The Last Debutantes

by Georgie Blalock

  “Our places are in the middle.” She gently guided the artist to their chairs.

  Mr. Birley flashed a broad smile of relief. “Thank you, Miss de Vere Cole. This isn’t my usual affair.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” She sat down, marveling at the china laid out at each place on lace mats. Aunt Anne had eschewed a tablecloth, allowing the mahogany table to gleam beneath the silver candelabras and reflect the candlelight and the yellow and orange petals of the roses and daffodils. The wood paneling had been polished too and glowed like the white plaster of the vaulted ceiling.

  “What a lovely necklace,” Elm complimented. Valerie didn’t rank high enough to sit above the salt, but by merit of being a woman who evened out the numbers, she enjoyed the privilege of the Viscount on her other side. “A little daring for a debutante, isn’t it?”

  “If Their Majesties don’t deserve our very best, then no one does.”

  Not everyone thought so. Dorothy’s indignation was palpable from across the table. Valerie would catch an earful later, but it was worth it. The dress and the diamonds took the smell of the schoolroom off of her.

  The order of conversation required Valerie to speak with Mr. Birley first. He talked of his artwork, more at ease after a glass of wine and the first course of chilled consommé madrilène. When the signal to turn was finally given, Valerie relished having Elm to herself, but before she could ask him anything, discussion down the table drew everyone’s attention.

  “Are the plans for increased munitions production progressing?” the King asked Admiral of the Fleet Lord Chatfield. The slender, mustached man appeared grand in his full dress uniform dripping with medals and gold braid. His honors far outranked those of Captain Margesson, who sat across the table from him and between the elegant Lady Fallington and plump Lady Simon.

  “It is, Your Majesty. Thanks to Mr. Chamberlain’s Munich Agreement, we’ve had time to implement my plans and we’ll be ready should the need arise.”

  “It might very well arise, if what my diplomatic contacts tell me is true.” Lord Maugham, the Lord Chancellor, wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

  “They say Herr Hitler is a leashed dog ready to pounce. I say let him attack and discover that Britain is full of men of action, not just words.” Lord Fallington rapped his knuckles against the table, making his silverware rattle on the plate. “The men of Britain will do their duty and defend this land to their last breaths.”

  “Hear, hear.” Lord Maugham raised his wineglass. “If Germany invades Poland, we’ll stand with her to drive the Huns back.”

  “We haven’t pledged to defend Poland yet, and I say we shouldn’t. Leave them to their troubles and us to ours,” Lord Chatfield disagreed. “We needn’t be dragged into another continental conflict.”

  “We don’t wish to look weak either,” Lord Fallington insisted.

  “Herr Hitler is still leashed, so we need not dwell on such unpleasant things, not tonight,” Lady Fallington diplomatically suggested, stopping a war of words before it could begin. “Mr. Birley, tell us about your portrait of Mrs. Chamberlain. I’m told it’s a fine likeness.”

  People returned to more mundane topics, the air in the room lightening except around Elm.

  “My father wants war, but he’s not the one who’ll have to fight. He didn’t serve in the last one. He was too young, but his brothers weren’t. They were both killed in France. It’s how he came into his grand title, otherwise he’d be an honorable barrister at Temple Bar.” He balled his fist before opening his fingers one by one. “More sons of the aristocracy died than anyone else in the Great War. They promised never again, and here they are, twenty years later, sabers rattling, ready to fling us off as cannon fodder.” He pushed his half-eaten poussin à la polonaise around his Buckingham Palace china. “But you ladies in your diamonds don’t have to worry about that, do you?”

  “Of course we do.” She touched the necklace, her hackles rising. “We’ll be here too if the Germans bomb or invade.”

  “But you aren’t left to wonder if your future is nothing more than the wrong end of a gun barrel.”

