The Season

by Charlotte Bingham

  Portia’s eyes, large, grey and discerning, moved from the maid’s face to her daughter’s. She knew that they were both lying, and she was determined to prove it. She had to get to the bottom of the whole matter. More than that, she had to find out if Phyllis’s reputation was quite ruined, which she well suspected it might be. Besides, Evie had told her, some weeks ago, that she was not ‘on’ reading books yet, only learning new words. However, fearing some hysterical outburst if she reminded the maid of this, Portia took another tack.

  ‘Very well, Evie, let us call up Mr Evans, and let him substantiate your story, shall we? If, as you say, he witnessed your reading to the Vice Admiral, if it was indeed you.’

  She rang the bell to the side of the door, and after what seemed to everyone to be hours, not minutes, the valet appeared at the door of the suite of rooms, panting and breathless, and fully expecting to see the Vice Admiral rather than her ladyship as the summoner on the bell.

  ‘Oh, my lady, Miss Phyllis, Miss Evie, I thought it was sir that had summoned me. I never realised it was you ladies, begging your pardon, my lady.’

  ‘No need, Evans. I just wanted you to confirm what Evie and Miss Phyllis here have just told me.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Which is that Evie has been reading The Pickwick Papers to the Vice Admiral?’

  Without a flicker, for he was such an accomplished liar, and would always remain so, Evans thought proudly, he immediately answered Lady Childhays. ‘Why, of course. But I was always in and round the place, my lady. There was no harm to it. These days the man is quite back to himself, but in previous days it was very soothing to him, I do assure you, my lady. Really, like a little child is soothed by reading to it at night, my lady. And, too, when his mind was liable to wander and he would sometimes imagine he was on the bridge of his ship, and suchlike nonsense, some of those early days in particular, he was held to his chair by the story, I always thought. So, all in all, I was very grateful to Miss Evie here, my lady. As you may well imagine, my lady.’

  Portia knew that Evans too was lying, but that there was little she could do about it. More than that, she did not care to pursue the matter any further, for the truth of it was that since the servants were able, and for some reason only too willing, to back up Phyllis, her reputation to all intents and purposes was now quite safe. Had they not been willing and able to do so an ugly rumour about Lady Childhays’ daughter’s being damaged goods would have been set in train, and within a few days, as had happened before in previous Seasons, she would have had to send Phyllis packing, all her chances of making not just a good match, but any match, quite ruined. It was a very frail thing, a reputation, so frail as to be like gossamer, although of course, once safely married, a young woman was able to enjoy a liberty not known to many single people of any age.

  ‘Good. Well, then, it is all settled, once and for all. And I can only thank you for taking such trouble with our house guest, who is now, as you may all have seen, quite cured of his ailment, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. Indeed, on that subject, I must thank you both, Evie and Evans, for all that you have so patiently done for him. I hope his cure is reward enough, but I intend that it will not be. I shall make sure of that, at the end of the month, I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  Answering in chorus though they might, and smile innocently and sweetly though Phyllis might, Portia did not believe a word from any of them. She knew that they were all up to something, or had been up to something. But it was all over now, and nothing to be done, and what was better, nothing to be proved.

  She turned to Phyllis after the servants had left them, and in a very different and somewhat puzzled tone said, ‘Now, my dear, I have received a note from Mrs Edward Vessey. It seems that her son, Edwin, has requested an interview with your papa, which, alas, is of course not possible. She wishes, therefore, to know to whom her son might apply for his interview. Which guardian must he speak to? I mean to say. Do you know anything of this? Has he made his feelings clear in any way? I saw nothing of note at last night’s ball, only that he has now danced twice with you at three consecutive balls, which must mean something, I suppose?’

  Phyllis blushed to the roots of her hair. She and Edwin had decided to evade the interest of the crowded ballrooms and what Edwin called ‘the awful dash to the dread conservatory!’ and between them had agreed to his going straight for the all too terrifying interview with Phyllis’s guardian.

