have a season in London like all the other girls.’
‘Look, here’s the man for you,’ said Rose, ignoring Violet’s constantly repeated lament about the family estate going to a distant cousin who was an unpleasant individual, determined not to help their father in his money troubles. ‘Go on, look! You can’t say he’s bald.’
Violet surveyed the picture framed by Rose’s cupped hand. A slight smile tugged at the petulant corners of her lovely mouth. ‘I must say that he is rather good-looking. Looks a bit like that Rudolph Valentino in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Who is he? I’m sure I’ve seen him before.’
‘Prince George,’ said Rose, removing her hand. ‘Just the perfect age for you – three years older. He was born on the twentieth of December, 1902.’ Rose was a great authority on the royal family and knew all their birthdays, the cars they drove, the house parties they attended, the sports that they were good at and even their second, third, fourth and fifth names.
‘I’m sure that King George would love me to marry his son,’ said Violet glumly. ‘He would regard it as a very good match – especially if I turned up in darned breeches and a jumper that has been washed ten times too often.’
‘Well, Prince George is his fourth son so he’s probably not too fussy,’ said Rose wisely. ‘After all, he has only managed to get one of them engaged so far. And they go to every party in London. There are pages and pages of the royal princes in all the copies of The London Illustrated News.’
Violet stared moodily at the parcel with its rows of penny stamps. Suddenly she picked it up and kissed it. ‘If only the Duchess will invite me to one of those parties,’ she said. ‘I promise you that I will do my best. I’ll marry someone rich and then I’ll present you all in court and you’ll make splendid marriages too. I swear I’ll do that!’
And then she put it down and burst into tears. ‘It’s all so silly,’ she said tragically. ‘It’s like Cinderella. I’m too old for fairy stories. Nothing is going to happen. We’re going to go on living in this dreary place year after year, having no fun, being poor, poor, poor.’
Daisy looked at Poppy and found her twin’s amber eyes fixed on hers. One eyebrow was raised. As usual the same thought had come to both at the same moment.
‘Go on, you tell her,’ said Daisy. ‘It was your idea.’
‘Well, we were thinking of having a surprise birthday party for you next week,’ said Poppy.
‘They’re just telling you a week early so that you’ll forget and then it really will be a surprise,’ explained Rose. ‘Poor things! Don’t laugh at them – they haven’t got their younger sister’s brains,’ she added in loftily condescending tones.
‘We’re telling her a week early, Miss Clever,’ snapped Poppy, ‘because she’s the only one of us good at sewing and she’ll have to make the dresses.’
‘Weave them from spiders’ webs.’ Violet made an effort to stop crying. She brushed the tears from her eyes and managed a faint smile.
‘We were thinking about Mother’s old dresses. Up in the trunk in the attic,’ explained Daisy. ‘We could just chop them a bit so that they’re nice and short and fashionable.’
‘And the jazz band would provide the music and the boys could be dancing partners too.’ This was the most important part for Poppy.
‘But we thought we would ask Justin for you,’ put in Daisy hurriedly. Violet was not interested in the jazz club boys, who were all Poppy’s age.
‘Justin!’ Now a speculative look had come into Violet’s eyes. Daisy and Poppy exchanged glances. Violet was obviously thinking hard.
‘We’ll have to have some decent dresses, but we can do it in a week,’ she said in a determined fashion. ‘Rose, you give that parcel to Morgan. I’m going to see Great-Aunt Lizzie about those old dresses of Mother’s up in the attic. With a bit of work we might be able to do something with them.’
Chapter Five
‘Well?’ The twins were waiting in the hall when Violet came out of the drawing room, gently closing the door after her. She was flushed and smiling.
‘She says yes – but we must talk to Mrs Pearson first. And we can take what we like from the attic. And most of the food at the supper has to be made from eggs,’ she added, and both girls started to laugh. Hens were their standby. Dozens of them wandered around the beech woods and their eggs were plentiful even in wintertime.
Mrs Pearson was eventually tracked down by Rose to Great-Aunt Lizzie’s
bedroom. As they climbed the stairs, they could hear her scolding the maids.
‘Nora, haven’t you finished Lady Violet’s room yet? Dorothy has cleaned three bedrooms while you were lingering here. And Maud, hurry up, child, for goodness sake. There are ten more fireplaces for you to do.’ Mrs Pearson could never get used to having only three maids under her.
‘Don’t be cross, Mrs Pearson; we’ve come to you for some advice.’ Daisy knew that Mrs Pearson had a soft spot for good gossip and she led the housekeeper into Violet’s bedroom. ‘Poppy and I were thinking about having a birthday party for Violet next week; Great-Aunt says that we may, but we’re not sure what to do about it. You remember the old days, don’t you, when there were parties all the time?’
