“So you’re the debutante in Downing Street. Awfully grand to be in the middle of things, isn’t it?” Dinah took Valerie by the elbow and pulled her through the throng of women. “Aunt Nancy’s house is always full of government types but the papers can be so beastly, writing all sorts of nasty things about them. The palace is marvelous, it makes you really want something special to remember it by, doesn’t it?”
“We’re visiting Lenare’s Photography Studio afterward to take my picture.” All the fashionable portrait studios remained open late on presentation nights to accommodate the extra demand for photographs. “There wasn’t time for a sitting this afternoon.”
“I’m having mine done at Wrightson’s later, but I want something more than a boring old photo.” She stopped near a Georgian table loaded with discarded plates and slid a dessert fork off the top one. A wicked smile turned up the corners of her lips, which were tinted with a faint sweep of pale pink lipstick. “A more unique souvenir.”
“You can’t!”
“Why not? Unity Mitford stole a heap of palace stationery at her presentation and then sent letters on it to everyone.”
“Before she ran off to worship Herr Hitler.”
“My point exactly. A fork is far more patriotic.” She opened the bodice of her dress, ready to drop the fork down it, when Valerie grabbed her hand.
“You can’t. The Yeomen of the Guard are watching.” They stood around the perimeter of the room, their scarlet coats a stark contrast to the pale evening gowns and pastel palace decor.
“They’re so bored they’re practically asleep. They won’t notice a thing.”
They probably wouldn’t. Their eyes were glazed over and it was a wonder they hadn’t slumped to the floor to nap. Valerie let go of Dinah’s hand and Dinah shoved the fork down the front of her bodice so fast, Valerie might have blinked and missed it. She hoped no one else had seen it. She didn’t want to be escorted out of the palace for abetting a thief. People would certainly comment then that the apple hadn’t fallen far from her father’s tree.
“You should get one too,” Dinah said.
“No.”
“Come off it, with a father like yours you can’t be against a touch of harmless fun.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“My cousin Phyllis says the only way to truly enjoy the Season is to be a little daring. Otherwise it’s simply dancing and teas and no chance to stand out at all. Go on. I won’t tell a soul.”
Dinah pushed her toward the pile of abandoned plates and forks and Valerie stared at the mound of half-eaten tarts and scattered cutlery. She shouldn’t risk her already precarious reputation for a bit of royal tat, but Dinah hadn’t turned up her nose at Valerie. She wasn’t about to thank her by landing her in a heap of trouble or acting the prude. She’d had enough of being snubbed. If the cost of acceptance was a dessert fork, then so be it.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Valerie snatched up a fork and stuffed it in her purse. Dinah’s smile of triumph was worth the weight of the flatware sitting on her conscience.
“Did you do it? Did you get some paper?” A dark-haired girl with round cheeks and a slight Scottish burr rushed up to Dinah’s side.
“We nicked something better. Show them, Valerie.”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell a soul.”
“This is Christian Grant, you can trust her, and I’d show her mine but I can hardly reach it.” Dinah patted the silk bodice of her dress. “Go on. She won’t rat us out.”
“I won’t.” Anticipation brightened Christian’s dark brown eyes.
Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Valerie opened her purse wide enough to give Christian a peek inside.
“How marvelous. I wish I’d thought of that. Where’s Katherine?”
“Here I am.” A girl with round cheeks and prominent teeth pushed in between Dinah and Christian. “What did I miss?”
“Dinah and the PM’s niece stole some dessert forks,” Christian whispered.
“Well done. Katherine Ormsby-Gore.” The new girl held out a gloved hand to Valerie, her throaty voice muted by a very proper accent that pulled down the end of every word. “What else do you think we can get?”
“My purse is big enough to fit a teacup.” Christian held up a drawstring bag made from the same embroidered brocade as her gown.
“Then let’s try for one of those.” Katherine adjusted the ostrich feathers set at a tilt in her caramel-colored hair.
“What do you say, Valerie? Should we do it?” Dinah asked.
