Debutantes: In Love

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Jolly clever, isn’t it? Filled with hydrogen gas, of course.’ The voice from behind her was wonderful. Quite deep and very musical. Automatically Daisy swung around and found herself staring into the very beautiful eyes of Charles de Montfort.

  ‘Oh! Charles!’ she gasped, and was instantly mortified at her reaction. She had planned to greet him in a polite but distant manner, and now she was standing gaping into his face. He was with a girl that she did not know and his arm was around her waist. He glanced at Daisy and instantly turned away.

  ‘Come and see the lobsters, dearest,’ he said to his companion. ‘They are just too, too killing.’

  Daisy did not move. She felt a sudden stab of humiliation. Why had she not cut him, rather than allowing him to cut her? She felt her cheeks colour and was glad that the light was so dim. She gazed after Charles pushing his way through a crowd, who were, she supposed, looking at the lobsters. The music was starting – not Baz’s band, she thought, hearing a piano instead of a drum.

  And then there was a sudden exclamation of pain and a well-known voice – a voice that she had known since she was twelve years old – saying indifferently, ‘Sorry, old chap, did I tread on your foot?’

  Charles’s voice, sounding uncertain, replied, ‘Don’t worry, old chap. No harm done.’

  And then Morgan was beside her, looking very smart in his evening dress.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Daisy nodded. ‘Only my pride was hurt,’ she said. She looked around. Everyone was pairing up and beginning to move to the music. ‘Dance with me, Morgan,’ she said pleadingly. ‘I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t want to just stand there filming. It’s too early in the evening anyway. They’ll all be looking at me.’

  For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he nodded. Without a word, he took the camera from her hands, went across to the bandstand and placed it on his drummer’s stool and then came back holding out his hand. ‘Let’s do some jitterbugging then,’ he said.

  He danced well, marking the beat firmly, thought Daisy, and then smiled to herself as she overheard one of their neighbours from Kent say in penetratingly loud tones to Lady Dorothy, ‘Who’s that fine-looking young fella dancing with little Daisy?’

  ‘I say, St Clair, save the next dance for me?’ called out Joan, twirling around in the arms of languid young man. ‘I’m the hostess, you know. If anyone displeases me, I have some stalwart sailors here who will immediately throw them into the river.’

  Morgan smiled but made no reply. There was a glint in his eye and Daisy laughed. It would be a brave man who would try to throw him into the river. Even under the smooth cloth of his well-cut jacket it was easy to see the impressive swell of his strong arms.

  ‘Our band is going to be playing the next few tunes,’ he said to her, ‘but after that . . .’ He broke off and twirled her around but did not finish the sentence. She wondered whether he had been going to ask her to dance again, but he said no more and the pace was fast and furious and they were breathless and laughing by the time that dance finished. He spoke then, but it was only to remark in an amused fashion, ‘I notice that Mr Charles de Montfort did not dance this last number. I wonder, could he have a problem with his foot?’

  And then he gave a formal end-of-dance bow, quickly returning her camera to her before taking his place on the bandstand behind his drums.

  It was, thought Daisy, filming happily, an extremely beautiful evening. The misty blues and greens set off the nets of bright orange and deep pink starfish and the tiny scarlet fish that seemed to swim through the waving strands of emerald and purple seaweed – everything made a fantastic background to the girls in their exotic colours and the men in their black and white. She danced a couple of dances with some of Joan’s friends – even the eldest brother, Ambrose, the young earl, danced a tango with her, and all of the jazz-band boys in turn led her on to the floor in the intervals between filming, but Morgan did not ask her again and she wondered why. Had Joan embarrassed him? When it came to supper time she filled two plates and took them over to where he sat, softly tapping out a muted rhythm on the drums.

  ‘All right now?’ he asked, accepting the plate with thanks.