Mrs Pearson began to smile. ‘Well, of course, there were only two boys at Beech Grove Manor when I first became housekeeper, but then of course . . . later on, when . . . when your mother came here . . . But I suppose you know all about that.’
‘A bit,’ said Daisy, frowning at Poppy who, she guessed, was going to bring Mrs Pearson back to the point. It was better to let the old lady have her reminiscences and gently steer her back to practicalities. ‘Was Mother pretty?’
‘Very!’ Mrs Pearson sighed. ‘They were . . . Yes, she was lovely. Well, no good talking about the past,’ she said, to the girls’ relief. ‘You were asking about parties and I can tell you we had plenty of them the year your mother came here.’
‘Sit here, Mrs Pearson.’ Violet pushed forward the shabby old chair. It had originally been covered in velvet, but most of the silky nap had been worn off so the chair had been moved out of the library to the bedroom. ‘Tell us all about it.’
Violet, Daisy was glad to see, gave her a beautiful smile and began to look as happy as a girl whose future lies ahead of her. She was an imaginative person and it was easy for her to lose herself in a dream. The trouble came when she had to face reality.
‘Did they use the ballroom?’ asked Rose.
‘Of course they did! And musicians hired from London.’ Mrs Pearson sank into the still-comfortable ancient chair. The four Derrington girls arranged themselves in a row on the bed.
‘There was more staff then: four scullery maids to do all the fires, three parlourmaids and six chambermaids – and, of course, your mother’s lady’s maid.’ Old Mrs Pearson smiled at the memory. ‘And Mrs Beaton had a couple of useful girls to help her with the cooking – training them she was, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Daisy, trying to visualize possibilities for useful-young-girls-to-help-in-the-kitchen from among the inhabitants of the village beyond Beech Grove Manor on the day of Violet’s party and then rejecting the idea. Even girls from the village school would want to be paid.
‘Of course lots and lots of visitors used to come to stay. Every room in the house filled, for sure,’ went on Mrs Pearson. ‘And all those beautiful young ladies and fine young men! And our own ladies . . . lady . . . the most beautiful and the cleverest of them all. And the sweetest by a long shot. This was before the war, of course. Everything was different then.’
‘We could never do that nowadays, of course. But we wondered about just having a small party for Violet’s eighteenth birthday.’ Daisy decided to take a chance and lead the conversation back to the present.
Mrs Pearson had been shaking her head sadly but at Daisy’s last words, she stiffened. A light of battle came into her old eyes.
‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem right that an eighteenth birthday shouldn’t be marked. I remember when your father was eighteen, the celebrations – nothing to when he was twenty-one, of course. They were roasting whole deer out in the park for the tenants then and the house was full of young people.’
‘And my Uncle Robert?’ asked Daisy. What she wanted was an account of a smaller party.
‘He was dead, poor fellow, before he ever reached the age of twenty-one. That nasty old Boer War.’ A tear came into the old lady’s eye. She sighed heavily and then said hastily as she got to her feet, ‘We could do a small party for you, Lady Violet. Mrs Beaton would make some nice little cakes and we could have a trifle I dare say. Custard is no problem; the hens are still laying well and, of course, there’s always cream from the Jersey cow. That would be nice. You have a little chat with Mrs Beaton and I’m sure that she’ll come up with some good ideas.’
‘Now for the attic!’ said Poppy as soon as Mrs Pearson had gone.
The trunk marked with the label LADY MARY DERRINGTON, BEECH GROVE MANOR, KENT, ENGLAND was still there. Daisy threw back the lid and started to pull out dresses, wraps, petticoats, and pretty gloves, stockings and shoes.
But there was a shock.
As each dress was shaken and held up to the light of the roof window the awful truth was revealed.
They had all been attacked by moths.
Thousands of tiny holes showed like pinpricks against the light and then the fabric began to split and rends appeared. Garment after garment was taken out until only an old photograph album was left at the bottom of the trunk. But it was no good – they were all ruined. A musty smell set them all coughing and sneezing.
Poppy’s eyes met Daisy’s with dismay.
‘It’s us,’ she said, half laughing, half ashamed. ‘We probably left the lid open when we used to dress up years ago.’
‘Look, a photograph album,’ said Rose, picking out the pockmarked velvet-covered book. ‘Oh, how sweet! Look, it says POPPY AGED ONE MONTH. What a dear little girl. Beautiful Baby Grows Up to Be Ugly Duckling!’
