by M C Beaton
“Bless me!” Phil grinned. “This is so sudden.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” said Miss Friendly. “It would be a great deal of initial expense because we would need to have an opening fashion show.”
“Tell you what,” said Phil, “give me the name of those lawyers and I’ll make an appointment.”
♦
Seagulls wheeled and screamed overheard as the duchess and her party boarded the Queen, which was to cross the Channel to Calais. “Going to be rough,” said Harry, looking out at the whitecaps of the waves.
The duchess retired to a cabin as soon as they were on hoard. Daisy and Rose stood at the rail and watched the white cliffs of Dover until a screaming gale and a bucketing sea drove them back to the shelter of the lounge. Daisy’s head ached because the wind had torn at her large round motoring hat, which was secured by two large hatpins, and had nearly dragged it off her head.
Becket and Harry had disappeared somewhere. Daisy looked at Rose uneasily. “I’ve never been in foreign parts before. What are they like, them Frenchies?”
“Very like us.”
“Have you been to France before?”
“Yes, I went to Deauville once with my parents. Although I must admit all we really met were other English families.”
Daisy lowered her voice. “They eat frogs.”
“I am sure that’s just a story, Daisy.”
“I mean, we’ve been at war with them.”
“That was a long time ago. I believe French ladies are the epitome of chic.”
The ferry lurched up one wave and down the next. “I’m going to be sick,” moaned Daisy.
“Then we’ll need to go out to the rail. Let’s get on the leeward side,” said Rose. “That is, if there is one.”
Rose held Daisy at the rail as her companion was violently ill. Black smoke swirled down from the funnel, enveloping them in a sort of soot-laden fog. Rose tried to persuade Daisy to go back inside, but she held grimly on to the rail, staring down dismally at the heaving grey-green breakers.
Harry appeared behind Rose. “Trouble?”
“Yes, Daisy is seasick.”
“She needs brandy. Daisy, for heaven’s sake, get out of this gale. I’ll fetch you a brandy.”
At that moment, the ferry crashed down into the trough of a wave and a great stream of spray dashed into their faces and their feet were soaked because the decks were beginning to run with water.
Rose had always considered herself a new woman, courageous and independent, but she had to admit weakly that it was pleasant to let Harry take over. He fetched brandy for Daisy and then went off, and in a very short time had ordered two cabins for them and had the duchess’s footmen bring part of their luggage so that they could change.
All Daisy wanted to do was fall on the bunk and go to sleep, but to Rose’s relief, Benton, the lady’s maid, arrived and took over. Daisy was put into dry clothes and her forehead was bathed with cologne. Then Rose went to her cabin next door and allowed herself to be changed into dry clothes as well. Benton went off to complain to the duchess that two extra ladies to look after was too much and the duchess said sleepily she would hire a lady’s maid for them when they got to Paris.
Daisy fell asleep and awoke just as the Queen was docking at Calais. She quickly took a small bottle of belladonna out of her case and applied drops to each eye. She had read that belladonna enlarged the pupils and made the eyes look brilliant.
She hurriedly put the bottle away as Rose knocked at the door. “Come along, Daisy. The servants will see to the luggage.”
Beautiful words, thought Daisy, thinking of her impoverished upbringing in the East End. Had she ever dreamed that one day she would have ducal servants to look after her?
But as she left the cabin, she found to her horror that she could barely see.
♦
“Where’s Daisy?” asked Harry, holding out a hand to help Rose alight from the gangplank. “Oh, there she is. What’s up with the girl?”
Daisy was stumbling down the gangplank, weaving from side to side, gazing blindly about her.
The ship gave a huge lurch and Daisy went straight over the gangplank and into the water.
“She’s being crushed between the ship and the dock,” screamed Rose.
But Becket was already running down stone steps cut into the dock. As Daisy surfaced, he leaned out over the water and grabbed a handful of her clothes and dragged her onto the lower steps.
The duchess’s footmen nipped down the stairs and helped Becket carry Daisy up.
