The Last Debutantes

by Georgie Blalock

  “I simply adore him, but I’d be an awful rat if I didn’t warn you to be careful,” Dinah continued. “He’s a charming chap, but don’t be fooled into thinking it’s more. He’s far too preoccupied with his own concerns to bother with anyone else’s.”

  “What happened to seizing a husband if one comes my way?”

  “If you and Elm hit it off, I’ll be the first to raise a toast, but unless he falls at your feet declaring his undying feelings, be careful. I’d hate to see you hurt.”

  Dorothy’s warning that her friends may not have her best interest at heart and the possibility that Dinah was warning her off of Elm because she had designs on him drifted through her mind, but the concern in Dinah’s eyes crushed it. Dinah wasn’t at all like Dorothy believed. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Good, because I expect great things from you, Miss de Vere Cole, a title or a seat in the Commons.”

  “Heaven forbid. I want nothing to do with politics.” Her hide could never be that thick.

  They passed the women’s dress department and the dummies adorned with ready-made frocks. A mother and daughter debated over which one to purchase for a coming-out dance. Valerie and Dinah continued on, reaching the fragrance department near the entrance and sidestepping the salesgirls with their dubious French accents wielding perfume samples. “Would you ever go back to France?”

  “I’d rather swim the Channel naked.”

  “That’s how I feel about Switzerland. It’s dreadful how families ship children off to boarding school like unwanted baggage and then forget them. They’re selfish, the lot of them. Mine didn’t even think to cable me after David died. I read about it in the newspaper at school. The bloody newspaper.” She slapped her glove against her palm, making the women in furs waiting at the fragrance counter turn. Dinah lowered her voice as they stepped off to one side, hiding behind the large, glittering bottles of Shalimar catching the light coming in through the massive front windows. “It wasn’t an accident, the way David died. He didn’t fall out of the window in New York. He jumped.”

  Valerie clutched her hand to her mouth in horror. Not even on her worst day in France had she ever considered doing anything so awful. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Mummy was torn up about it but no one cared, all they worried about was what people might think if they learned the truth. You have no idea how awful it is to carry around a secret like that.”

  “Yes, I do.” Valerie’s palms went moist beneath her gloves. Dinah had trusted her with this story. Valerie owed it to her to be as open, at least with as much as she could be. “Tristan isn’t really my half brother. Augustus John is his father. He and Mavis had an affair, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. You wouldn’t believe the rest.” Nor did she have the courage to reveal it, especially in Selfridges’ fragrance department.

  “I would believe it given all the things I’ve learned about my lot and everyone else’s.” Dinah shook her head in disbelief. “Are any of us normal?”

  “No. There’s more scandal and secrets than jewels in society, but everyone pretends they don’t exist, like they pretend the servants can’t hear everything they talk about.”

  “That doesn’t give us much hope, does it?”

  “None at all. We must do better.”

  “Assuming we have the chance.” Two army officers in their drab uniforms strolled by, ignoring the fragrances and cosmetics but taking note of the women. “Of course we will. Perhaps even the opportunity to show them we have more mettle than they do.” Dinah tidied her hair in the mirror on the counter, then faced Valerie, the chipper Dinah not failing to return even while the old pain dampened her smile. “I’m glad I can tell you these sorts of things, it makes such a difference to have someone who understands and listens.”

  “I know.”

  “I suspected you would. Now, no more crepe-hanging. We don’t want to be droll like that. Off to the books with you. I have a memorial ball to dress for.” She gave Valerie a quick hug, then darted off to the revolving door, pushing through it and out into the bright sun.

  What she wouldn’t give for Dinah’s knack for shaking off the dreary. She leaned against the counter, the men and women coming and going from the department store oblivious to her. Uncle Neville had guessed Their Excellencies were carrying awful things too. What he hadn’t imagined was them trusting her with their secrets while she held hers back. Loneliness settled over Valerie as it had the night she’d learned of Father’s passing and realized no one was coming to fetch her from the convent. She’d spent a lifetime wishing for people like Their Excellencies, but she couldn’t tell them everything and risk them turning from her like so many others had.

