“Of course you’d say that, you don’t know anything about anything.”
“I’m not strange, weird, off, nor crazy, my reality is just different from yours,” Valerie mumbled, quoting the line from Alice in Wonderland.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” With Aunt Anne in bed with a headache, Dorothy had agreed to chaperone tonight. Valerie had nearly run downstairs to find Marian and ask her to come, but of course that was impossible. As Dorothy was fond of reminding her, there were rules. Valerie might sneak a chat with the typist, but she couldn’t bring her to something like this and she wouldn’t want to. It’d taken tears and frustration to build up a decent tolerance to aristocratic snubs. She wasn’t about to inflict that on someone as nice as Marian.
Thankfully, Dinah rushed up to greet them before Dorothy could offer any more lectures on behaviors. “You’re here at last. The chaps are asking about you.”
“Who’s asking about her?” Dorothy’s demand left Dinah, for the first time, without a blunt response.
“My friends and usual dance partners, Viscount Elmswood and Lady Astor’s sons.” The cow, who did she think Valerie was, a complete social outcast? She’d spent the last few weeks working diligently to make sure she wasn’t. “And Dr. Cranston.”
“He isn’t here,” Dinah said. “Work has kept him away.”
What a pity.
Dorothy screwed her lips tight together as she weighed the need to fret against Valerie hobnobbing with the sons of aristocrats. “All right, then, but remember yourself and don’t think of sneaking off to a club with a gentleman, I don’t care what his lineage. They won’t be regular partners for long if they think you’re easy.”
“They won’t be regular partners if my sour chaperone hangs about constantly insulting me in front of them.”
Dorothy narrowed her eyes at Valerie. “Mind how you address me.”
“Mind how you speak to me, especially around others.” She squared her shoulders and faced her cousin, tired of her constant belittling and nagging. “I’m not your whipping boy.”
“There’s a bridge room for chaperones upstairs,” Dinah offered, her innocent smile worthy of an acting award.
Dorothy adjusted her gloves, caught between continuing her undignified rampage and noble surrender. For once, she chose the more honorable option. “I’ll be in the bridge room if you need me, but I expect your best behavior.”
With that last little nag, she went off to find the card room. Hopefully, one of her friends would be there and keep her out of Valerie’s business for an hour or two.
“Bravo, old girl, telling your cousin what’s what,” Dinah congratulated.
“If I don’t murder her before they play ‘God Save the King’ it’ll be a miracle.”
“And quite the scandal if you do. Come on, everyone’s waiting for you.”
They waded through the sea of familiar faces, the same people from last night and the night before dancing or talking in small groups. She guessed if she visited the ladies’ loo the same teary wallflowers would be in there too. At least at the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball in two weeks there’d be the novelty of a cake to bow to and the intricate procession of debutantes crossing each other in long lines that they’d spent the better part of yesterday afternoon practicing. It would break up the monotony, and Elm would be there to dance with her in front of everyone. It made the hours of practice worth it.
“At last, the debutante in Downing Street deigns to join us,” Jakie greeted with a hearty wave, the smoke from the cigarette pinched between his fingers circling his head.
“How are things on the front lines?” Michael asked.
“As you might expect, with the Pact of Steel formalized.” Marian had barely been able to hide her worry this morning when she’d explained the military alliance between Germany and Italy. By afternoon, it’d been in all the newspapers, swelling the crowd outside Downing Street who’d watched her leave for the ball with drawn faces.
“Ghastly news,” Elm drawled, languid as always but without the cigarette. He plucked a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers before he pulled away. She took a quick drink, heated more from the brief touch than the stifling room.
“At least Japan didn’t sign it. We don’t need trouble in the East too,” Dinah added.
“When are you going to favor a dress uniform over white-tie?” Jakie asked Elm.
“When they tell me I must. I don’t need another cleaning bill.”
Valerie noticed a number of chaps wearing regimental dress uniforms, the red shell coats standing out among the somber black jackets. “Why the change?”
“More are joining up,” Michael explained. “They want to choose their regiments before conscription is enacted and the choice is foisted on them.”
“Are you two enlisting?”
“All in good time,” Jakie said.
“Enough of this, gentlemen. We’re boring the ladies.”
Valerie was about to tell Elm she was far from bored when the first chords of “The Chestnut Tree” carried through the room. Couples hurried to form up, ready to wave their arms and clap their hands in time with another of the wildly popular but silly dances. Dinah convinced Jakie to pair with her, while Michael nabbed Katherine.
“I love this dance.” Valerie waited for Elm to ask her, but he scowled.
“It’s ridiculous, jumping about and pretending to be a tree. It’s all right for the plebs but not the better sort.”
“Snob.”
“I can’t help it. It’s bred into me, along with permanent boredom. Let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t. My cousin is sure to conduct hourly checks on me.”
“There’s so many people, she won’t notice you’re gone, and we’ll be back before the end. You don’t really want another evening of this, do you?”
