The Last Debutantes

by Georgie Blalock

  “I suppose.” This wasn’t about telling her mother to bugger off but finding out why she’d left, and if there could ever be anything between them besides trust payments. Even if it didn’t go well, she’d have the truth instead of all this wondering. Good or bad, it’d be a great deal easier to face with friends around and a weekend at Cliveden to distract her from anything distasteful. “I’d have to do it without anyone at Number Ten knowing. Aunt Anne isn’t one to lose her temper, but I’ve never gone behind her back before.” She probably shouldn’t do it but she had to know. The what-ifs were torturing her. “How will I manage it?”

  Dinah leaned forward with that conspiratorial look of hers. “If we put our heads together, we’ll think of a way.”

  VALERIE HANDED THE cabdriver the coins and stepped out of the cab. Bury Street was filled with gentlemen coming and going from nearby Jermyn Street. She saw couples waiting in line outside Quaglino’s for a table. At the newsagent’s, a placard board beside the newsstand announced PEOPLE DEMAND CHURCHILL RETURN in bold letters. Everyone was agitating for the political exile to have a place in Uncle Neville’s cabinet. Uncle Neville had spilled more than a few words during dinners about how little he cared for the seasoned politician.

  “Shall I wait for you, luv?” the cabbie asked.

  “Please.” Her interview with Mavis had been shockingly brief. This one might be too. She adjusted the short-brimmed hat, amazed by how quickly tea with Dinah had turned to a clandestine reunion with her mother. It’d been Dinah’s idea for Valerie to hail a cab and leave Mr. May waiting at Claridge’s. If Aunt Anne ever got wind of this she’d be disappointed that Valerie had defied her instructions. If she thought she could make her understand why she needed to come here she’d tell her, but she wasn’t certain she could. She still wasn’t sure what she expected from this visit.

  Taking a deep breath, and unwilling to sit in this awful suspense any longer, she walked into the hotel, nodding to the liveried doorman, who tugged open the glass door. Smartly dressed people lingered in the lobby, checking in or conversing with their friends. It was an altogether respectable address a woman with six thousand pounds a year and no children to clothe and feed could afford.

  “May I help you, miss?” the man behind the counter asked.

  “Miss de Vere Cole to see Mrs. Winterbotham. She isn’t expecting me.”

  He picked up the phone and dialed her room. Valerie glanced at the cab through the hotel’s front door. This might end quickly if her mother wasn’t home or declined to see her.

  “You may go up. Room Twenty-Three. Third floor.” He directed her to the lifts.

  Valerie shifted from foot to foot in the tight confines of the lift as the slender operator ferried her up.

  If the lobby was nothing special, neither was the third floor, and she followed the plain number on each door until she reached 23. With a shaking hand she knocked, waiting for an answer.

  It wasn’t long before a woman with Valerie’s blue eyes and a mop of short, frizzy dark hair tugged open the door. She wore a long wrap in peacock-feather greens and purples tied loosely about her slender waist, a woman with nothing to do and nowhere to go. She didn’t seem particularly surprised to see Valerie, eyeing her as if she were a maid bringing up the post.

  Valerie stood there, not sure what to do. She hadn’t known what to expect but it’d been a touch more emotion than this. It hollowed out her already-aching stomach and left her at a loss for how to greet the woman who’d brought her into this world and then vanished from her life. An embrace didn’t feel right, but neither did a smack with her purse. There were questions she wanted to ask, answers she’d longed to hear. An arrest for battery would get her nowhere.

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. Come in.” She stepped aside and Valerie entered the room, no more welcome than she’d been at Mavis’s. It didn’t bode well.

  Bags and hatboxes from Harrods and Selfridges lay strewn about the sitting room beside the wrinkled pages of fashion magazines. The furniture, a respectable set of Queen Anne reproductions, was clean enough but ratty about the edges. From somewhere down the hall a maid whistled along to the music from the wireless while she worked.

  Mrs. Winterbotham sat down and motioned for Valerie to do the same. She didn’t ring for tea. This was going to be a short visit. “You’re, what, eighteen now?”

