Given some of the things Valerie had heard from Mary, stories were slipping out of the Astors’ back entrance, but this room seemed safe enough, assuming none of them walked out of here and told their parents or siblings what they’d heard and from whom. Valerie didn’t need that kind of reputation, assuming their families were easily offended. Valerie doubted they were. She’d sat through enough debates in the House of Commons to know Lady Astor didn’t suffer from delicate sensibilities and Ambassador Kennedy was rarely shy with his opinions. As for the other girls, she couldn’t say what their mothers might think, but at least she’d come out of this with one or two friends. That was better than none and worth the risk of getting in trouble for appearing a touch too worldly.
“Debo Mitford is the best of the sisters,” Valerie began, her voice trembling as the girls perched their elbows on the table to listen with rapt attention. “The rest are simply awful, especially Vivien’s stepmother, Diana. She left her husband, the Guinness heir, to live in sin with Sir Oswald. If it hadn’t been for the baby, he never would’ve married her. Jessica Mitford is no better. She ran off with Esmond Rommilly, an avowed Communist and nearly as bad as Sir Oswald. They only married after Nancy, the eldest sister, cornered them in Spain. Even then it took some maneuvering to get them to the altar and keep Jessica from complete ruin.”
“Where did you hear so much, Valerie?”
“Our French landlady in Ascain shared more gossip than a lady’s maid.”
“What were you doing there?” Dinah asked, more curious than perplexed.
“The weather there was better for my father’s health than in Paris.” She was repeating the story Dorothy and Aunt Anne had concocted like a well-trained parrot. “He had heart troubles.”
His constant drinking had exacerbated them, along with the biting cold and lack of food during their last few weeks together before Mr. Shoedelin had stepped in and made things worse.
“Pneumonia did my mother in.” Dinah frowned and turned her teacup in its saucer, staring into the dark liquid before she looked up, her expression bright as ever. “Hard to believe there are so many bad eggs in the Mitford family.”
“Unity was in Germany while I was there studying last year.” Katherine set her napkin beside her empty plate. “I don’t understand her beastly fixation with Herr Hitler. I heard what he said about the Jews and saw what they’re doing to them, taking their shops and stripping them of their rights. That she and Lord and Lady Mosley want it to happen here is perfectly dreadful.”
“I’ll say,” Christian agreed. “Anne Schuster, the girl I’m sharing my coming-out ball with, her family is Jewish, and I heard her mother talking to mine. She’s in an awful state about it.”
“It won’t happen here,” Eunice assured them. “Not after those East Enders stood up to the Blackshirts and gave them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Or when Valerie made Vivien think twice about spouting such nonsense in polite society,” Dinah added. “But enough of that nasty business. Who wants to host our next tea?”
“Valerie must do it,” Christian insisted. “Assuming, of course, you’re allowed. I don’t want to seem pushy or impose, but I so want to see Downing Street.”
“Go on and impose,” Katherine encouraged. “You won’t see me sticking my nose up at an invitation to Number Ten.”
“It isn’t as posh as you think. The house is drafty, even after all of Aunt Anne’s improvements.”
“Sounds like every house in England,” Eunice replied. “But I don’t care. Kick will be green with envy that her sister is chummy with the Prime Minister’s niece. To hear her talk you’d think she was the Queen of England’s best friend.”
“If she and Billy Harrington continue on, she might very well become the next Duchess of Devonshire,” Katherine said.
“The saints in heaven forbid!” Eunice made the sign of the cross over her white and blue sprig-patterned dress. “She can’t marry a Protestant. She won’t. That’s a mortal sin.”
“It’s a sin I’d commit.” Christian dreamily stirred her tea.
“It’s a sin we’d all commit, but we’ll settle for tea at Number Ten,” Dinah proclaimed. “Valerie, old girl, you’re the next to host.”
“Is that why you invited me here today, to cajole me into giving you a peek inside the Prime Minister’s residence?” It was a half-serious question. She wanted to know why they were so quick to accept her when everyone else practically sprinted away.