  A visible look of relief came into Portia’s eyes as she realised, of a sudden, that her only daughter had at long last, it seemed like weeks and weeks to her mother, succumbed to the honourable intentions of a well brought up young man who, if not titled, was at least from a good family. Edwin Vessey was tall, blond, and utterly charming and if she had heard the truth about him, his only vice was the writing of poetry in his spare time. He was not a gambler or a womaniser, he was young and kind, and he would be, Portia suddenly thought, quite perfect for Phyllis.

  ‘Oh, my dear. Phyllis, my dear.’ Tears came into Portia’s eyes quite involuntarily. ‘Has it as last happened? A nice young man taking a positive interest? Never mind that he is only a second son of a second son, he is a nice young man, and you both looked so charming, such a couple, when you were waltzing the other evening, that I must say I did find myself hoping. Besides which, Aunt Tattie has known of his family for ever and more, I know. For centuries probably, knowing Aunt Tattie!’

  ‘Yes, Mama, but Edwin and I did not know whom he should request an interview of, so – so his mama volunteered to write to you on his behalf. For as you know, his father too is no longer with us.’

  ‘Very proper of him,’ Portia replied briskly, her thoughts galloping ahead to a London wedding, ten attendants, and a honeymoon on her beloved yacht, which she would of course lend. ‘I am very much afraid, though, dear, that your guardian is Uncle Lampard. It is to him that your Edwin must apply for his interview.’

  They both looked at each other, suddenly comrades in arms in the often embarrassing battle of life, for if Phyllis’s Great-uncle Lampard was not a sore embarrassment then King Edward VII had been a completely faithful husband and Portia’s maiden name had not been Tradescant.

  ‘I shall have to write back to Mrs Vessey and inform her, but – my dearest, do warn your suitor, will you? I mean we both know Uncle Lampard. Well, we know what we know, at the very least, and unlike the Vice Admiral’s, his habits are quite unchanged.’

  Portia nodded, brisk and to the point once more, and yet her heart was as light as it had not been since Childie had been taken from her. Phyllis with a proper suitor, it was too marvellous. Phyllis in love, it was almost unbelievable. More than that, a beautiful young man in love with Phyllis. She turned by the stairs.

  ‘We are taking luncheon in the garden, Aunt Tattie and the Vice Admiral and myself, but it will be rather dull for you, my dear. Why not ask Evie to bring yours up on a nice tray to your sitting room? It would be better for you, to avoid too much excitement, and also you must rest before tonight’s entertainments. Oh, and one more thing, Phyllis. I am so happy for you, really I am.’

  Phyllis smiled, her heart suddenly seeming to take off, not unfortunately for Portia because of some dutiful feeling towards her mother, nor from pride that she had at last compensated her beloved parent for all the love she had shown her daughter while she was growing up, but because in her mind’s eye she suddenly saw Edwin. It was as if he was standing between her mother and herself, and his bonny looks and merry eyes, and his goodness, seemed to fill the room. He was just such an absolute sweetheart! He was so much nicer than herself that Phyllis knew without any doubt that he would make her nicer too, and that would be quite something, surely?

  Portia too smiled at her daughter, but no more than Phyllis did she smile from pride that Phyllis was at last the kind of daughter for which all mothers must long – good, kind and honourable. Rather she smiled because she too thought of Edwin, and
it seemed to her suddenly that with the new generation England would, despite the Bunny Hop, the tango and who knew what else, somehow or another carry on as it was meant to do, with handsome young men marrying spirited young girls, and all would not be lost.

  ‘Edwin is in the army, Mama, as you know, but I dare say he will come out soon and we can settle down in the country and have masses of dogs and horses, and never mind the rest of the world.’

  ‘I dare say you will, darling. No-one wants war.’

  ‘No. Besides, Edwin says he is not the stuff of heroes! Although I can’t quite believe that. But still, I must go and tell him that he has to see Uncle Lampard. Oh, I say, poor Edwin!’

  ‘Yes, poor Edwin!’

