The Last Debutantes

by Georgie Blalock

  Lady Ravensdale slid Vivien an admonishing look, making her niece’s haughty shoulders slump, then she fixed narrow eyes on Valerie. “I didn’t realize you were so well acquainted with the Marquess and his son. I was speaking to Lady Fallington a few moments ago. She was quite astonished by the drawing of your stepmother. One imagines a man of Mr. Wheeler’s professional standing would be more discreet about the advantages of his new young wife, but I suppose his connection to the Premier’s family far outweighs the disadvantages of such a public display. Please give my regards to your uncle and aunt and your beautiful stepmother. Good day, ladies.”

  Valerie silently seethed as Lady Ravensdale escorted Vivien out of the portrait gallery, not sure who to curse first, Lady Ravensdale for insulting her or Mavis for giving her the perfect means to do so. Lady Ravensdale’s cut wasn’t even the worst of it. Lady Fallington had seen Mavis’s portrait and her connection to Valerie and she’d been horrified. Everything Valerie had accomplished at the monarchs’ dinner had been darkened by Mavis, the past once again stronger than anything she might do in the present, but she refused to be bested. Enough of the Season remained for her to prove she was better than Mavis or people like Lady Ravensdale believed.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be able to make an insult sound enough like a compliment so you almost thank her for it,” Christian said, sharing Valerie’s indignation.

  “The daughter of the Viceroy of India has the right to be haughty even with all the scandals hanging on her.” Dinah waved them closer and dropped her voice. “She was Sir Oswald’s mistress before her sister became his first wife. Aunt Nancy used to tell stories about how difficult it was to assign bedrooms during house parties at Cliveden because she never knew whose room Sir Oswald’s should be closest to.”

  “Yet someone like her has the audacity to look down on us.” Valerie pushed the veil up over her hat, wanting to yank the annoying thing off, but she wasn’t about to ruin her polish.

  “I’m not surprised.” Christian dug her toe into the floor. “A viceroy’s daughter can’t have a very high opinion of a lowly Scottish baron’s daughter paying for her own Season.”

  “What?” Valerie was more astonished by this than the Lady Ravensdale gossip.

  “I thought you knew. Father’s will left Mummy practically penniless and with the four of us to raise. It’s why we live in Chelsea, it’s all we can afford, and why Anne Schuster and I shared our coming-out dance. I have the right sort of lineage but it isn’t worth a farthing. If it hadn’t been for my dear governess leaving me two hundred pounds I’d be at home reading about you lot instead of enjoying it with you.”

  “You’re brave to admit it.”

  “Mummy says I shouldn’t, but we’re not fooling anyone, especially when she sends me to luncheons on public transport.” Christian shook her head, making the feathers in her felt homburg flutter. So it wasn’t only Dorothy threatening fire and brimstone if debutantes told the truth. “I can only imagine what they’re saying about me.”

  “They don’t have the right to say anything, especially when most of them are acting as if they’re still flush while selling the family silverware out the back door.” Valerie was tired of the ridiculous pretenses, of adulterous viceroys’ daughters stuffing skeletons into their antique wardrobes while wagging censorious fingers at Valerie. “As for public transport, ring me when you need a lift, I’d love to have someone to chat with on the way to things instead of sitting stone-faced like a Buckingham Palace guard.” It was the least she could do, since she was living on handouts. They were quite fine ones, but it was still charity. However, she’d be an utter heel to complain after the meeting with Mr. Mason. She might be poor, but when she turned twenty-one, she’d have more than Christian was ever likely to get.

  “You’ll regret that offer. I’m going to call you for everything simply so I can say I arrived in the Prime Minister’s car. Won’t Mummy swoon when she hears that?” Christian’s dreamy look suggested she was the one who’d do most of the swooning.

  “Speaking of swooning, there’s a chap who’ll have Valerie doing it in spades.”

  Dinah pointed to where Richard stood across the room admiring the portrait of an old woman hung between those of Queen Mary and Marlene Dietrich. Queen Mary appeared stiff as usual, while the actress was stunningly swathed in white, her dark eyes in her tilted face giving the viewer a come-hither look that entranced Ambassador Kennedy. He admired it with as much enthusiasm as the men did Models for Goddesses. Mrs. Kennedy wasn’t keen on the likeness, standing beside him in her Paris suit of white silk with black-edged lapels.