“Yes, and you’re smashing fun to be around.”
“That’s not what the girls at my French finishing school thought.” Finishing school. What a lark, to call the convent that simply to save face. Oliver Twist’s workhouse would have been a paradise in comparison, but its real name was too dreary to contemplate. Valerie’s knees still ached whenever she heard Latin, the memory of kneeling on the cold stone during the endless masses while light-headed with hunger making her shudder. “They were ugly little snots.”
“I’m not surprised. You know how the French are,” Dinah said, as if this were enough to explain the hard-hearted nuns or the nasty students. But of course they knew nothing of what it’d really been like there. They assumed Valerie had lived in genteel luxury with some poor aristocrat paid to teach French and expose them to art. She couldn’t tell the truth and have them regard her with the same horror as Mr. Shoedelin.
“Oh, I know how the French are,” Eunice concurred. “Mother takes us there every year to buy clothes. Even the shopgirls are arrogant. It must be something in the water.”
“Or the wine.”
“The Swiss aren’t any different, at least the French-speaking ones. The girls at my boarding school in Fetan were beastly.” Dinah finished her tea and dropped the cup in its saucer with a clank.
Valerie’s heart went out to her, hating to think anyone else had been locked away in one of those awful schools. “Then you must come to Downing Street. I’ll send a note around with the date once it’s fixed. It won’t be nearly as interesting as Buckingham Palace but it’ll be fun.”
They fell into conversation, discussing this girl or that chap. Valerie listened, soaking it all in. If this was sitting in a pit of vipers, then they were the most charming and fun she’d ever met, which would make it all the more deadly and disheartening if they did decide to strike. Oh, it was too ridiculous to think that every woman in society was filing her nails into points and waiting to scratch some other’s eyes out. If that were true, then Aunt Anne wouldn’t have friends, and she and Lady Bridgeman were as thick as thieves. Unless, of course, there was something Dorothy knew about these girls that Valerie didn’t, a trait she wouldn’t discover until it was too late. She hoped that wasn’t the case.
UNCLE NEVILLE AND Valerie strode through St. James’s Park early the next morning. Wisps of fog clung to the edges of the trenches dug through the green grass after the Anschluss last year. Men in uniform tromped along their tops, inspecting the crumbling sides and shooing away boys trying to play in them. The lines of the earthworks weren’t neat or tidy, having been left to the London winter instead of the army after the Munich Agreement.
“How are you finding the Season?” Uncle Neville swung his umbrella in time with his gait, his detective remaining a respectable distance behind to give them privacy.
“Exhausting. I don’t know how I’ll manage three and a half more months of this.” After tea with Their Excellencies and then the late dinner party last night at Lady Londonderry’s, she’d craved a long lie-in this morning, but the Horse Guards had been particularly vigorous with their drills. She was glad she’d come downstairs instead of trying to fall back asleep, catching Uncle Neville as he’d set off for a quick jaunt around the park before the cabinet meeting. It was a rare treat to have him all to herself.
“You’ll find a way, and it’s good training for the rigors of life, a chance to build your stamina. I was your age when I ran my family’s plantation in the Bahamas. It was grueling work, but it taught
me to overcome mistakes and setbacks instead of allowing them to defeat me. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t learned those lessons. This Season, you’ll do the same. Never dwell on failure or the past. Take what lessons you can from them and then carry on.”
“I’ll do my best.” Ignoring the past was not her strong suit. It wasn’t as long ago as she’d like.
He raised his umbrella in greeting to an old couple sitting on a bench by the lake feeding the ducks. They offered a cheerful wave in return. “How are you getting on with the other debutantes?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” Despite the splendid afternoon at Dinah’s, she still couldn’t shake Dorothy’s fearmongering.
“You suppose?” Uncle Neville pressed.
“You don’t want to hear it, not when you have more important things to manage.” There was no mistaking the dark circles beneath his eyes or the slight bend in his shoulders from his responsibilities. He didn’t need her concerns added to the pile.
