Debutantes

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘At least roof looks fair enough,’ Herbert allowed as the tour finally drew to its conclusion. ‘Can’t say I’d like to foot bill for re-roofing a place like this. And there’s a lot to be said for stone-mullioned windows. You don’t have to keep replacing them like sashes. What say you, dear wife?’ Herbert turned his attention from the elevations of the house to his wife who had now returned to his side, back from her diversion to see a knot garden laid out beyond the west wing. ‘Frankly, now.’

  ‘Frankly?’ she enquired, having given Edward Jackson a brief sideways glance to see if he was within earshot, which as Jane discovered unhappily he still was.

  ‘Aye, Mrs Forrester. It’s our money that’ll pay for it, so be as frank as you like.’

  ‘Well.’ Jane gave the attendant land agent another brief look and then took a deep breath. ‘I don’t like it altogether, Herbert. I have to say that for a start. It’s not as though I altogether like it.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Herbert replied, lighting up a fresh cigar. ‘That is agreed.’

  ‘I don’t like the room with the tomb in it for an instance,’ she said, lowering her voice slightly. ‘It gives me goosebumps.’

  ‘Ah.’ Edward Jackson interrupted with a polite cough. ‘If I may make so bold, Mrs Forrester, that happens not to be a tomb. That is an effigy.’

  ‘It won’t matter if it happens to be the Tower of Pisa, Jackson,’ Herbert retorted. ‘If Mrs Forrester don’t like it, it goes.’

  ‘Were we to buy the house it most certainly would have to go, Herbert,’ Jane agreed, her voice still primly lowered. ‘I would not like having monuments to dead people in the house.’

  ‘It is of great renown,’ Edward Jackson insisted, still managing to overhear. ‘It is an historic monument.’

  ‘I’m sure, Mr Jackson. None the less I would not have it left there.’

  ‘There’d be no need, Jane,’ Herbert assured her. ‘If we are to buy it, of course there will be things you don’t fancy. There always are when folks buy new houses. But just rest assured, my dear. Places soon become your own once you get your things about you, and everything painted the way you like it.’

  ‘We should certainly have to repaint all the panelling in the hall, Herbert. Where someone or other has painted all over it. We’d definitely have to see to that for a start.’

  Edward Jackson sighed inwardly and raised his eyes to heaven. He was only glad his employer was not around to hear what was being said about her ancestor’s famous monument, let alone the hall with its wall paintings executed by Giovanni Savarese in the middle of the seventeenth century for her great-grandfather, the fourth marquess.

  ‘What sentiments would you like me to convey to Lady Lanford?’ he enquired during the ensuing silence, while the prospective buyers stood contemplating the famous edifice.

  ‘Come again?’ Herbert said, turning to frown at the land agent. ‘What sentiments?’

  ‘Are you considering purchasing Wynyates, sir?’ Edward Jackson smiled politely before continuing. ‘You must understand that it is not very often a house as notable as this comes on the market. So naturally if one is seriously considering purchasing, the—’

  ‘I know the score, Jackson.’ Herbert cut him off with a wave of his cigar. ‘I know we are not alone in looking over the place, but what I do know is that we are alone in being expected to pay the price being asked.’ For once the land agent was at a loss for words and found that all he could manage in return was another polite smile. ‘The price is prohibitive, man, but then flying kites is all part of doing business. Were we to consider purchasing Wynyates? That how you say it?’ Jackson nodded assent. ‘Then you will have a letter forthwith containing our offer, from which be assured we shall not waver.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Jackson replied, finding despite himself that he was unaccountably impressed by Herbert Forrester’s decisiveness. ‘I shall relay your sentiments to Lady Lanford.’

  ‘You may also tell her we shall not want many fixtures or effects neither. If we purchase then Mrs Forrester would be planning to bring our own household effects down from York. Is that all understood now, Jackson?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. I shall go and speak to Lady Lanford immediately you have been seen to your carriage.’

