The Finishing Touches

by Browne, Hester

  Once I’d established that my buttons, lipstick, and teeth were in sparkling order, I leaned over the top stair rails to the black-and-white hall two stories down and saw Lord P standing by the trailing ivy jardinière.

  Excellent, I thought, and I rushed down the stairs, not quite as elegantly as Miss McGregor would have liked, eager to see him and to fill him in on what I’d started before Miss Thorne got there first.

  As I got to the bottom, however, I realized I was too late: I could hear his familiar, deep voice patiently trying to get a word in edgewise between another female voice.

  I hated myself for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t resist.

  “It’s what Lady Frances would have wanted. You must have that break—I’ll come with you if you need some company. Of course you’re not too old for skiing! You’re still a young man, Pelham!” The girlish giggle gave it away.

  Adele.

  I wondered if Lord P knew that taking up sport with Adele was a risky business.

  I listened, my hand tightening on the banister, as she went on. Her voice was dripping in sympathy and was pitched at a level that suggested she was standing very close to him.

  “Anything I can do. I mean, if anyone understands what it means to lose a loved one suddenly, it’s me, Pelham…”

  “You’re most kind…”

  I marched down the rest of the stairs before I heard any more.

  Lord P looked pleased to see me, but a brief flash of something crossed Adele’s face before she replaced it with delight. As I suspected, she was virtually leaning on him, with her arm through his where she’d been patting the sleeve of his dark cashmere overcoat. She didn’t remove the hand, though the patting had ceased.

  “Here’s Betsy!” she cried. “Darling, that’s a very sweet little suit. I love the way you’re showing the girls how they can dress for the credit crunch. There are some gems on the high street.”

  “The high street” for Adele was Sloane Street, going by the outfit she had on, but I refused to let her think she’d landed a blow.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Franny always said that good shoes were the key to any outfit.”

  “Then you obviously got your sense of style from her,” said Adele graciously, and then spoiled it by adding, “In a manner of speaking, of course.”

  Lord P seemed oblivious to any barb and carried on smiling broadly.

  “I understand we’ve got a meeting to go to,” I said to him.

  “Marvelous, yes.” He nodded happily. “Good timing, as it turned out. Adele here needed a spot of advice about a painting she’d seen, so I popped into Christie’s with her and suddenly thought, better to make a day of it, see you, catch up with Montgomery junior, have a chinwag with Miss Thorne about how things are shaping up…”

  He did sound cheery; I had to give Adele that.

  Adele touched his arm. “Would you two excuse me? I must go and prepare a lesson.”

  What? I thought.

  “Marvelous,” said Lord P while I was still open-mouthed at Adele’s shamelessness. “So glad to see everyone pulling together in this hour of crisis.”

  “I try!” she said, and waved her French-manicured fingertips at us. “Toodles, darlings!”

  I almost raised my fingertips back but managed to stop myself in time. There was something awful but hypnotic about Adele.

  The meeting, such as it was, took less than ten minutes.

  I outlined my ideas, Mark backed them up, Miss Thorne made sad noises about “losing our precious exclusivity,” and Lord P told me to carry on the good work and see what happened after the Open Day.

  And that was it.

  “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Lord P said as we got up to leave. “I’ve been going through some of Frances’s things—got one or two things for you at my club, thought you’d like them.”

  “I’d love that!” I said eagerly, and we strolled across the bustle of Piccadilly down St. James’, into the serene hushed world of the gentlemen’s clubs, toward the Athenaeum, where Lord P now stayed when he came to London.

  He settled me in a quiet corner of the morning room with a tray of tea, then disappeared and returned with a sequined clutch that I recognized as Franny’s vintage evening bag, the one her mother had gotten in India and that only came out on special occasions.

  “Few things in there,” he said, and I took his sudden awkwardness to mean they were of sentimental value. “Thought you’d like them. Tea?”

