Hothouse Flower

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Oh yes, Elsie, I did,’ she smiled.

  Elsie turned from the fire and caught the smile. Her eyes twinkled. ‘And did you meet young Master Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you think of him then?’ she probed.

  Olivia knew that another golden rule was not to gossip with servants, especially when not one’s own, but the temptation of discussing Harry was just too great.

  ‘I think he was … a very unusual man.’

  ‘And as handsome as I said he was?’ questioned Elsie.

  When Olivia didn’t answer, Elsie cast her eyes down. ‘Sorry, miss, I’m forgetting myself. I mustn’t ask personal questions.’

  ‘Elsie, I promise you’re doing marvellously well,’ Olivia reassured her. ‘And after tomorrow, we’ll probably never see each other again. And …’ she took a deep breath, ‘if you want to know the truth, I thought Harry was … a darling!’

  Elsie clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, Miss Olivia! I just knew you would! I knew you’d like each other.’

  Olivia took a sip of her drink. ‘Elsie, this is the finest cocoa I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ replied Elsie as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll be here in the morning to draw back your curtains. Sleep tight.’

  When Elsie had left the room, Olivia lay back on the soft pillows sipping the cocoa. Then she closed her eyes and began to relive her conversation with Harry from start to finish.

  11

  The following morning, Olivia took breakfast alone in the dining room as the shooting party had left early, and both her mother and Adrienne were taking breakfast in their rooms. Afterwards, for want of anything better to do, she made her way into the library to choose a book. With reading material in Poona a precious and rare commodity, Olivia was overcome by the supply on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  She pulled off Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse and settled down in a comfortable leather chair by the fire to read.

  The sound of music, distant but audible, attracted her attention. Someone was playing the piano and, as she concentrated, Olivia realised she recognised Chopin’s ‘Grande Polonaise’. She stood up and left the library, following the direction of the music, letting her auditory senses lead her eventually to the doorway of the drawing room.

  She stood where she was, listening to the exquisite rendition of one of her favourite pieces, closing her eyes as the sound emanated from the piano at the other end of the room. As the last notes drifted across to her, she opened her eyes and peeped round a tall Chinese vase filled with flowers, which had blocked her view of the player.

  Olivia gasped in astonishment when she saw it was Harry. Feeling like an interloper, she watched him as he sat, hands in his lap, staring out of the window and on to the park beyond. Finally, he gave a sigh, stood up and saw her.

  ‘Golly, Miss Drew-Norris! I didn’t realise I had an audience.’ He walked towards her, embarrassed, hands in his pockets.

  ‘I was in the library and I heard the music and …’ she shrugged, ‘followed it.’

  ‘You’re fond of classical music?’

  ‘Oh gosh, yes. Especially when it’s played like that. You’re really terribly good,’ Olivia said, flushing slightly. ‘Where did you learn?’

  ‘My mother had me tutored when I was younger and I continued at school. But … rather like you and university, the old ivories can’t feature in my future plans. More’s the pity,’ he added morosely.

  ‘Well, they should,’ said Olivia stoutly. ‘I’m no expert, but you sound just as good as the recordings I listened to in India.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ He turned away and looked out of the window, then asked: ‘Fancy accompanying me on a walk? The sun seems to have managed to struggle out from behind the clouds today.’

  ‘I think I was supposed to be taking a walk with your mother, but I haven’t seen her so far this morning.’

  ‘No, and I doubt you will. She’s almost certainly in bed with a migraine. She suffers awfully from them, especially after late nights like last night. What say you, you find yourself a coat, and we’ll rendezvous outside on the terrace in five minutes?’

  Olivia ran upstairs to find the only coat she had brought with her – far more suitable for the city than stomping across a country estate.

  Harry was waiting for her, smoking a cigarette and leaning over the balustrade that led on to the gardens. She came to stand next to him shyly. He pointed to one of the trees. ‘Can you see underneath? There’s actually a sign of life: snowdrops.’ He indicated the steps. ‘Shall we?’

  They walked down the wide stairs and into the garden.

