‘And this one is for you,’ Mrs Keppel said as she presented her with a gorgeously wrapped box. ‘It’s from your friend, Bertie,’ she whispered. ‘He wishes you a very merry Christmas. Open it.’
Flora did so, and found a small, sleek black onyx cat, with amber eyes that, as she looked closer, she saw were fashioned from tiny semi-precious stones.
‘It’s Panther!’ Flora cried, as she read his name engraved on the metal stand. ‘And I adore it!’
‘He had it made especially for you,’ Mrs Keppel added as Flora stroked the figurine.
On Boxing Day, Freddie and his parents arrived. Father and son went immediately to join the guns on the estate, while Mrs Keppel took Flora and the Countess into the morning room to get to know each other.
‘Come and sit by me, my dear. And please, call me Daphne, as I hope to call you Flora.’
‘Of course,’ Flora said, squeezing in next to the much larger woman on the small sofa.
‘I shall find a maid to bring us some refreshment,’ said Mrs Keppel, leaving the room.
‘Ah, dear Alice,’ commented Daphne, ‘so discreet and accommodating. Now, my dear, you can imagine my relief that Freddie has finally chosen a bride. I am sure you are aware of his high-spirited temperament, but I know you will be able to tame him. He needed an unusual woman and, with your exotic past, I feel you fit the bill well.’
‘I . . . thank you.’
‘We ourselves are an unusual family, but then again what family isn’t behind closed doors?’ The Countess winked at her. ‘Of course, the Earl had to be persuaded, but he’s settled to it now. After all, one could not ask for better breeding stock, could one?’ She gave a buttery laugh and patted Flora on the knee. ‘You are indeed an attractive young woman,’ the Countess continued as she studied Flora through glasses that hung on a chain round her thick neck. Flora could see the heavy layer of powder on the woman’s face and the bright cheek and lip colour she wore made her think of a character in one of Sheridan’s Georgian farces. ‘Before we leave tomorrow, we must arrange a date for you to visit Selbourne; perhaps the third weekend in January? I do find the month so dismal, don’t you?’
Over dinner that evening, she and Daphne discussed dates for the wedding.
‘Well, Mama,’ said Freddie, pressing his thigh against Flora’s under the table. ‘In my book, it can’t come soon enough.’
‘Do you have any preference, Flora dear?’
‘June?’ suggested Flora neutrally.
‘Personally, I always feel that June weddings are rather vulgar and May is so much fresher,’ countered Daphne. ‘Shall we agree on the second Friday? It will time nicely with the start of the Season.’
‘As you wish, Daphne.’ Flora lowered her eyes.
‘Then that is settled! I will send the invitations to be printed at Mr Smythson’s shop on Bond Street. They will, of course, not be sent out until six weeks before, but everyone who needs to know will be told far sooner. Do you think cream vellum or white?’
‘Not long now, dear girl,’ Freddie whispered to her as he rose to join the men for brandy and cigars. ‘I am impatient for our wedding night. Where would you like to go for our honeymoon? I have friends in Venice, or perhaps the south of France? In fact, dash it all, we will plan a tour and be away for the entire summer!’
Just as with his mother, any thoughts Flora might have had on the subject had been elegantly railroaded. This was a family that was obviously used to having its own way. However, as she walked the long corridors of Crichel to her bedroom, Flora was only relieved that she was not at High Weald, having to suffer the sight of Archie and Aurelia, newly returned from honeymoon.
27
January in the city passed in a veil of sleet, snow and sludge – the ugly relations of the pristine sheets of white that covered the screes and fells of the Lake District. Flora had little time to ponder her past or her future. Her days were filled with making arrangements and decisions for her forthcoming nuptials – or, more accurately, agreeing to whatever it was that her mother-in-law-to-be suggested. And when she wasn’t poring over menus, guest lists and seating plans, she was with the dressmaker for fittings, not only for her wedding dress, but for her trousseau. Mrs Keppel had written to her parents offering to pay for Flora’s new wardrobe as a wedding gift. When both Flora and her mother had protested at this generosity, Mrs Keppel had waved it away with a flick of her wrist.
