Valerie watched her write in fluid curving movements, at complete ease despite the royal frenzy, and entirely trusting Valerie. What she wouldn’t give to tell her aunt everything, to lighten the weight of this awful secret, but she couldn’t. She’d make her aunt proud, even if it meant burying the past deeper than the ruins of Roman London. “I was wondering if I might have the girls around for tea?”
Aunt Anne took off her glasses and set them on the side table. “I think that’s a splendid idea.”
“Eunice Kennedy too, if I may. Perhaps it’ll improve Anglo-American relations.”
“It can’t hurt.”
“Is it true what they’re saying about Ambassador Kennedy? That he thinks we’re sunk if we go to war?” There was no limit to the amount of worries swirling today.
“People are quick to criticize anyone in politics, especially during contentious times.” Aunt Anne searched her pocket and the sofa cushions for her spectacles.
Valerie slid them off the side table and held them out to her.
Aunt Anne took them and slipped them back on. “You may plan the menu. It’s never too early to develop your hosting skills. They’ll be useful to you someday, especially if you marry a government man.”
“I’m hardly destined to become a political hostess.”
“You don’t know what you’ll become. Never in all my years at West Woodhay House did I think I’d be the Premier’s wife, yet here I am. You must prepare for any possibility.”
“Including working for a living, like Miss Holmes?” Father had prided himself on being a gentleman. Having tasted true poverty, she wasn’t about to fall into that trap and call herself a lady while starving in threadbare clothes.
“I don’t think we have to imagine anything quite so drastic.”
“It might be good for me to gain more practical skills than planning menus.”
“In some instances, planning a menu is a matter of state.” She held up the paper with the Buckingham Crest printed on the top, then laid it back on the lap desk. “However, if you wish to develop different talents, the Personal Service League is an excellent place to begin. You’d be well situated if the Crown needs your service, especially if things grow thornier in Europe.”
As much as she didn’t wish to think of that sort of future, with advertisements in the newspapers calling for women ambulance drivers, it was difficult to ignore. So was her already full schedule. Miss Leaf had shown Valerie her calendar during breakfast, and only the smallest slivers of cream paper beneath the penciled-in engagements had been visible. The thought of cramming something as arduous as volunteering into those slender spaces exhausted her simply by thinking about it. “Perhaps when the Season is over and I have time for it. I’m barely sleeping as it is”
“Quite right. Until then, we’ll make you into a fine hostess. Miss Leaf, please review the calendar and we’ll select an afternoon for Valerie and her friends to have tea,” Aunt Anne instructed when the social secretary returned.
“Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain. You also asked me to remind you about the ship launching?”
“I did. Valerie, the Vickers-Armstrongs shipping company has invited you to launch one of their new cargo ships next week.”
“Whatever do they want me for? I’m no one.”
“You are not no one, but a member of the Chamberlain family. Take pride in it. If you don’t think well of yourself, I assure you, few others will.”
Isn’t that the truth? The launch would probably be in the newspapers, and everyone who’d looked down on her would see the high regard others held her in. It might change a great many opinions of her, or at least remind the naysayers who she was related to and to keep their thoughts about her and Father to themselves, or, in Mr. Shoedelin’s case, to keep what he knew about her a secret. “Tell them I’ll do it.”
“Good. Here are invitations I think you should accept.”
Valerie flipped through the envelopes, nothing notable about any of them until she reached the last one. She sat up straight. “Vivien Mosley invited me to her coming-out ball? Did she not have enough of trying to insult me and Uncle Neville at the luncheon?”
Aunt Anne shrugged as if the incident, which had spread so fast through the room that it’d reached her table by the salad course, had simply been a mix-up in dates from a florist. “You’re a prominent debutante and whatever Vivien might personally think of you, having you at her coming-out ball makes a statement.”
“That you and I condone her father’s politics.”
“That you are capable of mixing with people with whom you do not see eye to eye.”
Or trying to scratch each other’s eyes out. “Isn’t there something else I can attend instead?”