  “You’re a fool if you think so, I don’t care what your title.” She glanced across the table at Dorothy, who practically dipped her bosom into her plate leaning forward to try and listen. Thankfully, Lady Maugham asked her a question, drawing her attention away. Valerie dropped her voice. “After my father died, I had no idea what was going to become of me, the same way you have no idea what’ll become of you. It’s awful to feel as if you have no control over your life and future, that everyone besides you is deciding it, and quite self-centered to believe you’re the only one suffering. The typists and their families are worried sick about being blown to bits by German bombs and they don’t have country houses to flee to. People all over England are afraid. It isn’t simply you.”

  He stared at his plate, and Valerie gripped her napkin in her lap, expecting another self-pitying bout of mocking or a snub to make his mother proud. She shouldn’t have been so sharp with him, but she couldn’t help it. It was one thing to have troubles. It was another to wallow in them or strike at her because of it. Father used to do that, and she wasn’t about to put up with that from anyone, no matter what their title.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. We’re all living with this awful uncertainty.” He rubbed his palms against the tops of his legs and she released her tight grip on the linen in her lap. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “There’s nothing we can do except wait and enjoy the present. Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.”

  “Dreary Shakespeare. There isn’t a tragedy that old hack didn’t write some witty verse for.”

  Valerie didn’t correct him about the saying’s author. She’d already danced close enough to putting him off, and this was not the night for a tiff with a gentleman. “You can’t argue with the drink part.”

  “I can’t.” He finished the last of his wine and motioned for a footman to refill it. He traced the stem of the crystal goblet, turning it slowly with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a swell girl, to listen to me carry on, not like all those empty-headed chits at the dances. You really understand a fellow.”

  “Oh, I have my share of frivolous concerns, for instance who will escort me to the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball.” She was done being somber and serious.

  “Fishing for an invitation?”

  “I’m asking outright. Will you escort me to the ball?”

  He sat back to allow the footman to take his plate. “I don’t much fancy watching debutantes bow to a cake, but for a girl like you, I’ll endure it.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “I don’t suppose I will.”

  With the final course cleared away, Aunt Anne gave the signal and the women rose.

  “Until we meet again.”

  “Until then.”

  Valerie followed the ladies into the Pillared Drawing Room and Lady Bridgeman fell into step beside her. “You and Lord Elmswood are getting along quite well.”

  “We’ve seen a great deal of one another at dances.”

  “How fortuitous.”

  “Not everyone thinks so.”

  Dorothy bore down on her with as much fury as she could in the Queen’s presence while maintaining a semblance of grace.

  “Leave her to me. The men won’t be in the dining room long, and I don’t want her to stop you from charming Lady Fallington. Dorothy, what a stunning frock, and how slender you look. Tell me your secret.” She linked arms with Dorothy, deftly maneuvering her onto one of the settees to discuss a slimming regime.

  Valerie touched the necklace, debating how best to approach Lady Fallington. She stood beside the mantel. The Queen sat with Aunt Anne on the sofa, engaged in conversation with Lady Halifax, the Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax’s wife, and Lady Simon. It was a great deal of rug to cross to reach Lady Fallington, but it was now or never.

  Valerie approached Lady Fall
ington, coming to stand beside her. She might as well have been one of the footmen emptying an ashtray, for all the regard the woman paid her. She should’ve known better, but if there was one thing the Season had taught her, it was to not give up. “Your peacemaking at dinner was admirable, Lady Fallington.”

  The Marchioness eyed her as if she were a maid who’d dared to speak. “Was it?”

  She should’ve remained across the room. “Yes. Ladies have a unique ability to bring people together, especially during these contentious times.”

  Lady Fallington’s expression didn’t thaw in the slightest, especially when she glanced at the diamond necklace. “Not all of us aspire to be so conspicuous with our politics or our lives.”