  “Why don’t you purchase it and stop making a spectacle of yourself?” the Ambassadress hissed.

  Ambassador Kennedy cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief. “Perhaps I will.”

  “I won’t have that woman hanging in the house.”

  “I’ll hang her wherever I like.” He perched the glasses on his nose as his wife stalked off.

  “Come along, girls.”

  Eunice threw Their Excellencies a small wave and followed her mother and older sister Kick into the next gallery. Kick wore a dark blue dress lined at the sleeves in white. She was similar in looks to Eunice, but there was something more refined about her features yet with a freshness one couldn’t miss.

  “Poor Eunice,” Valerie said. They’d been ordered to stay with their mother instead of their friends, the matriarch afraid of missing the chance for the three of them to be photographed together. It must be awful to have to constantly trail behind her popular older sister.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to catch up with her, but first we must see to you. I think there’s a doctor in need of a house call.” Dinah pushed Valerie toward Richard. “We’ll be looking for John Miller. After all, Christian needs a little cheering up too.”

  “Is he here?” Christian turned this way and that searching for him.

  “Let’s find out.” With a toodle-oo wave at Valerie, she and Christian went in search of the Scotsman.

  Valerie adjusted the veil on her hat and debated whether or not to approach Richard. If he was here, there was a good chance he’d seen Mavis’s portrait. She didn’t relish him looking askance at her before wandering off to less scandalous pastures, but there was only one way to find out if he’d treat her like Their Excellencies or like Lady Ravensdale. She took a bracing breath and strode up to Richard. “The hospital must be keeping you busy for you to have missed so many dances lately.”

  “Not the hospital but Lady Bridgeman. She’s made it her mission to properly stock every hospital in England. She’s quite the taskmaster.”

  “As I’m about to discover. I’ve joined the Personal Service League. I take up my duties in August.”

  “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be splendid in your new position.” The admiration lighting up Richard’s face was worth more to her than any of her recent social accomplishments, including accepting an umbrella-shaped clock on Uncle Neville’s behalf from the British Industries Fair, and it took the sting out of the possible scandal hanging in the other gallery. Either he wasn’t aware of the connection between the drawing’s subject and her or he had the tact to not admit it. She wasn’t about to raise the topic and find out which. “Was it a great shock to receive an invitation to my dance instead of finding it posted on the hospital noticeboard?”

  “It was. I’ve been in Londonderry House, Holland House, Stanhope Gate, Devonshire House, but not Number Ten. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I think most people are attending for that reason, not that it matters. I’ve gone to more than one dance out of curiosity too.”

  “Richard, you’re still here. I thought you’d have made it to the still lifes by now.” An older gentleman with a brown waistcoat covering his large stomach approached, accompanied by a short woman in a mink stole.

  “I think he’s found something more interesting than art.” The woman, who resembled Richard in slenderness and the shape of h
er face, eyed Valerie with more delight than Lady Fallington and her ilk had ever shown.

  “Miss de Vere Cole, allow me to present my parents, Lord and Lady Lansdown.”

  “You’re the Premier’s niece,” Lady Lansdown observed. “Richard has told us a great deal about you.”

  “Has he?” This made her nearly flutter off the floor. His father’s next comment kept her feet firmly planted on the parquet.

  “She’s that old hoaxer de Vere Cole’s daughter, remember him?” Lord Lansdown placed his hands on his round belly and tilted back his head as if considering a great matter. “My mates and I howled it up when he stuck it to those stuffy Cambridge officials by pretending to be the Sultan of Zanzibar. Of course, I was at Oxford, which made it even more delightful.”

  Delightful. There was a word she’d never associated with Father.

  “There’s no need to bore the young people with those old stories.” Lady Lansdown patted her husband’s shoulder. “They want to enjoy the show and so do we. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss de Vere Cole. Richard, we’ll be in the next gallery.”

