Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

by Jackie French

  ‘I don’t quite understand why he should want to marry me, though. His family is wealthy.’ Her Grace’s secretary checked potential fortunes carefully.

  Alison looked at her oddly. ‘It’s as though you think your money is the most important thing about you.’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘Usually it is.’

  ‘Not to Mr Lorrimer. You interest him. He finds me boring,’ added Alison, seeming to accept Lorrimer’s evaluation with no regret. ‘Although he’s too polite to show it. He never really listens when I talk. He listens to you. And you are very beautiful, you know.’

  ‘You think he’s … in love with me?’

  Alison hesitated. ‘I think he’s watching you to see if you fit into his world, before he lets himself fall in love.’

  ‘That’s perceptive, Mouse. You always underestimate yourself. Emily already fits into his world. But he doesn’t dance with her.’ Sophie had watched carefully for any sign that Mr Lorrimer was interested in Emily.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Lorrimer was looking for a wife at first. He didn’t go to any of the events of the season; Grandmama was surprised he was at the Carlyles’ Friday-to-Monday. But then he met you.’

  If I loved him, she thought, I might be hurt that he is testing me for suitability. Instead she found herself intrigued. What did a James Lorrimer need in a wife? And might it dovetail with what Sophie Higgs wanted in a husband?

  Chapter 37

  Most people accept the existence the world offers them. A few — a very few — have both the insight and the courage to change it. Miss Higgs was a delightful shock: a girl who knew what the world thought of her, but never conceded that she should accept the world’s view as fixed.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  Sophie found out three days later.

  There had been a choice of invitations: an evening on the river in barges hung with silk, with Handel’s Water Music played by a floating orchestra; or a dinner with a hostess whose name was unfamiliar. As usual, Sophie let Her Grace decide, then discovered that Alison was to go on the water with her fiancé and his aunt, while Her Grace accompanied Sophie to the dinner.

  The address was just two blocks away, but the carriage took them anyway, cloaks donned for the five minutes it took to get there and be escorted down by footmen in white wigs.

  Sophie let her cloak and muff be taken, lifted her skirts as she followed the silken width of Her Grace down a wide hallway and waited while they were announced.

  The room was already full: men in dinner jackets instead of tails; women in silk of claret or peacock blue, or grey with hints of gold. For the first time this season, Sophie’s was the only pale dress in the room. I am the only debutante, she realised. Tonight is real.

  A few guests glanced up as they came in, then bent again to their conversations. The voices in this room sounded different: lower pitched, not so much the chattering of monkeys but more a merging of many murmurs, like rivers meeting at the sea.

  ‘Your Grace, Miss Higgs.’ James Lorrimer stepped towards them, ignoring Sophie, as was proper, to exchange greetings with Her Grace first before the older woman turned to speak to an old acquaintance.

  Which left them by the fire together.

  ‘Everyone looks so serious.’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘You don’t believe the situation is serious?’

  ‘Between Austria and Serbia? I’ve been trying to follow it in the papers. No one else seems interested, though.’

  ‘By “no one else” you mean your dancing partners?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She could hear phrases from around the room. These people weren’t discussing fashion or the field. ‘I only know enough about politics to know how little I do know.’

  ‘That is probably the most intelligent observation any debutante has ever made. Austria has demanded Serbia allow it full control of the investigation into the assassination of the archduke. By the end of the week I expect the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Serbia will be at war.’

  ‘And will that mean Germany will be at war with Serbia too?’ She thought of Hannelore, back in her cold castle, so close to the Russian border. She had already received a letter from the prinzessin since Hannelore had returned home, and another from Dolphie, a silly letter, full of charm, giving no hint of the political tensions they had gone back to. Hannelore’s letter had been coloured with regret at their parting, but also contained reference to neither politics nor Miss Lily.

  ‘This is more than the usual hostility between Teuton and Slav. Russia will protect Serbia; Germany and Italy are bound to Austria.’

  ‘The Triple Alliance.’