The girls turned to Valerie as if this escapade were her idea. How she’d become the ringleader she didn’t know, but it was preferable to being an outcast. “Definitely, and by the end of tonight maybe we’ll have an entire tea set.”
This was the most fun she’d had since coming to London.
Chapter Two
Aunt Anne peered over her spectacles as Valerie stumbled into No. 10’s small dining room. She sat at the head of the oval table, the red dispatch box with Prince Arthur engraved in gold on the top in front of her. She’d inherited the box from her father, and inside, her correspondence was as neatly organized as her graying dark blond hair was perfectly waved. Her father had been the Duke of Connaught’s, Queen Victoria’s third son’s, comptroller, and the box was one of the many gifts he’d received for his faithful service. “You’re up early this morning.”
“The Horse Guards woke me.” It’d been well after midnight when they’d left Buckingham Palace, and past two before they’d finally arrived home from Lenare’s Photography Studio. She wished she looked as well put together as her aunt did this morning. Her aunt wore a tailored morning dress of red roses set off by a strand of milky pearls. Valerie’s yellow polka-dot day dress with the hastily tied sash was wrinkled and her black curls had been forced into a loose chignon after a good fight with the hairbrush.
“What news of the Premier, Miss Leaf?” Aunt Anne motioned for Mr. Dobson, the barrel-chested butler, to pour more coffee while she flipped through the Daily Mirror.
“The Observer supports Mr. Eden’s calls to form a new government,” Miss Leaf, Aunt Anne’s willowy social secretary, said. She sat at a narrow side table in an impeccable gray suit, her tight blond curls pinned up high on her head. She read aloud the many harsh comments from Mr. Eden about Uncle Neville, making them wince.
“After everything Uncle Neville did for Mr. Eden, to have him turn on him like that is perfectly dreadful.” Valerie scooped eggs and ham from the silver chafing dishes on the sideboard onto her plate. The tart scent of both mingled with the beeswax wood polish used to make the oak-paneled walls gleam. In the window alcove above the fireplace, the bust of Sir Isaac Newton watched the ladies with an impassive marble air. “Why does Lord Astor allow something so awful to be printed in his paper? I thought he supported Uncle Neville.”
She sat at the table, thanking Mr. Dobson for the cup of coffee he set beside her.
“He does, but he’s afraid people won’t trust the Times or the Observer if he puts undue pressure on his editors. It allows his reporters to run amok. At least the articles on the presentation are marvelous. Add these to the book, please, Miss Leaf.” Aunt Anne handed the Daily Mirror to Miss Leaf, who, besides reading out the horrors of the editorial page, had been tasked with clipping and pasting articles into the large scrapbook of Valerie’s Season.
My Season. Despite the auspicious start, last night had been jolly good fun. She expected more of the same at today’s Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball luncheon, especially with Dinah and the others there. No eating alone for her, not this time, maybe not ever again.
Aunt Anne selected the Times from the newspapers fanned out on the table in front of her, including the society ones such as Bystander and the Tatler.
“I’m surprised they printed anything at all about it, considering the news from Europe.” Valerie tugged the West London Observer out of the pile and read the large advertisement at th
e bottom calling for women to join the London Volunteer Ambulance Service, warning that if the bombs began to fall, their driving skills would be needed. What a dreadful thought.
“People enjoy a little distraction from their troubles.” Aunt Anne leisurely thumbed through the Times. “It makes life bearable.”
Didn’t Valerie know it? She’d lost count of how many books in the Saint-Jean-de-Luz library she’d escaped into during her six years with Father in France.
“Besides, if the papers didn’t print the presentation, they’d have the matrons of Mayfair to contend with, as the Times will soon discover. Not a word in here about last night, only stories about the German invasion of Czechoslovakia. Poor Lord Astor, this simply isn’t his morning.” Aunt Anne flipped the offending paper closed and laid it off to one side, choosing the Sketch next.
Valerie sipped her coffee, the charred taste of burnt beans making her blanch. “Mrs. Bell over-roasted the coffee again.”
“Nonsense, her preparation adds robustness. I’ve had a number of compliments on it.”