“Nonsense, it’ll give me something to consider besides Germany.” He slid her a sideways smile that softened the deep lines around his eyes.
“All right.” If anyone could see things clearly, it was Uncle Neville. “I’ve become friendly with a few girls, I like them very much and I’m sure they like me, but Dorothy says they’re simply lying in wait to hear something delicious about me to tell everyone. Do you think they are?”
He rested his umbrella on his shoulder, pausing as he often did after a difficult question from the Commons. “Annie’s told me about some of the girls. I think it’s splendid you getting to know Lady Astor’s niece, and the Ormsby girl, her father is well regarded in government circles and the House of Lords. They’re fine connections that could serve you well in the future.”
A very practical way to view things. “But is Dorothy right? Should I be wary of them?”
“If you tell your secrets to every flibbertigibbet who flutters around thinking they have your best interests in mind, you will regret it. However, if you’re cautious, you’ll eventually learn whom to trust or avoid. You might also discover that some of those girls need your friendship as much as you need theirs.”
“How can that be, when they’ve always been here and have known one another for ages?”
He stopped, hooked the umbrella handle over his arm, and faced her. He was tall and thin, his top hat adding to his impressive height and shading his eyes. He studied her with genuine care and concern, the way she wished Father would’ve done. “No matter what it appears from the outside, not everyone has it easy. Given everything you’ve endured, you might be in a better position to understand and help them with their difficulties than the people they’ve grown up with.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“They may not either, they may simply be drawn to something in you that you have yet to see in yourself.”
“Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Chamberlain!” Mr. Colville’s high voice carried across the grass as the lanky second secretary hurried toward them, nearly out of breath once he reached them. “Sir John must speak to you at once about the latest draft of your speech condemning Germany’s hostile actions. He and some cabinet members believe it should be stronger.”
“I’ll condemn the invasion and suggest reprisals if Germany refuses to halt their aggression, but I won’t risk outright war by threatening them. We must be careful, Mr. Colville. The situation is too precarious to be careless.”
Mr. Colville glanced uneasily from Uncle Neville to Valerie and back again. “Perhaps it’s better if we discussed this alone, sir.”
Uncle Neville offered Valerie a regretful smile and took hold of the umbrella handle. “It appears our walk is at an end.”
“Thank you, Uncle Neville, you’ve given me a great deal to consider.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance.” With a tip of his hat, he and Mr. Colville walked back to No. 10, the affairs of state as pressing for him as the requirements of the Season were for her, except his domain was world affairs. Hers was balls and dresses and her new friends.
Chapter Six
Lord and Lady Dunford
Request the pleasure of your company
at a dance in honor of their daughter
The Honorable Guinevere Brodrick
On Wednesday the twenty-second of March at half after ten o’clock
44 Cadogan Place, Belgravia
The pillared entrance to the house in Cadogan Place was identical to the ones on either side of it, the wrought-iron fences as uniform as the front façades. The line of cars waiting to reach No. 44 had been so long that Valerie and Aunt Anne had abandoned the Rolls in favor of a walk and joined the stream of guests eager to arrive before the party ended. The house stood across from a leafy green square where men and women in silk evening dresses and white-tie mingled under the stars, taking advantage of the rare warm late March evening to steal a moment of private conversation away from the chaperones’ watchful eyes.
At the front gate of every house they’d passed, Valerie wondered if that was the one her father had owned. I could’ve lived next to a lord instead of that bottom-pinching Major Bolton. Ascain and nearby Saint-Jean-de-Luz had been infested with lecherous old army men desperate to live on the cheap. It’s too bad one of them hadn’t snapped up Mavis instead of her father doing so, but his judgment had never been sharp, unlike Mavis’s talons. Valerie followed Aunt Anne into the house, turning to allow the footman to remove her black velvet coat and reveal the light blue satin dress with the flowing ruche skirt and puff sleeves. No bitterness, not tonight. Leave the past and learn from it. She’d be better than Father, and become a respected member of society despite all his efforts to ruin her.
