“That’s my seat,” a redhead in a brown dress complained when Dinah laid Valerie’s purse at the place next to hers.
“There’s an open one at table twenty-two. It’s over there.” Dinah dismissed the redhead with an imperial flick of her wrist and the redhead sulked away to take Valerie’s empty seat and probably get an earful from her new tablemates about the juicy row she’d missed.
“Valerie, did you really tell off Vivien Mosley?” Christian demanded, dropping into the chair beside her. “Everyone in the ladies’ is talking about it.”
Valerie wanted to groan. The story was spreading faster than she’d anticipated.
“I’ll bet there are twice as many pictures of you in the newspaper tomorrow than there were today,” Dinah mused. “I need something like that to happen to me.”
“Don’t wish for that. It isn’t as grand as you think.”
“Neither is obscurity.”
“Who’s this girl I heard about who told the Mosley one where to go?” an American voice asked from behind her.
Valerie wanted to crawl under the table and die. Nothing about today was going as expected and it was getting worse by the moment.
“Here she is.” Dinah pointed to Valerie, introducing her before naming their new tablemate. “This is Eunice Kennedy. She’s the American Ambassador’s daughter.”
“Well done. It’s about time someone put that pompous brat in her place.” Eunice drew out her words with the same Boston accent as her father’s. Valerie had met the bespectacled and balding American ambassador during one of his many visits to Downing Street. Eunice had a toothy smile in a broad face made more pronounced by the large curls arranged at the side of her head. “I saw your picture in the paper from last night. I won’t be presented until the diplomatic presentations in July, and there are a lot this year. Daddy made sure there weren’t many last year so my sisters Kick and Rosemary could hog the spotlight. No one cares if I have to share it, but that’s what happens when you’re in the middle of nine kids.”
“Nine children?” Valerie couldn’t think of a family in England that was so prolific, at least not with their spouses.
“To the number. And you’re the PM’s niece. Look at us all, so distinguished. They should seat us closer to the front.”
“No,” Christian balked. “Then we’d never have a chance for a real chat, and I want to hear all about Vivien’s stepmother.”
“Me too,” Eunice insisted. “I need something delicious to throw at Kick when she’s crowing about visiting Blenheim with Debo Mitford and all her aristocratic friends. Wait until she hears Debo’s sister Diana was Sir Oswald Mosley’s mistress. She won’t be so hoity-toity about her new chums then.”
Valerie stared at the girls seated on either side of her waiting for her to launch into an entirely inappropriate subject for a ladies’ luncheon. She hated to disappoint them, especially when they were risking their reputations to sit beside her, but she refused to give their chaperones another reason to demand they have nothing to do with her. She’d made enough mistakes today. She didn’t need any more.
A sharp whine from the speakers made everyone shudder and saved Valerie from being pressured into sharing salacious gossip.
“Ladies, your attention, please.” An older woman with a square face and a mouth tucked in behind round cheeks stood at the front of the room. She tapped the microphone a few times before clearing her throat. “Good afternoon. I’m Lady Howard de Walden, President of the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball Committee.”
She welcomed everyone and introduced the women at the long rectangular head table. Each held a title grander than the next. Then Lady de Walden launched into a description of the night itself, of the gorgeous white gowns they’d wear accentuated by the keepsake necklaces designed by Schiaparelli. She held up one of the bright red hearts hanging on a red satin ribbon and a wave of excitement swept the room. The heart was so large they had no trouble seeing it from where they sat.
“They look like overdone Christmas ornaments,” Dinah whispered.
“We’ll fall ankles-over-head curtseying to a cake with those things around our necks,” Christian said.
“Curtseying to a cake,” Eunice scoffed. “Who ever heard of such a silly thing?”
“It’s more than a grand cake you’ll curtsey to, ladies, but a representation of a long tradition of service both of the monarchs to the country and of society to the mothers of England through the Queen Charlotte Maternity Hospital,” Lady de Walden announced, as if she’d heard Eunice’s question.
