Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

by Jackie French

  ‘Tea is a useful meal. At dinner the hostess decides where you’ll be seated. You sit for the duration of the meal. At breakfast … you can never be quite sure who will come down to breakfast, or when or even whether they might choose to be silent or read. But tea … tea is the meal when you can in all propriety suggest a man sit beside you, so you can pour his tea. There is something innately innocent about taking tea. As long as there is a pot, a fruitcake and buttered muffins, no one can ever think that anything … inappropriate … has taken place.

  ‘So … a fruitcake.’ Miss Lily indicated the slice of cake on her plate, dark with currants, topped with fondant and marzipan. ‘Because no tea is complete without a fruitcake. Bread and butter of course, as well, although toast is preferable as long as it is freshly made. Gentleman’s Relish — watch how he spreads it, thick or thin, then next time do it for him. But no sponge cakes, madeleines, éclairs, which are far too messy and distracting … not unless you know that the man has a particular liking for them, and even then in moderation, only one such at a time. Instead …’

  Miss Lily lifted each of the silver lids in turn. ‘Muffins, well buttered and kept hot.’ Another lid. ‘Crumpets, but with honey only, never jam. Jam clumps. So unattractive.’ A third lid. ‘Anchovies on toast. Men often prefer the savoury to the sweet, in food as well as women. Devilled mushrooms. Cheese savouries.’ These were delicate small puffs. Sophie made a note to ask Mrs Goodenough how they were made. They looked like you’d need practice to get them absolutely right …

  ‘Now, to make the toast. Tea is a quiet time, my dears, a relaxing time — not a time for political discussions. And there is nothing as relaxing and companionable as making toast. Nor as intimate, whether it is a country party of twenty, or simply two of you, or three.

  ‘So — one toasting fork, the bread, a bread knife, a kettle of hot water … the bread browned to a shade of almost gold on one side, then the other, buttered straight away and eaten before it can get cold. But dry toast — which many gentlemen prefer …’ She took the knife and a piece of bread, dipped the knife into the kettle of hot water by the pot, then quickly cut the already thin slice exactly down its centre.

  ‘Try it.’

  They did. Only Emily managed to cut it from top to bottom without having the knife slip out the side, but even her cut wandered like a snake across the sand.

  ‘Again,’ said Miss Lily.

  And again. And again. And again. And Miss Lily was right, thought Sophie, because by the fourth try they were all giggling, laughing by the fifth, and by the time each slice was on the fork, golden on each side, crisp then buttered with the lightest scrape of relish, salty but good … there was no need to talk of anything except toast, and crumbs.

  Four glowing faces. No, five, because Miss Lily was glowing too.

  Chapter 27

  What is the difference between a woman who marries suitably, that is to a man of money, and a woman who takes money for her services? Only respectability, of course, and certain protections in law. If you can ensure you are respected, the possibilities of your life will be enormous.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss Lily,’ said Sophie, seeking out Miss Lily some weeks after her reprieve from the afternoon train.

  Miss Lily looked up from her desk in the library. ‘No, of course not, my dear.’ She gestured at the papers. ‘Merely some accounts I said I’d look through for his lordship.’ She smiled. ‘His estate manager has it all in hand, of course, but it is good for one of the family to see to matters too. Do sit down.’

  Sophie sat. ‘I need advice.’

  The smile stayed, but Miss Lily’s eyes were watchful. ‘Of course. How can I help you?’

  ‘I need to write a letter. A … a perfect letter. One that will hurt the person who reads it as little as it can.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Miss Lily. Impossible to miss the slight touch of pleasure and even relief in her voice. ‘That kind of letter. In that case a few small lies may be called for.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s very simple. The way to alleviate the hurt you must inflict on someone is to give them something in return. Shall we see what we can do?’

  Dear Malcolm,

  This is a difficult letter to write.

  You are a man whom any woman would be honoured to marry, of enormous ability and integrity and charm. I will always think of you as one of the men I respect most in the world.

