Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  “Well, I’m sure the queen will never forget the experience,” Virginia said naughtily. She squinted at Cornelia’s book. “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “King Arthur,” Cornelia said. “It’s about this famous king who lived hundreds of years ago in England, and he had lots of adventures with some knights who sat at a round table.”

  Virginia smiled. “I am very familiar with the legend of King Arthur,” she said. “In fact, the Somerset sisters may be among the few people in this age who have something of a personal connection to him.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Cornelia, sitting up straight. Virginia was awfully unpredictable for an adult.

  “It’s a long story,” Virginia sighed, looking down at her typewriter. “I don’t want to bore you with it.” She peeked up to see if Cornelia had taken the bait, which of course she had.

  “I won’t be bored,” protested Cornelia. “Please tell me! Madame Desjardins is making cassoulet for dinner, which takes hours. I have all afternoon.”

  “Well, in that case, I have several stories for you,” said Virginia, looking very vibrant all of the sudden.

  “They take place in England, where we lived after we left Paris. As you would expect, we got into an equal amount of trouble there.”

  “You and your sisters were such reprobates,” giggled Cornelia. “Reprobate” meant “wrongdoer.”

  “Oh, we weren’t criminals or anything,” Virginia said. “We were just lively.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her hands on her stomach. “Hmmm. Speaking of the queen, did you know that she personally banned Gladys from the country at one point? Listen to this.”

  And she began to tell her story.

  Chapter Eight

  England, 1953

  “Alexandra, Beatrice, Gladys, and I left our lovely, hidden, vine-covered house in Paris after the Picasso incident and took a ship across the English Channel to England. Gladys almost refused to come along because it was against British law to bring foreign dogs into the country. We’d have to put our four Messieurs in an English quarantine facility for six months before they could come to live with us in London. But in the end, we persuaded Gladys by promising to visit the dogs at least once a week.

  “In England, they speak the same language as us—English, naturally—but we still had to translate many things. They have different words for things there than we do here in New York.”

  “I know,” said Cornelia. “Walter says ‘lift’ instead of ‘elevator.’”

  “And here we say ‘bathroom,’ but there they say ‘water closet’ or ‘loo,’” said Virginia. “And ‘lorry’ instead of ‘truck.’ It confused us, and for the first time, we had no phrase book to help us. Everything was just slightly different. Being an American in England is like being a piece in a puzzle that almost fits—but not quite.”

  “When we arrived in London, we took our luggage to a place called the Oxford and Cambridge University Club, a famous old private club and hotel. Our father, who had gone to Oxford University when he was our age, had arranged for us to stay there. It had a huge marble staircase and a seemingly endless list of bars with names like the Marlborough Room, the King Edward VII Room, the Pall Mall Room, and the Smoking Room. The club’s members were surrounded by bookshelves jammed with old books; paintings of dukes, earls, queens, and kings now long dead; old clocks ticking and dinging quietly away; and, of course, lots of pictures of the ancient buildings of Oxford and Cambridge Universities.

  “The manager of the hotel, Mr. Snell, came out to greet us when we arrived. Lumpy as an old mattress, he had a shining dome of a bald head and a great beaklike nose. He wore a loose three-piece suit and said things like ‘Oh, rather’ and ‘Jolly good’ all the time.

  “‘Ah, the little Somerset girls,’ he said. His voice seemed to come from somewhere deep inside his beak. ‘Welcome. Your father is one of our most illustrious members. My, how you all resemble him! Well, maybe not you,’ he added as he looked Gladys up and down. ‘In his honor, I have arranged for you to stay in his two favorite suites, which overlook Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.’

  “Then he looked discreetly around, and said in a lower voice, ‘Now, just so you know, this club is for gentlemen only. Usually ladies have to stay in the little house next door. But for the Somerset girls we have made an exception. We would appreciate your discretion in this matter, you do understand? Jolly good.’

  “And with that, Mr. Snell tapped a little bell on the counter and about ten bellboys scurried over to collect our bags.

  “We followed our caravan of luggage up the grand staircase to our rooms. Naturally, the twins shared one room and Gladys and I shared the other. Gladys threw herself onto one of the beds.

