by Lulu Taylor
‘Fifty grand?’ Gerry raised an eyebrow. ‘Hardly, my angel. But, shhh! I’m not saying another word, and don’t even try to get it out of me because you won’t. Discretion, discretion, that’s my watchword.’
There was the sound of a gong booming out over the terrace and grounds. Gerry jumped, the startled expression on his face swiftly replaced by a smile of anticipation and a sparkle in his eyes.
‘Look at the time! It’s almost midnight. I think the moment of the unveiling is here.’ He hurried out of the Orangery. Amanda stared after him for a second and then followed, heels clattering and skirts swishing on the stone floor, eager to see what was about to be revealed.
In the kitchen of Homerton House, Maggie the housekeeper was bashing things about crossly, swearing under her breath at the hired caterers who’d invaded her realm for the evening and who swarmed everywhere in their chic black outfits, carrying trays of food and stacks of plates. They had overrun the place, which was now in a kind of organised chaos – and they were politely but insistently ignoring her and overruling all the usual systems.
‘Best to let them be,’ said Jo the cook. She hadn’t been needed for the night, not with the professional caterers on hand to carve flowers out of courgettes and peel the artichokes and do whatever else had been decreed for the special event, but she’d come up from her cottage to see what was going on. No one wanted to miss this, after all. ‘No point in getting riled about it,’ she said wisely.
‘Maybe,’ Maggie said with a sigh. ‘But I don’t like it, and that’s a fact. I like things the way they’re supposed to be.’
‘We’re not used to this kind of fuss,’ Jo pointed out. ‘Nothing much ever changes here, does it?’ She picked up a tea towel and started polishing a champagne glass. ‘We usually know exactly what will happen from one day to the next.’
‘Yes, well … not any more,’ muttered Maggie. She frowned. ‘This place looks like a bomb site! And they’ve taken over the breakfast room too.’
‘They’ll be gone in the morning,’ Jo said comfortingly. ‘I know what these outfits are like. It’s a terrible mess at the time but they’ll have sorted it before they go. You won’t know they’ve been here.’
Maggie sniffed. ‘I doubt it.’
‘What’s bothering you?’ The cook put down her towel and laid her hand gently on Maggie’s arm. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’
Maggie said nothing for a minute, staring at the stone flags on the floor. Then she sank down on to a chair and clasped her hands round her knees. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not.’ She looked up at Jo. ‘Like you said, we know how things work around here. We know how it is. It’s always been the same. But that’s all going to change after tonight.’
‘Is it?’ Jo’s eyes widened and she looked startled. ‘How?’
‘Can’t you see? This night’s going to be the end of everything here. Those girls … she’s releasing them at last. Do you think, when they’ve got their freedom, they’re going to stay here? In this big old house in the middle of nowhere, with that crusty old couple? I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’ Jo let out a long breath. ‘I hadn’t really thought about that but now you say it …’
‘There’s been plenty going on lately,’ Maggie said sharply. ‘I haven’t wanted to say anything because … well, I try to keep my mouth shut. I don’t like gossip. But there’s been people coming here – lawyers, accountants, people in suits carrying briefcases. Something’s about to happen, I just know it. And it’ll change life for all of us.’ She shook her head, her mouth turning down and her eyes filling with tears. ‘I don’t know how we’ll survive without those girls. They’re all that makes this place live.’
‘But you wouldn’t want them to stay here forever, would you?’ Jo asked quietly. ‘They’re young. They have to spread their wings. Besides, it’s not … healthy, them being here all alone. You know it isn’t.’
There was a pointed pause and the two women exchanged glances.
‘Course I do,’ Maggie replied gruffly. ‘And I know it’s right they should go. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?’
The distant sound of a gong boomed out. They listened and then looked at each other.
‘This is it,’ said Maggie breathlessly. ‘They’re coming. Come on, we can’t miss this.’