  Time. I must give it time. Eventually she might be free to reveal more, but not today.

  Valerie made for the bank of lifts and the women attendants in their dark uniforms and caps standing outside the available ones. She selected the nearest and stepped inside the mirrored and chrome box. “The book department, please.”

  They stood in silence, facing forward until the doors opened on the fourth floor and Valerie wound her way to the book department. It didn’t glisten like the display cases on the ground floor, but the tall windows above the bookshelves illuminated the different-colored covers. She picked up a copy of Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad, a novel Father had read many times in the Saint-Jean-de-Luz library. The potted plants on top of the dark wood bookcases reminded her of the English lending library in France. She and Father had spent many mornings there transfixed by the musty smell of old pages and the fine dust covering the desks. It was the single fond memory she had of him, and the only time she’d ever enjoyed his full attention, unless Mavis was with them. He used to ignore Valerie then, trying to improve Mavis through books, but the tart had recoiled from reading with the same fury as Bram Stoker’s Dracula had from sunlight. It hadn’t mattered to Father; as long as Mavis was with him all had been right with the world. Once she’d left, the drinking had consumed him until nothing but wailing about his miserable life had remained. Not even the books, the library, or Valerie had mattered anymore.

  She jammed the book back on the shelf and continued browsing, selecting W. Somerset Maugham’s Theatre. She’d read Of Human Bondage and enjoyed it well enough, but she hadn’t read many of his other novels. With his brother, the Lord Chancellor, Lord Maugham, regularly visiting No. 10, it was prudent to pick up another of his works.

  “Hello, there.” Richard stood at the end of the aisle, a book in his hand and the same beguiling smile he’d worn while they’d danced at the 400 Club decorating his face.

  “Hello, yourself.” She clasped Theatre to her chest. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you at a dance. Are you taking your suppers elsewhere?”

  “I’ve been busy at the hospital, but don’t worry, my club is keeping me fed.” He motioned to Theatre. “Mother wouldn’t let my sister read his works. It didn’t stop her, of course. She snuck them from me.”

  “You’re a bad influence, then,” she teased, cocking her head to the side so her hair fell forward to cover one eye.

  He stepped closer, his voice low but strong. “I can be from time to time.”

  “I hope so. Otherwise life would be very droll.” My, she was bold today, and he quite handsome in his dark blue suit. She’d only ever seen him in ties and tails. “Was your sister disappointed to discover Mr. Maugham’s books are far less shocking than she was told?”

  “Most people find adultery shocking.”

  “Surprising, since most of society is so intimately acquainted with it. It’s practically a conversation at breakfast, usually not between spouses.”

  Richard cocked his head in disbelief and her sauciness crumbled into embarrassment. Then he threw back his head and laughed, drawing the attention of the pencil-mustached clerk arranging novels on the shelf behind the counter. He scowled at them like a spinster librarian. Richard choked down his laughter but not his smile. “Are you this blunt with everyone?”
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  “I shouldn’t be this blunt at all.”

  “Don’t hold back on my account, I quite enjoy it.”

  Valerie trilled her fingers on Theatre. They were skirting closer to opportunity than she cared to venture and she was enjoying it, far more than she should. She motioned to his selection, eager to change the subject. “What’s a poor resident doing spending money on books?”

  “I’d rather starve than go without them.”

  “My father used to say that.” Except, for him it’d been cruelly true.

  “A man after my own heart. He must’ve had marvelous stories about his time with Virginia Woolf and her Bloomsbury Set.”

  “He had stories, but they weren’t marvelous. He said they weren’t brilliant but a clutch of snobbish, vulgar bores. Virginia’s brother Adrian was the only one worth his salt, and even that isn’t saying much.” Adrian and Father had been great friends since grammar school, but when he’d realized Father was beyond help, even he’d left him to sink.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but not surprised. Many from that time were self-indulgent. They thought the Great War gave them the right to be selfish hedonists.”

