by Phillip Rock
Ivy could only nod her head numbly. Mrs. Broome then reached out and patted the trembling girl on the cheek.
“I shall not give you notice, Ivy, never fear. You have a sparkle and a brightness that I find most engaging. If there are no more unfortunate lapses of mind, I shall start to train you as a parlormaid within the next six months. That will mean more pleasant duties and a bit more money to send home, which I’m sure will be appreciated.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words were barely audible.
“Now, finish tidying up here. Check the towels in the drawer, open the windows and air the room. The countess’s nephew is arriving from America tomorrow and will occupy this room. We wish it to be nice and pleasant. When you have finished, you will go downstairs and Mrs. Dalrymple will instruct you further.”
And then she was gone, moving majestically out of the room, a tall black-clad, white-haired woman who held the power of life or death over everyone at the house with the exception of Mr. Coatsworth and the outside staff. Ivy held her breath until the woman was safely out of sight and hearing, then she sank down on the window seat and buried her face in her hands. She had come so close to losing her position, and then what would have become of her? She couldn’t go home, not with the baby due any minute and Da having enough trouble putting food on the table and paying the rent and seeing to it that her brothers and sisters had decent clothes and sturdy shoes to wear to school. Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t let me get the sack, she prayed, ever. She felt like blubbering, but the tears wouldn’t come and so she rested her suddenly feverish face against the cool window glass. She could see the side garden, an old brick wall smothered by clematis, and part of the driveway. The shiny blue car came suddenly into view, going very fast, Miss Foxe clutching the steering wheel, her red hair shiny in the sun. Miss Alexandra was looking backward and waving, one hand clamped on top of her straw sailor, the long brown velvet ribbons fluttering in the wind. “Goodbye,” she was shouting happily to someone. “Goodbye . . . goodbye.”
And that was their place, Ivy thought with a sharp pang of regret. It was a queer sort of world, come to think of it.
3
Hanna Rilke Greville, Countess Stanmore, sat at her writing desk fronting a deeply set bay window in the sitting room of her suite. The window overlooked a small formal garden, where ordered ranks of boxwood shrubs and roses formed precise geometric patterns when viewed from above. The countess was wearing a green silk peignoir with a downy fringe of marabou feathers around the collar, cuffs, and hem. Her long blonde hair was now unbraided and brushed into smooth, shiny waves that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She was forty-five, seven years younger than her husband, and, except for a slight thickening around the hips and the beginnings of a double chin, had retained the golden good looks of her youth. That she was Alexandra’s mother there was no doubt. She was the mirror of her daughter’s middle age.
Hanna listened to the stuttering roar of a car engine as the machine receded down the driveway toward the Abingdon road a mile away. That would be Lydia and Alexandra leaving for London, she reasoned correctly, refilling her coffee cup from a silver pot. She did not entirely approve of women driving cars, although more and more of them were doing so these days. There were advertisements in all the better magazines showing stylishly dressed young women seated happily behind the wheels of Vauxhalls, Benzes, Morrises, and other sporty makes. Alexandra had begged that she be given driving lessons, but the countess had refused to allow it. She was frightened enough by Charles having his own car. There were so many accidents. One read about them almost daily.
She finished her coffee and set to work, pushing her sleeves back over plump white forearms. The top of the oval desk was nearly obscured by stacks of papers filled with her neat and almost microscopic handwriting. She had a formidable task almost completed—the schedule and guest lists for the many balls, fetes, entertainments, and extravaganzas planned for the balance of the summer, the “season” in London. The last two weeks in June and all of July would be spent at Stanmore House, the Greville mansion at number 57 Park Lane. The earl was not happy about it, of course, preferring to stay in the country. In previous years he had managed to avoid going up to London for the social whirl of those six weeks, but Alexandra had not been of age then and it hadn’t mattered to Hanna whether he came up for the full time or not. This year was different. She had insisted firmly that he attend every function, meet every guest, for his daughter’s future lay somewhere among the papers before her.