Christian, Eunice, and Dinah giggled. Even Valerie had to work to hold back a laugh.
“Quiet, you lot,” Katherine scolded with a sly smile. “We don’t want to tweak the wrong noses.”
“But it is ridiculous.” Dinah wriggled her fingers at one of the scowling debs at the next table and the girl screwed up her face tighter before returning her attention to Lady de Walden.
Valerie sobered, thoroughly chastised. She was on thin enough ice already. She didn’t need to make it worse by acting the troublemaker.
“Despite any differences between you ladies, be it home country or politics, during this event you’ll be and act as one, a graceful parade of youth, beauty, and innocence to inspire the girls of England,” Lady de Walden said, waxing poetic.
“What utter nonsense,” Dinah whispered to Valerie. “Vivien couldn’t put her differences aside over a salad. She and her friends aren’t likely to do it in front of a cake.”
Valerie dared to look at Vivien, who sat rigidly between Priscilla and Rosalind at a table near the mirrored wall. She narrowed her eyes at Valerie before turning and raising her chin to listen to the speaker. “I’ll have to. I can’t let her goad me into forgetting myself again.”
“Nonsense. You stood up to her and gave her exactly what she deserved. That’s more than most girls would do.” She raised her water glass to Valerie. “Well done.”
Her slip in etiquette hadn’t driven Dinah and the others away. It was certainly promising.
The patronesses continued to speak while the waiters slid salads in front of them and later replaced the dishes with chicken in a thick cream sauce. Lady de Walden thrilled at the unusual number of duchesses attending and how tiaras would be worn because of it.
“At least with this ball we don’t have to wait around for a chap to ask us to it, we can ask them,” Dinah whispered to Valerie. “Who’s your escort?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know any chaps.”
“We’ll have to change that.”
“Shhh,” the blonde across the table hissed.
“Shh yourself,” Dinah shot back and leaned closer to Valerie. “These cats are never going to let us have a good chat. Come to tea with us at Aunt Nancy’s tomorrow, then you can spill all the gossip without everyone hissing at us like flattening tires.”
“My cousin’s hair will go gray if she hears I’ve been discussing adultery at the home of a viscountess.”
“Then don’t tell her. It’s none of her business what we say. I’m sure she doesn’t tell you everything she and her married friends chat about.”
“She doesn’t tell me anything except what to do or say. It’s terribly exhausting.”
“What a bore. Never mind her, you have my permission to speak with us however you like. Promise me you’ll come.”
Valerie picked at her chicken, thrilled and terrified by the invitation. She’d made a right royal mess of things with Vivien, but Dinah and the others didn’t care. They wanted to spend more time with her, and the pile of invitations at home couldn’t compare to this personal one. Like living in No. 10, this was an opportunity she couldn’t miss. Hopefully, she wouldn’t ruin it either, but she’d never make friends by staying home and she very much wanted friends. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter Five
Good afternoon, Valerie.” Dorothy came in from outside, removing her coat and handing it to the No. 10 footman while Henry closed the black-l
acquered door. “Is Mummy here? I popped by to see her on my way to the dressmaker’s.”
“She’s reviewing arrangements for the King and Queen’s dinner.” It wasn’t until the second week of April but the endless details and royal protocol constantly demanded Aunt Anne’s attention. Valerie eyed Dorothy, wondering what she was really about. With her milliner in Knightsbridge, Downing Street was hardly on the way.
“Where are you off to?” Dorothy scrutinized Valerie’s gray floral day dress with the shirred top and the gray wool overcoat.
“Lady Astor’s house in St. James’s Square. Dinah Brand and some other girls and I are having tea together.” Valerie waited for her cousin to be impressed. She wasn’t.
“What other girls?”
Valerie tried not to sigh as she listed their names. Dorothy nodded her approval the way the Mother Superior used to do when Valerie successfully listed the cardinal sins. “A notable group of girls worth knowing, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you to be careful. Some women, even those who claim to be your friends, don’t have your best interests at heart. You might innocently mention something about Mavis or that dreadful school of yours in France thinking you have their confidence, only to find they’re all too eager to tell everyone.”