  They both laughed, and Phyllis kissed her hand to her departing mother, and then heaving a great sigh of relief turned towards her room, and Evie. She knew just how much of her happiness she in fact owed her maid, and Evans too, now, and knowing servants she knew that she would, all too soon, have to pay for it. But with what, and how, she did not yet know.

  ‘Ah, Evie.’

  Evie’s sharp-nosed face appeared round Phyllis’s sitting room door, but she did not smile, only went to the table that Phyllis had pulled out and planted the great mahogany tray bearing Phyllis’s luncheon upon it before turning with a sigh of relief back to the door, which she now closed.

  ‘There’s some nice fish under that cover, Miss Phyllis, boiled fish with parsley sauce, and some nice creamed potato à la française, and also some consommé and some Melba toast, and a cream vanilla junket freshly made by Cook. So tuck in and no more of your nonsense.’

  ‘Yes, Evie, of course.’

  Phyllis sat down to the gate-legged table, all docility, and at once took her white linen napkin upon her knee and started to sip, delicately, at her consommé, stopping every now and then to butter her Melba toast.

  ‘Now then, Miss Phyllis, we all know what we have all been up to, do we not?’

  Phyllis nodded.

  ‘And we all know that we owe Mr Evans a great deal – more than a great deal. We most likely owe him our lives and our hopes for the future too, I would say, would you not, Miss Phyllis?’

  Again Phyllis nodded, but kept her gaze on her soup. She had no wish to stare into Evie’s eyes, any more than she thought Evie would wish to stare into hers. They had both told lies, and they both knew at least a little of why those lies had come about. It was all to do with Phyllis’s love of daring and her wish to flout Society’s laws.

  ‘I have been a disgrace, I know it, Evie,’ Phyllis said simply, ‘but I am a changed person now. I have met someone for whom I would do anything, so I have every reason to become a nicer, better person. Love makes you very humble, Evie, really it does.’

  ‘Not the Admiral, surely? You cannot love the Vice Admiral, Miss Phyllis. He is much too old for you!’

  Phyllis started to laugh. ‘Oh no, bless you, not the Vice Admiral. Good heavens, Evie, I only went to his – I only did what I did, you know, read to him and all that, because – because – because I was so bored, and you know how it is – if you are bored and cross you do naughty things.’

  ‘It might have cost you your reputation, ruined your life, Miss Phyllis, you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Phyllis agreed, quietly. ‘But thanks to you and Evans it has not. Now,’ she turned from the table, ‘what can I do for you, and Evans, Evie? To pay you back for your loyalty?’

  ‘You can do something …’

  Phyllis waited, and thinking of how much of her pin money it would take to satisfy Evans and Evie her heart sank a little. It would be goodbye to new hats and gloves for quite a while, even hat pins, she imagined.

  ‘You can undo the harm you did when you made that joke against poor Miss Hartley Lambert when you were all out riding that time.’

  Phyllis reddened. ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘You know it was, Miss Phyllis. Why, everyone calls her “Miss Hatley Lambert” behind her back now, you know they do.’

  ‘To be honest, I had not realised, really I had not.’

  ‘No, well, seeing how you are – or were – I am not surprised at all,’ Evie stated, determined to be ruthless and tactless while she could.

  ‘It was the hat – it was terrible. But it was only meant as a joke, Evie, really. It was not meant to be particularly cruel. It was just such a terrible hat.’

  ‘Everyone has terrible hats some time, Miss Phyllis. You wait, I dare say you will have a hat or two that would make a sailor blush once you’re married and your husband insists on choosing them for you in Paris or somewhere. Just you wait.’

  ‘I dare say you are right, Evie. And you have given me an idea as to how I may make amends to Miss Hartley Lambert and resurrect the joke – but this time against Miss O’Connor and myself.’

  Portia had been in such a flurry because of Phyllis and – in her mother’s mind at any rate – her imminent engagement, that she fairly flung herself down the stairs towards the garden without a thought to her appearance, with the result that she appeared, dishevelled and not at all the thing, and already late, at Aunt Tattie’s luncheon table.