  He poured from the silver pot, taking his time as I unpacked the bag slowly, seeing fragments of childhood memories pile up in my lap. He’d jumbled everything together, like a man would: there was a pair of earrings I’d always coveted, very old ones with sapphire flowers, and Franny’s pearl necklace, the one she’d worn every single day—with tweeds, sweaters, sundresses, and swimsuits. A leather photo wallet with pictures of me on a pony, fat legs sticking out, while Franny held the reins and Nancy and Kathleen hovered behind in Barbour jackets. Another photograph, of Franny holding me, at about a year old, in front of the rosebushes at Halfmoon Street. I was wearing tiny knickerbockers.

  Lord P’s voice cut in. “First photograph she ever took of you,” he said. “She was too worried someone would come and take you away before then.”

  I looked up in surprise and sadness. “Really?” She’d never let that show. I had thought I was the one who worried about being taken away from her.

  “Did she know who might come back for me?” I’d never asked that before. “She must have had some idea, deep down.”

  Lord P passed me a teacup, and his face tightened. His natural reluctance to wade into the unknown waters of Emotion was battling with his equally natural instinct to do his duty. “Neither of us knew who had left you. We made inquiries, naturally, but…we were so happy to have you that it didn’t seem to matter.”

  “But didn’t you have your suspicions?” I pressed on. “Didn’t Franny guess from the gold bee I had in the box?”

  “The bee? Well, if she did, she never mentioned it to me,” he said, bewildered. “Is it relevant?”

  “All the Academy girls had them,” I said. “I met someone at the memorial who recognized it immediately. She thought it was a sign that my mother was there, just before I was born. She thought she might have been one of the girls who went around with the Bentley Boys. Surely Franny would have known that?”

  Lord P looked absolutely horrified. “Who on earth said that to you?”

  “Oh, an old girl,” I hedged, not wanting to drop Nell into it. Just yet, anyway.

  “And what did she say about…” He looked a bit sick. “About the boys they were involved with?”

  “Just that they were a gang of Hooray Henrys who hung around with some of the Academy girls. That they were rich and got drunk and partied for England.” I gazed with concern at Lord P. His face had gone the color of cold rice pudding. I almost didn’t like to add, “And that Hector was one of them,” but I had to.

  I managed to stop myself adding, So, was he my father? Was that why I was left with you?

  The question seemed to be asking itself, from the way he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “That wasn’t the Academy’s finest hour,” he said eventually. “Apart from your arrival, obviously. But I have no reason to believe that there’s any connection.”

  It sounded like someone sticking their fingers in their ears and going “lalalala” to me. I wasn’t going to get anything more on that topic, I could tell.

  “What was Hector like?” I asked instead. “I mean, what is he like?”

  “He’s the sort of man who didn’t come back to his mother’s funeral, for a start,” said Lord P shortly.

  “Why not?” I found that extraordinary. Women had flown from all over the world to Franny’s memorial service—and yet her only son had sent a pathetic circlet of white roses to the tiny family funeral. “He must have done something really bad not to be able to come back for that,” I went on. “I mean, just what did he do? W
as he banned from the funeral?” An awful thought struck me. “Is he in prison?”

  “No! No, he’s not in prison.” Lord P rubbed his nose. “Betsy, it’s very hard to explain…”

  Because he’s my father, I thought. Why doesn’t he just say it?

  The fire crackled as Lord P gathered his thoughts together, clearly uncomfortable. “Frances used to insist that Hector wasn’t a bad person, just a very weak one. Not enough stuffing. Always was easily led, from the time he was at school, liked to do exactly what everyone else did. Those boys he hung around with—Frances and I weren’t keen, not the sort of men she wanted for her girls, let alone her own son, to be going round with. One chap was a racing driver, quite a good sort, but careless. Another was the son of some of our friends, who’d gone off the rails. Hector was perfectly charming, but he lacked much moral compass, and I’m afraid to say when he really needed these so-called friends they let him down rather badly.”