  As he watched the brand new carriage and its matching horses depart down the long drive, Edward Jackson thought it better not to relate in any detail the conversations he had just had with the Forresters. Knowing his employer as he did he realized that were she to be fully cognizant of everything the prospective buyers of her beloved Wynyates had said about the famous house and what they planned to do to it should they finally purchase it, she might well become so infuriated she would refuse to sell it to them, and that would never do. It was fully six months since Edward Jackson had last been paid, and much as he was loyal to Lady Lanford he personally could not afford for her to hold out against a purchase for her house for very much longer.

  Neither, as he also knew, could the rest of her staff, some of whom were already making ends meet by selling off food and bric-à-brac from the house at the back door. So it was in the interest of everyone who worked at Wynyates that Edward Jackson should swallow his pride and give as his opinion to Lady Lanford that the Forresters would be perfectly acceptable as the new owners.

  ‘So are we to buy it, Herbert? Or are we not?’ Jane Forrester asked tentatively once their carriage had drawn out of the grounds, as if not only the house itself might have ears but so might its great old trees.

  ‘That depends on her ladyship, my dear,’ Herbert replied, brushing some cigar ash off his trousers. ‘The house itself is of no great import. What matters is what goes with it. Which is why it all depends on her ladyship.’ He smiled across at his wife. ‘It’s what’s known as quid pro quo in business, beloved. Or if you’ll pardon my vulgarity, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Lady Lanford is in financial trouble. She has to sell the house and she has to get as much for it as she may. I shall pay her price, her fancy price, her price reserved for provincial greenhorns such as the likes of thee and me, but there’ll be a price for paying her price. And if her ladyship wants her money, her ladyship’s going to have to pay to get it.’

  It was now Jane Forrester’s turn to smile. Knowing her husband as well as she did she guessed precisely what he had in mind before he had begun to tell her. Even so she listened happily while Herbert outlined his proposed deal, and then when he had finished and fallen fast asleep opposite her Jane spent the rest of the journey excitedly imagining herself and her beloved husband receiving their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales at the newly refurbished Wynyates in the county of Hertfordshire.

  IN DEBT

  When Lord Lanford returned home to his house in Mount Street from a much extended shooting expedition in France he found his wife still very out of sorts. She had been out of sorts long before his departure, what with having to sell Wynyates and her troubles with the bank, but now that the sale of the house had been agreed George Lanford had fondly imagined that he might return home and find his Daisy of old.

  This was far from the case as he discovered as soon as he opened the front door and heard the sound of raised voices and breaking china. For one moment he contemplated having his man Smart take in his luggage while he took himself off to his club, but as he was standing hesitating in the hallway while trying to decide what course of action to take, the door of the drawing room was flung open and Daisy appeared before him.

  ‘George!’ she exclaimed in surprise, the dark frown momentarily vanishing from her brow. ‘I have to say vat it is about time, too!’ Then the frown returned as without giving her husband even as much as a kiss on his cheek Daisy swept on past him to hurry furiously up the stairs.

  Her husband watched her go in total bewilderment. Deciding that perhaps a visit to his club might indeed be the best idea, he had just ordered Smart to hand him back his top hat when Daisy’s maid Jenkins appeared from the drawing room carrying p
ieces of a broken china ornament in her hands.

  ‘Hmm,’ he observed. ‘Nothing of value, I trust?’

  ‘A small figurine, my lord, of a shepherdess I think it was. I trust you enjoyed your expedition, my lord?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Lanford replied. ‘Nothing unusual. Nothing at all remarkable, I’d say.’

  Opening his mouth slightly and rolling his tongue round the inside of one cheek as was his habit when in thought, Lanford stared back up the stairs as if there he might find the answer to the question which was slowly and vaguely framing itself in his mind.

  ‘It’s these people buying Wynyates, my lord,’ Jenkins told him in a low voice, solving the problem for him. ‘They are making demands upon her ladyship.’

  ‘Don’t say.’ George pondered without expression. ‘That the case, is it?’

  ‘I know my lady was looking forward to your return, my lord, so that she could discuss the matter with you,’ Jenkins said, edging her way towards the pass door. ‘Half the reason for her present distress is that you were not here to share her worry.’

  ‘Hmm,’ George said. ‘You don’t say. Better jump to, then.’

