Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton)

by Rasheed, Leila

  “Invitations,” Charlotte announced, entering the breakfast room with a handful of letters. “I intercepted Jevins. Here you are, Mama.” She handed the envelopes to her mother and sat down.

  The countess made her way through the envelopes with a bored expression on her face. “Cowes, the Duke of Westminster wishes us to join him on his yacht. It will be terribly boring but we must say yes. Tea…tea…another ball… Oh! How very provoking!”

  “What is it, my dear?” Lord Westlake enquired.

  The countess sourly displayed the gilt-edged invitation. Ada read the words: Bal Masqué. “Mrs. Verulam is to have a costume ball on the evening of the Royal Horticultural Flower Show.”

  “A costume ball!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  “That does sound rather fun,” Ada said.

  “Yes, but the wretched woman has simply stolen the limelight once again. Of course everyone will leave town as soon as it is over, and all anyone will think about is the ball. I was hoping to make another splash before the end of the season, but no chance of that now.”

  “Well, as long as I get a new dress I don’t mind too much,” Charlotte said.

  “Of course, it will be necessary. For you, at least—I can’t be expected to go to the expense of dressing up Rose.”

  “My dear, you receive a dress allowance to clothe all my daughters,” the earl said, with an edge to his voice. There was an uncomfortable silence. The countess looked mutinous but began to open the next invitation in silence.

  “Ah, now this is interesting,” she said, as her gaze skipped across the sprawling handwriting. “For you especially, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Do tell, Mother.”

  “The Duke of Huntleigh writes to invite us to his box at the opera for the new performance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.”

  “Oh!” Rose exclaimed, and dropped her knife with a clatter. Ada looked at her, as did everyone. Rose met their eyes and blushed.

  “That is—I would very much like to see the Rite.”

  “Really.” The countess made a disbelieving face. “I don’t see what chance you might have had to develop an interest in ballet, but at any rate it seems you will get your wish. He most particularly invites all of us.”

  “Didn’t the audience riot at the premiere in Paris?” Charlotte made a face. “I shan’t wear my best hat if there’s any risk of its being crushed by anarchists.”

  “It sounds inconvenient.” The countess sniffed. “Be that as it may, it is an invitation from the Duke of Huntleigh, and so we will go.”

  Ada caught Rose’s eye. It was clear from her heightened color and her smile that she thought the invitation was meant specially for her. Ada’s heart sank. Her sister had the look of a girl in love, and it was no pleasure to think that she might have to shatter Rose’s dreams.

  The sun glinted off the discreetly jeweled pins skewering the Countess of Westlake’s new hat as she descended from her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost before Selfridges’ new department store on Oxford Street. Rose, Ada, and Charlotte followed her. Rose looked up in awe at the huge building in front of her. It was their first visit to the new department store; she could see that even her stepmother was at a loss.

  The countess hesitated for only an instant. A smart young man darted forward with a deep bow, and another leapt to hold the doors open. The countess swept in, her head high. Her daughters followed her. Rose gazed around at the huge space in front of her. Counters and mirrors receded to every side. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen drifted about, fingering the cloth draped upon mannequins, examining crystal and silver. Everywhere there were busy, smartly dressed attendants. It was more like a palace than a shop, Rose thought. It was so different, so open, so new. She was suddenly very glad she had come. She hadn’t been keen at first, but Céline seemed so anxious that she should go, and Rose hadn’t the heart to disappoint her. Besides, she needed to find a moment to speak to Ada. Annie was still at Milborough House; something had to be done. She wished she knew what.

  “Where on earth does one start?” Charlotte said aloud. “Mother?”

  “Just a moment, I am trying to get my bearings.” The countess turned on the spot. Rose had never seen her looking quite so lost.

  “Well, do hurry, we look ridiculous standing here like sheep,” Charlotte whispered sharply.

  “This way.” The countess advanced confidently, the others followed her, and they found themselves surrounded by china vases the height of a small man, painted with elephants.

  “I don’t understand. We were in a stationer’s a moment ago.” The countess swiveled.