  Oh goodness. She glanced at Lady Bridgeman, who winced in sympathy. With things not proceeding well, it was time for a noble retreat. “You’re right, of course. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She walked as regally as she could after that belittling to join Lady Maugham on the love seat. The Lord Chancellor’s wife greeted her with more enthusiasm, less interested in discussing her brother-in-law’s novels than in sharing Valerie’s love of Lewis Carroll. They discussed Alice in Wonderland while waiting for the men to appear. It eased the sting of Lady Fallington’s cut. Not everyone of high rank believed her beneath them. Why Elm couldn’t be the Maughams’ son instead of the Fallingtons’ was another of those nasty twists of fate that had dogged her entire life.

  True to Lady Bridgeman’s prediction, the dining room doors swung open after only a quarter of an hour and the men entered the Pillared Drawing Room. Uncle Neville led the King through to the Blue Drawing Room, where he held court, enduring more formal introductions to the male guests.

  Valerie wandered to the door, lingering close enough to catch Elm’s eye but not so close as to be accused of eavesdropping. He joined her, the two of them huddling together between the rooms. Valerie eyed Lady Fallington, nervous that she might pull them apart, but she was too occupied with the Queen to notice. Lady Simon, however, took quite an interest in them, barely able to concentrate on whatever Lady Halifax said because of it, much to Lady Halifax’s irritation.

  “What has the gentlemen so enraptured?” Valerie nodded toward the lords jamming cigars and fingers at one another as they spoke.

  “Who’ll win Royal Ascot?”

  “Very important business.”

  “As important as the Eton-Harrow cricket match. I’m an Eton man myself, so you know where my sympathies lie.”

  “My father attended Eton. I suppose I must root for them.”

  “It’d be unsporting of you not to. How was the ladies’ conversation? Anything scintillating?”

  “Your mother doesn’t like me.” She wasn’t telling him anything he probably didn’t already know.

  “You’re in good company, then. She doesn’t like anyone. She barely tolerates me on most occasions.”

  “Lady Simon is probably inventing some story about us.”

  “I hope it’s a good one. All her others are usually rubbish. There’s the signal. It looks as if we’ll soon be off.”

  The King and Queen rose in their separate rooms, bringing the conversation and the evening to an end. With the same solemnity and ceremony with which they’d entered No. 10 they took their leave, the guests following on their heels to climb into the line of cars parked outside.

  Valerie, released from the rigors of precedent by the royal departure, walked beside Elm as they descended the stairs behind his parents. At the door, Lord and Lady Fallington stopped to pay their respects to Aunt Anne and Uncle Neville. Valerie stood beside them, garnering a very polite goodbye from Lady Fallington, who was forced to finally take note of who she was and where she was privileged by right of her family connections to stand.

  “Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Miss de Vere Cole.” Elm drew her off to one side while his parents spoke with her aunt and uncle. “And for tolerating all my moaning. It means a great deal that you don’t fob me off or give me any of that stiff upper lip nonsense. You simply listen. It’s a rare quality.”

  “I’m glad to do it. I know what it is to need to air one’s thoughts before they become so tangled in your head you don’t have a hope of sorting them out.”

  “I appreciate it, and I await your official invitation to the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball.” He took her hand and bowed over it. A few strands of his hair fell over his forehead before he straightened and brushed them back, his gaze never leaving hers. She did all she could to maintain her poise and not blush or giggle at his attention, the thrill of his flirting blunted by the sight of Aunt Anne and Lady Bridgeman exchanging a pleased look. Dorothy was too busy with her husband to see it, but not Lady Fallington, who hid her thoughts behind practiced languor as she gathered her fur wrap tighter around her shoulders and walked outside with her husband. With a wink to Valerie, Elm turned on his dress shoe heel and followed his parents to their car.

  “I’m so sorry about Lady Fallington,” Lady Bridgeman offered. “But you handled it with admirable poise. Well done, and the gentleman was quite pleasant.”

  And far more understanding of her plight with his mother than she’d expected. She shouldn’t hang any hopes on this or expect more from him than a steady dance partner, but it was difficult not to be carried away by the magic of tonight.

  When Henry finally closed the black door on the last of the guests, the clock in the entrance hall chimed eleven o’clock. Weeks of preparations, letters, borrowed china and menus, and the royal evening had lasted less than three hours.

