Debutantes: In Love

by Cora Harrison

  ‘A good thing that darling Charles is not as woolly-headed as his mama,’ she said, looking coyly up at Sir John. She was obviously expecting him to say how efficient Charles was, but he just gave her an inscrutable smile while Charles looked uncomfortable.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Mother,’ he kept saying, but Lady Cynthia had to go through all the times in her life when the wrong hour had lodged itself in her head.

  ‘I saw a wonderful film about someone that this happened to. It meant that she escaped being murdered,’ said Daisy eventually, smiling encouragingly at Lady Cynthia, who was quite taken by that idea. While her son was helping Daisy to recount details of the film, Sir John managed to exchange a few words with his new butler and then steer his wife away from the de Montforts with the firm assurance that they would all being seeing lots of each other in the very near future.

  ‘You and I have to have lots of talks about films,’ said the handsome Charles, giving Daisy’s hand a very warm shake.

  ‘Yes, do come over tomorrow morning,’ said Daisy bravely.

  ‘I won’t disturb Sir John on his first morning in London,’ he said politely. ‘But you and your sister must pop around and see us. That will be all right, Mother, won’t it?’

  And with that Daisy had to be content. There was, she thought, a look of calculation in Lady Cynthia’s eyes as she looked from Daisy across to Sir John. He was an important man, and women like Lady Cynthia respected men of power – especially when their sons worked for them. Of course, it would be well known by Charles and therefore his mother that Sir John had married a woman with a large fortune. All in all, Daisy thought, Lady Cynthia might overlook a little indiscretion, especially if the girls were now impeccably behaved.

  Tomorrow, she thought. She would make sure that Poppy understood the full significance of the visit and that she would have to stay for the regulation time, or, better still, perhaps Poppy might concoct some prior arrangement with Baz and the jazz-band boys and would stay to entertain Elaine while her husband was busy with his affairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday 3 April 1924

  Daisy had slept little the previous night. When Elaine had retired to bed, Poppy had come into her room and they had spent ages talking.

  ‘What did you think of Charles?’ Daisy had asked, after waiting for what felt like hours to see whether Poppy would bring up the subject, but all Poppy had wanted to talk about was the jazz club and the success of their opening night. As far as she was concerned, the day had been a wasted one as neither she nor Morgan had been able to join the boys in the little house in Belgravia for jazz practice.

  ‘I hope Jack isn’t going to keep Morgan too busy,’ she said darkly. ‘I could see that he liked having a car and a chauffeur.’

  ‘But what did you think of Charles?’ Daisy repeated.

  Poppy looked at her. ‘Well . . . he’s a bit of a . . . You like him, don’t you?’ she said opening her eyes very widely with the air of someone who has just made a surprising discovery.

  ‘Why not?’ said Daisy. She could hear her voice sounding defensive. She picked up Poppy’s comb and fiddled with her hair in order to avoid meeting Poppy’s eyes.

  ‘I suppose he’s good-looking,’ said Poppy after a moment. ‘And of course he’s interested in films,’ she added when Daisy didn’t reply. Now she seemed more enthusiastic. ‘Yes, I can see what you mean. I do think that he is good-looking. Pity about his mother, but then people can’t help their relations, can they? Look at us with Great-Aunt Lizzie! And Baz even knows her well and he still loves me and wants to marry me! You wouldn’t think that possible, would you?’

  ‘I think Charles’s mother is all right,’ said Daisy defensively. ‘And Great-Aunt Lizzie is not too bad if you handle her the right way. The trouble is that you keep crashing head first into her.’

  Poppy had said nothing for a minute, and when she did speak she sounded a little odd, as if she were searching for the right words. ‘You think that he might be interested in you . . .’ was what she said. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a statement either. It hung in the air as Daisy brushed and re-brushed her hair.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said eventually, before silently walking back to her own room. Things had been easier, she lay in her bed thinking, at Beech Grove, where she and Poppy shared a bedroom. Sooner or later the subject would have been resurrected and from then on they would have continued to talk about Charles. Daisy was so used to being the leader of the twins – the sensible one, she was always called, even by Great-Aunt Lizzie – that it had come as a shock to her to realize that Poppy knew so much about love and that she knew so very little. She had fallen in love with Charles the moment she set her eyes on him, but what about him? Had he shown anything other than a polite interest? Daisy now didn’t think so, and had resolved not to mention his name to Elaine, but to be full of plans for their coming-out ball and their court presentation. Lady Cynthia, she had decided, was the type to be impressed by a magnificent debut. Soon, she hoped, Charles would be as openly in love with her as Baz was with Poppy. You only had to see the look in Baz’s eyes to know that there was only one girl in the world for him.