  “That was a different department,” Rose explained. “That’s why they call it a department store, because—”

  “Yes, yes, very well, I am not entirely lacking in intelligence,” the countess snapped.

  “Mother, let’s just find the roof garden. We shall be late for Madame Lucille’s show.” Charlotte sighed.

  “I am not leaving here without this book. Everyone is talking about A Duke for Daisy. It’s a succès de scandale. No one can guess who the author is.”

  “I thought they had decided it was the Bishop of Gloucester?” said Ada. “Or was it the Marquis of Rothwell?”

  “No, no, it can’t be Henry.” The countess shook her head firmly. “He doesn’t have the wit to write so much as a postcard. No, I believe it is—”

  “Look, here is Mrs. Verulam,” Rose said in relief, spotting a small figure swathed in silk, jet, and Barbary ostrich plumes majestically descending upon them.

  “My dear Lady Westlake,” Mrs. Verulam exclaimed. “Are you lost?”

  The countess drew herself up indignantly.

  “Absolutely not. I was simply admiring these…these…” She gestured vaguely with a gloved hand.

  “Charming, aren’t they.” Mrs. Verulam glanced at the vases. “I bought a couple to brighten up the servants’ hall. But are you not going to Madame Lucille’s show?”

  “We are,” Ada explained, “but the countess would like to buy a book first.”

  “What a coincidence! So would I.” Mrs. Verulam raised her parasol and gestured to an attendant, who swooped deferentially upon them. “Kindly show us to the book department,” she announced. “We wish to buy A Duke for Daisy by R. J. Peak.”

  “Certainly, madam. This way, madam.”

  The man hurried off, and they followed him.

  “But how did you know?” the countess exclaimed as she followed behind Mrs. Verulam.

  Mrs. Verulam turned a pitying, amused glance upon her. “What other book exists, this season?”

  As they crossed the shop floor, while Mrs. Verulam and the countess bickered politely about who the mysterious R. J. Peak really was, Rose saw her chance. She dropped back to walk by Ada’s side.

  “I have something to tell you,” Rose murmured in her ear. Ada glanced at Rose’s face with sudden anxiety. “Annie has come down from Somerton,” Rose went on. “She has some idea of becoming my personal maid.”

  “What!” Ada exclaimed, then quickly lowered her voice as Charlotte glanced back at them. “She can’t be serious. What an impossible situation it would be for both of you.”

  “I know.” Rose sighed.

  “She can’t have thought it through. You, who used to be housemaids together—now she will have to fetch and carry for you, mend your clothes, arrange your dressing table, sit up waiting for you to return from balls, take orders from you directly—oh, she can’t have thought it through.” Ada shook her head in disbelief.

  “I don’t think she has.”

  “You must tell her to go back to Somerton at once.”

  “How can I? She’ll think I am turning up my nose at her.”

  “I don’t know how you can, but you must,” Ada said firmly. “You are an Averley now, and you must behave like one or things will be impossible for you. Annie simply cannot expect things to be on the same footing as they were when you were both housemaids.”


  “But I haven’t changed.…”

  “But you have, Rose, and there is no pretending you haven’t. Things are different for you now.” Ada’s voice softened. “I don’t mean to sound unkind. Annie will have all our assistance if she wants to better herself. But you are Lady Rose Averley now, and you must live up to your name.”

  They walked on in silence. Rose frowned slightly. She did understand what Ada was saying, but she seemed to forget that being adopted as an Averley had not wiped out the half of her being that was plain Rose Cliffe, daughter of a housekeeper. Somehow there had never seemed to be such a distance between her and Ada as now, when Lord Westlake had raised her up to share his daughters’ pedestal. As much as we love each other, we are not the same, Rose thought, and felt disappointed to have to admit it.

  They stepped into a paradise of books. Signs hung above reading rooms and writing rooms where pyramids of books were carefully arranged, and people browsed here and there.

  “Ah! A Duke for Daisy.” The countess pounced and picked up the book with a satisfied sigh.

  “I’m so sorry,” the attendant murmured, “we have only one copy left.”