  “I’ll be nineteen in August.”

  “Really? I could’ve sworn it was April, but it was all so long ago. Where are you living these days?”

  “With Aunt Anne and Uncle Neville. Aunt Anne is bringing me out from Number Ten. I’m sure you’ve read about it in the papers.”

  “I don’t read the newspapers. There’s nothing in them but gloom and doom.” Her words carried an Irish accent softened by a hint of Englishness.

  “Then you didn’t know I was in London?”

  “Mr. Mason told me when I visited him last month after coming over from Ireland.” She rose and went to the table near the window, where a selection of decanters and crystal glasses stood beside a chrome ice bucket. She tonged out two cubes and dropped them in a highball glass before filling it with a healthy dose of whiskey and soda. “He thought I might wish to contact you, I don’t know why.”

  “Because you’re my mother.” Steady on, girl.

  “An inconvenient side effect of an unfortunate marriage.” She snorted into her glass, sloshing some over the side and wiping the rest from the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s amazing what a little bit of gold around a woman’s finger will gain her, and how much more a healthy inheritance attracts. I wasn’t about to waste my youth on some old fool and his baby.”

  “I was your child too.”

  “I never wanted to be a mother. I wanted my freedom and my inheritance, and marrying that old man was the only way I could wrest both from Chancery Court control. I told Horace so when I married him, but he didn’t believe me. He thought we were in love, as if a nineteen-year-old can see anything in a forty-year-old besides freedom, and satisfying a bit of curiosity. If I’d known it would leave me up the duff, I’d have stayed curious. Bedding him was the second greatest mistake I’ve ever made after marrying him.”

  “And leaving me? You don’t consider that a mistake?”

  She shrugged. “You seem to have come through it all right.”

  The woman’s callousness knocked the breath out of her. It wasn’t all right, it’d never been, and this woman was part of the reason why. Every day of hunger and depredation Valerie had endured, each lonely night in Cambridge or Ascain when she’d gone to bed without a mother’s kiss, washed over her along with the old aching loneliness.

  Mrs. Winterbotham finished the drink and set it on the cart. “I know you came here expecting me to wail with regret about having given you up, but I won’t. I’ve had my fun and I’ll have more of it before I’m through. I suggest you do the same. You’re in a better position to enjoy your freedom than I ever was. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  She fluttered off in a cloud of metallic green and purple silk.

  Valerie struggled against the regret and anger pulling at her to stand up and leave. She held back the tears in the lift to the lobby, walking with as steady a stride as she could manage out of the hotel and to the cab. “Number Ten Downing Street.”

  The cabbie turned to gape at her as if she had three heads.

  “Number Ten,” she snapped. “Please.”

  It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know who she was or where she lived or that her mother had tossed her out of her life for the second time.

  Fool. Fool. Fool! She’d insisted on learning the truth, and what had it gotten her? Another slap in the face. She should’ve listened to Aunt Anne, but her aunt should’ve told her the truth, that Mavis was right and her mother had never wanted her.

  It didn’t take long for the cab to reach No. 10. He dropped her off at the corner of Downing Street and Whitehall.
She paid him, then stepped out, unrecognized by the crowd until the police moved aside to let her through. The gathered men and women called out questions about Germany and Japan but she ignored them, unable to offer any answers, barely able to see Downing Street through the haze of tears blurring her eyes.

  Henry opened the door at her knock, forcing her to smile when he greeted her. There were more people on the ground floor than usual and it took all her strength to walk to the Grand Staircase instead of racing up it. Valerie climbed the seemingly never-ending stairs, past the old prime ministers, the history, everything that made the house what it was. At the top, she instructed Mr. Dobson to send word to Mr. May at Claridge’s to return. The butler’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t question her, leaving to do as he was asked.