“If they were going to be cruel they would’ve done it already.” Vivien was proof of that, and it was no wonder, given the stock she came from, but it made Valerie wonder why Dinah and the others were so quick to befriend her.
“Perhaps, but lady friends can be very catty and such jealous beasts, wrecking your chances with a man because they don’t have one.” Dorothy brushed a bit of fluff off Valerie’s coat the way she often did with her daughter when they went for walks. “A little caution may save you a great deal of regret later.”
As sick as it made Valerie to admit it, Dorothy was right. During Valerie’s first days in the convent school, she’d befriended Nanette, a new girl who’d been skinnier and shier than her. At night they used to whisper across the space between their beds, telling each other about their lives before the convent. She thought she’d finally found a true friend until Nanette had told Antoinette everything. The taunting had grown more vicious after that. They’d been jealous of the English girl who still had family and the chance to leave. It was a hope they hadn’t enjoyed. “I’ll be cautious.”
“Good.” Dorothy laced her hands in front of her like the nuns used to do during inspections. “Who’s your chaperone for the ride to Lady Astor’s?”
“No one. I’m going alone.”
“You can’t.”
“Good heavens, this isn’t Queen Victoria’s reign. Unless Mr. May suddenly has some amorous ideas about me, I’m perfectly safe in the back of Uncle Neville’s car.”
“That isn’t the point.” Dorothy puckered her lips in the same lemon-sucking scowl the Mother Superior used to flash every time Valerie had begged for more stamps and writing paper. “There are rules that must be followed, no matter how ridiculous you think they are. One is that respectable young ladies must be chaperoned. Mummy should send Miss Leaf with you.”
“Miss Leaf has too much to do to babysit me about London.”
“Then we’ll find someone else. You, there.” Dorothy snapped her fingers at Miss Holmes, who had the unfortunate luck to happen by with her notepad and pencil. “Miss de Vere Cole needs someone to accompany her to Lady Astor’s. You’ll ride with her and then return with the car.”
Miss Holmes glanced from Valerie to Dorothy before she lowered her notepad. “With all due respect, Mrs. Lloyd, it isn’t the typists’ place to serve as chaperones for the Premier’s family.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure you can be spared. Who do I speak with to arrange it?”
Valerie threw Miss Holmes an apologetic smile, but the Garden Room Girl remained as composed as before. There was a skill Valerie hoped the Season would instill in her. “Mrs. Stenhouse.”
“Take me to her at once.”
Miss Holmes escorted Dorothy downstairs with the same efficiency she employed with ministers and secretaries entering the Cabinet Room. Maybe Mr. May would bring the car around and Valerie could slip away before Dorothy turned the entire government upside down in her propriety crusade. She wasn’t that fortunate, and Dorothy and Miss Holmes returned before he pulled up to the curb.
If the smile brightening Dorothy’s face hadn’t announced her triumph, then Miss Holmes in her camel-colored coat and carrying a large envelope was a dead giveaway.
“It took some maneuvering with that stubborn woman in the Garden Room. Does she not understand the importance of propriety?” Dorothy complained.
“She understands the real work you’re pulling Miss Holmes away from.”
“Nonsense. I doubt Miss Holmes has anything important to do. There’s Mr. May. Off you go. We don’t want to keep Miss Brand and the others waiting.”
Henry opened the door and Miss Holmes made for the car. Valerie was about to follow when Dorothy stepped in front of her. “Be friendly but not too friendly with Miss Holmes. You didn’t grow up with servants, so you don’t understand the delicate relationship between them and us. Remember your place and hers and you’ll be fine. Now run along. Tardiness is bad manners.”
Valerie didn’t bother to point out that Dorothy’s fussing was making her late. Instead she marched outside and stepped in the car. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Lloyd. She can be a touch overbearing at times.”