  ‘How do you like our miniature Versailles?’ Harry indicated the immaculate and beautifully laid-out formal garden around them. Manicured topiary hedges surrounded the edges, and in the centre was an elegant fountain, topped with a statue of a young boy. ‘Mother wanted to create something of her French homeland. She’s done a marvellous job. You should see it in high summer when all the flowers are out. It’s a riot of colour.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ breathed Olivia as they walked towards the fountain.

  ‘You’ve just missed the mimosa by a few days,’ said Harry, pointing to the bushes which sat, protected, under the terrace. ‘It flowers any time between January and March, and really does smell heavenly. Our gardener doubted it could be grown here – it’s normally a plant that likes the temperate weather of the South of France but, sure enough, Mother won and it flourishes.’

  ‘She obviously has green fingers. And the garden design is simply perfect.’ Olivia turned around to take everything in, then followed Harry along one of the many paths that led away from the fountain.

  ‘Your mother told me that she might have something growing in the garden that would remind me of India,’ Olivia offered, breaking what seemed to her to have been rather a long silence.

  ‘Oh, she most certainly means the hothouse. Our gardener, Jack, who was more used to nurturing turnips than exotic blooms, has spent the past few years trying to grow the bulbs that Mother gets sent to her from Kew Gardens. We can take a look at it if you’d like to.’

  ‘Rather,’ Olivia accepted eagerly.

  ‘It’s a bit of a hike, but we’ll make it brisk. Sun might be out, but it’s jolly nippy. So you’re returning home tonight with your ma and pa?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, not directly. First, we’re off to London to discuss my Season with Grandmother. She’s rather keen to be involved and, as Mummy’s been out of the country so long, will be able to offer advice on the protocol.’

  ‘It may not be as bad as you think, you know, Miss Drew-Norris …’

  ‘Olivia, please,’ she insisted.

  ‘Olivia,’ Harry corrected. ‘I went to a few dances a couple of years back and they can be quite jolly.’

  ‘I do hope so, although I can’t say I’m very eager to go to London. There’s a horribly tense atmosphere there – everyone’s waiting for something awful to happen.’ She looked up at him for a reaction and saw he was nodding in agreement. ‘And you will have read about the unemployment and the unrest on the streets?’

  ‘Of course,’ confirmed Harry. ‘It’s a damned unsettling time to be living in. To be honest, I’ll be relieved when we all know where we are.’

  ‘Well, you never know your luck; it might get me out of the Season,’ chuckled Olivia. ‘They can’t hold it if there’s a war on, now can they?’

  ‘Horrors!’ said Harry amiably, lighting a cigarette and offering her one, which she refused. ‘Not even a war could stop that, surely?!’

  They both smiled in comfortable acknowledgement.

  ‘Well, if war does come, I, for one, am not going to sit around and drink tea,’ she replied fiercely. ‘I shall sign up for something. I’m not sure what yet, but Mummy and Daddy can hardly stop me from helping to save my country, can they?’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Olivia! Now step in here.’ Harry opened the blue-
painted wooden door that led into the kitchen garden. They walked through rows of immaculately planted cabbages, carrots, potatoes and turnips, across to a hothouse nestling in the corner of the garden, sheltered by a high red-brick wall. Harry opened the door to the hothouse and they both stepped inside.

  The pungent smell of flowers, combined with the heat, sent Olivia spiralling back to her former homeland. She inhaled the evocative scents and surveyed the riot of colour in front of her.

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ she said in ecstasy, as she began to walk down the long rows of plants. She turned to him. ‘It’s simply heavenly!’

  Harry could see that there were tears in Olivia’s eyes. She leant forward to grasp a delicate yellow plant, held it in her hands and smelt it. ‘This is frangipani, which used to grow outside my bedroom window in Poona. I lay there every night breathing its scent.’ She buried her nose in the flowers again. ‘I had no idea you could grow them here.’

  Harry was moved by her emotional reaction and realised then what a shock it must have been for her, landing here in England after years of living amongst plants like these, abundant in their natural habitat.

  ‘Well now, you absolutely must take it with you, mustn’t she, Jack?’ Harry turned to the middle-aged gardener, whose face was weathered and lined from years of outdoor work.