People pushed past them in the rush to dance to the same songs in the same evening attire as every other night, Stanhope Gate interchangeable with the Dorchester Hotel or Cadogan Square. There were numerous balls taking place all over London tonight and again tomorrow evening and every week until the Season ended. There was no reason to stay, except fear. The royal dinner had bolstered the social cachet she’d spent the last few weeks building. It’d be foolish to risk tossing it away. “What about the others?”
“It’ll be more fun if it’s only the two of us.”
“I don’t want to be mistaken for someone like Pamela Digby.”
“You’d have to do more than slip out of a dance to be mistaken for a woman like her. Come on, old girl, live a little.”
Elm held out his hand, his smile as bright as the orchestra’s brass horns.
She shouldn’t go with him, but of all the people in the ballroom, he’d picked her for this escapade. If she turned him down, it’d be another evening dancing with the same round of partners instead of one of daring and true fun. The risks were very real, but so was Elm. She’d avoided walking out with him at the Household Brigade Steeplechase Meeting in deference to propriety and come face-to-face with Mr. Shoedelin. If she stayed here it might be another catfight with Vivien or Dorothy or who knows what ghost from her past. That wouldn’t do her any good. “All right, then, but we can’t be gone too long.”
“I promise, you and your reputation are safe with me.” He led her through the crush filling the house, the heat overwhelming until they stepped out the front door.
The pavement was crowded with guests from Stanhope Gate and the Dorchester Hotel across the square, the revelers from the different dances mixing in the cool evening air. Couples strolled on the pavement or crossed the street to take advantage of the dark walks and shadows of Hyde Park.
“Are we going to sneak into whatever dance is being held at the Dorchester?” It’d be one of the most daring things she’d done since leaving the Plaza to go to the 400 Club.
“I have something far more interesting in mind.�
�� He led her down the street and around the corner, away from the cluster of guests mingling between the two venues, and raised his arm to hail a taxi.
Valerie froze when the black cab pulled to the curb. There were rules against riding alone with a chap in a taxi. She should turn around and march back to the party, but with Elm motioning her inside she couldn’t. In Stanhope Gate there was nothing but more of the same. In the taxi, who knows what she’d discover, and this was the chance to find out. Taking hold of her skirt so it didn’t catch on her shoes, she climbed into the backseat with Elm.
She sat crushed up against the far door while trying to appear perfectly at ease, wondering if he was one of those must-touch-flesh types. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He didn’t make a move for her, resting his arm on the windowsill and proving quite tame for a taxi tiger.
The cab snaked its way through London, passing other grand houses teeming with guests in evening attire, until the more fashionable streets of London gave way to a humble maze of alleys and lanes she didn’t recognize. It pulled to a stop along a row of simple fronted shops, all of them dark and locked up for the night except for the slim building with a neon sign above a battered red door that read TANGO CLUB.
They climbed out of the taxi, the moist smell of the Thames lingering in the air along with the jazz music drifting up the club’s damp staircase. Elm spoke to the driver and paid him, then shut the door. The taxi sped off, leaving them in the dank alley in who knows what part of London.
“This way.” Elm led her down into the dark basement club, past the maître d’, who sat at the front desk reading the newspaper. He wasn’t as solicitous as Mr. Rossi, merely nodding to Elm before taking his cigarette out from between his lips and knocking the ash into a tin tray.
Moldering brick walls and a deep wood bar manned by a bartender with a great deal less continental suave than the 400 Club waiters dominated the room. A three-piece band played on the small stage in the corner beneath a bare light bulb. The saxophone, cello, and drums emitted a sultrier tempo than anything played at a dance. A postage-sized dance floor separated the band from those sitting at the spindly wood tables in arch-backed chairs. A few couples danced, the women’s paste jewelry dull against their off-the-peg dresses.
“What is this place?” The two of them stuck out like sore thumbs in their fine evening attire.
“Somewhere I like to sneak off to from time to time. There’s no milording here or debs or any of that nonsense, simply a bloke, his gal, music, and a good stiff drink.”
His gal. An interesting choice of words.
He led her to a table near the dance floor. No one rushed to serve them, leaving Elm to order two sidecars from the bar and carry them to her. A few people looked up from their highball glasses but their interest in them didn’t last. No one gave a fig for who they were or why they were here and she relaxed against the chair, appreciating the anonymity. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to simply exist, to not have everything I do, say, and wear scrutinized by my family, society, and the newspapers.”
“It’s a rare pleasure.” Elm withdrew a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket, opened it, and held it out to her. She waved it away, and he selected one, set it between his lips, and struck a match on the underside of the table. The flame light flicked across the angles of his face as he lit the cigarette, then shook out the match. “Don’t you wish you could do it every day?”
“Once the Season is over I probably will. No one’s likely to be interested in me then.”
“Don’t bet your future on it.” He pointed his cigarette at her. “Once you’re in society’s sights there’s no escaping it or its silly demands.”
“I don’t suppose there is.” Mavis was proof of that. Simply being the widow of a third-rate gentleman had been enough to make that nobody’s second marriage newsworthy.
Elm took a deep drag off the cigarette, then exhaled a long, smoke-filled breath. “My entire life is governed by it and my lineage, the past, what’s expected of me. I don’t have any more say in things than a performing monkey.”
“Few of us do.” She pushed one melting ice cube deeper into her drink. “Would you give it up if you could?”
