“What time did you get home?”
“We didn’t,” said Gwen. “Ronnie had booked a room. I don’t think we left it for two days after that night. And the first thing he did when we got to it was massage my feet for an hour.”
“What a lovely man!”
“He was. And then he shipped out, and I barely saw him after that. And then—oh, I’ve got to stop talking, or I’ll start crying and ruin the wonderful work Millie did on my face. I used to so love this life—the seasons, the dressing, the music, the champagne, the romance. It’s over, isn’t it?”
“It will come back,” said Iris. “The war is a year behind us, and rationing can’t go on forever.”
“It may come back, it may not,” said Gwen. “Even if it does, will I?”
“I would think Ronnie would want you to.”
“He does, that’s the thing,” said Gwen miserably.
“Excuse me?” said Iris, startled. “How would—how do you know?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not communing with his ghost, as much as I wish to.” Gwen sighed. “I found a letter he had left for me, one of those ‘In case I don’t come back’ missives.”
“What did he say?” Iris asked.
“Quite a lot about Little Ronnie, which has provided some useful ammunition in my personal World War. But the part that relates to me—basically, he urged me to remarry. He gave me permission.”
“Ah.”
“The problem is that I haven’t given myself permission,” Gwen continued. “In fact, I’m more than a little peeved that he had given me up so easily.”
“What did you expect?” asked Iris.
“That he’d want me to wait until he either figured out some way to claw his way back from death, or until I had joined him in the afterlife, preferably in some place with a dance floor and a decent band.”
“The first won’t happen,” said Iris. “And postpone the second for as long as you possibly can. You are needed in this world.”
“By a son whose custody I don’t control.”
“By him. But also by me, darling. I can’t run this place alone. And how would I be able to sneak into this reception without you?”
“You’d find a way.” She got up and paced the small room, executing the turns at each wall with dance steps, then stopped. “I haven’t danced properly in years,” she said. “I’m going to be terrible!”
“You’ve danced at weddings.”
“Yes, but you know what those are like for a recent widow? One or two turns around the floor out of pity with married cousins who are woefully out of practice. I’m blanking, Iris! Every step I’ve ever learned has vanished!”
“Come on,” said Iris, grabbing her by the hand and leading her out into the hallway.
“What are you doing?”
“Foxtrot, for a start,” said Iris, turning to face her. “Give me your hand, other on my shoulder. Basics first. Slow, slow, quick quick!”
She danced Gwen down the length of the hall, then led her through an outside turn. “You remember twinkles?” she asked. “Good! Promenade. Turning box. See, it’s all coming back.”
“Muscle memory,” said Gwen. “Where did you learn to lead so well?”
“All-girls boarding school,” said Iris. “We took turns. They said I was the best boy there. All the girls wanted to dance with me. Let’s try a spin. Excellent! Now, the hallway’s too narrow for a full waltz, but we could do the basics. And one, two, three!”
They whirled down the hallway.
“Frame, darling,” said Iris as they turned back in the other direction.
“Oh, that brings back memories,” said Gwen, throwing her shoulders back. “Sorry, I was adjusting to your height.”
“Think of me as a short Greek man with feelings of inadequacy,” said Iris. “Dare we tango?” She struck a fierce pose, stamping her foot, throwing one arm up with the other bent across her chest. “Zee song eez ‘Jalousie’!” she cried. “We weel forgo zee cadenza. Come, my lady—we dance!”
“Yes, you look exactly like Douglas Fairbanks,” said Gwen.
“It’s been said before,” said Iris, swooping in. “Dahmp, da dahhh, dah dah dada dahmp, da dahhh!”
“Are those the actual words? Oh, hello, Mr. MacPherson!”
Their custodian was standing on the landing, gazing up at them openmouthed.
“Hello, Mr. MacPherson,” echoed Iris, waving. “We’re rehearsing a sketch for a party. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Mr. MacPherson. “What are the two of you supposed to be doing?”
“It’s the one where the maid teaches her mistress the newest dance styles,” explained Iris. “I saw something like it in a two-reeler and thought it would be fun to do ourselves. I don’t suppose you could sing for us—it’s hard for me to do both.”
“Don’t sing, don’t dance, don’t see the point to any of it,” said Mr. MacPherson. “Don’t you go clogging up my hallways with this nonsense.”
“May we remind you that we are the only tenants on this storey,” said Gwen. “There is nothing about not dancing in our lease.”
“Get on with you,” he said. “I’ll be needing to mop that floor soon.”
“Spoilsport,” muttered Iris as they retreated to the safe confines of The Right Sort.
“Thank you for the refresher,” said Gwen. “That was helpful. Still need to try the rumba and the quickstep, but I think my memory has been sufficiently jogged. Oh, it’s about time for us to depart. Hand me my cape, will you, Millie?”
“Yes, milady,” said Iris. “I should put it on for you, shouldn’t I?” She stood behind Gwen and fastened it around her neck, standing on tiptoe to reach. “Very good, milady,” Iris said. “Your chariot awaits.”
They walked down the steps. Iris held the front door for Gwen.