  That she pulled her husband away and not her son heartened Valerie. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see Mavis and march back in to drag Richard off.

  “I apologize for my father.”

  “No need, he remembers mine fondly. He’s one of the few.”

  “Someday we’ll bore our children with the same type of stories. If we get the chance.”

  If. There it was again, the gloom that’d hung over Elm at the dinner and flashed in Aunt Anne’s eyes afterward. A chill raced through Valerie. She was tired of this specter tarnishing everything.

  She was about to say so when movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn. An old man with a Van Dyke beard and a far too jauntily tilted trilby approached. If Valerie could have rolled up her program and beaten him about the shoulders of his three-piece suit she would have, but she couldn’t, not here. It simply wasn’t done.

  “Miss de Vere Cole, I don’t know if you remember me. I was a friend of your father’s.”

  “I remember you, Mr. John.” Valerie’s curt reply drew a curious look from Richard.

  Mr. John took off his hat and fingered the brim, having the decency to at least feign embarrassment. It was more than Father or Mavis had ever done. He extended his hand to Richard when Valerie made no move to introduce him. “Augustus John.”

  “Dr. Cranston. A pleasure to meet you. I’m familiar with your work.”

  “So am I,” Valerie hissed at the Welsh artist. “Tell me, Mr. John, did Mavis ask you to submit that salacious drawing or did you do it on a lark or even realize the trouble it might cause me and my aunt and uncle?”

  Richard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Spite made her appear peevish, but she didn’t care. She refused to allow Mr. John to leave without facing some grief for his submission.

  “It was never my intention to cause you or the Chamberlains distress. I wanted to see Tristan. Mavis said I could if I submitted it.” He dabbed his forehead with a paisley handkerchief, one of those annoying affectations artists always adopted for attention. “I apologize if I’ve harmed you and your family.”

  Valerie stared at Mr. John, stunned to receive an apology from the man who’d ruined Father’s marriage and shoved him deeper into the pit of melancholy.

  “Sadly, it was all for naught. Mavis didn’t uphold her end of the bargain and the London Museum refuses to give me their address. I simply wish to know if Tristan is well and to do what I can for him.” He tucked the handkerchief in his pocket, for the first time in however long she’d known him appearing humble and genuine. Maybe this was why Father had thought him a friend despite the many betrayals. Clearly Mr. John could muster up a show of concern when necessary, except this wasn’t a show. His desire to see his son was in his aged blue eyes, Tristan’s eyes. As much as she wanted to tell him to sod off, she couldn’t be the one to deny Tristan the chance to have at least one parent who cared about him. It’d make her as callous about his welfare as Father and Mrs. Winterbotham had been about hers. “They’re at Number Ten Chelsea Embankment. I’ve seen them and they’re both doing well.”

  Mr. John set his hat on his head, his gratitude more genuine than any other expression he’d ever plied on her or Father. “Thank you, Miss de Vere Cole. It means a great deal to me.”

  He nodded, then walked off, leaving Valerie and Richard standing in the middle of the gallery.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, I wasn’t at my best just then,” she said, owing Richard some explanation. “Mr. John and my stepmother were lovers and one of the nudes in the Drawing and Etching Gallery is of her. It’s caused me and my aunt and uncle a great deal of grief.”

  There was no point in hiding the truth now.

  “I see.” He tapped the program against the palm of his hand. She waited for him to make some excuse about why he should hurry off to find his parents, but he remained beside her, nodding sagely. “And you still gave him his son’s address.”

  “I didn’t do it for him but for Tristan. It isn’t the boy’s fault things happened the way they did, any more than what passed between Father, Mavis, and Mr. John was mine. I was simply caught in the middle of it. Tristan doesn’t deserve the same fate.”

  “That was very kind of you.”

  “As long as Mr. John doesn’t thank me by amusing his patrons with nasty tales of how he cuckolded my father.” Heaven knows what pithy words would appear under her newspaper pictures then.

  “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

  “Paul the Apostle.”

  He smiled, his humor reviving hers. “Someday I’ll stump you.”

