At two fifty-five, ten men and two women, all of whom were dressed in what looked to Daphne like long black dressing gowns with purple scarves hanging from their necks, proceeded across the stage in a gentle crocodile before taking their allocated places. Only the two thrones remained unoccupied. On the stroke of three Daphne’s attention was drawn to the minstrels’ gallery, where a fanfare of trumpets struck up to announce the arrival of the visitors, and all those present rose as the King and Queen entered to take their places in the center of the Senate. Everyone except the royal couple remained standing until after the National Anthem had been played.
“Bertie looks very well, considering,” said Percy, resuming his seat.
“Do be quiet,” said Daphne. “No one else knows him.”
An elderly man in a long black gown, the only person who remained standing, waited for everyone to settle before he took a pace forward, bowed to the royal couple and then proceeded to address the audience.
After the vice-chancellor, Sir Russell Russell-Wells, had been speaking for some considerable time Percy inquired of his fiancée, “How is a fellow expected to follow all this piffle when he gave up Latin as an option in his fourth half?”
“I only survived a year of the subject myself.”
“Then you won’t be much help either, old gel,” admitted Percy in a whisper.
Someone seated in the row in front turned round to glare at them ferociously.
Throughout the remainder of the ceremony Daphne and Percy tried to remain silent, although Daphne did find it necessary from time to time to place a firm hand on Percy’s knee as he continued to shift uncomfortably from side to side on the flat wooden chair.
“It’s all right for the King,” whispered Percy. “He’s got a damned great cushion to sit on.”
At last the moment came for which they had both been bidden.
The vice-chancellor, who continued to call out a list of names from the roll of honor, had at last come to the Ts. He then declared, “Bachelor of arts, Mrs. Charles Trumper of Bedford College.” The applause almost doubled, as it had done so every time a woman had walked up the steps to receive her degree from the visitor. Becky curtsied before the King as he placed what the program described as a “hood of purple” over her gown and handed her a parchment scroll. She curtsied again and took two paces backwards before returning to her seat.
“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” said Percy as he joined in the applause. “And no prizes for guessing who tutored her through that little performance,” he added. Daphne blushed as they remained in their places for some time to allow all the Us, Vs, Ws and Ys to receive their degrees, before being allowed to escape into the garden for tea.
“Can’t see them anywhere,” said Percy, as he turned a slow circle in the middle of the lawn.
“Nor I,” said Daphne. “But keep looking. They’re bound to be here somewhere.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Harcourt-Browne.”
Daphne spun round. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Salmon, how super to see you. And what a simply charming hat; and dear Miss Roach. Percy, this is Becky’s mother, Mrs. Salmon, and her aunt, Miss Roach. My fiancé—”
“Delighted to meet you, your lordship,” said Mrs. Salmon, wondering if anyone from the Ladies’ Circle at Romford would believe her when she told them.
“You must be so proud of your daughter,” said Percy.
“Yes, I am, your lordship,” said Mrs. Salmon.
Miss Roach stood like a statue and didn’t offer an opinion.
“And where is our little scholar,” demanded Daphne.
“I’m here,” said Becky. “But where have you been?” she asked, emerging from a group of new graduates.
“Looking for you.”
The two girls threw their arms around each other.
“Have you seen my mother?”
“She was with us a moment ago,” said Daphne, looking around.
“She’s gone to find some sandwiches, I think,” said Miss Roach.
“Typical of Mum,” said Becky, laughing.
“Hello, Percy,” said Charlie. “How are things?”
“Things are spiffing,” said Percy, coughing. “And well done, Becky, I say,” he added as Mrs. Salmon returned carrying a large plate of sandwiches.
“If Becky has inherited her mother’s common sense, Mrs. Salmon,” said Daphne as she selected a cucumber sandwich for Percy, “she ought to do well in the real world, because I suspect there won’t be many of these left in fifteen minutes’ time.” She picked out one of the smoked salmon variety for herself. “Were you very nervous when you marched up onto that stage?” Daphne asked, turning her attention back to Becky.
“I certainly was, replied Becky. “And when the King placed the hood over my head, my legs almost gave way. Then, to make matters worse, the moment I returned to my place I discovered Charlie was crying.”
“I was not,” protested her husband.
Becky said nothing more as she linked her arm through his.
“I’ve rather taken to that purple hood thing,” said Percy. “I think I’d look quite a swell were I to sport one of those at next year’s hunt ball. What do you think, old gel?”
“You’re expected to do rather a lot of hard work before you’re allowed to adorn yourself with one of those, Percy.”
They all turned to see who it was who had offered this opinion.
Percy lowered his head. “Your Majesty is, as always, quite correct. I might add, sir, that I fear, given my present record, I am unlikely ever to be considered for such a distinction.”
The King smiled, then added, “In fact I’m bound to say, Percy, that you seem to have strayed somewhat from your usual habitat.”
“A friend of Daphne’s,” explained Percy.
“Daphne, my dear, how lovely to see you,” said the King. “And I haven’t yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your engagement.”
“I received a kind note from the Queen only yesterday, Your Majesty. We are honored that you are both able to attend the wedding.”