Valerie bit her tongue about the compliment she’d overheard downstairs when Mr. Colville had grumbled that Uncle Neville never invited the staff to dine with him. The newly hired second secretary had been told by Mr. Rucker and Mr. Seyer, the senior private secretaries, to be thankful. Aunt Anne was a fine hostess who could employ the government chef to distinction, but she wasn’t known for keeping a capable family cook.
“Here’s a lovely picture of you and some of the other debutantes.” Aunt Anne handed Valerie the Sketch.
Across the page were arranged portraits of Eunice Kennedy, the daughter of the American Ambassador; the Honorable Vivien Mosley; the Honorable Rosalind Cubitt; Lady Margaret Boyle, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk; and Lady Anne Fitzroy, the Duke of Grafton’s daughter. In the center of the layout was Valerie in the green satin dress she’d worn for her official debutante portrait taken at the beginning of the month. Beneath each picture was a glowing description of each girl and her family. Valerie read it, expecting another mention of Father’s ridiculous old pranks, as if people needed reminding, but it wasn’t there. They simply stated her lineage, her relation to the Chamberlains, naming her Aunt Anne’s protégée and praising her as “a beauty who does the Prime Minister proud.”
“What utter tosh,” she said with a laugh. “It’s worse than Father’s old poetry.”
“Don’t dismiss it, my dear. You deserve the compliment.” Pride brightened Aunt Anne’s blue eyes and sobered Valerie. This was more than she’d ever seen in Father’s similarly hooded eyes or the Mother Superior’s haggard face. “You’ve already received an impressive number of invitations.”
She motioned to Miss Leaf, who handed Valerie a thick stack of envelopes.
Valerie sifted through them, boggled by the many names written in fine calligraphy. She recognized most of them from the hours spent studying Debrett’s Peerage with Great-Aunt Lillian at West Woodhay House during the last six months. She’d been sent there to recover her health after France. With everything happening in Germany and the Munich Agreement, Aunt Anne had been forced to remain with Uncle Neville in London. Great-Aunt Lillian had been more Victorian-stern than Mother Superior–hard, and had been quite dismayed by Valerie’s lack of a proper English education. Having dismissed Valerie’s experiences in France as something best forgotten, she’d launched into a rigorous training program, her pursed lips and exasperated sighs when Valerie had said Leveson-Gower instead of properly pronouncing it Looson-Gore as cutting as the Mother Superior’s switch. Valerie’s father had once rubbed elbows with these families but she’d certainly never met them. That was going to change this Season. After years of social exile, she’d find a proper place in society, make friends, and build a new life in London, even if she had no idea what that life might eventually look like. “What encouraged all of these?”
“The articles in the society pages and your current residence. People are curious. That’s to your advantage.”
One of the few she enjoyed, but even that hadn’t made a difference to Lady Ashcombe or Lady Windon last night. Whether it would change enough minds over the next four months to secure Valerie some sort of respectable station remained to be seen.
Aunt Anne slid the stack out of Valerie’s hands. “We’ll decide which ones to accept and decline later. You’ll have a full calendar this Season.”
“Good morning, Mother, Valerie.” Cousin Dorothy swept into the room and enveloped Valerie in a flowery, Mille Fleurs–perfumed hug before taking the chair across the table. Her nose was long and sharp like Uncle Neville’s, and she had his dark eyes, but the soft shape of her face was Aunt Anne. She was ten years older than Valerie but her dour hairstyle and clothes made her appear older. A better hairdresser and seamstress would do her a world of good, but, unlike Dorothy during the court dress fittings, Valerie kept her opinion about people’s fashion choices to herself. “I saw your picture in the Daily Herald. You looked marvelous.”
“I haven’t seen that one yet.” Aunt Anne riffled through the papers.
Dorothy found it first, opening it to the center and folding it back before handing it to her mother. “That wasn’t the only item of interest. Did you know about this?”
Aunt Anne’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “I did not.”
“It isn’t about my hesitation, is it?” Most newspapers could be counted on to flatter society, but some were more cutting. One usually had to read between the lines to find the insults, but they were there.