  He stared into the middle distance as his voice trailed off. It was clearly causing him some pain, but I really needed to know. Even if it was terrible.

  “You don’t want to think that any child of yours could be a bounder,” he said eventually. “But I fear Hector was, and probably still is.”

  This didn’t fit in with the occasional fragments Franny had dropped, about her handsome, amusing Hector.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Why did he run away?”

  “There was a car crash, involving some of his friends. Not his fault.” Lord P let out a long breath. “It emerged that it wasn’t unconnected with some gambling debts with some shady types that were his fault, and the same morning, instead of being a man about it, he upped and left. Left a note that broke his mother’s heart, saying he’d done something he was too ashamed to admit to her face, and until he’d put it right, he couldn’t face her.”

  I was holding the evening bag so tightly the sequins were imprinting into my skin. “Was that when he went to Argentina? Did you find him?”

  “After several years of searching for the little sod, yes. I had detectives on the case, combing everywhere I could think of. He’d gone to Buenos Aires, but before I could get there, he’d vanished again.” Lord P looked almost impressed. “First time I’d seen the lad show any initiative in his life. I kept trying to track him down, even went out there myself a few times, but it’s not so hard to go missing in a country like that, if you’ve got the money.”

  He looked up and met my gaze. “And I must confess, Betsy, after a while, I decided that I didn’t want to keep looking. Frances kept writing to him, to the last address she had, but he never replied. I didn’t reckon much to that. I thought that if he wanted to be in touch with us, when he sorted out whatever it was that was so important, he would be in touch. I tried to find him when she fell ill, but…” He raised his hands. “Clearly, he didn’t want to be found. The last thing she said to me was that she’d have forgiven him anything, anything at all, if he’d only come back. But I don’t think I can forgive him for letting Frances spend her last moments blaming herself.”

  Hot tears were prickling at my lashes, burning my throat like mustard.

  “But she had you,” he said, reaching for my hand and squeezing it. “She had you, and you brought her so much happiness.”

  He smiled at me with those familiar, baggy blue eyes, and I felt a jolt of understanding. It was all falling into place in my head. Hector must have got some Academy girl pregnant and gambled money to run away with her—and then gotten into trouble with moneylenders and fled the country. She’d been kicked out by her horrified parents, dumped me with the Phillimores, and he’d vowed never to come back until he’d managed to put things right. Maybe she’d fled to Argentina too? Maybe they were out there together and that’s why she hadn’t been at the memorial either?

  No wonder Franny and Lord P looked after me like their own—I obviously was. Lord P clearly wanted me to save the Academy so she and Hector would have some reason to come back. Maybe I could bring things full circle, not just for myself, but for Hector and Franny and my mother.

  I gulped down the lump in my throat. I’d been the cause of all this! I’d been the reason Hector had run off and Franny had died heartbroken. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” insisted Lord P, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Don’t be sorry! You were the one good thing that came out of that hideous business!” He flapped open his hankie and offered it to me. “I’m just sorry I have to be telling you such a ghastly tale.” He looked rueful. “God knows I’d love to able to say, yes, my son Hector’s a successful management consultant, with a degree from a good university. But I can say it about my girl, can’t I? And it makes me very proud.”

  My girl.

  I smiled through my tears and felt happy and guilty at the same time.

  It was only when I was at home later, unpacking the evening bag again, that I found something at the back, hidden in the zipped compartment next to an old Estée Lauder lipstick, in Franny’s signature scarlet red.

  It was a folded piece of writing paper, with a short note scrawled in the middle in round cursive hand: Please look after my baby. I want her to grow up to be a proper lady. Thank you.

  I stared at it, amazed. The note my mother had left with me. I’d never seen it before, just like I’d never seen the marmalade box.

  There was something quite perfunctory about it, no kisses or explanations or even a name. Maybe that was why Franny hadn’t wanted me to see it. But she’d said “my baby.” I was someone’s baby, and she’d wanted more for me than she felt she could give me.