  To her shame she spent half the rest of the night trying to devise ways to persuade Poppy not to join her on her visit to the neighbours across the road. After all, she told herself, Poppy had Baz. Let them go off together, out on the London streets and enjoy each other’s company, and let Charles not fall in love with Poppy and overlook the more ordinary Daisy.

  But as it happened, Baz came with them.

  He turned up at half past ten in the morning, wearing a large flower in his buttonhole, a sleeked-back, man-about-town hairdo, copied from his elder brother, and carrying a large and very limp bunch of daffodils, which he insisted on presenting in person to Elaine.

  ‘Welcome to England, what,’ he said nervously. He had obviously been schooled well by Poppy, who was regarding him adoringly. ‘Thought you’d like these, Lady Elaine; hard to get flowers in the city,’ he ploughed on, the words jerking out with a rapidity that implied that he had been memorizing them on the way. He took a quick look at the exquisitely arranged vases full of exotic blooms that decorated the morning room and seemed to feel that some explanation was necessary.

  ‘From Kent,’ he explained. ‘Real country flowers.’ He whipped the daffodils from under Elaine’s nose and rushed forward to shake hands with Sir John. Daisy suppressed a giggle. The flowers received another few mortal wounds as they swept a small cigarette box from a low table.

  ‘Rushed down to Kent in order to pick them first thing this morning while the dew was still on them, did you?’ enquired Sir John.

  Baz looked a little confused. ‘No, no,’ he was saying now. ‘It’s about fifty miles,’ he explained patiently. ‘No motor. My brother won’t let me borrow his.’

  ‘Ever since you drove it backwards around Tunbridge Wells,’ put in Poppy.

  ‘So how did you get those . . . those daffodils from Kent?’ Sir John was someone who did not like to let go of a point until it had been answered to his satisfaction.

  ‘Covent Garden market; but they were picked this morning in Kent,’ said Baz with simple pride. ‘That’s what the woman told me anyway.’ He gave a slightly worried glance at the wilting bunch.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ said Elaine, but her voice did lack conviction. She now had the bedraggled bunch in her hand and did not appear to know what to do with them. A trail of slime oozed out from the sheet of newspaper that was wrapped around the stems.

  ‘I’m sure they were,’ said Sir John. ‘Daisy, do you think . . . ?’

  Daisy took the flowers from Elaine’s limp grasp. Baz was looking a bit abashed – he had understood the significance of Sir John’s use of ‘were’ – so she made a bit of a show of burying her nose in them and exclaiming what a real smell of the country they had and how she would find a good vase that would show off their beauty.

  ‘Let’s go, Poppy; we�
�re due next door,’ she said when she returned. She had not bothered the efficient housekeeper but had found a tall, slender vase that supported the limp stems and only allowed the bright yellow trumpet heads to be seen. ‘Baz will like to meet Charles de Montfort. He’s just back from India, Baz, and he’s about our age or a few years older.’ It would be cruel, she thought, to leave poor innocent Baz to be a butt for Sir John’s witticisms.

  ‘Does he play piano?’ asked Baz, for whom the world was divided into two groups – those who played jazz and those who didn’t. ‘Morgan says that we need someone on a piano. I say, is Morgan . . . ?’ He looked around the smart, trim morning room as if he expected to see the chauffeur sitting on one the comfortable easy chairs.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Poppy hastily. She took Baz by the arm and steered him out while his good manners were making him try to take leave of both Elaine and her husband simultaneously. ‘Daisy wants us to see Lady Cynthia first,’ she said to him soothingly. ‘She’s a horribly boring woman but Daisy likes her son, although I’m not quite sure why – he’s so, so, sooo ugly . . .’ She gave Daisy a mischievous grin. Daisy stiffened but then laughed. Typical Poppy.