  ‘Exactly. France and England are connected by the Triple Entente, though no one can be sure quite how cordial it is. But,’ he shrugged, ‘if we wish to have a reason to join the forthcoming celebration of the warrior, we now have it.’

  ‘But surely if enough people of good heart are against a war …?’ She was parroting Miss Lily. She stopped, knowing that she had nothing of any more substance to offer.

  ‘Germany is mobilising. The Austro-Serbian conflict is a smoke screen. One way or another, Germany is going to provoke England.’

  ‘But how can they do that if England doesn’t want to fight? Can’t we just say no?’

  ‘There comes a time, Miss Higgs, when peace is no longer possible, no matter how much one may prefer it. Germany is going to invade Luxembourg, Belgium or France. My instinct says Luxembourg or Belgium. A direct attack on France would not create the instant sympathy in England that an attack on the smaller countries would evoke. An attack on Luxembourg or Belgium would have the English public clamouring for war — as long as the attack is savage enough.’

  Sophie thought of Hannelore’s description of the German military’s plans to terrorise civilians. Was that not just to get the country they invaded to surrender, but to bring England into the conflict too?

  ‘Does Germany need to provoke England into war? Why not just invade?’

  ‘This is a scene played on a large stage, Miss Higgs.’ To her surprise, he didn’t seem to be bored explaining what must be all too familiar and obvious to him. ‘Invading England might bring America onto England’s side. Nor perhaps is the pro-war party in Germany strong enough to allow an unprovoked attack of England.’

  ‘Our royal family is German,’ said Sophie.

  ‘That helps. But they are from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, not Prussia, and it is the Prussians who are in control now. And the most vicious quarrels of all are family quarrels. Haven’t you found it so?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m an only child.’

  ‘As I am also. Perhaps outsiders understand families best.’ He shrugged again. ‘For what it’s worth neither His Majesty nor the Kaiser wishes for war. Even fifty years ago kings warred with kings, but now they are expected to obey their parliaments.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Our own king might refuse to sign the bill that allows Ulster independence. But he will not refuse parliament on this. The parliament wants war.’

  ‘So the Mr Churchills have won?’

  ‘Not yet. But soon.’

  ‘Do the people in this room want war?’ A few faces were turned their way now, assessing her, she thought. Wondering if she would be one of their social group by the season’s end.

  ‘Not if it can be avoided.’ He offered her his arm to go in to dinner.

  She watched her hostess, Lady Williams, during dinner: sloping shoulders above a low-cut gown of burgundy silk and lace, making the guest on each side of her feel the sole object of her attention, but aware, nonetheless, of every dish served, every conversation being conducted at the table.

  Lady Williams would have chosen this menu — the consommé, the turbot in sorrel sauce, the venison sent down from the estates in Scotland. She would have known that her kitchen could cope with turning out sufficient orange soufflés to place one before each guest, that her butler had measured the distance between each knife and fork and the edge of the table. This was her choice of flowers, he
r balance of guests. Sophie wondered if there were children upstairs, or at boarding school.

  Sophie’s father managed fourteen factories and nearly thirteen thousand acres. Was her hostess’s work as complex or as far-reaching? What decisions or plans would be made at her table tonight, conjured from a conjunction of the right people mellowed by good food, well-matched wines and fine cigars?

  Was this what James Lorrimer would expect from her if they were married? I could do it, she thought. It would take time to get to know the connections, but she was sure her wit and her memory were up to it. Her Grace would help find housekeepers, butlers, to take charge at the London and country houses Her Grace had already ascertained that he owned. Probably he had competent servants already; he would tell her, at least at first, whom he wished to have at his table and why. Her luncheons would captivate the wives who would accompany their husbands to the dinners. She could captivate the husbands too, gather her own following of Mr Portons.

  And there would be children, of course.

  ‘Do you shoot, Miss Higgs?’

  She had been neglecting the man on her left, smiling automatically and, she hoped, sufficiently. Now she lowered her chin and gave him her most enchanting under-the-eyelashes smile. ‘I’m terribly uneducated about English shoots, Mr Porter-Smythe. Will you forgive me? I’ve shot rabbits back home, but never pheasants or grouse. Not proper shooting.’