Captain Timothy Palfrey of the Grenadiers stood in full dress uniform in front of an idling cab. He removed his cap upon seeing Gwen.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, you are a vision,” he said. “This humble soldier is honoured to be your escort tonight.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Millie, you may ride in front.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sparks, keeping her head down as Palfrey held the door open for her.
He did the same for Mrs. Bainbridge, then sat beside her.
“Claridge’s,” he told the cabbie. Then he turned back to Mrs. Bainbridge. “I must say that I was surprised to receive your invitation, after how we left things at Sally’s.”
“It was very kind of you to accept, especially upon such short notice.”
“Not at all. Who was the unlucky lad who dropped out at the last second?”
“It was nothing like that,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I am representing the family interests. My father-in-law sells ammunition to the current Greek government. He’s in East Africa, and my mother-in-law wasn’t feeling up to the task, so I’ve put on the old uniform and am going to support the troops.”
“Clearly, I joined the wrong branch of the service,” he said. “So, you need me to be what tonight?”
“My reason to fend off aggressors.”
“And my reward?”
“As many dances as you can muster, Captain, with as much conversation as I can provide.”
“And after? Will there be more evenings together? Preferably without any international arms dealing?”
“Let’s see how tonight goes, Captain.”
Claridge’s was a short ride away, fortunately. Never taking his eyes off Mrs. Bainbridge, Palfrey paid the cabbie as the doorman held the doors for the two women.
There was a trio of photographers lolling about near the entrance. As Captain Palfrey came up to take Mrs. Bainbridge’s arm, the photographers looked at each other, shrugged in puzzlement, then held up their cameras.
“A smile for us, madam,” one of them called.
Sparks stood a respectful distance away as Mrs. Bainbridge radiated towards
them.
I live in the shadows, she thought.
She followed them in as the photographers pestered the doorman, trying to find out who they had just captured for the morning tabloids.
They crossed through the lobby over the black-and-white-marble floor, past the mirrors with their Art Deco inlays. Mrs. Bainbridge paused as they reached the center of the Winter Garden, breathing deep as she stared up at the dome.
“You’ll protect me, won’t you, Captain?” she said softly, resting her free hand for a moment on Palfrey’s forearm.
“Of course.” He laughed. “I will be the Troy to your Helen. Let the Greek hordes fall beneath our walls.”
Bad metaphor, thought Sparks. The Greeks won that one. Eventually. But it sounded gallant.
At the entrance to the ballroom, two young men sat at a table. Two others stood by the door, eyeing Mrs. Bainbridge with appreciation but no welcome.
“Let’s see, where did I put it?” Mrs. Bainbridge said, fishing through her bag for the invitation. “Ah! Good evening, gentlemen. Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, on behalf of Lord Bainbridge. Captain Palfrey is my guest.”
She handed the invitation to them with imperious grace.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said one of the young men, taking it, while the other ran his fingers down a list, then turned to a second page. A look of consternation crossed his face.
“I’m sorry, madam, but your name does not appear on the list,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I have the invitation.”
“The invitation is in order, but there must not have been an RSVP.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am not, I assure you, madam.”
“There must have been some kind of mistake.”
“We don’t make mistakes,” he said huffily.
“You are about to make a very serious one,” she said in a low tone. “Do you know who I am? Who the Bainbridges are and what we represent?”
“I am afraid—”
“You should be afraid. While you are bravely sitting at this table in your tuxedo, your countrymen are blasting away at the Reds in the mountains using Bainbridge shells and Bainbridge bullets. Do you truly wish to insult our family?”
“Please wait here a moment,” the man stammered, before fleeing in search of someone with authority.
Go get him, Gwen! thought Sparks.
The man returned with an older gentleman wearing a tuxedo.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, do forgive us,” said the older man. “May I have the name of your escort so that I may announce you?”
“Certainly. Captain Timothy Palfrey of His Majesty’s Grenadier Guards, Second Armoured,” she replied.
“This way, if you please,” he said, leading them into the ballroom.
“Wait,” commanded Mrs. Bainbridge.
She inhaled, gathered herself, then nodded to Palfrey. They stepped in, pausing at the entrance. She stood for a moment, allowing those present to take her in, then unclasped her cape and held it out. Sparks stared at it blankly for a moment, then Mrs. Bainbridge gave it a slight twitch. Sparks, recollecting her position, scurried forwards to collect it.
There was a small receiving line. The tuxedoed man murmured, “Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge and Captain Palfrey,” then beckoned them forwards to be greeted by King George II.
Mrs. Bainbridge walked up to him, hearing Miss Betty’s endlessly repeating instructions. Left foot behind! Back straight! Don’t incline the head yet! Wait until you can sink no more. Back straight, I said! Bend the head now. NOW!
Mrs. Bainbridge nodded, then rose and smiled, concealing the agony of her right leg, which was protesting furiously from not having done this for so long. Still, she finally got to use the Vacani Curtsy after all that practice.
“I am not your first king, I see,” said King George, smiling back.