  She hurried down the hall toward the second-floor staircase and paused outside the drawing room. From inside came the clink of teacups and Aunt Anne’s soft voice muffled by the closed doors. Her At Home gave Valerie time to have a cry and pull herself together before tonight’s dinner party, even if all she wanted was to shove the door aside and hug her aunt. She longed for her to carry her away from this nastiness as she’d taken her from the convent.

  She pressed her forehead to the cool drawing room door and ran one finger along the molding.

  I’m afraid I can’t explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?

  Alice’s words from Wonderland drifted through her thoughts. Aunt Anne was so close, but even if she could hug her she couldn’t tell her everything or how deep the hidden scars ran. If she did, Aunt Anne might finally see the flaw inside Valerie, the one that’d made her mother and father scorn her. She could face almost anything except losing Aunt Anne.

  “Valerie, are you all right?”

  Valerie straightened to see Marian coming back from Uncle Neville’s office. If she stayed down here much longer she wouldn’t be. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long Season.” More lies, but she couldn’t tell her the truth. Their Excellencies had shared their secrets and she’d revealed some of hers, as many as she’d dared. They hadn’t judged or turned away from her, but for all she and Marian had done, it’d never been as personal as this. She wished it could be, and someday it might, but today all she could do was stand there pretending to be strong while crumbling inside. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong, it was always chin-up.

  Marian studied Valerie, the faint vanilla scent of the Schiaparelli perfume Valerie had given her marking the air. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

  “I will. Thank you for your concern.” She appreciated it far more than she could say without bursting into tears.

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor, hoping to make it to her room without running into anyone else. She reached the top and came face-to-face with Dorothy.

  “Valerie, I’m glad I caught you. There are a few things we must discuss before you leave for Cliveden tomorrow, some things to keep in mind while you’re with the Astors.”

  “Tomorrow morning.” After the lovely time she’d spent with her mother she wasn’t in the mood for Dorothy. She tried to push past her, but Dorothy stepped in her way.

  “No, young lady, this moment. Father is worrying himself sick over Germany. He doesn’t need you forgetting yourself in the relaxed atmosphere of the country and causing trouble.”

  “Causing trouble? When have I ever caused trouble?”

  “I know you snuck off to the 400 Club. Lady Simon said Lord Warwick saw you there.”

  So much for mutual discretion. “Did she tell you he wasn’t there with his wife?”

  “That isn’t the point. You’re a representative of the Prime Minister and this family. If you forget yourself, you’ll be ruined and become a weight around Father and Mummy’s necks, a spinster for them to support. They can’t be responsible for you forever. Mummy indulges you too much as it is.”

  “Spare me your worries. You didn’t care about me or what I did when I was in Ascain or with Great-Aunt Lillian, sick from not having eaten enough in France, covered in rashes from that awful coarse uniform they made us wear.”

  “Stop dwelling on France. It does you and no one else any good, especially when you exaggerate so.”

  “Exaggerate? Why, you spoiled, narrow-minded cow.” Dorothy drew back in openmouthed horror. Valerie should bite her tongue, but she couldn’t contain the wave welling inside her. “Aunt Anne and Uncle Neville loved you and gave you everything. You don’t know what it’s like to be hungry or destitute, to have your father ignore you every day, even while you’re starving, and your mother not want you. All you know is how to belittle people, expecting the worst of them at every turn even when they’ve given you no reason to, and making them miserable. Now get out of my way.”

  Valerie shoved past her and rushed to her room, slamming the door behind her and turning the key so hard in the lock it almost snapped. She held her breath, listening for Dorothy’s heavy steps in the hall, but they never came. She’d catch hell for this later, but she didn’t care. Not since the Mother Superior had scowled at her tears when she’d begged to be allowed to write to Aunt Anne had anyone been so heartless, and it struck as deep as her mother’s disregard.

  It didn’t matter what she did or how she behaved, it was never good enough for Dorothy and her ilk, who thought nothing of belittling her or insulting her at every turn. She didn’t deserve it. She’d been the dutiful daughter, the proper debutante, and still it wasn’t enough. Dorothy, her mother, Mavis, Lady Fallington, all despised her or believed she was rotten to the core. Perhaps she was as bad as Mr. Shoedelin believed, but if so, it wasn’t her fault. It was her parents’.

