Debutantes

by Charlotte Bingham

  But Daisy Lanford’s fabled looks were not to work the oracle with the new manager of Messrs Coutts and Co at the bank’s branch in the Strand. Mr Horace Westrupp, the recent appointee, well knew of his visitor’s astounding beauty and her apparently irresistible allure, but because he was an ambitious man with a large family to support he was determined not to make the mistake of his predecessor John Duncan who had fallen so completely under the Lanford spell that he had all but finished his career at the bank. The entirely bewitched John Duncan had in the firm opinion of his superiors lent Lady Lanford far too much unsecured money both for her own good and more importantly for that of the already over-lenient bank. Consequently poor Duncan had been removed to another branch and the assistant manager Mr Horace Westrupp had been appointed in his place, with firm and explicit instructions to call in the Lanford debt.

  Therefore if in order to save his life Horace Westrupp had been called upon to describe how the notorious Daisy Lanford (for that was how he preferred in advance to think of his client) had looked that day as she sat the opposite side of his desk in his wood-panelled office, he would have failed completely. Shortly before Lady Lanford had been announced, Westrupp had deliberately removed his spectacles for the very same reason Odysseus had blocked his ears with wax and had himself lashed to the mast in order to resist the Siren’s song. As a further precaution now that Horace Westrupp’s own particular siren sat only a matter of a few feet away from him, once he had shaken her delicate hand he barely gave her another look. Icy of heart where loyalty to his bank was concerned, he concentrated on the ledgers and papers before him.

  First he listened to what his visitor had to say, naturally. Good manners were a byword with the bank and Horace Westrupp was the most scrupulously well mannered of men. However, the longer he listened the more inwardly impatient he became, so spurious were the excuses for Daisy Lanford’s continuing improvidence.

  Controlling the growing desire to ask his client to stop talking so that his voice might be heard and some sound financial reason might begin to prevail, he allowed only the drumming of the fingers of both hands out of sight on his knees to outwardly betray his irritation. Nor when at long last Lady Lanford had come to the end of her litany of defence did he step right in with his demands. On the contrary, he considered every single excuse offered for Lady Lanford’s extravagance as if it was almost impossible to find any good reason why the bank should not go on lending her money, and so thoughtful was his examination of the affair that even though he dared not look up directly at the Siren he sensed she was smiling as if her song had lured him onto the rocks.

  Unfortunately for her, Daisy was making the mistake of taking Horace Westrupp’s reluctance to look her in the face as a sign of bashfulness, if not indeed timidity. In fact so confident did she feel that instead of feigning penitence at the conclusion of what she considered to be just another long and boring lecture on the dangers of being in debt, Daisy was more determined than ever to ask for an extension of her overdraft and indeed for greatly increased facilities. The silent man sitting opposite her could, she was sure, scarcely refuse. After all he was probably only just down from one of those clerical stools they all perched on in banks.

  ‘I see,’ Horace Westrupp said, now clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. Expecting him to look up at her at any moment Daisy prepared to give the wretched man her most innocent smile, which was of course her most beguiling one. Much to her irritation, however, the banker kept staring at the statement of accounts in front of him. ‘I see,’ he repeated, before clearing his throat emphatically. ‘Nonetheless, much as one is entirely sympathetic to the explanations you have so graciously presented and however much one endeavours to understand the need for further such expenditure, regretfully it is alas not within one’s powers to allow the convenience of the facility granted you in the past to continue. One imagines, if you have paid heed to the many letters written to you on the subject, Lady Lanford, that you are perfectly cognizant of the size of the sum now outstanding against your account, and taking the view furthermore that the longer the debit is allowed to exist the greater naturally the interest it attracts, the bank has only deemed it proper to curtail this facility in your own interests. The bank does not like to see any of its customers discomfited, particularly its more distinguished ones, which is why it is one of our duties to advise on any accounts which are in danger of bolting, as such a thing is often called within the business, as indeed your own personal account would appear to be.’