  ‘Now, Poppy, you have to be very, very polite to her,’ she cried. She surveyed Baz. He was the epitome of the well-dressed young man about town – and he was the son of an earl – youngest son, of course, but nevertheless Lady Cynthia would probably like him. He looked a suitable companion for Poppy, and when Charles saw them together, perhaps he would turn his attention to Daisy once and for all.

  ‘Come on,’ she said in a low voice, with glance at the closed door of the parlour. ‘You can see Morgan afterwards, but don’t bring up the subject of jazz in front of Lady Cynthia.’

  ‘And don’t say anything about the party the other night,’ warned Poppy.

  ‘And nothing about telegrams,’ said Daisy, adding, as he looked confused, ‘That’s three things not to mention.’

  ‘I say,’ said Baz, ‘do you think that I should bring this Lady Cynthia some flowers? Mother always says that a gentleman paying a morning call on a lady brings flowers.’

  ‘Give her that thing in your buttonhole; it looks stupid,’ said Poppy impatiently.

  ‘King Oliver wears one of these,’ said Baz, squinting down at his buttonhole as they walked up the street. ‘I say, Pops, Morgan says that King Oliver is coming to London next month. We must go to hear him. He’s got a marvellous new trumpet player called Louis Armstrong.’ He took out his flower, bestowed a worried glance on it and then plunged across the road to the locked enclosed garden for the use of the residents of the square. In a second his long legs had scaled the railings and scattered a few nursemaids and small children. In a few minutes he was back with a handful of violently coloured spring polyanthuses.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Poppy, surveying them critically. ‘They freshen up that orchid of yours. It looks like it’s dying on its feet.’

  ‘Well, it came from a bouquet that someone brought to Joan. It was the only one of them that wasn’t completely dead,’ confessed Baz. ‘I snaffled it off the housemaid when she was doing the rooms this morning.’

  ‘I’m glad you haven’t spent any money on it,’ said Poppy severely. ‘You know that we need all of our money to furnish your house.’

  ‘I suppose you got the daffodils from another one of those gardens.’ Daisy was giggling helplessly, but she managed to find a bit of string in her bag and to tie up the little bunch of flowers into a neat small bouquet.

  Lady Cynthia was alone when the maid introduced them. She welcomed the girls coldly, but unbent when Daisy introduced Baz as a neighbour from Kent and made sure to give his father’s title.

  ‘Dear boy, how very, very kind of you!’ She gave the small bouquet a perfunctory look and laid it on a side table. That would finish off the wilting orchid, and probably the outdoor flowers as well, but it had broken the ice and they chatted amiably until Charles arrived, looking even more attractive than ever, thought Daisy.

  ‘I haven’t been in bed! Honest!’ He came in with his hands raised as though a pistol were pointed at him. He greeted them with pleasure and shook hands with all three, explaining that he had been visiting his tailor. ‘Look!’ he said dramatically. ‘Look at this suit! Three years old, if it’s a day. How can I go around in a three-year-old suit? What film director would ever look at a man in a three-year-old suit? I’ve spent the last few years in uniform so I’ve nothing fit to wear.’

  ‘Nothing fit to wear!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Charles, what a fib! Your wardrobe is bulging!’

  ‘You don’t play any instrument, do you?’ asked Baz, already bored with talk of clothes, and Charles immediately turned to him. He had had a friend in India who played the trumpet and he told a good tale about how amazed the native Indians were when he decided to go out and play by the river at moonlight. He had the sort of face that showed every expression so clearly, thought Daisy, as she listened to the story. Despite his laughing denial, she thought that he would have been a success as a film star. We have no sound, no words with which to tell the story; only pictures, her godfather used to say. A leading lady or a leading man needs to tell the story by the expressions on their face.

  ‘But do you play the trumpet, yourself?’ interrupted Baz.

  ‘Trumpet! Good gracious, no,’ interrupted Lady Cynthia. ‘Why should he do a thing like that?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ said Daisy sweetly. ‘Baz is interested in music. All kinds of music,’ she said, wishing she could kick Poppy or something. It was obvious that this was not the kind of household that would be interested in jazz. However, she saw that Charles gave Baz a long look and then turned to smile at her. Obviously he had realized that Baz and Poppy had a close relationship. It would be impossible to miss the loving looks that Poppy gave him as they sat together on the sofa, shoulder touching shoulder.