Somewhere. She sorted through the papers slowly, reading each name that she had written down, the guest list for each and every gathering. The list of names was long: two hundred for the ball on Friday, the nineteenth of June; three hundred and fifty for the gala on July Fourth—Independence Day . . . red, white, and blue bunting everywhere . . . the American ambassador as the honored guest. List after list: thirty for dinner on July 12; twenty-five for a picnic at Henley; forty seats reserved at the Drury Lane Theatre to see Chaliapin in Ivan the Terrible. On and on. Everyone who was anyone had found his or her way onto Hanna’s lists and was grateful to be there. Stanmore House had always been the glittering focal point of the entire London season. It was a clever trap, for sprinkled liberally among the names of Lord and Lady this, and the Viscount and Viscountess that, were the names of a score of young men, highly eligible bachelors all, and one of those names—and, oh, how she wished she could point to it—would soon be Alexandra’s betrothed.
“Who?” she wondered, whispering the word, her finger moving slowly down list after list as though reading Braille. “Albert Dawson Giles, Esquire . . . The Right Honorable Percy Holmes . . . Mr. Paget Lockwood . . . Thomas Duff-Wilson.” She paused at that name. A barrister . . . Inner Temple. Twenty-five years of age. Wealthy from inherited money . . . a fine sportsman—Anthony would be pleased at that—a nephew of Lady Adelaide Cooper, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and certain to be knighted in a year or two. The man’s name fairly leaped at her. Yes, it stood out above all others, and she sorted through the lists to make doubly certain that he had been included on all of them.
“Terribly busy, my darling?”
She gave a little jump of surprise and turned on her chair to see the earl standing behind her.
“Oh, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come in, Tony.”
He bent his head and kissed her softly on the nape of the neck.
“Of course not. I’m quite skilled at sneaking into boudoirs.”
“That isn’t a skill a gentleman brags about.”
He kissed her once more through the river of hair. “I am not always a gentleman, Hanna.”
“No.” She laughed, reaching up for his hand. “You’re quite a rogue sometimes.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze and then turned back to her work. “Pull that armchair over, Tony, and let me go over these guest lists with you.”
“Heaven forbid. That’s your province, Hanna . . . invite whom you like. You’ve never made a wrong choice yet.”
“It’s a little more important this year and you know it. Do you realize that these papers probably contain the name of our future son-in-law? That’s a sobering thought, Tony, and I’d like to talk to you about some of these young men.”
The earl frowned and walked slowly to the window and gazed down at the garden, his hands folded behind his back.
“I’m not concerned about Alexandra. I know that you will pluck just the right fellow out of the pack and that she will be happy over the choice. I have all the faith in the world in your ability to do that. No, I have no worries about Alex. It’s Charles who disturbs me.”
Hanna picked up a gold pencil and tapped it lightly against the edge of the desk.
“He’s just going through a phase, Tony.”
Lord Stanmore smiled wryly. “That’s what Fenton said about Roger . . . going through a phase.”
“Fenton? Is he here?”
“Yes. Got in last night. He’ll be staying a few days. Damn
glad to see him. Why is it that I can talk to Fenton and I can’t talk to my own son? There’s such a wall between us, Hanna.”
“You were both chatting away at dinner last night.”
“Oh, we talk. That is, we open our mouths and words come out . . . but that wall is there and we both know it . . . and we both know what that wall is. Or rather I should say who that wall is.”
Hanna pressed the pencil against her pursed lips and then stood up and walked over to stand next to her husband.
“How pretty the garden is,” she said quietly. “So wonderfully ordered and neat. It’s a pity that lives can’t be arranged in the same manner, but they can’t and you know that they can’t. We can merely guide people . . . train them . . . and I believe that we’ve trained Charles very well. He will never do anything that isn’t the right and proper thing to do. He’s infatuated by Lydia, and always has been, but I know in my heart that when it comes to a decision, he will make the right one, the one that pleases you and me.”