  “‘What was that elephant Mr. Snell talking about downstairs?’ she said crabbily. Alexandra and Beatrice came into our room and closed the door.

  “‘He meant that we’re not allowed to tell the club members that we’re staying here, or let any of them see us,’ said Alexandra. ‘I just read in my guidebook that women aren’t usually allowed in at all.’”

  “Why couldn’t women join the club?” interjected Cornelia.

  “That’s just the way things were back then,” said Virginia. “For hundreds of years, men thought that women and children should be seen and not heard. And as you now know, such meekness was hardly an attribute of the Somerset sisters. And Mr. Snell expected us to make ourselves invisible while we stayed at the club!”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Cornelia.

  “That’s what we thought too,” Virginia replied. “As you’ll soon see.”

  “‘How uncivilized,’ commented Gladys disapprovingly. ‘Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m too hungry to think about this now. Let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.’

  “We trampled down the stairs. ‘There’s the dining room, I think,’ said Beatrice, veering into a big wood-paneled room. Many men sat at round tables, smoking pipes, playing cards and chess, and reading newspapers. Sunlight filtered in through the shuttered windows and made bright, hazy lines in the smoky air. When we walked in, all of the club members stopped what they were doing and stared at us.

  “‘I say,’ said one man with a big mustache. ‘Can we help you? Are you lost, ladies?’

  “‘I say, old boy,’ said Gladys, somewhat rudely. ‘We’re looking for the dining room.’

  “An uncomfortable silence followed, and the gray Mr. Snell appeared as if by magic at the door. Uttering an ‘Oh, rather,’ he hastily ushered us out.

  “As soon as we were out of the room, his gracious smile faded and he said, ‘Girls—off to the ladies’ luncheon room with you.’ And he bustled us like naughty puppies out to the street and into an ugly house next door. Five minutes later, we found ourselves in a bright fuchsia-pink dining room in the new house.

  “‘I’m sure you’ll find everything you need here,’ said Mr. Snell, and he strode back out to the gentlemen’s section of the club.

  “‘This room is the color of Pepto-Bismol,’ said Gladys, looking around with disdain. ‘It’s making me lose my appetite. I’ve had enough of this place already, and we only just got here.’

  “‘What’s so great about that stupid club anyway?’ Beatrice asked crossly. ‘After all, those men were hardly having a top-secret meeting about the atom bomb. They were just sitting around, doing all the boring things men do in their living rooms every day of the week.’

  “The waiter plopped down four dishes in front of us. I examined our fare, which consisted of several shrimp drowning in a vat of mayonnaise.”

  “How putrescent,” Cornelia commented under her breath.

  “The club’s specialty,” Virginia said, and went on.

  “‘Excuse me,’ called Gladys to the waiter. ‘Can you take this back to the kitchen? I’ll have a big juicy steak instead. Thanks, old chap.’

  “‘I’m afraid that steak is served only in the gentlemen�
�s part of the club,’ sniffed the waiter, snatching her plate away and leaving Gladys’s place empty. We looked at each other in disbelief and reached for the bread basket.

  “‘I have an idea,’ Gladys told me later that afternoon, back in our suite. ‘I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back shortly.’ And she pulled on her shoes and coat and left the room.

  “About two hours later, she came back loaded down with shopping bags and called for a Somerset conference.

  “‘Ladies,’ she declared, putting her hands on her hips. ‘We are going to do a little detective work this evening. Remember when we wore the haiks in the souk in Morocco? Tonight we’re going on another undercover mission in a different disguise.’ And out of one of the bags she pulled a man’s suit and a tall evening hat. ‘That one’s for you, Virginia.’

  “‘Gladys—have you gone nuts?’ asked Alexandra.

  “‘I just want to see what the big deal is,’ Gladys said. ‘What can possibly be so fascinating about the club that women aren’t allowed in? So, we’re going to camouflage ourselves and investigate.’

  “She shoved one of her stout legs into the pants of a suit. ‘These are from that Harrods store, by the way, so they are of very good quality,’ she added. ‘Nothing but the best for the Somerset gentlemen.’

