Debutantes: In Love

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Poppy, I’ve already asked you twice where you have been all of this afternoon,’ said Great-Aunt Lizzie, breaking into her thoughts.

  ‘In my bedroom,’ lied Poppy, and crossed her fingers that the old woman had not gone in search of her. The jolly afternoon that she had spent with Baz’s family seemed a long way away.

  ‘I’ve another letter too,’ said Daisy hurriedly. ‘It’s for Poppy and myself – from India.’

  A glow of excitement came over Poppy and suddenly she felt full of optimism. Perhaps she was going to get away after all. How clever of Daisy to get Father in a good mood before she broached this one. She watched as Daisy slit the envelope and saw the words inside: ‘Dearest Daisy and Poppy’. Unlike their father, Great-Aunt Lizzie had never been told that Daisy knew that her real mother was not Mary Derrington, the mother of Violet, Poppy and Rose, but Elaine, younger sister of Mary – and that Michael was not her father. After the death of Elaine’s young lover, she had chosen to bear his child in secret and to transfer Daisy to her sister Mary. Even now Elaine was terrified of her aunt discovering that she had told the truth to her daughter. So whenever she wrote to Daisy there was always a pretence that the letter was for both girls. Poppy’s heart began to thud with nervous excitement as she waited for the letter to be read out.

  But Michael Derrington had raised a hand. ‘Not now, please, Daisy,’ he said, and waited until the butler had left the room before saying quietly, ‘Elaine has also written to me – I got the letter on my return from court and I wrote back immediately to say that you are both far too young for this nonsense. Next year, when you are eighteen, I may consider it, though I don’t like being beholden to another man to launch my daughters into society. After all, Elaine’s fortune is now the property of her husband. It was different when Elaine launched Violet. Then she was still a member of this family and not under the care of a husband.’

  Poppy gazed at him open-mouthed. ‘Father, how can Elaine’s money belong to Jack? Her money comes from her legacy and from her first husband’s fortune. Jack only has his salary as Chief of the Indian Police – and that’s probably a good one, but Elaine is seriously rich. If you think that money belongs to Jack, you are going back a hundred years,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘And your great-aunt agrees with me.’ Michael Derrington’s face had turned dark red with anger. He hated to be contradicted.

  ‘Seventeen is far too young,’ said Great-Aunt Lizzie obligingly. ‘It’s a very bad idea for girls to have a season before they are old enough to behave with decorum. I sometimes wonder whether Violet wasn’t a bit young for it all. She certainly didn’t take her obligations to the family seriously.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ shouted the Earl. ‘I’ll look after this family and I’ll decide what’s best for them. Anyway, I don’t like what is going on in London at the moment. I’ve been reading in the newspapers about all those “Bright Young People” and what they are getting up to. It seems to me that you girls are better off staying down here in the country.’

  Poppy stared at her father. The congested face, the staring eyes; how could she get through to him? How could she make him realize the agony that he was causing? Any minute now he would complain of a headache and go off to the library.

  ‘Violet had her season; you allowed her,’ she said, trying desperately to keep calm. She felt a lump in her throat. I have to get away, she thought. Baz can’t go to London without me!

  ‘And look what came of that,’ said Great-Aunt Lizzie caustically. ‘She threw away all her chances, the loveliest girl of the season, and married a young man who had been hanging around the house for months. When I think of all the expense, all the money, all the hard work . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t your money and it wasn’t your hard work,’ snapped Poppy before she could prevent herself. She felt Daisy grab her wrist under the table, but she couldn’t stop.

  ‘What have you ever done for us but scream and shout and torture us?’ she burst out, glaring at the old woman. ‘I hate you worse than I hate any living being. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!’ She suddenly felt overwhelmed by her feelings. It had been bad enough when they thought Elaine had forgotten about them, but now that she had at last written, it seemed unendurable that her offer should be turned down. If only Great-Aunt Lizzie would keep out of it, her father could be talked around.