The small party began to descend the grand staircase from the upper floor: first two footmen leading the way, then the two girls and behind them the elderly couple. The Brigadier was in his mess uniform, a wonderful scarlet jacket with brass buttons and gold braid, medals displayed across his chest. His wife, Frances Staunton, majestic and elegant in navy blue satin and a sapphire necklace, glided beside him, her bearing as upright and soldierly as her husband’s. With her silver and gunmetal-grey hair she looked every one of her sixty-two years, but with a regal quality that made her transcend age: her skin was soft, the lines in it as delicate as the creases in tissue paper.
No one was looking at the elderly couple, though. Below, in the main hall standing on the black-and-white chequered marble floor, Maggie and Jo tried to conceal themselves behind a statue of a Roman god, and gasped as they saw the twins.
‘Don’t they look lovely?’ sighed Jo. ‘Like film stars!’
‘Beautiful,’ whispered Maggie. ‘Oh, I feel quite choked up! Oh, my goodness. Poor wee girls. What’s going to become of them?’
The two women scuttled off to bag the prime viewing spot before the party arrived on the terrace.
The crowd streamed up the garden, along the formal walks, past the hedges and rose gardens, back from the rockery, the carp pond, the boating lake and the summer house. Others came from the Indian silk tents that had been set up on the croquet lawn, where they’d been lounging on cushions while drinking rose petal cocktails and feasting on exotic delicacies. It was late now, and the mood was relaxed: the night air was full of chattering and laughter, fragrant with cigarette and cigar smoke, and alive with curiosity.
The colourful throng gathered at the foot of the stone steps that led to the terrace. A line of footmen stood facing out, each one impassive, stopping anyone from going up to the house, its windows blazing with electric light that seemed somehow harsh and blinding after the gentle lanternlight and flickering torches that illuminated the garden. The string quartet stopped playing, and the crowd gradually quietened down as it watched with interest.
For long moments nothing happened.
‘Hurry up!’ shouted one woman from the back, and then screeched with laughter before she was hushed by her friends.
‘Someone get that hag out of here,’ hissed Gerry crossly. ‘I won’t have anyone spoiling the moment.’
Amanda watched the empty terrace. They had managed to get an excellent place near the edge of the crowd and could see perfectly.
Suddenly the house was plunged into darkness. Spotlights mounted somewhere high above flashed on and a single pool of white light appeared on the terrace, everything around it sinking into contrasting blackness. There was a hush of anticipation. Then into the pool of light stepped two figures.
The crowd drew in its breath and released a gentle ‘Aah’ at the sight. In the glare of the spotlight stood two identical girls, each with platinum-white hair set in a mass of curls that formed a glittering halo about her face, while a few wide soft ringlets were allowed to drop on to bare shoulders beneath. They wore strapless silver silk dresses, simple yet exquisite, an utterly feminine silhouette that skimmed every curve to the waist before floating down in a full skirt, with over it the softest dove-grey net embroidered with hundreds of crystals that sparkled and glinted as though the dresses had trapped a miniature galaxy of stars.
‘They’re not in costume,’ murmured Amanda to Gerry.
‘Not strictly,’ he said, happily, ‘but it works, doesn’t it? The hair is the real nod to Marie Antoinette. The gowns are, I admit, more modern. But utterly classic. And those sweeping skirts and that dreamy netting … Aren’t they magnificent?
’
The two slender platinum blondes stared out over the crowd, each one shimmering in the white light they were bathed in. Their wide blue eyes blinked as they tried to make out the garden beneath, which was lost in shadow to them. One sister turned to the other and reached out a hand. Her scarlet mouth moved as though she were speaking but no one heard what she said. The other sister seemed oblivious, her lips curved up into a cherry-red smile, her expression expectant and happy.