On the quay, Daisy was promptly sick again, throwing up what looked like a gallon of salt water. The duchess joined Rose. “Drunk, I suppose,” she said crossly. “We’ll need to stay at the Calais Hotel for the night. What a bore.”
♦
Daisy was in disgrace. She was told to stay in her bedroom that evening while the rest had dinner. A tray would be sent up to her.
She picked miserably at her food. She could tell somehow that the duchess felt she had behaved like some low-class creature.
There was a soft knock at the door and she called, “Come in.”
Becket entered. “What happened?” he asked.
“If I tell you, promise you won’t say anything.”
Daisy told him about the belladonna and Becket laughed and laughed until Daisy began to laugh as well.
Finally Becket said, “Were you able to eat anything?”
“Yes, I made a good meal. I like those little birds’ legs in garlic butter.”
“Those would be frogs’ legs.”
“What? I’ve eaten frogs’ legs!” Daisy put a handkerchief to her mouth.
“You are not going to be sick,” said Becket severely. “There’s nothing up with frogs’ legs. I had some in the kitchen. You’ll need to act like a cosmopolitan lady if we’re going to run this salon.”
“Oh, Becket,” sighed Daisy, lowering the handkerchief. “We’re really going to be free at last.”
“It’s going to be a funny sort of freedom,” said Becket. “We’ll need to be responsible for our heating and lighting bills, the rent, our food, our clothes – all those things that servants don’t need to worry about.”
“But we’ll be able to get married.”
“That’s a plus. What about a kiss, Daisy?”
They stood up and Daisy put her arms about him. Then they stiffened as they heard an autocratic voice coming along the corridor outside. “I’m just going to see if that tiresome companion of yours has recovered.”
“Her Grace!” hissed Daisy.
Becket dived under the bed, just as the door opened.
“So how are you?” demanded the duchess.
“Much better, Your Grace.”
“I was going to send you back, but Lady Rose told me how brave and courageous you’ve been in the past. I admire that in a girl. But do try to brace yourself. We leave tomorrow. Be down for breakfast at six. Good night.”
“Good night,” echoed Daisy.
As the door closed, Becket began to ease himself out from under the bed.
Then, as the door opened again, he slid himself back under the bed.
Harry walked in. He stood in the doorway. “Are you feeling better, Daisy?”
“Yes, thank you, Captain.”
“Then we shall see you at breakfast. I assume those are Becket’s boots sticking out from under your bed. Come along, Becket.”
Becket emerged again, looking sheepish. “We weren’t up to anything, sir. Honestly. I came to see if Miss Levine was all right and heard Her Grace approaching and knew it would look bad.”
“Don’t do it again. You should know better. Follow me.”
Daisy scowled when they had left. When she and Becket were married, they could do what they wanted and see each other as much as they wanted, and no amount of expensive meals and pretty clothes could compete with that.
♦
They arrived in Paris at the Gare du Nord the next day an
d got into carriages to bear them and their mountain of luggage to the Hotel de Crillon. The hotel had originally been the home of the Comte de Crillon and was built by the most famous architect of the day, commissioned by Louis XV. The hotel was seized during the French Revolution and the statue of Louis XV on the Place de la Concorde outside the hotel was pulled down and later replaced by a 3300 BC obelisk presented by Sultan Mehmet Ali in 1831.
As they were led up to their suite, Rose glanced in at the salons on the first floor and began to feel like a country cousin for the first time in her life. The ladies were so beautifully gowned and elegant.
Rose was tired after the train journey from Calais and Daisy was feeling exhausted after her adventures. They were both dismayed when the duchess visited them to say she had employed a maid for them and they were to be in their finest, for they were going to dine at Maxim’s.
“Why Maxim’s?” asked Rose plaintively. “We are tired and hoped to have a simple supper in the rooms.”
“Nonsense. Captain Cathcart says that the French lawyer won’t give us the direction of this Madame de Peurey. All the famous belles coquettes go to Maxim’s. Someone is bound to have heard of her.” She stood aside and ushered a petite little woman into the room. “This is your lady’s maid, Odette. We shall all meet in Le Salon des Aigles on the first floor in two hours. But not you, Miss Levine. After your recent adventures, I feel sure that you would be better remaining quietly here.”