  “Oh, do take it,” Mrs. Verulam said brightly, “I can always borrow it from my butler.”

  The countess turned red. Rose bit her cheeks to stop herself laughing. The countess would without doubt rather be known to wear last year’s fashion than to read the same novel as a butler. However, she had no choice. She proceeded to pay for the book with a back as straight as her thin mouth. As she did so, Charlotte turned to the assistant. “Can you show me where the oil paints are kept?” she inquired.

  “Certainly, madam. Just this way.” The attendant moved away, Charlotte following, and their voices receded. Rose watched as the man pointed out the different kinds of paint and canvas, and Charlotte listened, nodding.

  “How strange,” Ada said. “I didn’t think Charlotte was interested in painting.”

  “Neither did I,” Rose said thoughtfully. She couldn’t help thinking of Alexander Ross. Did he know Charlotte painted?

  The attendant led them over to the lift, the countess stepped in, and the others followed. Mrs. Verulam looked about her, disconsolately.

  “One feels so like a cold capon being sent up for dinner,” she murmured, as the door clanged shut and the lift boy pressed the button for the roof garden.

  Ada stepped out of the lift into a fresh summer’s day. They were lucky it hadn’t rained, she thought, looking at the rows of chairs and the red carpet spread out among decorative palms. She recognized many faces among the seated ladies; London during the season was a small place. She glanced over to the distant dome of St. Paul’s and then to the crown-like spires of the Houses of Parliament. It made her feel a little dizzy to be so high up, or perhaps it was merely the effect of the lift and the relentless modernity of Selfridges.

  Rose’s hand on her arm steadied her. “A little dizzy?” she asked, with a smile.

  Ada smiled back. “Just a little—we are so high up. But it seems to suit you.”

  “Yes, I adore it,” Rose said simply. She turned to look out at the birds that wheeled among the rooftops. Ada thought Rose had rarely looked so handsome, with the color in her cheeks and the light in her eyes. She wished she did not have to broach such an unpleasant subject with her. But it was her duty.

  Lady Duff Gordon herself introduced the gowns. Gold pencils rippled across notepads as the leaders of fashion took notes for the greatest ball of the season, Mrs. Verulam’s costume extravaganza.

  Ada glanced over at Rose. She seemed intent on the mannequins parading in front of her. “I want to speak to you about the Duke of Huntleigh,” Ada murmured, under cover of Lady Duff Gordon’s narration. A well-known actress in a slender black velvet column latticed with pearls posed before them, turning this way and that to display the fall of the cloth.

  “Alexander?” Rose inquired, and Ada’s worst fears were realized.

  “You are on first name terms, then?”

  “It’s his name, that’s all.”

  Ada watched as another slim, elegant mannequin strolled out in front of the crowd, her summery yellow hat bedecked with a cascade of silk flowers. “I think you should be careful with him. He has a bad reputation with women.”

  Rose sighed. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” said Ada urgently, “but you should perhaps take warning from it.”

  “The ‘Zephyr,’ with ruched and embroidered overskirt, is worn by Miss Elsie Delaunay,” announced Lady Duff Gordon. Ada clapped politely as the young singer walked out before them, her beautiful smile displaying teeth as small and white as the pearls around her neck.

  “Is this advice from Lord Fintan?” There was a note in Rose’s voice Ada had never heard before. Defiance. The fear surged up inside her again. Rose was too innocent, too vulnerable.

  “Laurence has known him a long time. I wish I could say he liked him.”

  “They’re very different people, certainly.”

  Was that a note of sarcasm? Ada was taken aback, and a little annoyed. Her response was a touch more waspish than she meant it to be. “Yes, Laurence is trustworthy, honorable, and well-respected in society.”

  “And please observe, ladies, the simplicity of this gown in brocaded silk. No trimmings are necessary with such a luxurious fabric.…” Applause, like a flight of doves taking off. The mannequin flurried her ostrich-feather fan.

  “I didn’t think you cared so much for society,” Rose said quietly, looking directly ahead of her at the parading gowns. “I thought you cared about more important things.”