  She opened the dispatch box and dug beneath the book to yank out the letters.

  Father was the one to blame, but he wasn’t here. He never had been. He’d ruined everything and left her to deal with the consequences.

  She tore the letters to pieces, each rip releasing a lifetime of frustration and hurt. She flung the scraps in the grate, snatched up the matchbox from the mantel, and lit one after another, flinging them in to burn the horrid begging words and desperation. The fire flared hot and fast before fading, leaving the letters a crumbling mass of black bits at the bottom of the fireplace. Heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to crawl into bed and never come out again

  “Miss de Vere Cole?” Miss Logan’s northern accent carried through the door along with a few small knocks. “It’s time to dress for Lady Bridgeman’s dinner.”

  Valerie drew in two long, difficult breaths, trying to force the tremble and tears out of her voice. “In a few minutes, Miss Logan. Please. I need some time alone.”

  She waited for Miss Logan to insist, her aunt’s lady’s maid not nearly as deferential as Mr. Dobson but she didn’t. “Yes, Miss de Vere Cole. Call me when you’re ready.”

  Miss Logan’s footsteps faded down the hallway, probably going to Aunt Anne’s room to leave a note that something was amiss. Miss Logan would have to stand in line behind Dorothy, who’d probably barged into the At Home to give her mother an earful. Valerie leaned against the chair and pressed her fists against her forehead. Thank heavens Aunt Anne wasn’t likely to tramp up here to demand an explanation.

  Valerie wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and pulled herself off the floor. She couldn’t sit here crying and feeling sorry for herself. There were obligations, immutable, unforgiving ones for conversation and smiles and pretending everything was well even when it wasn’t. She had no choice but to face it all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Valerie whacked the tennis ball to Elm. He returned the volley, sending it sailing over the net and her head to bounce in front of Dinah. She swung and aimed the ball at Richard, who wasn’t so quick, missing it before it bounced inside the line and into the grass outside the court.

  “Our win!” Dinah twirled her racket in tr
iumph, her pleated skirt beneath a short-sleeved jumper swaying with her motion.

  Behind her, the weathered light brown stone of Cliveden rose above the green lawn, the floors stacked like three tiers of a square cake topped with points. A wide patio rimmed with a balustrade projected off the back of the manor house, a hugging staircase accented with ivy leading down from it to the sprawling lawns that stretched out before sloping into the formal gardens and the forest beyond.

  Aunt Anne hadn’t ridden up to Cliveden with Valerie. At the last moment, Uncle Neville had asked her to stay behind. It’d made the hairs on the back of Valerie’s neck rise. Uncle Neville relied on Aunt Anne to unburden himself from everything he faced in the Commons and the Cabinet Room. If he was asking her to delay her trip, it couldn’t be good. There hadn’t been a chance for Valerie to find out. She’d been packed off alone, spending too much time in the back of the car thinking over everything with her mother, Dorothy, and the past. There hadn’t been time to discuss it with Dinah before she’d left or after she’d arrived, the sheer number of guests at the house party pulling the hosts in a thousand different directions.

  Try as she might to shake off her mother’s nasty spite and Dorothy’s cruel dismissal of her suffering, it had all ridden beside her during the drive to Cliveden and haunted her while Dinah had shown everyone around the Italianate house, the opulence of St. James’s Square paling in comparison. Even her room was the most elaborate she’d ever slept in, with a canopy of blue and bronze silk set against a wall of yellow paper and wainscoting. The bedroom had a spectacular view of the River Thames snaking through the thick forest, and Valerie had spent too much of last night standing at the window searching for some calm in its beauty.

  Dinah tossed the ball in the air and caught it. “Another game?”

  “I’ve been beaten enough for one day.” Elm loped off the court to drop down at the table and pour a glass of lemonade.

  “Sore loser.” Dinah stuck her tongue out at him and he returned the gesture.