  She did not know it, but the fact that she did not have time to make herself appear as groomed and matronly as she should succeeded only in making her look younger and more attractive than she had looked for many a long month – in fact, her aunt thought, since poor Childie had been gathered.

  Cheeks a little too pink and shiny, hair straying from its normally soigné and well-arranged chignon, she burst into the garden without hesitation, thinking only of how rude she must appear to Aunt Tattie and the servants, if not to poor Richard. And so she burst upon the quiet, pretty luncheon scene so nicely arranged in the garden as a child might burst through a wicket gate.

  Richard Ward, whose true vision of the world had only just been restored, stared at her for a few seconds. He could not remember who she was for a moment, and then he realised – the woman in front of him was Portia. His Portia, returned to him after all these years! Grown just a little older, of course – a trick of the light upstairs had suggested to him that she had no grey hairs when of course, like himself, she had more than a few – but this did not matter. Now he came to look up at her, his heart beating at a very irregular pace (as indeed any gentleman’s will who has received a note from a lady asking him to meet her at a late hour in a deserted ballroom), he realised that she was, to all intents and purposes, still his dear old Portia. Still impulsive, still with the same pair of clear grey eyes, still firm of purpose (he could tell that from the set of her mouth, which had always been most attractive to him), and yet ready to laugh at herself, as she was now as she quickly tried to brush dog hair from her skirt and apologise to Aunt Tattie at one and the same time.

  ‘Aunt Tattie, you will not send to the Pope in Rome I hope, that I am once again late for luncheon?’

  Aunt Tattie, who had so far recovered from her Italian conversion as to be able to find humour in life once more, smiled, if a little demurely. ‘Oh, I dare say even His Holiness has been late for luncheon or dinner at some time or another,’ she murmured, at once putting her guests at their ease, for if there was one thing that scared an Englishman more than the mention of a Frenchman, it was the mention of the papacy.

  ‘Very good, Aunt Tattie, very good,’ Richard murmured, but, to the old lady’s all too evident satisfaction, he had eyes only for Portia.

  In York Herbert Forrester was saying, ‘My dear love, I thought we should go for a drive in my new motor car today. Would not that be a bit of gaiety for two old folk? Bit of a spin, a bit of a drive, seeing all the world at up to – who knows – twenty miles an hour or whatever?’

  Jane looked up from her sewing, and smiled. ‘Why, Herbert, that would be the greatest fun. Do let us.’

  ‘You will have to wrap up nice and warm, love. Get Hoskins to put out your warmest coat, and a nice motoring hat and veil, because although it is hot now, given a speed of ten or fifteen miles an
hour the pace hots up and the air cools down, believe me.’

  Herbert stood up, relieved to be doing something, and at the same time anxious that Jane should not suffer from his desire to do anything rather than watch her.

  It seemed to him that he had been watching her, hour by hour, minute by minute, almost for the past two months, and every hour and every minute she had looked more and more frail. The shadows under her eyes had grown deeper and her small, irritating cough more frequent, until he had found himself praying, day after day, that God would take him before his poor Jane.

  ‘I will have them bring the motor cars round to the front, and you meet me on the front steps. No need to bring Hoskins. We can do without her if we have the chauffeurs with us, and two cars in case of breakdown. No need to take more than that, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘It seems ever so funny, Herbert, to always have to take out two motor cars instead of one, when only two people wish to travel!’

  Jane started to laugh, and at the same time, as always, the short, dry cough started up again, and she had recourse to yet more of her poor little lace-edged handkerchiefs.

  It was keeping the anxiety out of his eyes that was such a terrible trial for Herbert. It was keeping that look of you are normal and fine and everyone else feels like you do look in his eyes that made him, sometimes, just go right down the garden, where there was no fear of anyone’s hearing him, and burst into unmanly tears, howling the ruddy place down until he could howl no more, before returning to the house, his cheeks mopped, the look of calm in his eyes once more in place.

  ‘I will meet you at the front, then, dearest, in as much time as it takes you to put on your motoring clothes and those chauffeurs of mine to bring themselves and their motors round to the front steps.’