  To her horror she felt sobs welling up inside her. She made a dash for the door as Great-Aunt Lizzie shouted, ‘Go to your room, instantly, Poppy, and stay there until I give leave for you to come out.’

  Shaking with sobs, Poppy slammed the door behind her and raced for the back stairs, almost knocking over Maud the scullery maid as she went. A clap of thunder shook the house as she climbed up the narrow staircase and rain crashed against the windows. The butler called to Maud to put buckets under the drips in the attic and Poppy stood back, pretending to look out of a small window on the landing to allow the girl to pass. The rain was coming down in sheets and the sky was filled with lightning. A blocked drain in the yard below overflowed and a large pond began to form in front of the scullery door. One of these days, she thought savagely, this house will just rot away. There were patches of mould on the walls of the back stairs that kept coming back no matter how often Maud was sent to scrub them away. Poppy took a long breath to try to control her sobs and wiped her face with her handkerchief. She climbed the rest of the stairs, going quickly to avoid coming face to face with the scullery maid on her way back down from the attic.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ she said aloud as she closed the bedroom door behind her and threw herself on the bed. If it weren’t for Baz she would wish herself dead. She thought briefly about a hunger strike but wasn’t sure that she could keep it up for long enough to be effective. Great-Aunt Lizzie’s anger at Violet’s marriage to a penniless young lawyer, at her failure to make a good match and tow her family out of their crippling poverty, had been voiced before now, but Poppy had not realized that it would affect the chances of Daisy and herself having a season and escaping this terrible house. She moaned softly to herself and curled up on the bed, her arms hugging her shoulders as though she had been mortally wounded. Once April came, Baz would be ferried off to London by his mother, Lady Dorothy, and would be kept busy there going to party after party with his sister Joan. Perhaps he might even meet another girl there and forget about her. She remembered the portraits of the pretty girls in the magazines that Joan collected, that they, all three, had been looking through after lunch. Baz had been admiring some of them. She had not minded then – but what if she were stuck down in Kent while he was there in London, going to parties every night? Surely it would be too much to ask that he not dance with these pretty girls, flirt with them . . . At that thought she began to shiver and then realized that she was cold and pulled the eiderdown over her. She wished she could sleep but sobs kept shaking her. Her pillow was soaked with tears. The agony seemed to last for a very, very long time.

  Finally the door opened and Daisy hurried across to her.

  ‘I got away as soon as I could,’ she said with her arm around Poppy’s shoulders, holding her tightly and dropping kisses on Poppy’s head. She, of all people in the house, understood the violent emotions that ripped Poppy in half and seemed almost to threaten her sanity. ‘It’s all right, my pet,’ she murmured again and again, until Poppy drew in a deep breath and sat up. Daisy relaxed her grip a little and dropped another kiss on her dark red hair. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I would have come earlier, but I had to calm things down a bit. I told Great-Aunt Lizzie in a whisper that it was your time of the month – and that embarrassed Father so much he got all red in the face. Then he told me to tell you not to upset yourself and that he would try to arrange some little treat for you.’

  ‘A new dolly, I suppose,’ said Poppy, wiping her eyes.

  ‘He adores you,’ said Daisy. ‘Don’t forget that.’ Something in her voice made Poppy remember that Daisy’s father, Cl
ifford, died at the age of seventeen, leaving his beloved Elaine pregnant, in the middle of season as a debutante, to the mercies of her aunt. For a moment Poppy felt almost ashamed of herself; she did know that her father adored her, but what good was adoration if he was going to try to keep her as a little girl, hidden away in a crumbling old house?

  ‘It’s just that Baz has no choice but to go to London for four months,’ Poppy murmured. ‘His brother is remodelling the house. If we don’t get to have a season, I won’t see him . . . or the rest of the jazz band, for months,’ she added hurriedly.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I know,’ said Poppy, and she squeezed Daisy’s hand. ‘Baz and I . . .’ she began shyly and then, ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, looking into Daisy’s cornflower-blue eyes.

  ‘I think I might,’ said Daisy with an amused smile.