  “What do you think war might do to us?”

  “I hope we never find out. Until then, let us behold joy and gladness, slaying oxen, and killing sheep, eating flesh, and drinking wine: let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.”

  “Isaiah 22:13.”

  “You know your verses.”

  “A year and a half in a convent school will do that to a girl.”

  “What was a good Church of England girl doing in a convent school?”

  Dear heaven, what was she thinking, to slip like that? It was a finishing school to anyone outside the family. She’d nearly given up the game. “There aren’t many Anglican schools in France, especially not in the provinces, and it was an excellent way to perfect one’s French.”

  It was the best lie she could think of, and to her relief he bought it, nodding in agreement.

  “Then I’ll have to see what else you know during our next dance. Until then.” He stepped around her, laying his purchase on the sales counter and chatting with the mustached man. With his book in hand, he headed out of the department, pausing to raise it in goodbye. Instead of scurrying behind a shelf and pretending she hadn’t been watching him, she waved in return. He strolled off, turning a corner and vanishing from sight.

  She tapped Theatre against her palm. Maybe she wasn’t as rational as she believed, if two men could easily turn her head by simply showing her a touch of attention. He’d also almost lulled her into forgetting herself. In the future she must be more guarded. If she fell for either of them and she revealed too much of her past or they saw the flaw in her that’d driven so many others away, it’d crush her. There were a great many things to endure this Season without the burden of a broken heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  In honor of Their Majesties

  King George IV and Queen Elizabeth

  The Prime Minister requests the company of

  Miss Valerie de Vere Cole

  At a dinner at 10, Downing Street

  On Wednesday, 12 April, 1939, at 8:30 P.M.

  Thrilling, isn’t it?” Marian stood beside Valerie at the library window overlooking Downing Street. Cheers from the crowd gathered along Whitehall signaled Their Majesties’ approach. The Lanchester came into view, the car’s black paint gleaming beneath the lights of the surrounding buildings and the small royal standard attached to the front fender fluttering. The bobbies formed a line of linked arms, parting the people to let the car through.

  “Very.” No. 10 sparkled like the grand houses Valerie had visited for various coming-out dances over the last few weeks. Elegance whispered in every touch, from the silver and gilt table settings to the large vases full of yellow daffodils sent down from the Chequers’ hothouse. The anticipation and excitement of the evening had filled the air all day, even putting a spring in sober Mr. Colville’s step.

  “Me, curtseying to the King and Queen. My sisters were green with envy when they heard.” Marian smoothed the skirt of her simple black dress with the white cuffs and collar. “I can’t thank you enough for arranging it.”

  “Do you remember what I taught you?”

  “I’ve been practicing it for days.” Marian stepped into the center of the room and with the polish of a debutante dipped into a regal curtsey.

  Valerie clapped, the sound muffled by her gloves. “Well done.”

  The rest of the Garden Room Girls waited with Mrs. Stenhouse in the anteroom at the top of the Grand Staircase outside the White Drawing Room. Their humble frocks were a sharp contrast to the glittering tiaras and flowing evening gowns of the titled guests mingling in the Blue Drawing Room, oblivious to the women gathered a short distance away. Valerie should be in there acting the hostess while her aunt and uncle were downstairs greeting the monarchs, but she’d left that to Dorothy. Marian’s excitement was far more appealing than the aristocratic ennui. “I wish you could dine with us, given everything you do.”

  “This is enough, especially considering the news today.”

  “What news?” Uncle Neville had been drawn and tense when he’d come to escort Aunt Anne downstairs, the lines of his angled face more pronounced. Valerie had thought it because of the dinner. She hadn’t imagined it might be anything worse.

  Marian glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I know you won’t repeat this, but the Premier received word that Germany is planning to invade Lithuania. Poland will soon be next. I don’t know how he can be so calm tonight with that weighing on him. If Germany invades Poland, we’ll be forced to go to war to defend them.”