Then, at some invisible signal, the string quartet began to play the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’ and a moment later everyone joined in singing heartily. The old couple joined the girls in the spotlight as the song reached its crescendo, then the lights widened to encompass the whole terrace. The aunt led her nieces to one side of it where four spindly gilt chairs waited, and they all sat down. A moment later the crowd gasped as acrobats appeared as if by magic from the surrounding trees and hedges, from the battlements and windowsills and balconies of the house; they rolled, jumped and flew through the air, landing at last on the terrace where they performed a series of magnificent circus manoeuvres of such skill that the crowd laughed and applauded in delight. When their routine was finished, the acrobats disappeared as gracefully as they’d come.
As they vanished, music filled the air: eighteenth-century courtly music, strings and harpsichords in elegant fusion. From the French window, a troupe of dancers in period clothes and wigs made their entrance on to the terrace, stepping out in perfect time in the manner of a court dance. When they were all on the terrace, they performed a delightful minuet. It was graceful and enchanting but, just as the audience began to tire of it a little, the music changed: a deep insistent beat emerged and there was the harsher note of an electric guitar. The dancers tugged at their costumes and within moments the girls were dressed only in corsets, tutus and ripped fishnets, the men bare-chested with tiny biker shorts covering their modesty. The strains of a famous song began to pound out and, as the crowd screamed in recognition and excitement, one of the world’s megastars strutted out from the French windows wearing hot pants, a corset and thigh-high lace-up boots. She adjusted her head mic, struck a pose and began to sing. Everyone went wild as the dancers twisted and writhed through a complex routine, the singer moving with them in time, stunning them all with some gracefully executed yoga moves.
As the song reached its end to ecstatic applause, the star shouted, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Octavia and Flora!’ She gestured to the girls sitting at the side of the terrace. ‘Happy birthday, honeys. You girls have arrived!’
Just then, a huge birthday cake was wheeled out from the house, a staggering tiered confection covered in white icing and ornamented with crystallised white rose petals, pushed along on its stand by two footmen. Forty-two candles burned on the tiers. The girls stood up and walked forward. Another chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ broke out. At the last note, the sisters blew out all their candles, the singer helpfully stepping forward to blow out a few herself when they seemed to be struggling with the task.
The moment the last candle was extinguished, columns of golden sparks shot up from all along the edge of the terrace and a magnificent firework display began, exploding above the house, bathing the crowd of onlookers in red, blue, green and gold light. The birthday girls watched too, their faces tilted up to observe the show. They seemed in awe of the magnificence around them, as though they had not quite grasped that all this fuss was for them.
‘Well, that was quite a coup,’ Amanda said at last, turning to Gerry, who was grinning broadly, obviously satisfied with the way everything had gone. ‘I thought she never did private performances.’
‘If the price is right, my sweet, if the price is right …’ Gerry rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you how much it cost. Let’s just say that each second of that song could pay off a substantial chunk of Third World debt.’
‘So, those are the Beaufort twins,’ Amanda said, staring at them. ‘They don’t look much. Beautiful, obviously. But plastic. Barbies.’ A pleased expression came over her face. ‘I don’t think we’ve got much to fear from them.’
Gerry said nothing but raised his brows, and continued to stare beadily at the two shimmering figures as they watched the display in the night sky.
2
Frances Staunton made her way through the house, her eagle eye catching sight of everything that was out of place. The chaos of the previous evening had been worth it. The party had been a success, that was certain. The last task she had set herself had been achieved. As she walked down the hallway towards the breakfast room, she stopped in front of a portrait of a young man, a pen-and-ink sketch that looked as though it had been hastily dashed off while its energetic subject was uncharacteristically still for a brief moment. There were better portraits of Arthur – the Lucian Freud was wonderful and, of course, hugely valuable – but this was her favourite. It had caught her brother when he was at his peak: young, vibrant and full of promise. Before he married that woman. Before all the disasters that followed.
Frances stood in front of the sketch for a moment, filled with the bitter melancholy she always felt when she thought too long about him. Then she said aloud, ‘Well, Arthur, I’ve done it. I’ve done what you wanted me to. I’ve brought them up the best way I could, and I think I’ve done a good job. But now my work is finished. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ve fulfilled my duty to you, my dear brother.’