  “‘Gladys,’ I said practically. ‘I’m sure that these suits are top-notch. But don’t you think that they’ll recognize our faces below the brims and above the collars?’

  “‘Ho, ho!’ Gladys said, zipping up her suit pants and looping a tie through her shirt collar. ‘You guys must think that I’m really dumb. Of course I’ve already thought of that, and have addressed our needs accordingly. Look in that bag over there.’

  “Fifteen minutes later, I walked with my sisters down the grand staircase wearing a suit, a tall hat, and a fake mustache plastered to my upper lip, which I was sure would slip off at any moment.

  “Gladys, being the glutton that she was, had gone one step further and slathered a fake beard onto her chin below her mouth. She gummed a pipe as a horse chomps its bit.

  “‘My mustache is loose,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘I can’t believe that you talked us into this.’

  “When we reached the bottom, Gladys looked around to make sure that no one was looking at us. ‘I brought this down with us as well,’ she said, fishing a little tube of something out of her pocket. ‘For our mustaches, in case they start to fall off.’

  “We peered down at the item. Its label proclaimed:

  ENGLAND’S MOST POPULAR INDUSTRIAL-STRENGTH GLUE!

  POWERFUL AS THE ROYAL NAVY, MIGHTY AS THE BRITISH ARMY!

  “‘Don’t be absurd, Gladys!’ hissed Alexandra impatiently. ‘Shoemakers and handymen use this stuff—it’s probably toxic! Put it away this instant.’ Gladys shrugged and put the glue into the back pocket of her pants.

  “We marched into the Smoking Room. The usual suspects were there, smoking, talking, playing cards, and reading. Several of them nodded at us as we sat down around one of the tables. One of them burst into laughter at another’s joke, and his sharp ‘Rah, rah, rah!’ set my nerves on edge. A waiter planted himself in front of our table and peered down at us snootily.

  “‘May I help you?’ he sniveled.

  “‘Four whishkeys and shodas,’ Gladys said gruffly, her teeth gritted around her pipe. The waiter nodded, examining us suspiciously, and walked to the bar.

  “‘All right—start eavesdropping, gentlemen,’ Alexandra whispered to us once the drinks had been set down on our table. She tried to press her mustache onto her lip as inconspicuously as possible.

  “I strained my ears to make out a conversation at the next table. It went something like this:

  Gentleman Number One (with walrus mustache, round glasses, and a big, fat red face): I say, I hear that the cricket match on Sunday will be something to behold!

  Gentleman Number Two (with a wan, thin little face and a big Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat): Oh, rather. You don’t say.

  Gentleman Number One (reaching for his pipe): It was most riveting last year. Such fine sportsmanship, such fine showmanship. It is such a shame the game only lasts for three days. It should go on for at least a week.

  Gentleman Number Two (nodding in agreement): Oh, rather. I quite agree.

  “I’m telling you, Cornelia, there are mummies buried in Egypt who were less bored than I was by that conversation. But now we were stuck sitting there at our table, eavesdropping away on our stodgy fact-finding mission.

  “‘I have to take this thing off,’ whispered Beatrice, who had been listening to a different group of men. ‘It refuses to stay on my lip. And if I have to hear one more thing about last Saturday’s fox hunt in Sussex, I’m going to paste my mustache across that man’s mouth.’

  “‘Okay, boys, let’s go,’ said Gladys. ‘I think that we’ve learned everything we need to know.’

  “We got up from our chairs. Alexandra, Beatrice, and I were almost out the door when we realized that Gladys wasn’t with us. She was still sitting in her chair. Exasperated, Alexandra walked back to the table.

  “‘Mr. Gladys, will you be joining us?’ she asked. Gladys whispered something up to Alexandra, whose eyes bulged. She walked back to us quickly.

  “‘Gladys is stuck in the chair,’ she reported to Beatrice and me. ‘That glue must have come undone in her back pocket. Getting her up and out—without getting kicked out of the club ourselves, not to mention getting our father kicked out—is going to be a considerable challenge.’