  “I’ll enjoy you giving it a good try.” He’d seen her at her worst and thought the best of her. It touched her more than any manners or adventures in smoky clubs ever had. “Thank you for your view of things. It’s hard at times to see past slights to how situations really are.”

  “It’s easier for me. I’m not in the thick of it, but I’m glad I could help. Please let me know if I can do it again.”

  “You’ll be the first I call.” Valerie trilled her fingers against her program, the sincerity in his voice stirring. The fleeting thought that she should’ve asked him to escort her to the Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball instead of Elm flittered through her mind before she dismissed it. Vivien and her ilk were going to see her at one of the most important social events of the Season on the arm of a viscount.

  Across the room, Lord Lansdown pointed to his watch. Richard pushed back his cuff to look at his. “I must get back to the hospital. No rest for the weary. Until the next dance.”

  “Until then.”

  He crossed the gallery and at the door offered a wave before he was gone.

  “Prince Charming leaving already?” Dinah came to stand beside her, concern in the small frown furrowing her brow.

  “He has work to do.”

  “So do we.” She motioned to where Eunice stood alone in front of the Marlene Dietrich portrait. “Eunice, is something wrong?” Dinah asked when they joined her.

  She didn’t take her blue eyes off the portrait. “My father and Marlene are having an affair.”

  Good Lord, this place was teeming with secrets, and it was only an art showing. “Are you sure?”

  “She was with us on the Riviera last year and he flaunted her around Mother. It was awful. Mother went to Paris to shop, determined to spend as much of his money as she could to make him pay for what he was doing. He didn’t care. He never does, not with any of them.” Eunice’s knuckles went white where she clasped her hands together in front of her. “His immortal soul is in peril, but Daddy won’t stop. It makes Mother miserable and she takes it out on us. She thinks we don’t know why, that we’re too innocent, but we’re not stupid.”

  “I’m so sorry, Eunice.” Valerie laid a comforting hand on Eunice’s shoulder. “My father and stepmother
were the same way.”

  “Yes, Mother told me about the drawing Mr. John submitted.”

  Valerie wondered how the pious Ambassadress had come by the connection, but Elm was right. Once a person became visible to society, they and any of their offenses were never forgotten. Mrs. Kennedy might be a devout Catholic, but she enjoyed gossip as much as anyone else. “They’re absolutely rubbish, aren’t they?”

  “Most of society is,” Dinah huffed. “It’s a trait both of our countries have in common. Perhaps we should send our wives over there and their husbands over here to encourage more cross-country relations.”

  “It isn’t funny.” Eunice blotted her cheeks with her handkerchief, trying to remain composed.

  “It’s perfectly awful, but there’s nothing we can do except laugh about it. It makes it so much less nasty.”

  Eunice blew her nose, eyeing Dinah from over the top of the linen. “I suppose so.”

  “Of course.” She cuffed her on the chin, bringing a weak smile to Eunice’s wide face. “Chin up, old girl. Can’t fall to pieces here.”

  “That’s what I love about you all, you’re so sensible and understanding and discreet. You won’t tell anyone what I said, will you? Mother is worried about the press finding out about Father and publishing nasty things.”

  “We won’t say a word.” Valerie wasn’t about to betray any of them, not after how wonderful they’d been with her.

  Two matrons passed by in their fur wraps, eyeing them as if they’d slipped one of the small portraits under their skirts. The girls smiled back as if they didn’t have a care in the world, but it was a lie. Almost everything in society was, and the more time Valerie spent here, the more she saw it, playing her part in maintaining the illusion along with the rest. No one said anything aloud, everyone pretended as if everything were all right, but it wasn’t, it never had been, and it might never be, and they could barely talk about it for fear of ridicule, humiliation, or worse. It made her want to stand on the bench in the center of the room and scream for everyone to stop pretending so no one would have to feel alone in their troubles. Even if she did, it wouldn’t change anything. Everyone would hiss at her to stop making a fool of herself, too absorbed in their titles, houses, and manners to admit to anything more real. “Maybe war will force everyone to own up to the nastiness instead of pretending it doesn’t exist, make people face their awful behavior instead of constantly sweeping it under ancestral rugs.”