“I don’t know.” He peered across the smoky air, his aristocratic arrogance fading into a lost hopelessness that made her heart wrench. Christian thought the chaps were luckier than the girls, but Valerie wasn’t so sure. If war came, death wouldn’t hang over England’s women the same way it did the fighting men. Afterward, women’s lives would go on, while those of Elm and his friends might end in European mud.
“Would you give society up if you could?” His question pulled her out of a sinking mood.
“No.” On the dance floor, a dark-haired woman in a red dress stepped and twirled with a slender man in a cheap suit, their cares lost for a moment in the dance. “It’s easy to see others, duchesses and the like or even the Garden Room Girls, and think they have it better, but everyone has troubles. Money and station make ours a touch more tolerable.”
Having lived as low as anyone of their class could, she had no illusion about what life without money and security was truly like. Society was a mess of hypocrites, secrets, and silly rules, but it was better than any other she’d ever endured. She wasn’t about to abandon it for some mythical freedom that didn’t exist or tell Elm her reason for clinging to it. He was open-minded enough to come to a place like this but she doubted he was that open-minded.
The steady beat of the drum gave way to a slower, smoother tune. Elm rested the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, took a drink of his sidecar, and set it down. “Shall we dance?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but drew her up from the table and led her out, turning her to face him and pulling her into his arms. She followed his lead with no awkward conversation, alphabet game, or dance cards, simply the two of them. She laid her head on his chest, the wool jacket smooth against her cheek, and breathed in the heady scent of his cologne mingling with the smoke and stale liquor of the club. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, because it wouldn’t last. It was an illusion, like the anonymity here, but she enjoyed the weight of his arms around her and his strong chest beneath her cheek until the music drifted to a close and the clarinet sparked into life with a faster tune. It jarred them apart and they left the dance floor, taking their seats to watch other couples, the girls’ dresses flaring out as their partners spun them around before joining in a frenzy of Charleston kicks and waves.
“You enjoy jazz?” Valerie asked, not sure what else to say.
Elm dragged his chair around the table to sit beside her. “My regiment mates have threatened to toss out my records if I keep playing them, but I can’t. They were a gift from my mother. She adores jazz.”
“Difficult to imagine your mother listening to such earthy music.”
“Father hates it, of course, that’s probably why she plays it, to torment him, not that he doesn’t deserve it.” Elm lounged back in his chair, his white waistcoat and bow tie as crisp as when he’d arrived. “If he’d been faithful to her she wouldn’t have a reason to torment him. Of course, I didn’t know the half of it, holed up at Eton and Oxford, but the tension was thick whenever I came home. My poor sister had to endure it. She blames me for not being there, but what could I do? No one asked me if I wanted to go off to school, and when I was home, Father made sure I understood my place. It’s a wonder I can still hear after the dressing-down he gave me when I confronted him about it. The great and powerful Marquess of Fallington won’t be questioned, especially by his son.”
“I’m sorry, Elm.” She laid her hand on his.
“Me too, but that’s the way of things, isn’t it, and there’s nothing we can do to change it. Not a damn thing.” He reached for the sidecar, throwing back the rest of it and bringing the glass down on the table with a thud before flashing that charming smile of his. “But let’s not be gloomy.”
“Let’s not.”
They enjoyed mundane conversation, him telling her about his regiment and training, her explaining the day-to-day workings of No. 10. There was little of the snobbish or gloomy viscount, but a humbleness she hadn’t seen before. This must be the friend Richard knew, the aristocrat without all the airs and graces.
When it came time to leave, the taxi was waiting to ferry them back to Stanhope Gate. They climbed inside and sat close together, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. They didn’t talk, the whir of the tires against the streets reverberating through the cab. He toyed with the strap of her dress, brushing her skin and sending small shivers racing through her. She tilted her head back to peer up at him, the streetlights cutting across the angles of his face. He looked down at her, his fingers stilling. She held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her.
The moment stretched on and she silently urged him to press his lips to hers. She couldn’t very well throw herself at him. The last time she’d been too bold with a gentleman still haunted her, but this wasn’t France and she was no longer that poor girl.
“We’re almost there,” he said at last, withdrawing his arm from around her.
She sat up, noticing the faint dusting of face powder on his jacket, but she didn’t brush it off, afraid to appear as if she were trying to climb back into his arms. He hadn’t kissed her. He’d wanted to, it’d been in his eyes, but he hadn’t. Of course not. There were rules and they’d broken enough of them already, but she didn’t regret it. Even with the disappointing ending, nothing in Stanhope Gate could have compared to this.
The lights of the Dorchester came into view. The taxi pulled to the curb around the corner from Stanhope Gate. Elm paid the driver, then helped Valerie out, not taking her arm but walking beside her until they joined the cavalcade of people coming and going from Hyde Park, the Dorchester, and 6 Stanhope Gate. They entered the festive house.
“This is where I leave you. Good night, Valerie.”
She held out her hand for him to kiss, the most innocent and socially acceptable thing she could think of and the last chance for them to touch flesh, as it were. “Good night.”
The Last Debutantes Page 18