‘It’s just the war, that terrible war,’ Mrs Beaton used to say to the children. ‘He was the nicest, kindest, most cheerful man before the war. It was a terrible thing that war – left nobody in the country untouched. All those young men shell-shocked, maimed and even slaughtered. The only consolation is that they say it was a war to end all wars. Britain will never go to war again.’
And that left Great-Aunt Lizzie.
Tense, tired and disappointed, suffering from a heavy cold and sore throat, she was, decided the girls, in no mood to consider a trip to Buckingham Palace to present her great-niece to King George and his wife.
However, Violet was in good spirits. From the day after their arrival, she sewed like one inspired. Ball gowns, cocktail dresses, lunch outfits, walking costumes – the picture rail in the schoolroom was hung with so many clothes that Justin took to calling it the milliner’s shop. He was back in Kent with his tolerant uncle and aunt whose heir lived in another part of the country and who were glad to have a lively young man around the place.
‘You’re getting better and better at this, Vi,’ said Daisy one day, examining how cleverly Elaine’s blouses were altered and how expertly her tweed jackets were taken in at the waist. ‘Perhaps you could set up a dressmaking firm in the west end of London and make pots of money.’ She smiled nervously but it was obvious that Violet was not listening to her. She was completely obsessed with the idea of being a debutante and having a season. Will I feel like that in a year or two years’ time? wondered Daisy, trying to take her mind away from her fears and uncertainties. Her godfather, Sir Guy, was keen for her to have a season; he had told her that, pretending it was for the sake of all the wonderful film she might be able to shoot of her fellow debutantes. She turned her attention back to Violet, who had taken down a long dress made from white satin with elaborate white lace trimmings.
‘The great thing is that Elaine’s presentation dress looks just the same as Catherine’s,’ said Violet exultantly. ‘The style hasn’t altered at all. They still wear those long flowing dresses, nipped in at the waist and with a train. I’ve shortened the train a little. Catherine said that the palace has issued instructions that it need not be more than eighteen inches long now. And the three ostrich feathers that you have to have are there in a box. Look at them.’
Daisy gazed dubiously at three fluffy white feathers, each about a foot long. ‘They’re a bit yellow,’ she observed.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ said Violet impatiently. ‘Marjorie told me that she will be wearing her grandmother’s ostrich feathers. She said that she was going to be the tenth girl in the family to wear them.’ Violet giggled at the thought of the lovely gossipy conversations with the other girls at the Duchess’s house party and then her face darkened as she thought of the abrupt end to her stay.
‘I don’t know why you are criticizing and moaning, Daisy,’ she said in an irritated way. ‘You’re very sour these days. What’s the matter with you? Don’t walk off; I was going to show you—’
The matter with me, thought Daisy as she closed the door on Violet’s angry voice, is that nothing is happening. And I’m sick of lying in wait for the postman and finding that nothing but bills are arriving at the house. She had spent her last few pennies on sending the completed film of the ball to the Duchess and the revised version of Murder in the Dark to Sir Guy and on buying The Times. Her advertisement had appeared ten days ago but there had been no repsonse. She had clipped it out, shown it to Poppy and then hidden it in her underclothes drawer. From time to time she took it out and looked at it.
‘Everyone who is anyone reads the Court Circular,’ Great-Aunt Lizzie had said one day, laying down the law as usual.
‘You mean everyone reads the personal column.’ Michael Derrington, now in a good mood, had chuckled at this and had forced his aunt-in-law to admit that she did usually glance through it to see whether any old friend was trying to get in touch.
But perhaps Elaine did not take The Times. Perhaps she had no friends who would have spotted the advertisement and called it to her attention. Or perhaps she had returned to India?