“Perhaps,” the earl grunted, eyes fixed on the geometric plantings below.
“But we mustn’t press him . . . at least, you mustn’t press him into building this wall you refer to any higher. It was a mistake inviting Mary and Winifred. I told you that.”
“Winifred’s father is—”
“A fine and honorable man,” she cut in. “Yes, I know all that, and it would be wonderful if Charles fell in love with the girl and married her. But let me put in a little Yankee common sense, if you don’t mind. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Charles feels nothing for Winifred. Nothing at all. In fact, he probably hates the poor girl by now and if he does we’re to blame. I made up my mind last night when I saw the expression on Charles’s face when you suggested that he take Winifred down to see the new gazebo. I shall have a quiet heart-to-heart talk with Mary and stop this nonsense before it goes any further.”
“You can’t tell the woman to leave and take her daughter with her. That wouldn’t be right.”
“I won’t tell her to leave, just explain the blunt facts. She may be flighty, but she does have four sons who have minds of their own. She’ll understand Charles’s feelings and she won’t resent it one bit. Mary’s an old and dear friend and we’ve always been candid with each other.”
“Well, all right,” he said in a pained manner. “Perhaps you’re doing the right thing.”
“I will be doing the only thing.” She touched him gently on the shoulder. “I’m a mother and a woman. I understand Charles far better than you do at this period in his life. And what’s even more important, I understand Lydia.”
“Oh, I feel so glorious!” Alexandra shouted, bouncing up and down on the car seat.
“Sit still,” Lydia shouted back, “or you’ll fall out.”
Alexandra settled down firmly in the leather seat, keeping one hand pressed on the crown of her hat. Lydia, frowning slightly, concentrated on adjusting the controls until the engine stopped its stuttering roar and settled into a smooth, powerful howl. They were past the village of Abingdon, racing along a narrow road which curved in a succession of lazy S’s through dense old woods and sunlit patches of hedgerowed fields.
“Gloriously happy!” Alexandra cried into the slipstream of wind buffeting her face. “Oh, Lydia, do you realize that by this time next year I might be having a baby! That is, if we have a short period of engagement. I don’t believe in long engagements, do you? Don’t you think they’re horribly old-fashioned?”
“Oh, do be quiet, Alex,” Lydia said in vexation. “You’re enough to make a saint swear. Honestly, you are.”
The younger woman leaned closer to Lydia to keep from shouting over the noise of the engine.
“I went into Mama’s sitting room last night after dinner and stole a long peek at her lists. Oh, Lydia, she’s inviting every devastatingly handsome bachelor in London.”
“How do you know they’re devastatingly handsome?”
“I just know, that’s all. Not a one under six feet . . . all destined for greatness . . . And one of them will sweep me off my feet and into his strong ravishing arms.”
Lydia rolled her eyes toward heaven. “What trashy novel did you steal that line from?”
“Jane Bakehurst—you don’t know her, she was my very best friend at school this year—well, she bought this book by Elinor Glyn. . . . Frightfully racy.”
“Alex, you’re impossible. The sooner you get married, the better.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. I can’t wait to have babies, dozens of them—well, five at least—all fat, pink, gurgling things, and I shall stroll into the nursery every night with my devastatingly handsome young husband beside me, and Nanny shall parade them in front of us.”
“Are you planning on having all five at one swoop?”
“No, silly, one at a time . . . a decent interval between each. But seriously, I believe marriage and babies to be a holiness. I truly do.”
The countryside gave way to the suburbs—Epsom, Cheam, Merton, and South Wimbledon, rows and rows of little brick houses, and semidetached villas of mock Tudor design. The traffic became heavier when they reached Lambeth and Southwark: cars, lorries, buses, and ponderous horse-drawn wagons. They crossed the river via Westminster Bridge and so on into Mayfair. The House of Ferris, couturier, occupied an elegant Georgian edifice in Hanover Square. Lydia stopped in front of it, and a doorman dressed in the livery of a Victorian coachman hurried from the entranceway to open the car doors.