  ‘All right?’ She looked at him genuinely puzzled, and then understood. ‘Oh, him,’ she said, looking across at Charles with his arm around the expensively dressed female. ‘It makes me seem very silly,’ she confessed, ‘but I look at him now and wonder what I saw in him. Do you know what Sir Guy said one day a couple of weeks ago when I was picking out shots?’ Without waiting for his reply she went on. ‘He said, “Don’t use that shot, Daisy, he’s a bit of a chinless wonder – and when you shoot from that angle you make things worse.” I was furious with him at the time, but now I see what he meant.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’ Morgan laughed. ‘Don’t think of him any more; just enjoy the evening. You dance very well, you know.’

  ‘So do you,’ said Daisy. And then she plucked up her courage. After all if Joan could ask him to dance, then she could do the same thing.

  ‘Will you be dancing again, for the last three songs of the night, when the other band take over?’ She tried to make the words sound casual, but couldn’t help a slight blush.

  ‘Only if a girl in blue with blue eyes asks me.’ His tone was easy, affectionate and teasing and it relieved her of her embarrassment.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked. ‘Or. . .’ She stopped as Joan came tripping across.

  ‘Oh, lord,’ groaned Morgan. ‘Save me! I don’t mind, but her grandmother and all the other titled ladies sitting over there will have a fit if she dances with me.’

  But Joan had a tall, broad man in tow. She waggled a finger at ‘St Clair’, threatened to sue him for breach of promise and said breathlessly: ‘Daisy, this is Sam. He’s American and his father is a film producer. He thinks it’s fantastic that you make films. Sam, darling, here is the girl of your dreams.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Morgan. He got to his feet, plate in hand. ‘Are there any lobsters to eat, or are they all just for display?’

  ‘Darling St Clair, come with me,’ said Joan, tucking her arm into his. ‘Just say the word and every one of those lobsters will be cast into a vat of boiling oil.’

  She turned back to Daisy and whispered in her ear, ‘His father is very, very rich, darling. Oh, and that girl that Charles is dancing with is another American, called Millicent, an extremely rich heiress. So forget him, darling. Sam is a sweetie, a much better choice!’ And with that Joan beamed at the tall American and dragged Morgan away.

  ‘Will you take a glass of champagne with me, Lady Daisy?’ Sam’s accent was rather attractive, and there was no doubt, thought Daisy, after she had gulped down a few mouthfuls of fizz, that champagne did give you a wonderful feeling.

  ‘Are you a film producer too, Sam?’ she asked as he examined her camera with a professional air.

  ‘No, not me, that’s my father; I’m not that keen on film-making. That’s just Joan shooting her head off as usual. As a matter of fact, I’m still at college – what you folks over here call university. I’m good with a camera though. It comes in useful in my work.’

  ‘Your work?’ queried Daisy. She was conscious of feeling a little disappointed. He was probably studying photography and intended to be one of those press photographers. And yet he had an intelligent-looking face with sharp grey eyes.

  ‘Yes, I’m studying to be a doctor,’ he said. ‘This year is mainly about dissection, so it’s quite handy to be able take some good photographs of corpses before and after I take the scalpel to them. I’m fiercely ambitious, you know.’ His voice warmed and his eyes glowed as they beamed down on her. ‘I want to be the best doctor in the whole of the United States,’ he said. ‘Skeletons are fascinating, you know,’ he declared so loudly that a few people turned around to look at him. ‘The individual variation in human bones is amazing. You’d never guess. But we all have the same bones and the same number of the
m. I’ll bet you don’t know how many bones there are in the human body – two hundred and six, and every single one of them is essential. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Daisy, and began to laugh. ‘I must say that I never really thought about bones. What made you want to be a doctor, rather than a film producer like your father?’ Especially if he is so very rich, she added silently to herself. Joan was usually very accurate about matters of rank and fortune. She had all the gossip in London at her fingertips. She looked at Sam and found his grey eyes fixed on her.