Daisy didn’t know and the uncertainty was terribly hard to bear. She tried to throw herself into the plans for Violet’s presentation and had even read up on the requirements for court presentations in an ancient book of etiquette that Rose had unearthed from the library, but she found it very hard to keep her mind on it. It had suddenly occurred to her today that Elaine might have replied with another advertisement in The Times, giving a box number and telling ‘Daisy’ to contact her through this. And if Daisy had not replied then she might have been secretly relieved. Daisy felt that her head was splitting with all the thoughts that were rushing through it.
She would try to distract herself, she decided, and grabbed a basket, going out through the back door to collect the eggs from the hen house. There was something soothing about this occupation and by the time she came out with a basketful she felt better. She waved cheerily at Justin who was just dismounting from his horse.
‘I’ve got the list of costs from my aunt for my cousin’s coming-out dinner and dance,’ he said. ‘Should have been an accountant, that woman! She’s got it all written down. Writes down everything, apparently.’
Daisy took the notebook from him. There they were, all the prices. ‘Lend it to me, Justin, just for the moment. I want to copy them out. I won’t take long.’
‘No hurry,’ said Justin carelessly. ‘Is Violet in the schoolroom?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but went towards the back door, patting the pocket of his Norfolk tweed jacket and saying, ‘I’ve followed your advice and bought The Times at the village shop. Hilarious some of the advertisements in “Situations Vacant”! I thought I would read them out to Violet to help pass the time while she’s sewing.’
‘Let me have a look,’ said Daisy. She almost snatched it from him and felt her hands tremble as she searched for the personal ads. She read through them twice, but there was nothing there so she handed the paper back to Justin.
‘Anybody advertising for a brilliant young lawyer and offering a princely salary?’ She put her question quickly before he could ask her what she was looking for.
‘I fear that the secret of my brilliance is remaining somewhat too hush-hush for my liking,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘However, I live in hope.’
He should go up to London rather than hang around kicking his heels and dangling after Violet, who has no intention of marrying him, thought Daisy as she went into the drawing room. Great-Aunt Lizzie, still rather shaken after her illness, had retired for her afternoon rest so she would have the place to herself. She opened up Lady Pennington’s Household Accounts Book at the page that was marked by a helpful slip of paper and gazed at the page headed in neat capital letters: PAMELA’S COMING-OUT PARTY.
The prices were all there arranged in neat rows of pounds, shillings and pence:
And underneath that was:
Well, thought Daisy, at least we could cut out that eighteen guineas for the band; the jazz boys and Morgan would do it for the fun and for their supper. Hire was probably for those chairs for the chaperones – that would be unavoidable. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, the whole thing could be done for about forty pounds. And Sir Guy was talking about paying her forty pounds for her second film. He had been delighted with the new ending – particularly the shot of Violet and Justin riding off past the lake, and Morgan standing there looking after them.
‘Yes,’ she murmured aloud, feeling a rush of excitement at the thought of her earning power. ‘I think I might be able to do it if only Violet would be happy to have it here. After all, she keeps getting letters from men and girls that she met at the Duchess’s place so she will have enough people to invite. She could have a small dance.’
The food and drink were expensive, but perhaps the champagne could be skipped. There were still lots of bottles of wine down in the cellar and the price of the food could be cut down if they used plenty o
f eggs and potatoes. She giggled a little as she thought about the giant Spanish omelette and reached into her great-aunt’s desk for a piece of scrap paper on which she could write down the prices.
The drawers were full of thick, expensive writing paper and gilt-edged visiting cards and invitation cards, but Daisy did not like to use any of these without permission. The little centre door only had pens and ink bottles behind it. Impatiently she got to her feet. She would have to go up to the schoolroom to get some paper.
As she rose her foot caught in a hole in the carpet and caused her to stumble, pressing against the ornately carved ridge below the pull-out, baize-covered writing surface. Suddenly a drawer shot out, almost causing her to lose her balance. So Great-Aunt Lizzie’s desk had a secret drawer! There must be a spring under one of those carvings, but Daisy did not waste time investigating this. Her whole attention was on the contents of the drawer. It was stuffed with old photographs and she picked some out and started to leaf through them.