  Once again his steward stepped forward to take his master’s proffered top hat.

  ‘Bring me up some whisky, man,’ Lanford said. ‘I shall be in her ladyship’s boudoir.’

  Once upstairs he tapped carefully on the door leading to his wife’s suite of rooms, half expecting the sacrifice of yet another piece of china on the back of it, seeing the mood Daisy was obviously in. But instead and much to his surprise her voice simply and sweetly called for him to come in.

  ‘Thought I might get one between the eyes,’ he said as he closed the door behind him. ‘Thought perhaps I ought to put me gun first and me after.’

  ‘Oh, George darling,’ Daisy sighed, holding an exquisitely embroidered opera dress up against her and looking at the picture she and the dress made in her cheval mirror. ‘George, vese wretched people buying my house are being a perfect nuisance. I will not have it, you know. I simply will not be dictated to like vis.’

  ‘Like what, Daisy darling? Don’t have much of an inkling so far, I’m afraid.’

  ‘If you spent less time away shooting fings, George, and more time at home perhaps you might have more of what you call an inkling. When I agreed to sell my beloved Wynyates to vese people vey put a condition on it.’

  ‘That isn’t altogether uncommon, Daisy. Get a reasonable price for the old place, did you?’

  Daisy looked round at him, narrowing her large blue eyes. ‘Twice what it is worff, George, since you ask,’ she replied. ‘Hence ve condition.’

  ‘Fair enough then, I’d say, old girl. No one likes having to pay through the nose, do you see? No matter who they are.’

  ‘You have no idea of who vese people are, George. Vey are, well, vey are the most vulgar and ostentatious people one has ever, ever met.’

  ‘Ah well,’ George sighed, opening the door to a knock from Smart. ‘Colour of their money’s the same, don’t you know. So if I were you I should give ’em what they want. Give ’em what they want and have done with it, I say.’

  Daisy waited until Smart had poured his master a large glass of whisky and retired from her boudoir before continuing.

  ‘Just wait till you hear precisely what it is vey want, George,’ she said, trying another day dress up against herself. ‘When you do, you will need another whisky, I assure you. Vey want me to effect an introduction to ve prince, George. Can you imagine such a fing? Vey only agreed to buy Wynyates if I would agree to organize a reception vare for vem to be introduced to ve Prince and Princess of Wales! I am to introduce Prince Tum-Tum to ve Bumpkins as if vey are social acquaintances! I shall be ve laughing stock of Society!’

  ‘Hmmm,’ George said, putting his whisky down on a dressing table and sitting on the nearby stool. ‘See what you mean. Puts a different complexion on things.’

  ‘George. I shall be ve laughing stock of London!’

  ‘That’s as maybe, old girl. That’s as maybe. Hmmm.’ George took a necessary pause for thought, and an equally necessary drink of his whisky. ‘How much did you say you got for the place?’

  ‘I told you, George. Don’t you ever listen? Over twice what it is worff. Vese Bumpkins are made of ve stuff.’

  ‘In that case, old girl, knowing how short you are of dibs, afraid you are going to have to stand the grin. Knowing how short you are of dibs.’

  Daisy put aside the dress she was contemplating wearing, and sitting down opposite her husband gave him her most helpless smile.

  ‘George—’ she began, which was enough to make George drain his whisky and make for the door.

  ‘Sorry, Daisy. Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Running for cover meself at the moment, so sorry. No can do. No can do, and anyway,’ he concluded, consulting his fob watch, ‘got to meet someone at the club.’

  Were she not wearing her newest pair of French boots and hating the idea of scuffing them Daisy would have kicked the door closed behind her husband, such was her frustration. One of the many good reasons she had married George Lanford was because of his undoubted wealth, but what she had not known at the time and what no-one had seen fit to tell her was that her husband-to-be was an inveterate gambler. The fact that he was also one of the country’s very best shots might have proved an antidote to his vice but in fact only aggravated the problem since he was forever being asked up for shooting parties and, as the world including Daisy knew only too well, gambling in the evening was the natural concomitant of shooting during the day on these particular weeks, so George, the great shot, was forever popping either his gun, or his diamond cuff links.