  ‘On your account, sir, one has had to sell one’s ancestral home,’ Daisy replied icily, now that the object of the lesson had become clear. ‘Is vis not sufficient? What uvver sacrifices do you require, may I ask?’

  ‘One is deeply sympathetic, Lady Lanford, concerning the enforced sale of one of your houses,’ Westrupp replied, still addressing his desk top. ‘The proceeds from the sale, however, fall some way short of the amount still in debit.’

  Westrupp turned a sheet of paper around so that Daisy were she to want to do so could read it, and pushed it across the shiny leather top of his desk. ‘One sent you a copy of this with one’s last letter, but just in case perchance you failed to read it closely, Lady Lanford—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Daisy replied, ignoring the proffered sheet of paper, her mind racing ahead and wondering what if any avenues lay open for her to explore.

  Certainly she had jewellery, fine paintings and a mass of silver which could either be sold or – heaven forbid, she thought – discreetly pledged in order to pay off the bank, but once word got about that this was the case, that Daisy Lanford’s effects were being impignorated, the shame and scandal of it would soon knock her off the summit of Society, perhaps even forcing her to live cheaply abroad, thus leaving the field open to her rivals Augustine Medlar, Teresa Londonderry, Gladys de Grey et al, and how they would all triumph and gloat in her downfall. The very thought of it was too much to bear, let alone the thought of how great was the possibility, so Daisy at once dismissed the notion and turned to thinking of other ways in which she might escape bankruptcy.

  ‘Good,’ she said suddenly, thinking it was time to bring this tedious interview to an end. ‘Fank you for seeing me, Mr West – um?’

  ‘Westrupp, Lady Lanford. However, one is not quite finished, alas.’

  Daisy tartly informed her interlocutor that she had a pressing engagement for lunch, only for Horace Westrupp to assure her that the conclusion of his business would take hardly more than five minutes at most. Daisy frowned at him, realizing too late that this was the first proper look the banker had taken at her. By the time she had changed her expression to an infinitely more beguiling one, Westrupp was no longer looking at her but rising and gesturing for her to sit back down while he finished what he had to say.

  ‘To conclude, therefore, Lady Lanford, one is requested to inform you that the bank requires settlement of this matter within three months.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Daisy said, with no attempt at charm or even discomfort. She was purely adamant.

  ‘Initially one was looking at one month, which one would have to agree might well prove impossible,’ Westrupp replied as if she had not spoken at all. ‘However, upon review, and considering how profitably your ladyship has sold Wynyates, the decision was taken to extend the time allowed by another two months. That alas is the bank’s final word on the matter. The feeling being, while sympathetic to your ladyship’s needs, that it will not be helpful to your ladyship to incur any greater interest charges.’

  But Daisy was no longer listening. Her thoughts were back at Wynyates, dwelling not upon her beloved old home but on the people who had bought it from her.

  And upon Herbert Forrester in particular.

  * * *

  It was against Jane Forrester that Daisy made her first move. She invited both her and Louisa to go on a shopping expedition with her, first to London where she would guide them in the purchase of everything Louisa would require for the forthco
ming Season and thence to Paris where Daisy would effect an introduction for them to the House of Worth.

  ‘That’s most kind,’ Herbert said to his wife when she showed him the letter. ‘Indeed if you are to do London Season properly you must both have all the gowns you need, my dear, and more if you want them. I will not have my wife playing second fiddle to any other lady. We can afford it, so off you go. Being people of property now it is only right you should have all the fine things you need.’

  So it was that three days later, having successfully concluded the first part of their expedition in London, Jane and her daughter found themselves being set down from a hansom cab with their travelling companion and mentor, the famous Lady Lanford, outside Worth’s celebrated shop at 7 rue de la Paix in Paris.

  Louisa, a strong healthy-looking girl who in Daisy’s private opinion would be more than better suited to some sturdy outdoor adventure such as exploring or mountaineering, and who had hardly uttered one word on the entire journey other than to exclaim Oh my! every time anyone addressed a remark to her or whenever Daisy recounted an escapade mentioning several notable Society names, now stood with her mouth open staring at the wonderful gowns in the shop windows in front of her.

