The Season

by Charlotte Bingham

  Daisy fairly swept into Mrs Hartley Lambert’s drawing room, leaving the panting Jenkins, who was looking no less cross than when they had left the house, in the hall.

  ‘Countess!’

  Daisy had no idea why Mrs Hartley Lambert always addressed her as if they were both in a Russian novel, but there, she did, and nothing to be done about it at this late stage.

  ‘I had to see you, Mrs Hartley Lambert.’

  The American woman turned away. ‘I have no idea why, Countess. After all, the whole Season, as far as Sarah is concerned, is a complete failure. Sarah has not found one convivial dancing partner. She is, apparently, feeling more wretched than she has ever done—’

  ‘Until last night.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Last night, Mrs Hartley Lambert, your daughter at last found someone—’ It was on the tip of Daisy’s tongue to say, mischievously, taller, but she resisted the temptation. Mrs Hartley Lambert was really not humorous enough to understand a light remark made in passing. She would think Daisy was being sarcastic. It would not be seemly. ‘Last night, I saw Miss Hartley Lambert falling in love, and what is better, I saw her being fallen in love with! No, really, I did. I saw two young people …’ Daisy closed her eyes melodramatically. ‘I saw two young people waltzing around a ballroom with eyes only for each other. A tall young man with a beautiful ’Merican gel in his arms for whom he had eyes only – for her.’

  Daisy paused, knowing that she had somehow run into a grammatical cul-de-sac, but not really caring, as Mrs Hartley Lambert’s lace-edged handkerchief dabbed at her lips.

  ‘Are you sure of this, Countess?’

  ‘As sure as I am vat …’ Daisy hesitated again, about to say vat I was the late King Edward’s mistress, but she resisted that temptation too. Again, Mrs Hartley Lambert would not understand. Indeed, she would find it shocking. She would not comprehend the status of being a king’s mistress, or, in Daisy’s case, more precisely the mistress of the Prince of Wales. ‘As sure as I am vat we have a king upon the throne and that this ring of mine is an emerald.’ Daisy pulled off her glove dramatically, exposing a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. ‘Vat is how sure I am. Now, where is Miss Hartley Lambert?’

  ‘Sarah is not yet down.’ Her mother glanced at the clock. ‘As a matter of fact she is usually down by now. Although she breakfasts in her room, we like to be here together by ten o’clock. But of course the ball last night made her late, and, too, I have given orders for everyone to pack up the house, as we are to return to America. She may well be packing.’

  ‘Or she may be lying in bed dreaming of Captain Barrymore Fortescue!’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Captain Barrymore …’

  ‘Tall, stunningly handsome, an army officer, and ve second son of an earl.’

  ‘Tall, you say? And an earl!’

  ‘No, he is not an earl. His father is.’

  ‘Even so.’ Mrs Hartley Lambert’s handkerchief returned to dab her lips. ‘Sarah has said nothing of this to me. But of course I have not seen her! My, my, my! Tall and an earl in the family, you say? Where is Sarah?’

  She went quickly to the bell and pulled it so many times that Daisy thought for a second that she must have had practice as a bell ringer in a church.

  Outside in the hall Jenkins was sitting staring at the wall. It was usually very dull to be left in the hall while her ladyship went in for one of her little dramas during the Season, and normally she would have put her ear to the door, despite the presence of the hall boy. But today she could not be bothered. She was not even interested, a fact that was as surprising to her as it would have been to my lady. Jenkins was making up her mind, and when a person is busy making up their mind, it is after all perfectly understandable that they should be interested only in themselves.

  ‘Lah-di-dah, lah-di-dah,’ Jenkins said out loud suddenly.

  The hall boy stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon, miss?’

  ‘Lah-di-dah, lah-di-dah.’ Jenkins pushed her hat back. ‘I am too long in the tooth for this caper. I can’t support it no more, I can’t. I shall have to retire to me sister’s in Devon, and that is all there is to it.’

  ‘What, now, miss?’