  ‘Of course she must, Master Harry,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’ve plenty more where that came from, managed to get the hang of them frangipani now, I have. Grand job,’ he muttered. ‘You wander around as much as you like, miss. It’s a pleasure to have someone in here who appreciates them.’

  Olivia strolled up and down the rows of flowers, dipping her nose into the blooms and stroking the velvet petals.

  ‘You’ve done a simply marvellous job, Jack,’ she commented. ‘These flowers can’t like the English climate any more than I do.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been growing them now for fifteen year and I might be no trained botanist, but I understand what they all like and dislike. And my son, Bill, here –’ Jack said, indicating the tall, handsome young man watering some of the pots further down the hothouse – ‘has a real feel for them, don’t you, Bill?’

  The young man turned and nodded. ‘Suits me far better than cabbages,’ he grinned. ‘The best part is when we get a new bulb in, and we’ve no idea what’s going to grow out of it.’

  ‘He’ll be good to take over, Master Harry, he’s a natural,’ Jack confirmed. ‘As long as he don’t get called up. They say they’re recruiting from the Territorials already round here.’ Jack eyed him. ‘Is that true, Master Harry?’ he asked, concern in his eyes.

  ‘I really couldn’t tell you, Jack,’ Harry answered diplomatically. ‘I think all of us are rather in the dark at the moment.’

  Jack turned to Olivia. ‘At least the hothouse will be safe with me if the war does come, miss. The Hun blew my leg to pieces last time, so they won’t be wanting me again.’

  ‘Well now, Jack, Bill …’ Harry nodded at them both. ‘You really are doing the most marvellous job in here. Well done.’

  ‘Tell her Ladyship from me she’s to come down when she’s got the time. One of the new bulbs she gave me has just flowered and I want her to see it.’ Jack touched his cap. ‘Good day to you, Master Harry, and you, miss. Enjoy your frangipani.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, I will,’ said Olivia. ‘It really is very sweet of you to give it to me.’

  ‘Grand job,’ said Jack, as Harry led her out of the hothouse.

  ‘You’re an absolute darling for taking me in there, Harry,’ Olivia enthused. ‘I feel uplifted.’

  ‘It was my pleasure, really,’ Harry remarked amiably. ‘It is rather special, isn’t it?’

  They walked back through the kitchen garden towards the house in silence. Harry lit another cigarette, took a few puffs, then stubbed it out with his foot. He sighed. ‘I was just thinking, if war does come, every bally family on the estate will be affected. Take Bill, for example. He’s currently courting Elsie, one of our maids up at the house.’

  Olivia smiled. ‘I’ve met Elsie. She’s a bright young spark and she’s got herself a good-looking chap there.’

  ‘Won’t be so damned good-looking if he gets half his face blown away by the Krauts,’ Harry muttered as they made their way back up the steps to the terrace. He turned to Olivia. ‘Sorry to be so mis, but I rather wonder what will happen to the estate if all our young workers are called up.’

  ‘The women will have to take over,’ grinned Olivia.

  Harry smiled genuinely at this and offered her a half-bow. ‘Well, there we are then, Mrs Pankhurst. It has been my pleasure to show you around our humble gardens. And now, I suppose I’d better go and search out the guns before anyone notices I’m missing.’

  ‘Why weren’t you out at the crack of dawn with the rest of the men?’ she asked.

  ‘I said I had some business to attend to but, if I’m truthful, any excuse will do. Not really my thing.’ He held out his hand. ‘I may not see you before you leave. Take care, Olivia, and safe journey back to the Smoke. It’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you.’

  She shook his hand and smiled back. ‘And you, Harry.’

  Harry nodded, stuffed his hands into his pockets and disappeared off inside the house.

  12

  It had been agreed between Lady Vare, Olivia’s grandmother, and her parents, that Olivia should move to London for the duration of the Season. Their Surrey home was not an appropriate location from which a debutante should be launched, as it was too far from the glitz and glitter of the London scene. So, two weeks after leaving Wharton Park, Olivia arrived with her suitcases at her grandmother’s house in Cheyne Walk.