  “Congratulations, Annie, for a successful dinner.” Uncle Neville kissed Aunt Anne on both cheeks. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “We can finally relax, at least until Valerie’s coming-out dance. I never thought planning a supper for twenty and a dance for two hundred would be a breeze, but it is compared to a royal visit.”

  “Enjoy your triumph. I have matters to attend to. No rest for the weary.” The same drawn expression he’d flashed during unguarded moments at dinner pulled at his long face, the intelligence Marian said he’d received about Lithuania weighing heavily on him. The pageantry was over, along with the brief respite it’d given him from European concerns. “Good night, Annie, good night, Valerie.”

  He walked down the long corridor, Mr. Colville joining him from the secretaries’ office with a stack of papers. Very soon Valerie expected to hear the bells from the Garden Room jingle.

  “Come along, then,” Aunt Anne urged. “We have the luxury of retiring early tonight.” They climbed the stairs, the excitement of the dinner giving way to the exhaustion of night after night of events. “You certainly sparkled this evening.” Valerie adjusted the necklace, waiting for a telling-off, but Aunt Anne didn’t say a word about the diamonds. “You’ve set your sights quite high with Lord Elmswood.”

  “I haven’t set my sights anywhere.” They passed the sitting rooms where the maids and footmen emptied ashtrays and picked up discarded glasses. The Government Hospitality footmen bustled about the dining room collecting the china and carrying it downstairs to be washed and packed away. “He’s nothing more than a friend who’s agreed to be my escort for the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball.”

  “Many great partnerships have blossomed out of friendship.” They continued up to the second floor.

  “I’m not grand enough for him or his family.”

  Aunt Anne stopped outside her bedroom door and brushed a strand of hair off Valerie’s face. “The world changed after the Great War, and it will again, perhaps in your favor. Either way, enjoy this time. There won’t be another like it for you and most others.”

  Her solemn expression made Valerie’s heart stop. She’d never seen her aunt truly worried. If she was concerned about the future, then Elm had a right to be afraid for his, they all did. “Good night.”

  She made for her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. A fire burned in the grate and her night thing
s had been laid out on the bed by Miss Logan, Aunt Anne’s lady’s maid. It was all as it should be, and at the same time it wasn’t. She wasn’t the same person she’d been in March, but if war came, it would pull her new life and those of all her friends down with it. She undid the necklace’s lobster clasp and slid it off, laying it over her palm. There was no point giving it to the butler to put away. She might as well keep wearing it. Let people look sideways at her, it didn’t matter. None of anything society considered so important might matter for much longer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brigadier-General Beale-Brown

  Requests the pleasure of your company

  at a dance in honor of his daughter

  Miss Rosemary Beale-Brown

  On Monday, the first of May, at half after ten o’clock

  6 Stanhope Gate, Mayfair

  A father bringing out his daughter, how gauche,” Dorothy mumbled when they left Miss Rosemary Beale-Brown and her widowed father at the head of the receiving line. “I find it hard to believe he couldn’t find some female relative or family friend to bring her out. A man knows nothing about these sorts of things, hairdressers and seamstresses and the like. He can’t possibly do it properly.”

  “They seem happy enough and the ball quite up to snuff,” Valerie said. Six Stanhope Gate was stuffed to the gills with debutantes, chaperones, and gentlemen. The house was decorated like any other grand home in London, with multiple rooms of fireplaces, elaborate mantels, thick velvet curtains, and antiques, but everything was far less cluttered, leaving the rooms open for guests to comfortably mingle. The house was regularly let for dances, and Valerie and Their Excellencies had been to at least three here since the start of the Season, including Christian and Anne Schuster’s joint coming-out ball last week. It’d been a grand evening because she’d known one of the guests of honor, but every dance since had blended into an endless round of exotic flowers, creative decorations, and the same orchestras and dance numbers. How far she’d come since France and her presentation, to be so nonchalant about an evening out.