“I was presented, of course, Your Majesty,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “So many years ago, it seems more like a dream.”
“It cannot have been that many,” he said.
“You are most kind. May I present Captain Palfrey of His Majesty’s Grenadiers?”
“How do you do?” said Palfrey, bowing.
“Captain,” said the king, nodding back. “I would salute, but I am not in uniform, I’m afraid.”
“Quite all right, Your Majesty,” said Palfrey. “I’ve done more than enough saluting over the past few years.”
“I’m sure you have, Captain. My thanks to you and your compatriots. The Grenadiers’ reputation precedes you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
They moved down the line, greeting the ambassador and other dignitaries, then were directed to a table at the side by the windows, which were draped for the evening.
“Nice to see the old drapes back,” commented Palfrey. “Last time I was here, it was all blackout curtains and sandbags at the entrance.”
“Who was playing?”
“No band. They had commandeered the room for war planning. I prefer it like this. So tell me—have we just crashed this party?”
“I do have an invitation.”
“Which was sent to Lord and Lady Bainbridge. We are crashing, aren’t we?”
She shrugged.
“What fun. Ah, that’s Bill Savill,” said Palfrey as the bandleader strode to the front. “Nice choice.”
“You know him?”
“He’s on Music While You Work. We have it on at HQ. Strings and woodwinds, none of that blasting brass derailing one’s train of thought. You can dance and have a decent conversation. Shall we?”
He stood and held out his hand. She took it and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Only a few other couples were dancing. She had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, it meant more people could see her dancing. On the other, there were fewer people in the way, and it was a foxtrot. She rested her hand on his shoulder and smiled.
He was a decent dancer, she was grateful to find out. He had a strong lead, and negotiated her through the turns and corners with gentle but firm signals on her waist and through their clasped hands. She found her body reacting before her mind could summon up what it was supposed to do.
“What song is that?” she asked.
“‘I’m Stepping Out with a Memory Tonight,’” he said.
“Ah yes,” she said. “Too appropriate for me. Ronnie and I danced to it at the Mayfair.”
“He sounds like he was a splendid chap.”
“I haven’t said all that much about him.”
“I may have made a few enquiries,” he confessed. “Knew some men who knew him, as it turns out. Men who fought with him.”
“Were you investigating him? Or me?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “Assessing the defenses, as you said at Sally’s. I wanted to know more about you.”
“What did you find out?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
“That you spent some time in—” He hesitated.
“Go on,” she said.
“Deep mourning,” he said softly.
“That’s a delicate way of putting it.”
“But now you’re dancing,” he said. “That has to be an improvement.”
“My body is dancing,” she said. “Honestly, I feel more like an automaton than a woman half the time.”
“Keep dancing, then,” he said. “Your soul will catch up to your body in time. It took me a while, too.”
“How long?”
“I’m still working on it,” he said. “We all are. Think you could manage a dip?”
“No idea. Let’s give it a go. Don’t forget to pick me up from the floor when it’s done.”
* * *
They partner well, thought Sparks enviously. Too bad I’m only a maid tonight, or I’d be out there, too.
She stood in a corner with other lady’s maids and gentleman’s valets, Mrs. Bainbridge’s cape draped over her arm, watching as more couples filled the floor. None of the ladies present m
atched Gwen in beauty and elegance, in Iris’s opinion.
“Who is she?” asked one of the maids. “She’s gorgeous!”
“Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge,” said Sparks.
“How did you get her hair so perfect?” asked another.
“Oh, there was a team of us,” said Sparks. “Millie did her hair. I did her makeup.”
“Lovely work. Is that a Hartnell?”
“It is.”
“So that’s the Bainbridge widow,” said a valet. “She must’ve got a day pass from the looney bin.”
Sparks walked over to him, looked up at his face, and smiled.
“You have a choice to make,” she said.
“What’s that, love?” he asked, leering down at her.
“You can either shut your stupid face, or I can report your unpleasantness to your employer,” she said.
“You have any idea who my employer is?”
“It doesn’t matter. If it’s someone with manners, then you’re out on your ear,” said Sparks. “Not another word against my lady, do you hear me?”
He smirked. Sparks beckoned to him. He bent his head down, and she put her lips to his ear.
“I will hunt you down and geld you,” she whispered.
He snapped his head back. She smiled again, then returned to her post.
The guests were a mix of Greek and British dignitaries. She recognised a few of the latter—mostly Foreign Office, but one or two from Intelligence. She didn’t see Kat.
Then the young man she had seen speaking to Torgos entered and paused in front of the doorway, looking around. He was wearing a tuxedo, and had his hair slicked back nicely.
He looked nervous. Sparks wondered if he had found out what happened to Magoulias. It would go better for him if he had. Otherwise, appearing without him in tow or stashed somewhere would have devastating consequences if Torgos was serious about his threat.
And Torgos had a reputation for being a very serious man.
The young man turned abruptly and headed out.
“If Mrs. Bainbridge requires me, please inform her that I will return momentarily,” Sparks whispered to one of the other maids.
“Will do,” the woman replied.
A Royal Affair Page 24