  ‘Do you know, Lady Daisy, your face has a very perfect bone structure?’ he said, gazing down admiringly and ignoring her question. ‘Your nose is just perfectly shaped. And your cheekbones, and those frontal bones.’ Gently he touched her eyebrow. ‘That would be a beautiful face even without the skin and flesh. And of course with them, w-e-e-l-l-l –’ he dragged out the word ‘well’ in an exaggeratedly American fashion and ended up by saying in quite a simple manner – ‘it’s the most beautiful face in London. Will you dance?’ he went on before she could gasp or even blush. ‘The band is coming back. Your camera will be quite safe here. I won’t guarantee to keep an eye on it because I’ll be staring at you, but . . . I say, Mr Bandleader,’ he addressed Morgan, ‘would you be a good guy and keep an eye on the lady’s camera for me?’

  ‘So what did make you become a doctor?’ asked Daisy again as they stood on the dance floor and waited for the music to begin. What a difference from Charles, she thought. Charles had no money and his only ambition seemed to be to live off some woman, first his mother, then Daisy, when he thought that she was wealthy, and now this Millicent, the American heiress.

  And yet Sam, with all the money in the world, went off and studied those two hundred and six bones – not to mention flesh and skin, she thought mischievously, and then the smile died from her face when he said quite simply, ‘My mother. It was because of her. She died of tuberculosis when I was twelve years old. I thought that the doctors should have been able to cure her if they had only known enough. I swore I’d be better than them and now, here I am.’

  At this moment the music started, very loud and very energetic. There was no opportunity to talk, but in between dances they drank more champagne and chatted like old friends. From the chaperone chairs Daisy could see a fond smile on Elaine’s face and she and Lady Dorothy had their heads together.

  ‘Let’s go and have a breath of fresh air; there’ll be an interval before they swap over bands again,’ said Sam when the third dance finished. He took her by the arm, saying gaily as they went out on to the lower deck, ‘What a pretty little radius you have, straight as a die.’ And then, before she could make a joking reply, he bent and put his lips to hers.

  She kissed him back for a moment, overwhelmed by his sudden closeness, but a thought of Morgan’s dark eyes filled her mind and gently she disentangled herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam, I must go in now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve promised the last three dances to someone else.’

  ‘I see.’ He stood back, looking very tall in the overhead light from the spar on the deck. ‘So there is someone else, is there?’ he asked. ‘I suppose I should have guessed it.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is,’ said Daisy. He was too nice for her to flirt with, she thought. She liked him immensely, but, just in case he became serious about her, she would not raise false hopes. ‘I hope you have a wonderful holiday in London,’ she said softly, and went back inside. He held the door open until she went through, but did not follow her and she was pleased about that.

  The music had just begun when she came in. Morgan had his back turned to her and was chatting to one of the jazz-band boys when she approached. She went up and touched him on the arm.

  ‘Excuse me, Simon,’ she said. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Morgan. Let’s dance, shall we?’

  As they danced together, Daisy felt a sudden certainty about the feelings growing in her heart. There were no worries in her mind – just the music, the beat, and the feeling of Morgan’s strong arms holding her.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tuesday 20 May 1924

  This could be my wedding dress!

  That was the thought that was in Poppy’s mind as she endured her sister Violet’s fiddling with the folds of her train and pulling up the white kid gloves as tightly as she could so that they almost reached Poppy’s shoulders. Elaine was doing the same thing to Daisy, but Daisy was enduring it with more patience.

  They had eventually gone for identical gowns.

  It was Violet who, with the impeccable taste that made her younger sisters forgive much of her imperious manner, had decided on the pattern and selected the material for this gorgeous creation in pale cream and magnolia silk. It had a demure upper bodice and short sleeves of lace. The body ended at one side of the thigh and dramatically angled upward to the hipbone, the sharp geometric line accentuated by a border of embroidered swirls and circles in the art deco style. The daring design was made acceptable by an underskirt of thick, richly coloured magnolia silk which fell to the knees in graceful folds, and a three-yard train of the same heavy silk swept behind the dress.