  And the writing was so young, just like the bobbly fat style Divinity and Clemmy had. Whoever wrote this hadn’t been much older. My heart cracked for the teenager who had scrawled this, because it looked exactly like the jolly messages in the back of my notebooks—See you in Val d’Isere! Caroline 4 Hugo 4 eva 2 gether!!!!

  Franny had kept it, hidden with her own treasures, and then made sure I had it, along with her pearls and her earrings and her Art Deco evening watch.

  She must have wanted me to find my mother now, I thought, staring at the girlish writing. Because if I find my mother, then I’ll find my father too. I’ll find Hector for her.

  I got my phone out of my bag and dialed Nell Howard’s number with shaking fingers, unable to tear my eyes from the words. Nell would recognize the handwriting, wouldn’t she? I knew it was a pretty standard Sloaney style, but even so…

  “Darling, it’s Nell.”

  I started to speak, words tumbling over each other. “Nell! It’s Betsy! I wonder if—”

  “I can’t take your call right now, too boring of me, I know, sorry, but leave a number and I’ll call you as soon as poss. Thanks!”

  I stared at the wall as the answering machine beeped in my ear, and then hung up.

  Then I made a new list in my notebook.

  Open Day: Things to do.

  1. Invite every Old Girl from 1980.

  Seventeen

  Don’t trust men who call everyone darling.

  I had to hand it to Jamie—he certainly took his new responsibilities as an educator of young ladies very seriously.

  For his lesson in looking fabulous in photographs, he would, he said, require the assistance not only of me but of Liv.

  “I need you in a professional capacity, Olivia,” he informed us, coming by the night before en route to an engagement party themed around The Godfather.

  “You think they’ll need a stiff drink before you start teaching?” I asked from my comfortable position wedged into the sofa with Barry the cat and a bowl of chicken soup.

  “No, she’ll have to wield that camera she’s always going on about.” He looked over to Liv. “You are still considering yourself a part-time art photographer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And move, you’re blocking the Nazis.”

  Instead of going out, Liv and I had been engrossed in a Sunday night showing of
The Sound of Music—she was taking the male singing roles, and I was doing the nun stuff—and neither of us was really prepared for Jamie in full black tie. He looked amazing in black tie, as if he’d just stepped out of a Monaco casino, with his hair slicked back and his strong jawline freshly shaved.

  I felt very conscious of our money-saving hair treatments and hoped Jamie couldn’t tell we had home pedicure socks on under Liv’s Ugg boots.

  “Great! Well, bring your camera and your laptop and I’ll see you there at eleven,” he said. “I’ll need you too, Betsy,” he added.

  I slid down in my seat and wished Jamie had come round after the party, not before it. We had Pretty Woman lined up next, by which time our nails would be gorgeous. “Fine,” I said, moving a cushion over the soup stain on my sweatpants. “I’ll be there from nine. Don’t use me as an example, please.”

  “Certainly not. Anyway, got to dash. People to see, parties to start. I’m pleased to see that giving up men hasn’t led you to letting yourself go,” he observed as a parting shot.

  Liv threw her cushion at him and passed me the tissues so we could have a good cry at the nuns foiling the Nazis as Julie Andrews and company ran up the mountain.

  When Jamie swung into the Lady Hamilton Room at dead on eleven the next morning, I saw a dramatic change come across the girls’ faces, and their eyes followed him as he strode confidently toward the desk and slung his laptop on the table.

  It was a bit like the moment when the keeper walks past the leopard enclosure with a side of raw beef.

  Liv and I trailed in after him, but the girls didn’t seem to notice we were even there.

  “Good morning, ladies!” said Jamie, and I could tell his accent had shifted down a gear, so he sounded more like a New British Art dealer than a public-school boy. Jamie’s accent was, like him, constantly changing to fit his surroundings. He was a natural at fitting in and sensing what would go over best.