They stepped into the long receiving line snaking up the wide staircase. Below them was the square entrance hall flanked by sitting rooms, and an abundance of gentlemen, more so than two nights ago when every grandfather or younger brother up from Eton had been pressed into service. It simply wasn’t done, for a man who could dance to shirk his duties and risk a girl sitting out for lack of a partner. A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air and mixed with the bright scent of the lemon trees arranged in grand pots around the room. Tarps of faux–painted brick meant to resemble a medieval Spanish castle were draped over the walls and multicolored Spanish garlands hung between the high chandeliers and the heavy, black wrought-iron candelabras filled with dripping candles. It was the most extravagantly decorated ball Valerie had attended so far, outdoing the German-beer-hall-themed one from last night that many had thought in bad taste given the tension between Britain and Germany.
“Good evening, ladies.” Lady Astor slid up to Aunt Anne, her ruby necklace and red dress complementing the Spanish theme. “Anne, can you believe we’re putting up with this charade?”
“It isn’t Miss Dunford’s fault her mother is who she is, and I’m not one to visit the sins of the mother or the father on any child.” Aunt Anne leaned closer to Valerie. “Lady Dunsford was a showgirl in America before her two advantageous matches. Her first husband was an American millionaire with a taste for actresses.”
“They all have a taste for actresses, but they usually don’t marry them. Lord Dunsford did, and we’ve been saddled with her progeny ever since. I’m not one to poo-poo any American woman with an eye for a title, but to foist her prior children off on society as if they were His Lordship’s, forcing everyone to call them honorable when they’re about as honorable as I am retiring is beyond the pale. If I’d tried that, Waldorf would’ve shipped us back to America. Look smart, ladies, Prince George and Princess Maria are approaching,” Lady Astor warned.
They straightened out of their gossip circle to watch Prince George, the King’s younger brother, and his slender wife, Princess Maria of Greece, descend the stairs and leave a ripple of curtseys and bows in their wake. The Princess wore a Grecian-style black silk gown that draped over one shoulder and across a bosom Valerie tried not to stare at to see if she was wearing
a brassiere. If she had to bet with Their Excellencies, she’d insist the Princess was quite nude beneath her gown, but it was bad manners to stare at a royal’s bust. She kept her eyes on the Prince instead, the dark-haired young man by far the most attractive of the royal sons.
“Mrs. Chamberlain, Lady Astor.” Prince George stopped to bow to the ladies. “I’m glad politics doesn’t prevent you from enjoying the delights of the Season. It wouldn’t be as glittering if it did.”
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” Aunt Anne said.
“As are you, for hosting the King and Queen. We’re sorry to miss it,” Princess Marie offered.
“We’re sorry you aren’t able to join us.”
With a parting nod, the Prince and Princess moved on to chat with other guests.
“The scandal following him is as strong as his cologne,” Lady Astor remarked to his back as he disappeared with his wife’s exposed shoulder into the crowd. “Born with a silver spoon. Exchanged it for a silver syringe.”
“No wonder he smiles so much.”
Valerie gaped at the women, afraid to breathe for fear they’d remember she was listening and stop talking. Whatever it was that’d made Aunt Anne remark on a member of the royal family, it must be bad. She’d have to ask Dinah about it later.
“I’m off to do my chaperonely duty,” Lady Astor announced, not elaborating on their comments. “Valerie, I’ll be sure to have Dinah find you.”
Lady Astor wound her way up the crowded staircase, stopping here and there to chat with more people. She spoke with a group of elderly dowagers with diadems tucked into their gray hair, her words punctuated by large sweeps of her hands before she bade them adieu. The moment she left, the women tugged small notebooks out of their handbags and furiously wrote in them.
“What are they doing?” Valerie asked.
“Writing down Nancy’s quips for their memoirs. It’s all the rage with the elder set even if the old dears rarely get the details right.”
The Last Debutantes Page 8