“The Royal Cambridge Home for Soldiers’ Widows Ball is that night,” Miss Leaf mentioned.
“Good. I’ll go there. It’ll show people I’m civic-minded and reflect well on you and Uncle Neville.”
Miss Leaf looked to Aunt Anne, pencil poised over the calendar.
“Very well,” Aunt Anne conceded. “But since she invited you, you must invite her to your dance.”
“This is madness.”
“This is manners. Social relations are always kept separate from politics. If they weren’t, there wouldn’t be enough families in England on speaking terms to have the Season.”
Given that Uncle Neville, when he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, had rented his London town house to Joachim von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s foreign minister, and no one had raised an eyebrow, an invitation to one of the hundreds of coming-out balls wasn’t likely to cause much of a stir. Vivien would probably find a reason to decline anyway. “If I must.”
“You must, and not all the invitations are bad. Lord and Lady Fallington and their son, Lord Elmswood, have accepted theirs for the royal dinner.”
Elm, here, for the King and Queen’s dinner. I’m dining with royalty and some of the highest in England and he and his mother will be here to see it. There was an opportunity she never would’ve dreamed of two years ago, and, like the ship’s christening, it would be in the newspapers. It also meant that if Mr. Shoedelin decided to trot her past out through the drawing rooms of London, she’d have a great deal further to fall. She prayed the man had the political savvy to not besmirch the Premier’s niece and risk ruining his diplomatic career.
Chapter Eight
MIDNIGHT—the new Paramount picture is due for a gala charity premiere at the Plaza . . . to be attended by H. M. Queen Mary.
—the Sketch
How many programs do you have left to sell?” Dinah joined Valerie from where she’d been stationed near the Plaza Theatre’s entrance. The theater’s Italianate lobby, with its dark wood antiques and black iron trim, was filled with the usual bevy of diamond- and fur-bedecked matrons, their distinguished husbands, and debutantes in demure evening gowns. Stills from the movie were posted around the room, the slick pictures a sharp contrast to the antique oil paintings hanging on the brocade patterned walls.
Valerie counted the large programs with the poster of Claudette Colbert, Don Ameche, and John Barrymore dressed to the nines for their roles in Midnight gracing the front. The organizing committee had invited Valerie and a number of debutantes to sell them for the film premiere to benefit the Princess Beatrice Hospital. Outside, Piccadilly was alight with the Plaza’s neon sign announcing the movie, while the press and curious onlookers crowded the pavement. “I have five. I wish it’d hurry up. I could do with an hour or two off my feet.” The evening had been frightfully dull despite the whiff of Hollywood glamour.
“We can’t start until Queen Mary arrives.”
She was the only English royalty scheduled to attend, but not the only royal. “Queen Eugenie of Spain purchased a program from me a short while ago.”
“The highlight of the evening, I’m sure, but I suppose it could be worse. We could be with Eunice at the American embassy dinner.”
“Or with Aunt Anne at the Danish legation’s musical
evening. You should’ve heard my cousin when she found out I was coming without a chaperone. Of course, she wasn’t outraged enough to volunteer to accompany me. Thank heavens.”
“If selling souvenirs at a charity performance is respectable enough for a Russian princess, it must be respectable enough for you.” Dinah motioned to Princess Natasha Bagration standing with another debutante Valerie didn’t recognize. The Russian princess was stunning, with dark hair and eyes and a flowered brocade dress with full sleeves and a high neckline. “Poor dear, imagine your country forcing you to flee to Yugoslavia and making it so you can never return home. Beastly Bolsheviks.”
Valerie could imagine being banished back to France. It’d been more than a week since the Household Brigade Steeplechase Meeting and not a peep of gossip or a sighting of Mr. Shoedelin. For all she knew, he’d returned to Bayonne. It hadn’t stopped her from searching for him at every event, from the Speedway Racing Gala to the Eaton Hall Tennis Tournament. She didn’t worry quite so much when Their Excellencies were around to distract her. It was late at night, when she was keyed up after a dance, that her worries proved as exhausting as the Season. “I see Katherine has met her Prince Charming.”