Then she turned on her heel and continued on to the breakfast room, stopping on the way to glance out at the gardens where people were clearing up the mess.
‘How could one party cause such havoc?’ Frances said to herself as she watched them carrying sackfuls of litter and trays of discarded glasses. God only knew what the Orangery looked like, with the remains of the demolished supper still there, or what state the croquet lawn was in. ‘Never again,’ she told herself firmly. ‘Once is most certainly enough.’
The strain of planning the great event had been very wearisome. And what it had cost … well, the bills would come in soon enough. No doubt it would be a lot, but sometimes it didn’t do to watch the pennies and Frances was quite sure that this was one such occasion. We can afford it after all, she thought with a shrug. And I had to make sure that people noticed.
She saw one of the housemaids walking towards her, keeping her eyes downcast as ordered. ‘Where are the girls? Have you seen them?’ she demanded.
The maid shook her head, her eyes frightened. ‘No, mam,’ she said in a small voice. ‘They’re still in bed, mam, I think. No one’s seen them yet anyhow.’
‘I see.’ Frances nodded at the maid, who scuttled off, and consulted her watch. It was after 11.30. Well, the party hadn’t ended until five a.m., although she had been in her own bed by three. The girls had probably stayed up until the end. That party fellow, Gerry, had darted forward at the end of the firework display, introduced himself to Octavia and Flora and then whisked them away, saying he would chaper-one them very carefully.
They certainly weren’t in any danger from him, she was sure of that. A small smile twisted Frances’s rather thin lips. A confirmed bachelor, as the saying went. Anyway, he’d certainly done a splendid job on the party, and had charged plenty for his services, more than likely getting commission from all the people he’d recommended as well.
‘Madam, madam …’ It was Hobbs, the butler, approaching along the thickly carpeted corridor.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had word from the lodge. The lawyers have arrived. They’re on their way up the drive.’
‘I see.’ Frances thought for a moment. ‘Show them into the library, Hobbs. Offer them coffee. Give them the papers and ask them to wait. I’ll be there to see them when I can.’
Hobbs bowed, the top of his bald head glimmering in the hall light. ‘Very good, madam.’
Frances turned back the way she’d come.
Outside one of the main bedroom suites, Frances rapped hard on the door and waited. Th
ere was no answer, so she opened it and went in. Inside was a large but still cosy sitting room, decorated in a young, rather pretty style with vintage floral prints, soft armchairs and a saggy sofa covered with cushions. Frances walked quickly through, noting with disapproval a pile of glossy magazines on a coffee table, and knocked at another door on the far side of the sitting room.
‘Octavia?’ she said loudly. ‘Are you awake?’
There was a stirring behind the door and a light moaning.
‘Octavia!’ Frances rapped again, then opened the door. She looked at the large four-poster bed that stood directly opposite the door, hung with swathes of rose-printed chintz. ‘Octavia!’ she repeated sharply.
‘Oh!’ A tousled white head popped up from among the pillows, blue eyes wide and blinking, smudges of mascara under each one. ‘Yes?’ Then she sighed and flopped back down. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s almost noon. You must get up.’
‘But I’ve only been asleep for about five hours! I’m exhausted. That man Gerry made me dance and dance …’
‘You heard me,’ Frances said in her strict voice. ‘I want you and Flora downstairs in thirty minutes. I’ll have some breakfast sent up to you while you dress. I shall expect you in the library no later than twelve-thirty, do you understand?’
There was a muffled moan from under the bedclothes.
‘Good,’ said Frances sharply. ‘I will see you then.’
She walked across the sitting room to Flora’s bedroom door. The girls had shared a bedroom until they reached eighteen when Frances had decreed that they should have separate bedrooms and sitting rooms, and had planned to put them at opposite ends of the house. But the twins hadn’t wanted to be apart and had put up a surprising show of resistance to her plans. In the end it was agreed that they would share a sitting room but have separate bedrooms and bathrooms on either side of it.