“Yes, simply delighted,” said Percy. “And may I present Mrs. Trumper, who was the recipient of the degree?” Becky shook hands with the King for a second time. “Her husband, Mr. Charles Trumper, and Mrs. Trumper’s mother, Mrs. Salmon; her aunt, Miss Roach.”
The King shook hands with all four before saying, “Well done, Mrs. Trumper. I do hope you’re going to put your degree to some useful purpose.”
“I shall be joining the staff of Sotheby’s, Your Majesty. As an apprentice in their fine art department.”
“Capital. Then I can only wish you continued success, Mrs. Trumper. I look forward to seeing you at the wedding, if not before, Percy.” With a nod the King moved on to another group.
“Decent fellow,” said Percy. “Good of him to come over like that.”
“I had no idea you knew—” began Becky.
“Well,” explained Percy, “to be honest, my great-great-great-great-grandfather tried to murder his great-great-great-great-grandfather, and had he succeeded our roles might well have been reversed. Despite that he’s always been jolly understanding about the whole affair.”
“So what happened to your great-great-great-great-grandfather?” asked Charlie.
“Exiled,” said Percy. “And I’m bound to add, quite rightly. Otherwise the blighter would only have tried again.”
“Good heavens,” said Becky, laughing.
“What is it?” said Charlie.
“I’ve just worked out who Percy’s great-great-great-great-grandfather was.”
Daphne didn’t get a chance to see Becky again before the marriage ceremony, as the last few weeks of preparation for her wedding seemed to be totally occupied. However, she did manage to keep abreast of the goings-on in Chelsea Terrace, after bumping into the colonel and his wife at Lady Denham’s reception in Onslow Square. The colonel was able to inform her, sotto voce, that Charlie was beginning to run up a rather large overdraft with the bank—“even if h
e had cleared every other outstanding creditor.” Daphne smiled when she recalled that her last payment had been returned in typical Charlie fashion several months before it was due. “And I’ve just learned that the man has his eye on yet another shop,” added the colonel.
“Which one this time?”
“The bakery—Number 145.”
“Becky’s father’s old trade,” said Daphne. “Are they confident of getting their hands on it?”
“Yes, I think so—although I fear Charlie’s going to have to pay a little over the odds this time.”
“Why’s that?”
“The baker is right next door to the fruit and vegetable shop, and Mr. Reynolds is only too aware just how much Charlie wants to buy him out. However, Charlie has tempted Mr. Reynolds with an offer to remain as manager, plus a share of the profits.”
“Hmmm. How long do you think that little arrangement will last?”
“Just as long as it takes for Charlie to master the bakery trade once again.”
“And how about Becky?”
“She’s landed a job at Sotheby’s. As a counter clerk.”
“A counter clerk?” said Daphne on a rising note. “What was the point of taking all that trouble to get a degree if she ends up as a counter clerk?”
“Apparently everybody starts off that way at Sotheby’s, whatever qualifications they bring to the job. Becky explained it all to me,” replied the colonel. “It seems that you can be the son of the chairman, have worked in a major West End art gallery for several years, possess a degree or even have no qualifications at all, but you still start on the front desk. Once they discover you’re any good you get promoted into a specialist department. Not unlike the army, actually.”
“So which department does Becky have her eye on?”
“Seems she wants to join some old fellow called Pemberton who’s the acknowledged expert on Renaissance paintings.”
“My bet,” said Daphne, “is that she’ll last on the front desk for about a couple of weeks.”
“Charlie doesn’t share your low opinion of her,” said the colonel.
“Oh, so how long does he give her?”
The colonel smiled. “Ten days at the most.”
CHAPTER
15
When the morning mail arrived at Lowndes Square, Wentworth, the butler, would place the letters on a silver tray and take them to the brigadier in his study, where his master would remove those addressed to himself before handing the tray back to the butler. He, in turn, would deliver the remaining letters to the ladies of the house.
However, since the announcement of his daughter’s engagement in The Times and the subsequent sending out of over five hundred invitations for the forthcoming wedding, the brigadier had become bored with the sorting-out process and instructed Wentworth to reverse his route, so that he would be handed only those letters addressed to him.
Thus it was on a Monday morning in June 1921 that Wentworth knocked on Miss Daphne’s bedroom door, entered when bidden and handed her a large bundle of mail. Once Daphne had extracted the letters addressed to her mother and herself, she returned the few that remained to Wentworth, who bowed slightly and proceeded on his anti-clockwise route.
As soon as Wentworth had closed the door behind him Daphne climbed out of bed, placed the stack of letters on her dressing-table and wandered into the bathroom. A little after ten-thirty, feeling ready for the rigors of the day, she returned to her dressing-table and began slitting open the letters. Acceptances and regrets had to be placed in separate piles before they could be ticked or crossed off on a master list; her mother would then be able to calculate the exact numbers to cater for and proceed to work on a seating plan. The breakdown of the thirty-one letters that particular morning produced twenty-two yeses, including a princess, a viscount, two other lords, an ambassador and dear Colonel and Lady Hamilton. There were also four nos, comprising two couples who would be abroad, an elderly uncle who was suffering from advanced diabetes and another whose daughter had been foolish enough to select the same day as Daphne on which to be married. Having ticked and crossed their names off the master list, Daphne turned her attention to the five remaining letters.