  ‘No, not now, boy, soon. At the end of this Season. This will be me last. I know it will.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Jenkins started to say something else, but a beautiful vision had appeared at the top of the stairs: Miss Hartley Lambert in a pale lemon skirt and jacket with a large bow to her blouse, and hand-made, beautifully buttoned shoes in the same pale lemon. It all toned beautifully and both the maid and the hall boy could appreciate this from where they were both now standing.

  ‘Good morning, Jenkins.’ Sarah paused. She felt so well and so happy that not even Jenkins’s somewhat pinched face and faded hat could make much difference to how she was feeling. ‘It is a beautiful morning, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ Jenkins smiled suddenly. Her mind now made up, she could quite see that it was a beautiful morning, and moreover that Miss Hartley Lambert was as beautiful as the morning itself, with her lovely hair and lemon-coloured clothes and matching side-buttoned shoes.

  Sarah stared at Jenkins. She would have liked to have said ‘Gracious, Jenkins, I have never, ever seen you smile before!’ but she could not, so she said instead, whispering, ‘Have you heard, Jenkins?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  Sarah leaned towards the maid, her voice still a whisper. ‘I am practically engaged. Last night I met a certain captain and we danced twice, and he is so handsome, Jenkins. He is as handsome as he is fun. Can you imagine, me meeting an unstuffy Englishman?’

  ‘About as likely as me becoming a duchess, Miss!’

  A small intake of breath, and, following up her smile, Jenkins actually laughed.

  ‘Yes, I know, Jenkins,’ Sarah continued out loud, ‘I know. Such a thing! But there, you will be relieved, doubtless, when I am no longer always on the mind of the Countess?’

  They looked at each other, and again the startling thing happened. Jenkins laughed once more.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss Hartley Lambert. Her ladyship enjoys keeping an eye on you young gels.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Jenkins, but not into eternity!’

  Daisy returned home in the same hansom that she had quickly taken only half an hour before, and seated in the back, with Jenkins opposite, she sighed with the relief of it all. Thank heavens, she had delayed Mrs Hartley Lambert’s exit from London and imminent return to America, and had also persuaded her that, when the handsome Captain Barrymore Fortescue proposed, it would have to be a Westminster wedding. His family would expect it.

  Of course, the Hartley Lamberts would have their noses put dreadfully out of joint, and as soon as she realised it Mrs Hartley Lambert’s eyes had fairly popped with that particular excitement that comes from the knowledge that you are about to cock a snook at a whole lot of people who have been perfectly beastly to you. (Such a vulgar expression, but oh so apt!)

  So that was all right, Daisy thought, gazing out of the window.

  Of course, in some ways, it could not be denied that Lady Emily had unwittingly prepared the way for Daisy to marry off the immensely likeable Miss Hartley Lambert and her millions to the handsome Barrymore. After all, if she had not had her torrid affair with the young captain, he would not have been nearly so malleable. Daisy was a great believer in the power of love-making to prepare people for yet more love. When robbed of love, it always seemed to her, persons in love immediately fell again. It was as if they had the habit of it, like tying the laces on their shoes! And knowing this, last night she had quite consciously stepped down from her throne of the Great Beauty – because goodness he was handsome – and guided Barrymore towards Miss Hartley Lambert. Et voilà! They had taken to each other straight away, for the gorgeous young captain was in mourning for love, sighing for it, and Miss Hartley Lambert had stepped in at just the right moment.

  Da
isy had let slip over dinner that Miss Hartley Lambert was an heiress of considerable proportions, which fact had doubtless added a great deal to her charms for a younger son like Barrymore Fortescue. It had added wit and beauty, it had added an allure he had probably not really noticed before. It had added everything possible. But then, Daisy always thought, it was just as if a person was a bare room, and their wealth the wallpaper and the furniture. It was surely no worse to find a girl more attractive on account of her wealth than it was to find a man more attractive on account of his looks? So, all in all, when she came to think of it, it was a perfect exchange. And the two of them would make a very happy marriage. Daisy was sure of it.