  Since I have been in England, though, I have realised that my father is correct. I have seen too little of the world. I am not even sure how long I will stay here, much less sure I am able to make a commitment for the rest of my life. To do so, not knowing my own mind, would not be fair to you either, nor to my father, who has only ever wanted what he believes is best for me.

  I hope we can continue to be friends. Please always know the sincere and deep admiration I feel for you.

  Yours truly,

  Sophie

  The letter sat on her dressing table overnight. She gazed at it in the morning, as Doris drew on her stockings, arranged her hair. It was a most proper letter, even though almost none of it was true, apart from her wish to be free of the Understanding. She no longer admired Malcolm; she suspected his conversation would bore her after her months at Shillings.

  Miss Lily had changed her. The old Sophie had fallen in love with a vision of a golden couple riding through the bush together. If I ever marry, she thought — and realised how far she had come in including the ‘if’ — it will be to a man who knows who I am.

  At last she folded the letter and slipped it into its envelope, then picked up the other letter she had written, admitting to her father and Miss Thwaites that they had been right. ‘Will you put these on the hall table to post, please, Doris?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Higgs.’

  But the memory lingered of a young man with the sunlight on his face, the gold filtering through the gum leaves. She touched her cheeks and found them wet. She would have to rest a damp cloth over her eyes before she went downstairs, to hide their redness.

  Chapter 28

  One does not dine to eat. Dinner on a tray in one’s room is eating. One dines to talk, and to listen. When you dine with others you are, for a short time at least, part of their world. Good food encourages both conversation and a certain lessening of reserve.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  The man who had just arrived was round. Sophie had never seen an entirely round man before, his waist a perfect circumference at the back and front, the tailoring of his coat exactly shaped to fit it. His eyes were surprisingly large and their blue colour looked faded, as he alighted from a motorcar of a darker shade. The chauffeur immediately put up the bonnet and began to rummage under it.

  ‘It’s Mr Porton,’ whispered Emily. The four of them peered through the drawing-room curtains as Jones opened the front door.

  ‘Porton,’ said Mr Porton, handing his hat to Jones. ‘An old friend of his lordship’s. Is he at home? On my way to a meeting down in Portsmouth, but I’m afraid there has been a slight to-do with my car.’ He waved a plump hand towards it as Jones ushered him in.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Hannelore quietly.

  ‘The Portons are a Sussex family,’ whispered Emily. ‘He’s a cousin of Lord Declerk, married a Rivers, but you don’t see his wife in society much. He was in the cabinet before the Upset.’ The Upset, Sophie now knew, was when the unthinkable had happened, and the Liberal Mr Asquith had become Prime Minister.

  ‘Mr Porton dined with us often before my father’s illness. He has a post high up in the Admiralty now, I think.’

  Sophie nodded. She didn’t think that smooth face would willingly lose contact with power. ‘Do you think his car really broke down?’

  Hannelore glanced out the window again. ‘I do not think so. See? It is proceeding quite efficiently behind the house, with Mr Porton’s man and all his luggage.’ She turned to the others. ‘It is too convenie
nt, I think, for his car to break down just before it becomes dark. Surely he would not have wanted to drive through the night? No, if he arrives now he must be asked to stay.’

  ‘Good.’ Emily checked her hair in the mirror above the fireplace. ‘Two months in a household of women. But of course he can’t dine just with us. Miss Lily must ask some other men to dine tonight.’

  Sophie exchanged a glance with Alison. It had never occurred to her to regret the loss of male company. She suspected that Alison, and even Hannelore, felt the same. For the first time she realised how much freedom they’d had, over the past two months together. But it would still be fun to have a proper dinner, with men on whom she could try out her newly acquired charms.