“She means I’m not good enough,” said Daisy when the duchess had retired. “I may as well tell you, Rose, that I have spoken to Becket and we’re going to set up that dress salon with Miss Friendly. We’re going to get married and we’ll be our own bosses.”
Rose was dismayed. She realized in that moment how much she relied on Daisy’s chirpy company. “I shall miss you,” she said. Then she rallied. “Of course I shall buy all my gowns from you.”
Odette turned out to have some words of English and Rose had learned enough French from her governess to communicate with her. She felt lowered by the look of dismay on the maid’s face as she pulled out gown after gown. “What about the Worth gown?” she asked.
“Too, how you say, out of fashion. But I work quickly.” She pulled out a long white satin gown and then a blue one. She opened a large sewing box and got busily to work, cutting and pinning and sewing.
Daisy began to worry. Was Miss Friendly really that good?
As Rose and Daisy watched the little maid working away, they were unaware that Rose had been in the society pages of the Daily Mail in London that day, describing her trip to Paris with the duchess and also with her ex-fiancé.
But Harry got the news from Becket and swore under his breath. Becket had found some English newspapers in the front hall of the hotel. Harry decided he would need to be sure that he was with Rose at all times and that she did not wander off. He knew she had bought a guidebook to Paris at the station and had voiced a desire to see Notre Dame, among other places.
When he entered Le Salon des Aigles later to meet the rest of the party, he decided not to tell Rose she had been featured in the newspaper. She would only worry. The salon got its name from the medallions depicting Fortitude, Truth, Wisdom and Abundance, each flanked by large eagles.
He stood up as Rose entered the room, thinking she had never looked so beautiful. Her white gown was cut low and clung to her figure in the new long, soft line. It was decorated round the neck and down the front with blue fleurs-de-lis. A collar of pearls set off the whiteness of her throat, and pearls were woven into her brown hair. Over one gloved arm, she carried a ruffled chiffon cape of the same blue as the fleurs-de-lis. She moved gracefully towards him over the Aubusson carpets.
He kissed her gloved hand. “I have never seen you look so fine,” he said.
Rose smiled but reflected she had never felt so uncomfortable. Odette had lashed her tightly into a long corset and she wished she could escape somewhere and loosen the ties.
The duchess made her entrance. She was wearing a grey silk gown laden down with jewels. Again, she had so many diamonds on her head, her neck and about her person that Rose wondered how she could even move. Her jewels sparked fire from the Bohemian crystal objects which decorated the room.
“So we are all present?” said the Duchess. “Good. We’re off to Maxim’s.”
♦
They could have walked because Maxim’s also fronted on the Place de la Concorde, but Becket was waiting for them in a newly hired Panhard.
The swing doors of the famous restaurant were held open for them. Hands relieved them of their wraps, although in the case of the duchess it took some time because her diamonds had become caught in her various scarves and stoles.
They made their way past the buffet with its elegant fringe of gilded youth, past the long line of tables to the end of the room, where there was an open space with more tables. A little farther and up two steps, and there was a section set about for dining with a view of the lower floor.
This was where they were to take supper. This is where the best-dressed and wittiest women dined with their male relatives and friends. Down below, a red-coated band was playing waltzes as couples whirled around. The whole restaurant seemed infused with a restless gaiety.
“I do not think any of the ladies dining around us are the type to know someone like Madame de Peurey,” said Rose.
“No, they’re not. But I see an old friend of mine. I shall wave. Ah, he’s coming over.”
An elderly roué bent over the duchess’s hand, his corsets creaking.
“You look ravishing,” he said. “You will take Paris by storm.”
The duchess introduced Harry and Rose, naming her elderly admirer as Lord Featherstone.
“Do sit for a minute, Jumbo,” she said. “Have some champagne.”
“Gladly. I shall feast my eyes on the divinity that is Lady Rose.”