‘Just Poppy? Where am I?’ wondered Daisy.
‘Perhaps you were camera-shy,’ suggested Rose.
‘I can’t believe it,’ muttered Violet. ‘Everything always goes wrong. We can’t use any of these – they’ll probably fall apart on the dance floor.’
She got up and wandered irritably around the attic and then stopped beside a trunk labelled LORD ROBERT DERRINGTON. ‘Perhaps we could make it a fancy dress party,’ she said. ‘This will have his uniform from the Boer War. Father’s probably got his Indian Army stuff somewhere as well.’
Daisy thought of her father’s fury if they meddled with his uniforms. ‘Wouldn’t suit you,’ she said hastily. ‘You’re not one of those girls that look good in men’s clothing. You’re the Lady of Shalott type.’
‘Here you are, Daisy,’ said Poppy, who had now got hold of the photograph album. ‘Here we are, both of us: “POPPY AND DAISY ON BOARD SHIP”. This must have been going back to England after the news came about grandfather’s death.’
‘You look more advanced than I do,’ said Daisy, peering over her shoulder. ‘I seem to be all floppy-headed and you’re holding your head up and looking all around you.’
‘LADY ELAINE CARRUTHERS,’ read Rose, who had been kicking noisily at a jammed cupboard door in another room of the attic and had just managed to get it open. And then she repeated in excited tones: ‘Elaine Carruthers! Come quick, everyone – I’ve found another trunk in this cupboard. Who’s Lady Elaine Carruthers?’
There was a clatter of feet as her sisters followed her, Daisy hastily replacing the photograph album.
‘Carruthers? But that’s Great-Aunt Lizzie’s name.’
‘And Mother’s – she was Great-Aunt Lizzie’s niece.’
‘This Elaine must have been related to Mother.’
‘Wonder what her clothes are like?’
‘I seem to remember,’ said Daisy, ‘that when Father was talking once to Great-Aunt about the entail and how Dastardly Denis would get the lot because the estate is entailed to a male, she sniffed and said: “Nothing like that in our family – the two girls inherited everything! No nonsense about having to have a brother.”’
‘So perhaps Elaine was Mother’s sister,’ said Poppy.
‘But why haven’t we heard anything about her? Why the secret? Perhaps she murdered someone and died on the scaffold.’ Rose was enraptured.
‘Probably she and G
reat-Aunt Lizzie had a quarrel. You know what she’s like.’ Daisy pulled at the upended trunk, pushing it around so that the handle could be found.
‘Bet she had some good clothes – Mother’s family were very rich. I think, from something that Great-Aunt Lizzie said, that was how Father financed the diamond mine out in India,’ said Violet happily. ‘Wonder if Elaine looked like me? After all, if she was Mother’s sister she would have been our aunt.’
‘Do you know, this is the funny thing,’ said Daisy. ‘I don’t think that I’ve seen a photograph of her. I must have a look in the gallery.’
‘It’s locked; the trunk is locked,’ announced Rose, holding a stout padlock in her hand and then letting it fall. The sisters looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Daisy, ‘Great-Aunt Lizzie did say that we could use anything from the attic. Poppy, see if you can find Morgan.’
Poppy was gone almost before the last word fell from Daisy’s lips. The remaining three girls looked carefully at the label on the trunk. ‘That’s Mrs Pearson’s handwriting,’ said Violet after a moment. ‘I know the way that she makes a “E”. I’ve seen it often enough on the pots of elderberry jam.’
‘Perhaps Elaine Carruthers went out to India with Mother and Father. Mrs Pearson must have packed away all the clothes that Elaine didn’t take with her,’ said Daisy. ‘Perhaps she got married out in India and never turned up to claim her clothes. Let’s hope that she left behind a few decent dresses.’ And then something caught her attention and she bent over the trunk. ‘It’s been sealed with wax,’ she said with awe. ‘Good old Mrs P – no moths here.’
‘Hope there’s something for me,’ said Rose wistfully. ‘It’s sad to be the sister who is always ignored and left out of things.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re as tall as Daisy and these days no one needs a figure,’ said Violet kindly. ‘We’ll find something for you if we can get the trunk open.’
Funny the way that no one suggests asking Great-Aunt Lizzie for a key, thought Daisy. We’re probably right though. There’s something odd about this Elaine. Why haven’t we heard about her before? Perhaps it was true that she went out to India with Mother and Father and left behind the clothes she wasn’t taking with her. But why has she never been mentioned by either Great-Aunt Lizzie or Father? She made a resolution to hunt for a photograph of the long-vanished Elaine and went to the door to wait for Morgan.
DEBUTANTES Page 4