  The house was from another era: stuffed full of Victorian furniture and laden with heavy brocade curtains, the walls covered in highly patterned William Morris wallpaper. Olivia found it oppressive, and was glad to be billeted high up on the fourth floor in her own small suite of rooms, where at least there was some light. In the morning, she would pull back the curtains, open the windows and look across to the River Thames to stem her feeling of claustrophobia.

  The first thing that had to be done to begin the process of becoming a debutante was to register at St James’s Palace. Girls could only be presented at Court if they were sponsored by a lady who had been presented herself. As Olivia’s own mother had been a debutante, she could have quite easily acted as Olivia’s sponsor. But Lady Vare would have none of it. In the end, Olivia’s mother gave in to her own mother’s determination to take charge and retreated to her Surrey home, leaving the arrangements for Olivia’s Season entirely to her grandmother.

  Between the endless dress-fittings, Olivia was left much to her own devices. Which meant she had far too much time to think about Harry Crawford and her time at Wharton Park. The two days spent there had become almost mirage-like in her memory. She relived her conversations with him, relishing the fact that Harry had treated her as an intellectual equal. This was in stark contrast to her current life in London, where she felt she was little more than a doll being dressed up. She knew that, at least once the Season began, her timetable would be full as she embarked on the gruelling round of dances, lunches and late suppers, that were all part of launching her into Society and finding her a suitable mate.

  The injustice of so much opulence – the whole jamboree – set against a backdrop of unemployment, poverty and unrest, was not lost on Olivia. As she was chauffeured around London in her grandmother’s old Bentley, Olivia would glance out of the window at the poor souls living on the streets, warming their hands on paltry fires; at the men who marched past Parliament, holding their banners which asked the Government to help feed their children because they were starving.

  She felt isolated by her privilege and not part of the changing zeitgeist; she was trapped in the Old World when she wanted to belong to the New. She would sometimes take a walk along the Embankment, throwing coins at the homeless men and women shivering under the bridges, feeling emb
arrassed and uncomfortable in her warm, wealthy clothes.

  One afternoon, having just been to Lenare, so the famous photographer could capture her in her traditional white presentation dress, Olivia heard a knock on her door. It was her grandmother’s maid.

  ‘Her Ladyship has asked if you would be kind enough to take tea with her in the parlour downstairs.’

  When Olivia entered the room, Lady Vare was sitting stiffly in a high-backed leather chair placed by the fire.

  ‘Please sit down, Olivia. As your presentation is now so close, I wanted to talk with you about the people you might meet during the Season. In the old days, it was not necessary to be wary of anyone. But –’ Lady Vare wrinkled her nose in distaste – ‘unfortunately, standards have slipped and there is a certain … element that is no longer suitable company for a young lady such as yourself. The foreigners, for a start, but also, I have recently talked to another mother whose daughter is being presented and discovered there is a set who are considered fast. Olivia,’ she wagged her finger sternly at her granddaughter, ‘you are to stay clear of them.’

  ‘But, Grandmother, how will I recognise them?’ Olivia’s eyes were round and appropriately innocent.

  ‘They wear lipstick and smoke cigarettes.’

  Olivia tried not to giggle. From the look on her face, Lady Vare could well have been saying that these girls carried knives in their evening purses.

  ‘I’ll keep on the lookout, Grandmother, I promise, and I hope to make you proud.’

  Lady Vare nodded graciously. ‘I’m sure you will, Olivia. And now, you must excuse me, I have some business to attend to.’

  Olivia went to bed that night willing the next three months to be over quickly, so she could finally begin to get on with her life.

  The Presentation Night itself passed smoothly enough, and was actually far more enjoyable than Olivia could have imagined. As she was driven down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, there were crowds of well-wishers lining the road and hundreds of people surrounding the gates to the palace. The crowds blew kisses at her, asked her chauffeur to switch on the interior lights of the car so they could look at her dress and cheered Olivia on her way. She was amazed that they didn’t seem to disapprove of her or envy her privileged situation.