  ‘No forgiveness necessary, dear girl. You need taking in hand.’ He patted hers with his own be-ringed fingers as if to demonstrate. ‘A few weeks up at Quigley and we’ll make a sportswoman of you yet.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. Your wife is a noted shot, I believe?’ She was grateful for the notes Her Grace’s secretary had prepared, guessing who would be her likely partners, with useful points on each.

  Her companion glanced across the table at his wife and exchanged a fleeting look. A good marriage, thought Sophie. He could flirt with a debutante, but his wife still responded with a smile. ‘She is indeed, Miss Higgs. I know she has been planning to call on Her Grace before the end of the season.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course by the end of the week we may be thinking of shooting in quite another way.’

  ‘Unless England remains neutral.’ She offered it tentatively and was grateful when he didn’t take it amiss, or try to take the conversation back to chit-chat. Instead he showed the faintest sign that he was glad of a debutante for whom he need not tame his conversation.

  ‘Yes, but can we? That is the real question. Is Germany’s target simply France, or will France be a springboard to take on England too? It is we who are their real competitors, not France.’

  ‘But France is Germany’s traditional enemy. We are their natural allies. General Blücher fought with us at Waterloo …’

  ‘Your father is a businessman in Australia, Miss Higgs?’ He made it neither patronising nor an insult. ‘Germany and England compete economically in Africa and the Pacific, for instance in your New Guinea, and even in the Middle East and Asia. There is money to be made in war, and not just in providing armaments.’

  ‘But there is so much to be lost too.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She saw him glance at his wife again, and understood. ‘You have sons, Mr Porter-Smythe?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Four, Miss Higgs. Two in the Territorials. The other two would join up, of course, if we are forced to mobilise.’

  ‘And you were in one of the Boer wars?’

  ‘No, Miss Higgs. But my father was at Crimea, and its tragedies were the ghost throughout my childhood. I don’t want to see the same ghosts haunt my sons. But perhaps we will have no choice.’

  Sophie nodded, then looked back at her plate.

  Miss Lily had promised her choices. But here was a man … many men … who were finding that they too had no choice at all.

  Who wants war so badly, she thought, that they have brought us to this?

  Lady Williams rose from the table later than was usual; at this dinner the men were not expected to delay the ‘real’ conversation until they were left with the port. She led the way to a drawing room, which all the ladies entered exactly as the tea trolley was wheeled in.

  Sophie fetched the duchess tea from the tray, then sat next to her on the sofa. Several of the women in the room looked familiar, but there were none with whom she had ever had a conversation. A girl in her first season didn’t strike up a conversation with her elders.

  ‘Isobel, it has been too long since we’ve seen you.’ The newcomer was Her Grace’s age perhaps, sixty at least. She wore a velvet tippet over her shoulders, as though she cared more about keeping off the chill than fashion.

  ‘Far too long. The season is as boring as it ever was, but I have missed my London friends. Mary, may I present my granddaughter’s friend from Australia, Miss Sophie Higgs. Sophie, this is Lady Mary Eldershaw.’

  Sophie stood and gave a half-curtsey, a conservative compromise between the previous century’s deeper curtsey and the modern convention of a debutante’s polite head bob. ‘Lady Mary.’

  Lady Mary seated herself opposite them and sipped her tea. ‘How do you find us, Miss Higgs?’

  ‘It has been a fascinating time, Lady Mary. Everyone has been most kind.’

  ‘How many times have you had to say that in the past months, eh?’ Lady Mary sipped again, then handed the thin china cup to a footman. ‘What are you doing tomorrow evening, Miss Higgs?’

  ‘I believe it is a Venetian dinner.’

  ‘The world mutters about war and children starve, and you wish to go to a Venetian dinner?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘But offending my hostess would be poor thanks to Her Grace for all her kindness.’

  ‘Send your apologies.’