  Daisy returned Charles’s smile and said politely, ‘Tell me, Charles, how long will you be staying in England?’ Elaine had told her last night that Jack felt Charles was not suited to the Indian Police, but had warned her not to let Charles suspect that she knew. Daisy intended to show him that he had not been betrayed.

  ‘Oh, I’m back for good,’ he said pleasantly with an uneasy glance at his mother. ‘I’m not a brainy bloke, like Sir John. The Imperial Indian Police is not the right place for me – have to keep on passing those wretched examinations.’ He gave a careless laugh. ‘A man can only repeat so many times,’ he said. There was an uncomfortable note in his voice as he looked at his mother again, so Daisy changed the subject to talk about their plans for the season.

  Lady Cynthia was very enthusiastic about the question of the ball. She beamed happily at Daisy while she was telling the story of Sir John’s visit to the House of Commons and hoped archly that her little Charles might get an invitation also.

  ‘And your frocks?’ she queried.

  ‘Oh, Elaine, our aunt, has the most wonderful taste. The last time that we were in London she had the whole of Harrods running around until she found the perfect dress for me.’ Daisy smiled at Lady Cynthia and had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen. Only seriously rich people made an impression at Harrods, the most expensive and most exclusive shop in London.

  ‘Beg your pardon, my lady.’ The maid who had let them in was at the door now. ‘The butler from number twelve says that Sir Guy Beresford is waiting in a taxi for Lady Daisy.’

  ‘Better go, too – c’mon, Pops; rude to stay so long when you’re so busy. Glad to have met you, Lady Cynthia; hope you have a good stay in London; Mother sends her regards.’ Baz was on his feet, his fingers clutching Poppy’s wrist as he pulled her towards the door in a determined fashion.

  ‘How very kind,’ murmured Lady Cynthia, looking somewhat surprised at this message from Baz’s mother, but sending a return message, hoping to call on her ladyship as soon as was possible. Poppy gave Baz an exasperated look but went willingly to the door.

  Daisy mustered
up her courage and turned to Charles. ‘I suppose that you are very busy with tailors and things,’ she said tentatively, ‘but I wondered whether you’d like to visit the film studio. My godfather, Sir Guy Beresford, will be delighted to meet you. I’m on my way there now. Would you like to come with me?’ And if Sir Guy did not particularly want a potential young film star added to his party, well, she was sure that she could talk him around.

  ‘Would I not!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘What a pity that my new suit is not ready. I’m so shabby.’ He cast a disparaging look at his neatly tapering trousers and his highly polished shoes. ‘But such as I am, I’d be delighted to come. You’re sure that Sir Guy won’t mind.’

  ‘Not too natty a dresser himself – Sir Guy, I mean,’ confided Baz. ‘Will you ever forget him on that horse of your father’s, Pops? Do you remember, Daise?’ He went off into a fit of laughter and Lady Cynthia looked at him indulgently. She had, thought Daisy, registered that Poppy and Baz were quite a couple, and so was especially cordial towards Daisy, patting her hand after she shook it and expressing a hope that they would see lots of each other during the coming months.

  ‘We’d better go. Sir Guy won’t want to keep the taxi waiting.’ Daisy ushered them all out into the street. She introduced Charles to her godfather before installing him next to Sir Guy in the back seat. Baz climbed into the front seat and turned around to assure Sir Guy that they would not be all descending on his film studios.

  ‘Just going as far as . . .’ he began.

  ‘The British Museum,’ put in Poppy quickly, and Baz beamed over his shoulder in admiration at her quick-wittedness.

  ‘Bit of a squash back there,’ he commiserated. ‘Want to come in the front with me, Pops? You could sit on my lap.’

  ‘We’re all right,’ said Daisy. She was very conscious that she was wedged in very close to the beautiful Charles de Montfort, who was being so respectful to Sir Guy that he had left him about half of the back seat in which to stretch himself. ‘Tell Sir Guy about your films in India,’ she said to him.