‘It is the least you deserve given the circumstances. Rest assured, it will not be troubling my own coffers. We can hardly have our new viscountess looking shabby now, can we?’ She smiled as Miss Draper adjusted a hat with outrageously long ostrich feathers on Flora’s perplexed head. ‘We are transforming you from Cinderella into the princess you truly are.’
Flora had gone down to Hampshire to visit Selbourne Park in January and felt quite overwhelmed at the sheer scale of it. It seemed to her the size of Buckingham Palace, but, as the Countess had pointed out, Selbourne was far older than ‘that recently built’ royal residence. As Flora was ushered inside the vast marble-floored entrance hall with attentive flunkies on either side of her, she wondered how on earth she would ever learn to command the legions of staff.
‘You’re not to worry, Flora,’ Daphne said as they entered a drawing room the size of two tennis courts. ‘I will not be deserting you for some years yet. You are undoubtedly a bright young thing, and will learn just as I did when I married Algernon.’
Dinner that evening was a tense affair, with the Earl grumbling into his turtle soup about the most recent ruckus in the House of Lords, and Freddie’s hands reaching for her under the table like a lecherous octopus. At least Flora had warmed more to Daphne. The Countess was now well into middle-age, but Flora tried to imagine the tempestuous young belle she must have been when, as rumour had it, she had run off to Gretna Green with an ‘unsuitable man’. The family had dragged her back to Hampshire kicking and screaming and married her off to the Earl.
A plate of panachée jelly was set in front of each diner and Flora watched as Algernon spooned it into his dour mouth.
‘If that damned Asquith brings that bill to pass—’
‘Oh hush, Algy, not at the table!’ cried Daphne, before turning to Flora and giving her a weary sigh. ‘Let us turn to more palatable topics. The invitation list is coming along nicely, although I’m sorry to say your grandparents have regretfully declined their invitation—’
‘My grandparents?’ Flora, so accustomed to her small family, had almost forgotten she had any.
‘Yes, your mother’s people, the Beauchamps.’
‘If I had my way,’ Freddie whispered to Flora, his hand rubbing up and down her skirts, ‘we’d run away tonight.’
On a dreary February morning at Portman Square, just two days after her twentieth birthday, which was celebrated with a grand dinner, there was a knock on her bedroom door and Miss Draper entered. ‘Miss Flora, Mrs Keppel is waiting for you in her parlour.’
Flora made her way downstairs as she’d been bidden.
‘My dear Flora, I feel we have hardly seen each other in the past few weeks.’ Mrs Keppel turned to greet her. Flora noticed she looked pale and her expression was strained beneath the bright smile of welcome.
‘I have been much caught up in the process of getting married.’
‘I fear it is far more exhausting than marriage itself. Do sit down, and tell me how all the arrangements are going.’
Flora dutifully repeated the facts and figures of the event and Mrs Keppel nodded approvingly.
‘It will be without doubt the event of the Season. And I shall be as proud as any mother as you walk down the aisle towards your intended. Now, Flora, I have something to put to you: I was wondering if it might be possible to drag you away for a few days next month to Biarritz? Violet, Sonia and I take an annual trip there and stay at Mr Cassel’s Villa Eugénie. The King is also in residence in the town at the Hôtel du Palais. I think it would be restorative for you after such a long
London winter. The sea air would put some colour in your cheeks before your wedding.’
‘Thank you, but I doubt the Countess would be happy if I took a holiday only a few weeks before the wedding. I could not in all faith leave her when there is so much to be done.’
‘Oh, she loves doing it. Besides, I have already secured her blessing. And Freddie’s.’
‘I see.’ Not for the first time, Flora felt that her life was not her own and she must bow to whatever her patron wished her to do. ‘Then, as it is decided, I would be happy to come.’
‘Wonderful! That is settled then. I am sure that Violet and Sonia will be very happy. You know how they both adore you. And Bertie, too, will be happy. Poor thing, I do worry so about him. He has been under such dreadful pressure from his government and his health continues to plague him. I . . .’
Flora saw a shimmer of tears well in Mrs Keppel’s eyes. Never before had she seen vulnerability in them.