  ‘I am told, Miss Forrester, vat some of ve young women who sew these wonderful gowns lose vair eyesight before vey reach firty,’ Daisy Lanford informed Louisa, leading the girl to look with her and her mother at the stately display. ‘But ven vat is hardly surprising when you look at ve embroidery. Regardez ve work such as on ve train of vat most lovely dress vare. And do take a look at vat visiting dress. Is it not exquisite? And vose little fewered hats. How I love fevvered hats. Monsieur Worth purely is a genius, as you are about to discover.’

  Daisy glided into the building, her so-famous walk giving the impression of a bird’s flight, with Jane and Louisa following close behind. The doors were held open for them by a man already bowing from the waist before their feet had crossed the threshold. Inside, at the threshold of a new doorway, waited a grave-faced woman in a jet embroidered dress who informed them that Monsieur Worth would receive them immediately, and led the way towards the entrance of the salon proper, where she swung one heavy curtain aside to reveal the emperor of fashion waiting for them within.

  While her daughter once again muttered from behind her a happily almost inaudible Oh my! Jane Forrester herself nearly gasped aloud when she saw Charles Worth, so peculiarly striking was his appearance in his oddly shaped black velvet hat, even odder swathed coat with elongated velvet lapels and huge floppy spotted bow tie tied downwards like a spaniel’s ears. Daisy Lanford had forewarned the Forresters that Charles Worth, although an Englishman, considered himself very much an artiste and dressed accordingly, but nothing could quite prepare anyone for their first encounter with the great English couturier.

  ‘Lady Lanford.’

  Charles Worth bowed in greeting, kissing the air half an inch above Daisy’s gloved hand. Daisy smiled back at him, head cocked slightly in amusement to one side. ‘Monsieur Worff, allow me to introduce Mrs Herbert Forrester and her charming daughter Louisa.’

  Jane knew that without Daisy’s all-important influence Worth would never have received them in his private salon himself. Her friends in York had told her as much and she knew it to be true, that if she and Louisa had not been travelling as acquaintances of such a famous client of Charles Worth’s they would have had to be content with one of his assistants. Being the sort of person she was Jane Forrester would have been perfectly content with such attentions, as would her now thankfully speechless daughter, as indeed most rich women who came to the house of Worth had to be, because no matter how wealthy his potential customers few of them were considered important enough to be attended by the Master himself.

  Daisy Lanford was quite different, of course. Not because she was titled since there were many titled women Monsieur Worth correctly deemed nowhere near eminent or interesting enough to warrant his personal attentions, but because as the celebrated mistress of the Prince of Wales she was naturally revered by the French. Daisy Lanford was the mistress of the heir to the English throne and as such was looked upon as practically royal herself, as would be the mistress of a French king, if they still had one. The depths of the bows and curtseys which were accorded to her as she, Jane and Louisa progressed through the Master’s famous headquarters made this exceedingly plain.

  ‘Ve wonderful fing about Charles Worff is as I was saying on ve boat. His designs are so logical it is as if he makes vem for one’s own personality,’ Daisy whispered to Jane as they were led past a glass-cased display of mannequins entitled Going to the Drawing Room. ‘As well as his quite miraculous way wiff colour. You will soon see for yourself, dear Mrs Forrester, ven he turns his attentions to you.’

  Jane understood exactly what Daisy meant long before the Master got round to making a personal assessment of her. From just looking at the mannequins she could see what a genius Worth had for colour, setting coral against silver, pale ivory against glowing pink grosgrain, and Nattier blue against the very palest of greys.

  His gift was not confined to just the mixing of colours, however, for fabrics too fell under his spell, silk being used to dramatic effect against brocade, embroidery against velvet, and pleats above great falls of silk. During a lull in the activities Daisy told her of a famous gown Charles Worth had built for Lady Curzon for her role as Vicereine of India, which became known as his Peacock’s Dress. ‘It was simply brilliant, my dear Mrs Forrester,’ she sighed. ‘You see, ve centre of each peacock’s eye as it were was an iridescent green beetle shell. It was a complete masterpiece.’