  “We walked back to the table, where Gladys bucked around in her chair. After a brief, discreet conference at the table, we concluded that there was nothing left to do but create a diversion and rip Gladys out of the chair when everyone looked in the other direction.

  “‘I’m not doing it this time,’ said Alexandra. ‘I distracted everyone in Marrakech, during the Moroccan wedding affair.’

  “‘Well,’ said Beatrice. ‘My mustache is practically falling off. If I’m the official Distractor, it will definitely fall off and we’ll be found out. That leaves you, Virginia.’

  “My heart sank, but Gladys looked so miserable under her beard that I promised to think of something. Just then, the snobby waiter caught my eye and I got an idea.

  “‘Get ready,’ I whispered to my sisters as I walked across the room. I stood near the fireplace mantel next to the front entrance of the room and pretended to admire the pictures hanging there. ‘Jolly good, aren’t they?’ I said in a deep voice to a gentleman who had been examining me from a nearby table. He looked back at his newspaper. The snobby waiter stood at the bar, piling a tray high with whiskey-filled tumblers. As luck would have it, he came in my direction.

  “‘Gah!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ he screamed as he spilled over my outstretched foot.

  “The glasses flew off his tray and the whiskey splashed all over a stern-looking bulldog of a man who had just walked into the room. From across the room came the sharp sound of fabric ripping accompanied by an unladylike squawk. Every gentleman shot out of his seat in alarm.

  “Mr. Snell rushed in. ‘Oh, my heavens—what is happening?’ he said, not knowing where to look first. The snooty waiter lay sprawled facedown on the floor. Whiskey dripped down the walls, chairs, and the front of the bulldog man standing in the doorway.

  “‘Oh, my goodness!’ shouted Mr. Snell, snatching a napkin away from another waiter and frantically wiping down the guest’s suit. ‘Mr. Churchill, sir, I am terribly, terribly sorry! What a dreadful mistake! I cannot apologize enough, sir.’

  “The man batted Mr. Snell away with a large paw. ‘What a waste of good whiskey,’ he said. ‘Fool,’ he said to the waiter on the floor as he stepped over him. ‘I’ll have some in a glass this time,’ he added to everyone in general. He stumped over to a big leather chair near the fireplace and lit a cigar.

  “Mr. Snell turned his attention to the overturned table across the room and found a whole new reason to look horrified.
Beatrice and Alexandra were heaving Gladys up from the floor. When they had ripped her off the chair, Gladys’s legs had kicked out and upset the table, which lay on its side. The seat of her pants still stuck to the chair and her beard dangled from her chin.

  “Mr. Snell turned a furious bright red, from the shiny curve at the top of his bald head to the end of his beak and down his neck. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said sarcastically, trembling all over. ‘I take it that you will be checking out of the Oxford and Cambridge University Club this evening. Shall we send your bill to a Mr. Augustus P. Somerset in New York City, or will you be paying it yourselves?’

  “And that was the end of our stay at the club, and unfortunately, it was the end of our father’s membership there as well. But we figured that he was better off without it. We certainly were. We wore our suits, hats, and mustaches as we happily checked out an hour later.”

  “I still have that mustache, you know,” said Virginia. “I kept it as a souvenir, although it’s in tatters now. I wore it to feminist rallies in the 1970s, but I don’t think anyone quite appreciated it.”

  “Didn’t your dad get mad at you?” Cornelia asked.

  “Yes, to put it mildly,” Virginia answered. “An absolute avalanche of angry telegrams flooded across the Atlantic for a week. After that, our parents arranged for us to go to the English countryside, so we would stay out of trouble.”

  “Did it work?”

  Virginia smiled. “Now, what do you think?” she said. “Here’s story number two.”

  “‘I’m going to learn how to fly a plane,’ Beatrice declared from behind the book she was reading.

  “‘Beatrice,’ Alexandra said incredulously. ‘You can’t even ride a bicycle. And remember when you drove your scooter into that orange stand when you were six? And your accident with the roller skates?’

  “Unfazed, Beatrice put the book down. Its cover had a picture of a young woman wearing an old-fashioned flying helmet and goggles.