‘I worry for him,’ she finished. Composing herself, she managed a weak smile. ‘It has been a long, cold winter this year and we are all feeling as grey as the sky outside. But spring is coming, and I just know you will love Biarritz. So now, tell me about Freddie.’
As Mrs Keppel had promised, Daphne sent Flora off to Biarritz with her blessing.
‘Of course you must go,’ she had said on her last visit to Portman Square. ‘Some sea air and good company can only make you bloom for your wedding day. And who knows? We may have to alter the seating plan to accommodate a further guest. We’ll be needing quite a large seat.’ Daphne had chuckled at her own private joke.
Freddie, too, had advocated the trip. ‘One must always bow to a higher cause,’ he’d said as he’d kissed her hand, ready to depart with his parents after dinner at Lord and Lady Darlington’s. ‘On the thirteenth of May, you will be mine. All mine,’ he’d added, with a lingering glance at her bodice.
Flora helped the girls pack for their journey. They were leaving a few days early to stay for a week in Paris first. She would join them later at the Villa Eugénie, where they would be guests of Sir Ernest Cassel, who was a regular visitor to Mrs Keppel and – so Nannie had informed her – chief financial advisor to the King himself.
The Keppel girls had a large trunk each, plus assorted baskets, to fill with their wardrobes and possessions. It looked as if they were leaving for six months rather than one.
‘Do you think Panther could hide in my basket the way he hid in yours when you left to come to London?’ asked Violet.
‘I think it would have to be his decision. Perhaps you should leave the lid open tonight and see what happens?’
‘Yes.’ Violet sank onto her bed, her face a picture of melancholy. ‘I’d like to take something I love with me at least.’
‘You will have Nannie, your sister and your mother, Violet. Surely you love them?’
‘Of course I do, but they’re family. They’re not . . . mine.’ Violet’s shoulders began to shake and tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ Flora went to sit beside her.
‘Nothing . . . everything . . . Oh Flora! I love her so . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Mitya, of course! But Rosamund wants her too, and while I am away she will do her best to steal her from me. I can hardly bear it!’
More tears followed as Flora searched her memory for who this ‘Mitya’ could be. She certainly empathised with Violet’s distress.
‘Does Mitya love you back?’
‘Of course she does! Except she doesn’t realise it yet.’
‘Perhaps your being away will help. Sometimes it does.’
‘Do you think so?’ Violet looked up at her, naked desperation in her eyes.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Because, you see, I can never be happy without her.’
‘I understand, Violet.’
‘I know you do, and I am glad that you are coming to Biarritz.’
As Flora slipped into bed that night, she put two and two together and realised that ‘Mitya’ was Violet’s pet name for Vita Sackville-West, the sallow-faced girl who had come for lunch. Flora reflected on Violet’s obsession with her friend. She knew that crushes on other girls were relatively common, but Violet was fifteen and Vita two years older. She wondered if anyone else in the busy household was aware of it. Mrs Keppel was almost certainly far too preoccupied with her own circumstances to have noticed and Flora pondered if she should mention it to Nannie. But it was hardly the kind of thing one could discuss with a middle-aged Scottish spinster.
The following day, Flora watched a motor truck being loaded up in front of the house. Studded wardrobe trunks standing almost as tall as she, dozens of hat and shoe boxes and a travelling jewel case were packed into the truck, to depart for Victoria station. A palace courier was standing quietly in the front hall, his hands crossed in front of his uniform. He straightened as Mrs Keppel and the girls appeared, ready to leave for the station and the boat train to Dover.
‘Dearest Flora, we will see you in Biarritz. Moiselle will accompany you and keep you safe.’
‘Yes, Mrs Keppel. I hope you have a wonderful time.’ She could see her patron was tingling with excitement.
‘Thank you. Now come on, girls, we mustn’t delay the train.’
‘Goodbye, Flora, see you next week,’ said Sonia, looking utterly charming in her new pink travelling coat. ‘I am sad I can’t show you our very own private carriage that has proper chairs and tables in it and everything. They treat Mama like the Queen of England in France, you know.’