  ‘I shall never be able to thank you enough for bringing us here personally,’ Jane told their mentor once they had finished making the arrangements for the innumerable fittings that would be necessary for them both.

  Happily Daisy, who after only a couple of days was already deeply bored with the company of the two women she privately called her little Bumpkins, knew just how Mrs Herbert Forrester could thank her and that was by contributing considerably towards the cost of Daisy’s gowns. It was a device she often employed when effecting a personal introduction to Charles Worth, simply putting the price of several of her own gowns on her latest companion’s account. The customers she brought with her to 7 rue de la Paix were always far too rich and too grateful either to examine their bills too closely or to investigate any slight discrepancies. The cost of a personal presentation to Monsieur Worth was not inconsiderable, but then, bearing in mind the social elevation that followed such an introduction, Daisy personally considered it to be cheap at the price, for it wasn’t just an introduction to Charles Worth and a guarantee of his personal supervision, it was an introduction to the whole of the beau monde in Paris. In fact Daisy was now of the mind that what she did for certain very select acquaintances was actually totally beyond the realms of price.

  This time, however, she hoped the presentation of a rich new client to Charles Worth was going to prove even more invaluable to Daisy than to her ingénues. This time, instead of helping to make someone else’s social reputation, the latest introductions she had just so successfully effected were designed to help save Daisy’s own, in spite of what Daisy considered the fearful thought of the Bumpkins now safely installed in her beloved Wynyates. She just hoped with all her heart that the rumour she had heard about what they intended to do to the panelling was not in any way true.

  * * *

  Some weeks later Herbert Forrester was more than a little taken aback when he was finally presented with the account for his wife and daughter’s shopping expedition to London and Paris. He had expected them to be extravagant, of course, indeed he had encouraged them to be so, and to choose as they wished, but to his way of thinking the sum of twenty-two and a half thousand pounds was an unthinkable amount to be expected to pay for the dresses, hats, gloves and footwear to clothe the two of them for the coming Season.

  He paced up and down his study thinking
about comparative prices. For twenty-two and a half thousand pounds he could build, equip and start up a couple of brand new factories, the difference being the factories would then proceed to make him money whereas all a collection of dozens of costumes would do was become unfashionable the following year. Having soothed himself with the thought that the dresses would help to elevate them into the proper echelons, he finally sat down and calmly wrote out the cheque. Factories might bring in money but they could never be influential.

  ‘Lady Lanford wishes to come and stay a night next week so that we may discuss the arrangements for the ball,’ Jane informed him over dinner that evening.

  ‘“Lady Lanford?”’ Herbert said, tucking his napkin up under his chin. ‘Surely after spending so much money together in Paris you must be on Christian name terms now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh no, Herbert love,’ Jane said, dropping her voice on account of the servants. ‘That would not be proper. I already think it is so very kind of her to spare us so much of her precious time and taste in helping us in all these matters, for after all it is we who are to be At Home to their Royal Highnesses, not she, Herbert, just remember that. It is our name on the engraved ivory invitation, not Lady Lanford’s.’

  ‘Rest assured it will be to her own benefit as well, Jane,’ Herbert replied. ‘Lady Lanford doesn’t give some’at for nowt, believe me. Folks like that never do.’

  Jane sighed privately, and caught sight of Louisa doing the same behind the cover of her napkin. She couldn’t help it and obviously neither could her daughter, but since spending time in Daisy Lanford’s company she had become increasingly aware of her husband’s social shortcomings, and was secretly wondering how best to approach the problem. After all, the last thing she would want for her dear Herbert would be for him to be thought of as some uncouth provincial clodhopper. She considered discussing the matter with Daisy, who was bound to have some good ideas as to how best to set about improving Herbert’s etiquette.