“What hesitation?” Dorothy demanded, as if Valerie had spit on the royal carpet.
“Valerie’s train caught on her heel, it was nothing,” Aunt Anne dismissed.
“This isn’t nothing.” Dorothy took the paper from her mother and handed it to Valerie.
Neither of them needed to point out what’d caught their notice. At the bottom of the page was a black-and-white photo of Valerie’s twenty-eight-year-old stepmother, Mavis, hanging on the arm of her new husband, Mr. R. E. Mortimer Wheeler. The caption identified him as the Honorary Director of the London Museum, and, given his picture, he was as old as his antiquities. The tart certainly appeared young and spry. Her hair was better curled and much lighter than the last time Valerie had seen her storming out of the Hotel Etchola in Ascain with her ratty suitcase.
“What will people say when they see that?” Dorothy pulled off her gloves with quick jerks and laid them on the table. “Mr. Wheeler is hardly a persona non grata.”
“He’s a distinguished archaeologist charged with evacuating the London Museum should German bombing become a threat,” Aunt Anne explained to Valerie.
“How does that scheming witch always find some notable old man to make her respectable?” Valerie flung the paper on the table. “I wonder if she’ll foist her lover’s bastard off on him the way she tried to do with Father.”
“Valerie!” Dorothy tugged at the knot of her scarf while Mr. Dobson set down her coffee. “Didn’t you hear anything I told you about minding your tongue?”
“I did. I also heard Father wailing at Mavis’s feet to not leave him. He was so thrilled when she returned, you’d think Mary of Lourdes had appeared instead of that knocked-up tart.” He hadn’t been that excited when he’d met Valerie at the train station after summoning her from the drafty Cambridge dame school to join him and Mavis in France. She’d been banished to that scholarly inept Cambridge boarding school at five, Father only visiting once or twice in all those years before summoning her to live with him and Mavis in France when she was twelve. She thought he’d finally wanted her. All he’d wanted was to save money on her Cambridge school fees, another outstanding bill Uncle Neville had been obliged to settle after he’d died. Valerie had begged to be allowed to live with Aunt Anne, but Father had refused, unable to admit to yet another failure in a lifetime full of them. He’d rather Valerie suffer with him in poverty than swallow his pride and ask for help. The bastard. “Besides, it’s only us, and we all
know Mavis was involved with that painter. At least Augustus John had the good sense not to marry her. Why, even Miss Leaf has heard the story.”
Miss Leaf glanced up, about to agree, then thought better of it and returned to clipping articles.
“Whatever people may or may not know, if you don’t mind what you say in front of us you’ll forget yourself with others,” Dorothy huffed. “We’ve worked very hard to give you the advantages your father wasted. Don’t ruin it by acting the fishwife. No one wants to associate with crass young ladies and they certainly don’t want their daughters or sons befriending them either. You’ll find yourself quite the outcast if you carry on like this.”
She thought of the Buckingham Palace fork hidden in her desk upstairs. The girls hadn’t given a fig about Valerie’s past, thinking Father a riot and Valerie a good sport. How long after their parents read about Mavis would they warn their daughters off her? She didn’t relish walking into the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball luncheon and having them snub her the way Rosalind Cubitt had. Everything was on the verge of changing for Valerie, and Mavis was going to bitch it up.
“You must be careful. Wouldn’t you agree, Mother?”
Aunt Anne watched them with her usual unshakable poise. Valerie didn’t give two pence about Dorothy’s opinion but she very much minded Aunt Anne’s. It’s why she hadn’t told her everything about France. She couldn’t bear to have her look at Valerie with the same horror Dorothy flung at her.
“I trust Valerie knows how to conduct herself in proper company.”
Valerie let out a long breath. At least someone believed in her, even if she wasn’t certain she deserved it.
“Of course. You know best.” Dorothy dropped a sugar cube into her coffee and stirred it with a fury. “What are we to say when people ask about Valerie’s time in France? The Hotel Etchola is hardly a finishing school, and someone is sure to mention it once they see this wedding announcement.”
The Last Debutantes Page 2