  Hardly surprising then that within five years of their marriage George had gone through his entire inheritance before starting to make inroads on that of his wife – something which thanks to the Married Women’s Act he was quite able to do – and which he triumphantly managed to demolish within an even shorter time than he had his own, leaving her with only a few small trusts on which to live, these being safeguarded from even the most spendthrift husbands. Once at the end of Daisy’s inheritance, George took to living the hand-to-mouth existence of the amateur gambler, thousands of pounds up one week after either landing a coup on the racecourse or winning a substantial amount at the tables, deeply in debt the next when his fortunes were reversed.

  Once she realized the full extent of their financial problems Daisy, with the help of sympathetic trustees, had managed to subsidize herself without having recourse to asking George for a single penny of his usually ill-gotten gains. Then came the fateful day that the Prince of Wales took a fancy to her, which was the day when her own financial misfortunes really began.

  Entertaining the Prince of Wales was extremely expensive, the price of holding the future King of England enthralled was indeed financial suicide. Had her husband been able to hold on to any of his own money, Daisy’s circumstances might not have been so greatly reduced, but since this was not the case, and given the fact that the prince was famously tightfisted, by the time her paramour’s eyes were beginning to stray beyond Daisy’s and over her shoulder, Lady Lanford was deeply in debt herself. Hence the enforced sale of Wynyates and hence at this very moment the forthcoming interview at the bank.

  ‘What might I have done uvverwise?’ Daisy wondered aloud as Jenkins tight-laced her into her corset. ‘Who in ve whole of Society or anywhere else for vat matter could possibly refuse to entertain ve future King of England? Vare isn’t a woman born who could refuse such a fing, not if she wanted to keep her place in Society.’

  ‘Breathe in a little more, my lady,’ Jenkins prompted her mistress. ‘If you hope to work your usual charms, then we had best lace you up as tight as we may.’

  ‘Did you know vat only ve uvver day Lady Kevill was most severely reprimanded by his Royal Highness?’ Daisy gasped, as her maid managed to reduce her waist by another half inch while at the same time flattering her top half to a gratifying de
gree. ‘I have to confess I nearly died for her. What if it had been me? I kept finking, Jenkins. Can you imagine?’

  ‘I know, my lady,’ Jenkins sighed between tugs. ‘You told me about it only yesterday.’

  ‘Imagine being reprimanded in front of everyone for wearing ve same dress twice. “Lady Kevill,” he said, “Lady Kevill, we have already seen vat afternoon dress at Holkham.” Jenkins, I fink truly I would have killed myself.’

  ‘You would never have made such a mistake, my lady,’ Jenkins said, now tying the laces of the corset up and putting them in place. ‘Because I would never have allowed it.’

  If only her wretched bankers had even an inkling of Jenkins’s understanding of these matters, Daisy thought to herself, they would find it easy to understand the necessity of her continual borrowing. As it was they had summoned her quite out of the blue to discuss her financial affairs, no doubt expecting her as they had done on previous occasions to explain every one of her bills, be they from her milliners or her accounts from Worth, and why she had found it necessary to order four new riding habits from Busvines when most sensible ladies made do with one or two at most.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Daisy said out loud, examining first one side then the other in her looking glass to check on the success of her maid’s tight-lacing. ‘If you can understand how necessary it is for someone in my position in Society to have at ve very least a dozen or so new dresses a week during ve Season, ven why cannot ve beastly bank? After all, vat is what banks are vare for. To make sure one has enough money for one’s needs, surely.’

  ‘To make money from lending money, you mean, my lady,’ Jenkins answered, kneeling down to check her mistress’s hem. ‘That’s what banks are there for.’

  ‘Oh!’ Daisy exclaimed, stamping one small foot petulantly and momentarily knocking Jenkins off balance. ‘Whatever made you such an old sourapple I wonder sometimes, Jenkins? One simply does not need to be reminded of such fings. It really isn’t at all ladylike. Now fetch me my new little hat wiv all ve fevvers. If I am to endure anuvver of vese tedious interrogations at ve bank I must look my very best. It is absolutely essential vat I do – for apparently I am to see a new manager.’