Katherine gazed up at Ronnie Howard, who resembled his famous father, Leslie Howard, through the solid line of his chin and his hooded eyes, but his nose was sharper. He wasn’t nearly as enthralled with Katherine as she was with him, but he politely listened to whatever she was saying.
“I don’t see the appeal,” Dinah said.
“Other than his father is one of the most famous British actors alive?” More than one debutante hovered around them, sighing at Ronnie with the same admiration they usually lavished on his father, the dashing star of The Scarlet Pimpernel.
“Then far be it from me to quash anyone’s aspirations. I leave that to Aunt Nancy.”
The venom in Dinah’s tone surprised Valerie. “Something wrong at Four St. James’s Square?”
“You should’ve heard Aunt Nancy screaming at Michael at dinner, what an awful row. She ridiculed him for leaving Oxford without a degree and was absolutely furious when he told her he’s letting a flat because she’s stifling him. She shouldn’t have been so nasty, but he shouldn’t have been so mean. He’s lucky to have his mother, we can’t all say that.”
No, they couldn’t. “What’s he going to do in his flat?”
“Paint. He wants to be an artist.”
“I thought your aunt enjoyed artists.”
“They’re all well and good for salons, but have you ever met one really worth his salt?”
“No. They’re a self-centered lot.” Augustus John and the grief he’d caused her and Father had proved that. “I’m sure Michael won’t be so awful, but he’d have some rotten company.”
“I’ll say. Steady on, you have a customer.”
Dr. Cranston threaded his way through the guests crowding the theater lobby. The bright houselights cut across his square jaw and brought out the slight red in his dark brown hair.
“I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.” If so, she’d have worn a touch of Yardley blush and a more daring shade of lipstick.
“I didn’t expect to be here. May I?” He fished a shilling out of his pocket.
“Of course.” She handed him the program, her fingertips briefly brushing his and sending a ripple of warmth coursing through her.
Dinah watched with the same amusement as when Christian had spent nearly all of Anne Schuster’s cocktail party perched on the staircase with John Miller. “Oh look, there’s Katherine. I must have a word with her. If you’ll excuse me.”
She was off into the crowd with little more than an encouraging wave back.
A few balding gentlemen and their wide-bosomed wives strolled into the theater behind Dr. Cranston, mumbling about this and that. Valerie expected the doctor to take his leave and follow them, but he lingered, running his thumb and forefinger over the crease in the program. Thank goodness. Better to chat with him than another bespectacled lord ogling her while he made a purchase. “What mother sent you tickets for tonight?”
“My own. She’s laid up with a cold, so here I am.”
“By yourself?”
“My father wouldn’t come without her.” He stepped aside for another group of patrons making their way inside. “Anyone of interest arrive yet?”
“Rex Harrison and Diana Wynyard a little while ago, and John Barrymore, who reeked of whiskey. His poor wife was practically holding him up.”
“One of his doctors works at St. Thomas’s. You should hear his stories about the old thespian.”
“Do tell.”
“I can’t. Patient confidence.” He winked at her before leaning closer, the faint smell of iodine mixing with his crisp aftershave. “But a mate of mine works with his London film insurer. He said Mr. Barrymore’s penchant for profanity gave the film editor quite a headache. Whiskey loosens the actor’s tongue a little too much.”
“Alcohol did the same for my father. When he was deep in his cups, he’d tell quite some tales about society matrons and their escapades before the Great War.” He stared at her and she tightened her grip on the programs. She’d thoughtlessly made Father sound like a drunken sailor, and in front of a man keener on formality than his chums. Curse her boldness. It wouldn’t hurt her to be a bit more reserved. “I assume a doctor used to patient confidences will keep that little remark between us. I should hate to get a reputation.”
He flashed a beguiling smile that eased her grip on the programs. “I’m a professional secrets-keeper. Your slip is safe with me.”