  Yes, thought Poppy, I’ll be able to wear this dress for my wedding in the summer. She looked intently at herself in the mirror and her eyes widened with excitement. It was a perfect dress for a wedding – creamy-white, with a dropped waist, very, very short, but disguised with that dramatic underskirt of pure silk and the stately train. With a pair of sleeves added it would be perfect in church. Nothing had been said yet about a date, but Poppy’s mind was firmly fixed on a summer wedding. July, she thought. That would give everyone time to get used to the idea. She stood patiently while Violet, standing on a chair, fixed the three ostrich feathers to the headband around her forehead. She could just about wait until July, she thought. And July in Kent was usually a warm, sunny time. All the old-fashioned rambler roses that her mother had planted would be in flower. One of them, an enormous giant rose called Wedding Day, which had turned into a twenty-foot high and eight-foot wide bush smothered with tiny white roses, had been planted when Poppy was seven years old and had rambled further and further and higher and higher ever since. The garden would be spectacular then; she and Baz would have such a pretty wedding.

  ‘You go first; you’re older,’ Daisy said, and so Poppy walked out of the room. She heard Violet say something about gathering up her train, but she didn’t care about what happened to the underside of the long sweep of silk that trailed behind her. She wanted to look beautiful for Baz. Slowly and carefully she trod the steps, her head held high, her ostrich fan in her hand and the three feathers on her head moving slightly in the breeze from an open window. Now she was pleased that she had not cut her hair, as Baz found it so beautiful. She could feel the heavy weight of it as it fell down her back and imagined his hands running through the ripples of dark red waves.

  As soon as she reached the top of the stairs she saw only him. She was dimly conscious that others were there – her father and Jack. Morgan and most of the servants were gathered in the back hallway and peering up through the banisters, but her eyes were on Baz, and his, those beautiful golden-brown eyes, blazing with excitement, were on hers. If only this was their wedding day, she thought, and wished passionately for a magic wand to wipe the intervening months away.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs she held out her hands and Baz took them, drawing her slightly towards him, but then nervously releasing them as Violet squealed ‘don’t touch’ from the landing above and Jack came forward, picked up her train, efficiently folded it and draped it over her arm.

  Jack seemed to want to bustle her out to the car straight away, but Poppy drew Baz back to one side and waited. She had had her moment and now it was Daisy’s turn to come down the stairs. She looked up and saw how Daisy’s mouth trembled and how pretty she looked in the white satin sheath, with her blond hair curving like a gleaming cap of gold.

/>   ‘Ready to go now, Morgan.’ Jack’s voice was clipped and authoritative, but he received no answer. With amusement Poppy realized that Morgan was going to wait until Daisy stepped on to the hallway. He wasn’t going to be taking orders from Jack. She and Daisy had stayed up talking half the night after Joan’s party, both curled up in Poppy’s bed. Poppy knew that Daisy would want Morgan’s eyes to be on her as she came slowly down the stairs.

  And then her father’s arm went around her, and his voice, husky and broken: ‘You look lovely, Poppy, my darling.’ He moved across to Daisy once she was safely on the hall floor and said the very same words to her. Poppy hugged Baz’s arm for a moment and then released him and said, ‘Let’s go, Morgan. Let’s get this stuffy affair over and done with.’ She was glad to see her father so much more cheerful. They had spent hours practising jazz tunes today, her father thumping out the beat on the piano and she playing the clarinet. It seemed that he would never tire of playing and his fingers had regained all of their old agility. Perhaps, after all, he would agree to go to court next Monday and all their problems could be sorted out.

  Poppy was the only one in the house who was not astonished at the change music could make in him. She knew how jazz played as loudly as possible drowned out all thought, all anxieties and all fears. When she reached the door she turned and looked back at him and smiled. He returned the smile and she was reassured. Baz, she saw, had moved over next to him. He had promised that when they were gone he would try to persuade the Earl to go to Belgravia to try out the schoolroom piano, now safely installed in the jazz club.