“I wouldn’t do that, you naughty old thing. The captain here would call you out. I need to find a certain Madame de Peurey.”
“Zuzu? That takes me back. What a wonder she was. They fought duels over her.”
“And where is she now?”
He cast an anxious glance at a formidable matron at his table. The duchess followed his glance. “I did not know you were married.”
“I’m not, yet. Postage-stamp heiress. Widowed. Wants the title and I want her money. I’d better get back.”
“Madame de Peurey. She was one of yours for a bit. Where is she?”
“Have you a piece of paper?”
Harry produced a small notebook and pencil. Featherstone scribbled an address. “Right, I’m off. I can feel my postage stamps disappearing by the minute.”
“You see?” said the duchess triumphantly. “I knew it would be easy. Now, let’s eat.”
Rose began to feel light-headed towards the end of the meal. Parisian gaiety frothed around her. Down on the floor, couples swung around in the waltz. The duchess broke off eating to greet old friends who had come up to her table.
“I never thought I knew so many people in Paris,” she said cheerfully. “I was sure they must all be dead.”
The supper consisted of eight courses. By the time the brandies and petits fours were served, Rose glanced at an elegant bronze clock on the wall. Four in the morning! Lucky Daisy. She would have been asleep for hours.
∨ Our Lady of Pain ∧
Six
The Dowager Duchess carried an air of solid assurance which belonged to a less uneasy age. That slightly raucous note of defiance was absent from her pronouncements. She did not protest; she merely ignored. Nothing unpleasant ever ruffled her serenity, because she simply failed to notice it.
– Vita Sackville-West
Two bottles of champagne, seclusion and a magnificent double bed proved to be too much for Daisy and Becket. They were to be married, after all.
Daisy, despite her chorus-girl background, was still a virgin, but as she confided, giggling, to Becket, a dance number where
she had to perform the splits five times a night in the past had no doubt eased the way to losing it painlessly.
The gaiety of Paris, the excited feeling that everything goes, had entered into them and they made a happy night of it. Even when Daisy dimly heard the party returning, she did not leap up in alarm but snuggled closer to Becket and closed her eyes in contented sleep.
♦
They set out after lunch on the following day. Rose was delighted to see Daisy look so glowing and happy. Harry, on the other hand, eyed her narrowly, and hoped the wretched girl had not been doing anything she ought not to do.
They cruised along under the budding trees on the Bois, then through a toll gate and out past Neuilly and the Boulevard d’Inkermann to where Madame de Peurey’s large house was situated.
It was a large white villa, typical of the outer suburbs of Paris. Becket went ahead and knocked at the door, and, when a maid answered it, presented their cards. She disappeared into the villa and returned after a short time. Becket turned round and beckoned to the party that they were to enter.
The maid bobbed curtsies as they entered and then moved to the front of the party and led them through large shady rooms to a garden at the back. Rose expected to meet an elderly woman, still beautiful and elegant, this famous coquette who was reputed to have broken so many hearts.
At first she thought that the round little woman who rose to meet them must be some sort of companion, but she said in a grating voice, “I am Madame de Peurey. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Pray sit down.” She spoke English with a heavy, guttural accent.
They arranged themselves in cane chairs shaded by a vine trellis. Madame de Peurey was dressed in a narrow skirt and a blouse with a high-boned collar over which heavy jowls drooped. Her feet were encased in square-toed boots and she sat with her legs apart.
“As you will have seen from my card,” began Harry, “I am a private investigator and I am investigating the murder of Dolores Duval.”
“Poor Dolores,” sighed Madame de Peurey. “Without me, she would have given it all away. I took her to my lawyers when she embarked on her first liaison. Ah, what a success she was! Then the Baroness Chevenix started to scream that Dolores had stolen her jewels and it was all over Gil Blas.” Gil Blas was a journal which delighted in reporting the scandals of French society. “I advised Dolores to leave France for a little. I told her it was perhaps time she took the unfashionable route of getting married. We do not normally marry,” she said calmly. “But with the English milords marrying low creatures like chorus girls, well, I told her she could be a duchess.”