A very much younger Great-Aunt Lizzie, with a small blonde child in her arms and a tall girl standing beside her, stared out of the old brown photograph at her – Mary and Elaine with their aunt, guessed Daisy.
And then she came across something that made her catch her breath in astonishment. First of all she thought it was a photograph of herself. The blonde-haired girl in the picture looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. But that was not the surprising thing. Beside her was a boy of about the same age and this boy was the image of Justin – a square, determined chin, dark eyes, crisply curling black hair and a well-shaped mouth curving into a broad smile. If it were not for the old-fashioned clothes, then it could be a picture of Daisy herself with Justin by her side.
‘Rose,’ called Great-Aunt Lizzie from the stairs, her voice still rather hoarse and followed by a fit of coughing.
Hastily Daisy stuffed the photographs back and managed to click the drawer closed. Then she picked up Lady Pennington’s book and went out. ‘Were you looking for Rose, Great-Aunt?’ she asked. ‘I’ll fetch her for you. I think that she has taken her dogs for a walk.’
‘Never mind, I suppose the fresh air will do her good; I’m worried about her education though. She’ll slip behind if I don’t keep pressing her to work.’ The old lady’s voice sounded fretful, but it was also feeble and Daisy felt sorry for her.
‘Shall I ask Maud to light the fire in the drawing room?’ she asked, but her great-aunt shook her head. ‘No, thank you, dear. It’s not worth it. I just have a few letters to write and then I think I’ll go back to my bedroom,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeling quite the thing today.’ She tried to smile and then added, ‘I’ll be better when the weather improves.’
This is the best spring we’ve had that I can remember, thought Daisy, watching with concern as the old lady dragged herself down the remaining stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters. ‘I’ll find Rose and see if I can set her some work to do,’ she promised as her great-aunt went into the drawing room. There was no doubt that Rose’s education was being neglected.
If I had forty pounds, should I spend it on Violet’s coming-out or send Rose to school for a few years? she wondered. There was a girls’ grammar school in the large town of Maidstone, but Great-Aunt Lizzie might disdain that – and Daisy had no idea of the fees. Thinking hard, she went through the hall and out of the front door.
And then she stopped, her eyes widening. There was a car coming towards the house. Not the ancient battered old black Humber driven by Morgan, but something quite, quite different.
The red Rolls-Royce moved in a stately way up the avenue, passing under the overhanging branches of beech trees, skirting the untidy bushes of rhododendron and dodging the odd pothole. It looked like a very expensive car. Daisy’s eyes widened at the sight. Who did they know who owned a car like that? For a moment she wondered whether it could be the Duchess’s car, but then remembered that had been blue.
But who was this sitting in the back of the sumptuous, brand-new Rolls-Royce? It was a woman. Through the back window Daisy could just make out an elegant close-fitting hat. She took two steps backwards. Her father was in a bad mood – hands shaking, nerves in pieces – and Great-Aunt Lizzie was tired and ill. It was up to her to deal with this stranger.
The car had stopped now in front of the door. The chauffeur had got out and had opened the door. A small figure climbed out. A small, slim figure dressed in the latest fashion with a short dustcoat over an even shorter dress. Daisy quickened her step and the woman turned to face her.
And it was like staring into a looking glass. This woman had blonde curly hair, creamy skin, cornflower-blue eyes, a curvaceous figure, and she was no taller than Daisy herself.
‘Good morning,’ said Daisy politely, well trained in good manners by Great-Aunt Lizzie. ‘Have you had a good trip?’
‘I’ve come from London.’ The woman’s voice was husky and to Daisy’s alarm she saw tears well up in the blue eyes that had moved from looking up at the ivy-encrusted house to studying her intently. Daisy waited, feeling uneasy. The woman had a maid sitting in the front of the car, but the girl had obviously been given instructions not to move so she sat there, looking straight ahead.