“Good day, Miss Greville . . . Miss Foxe,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “Shall I have a boy park your motorcar, Miss Foxe?”
“Not today, thank you. I’m not staying.”
Alexandra sprang from the car like a fluffy Persian cat. “Don’t you dare pick me up before three. I don’t want you to see my gowns until they’re free of basting stitches. Promise?”
“Promise,” Lydia said flatly. After the doorman closed the car door, she put the Benz into gear and roared off in the direction of Oxford Street.
Foxe House was one of the largest, most modern office buildings in England. It had been designed by an American architect and completed in spring 1912 to a flurry of controversy. Letters had poured in to the Times, the bulk of them decrying the erection of such a building within viewing distance of Nash’s pristine Regent Street façades. But after a few months, Londoners began to grow used to, and then fond of, the oblong multistory limestone-faced building near Oxford Circus. It had long been Archie Foxe’s dream to have all the varied departments of his vast enterprise under one roof instead of scattered hither and yon about the city. The efficiency of what Archie Foxe called “the Yank method” had been more than proved during the two years of the building’s occupancy, and several of the larger British corporations were constructing massive office buildings of their own. The skyline of London was beginning to change, and that was just what Archie Foxe liked to see.
Lydia turned into the entranceway of the subterranean garage, where a boy in a smart blue uniform took the car from her. She removed her linen motoring coat and left it on the seat, then walked to a lift, which whisked her upward. The lift stopped at several floors and people got in and out—secretaries, office boys, mail clerks, men and women from advertising, marketing, the White Manor division, the Foxe’s Fancy division, the legal and real-property departments. Lydia was instantly recognized by most of them and politely wished a good day, but she knew only one of her fellow passengers, a tall ruddy-faced man named Swinton, who was chief of the advertising department. He had gotten on at the first floor, a pipe jutting from his mouth and a large portfolio of drawings under his arm.
“Hallo, Lydia,” Swinton said cheerily. “Come to take the guv’nor to lunch?”
It was a little joke they shared. Archie Foxe had never been known to have lunch. Once, long ago, Lydia had insisted that he join her at lunch at the Savoy Grill and Archie had sent Swinton in his stead.
“No,” she said with
a smile. “Just come to pay my respects.”
“He’s busy as a beaver. We’re opening the new place at Charing Cross next week. Like to take a look-see at these?” He opened the portfolio to reveal half a dozen watercolors, rough sketches for advertising posters.
“They’re very good.”
“Thank you,” Swinton said. “We’re attracting some first-rate artists these days. The Slade School has finally stopped turning its nose up at us and we’re getting some damn brilliant chaps from there . . . women, too. Any particular one strike you?”
“That night scene is very eye-catching.”
Swinton slipped it from the portfolio and held it up. It was an impression of a London street on a rainy night, great blobs of brilliant color shimmering in reflection on the wet pavement. People, heads bent against the wind-driven downpour, were scurrying shadows. Amid the gloom rose a brightly lit two-story building with the words White Manor illuminated across the front of it. At the bottom of the sketch—which would be even more effective when done in oils—was a slogan in black ink: GET OUT OF THE WET AND INTO A WHITE MANOR.
“Yes,” Lydia said, “I like it very much.”
“So do I. It’s for the winter campaign. Well, ta-ta.” He stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor and Lydia continued upward to her father’s office.
Archie Foxe had an office of his own, complete with a desk that had once belonged to the Duke of Wellington when he had been Prime Minister, but he rarely spent time there. He was a roamer, a compulsive walker, going from office to office and desk to desk from the ground floor to the top, overseeing, supervising, suggesting, demanding, criticizing and praising, as the case might be, every one of his employees, from clerks to members of the board. Trailing after him would be one of his harassed stout-legged male secretaries, a shorthand notebook and a pencil constantly at the ready. One filled notebook represented a very slow day indeed.