A week later, Flora and Moiselle also arrived in Biarritz. It had been a long journey across the Channel to Calais and down by train to the south-west of France. Flora felt utterly exhausted.
‘Bienvenue à Biarritz, mesdemoiselles!’
‘Merci, monsieur,’ said Moiselle to the footman who had helped them off the train and onto the platform. As they exited the station, Flora grimaced at the heavy grey sky that threatened rain. In all the paintings and photographs she’d seen, the sun was always shining in the south of France. Today, it felt like England.
‘It is not far to the Villa Eugénie,’ said the footman as he assisted them into the back seat of a magnificent Rolls-Royce, before seating himself in the front next to the driver. Flora gazed out of the window and felt exhilarated by the thought of seeing the Atlantic Ocean. Rarely had she been out to the seaside, certainly not since she had been a small child. They drove through the sedate town; the wide promenades were quiet, perhaps due to the inclement weather, and she admired the tamarisk trees and hydrangeas that grew outside the chic cream and pink houses. Flora arched her neck to catch glimpses of the seafront, where the foaming waves crashed down on the sand.
The Rolls-Royce left the cobbled streets of the town centre and, shortly afterwards, turned into the driveway of a large villa. The footman helped them out of the motor car, and they were greeted by a butler as they moved up the steps to the grand white doors.
Feeling rather like an animal who had been transported from one zoo to another, Flora followed Moiselle across a vast palatial hall and up a wide flight of stairs. The only sound she could hear was that of shoes echoing on the tiled steps. Just as a maid was opening the door to her room, a small pair of arms wound themselves around her waist.
‘Flora! You’re here!’
‘Yes, I am.’ Flora smiled as she turned round to be greeted by Sonia’s delighted expression.
‘I am so glad,’ Sonia said as she followed Flora and the maid into the bedroom. The windows were open and the sea air at least smelt fresh and cleansing. Sonia jumped on the bed as the maid began unpacking Flora’s trunk. ‘It has been so dull since we arrived in France. Kingy has not been well, you see. Mama has been caring for him.’
‘Oh? What is wrong with him?’
‘Mama says he caught a chill when he was in Paris and since he arrived two nights ago, we haven’t seen him or Mama once and have been stuck here by
ourselves.’ Sonia lay down on the large bed, its headboard a washed blue silk with gilded acorns atop each corner. ‘This has a very nice mattress,’ she remarked. ‘Can I sleep with you tonight?’
‘If Nannie will let you, of course you can.’
‘Nannie is so worried about Mama being worried about Kingy that I think she would let us go all day without even washing our hands!’
At this remark, Flora knew that the King must be seriously ill. ‘This is a beautiful house, isn’t it?’ Flora joined Sonia on the bed as the maid closed the door.
‘I suppose so, but it’s rained a lot since we’ve been here, and everyone seems rather gloomy.’
‘Well, I’m excited to be in France. I’ve never been here before.’
‘It’s not really much different,’ said the nine-year-old expert. ‘They just speak a different language and eat strange things like snails for supper.’
Nannie arrived in search of her charge and Sonia left the room. Flora lay back on the bed and felt her eyelids drooping.
She was awoken by a sharp tap-tapping at the door.
‘Entrez,’ she said as she sat up.
‘Mademoiselle Flora, I left you for as long as we could.’
It was Moiselle. ‘Thank you, I . . . what time is it?’
‘Past three o’clock. Madame Keppel has asked if you would join her at the Hôtel du Palais at five. I wanted to give you enough time to change.’
‘Will it be for dinner?’
‘She didn’t say, but the King will almost certainly be joining you. I will send the maid up to help you dress.’
‘Thank you.’
As Flora closed the window and hastened to get ready, her stomach churned at the thought of dinner with the King. She hadn’t seen him since they’d taken tea together in October.
After being pushed and pulled into an emerald-green tea gown, she was ushered into the motor car and driven to the Hôtel du Palais, which overlooked the sea. With its opulent red and white frontage and tall windows, it looked every bit the palace of its name. She was greeted at the entrance by a smartly dressed man.
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