She had no reason to believe him, but she did. After all, a man so discreet about a famous patient wasn’t likely to go around talking about her.
A frenzy of activity at the front entrance drew everyone’s notice, while flashes from the cameramen outside illuminated the semidarkness. Queen Mary, resplendent in a sparkling silver silk dress with a matching sable-lined cape entered the lobby. Lord Carisbrooke, President of the Princess Beatrice Hospital, and his wife arranged a number of guests, including Lady Mountbatten, into a receiving line. Queen Mary made her way down it, shaking hands and chatting with various donors, especially Lady Mountbatten, whose black velvet dress and fur-lined cape were a stunning contrast to the Dowager Queen’s.
Lady Diana Stuart-Wortley, one of the young marrieds on the fundraising committee, came to collect the unsold programs. “When Her Majesty takes her seat, you may take yours.”
She moved on to another group of debutantes, everyone in the lobby stuck there until Queen Mary entered the theater. At least Valerie was standing with Dr. Cranston. At the Royal Opera House opening night reception she’d been caught out with a very dull third son of an earl with a passion for medieval architecture. The King and Queen had been painfully slow about entering the opera house. She wouldn’t mind if Queen Mary dawdled in the receiving line tonight.
“Do you enjoy films, Dr. Cranston?”
“Richard, please. I prefer reading. If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.”
“Lord Byron.”
“Well done.” He eyed her, genuinely impressed. “Books are a welcome rest from dances and my daily rounds.”
“I don’t know how you do it. I thought I was going to drop off into my eggs this morning. If it hadn’t been for my afternoon nap, I’d be falling asleep on my feet.” Goodness, how frivolous that made her sound. “Of course, I’m not really expected to do much else except attend balls, am I?”
“That could change if things in Europe get worse. Women did their part in the Great War. They may be called on to do so again.”
“I don’t know what good I’d be to a war effort. My only skills are speaking French and reciting literary quotes.” Drilling the English canon into her was the only aspect of her education Father hadn’t neglected, at least in the first few years she’d been with him and Mavis. Once the tart had left, his passion for literature and quotes had faded as fast as his in
terest in her and everything else.
“You could be a translator in a hospital, entertain the convalescents with your vast knowledge.”
“As if the poor dears hadn’t suffered enough. I’d much rather be a spy.”
“You could throw the enemy off with your charm.”
“It does sound rather tempting.”
Queen Mary and her entourage approached on their way into the theater. Richard bowed and Valerie dipped a curtsey, her hand brushing Richard’s when she rose, his skin without his gloves warm against hers. When the guest of honor was inside, Richard offered her his elbow.
“May I escort you in?”
“Please.” The wool of his jacket was soft beneath her palm and barely hid the firm arm underneath. She wondered if the rest of him was as solid as his wide shoulders. It was a devilishly wicked thought but she couldn’t help herself. He was no milquetoast, and there was no harm in thinking it. Acting on it the way Mavis had done was the sin, as she’d discovered in France.
Their Excellencies stopped talking when Richard and Valerie reached their row. They looked at her hand on his arm but she didn’t snatch it away. There was no point, since they’d already seen it. There’d be no end of ribbing after this.
“I hope you aren’t too tired to watch the film.” He lowered his arm out from under her hand, and she immediately missed the heat of it.
“I’ll stay awake plotting my plans to join the resistance.”
“You’ll give the Germans a run for their money.”
“I hope so.”
He clasped his hands in front of him, turning serious. “I’m sure you have more useful skills than you give yourself credit for, ones any charity would be happy to employ.”
“Thank you for thinking so.”
“Good evening, Miss de Vere Cole.”
“Valerie.”
“Good evening, Valerie.”
She tapped her toes beneath the ruffled skirt of her cream chiffon dress, her name delicious in his deep voice. “Good evening, Richard.”
With a nod, he bade her farewell, striding up the aisle to find his seat.
The Last Debutantes Page 12