“It’s all right, I’m quite used to it.” Miss Holmes settled the envelope on her lap. “My sisters are like that, always at me for sounding posh and accusing me of reaching above my station. They’re jealous, but if they’d studied harder they might work somewhere more important than shops in Clapham. It’s easier to tear people down than it is to praise them.”
Didn’t Valerie know it? “I hope this doesn’t put you too far behind in your work.”
“If it does, it can’t be helped, and I don’t mind getting out for a little while, even if it’s just to the War Office.” She motioned to the envelope.
“Miss Holmes, shall I drop you there now or on the return?” Mr. May asked.
“On the way back, please. I’d like a little time away from the typewriter, my next half day isn’t until Sunday.” She settled against the seat with a tired sigh, watching London pass outside the window.
Mr. May drove the car down Whitehall and past the white-brick War Office building with its columns and domes. Piles of sandbags blocked the view of the ground floor and men in army uniforms came and went from the maze inside. The War Office appeared a great deal busier today than it had the many other times she’d passed it.
“Is Uncle Neville any closer to a solution?” Valerie asked, hating to intrude on Miss Holmes’s moment of peace but wondering if there was more to worry about than possibly wicked female friends.
Miss Holmes appeared more surprised by this than by Dorothy’s demand for a chaperone. “Has he not told you anything?”
“I haven’t seen him enough for him to tell me anything, and Aunt Anne doesn’t discuss it. Politics isn’t considered an essential part of a debutante’s education.” Valerie had taken the evening papers upstairs after supper yesterday, determined to read the political and international news, but after the late court night and the stress of the luncheon, she’d collapsed into bed exhausted. Mary had collected the papers when she’d come in that morning to light the fire. Valerie hadn’t been any more diligent about world affairs during breakfast, poring over the Tatler and Bystander without a thought for the Times. She’d searched the society pages for any mention of yesterday’s tiff with Vivien but there’d been nothing except glowing praise for more debutantes.
“Politics isn’t part of any young woman’s education. If it weren’t for my position, I’d be as ignorant as my sisters, but there’s no reason why you should be.” She faced Valerie with the seriousness of a headmistress but with far more humor and warmth than any teacher Valerie had ever endured. “The Premier isn’t any
closer to a solution than he was the other day, and there are rumors that Herr Hitler will widen his aggression to Lithuania. He has his eye on the Memel, a crucial port on the Baltic Sea.”
“What’ll happen if he invades it?”
“I don’t know, but most ministers aren’t willing to start another war over a small slice of Lithuania, and there’s still hope that once Germany reclaims everything it lost in the Treaty of Versailles they’ll be satisfied.”
“Grasping people are never satisfied.” She’d spent enough time with Mavis to know.
“Keep faith in the Premier. He’ll do all he can to protect England.”
“I’m sure he will.” No one wanted war, not after the last one.
The car continued down Whitehall to Cockspur Street, passing beneath the shadow of the high statue of Admiral Nelson in Trafalgar Square. Miss Holmes continued to take in the passing streets, her position and knowledge making her seem very mature but she couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Valerie. She probably thought Valerie a silly deb who looked down on working girls, but Valerie didn’t dismiss them like Dorothy did. How could she? If Valerie could’ve earned a living in Ascain, she wouldn’t have fallen as far as she had. “How did you become a typist?”
“My father encouraged me to take the Civil Service exam after secretarial school. He said I’d get further there than anywhere else. He’s a conductor at the Victoria Palace Theatre and wanted at least one of us to do better.” She said it with as much pride as if her father were an earl. Her refined accent might trick one into thinking that was the case, but she was simply a young woman trying to improve her life.
Not so different from me. Except Father had squandered her opportunities instead of encouraging them. If it weren’t for Aunt Anne, Miss Holmes would be a great deal better off than Valerie. “You’ve done very well for yourself.”
“I think so, and now I get to rub my sisters’ noses in having ridden in the Premier’s private car.” She laughed like Valerie had yesterday with Dinah. Valerie offered a matching smile, relaxing for the first time since Dorothy had dragged Miss Holmes into this drive.
The Last Debutantes Page 6