  Like that, the glitter of the evening dulled, war casting its awful shadow over everything once again. Valerie refused to lose faith in Uncle Neville. Many had said he’d fail in Munich with Herr Hitler, but he’d succeeded. He would again; he must. She’d endured the ugliness of an uncertain future too much in her life to wish that agony on England.

  “They’re stepping out of the car.” Marian pointed to the street, where the Queen emerged from the back of the Lanchester, the gravity of uncertainty eased by the royal arrival. If everyone was carrying on as if all were well, then perhaps it wasn’t as grave as Marian’s news suggested.

  Her Majesty wore a luminous white dress with a matching white fur wrap, her tiara vibrant even under the dim outside lights. The king was less regal in his plain evening attire, with no medals or gold braiding to fill out the slightness of his chest. Aunt Anne and Uncle Neville came outside to greet them, escorting the monarchs into the house.

  “Miss Holmes, it’s time to line up.” Mrs. Stenhouse waved her in from the passageway.

  “Wish me luck. I hope I can get through the curtsey without tripping.”

  “You’ll be grand.”

  Marian hurried to join the others, all of them dressed in their Sunday best.

  Once Valerie was alone, she reached into the bodice of her black velvet gown nipped in at the waist with a tasteful V-neck between two wide chiffon shoulder straps and tugged out the Cartier necklace. She’d asked Mr. Dobson to fetch it from the safe a few hours ago, ready with a good excuse for why she needed it. Deferential as always, he’d never questioned her request. She could ask for a man’s head on a platter and she suspected he’d bring it to her with the proper garnish.

  Valerie undid the lobster clasp and slipped it around her neck, then joined the official guests in the half circle arranged according to rank in the Blue Drawing Room. Valerie stood at the end of the line beside the bushy-mustached artist Mr. Birley. Elm was near the head with the rest of the viscounts and viscountesses. He glanced down the length of the line of people to her, his gaze flicking to her chest and the necklace. A knowing smile tugged up one corner of his mouth and she smiled back. They hadn’t enjoyed so much as a moment together since the whirlwind of introductions and arrivals, but he could wait. It was Marian’s turn before
the monarchs.

  Valerie could just see the Garden Room Girls through the drawing room doors. Marian stood at the end of the line on the landing waiting for her turn. Valerie couldn’t hear what Uncle Neville told the King and Queen as he introduced the typists, but he and the royals showed them the same respect as if they were the highest ladies in the land. Each woman dipped a small curtsey, their smiles brighter than the diamonds dripping from the Queen’s neck and wrists. None was so bright as Marian’s who executed her curtsey with the grace and poise of a debutante. Valerie almost clapped at the triumph but kept her hands at her sides, refusing to commit another faux pas in the presence of the King and Queen.

  Her aunt and uncle escorted the King and Queen into the Blue Drawing Room and down the receiving line. The monarchs shook hands with each guest as Aunt Anne presented them. When they reached Valerie, she faced them with stronger nerves than in Buckingham Palace. Everything was different this time. She wasn’t before them because the Lord Chancellor had approved her name on the long list submitted for presentation but because she was the Prime Minister’s niece, a true member of society.

  When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! The Alice in Wonderland quote made her smile as she dropped into her curtsey, wondering if her aunt had noticed the necklace. If she did, she said nothing, carrying on with her hostess duties as His Majesty escorted Aunt Anne into the State Dining Room. Uncle Neville and the Queen followed and everyone fell into line according to precedent.

  The King and Aunt Anne sat at one end of the long oval table, while the Queen and Uncle Neville occupied the other. Valerie was escorted in last by Mr. Birley, who trembled more than some of the nervous chaps she’d danced with at balls. His portrait of Aunt Anne in the upcoming Royal Academy Spring Exhibition had won him his place at the table. He paused at the dining room door, unsure what to do or where to go, his face whiter than the painting of Sir Thomas Graves above the Adam sideboard.