  Sophie looked questioningly at Her Grace, who seemed amused, either by the invitation, or by the fact that it was addressed to Sophie alone, not herself and Alison. ‘Shall we compromise? Miss Higgs will be free from five until nine o’clock tomorrow. That will give her time to bathe and change before the dinner at ten.’

  ‘Till nine o’clock will be sufficient.’ Lady Mary looked at Sophie. ‘Wear something warm.’ She stood as the men began to trickle into the drawing room. ‘Until tomorrow night, Miss Higgs.’ Then she departed, leaving Sophie — no doubt deliberately — to wonder what was planned.

  The carriage was old-fashioned: a faded crest, good horses, but not a matched pair. A driver, no footman, till Joe, one of Her Grace’s footmen — or rather His Grace’s, borrowed for the season — helped Sophie and Doris into the carriage then joined the driver up on top. Doris sat with her back to the driver and ran her fingers over the seat dismissively. ‘Needs re-covering, miss. And a good scrub.’

  Sophie nodded, preoccupied. Her Grace had refused to tell her where she and Doris were going, simply advised her to wear her blue serge. Sophie wished Alison were there, but Alison was having dinner with a great-aunt of Major Standish.

  Was this part of Miss Lily’s mysterious world of power?

  The drive seemed long; she was used to travelling the few blocks of fashionable London. She pulled aside the curtains at the window. She saw shabby shops, not houses, what could only be a pub, and men in caps gathered around a gas streetlight, as though waiting for it to add its glow to the twilight.

  She sat back.

  Doris shivered. ‘I don’t like it, miss.’

  ‘Nonsense. Lady Mary is a friend of Her Grace’s.’

  ‘Whom she hasn’t seen for years. You said so, miss. What if Lady Mary’s a white slaver?’

  Sophie blinked.

  ‘You know, miss. They lure white women onto ships and take them to sell to sheiks of Arabia or to South America. They say the men in South America go wild for white women, miss.’

  ‘I think a lot of the women in South America are white anyway.’

  Doris considered. ‘Well, they would be, miss, if the white slaves had babies. They might ’ave been doin’ it for years …’

 
‘White slavers don’t send carriages, and they don’t choose girls with families who love them.’

  How long ago had that conversation about white slavers with her father been? She’d thought far less of her mother during this time of balls and visits than she’d expected to.

  ‘I suppose not, miss.’ Doris seemed slightly disappointed. She looked out her own window and sniffed. ‘I can smell something sour, miss, an’ I don’t think it’s the beer.’

  The carriage stopped. Sophie waited for the footman to hand her out, then looked around.

  A sour stink, as Doris had said. It took her a few seconds to realise it was the Thames, mixed with sewage and rubbish and the mud flats exposed at low tide. The carriage stood at the end of a lane; small houses crouched along each side, black with old smoke or just dark brick, and yellow fog licked their roofs. The building in front of Sophie might once have been a factory. Now it bore a roughly painted sign: The Workmen’s Friendship Club. All Welcome. Sophie hesitated, then stepped inside.

  The room was big; it had a concrete floor, stained despite evident recent scrubbing, and rough walls with wooden benches around the sides, except at the far end, where trestle tables had been erected. An urn steamed on one gas ring; giant black pots sat on two others. Three women in white aprons sliced bread at one trestle; two others seemed to be chopping vegetables at another.

  She realised it was a soup kitchen where she was expected to volunteer. She felt vaguely disappointed — then guilty at the disappointment.

  ‘You must be Miss Higgs.’ The young woman who approached was perhaps a few years older than Sophie, her dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, wearing a blue serge skirt and jacket much like Sophie’s, under a wide white apron. Sophie knew enough about English accents now to hear that this young woman was middle rather than upper class. ‘Lady Mary said you’d be coming. I’m sorry she’s not here to meet you — a crisis with the Mothers’ Committee: an outbreak of scarlet fever I think. Anyway, they’re all in quarantine … I’m Leticia Blessington, but call me Dodders — everyone does.’ Dodders grabbed Sophie’s hand and shook it.