One turned out to be from her eighty-seven-year-old Aunt Agatha, who resided in Cumberland and had some time previously stated that she would not be attending the wedding as she felt the journey to London might prove too much of a strain. However, Aunt Agatha went on to suggest that perhaps Daphne should bring Percy up north to visit her just as soon as they returned from their honeymoon, as she wished to make his acquaintance.
“Certainly not,” said Daphne out loud. “Once I am back in England I shall have far more important things to worry myself with than aging aunts.” She then read the P.S.:
Wicked old lady, thought Daphne, well aware that Aunt Agatha wrote an identical P.S. to every one of her relations, however distant, thus guaranteeing that she rarely spent a weekend alone.
The second letter was from Michael Fishlock and Company, the catering specialists, who enclosed an estimate for supplying tea to five hundred guests in Vincent Square immediately preceding the wedding. Three hundred guineas seemed an outrageous sum to Daphne, but without a second thought she placed the estimate on one side, to be dealt with by her father at some later date. Two other letters addressed to her mother that were from friends and no concern of Daphne’s were also placed on one side.
The fifth letter she saved until last, because the envelope was enriched by the most colorful stamps, the King’s crown set in an oval on the right-hand corner above the words “Ten Annas.”
She slit the envelope open slowly and extracted several sheets of heavy notepaper, the first of which was embossed with the crest and legend of the Royal Fusiliers.
“Dear Daphne,” the letter began. She hurriedly turned to the last page in order to check the signature, which read, “Your friend, as always, Guy.”
Returning to the first page, she glanced at the address before beginning to read Guy’s words with apprehension.
Daphne placed the unread pages back on her dressing-table, wishing that the letter had arrived a few days after she had set out on her honeymoon rather than before. She fiddled around with the guest list for some time, but realized she would eventually have to find out what Guy expected of her. She returned to his letter.
Daphne turned the page and stopped to look at herself in the mirror. She had no desire to find out what Guy expected of her. He had even forgotten in whose room he had been discovered. Yet it was only seconds before her eyes returned to the top of the next page and she began reading again.
Daphne placed the letter back on the dressing table, and began to brush her hair as she considered what should be done next. She did not want to discuss the problem with her mother or father and certainly had no desire to drag Percy into it. She also felt certain that Becky should not be made aware of Trentham’s missive until she had thought out exactly what course of action needed to be taken. She was amazed at how short a memory Guy assumed she must have as he distanced himself from reality.
She put down the hairbrush and looked at herself in the mirror before returning to the letter for a second and then a third reading. Eventually she placed the letter back in the envelope and tried to dismiss its contents from her thoughts; but whatever distraction she turned her attention to, Guy’s words continued to prey on her mind. It particularly aggravated her that he should imagine she was so gullible.
Suddenly Daphne realized from whom she should seek advice. She picked up the telephone, and after asking the operator for a Chelsea number, was delighted to find the colonel was still at home.
“I was just off to my club, Daphne,” he told her. “But do let me know how I can be of help.”
“I need to talk to you urgently but it’s not something I feel I can discuss over the telephone,” she explained.
“I understand,” said the colonel, who paused for a moment before adding, “If you’re free why don’t
you join me for lunch at the In and Out? I’ll just change my booking to the Ladies’ Room.”
Daphne accepted the offer gratefully, and once she had checked her makeup Hoskins drove her to Piccadilly, arriving at the Naval and Military a few minutes after one.
The colonel was standing in the entrance hall waiting to greet her. “This is a pleasant surprise,” said Sir Danvers. “It’s not every day I’m seen lunching with a beautiful young woman. It will do my reputation at the club no end of good. I shall wave at every brigadier and general I come across.”
The fact that Daphne didn’t laugh at the colonel’s little aside brought about an immediate change in his demeanor. He took his guest gently by the arm and guided her through to the ladies’ luncheon room. Once he had written out their order and handed it to a waitress, Daphne removed Guy’s letter from her bag and without another word passed it over to her host.
The colonel fixed the monocle to his good eye and began to read, occasionally looking up at Daphne, only to observe that she hadn’t touched the Brown Windsor soup that had been placed in front of her.
“Rum business this,” he said, as he placed the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Daphne.
“I agree, but what do you suggest I do?”
“Well, one thing’s for certain, my dear, you can’t discuss the contents with Charlie or Becky. I also don’t see how you can avoid letting Trentham know that should the question of who fathered the child be put to you directly you would feel beholden to tell the truth.” He paused and took a sip of his soup. “I swear I’ll never speak to Mrs. Trentham again as long as I live,” he added without explanation.
Daphne was taken aback by this remark; until that moment she had not been aware that he had ever come across the woman.
“Perhaps we should use our combined efforts to come up with a suitable reply, my dear?” the colonel suggested after some further thought. He broke off to allow a waitress to serve up two helpings of the club’s dish of the day.
As the Crow Flies Page 21