  ‘He kissed me,’ went on Poppy in a whisper. ‘You can’t imagine. I still can’t believe it.’

  Then she drew in a deep breath and hardened her heart; she had to do it – her life or her sanity depended on getting away from this house and away from Great-Aunt Lizzie.

  ‘There is one thing that you could do, Daisy,’ she said, hating herself and yet telling herself that she was doing this for Daisy’s sake as well as her own. Daisy needed to get away from this house and go to London if she were ever to fulfil her ambition to be a film director. ‘You do want to go too, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Daisy’s voice was emphatic. ‘I can’t wait. It’s not just the season, though I know I’d enjoy that. It’s everything else – it’s being independent, leading my own life, starting my directing career.’ Daisy stopped and Poppy could tell from the half-smile that trembled on her lips that she was seeing visions of that future.

  ‘And you’re not willing to let this vision go; that’s right, isn’t it?’ Poppy heard a hard, rather calculating note in her voice, but she didn’t care. Daisy was right; they both had to fight for their future happiness. They could not leave it to others to arrange their lives for them.

  ‘Well then,’ she continued in a steady voice, ‘Elaine is the only one who should decide whether you should have a London season. She is your mother. You should send her a telegram and . . .’ Poppy hesitated, then drove herself on, ‘and then, once we’ve done that, you can go to Father and tell him he has no right to forbid you to do what your mother wants.’ Poppy stopped. Daisy had a stricken look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly.

  ‘No,’ said Daisy slowly. ‘You’re right. It’s funny, isn’t it? When you’re young you think that grown-ups must always be right, but then, when you grow up, you realize that they can be wrong sometimes. Father is wrong about this, and I think that I must tell him.’

  Despite her confident words, her face was very white and her blue eyes were wide and frightened-looking.

  With a cry, Poppy threw her arms around Daisy. She suddenly realized that, to Daisy, Michael Derrington’s good opinion was important – that she needed his favour to feel part of the family.

  ‘I’m a pig,’ Poppy cried remorsefully. ‘Don’t do it, Daisy, unless you are really doing it for yourself.’

  ‘I’m doing it for both of us. When things are not fair, one has to remedy them.’ Daisy’s voice was steady. She bit her lip and tried to smile. ‘But I’m not going to sneak down to the post office and send a telegram without talking to him first.’

  ‘Let me do it,’ begged Poppy.

  Without waiting for an answer she burst out of the room and ran down the stairs, safe in the knowledge that Great-Aunt Lizzie always had a snooze after dinner. Daisy followed slowly.

  ‘Father,’ said Poppy dramatically as she burst into the library, ‘I must speak to you.’

  She threw herself at his feet on to the rug before the miserable fire of wet timber that smoked in the fireplace. His high colour had faded and now he just looked pale and miserable.

  ‘It’s not just about me,’ she said, as calmly as she could. He could not bear too much emotion and was quite liable to get up and walk away if she wept all over him. She heard the door open and Daisy come in, but she did not look around. ‘You see,’ she said more calmly, ‘Elaine has been longing and longing to come back over to see Daisy.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said bravely, ‘I know that Daisy is her daughter and that Justin’s uncle, Clifford Pennington, was her father; Daisy told me when she first found out. Elaine has been waiting for the excuse of a season to come back over again and see her only daughter, and Daisy . . .’ She stopped.

  On the desk she could see a letter lying open. She recognized the handwriting. It was from Denis Derrington, the heir to the Beech Grove Manor estate. The script was large and the words jumped out at Poppy.

  I hope that you intend to pay the fine that was fixed by the court. If I do not get the money within one month then I will drag you through every court in the land and I will make you penniless. Your daughters will be without a home and you will have to beg in the streets for all that I care.

  And do not imagine that you can sell any part of the estate without my knowledge. You are trying to destroy the heritage that should be mine and I will not stand for it.

  See you in court again!

  And below that was the signature: Denis Derrington.

  No wonder that her father was depressed. He stared silently into the fire.

  ‘Father, I know that you are worried about money,’ Poppy said gently, ‘but Daisy should see her mother again.’