  Far better for Miss Hartley Lambert, as an American gel, to marry a younger son. A younger son would not seek to constrain her, would be gayer and more carefree than the heir to a title – as younger sons almost always were, since they were not weighed down by the thought that come what may their lives were already mapped out for them. Barrymore Fortescue would not lock her up in some draughty castle with typhoid-ridden drains and an ageing mother-in-law with a voice like a corncrake.

  ‘My lady?’ Jenkins had already addressed her mistress twice without attracting her attention, so deep was Daisy in her own thoughts. ‘My lady?’ she said again.

  ‘Yes, Jenkins?’ Daisy turned her still beautiful and famous eyes on her.

  ‘My lady,’ said Jenkins, thankful at last to have her mistress’s attention, ‘I am afraid this will be our last Season together.’

  ‘Yes, Jenkins.’

  The eyes remained cool, the look disinterested. After thirty years, Jenkins might have been telling her that my lady’s bath water temperature was now perfect and ready for her.

  ‘I have decided to retire to my sister’s, in Devon, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, Jenkins.’

  ‘And so I must hand in my notice for the end of July, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, Jenkins. Thank you, Jenkins. I shall make a note of it.’ Daisy turned her gaze towards the window. ‘Such a lovely day, do you not think, Jenkins?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Daisy nodded. Yes, it was a lovely day all round. Pity about Jenkins. But not surprising really. She would have to train someone else up, but there. Always something to think about – the maids, or the fashions, and now Jenkins.

  Of course, what she was not saying to Jenkins was that the reason why she would allow the maid to retire to Devon, taking with her the wretched samovar and whatever else Daisy had promised her, was that Daisy too had made up her mind that it would be her last Season. She was too proud to admit as much to Jenkins. It might make Jenkins smile and look I thought as much at her. It might make Jenkins happy, and that would never do.

  Daisy was going to retire. She was going to find peace. Where she did not know, but find it she must. And what was more, for the first time in her life, she was going to live within her means. No more anxieties about husbands’ gambling, or lovers’ debts, or milliners’ pestering one.

  She was going to be free of all that at last. She had never realised, until now, just how tired she had become. After all, now she came to think of it, more people were pleased by her presence than she was, it had to be said, in the least bit pleased by them. More people wanted Daisy at their balls and dinners, their ladies’ luncheons, than she ever wanted to be with. She could hardly think of one person nowadays whom she actually wanted to see, hardly anyone who amused her as her old friends, in the old days, had used to amuse her. Too much had gone between, too much water flowed under the famous bridge. She wanted no more of it. She wanted peace of mind, no debts and a life she could afford. Those three things would be a warm bath of a life to her. A sunshine-filled morning with nothing to do but pick flowers and think of where to put the luncheon table. Not even a handsome lover would give her such pleasure now.

  And so the two of them continued on their way, Jenkins staring ahead, Daisy out of the window, thinking I do hope I remember where I put that samovar for Jenkins, and whatever else was it I promised her? Not the Family Fender, I hope!

  Sir Lampard Tradescant had made it to London. No-one knew how, but he had. Looking at her brother from close to, part of Aunt Tattie now wished heartily that he had not. He was really very dishevelled. Still, he was at least upright, even if his clothes did look and smell like something out of an old trunk – old-fashioned even to his sister’s eyes, so goodness knows what they would seem to Richard Ward and this Edwin Vessey fellow to whom young Phyllis had been busy engaging herself.

  Yet, in all truth, Lampard was still Lampard; he still had a certain presence. He still had the whiff not just of moth balls but of the true Victorian about him, the feeling that when he was growing up England was truly English, and not yet becoming Foreign, and over-liberal, and goodness knows what else. Indeed, now that Phyllis had found herself a young man, and Portia was happy once more, Aunt Tattie could not wait to hightail it back to Bannerwick and her medieval sewing frame, her sailing boat and her swimming.

  ‘So where are these young men to whom I must address myself, Tatiana?’

  Aunt Tattie brushed some dog hairs from Lampard’s trouser legs with a small brush that she always kept hidden in her sewing bag for such emergencies.