  The drawing-room door opened. Miss Lily stepped in, neither flustered nor surprised. ‘Mr Porton will be staying the night. An old friend of his lordship’s, I gather. I am afraid I haven’t met him before. He seems amiable. I expect Miss Carlyle has told you his details.’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I have sent Samuel to ask the vicar and his curate, Mr Merryweather, to dine with us. It will still be an uneven table, I’m afraid, but one can’t conjure male dining companions from nowhere. My dears, it is inevitable that Mr Porton will wonder why Shillings is inhabited by four young women and none of their older relatives. I have told him that he has sadly just missed Hannelore’s aunt the baroness, and a cousin of Lady Alison’s — a quite fictitious cousin, Lady Alison, so if he asks, you are free to portray her as you wish. She and the baroness are in London overnight, but will return on the four-ten train tomorrow, safely after Mr Porton leaves for his meeting. Emily, might I have a word with you before you dress for dinner?’

  It was a dismissal. Emily smiled. The others wandered up the stairs. The house smells different, thought Sophie, noticing a lingering scent of tobacco and bay rum.

  She let Doris place her best pearls around her neck: slight overdressing for a country dinner, perhaps, but tonight she wanted to put her wealth on the table, so to speak, along with the others’ social positions.

  The vicar and the curate were already in the library when she entered. So was Mr Porton, already talking happily to Emily, while the vicar and Hannelore compared English mid-winter myths. Mr Porton glanced at Sophie appreciatively as she paused in the doorway, but it was the look he might give a handsome horse, not a person he wished to know. It was evident he was aware who she was, and how little she mattered.

  At any event, he would not be able to speak to her or Hannelore until his hostess introduced them, and darling Mouse was trying to be invisible, which left Sophie the curate to charm.

  She ran through the next steps quickly in her head. ‘Mr Merryweather, how lovely to see you again. Wasn’t the vicar’s sermon fine last Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A pleasure to see you again, Miss Higgs.’ She had made him smile, and agree with her too. Now to show she was interested in him, and to praise him as well.

  ‘Miss Lily has told me all about your sterling efforts with the village boys.’ Which she hadn’t, but what else would a curate do in so small a parish?

  ‘The cricket club?’ Mr Merryweather laughed. ‘Truth to tell, Miss Higgs, I doubt if we shall see any of them play at Lords. But it is good healthy occupation.’

  ‘I think it is wonderful of you,’ said Sophie warmly. Step five to come: praising another. She looked across the room. ‘Doesn’t Miss Carlyle look beautiful tonight!’

  The curate hardly glanced at Emily. ‘She does indeed, Miss Higgs.’ No, Mr Merryweather was not enchanted by Emily, although Mr Porton was, his nose just slightly too close to her bosom. As Sophie watched, he glanced around the room, with the contented smile of a sultan in his harem. He knew there was a household of women here before he came, thought Sophie. But how?

  ‘I hear you are from Australia, Miss Higgs?’ continued Mr Merryweather. ‘I gather there are such interesting animals there.’

  Mr Porton continued his flirtation with Emily.

  Miss Lily entered, once more in blue, her evening scarf of blue and gold, and managed introductions a second before Jones announced dinner was served, so there was no time for more general conversation.

  They entered the dining room — Hannelore on Mr Porton’s arm, her royalty giving her precedence, the vicar with Alison, and the curate with Miss Lily, only an honourable even though she was hostess, which left Sophie and Emily together until Emily glided to the head of the table, to sit next to Mr Porton, on Miss Lily’s right.

  The vicar sat at the other end of the table, a long-faced, serious man, with Hannelore on his right, instead of in Emily’s place, where she belonged. Alison sat on his left, then Mr Merryweather, then Sophie. With Emily on one side of her, she had only one other dinner companion to talk to, the curate, the least important man in the room. She suspected that Emily would focus on Mr Porton for the entire meal, not just alternate courses.

  The table gleamed in the candlelight, Miss Lily’s face in shadow from the sconce behind her. She looked younger in this light, her hair, softly gold as well as grey, piled on top of her head, her shoulders white under their soft draping of dusty rose lace, her fingers in their lace gloves lightly touching the small, plump hand of Mr Porton.

  ‘Have you ever seen a kangaroo, Miss Higgs?’ enquired the curate.