  He lifted his eyes at that. ‘I suppose you would both be better off without me,’ he said unexpectedly. He looked at Daisy, hesitated and then seemed to force the words out. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. I had no right to refuse – it’s up to your mother. I’m sorry that I acted on impulse and replied to that letter without consulting you. But it’s gone now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Let me ride down to the post office and fetch your letter back,’ said Daisy softly. ‘It won’t go until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell Mrs Jefferies that you meant to enclose something,’ she added in a matter-of-fact way.

  Somehow this practical suggestion seemed to work wonders. He turned his eyes away from the letter and looked at Daisy properly for the first time. He even smiled a little. She perched on the arm of his chair and put an arm around his shoulders. Poppy sat on the threadbare rug beside his feet and put her arms around his knees, hugging him and resting her head on his knee.

  ‘You’ll be proud of us one of these days,’ Poppy whispered. He had said nothing about her having a season, but his eyes were soft and affectionate now and she knew that he would not disappoint her. Elaine has invited me as well as Daisy, she thought and then her mind went to Baz. First of all, the jazz club had to be a huge success, and then her father would see that she would be better off married. Violet and Justin were not rich, but no one ever bewailed their lot, these days. They were happy, well-fed and lived in a snug little house – not in a fashionable part of London but that did not seem to matter. They had lots of friends and went out to parties all the time. Great-Aunt Lizzie might deem Violet’s marriage a failure, but no one else in the family, looking at her happy face, could think like that.

  ‘Won’t you say yes?’ Poppy murmured, lifting her head to look at her father. ‘I’ll die if you won’t.’

  There was a struggle on his face. Daisy watched him anxiously from under her eyelashes. Suddenly he got up, disentangling himself gently from their arms, and walked over to his desk. He picked up the letter from Denis Derrington and flung it into the fire. There was a momentary flash of heat as the letter burned and then the damp wood went back to sizzling slowly. Her father had picked the telephone receiver from its perch and stood holding it. In the quiet room the girls could hear the postmistress’s slightly breathless voice, saying, ‘Yes, my lord,’ in respectful tones.

  ‘Get me Fuggle, will you, Mrs Jefferies?’ It was typical of him that he had never bothe
red to memorize the telephone number of his estate manager but treated the exchange as though it were part of Beech Grove Manor.

  ‘Fuggle, that you? I’ve made up my mind. Get in touch with those timber merchants. I’m selling the Binton Wood timber; yes, that’s right.’

  Poppy could hear the estate manager’s agitated voice and looked apprehensively at Daisy. Was everything to go wrong now, just as she thought that they had talked him around? What had made him think of Binton Wood, the finest of all the beech woods on their estate? Surely he had been told that he was not allowed to sell any more of the woods. She wished that Mr Fuggle would stop talking. Any opposition to his decisions these days sent the Earl into such towering fits of rage. Now he looked as though shortly he would foam at the mouth.

  ‘Sir Denis!’ he yelled, his mouth close to the receiver. ‘What has Sir Denis to do with this? It’s my property still, I would remind you. I’ll sell Binton Wood if I want to sell it. You take your orders from me, man, or you can start looking for another job.’

  And then he slammed the phone down, turned to the two girls and amazingly he smiled broadly and said: ‘I’m damned if I’ll allow another man to pay for my daughters’ coming-out dresses.’

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday 1 April 1924

  It had been snowing overnight. The bright light streamed through the threadbare curtains of the shabby bedroom Daisy shared with Poppy. She woke up, put a hand out and quickly pulled it back under the blankets. The air was freezing.

  Beech Grove Manor was such a beautiful old house, but what a pity, thought Daisy drowsily, that the Earl did not have the money to heat or repair it. Even though it was April, the rooms were still freezing cold. This bedroom had been designed as a nursery for the two girls over seventeen years ago and neither the furniture nor the carpet nor the curtains had been renewed since. Years of almost no fires through the winter months had brought out patches of damp in the faded yellow wallpaper.