  ‘Where do you think, Lampard? Waiting to see you, the head of the family, each by turn in the library, where young men always wait. But Portia’s young man is to see you first. Do not forget you used to know him, dearest. Richard Ward, in the old days at Bannerwick. You know, the nice young man Portia used to go sailing with, but he had an arrangement with someone else, a Miss Cecil, so nothing came of it. But, alas, there was a tragedy and he is now a widower. And Portia is a widow, as you may remember, and so they have decided to make a go of it, and since they always were such friends, as children, I dare say that they will make a go of it, dearest.’

  ‘Got you, Tatiana. As a matter of fact I do remember him. Long time ago that it was. How long since I was in London, by the way?’

  ‘Some time ago.’ Aunt Tattie could not bring herself to tell him fifteen years.

  ‘They are all wearing such odd clothes, Tatiana. I dare say you noticed, did you not? Not a Chesterfield or even a topper in sight, that I could see from the carriage window.’

  ‘I know, dearest. Things have changed a little, but there. The old king set the trend, you may remember, a few years back. He made homburgs fashionable, along with much else.’

  ‘His mother was not a fashionable person, and more power to her for that. She was a great woman. Better than fashion, that, you know.’

  ‘Tail coats are not being worn at home in the evening, Lampard. More and more gentlemen are wearing dinner jackets in London for dinner in their own homes, although never away. But I hear tail coats are still de rigueur elsewhere, in the houses of others.’

  Her brother turned and stared at her. There was a ghastly silence while he digested this news, and finally he said in a broken voice, ‘Is nothing sacred any more?’

  ‘Well, I know, Lampard, it is a shock, I do agree.’

  ‘No-one’s wearing dinner jackets in front of me in London, I can tell you that.’

  Aunt Tattie stared briefly at her brother’s worn clothes. Really, it was so strange, everyone wearing clothes that no-one else liked. Yet no-one really cared what the people inside the clothes were like. As if clothes were all. She had always been considered eccentric at home, even at Bannerwick where people did as they wished, but nowadays, she had noticed, she was almost in the vanguard. Very many people they knew now shopped at Liberty’s in Regent Street and talked about a return to medieval principles.

  ‘And then there is Edwin Vessey, Phyllis’s intended. He will see you next. He is the second son of a second son, but by good luck his godfather is a bachelor and quite likely to leave him a small estate in Herefordshire, which will suit admirably.’

  ‘Never mind. Let them come at me, and then take me back to Sussex by the sea. Dinner jackets for dinner! Have you ever hea
rd of such a thing? Such times we live in!’

  He put a hand on his sister’s shoulder, and together they walked slowly forward to the library. What a to-do everything was. Always this or that. For himself, he could not wait to get back to the seaside. Somehow so satisfying at his time of life. But first, duty called. He was, after all, head of the Tradescant family.

  ‘Let’s get it all over with!’ he murmured to Tatiana.

  And so he did.

  For all that he had never been sober in his life, and had never known what it was to be married, Lampard’s questionings of the parties concerned were short but very much to the point. He was not having any young men marrying his womenfolk who did not have the wherewithal to support them! No matter that Portia was already rich from the Childhays’ money, the Vice Admiral had to be shown to be capable of supporting Portia in his own right. If not it would lead to heaven only knew what, irresponsibility, a lack of values, gambling, throwing nuts in ladies’ handbags, driving teams of horses too fast through gates that were too narrow, that sort of thing. They had to stump up if they wanted to marry a Tradescant, and see to that Sir Lampard would. Even if it did mean that he would miss his daily swim in the briny, and his bottle of port at night.

  Portia, meanwhile, as her darling Richard was having to cope with Uncle Lampard in the library, was trying to cope with her feelings towards Childie. Upstairs, quite alone, she wondered what Childie, always so much older than herself, would make of his widow’s marrying Richard Ward?

  She thought he would take it hard, that he would not find it easy to share her. And then she thought that, being such a very good-natured man, he might put his hand on her shoulder and say, ‘No, go ahead. After all, to be lonely is a terrible thing, and he is your old friend, and what’s more he sails. You love sailing, he loves sailing. It is more than one can expect to get out of life, two men who love to go sailing.’