‘Are you . . . ? Are you . . . ? Which of the girls are you?’ There was no doubt – Daisy had not imagined those tears; the woman’s voice was choked.
‘I’m Daisy.’ The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she saw, with relief, that Bateman, alerted by one of the maids, had appeared on the steps leading up to the hall door. He hesitated for a moment and then came down the steps more quickly than Daisy had ever seen him move.
‘My lady,’ he said, and his voice was full of emotion.
‘Dear Bateman.’ To Daisy’s astonishment, the visitor flung her arms around the butler and hugged him. And what was even more astonishing, Bateman forgot all his manners and put his arms around the shoulders of the woman and hugged her back. A tremor seemed to move the two figures as if a sob had passed between them and then Bateman stood back, fighting to return his old face into its usual lofty expression.
‘My lady, it’s wonderful to see you again,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Lady Elizabeth and his lordship will have a marvellous surprise.’
‘Didn’t you get my wire then?’ The woman was half laughing and half crying. ‘The same old post office!’ she said. ‘Always late with everything! I suppose that’s the telegraph boy coming up the avenue now. I just arrived back in England a couple of weeks ago. Popped over to Paris to buy a few clothes from Chanel and then back to dear old London again.’ She turned and saw Daisy’s worried expression and smiled reassuringly at her.
‘This is Lady Daisy; your aunt, Lady Elaine, my lady,’ said Bateman. He nodded to the lady’s maid who now got out of the car, carrying an elaborate dressing case. The chauffeur went around to the back of the car and took out a large stylish leather suitcase.
‘Take my purse, Bateman dear, and pay off the chauffeur. I just hired this car in London.’
While Bateman was doing this, Elaine smiled again at Daisy. ‘You look like me, don’t you think? Much prettier, of course. Who does Poppy look like?’
‘She looks like my mother,’ said Daisy promptly. She hardly remembered her mother’s appearance now, but the house was full of photographs of her and there was a magnificent oil painting on the stairs which showed the full glory of her flame-coloured hair.
At that moment Morgan came driving up the avenue from the village. Lady Elaine laughed with a slightly hysterical note in her voice. ‘That can’t be the same old Humber still here!’
‘Yes, my lady. That’s the same car. Not many things have changed since you were here last. The chauffeur is new, of course,’ he added loftily and Daisy suppressed a giggle. Morgan had been chauffeur at Beech Grove Manor for the last four years, but to Bateman and Mrs Pearson he was still ‘the new chauffeur’.
Daisy gazed at the bobbed hair. That was just the way that her hair should be! Bobbed in a pagebo
y cut, with the ends turned under so that it swung when its owner moved her head from side to side as she looked at the house, the stables, the beech woods and the old Humber car with the air of one who could hardly drink in the familiar sights quickly enough.
Daisy waited at the bottom of the steps as they went through the porch door. She would allow Bateman to show Elaine into the drawing room. She hoped that Great-Aunt Lizzie was alone and that her father had not joined her. Aunt and niece should have a little time together in private. They had not met for about seventeen years, she thought; let the first five minutes be for them alone before the rest of the family arrived on the scene.
Then when all was going well – when Elaine had been introduced to the family, had been amazed by Violet’s beauty, was rested, fed and in a receptive mood – then possibly Daisy could broach the subject of a possible sponsorship of her eldest niece through a Court Presentation and hopefully a London Season.
There was one relief, anyway. One glance at Elaine’s clothes, at the handsome luggage, at the stylish lady’s maid, at the hired Rolls-Royce had been enough. There was no doubt in Daisy’s mind that Elaine was wealthy enough to make Violet’s dream come true.
Chapter Twenty-One
Justin was having fun with the ‘Positions Vacant’ section of The Times as Daisy reached the door of the schoolroom.
‘Young person wanted to do general work around the house and to dress the young ladies’ hair,’ he was saying. ‘What do you think, Violet? Could I hold down a position like that? Would you let me practise on you?’
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