  “I do.” Ada sighed. “Rose, I am only trying to help. Alexander Ross has a terrible reputation.”

  “Because people who don’t understand him talk badly of him. He was kind to invite us to the Rite, he knew I wanted to go, and this was the only way the countess would take me.”

  “I just don’t want him to…disappoint you.” Ada swallowed. What she had to say next tasted bitter in her mouth. But she had to convince Rose, had to protect her. “Does he know…if he knew…” She hesitated; it was such an unpleasant thing to have to say. “He may not be quite aware of your previous—”

  Ada broke off. Charlotte was standing a few feet away, seemingly absorbed in adjusting her gloves.

  Rose replied, her voice hushed and annoyed. “Please don’t concern yourself. I have no expectations of the Duke of Huntleigh. I enjoy his conversation. I admire him as an artist. That is a very long way from being vulnerable to his charms.”

  Ada could see from the color in her cheeks and the fast, clipped way she spoke that she was upset and angry. Ada winced. This was not what she had wanted. She tried again. “Rose, you’re not being entirely honest with me. I thought that as sisters—”

  “And I am not sure you are being entirely honest with me about your feelings for Laurence.”

  Ada flinched as if she had been burned. Rose was right, and she could not deny it. She fixed her eyes on the mannequin passing before them and said no more.

  Rose was still flushed with annoyance when they returned from the fashion show. She had never, ever been angry with Ada, and even now she felt guilty for it. But it had shocked her to hear the way she spoke of Alexander. It was so unjust, so unfair. What had the man done but be a little unconventional? The invitation he had sent was so clearly meant for her. It was so kind of him, and even despite her rudeness about his painting. He must have forgiven her for her thoughtless remarks. She felt a passionate urge to defend him, to take his arm in front of everyone and prove that she at least believed he was a good man.

  But one thing Ada was right about, and she had to admit it, uncomfortable as it was. Annie had to go. As Rose handed her hat to one of the servants, she decided to go directly and speak to her. Any painful thing was best got over with quickly, her mother had always told her.

  She was aware her heart was beating uncomfortably fast as she went down the steps into the servants’ qua
rters to speak to Annie. There’s nothing to worry about, she told herself. I shall simply explain, quietly and gently, that she can’t stay. She had a feeling, though, that it would not be easy.

  Annie was sitting in the kitchen; Rose hesitated at the door. Annie was poring over an exercise book, a pencil in her hand. Laboriously she traced the letters one by one, and her mouth shaped them as she read aloud. “M-O-N-D-A-Y.”

  She was learning to read. Rose hadn’t imagined she could feel worse, but it turned out she could. She hesitated at the door. Was she doing the right thing? Maybe she should just run back upstairs, ignore Ada’s advice. But Annie looked up, and the chance was gone.

  “Rose!” Annie’s smile was wide but nervous. She jumped to her feet.

  “You’re learning to read.” Rose’s voice was soft.

  Annie blushed and shrugged. “I—I was just trying it out. Of course I don’t need it. Just a hobby, like.” She came over to Rose, her hands clasped in her apron, her cheeks flushed. “Have you spoken to the countess? Will it be all right for me to stay?”

  Rose swallowed. “Annie, I…” She hesitated, and hated herself for being a coward. “I don’t think it will work. I am sorry.”

  The look on Annie’s face made her wince. “I don’t understand.” Annie held out her hands imploringly. “I know I’m not a real French maid, but I’ve been doing for Lady Georgina. I understand the job. I could learn quickly. Just because I can’t read don’t mean I’m stupid. You know that. You’ve seen I’m quick on the uptake when we worked together before.”

  Rose knew then that she had done the right thing. “That’s just it, Annie. We won’t be working together. I’m a lady now, and you’re still a maid. You’d have to fetch and carry for me, you’d have to take my orders and it wouldn’t feel right, don’t you understand? You’d be working for me. I’d have to tell you off if my bathwater wasn’t hot or my stockings weren’t mended. I couldn’t always be giving you the afternoon off. It just wouldn’t work, Annie.”