  Sophie acquired a smile. ‘Many times. There are great mobs of them on my family’s property. One had the temerity to die in our rose garden. It took two men to haul it away.’ The curate’s gaze grew slightly, carefully blank. ‘Die’ was too direct a term for a dinner table, surmised Sophie, at least between a young lady and a curate. ‘But tell me, Mr Merryweather, are you fond of animals?’

  ‘Very much so, Miss Higgs.’

  Consommé was served: an unfamiliar fish in an even less familiar sauce; lamb cutlets each with frills on its bone; then a roast of venison, sent down from the earl’s hunting lodge in Scotland, served with Cumberland sauce and soufflé potatoes, and the asparagus that had been forced in the beds of hot manure.

  The curate ate the potatoes and the asparagus, but although he allowed Jones to serve him the meat he left it untouched. Was he a vegetarian? She had read in The Times recently that Mr George Bernard Shaw claimed meat-eating made men slow and dull-witted. She thought of her father, with his hunks of beef and his beetle energy, and smiled. She’d have liked to ask the curate about the uneaten meat, but one did not talk about food at the dinner table.

  Snatches of the conversation floated down the table; Hannelore and the vicar were comparing English and German snow storms now. Mr Porton described his last hunt while Emily gazed at him adoringly. The adoration couldn’t possibly be genuine, not for that round marshmallow man. Is this what we have been trained for, wondered Sophie, to look like sheepdogs hoping for the master’s notice? This was small talk about small things.

  She had hoped for a male’s insight into world affairs. Instead it was the most trivial evening she had spent in England.

  Outside a wind blew — from the Arctic, thought Sophie, glad her seat was near the fire, for fashion dictated bare arms for formal dinners even in late winter. The wraps they had worn on other nights, women dining together, now hung in their dressing rooms.

  At least dessert was a hot one: an orange soufflé, carefully ladled out with silver spoons by footmen in white gloves. She wished there were cocoa on the table, instead of wine. Only the savoury course to go …

  Emily laughed across the table, almost hidden by the epergne. Jones offered devils on horseback after the roast. The curate beamed at Sophie as she nibbled the bacon and left the prune on her plate.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Be a devil, Miss Higgs. Eat it all.’

  Sophie wondered how many times he had made the joke. Probably every time devils on horseback were served. I should make him smile again, she thought. When conversation flags begin steps one to five again …

  … But I can’t be bothered. Not for this man, with his silly joke, not for Mr Porton, with his soft h
ands and their rings. She looked up at the portrait of the earl, so slender and remote, gazing towards his duty, so unlike Mr Porton, the curate, or Malcolm …

  She stopped at the thought. Malcolm would fit in here. He’d be …

  … Unremarkable. A table-filler, Miss Lily said, was a good-looking, polite man, who would talk to dowagers and play a good hand of bridge, but not startle the company with his ideas, not take the centre stage away from the most important guests, the ones you needed to flatter, who needed to star. The curate was a table-filler too.

  ‘And koalas …’ said the curate. ‘Tell me, Miss Higgs, have you ever held one?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. They can be savage, you see, especially in the mating season. My aunt was gored by one. A terrible tragedy.’

  The curate hesitated, then forced a smile. ‘They look so cuddly, like a furry cushion. I had a toy rabbit I loved when I was small, Miss Higgs.’ He bent towards her, confidingly. ‘I took it everywhere.’

  Sophie shut her eyes briefly.

  She was sitting at the same table as a senior officer in the Admiralty, and talking about toy rabbits. At least at the Overhills’ table there’d be gossip about people she knew.

  Miss Lily’s light laugh floated across the table. Mr Porton was telling her about the pheasants he had shot: forty-eight on one beat, whatever that meant.

  ‘… had my loader since I was a lad. Fourteen I was, my first shoot. He was the same age, one of the estate lads. We out-shot half the men there that day, and he’s been my loader ever since. Why, three years ago …’

  How could Miss Lily be interested? Or the vicar in Hannelore’s story about her great-aunt? We talked about Albanian independence last night, thought Sophie. How can they babble like this now? Was this what she faced in English society?

  She turned to the curate. ‘Tell me, Mr Merryweather, what do you think of Home Rule for Ireland?’