Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

by Jackie French

  He blinked. ‘Well, Miss Higgs, that is a complex question —’

  ‘Hurrumph.’ She had never heard anyone hurrumph before, except a bull. Mr Porton glanced down the table at her, then spoke to Miss Lily. One did not, of course, speak across a table. ‘What we need are more troops in Ulster. Keep the lid firmly on, and we’ll hear no more talk about Home Rule … What was I saying? Ah, yes, three years ago …’

  Miss Lily’s expression hadn’t changed. Nor had Hannelore’s or Emily’s. Alison bit her lip and looked down at her plate. The vicar took a sip of wine, though Sophie noticed that the level in his glass was the same when he put it down.

  She smiled at Mr Merryweather. ‘Well?’

  ‘As I said, the answer depends.’ His voice was soft enough to reach only her ears.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On who is listening, Miss Higgs.’ His voice was still soft and affable, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes.

  ‘You mean the topic isn’t suitable for a woman? You don’t believe that women should know about such things? Or vote on them? We have the vote in Australia.’

  Again, the whole table had heard her words. Mr Porton dabbed at his lips with his napkin, his face as red as the Cumberland sauce. ‘Just what I was talking about. Rabble! Can an Irish oaf govern himself? Suffragettes are the reason we can’t give votes to women either. No respect for law or for position.’

  ‘My great-aunt,’ said Hannelore clearly, ‘since she was five years, I think, always had those terriers …’

  ‘One is always happy to talk politics with a woman,’ said Mr Merryweather, even more quietly. ‘But not with a Hereford bull.’

  The conversation had risen around her. She met the curate’s eyes: he was no table-filler. This man had a brain, his own ideas, for all that he was trying to herd her back to trivial conversation.

  ‘Shall we talk about your native bears again, Miss Higgs? The savage ones that gored your aunt?’

  ‘I knew a curate back home,’ said Sophie. ‘His name was Mr Stevenson. He had a plan for fallen women.’

  The curate smiled.

  ‘No,’ said Sophie, ‘not that sort of a plan.’

  He was trying not to laugh. Sophie clenched her napkin.

  ‘None of this is real,’ she said quietly.

  Mr Merryweather looked at her, amused. ‘It seems real enough. Or do you refer to the insubstantiveness of matter? We can discuss that if you prefer.’ Again he spoke too quietly for others to hear.

  ‘My father’s factories make corned beef,’ said Sophie. ‘People eat corned beef. Back home I made my father start a dinner programme for my father’s workers.’

  ‘And then there was your curate,’ murmured Mr Merryweather. ‘I can see why your father sent you here.’

  The meaning was like cold water on her face. The fact that it was possibly true made it worse. Her father had not just been worried about her marriage to Malcolm, she realised. Jeremiah Higgs was no fool. He had also almost certainly been worried about Sophie’s growing and unsuitable interest in his business, and in even more unsuitable charities like helping fallen women.

  She had to get out of there. Not just the dining room. Not even just the house. She had to get back to what was real. At least in Australia she could —

  ‘Miss Higgs.’ Mr Merryweather’s voice was firm now as well as quiet. ‘I think, later tonight, our hostess will want to talk to you.’

  ‘To tell me to mind my manners.’

  ‘No. To tell you that it is possible to have a real life, even if at times one must play by the rules of small talk.’ His eyes met hers again. ‘Small talk is a good word for it, don’t you think? Talk about small things that matter to no one. But that is why they are useful. Small talk brings people together.’

  ‘We’re playing games,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes. But trust me, you have no idea what games they are.’ There was no playfulness in his voice now. ‘I admire your hostess and her ideals very much indeed.’

  He had known she was going to bolt. Was he simply trying to lessen the embarrassment for his hostess? And his employer too, she realised, for the vicar and the curate must be appointed by the earl. Could the earl sack them? Could the vicar sack Mr Merryweather, if he failed to do his social duty to the hostess of Shillings? Was that what Mr Merryweather meant by ‘it depends who is listening’?

  Was she endangering the man’s job?

  She looked at Mr Merryweather, then at the vicar. Somehow she had the feeling the vicar knew exactly what had been said, even if he hadn’t heard it. He was a man who was good at watching.

  And neither he nor Mr Merryweather, she realised, looked like those who would live a life made up of nothing but foolish games.

  She glanced at Miss Lily. Miss Lily met her eyes for one sharp second. Her smile changed, almost imperceptibly, before it was bestowed again on the man at her side.

  Miss Lily rose, her silk dress reflecting the flames. Sophie and the other girls rose at her signal. It was time for the women to leave the room. Emily bent down so that she almost whispered in Mr Porton’s ear. ‘I do so hope you won’t be long.’

  ‘One glass of port only, little lady.’ The man was obviously entranced.

  Sophie caught Emily’s glance. Mr Porton was married …

  Jones brought in a salver of nuts and raisins.

  Chapter 29

  The book of life has many pages. You only see how each connects to make a story as you read.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  The men were still with their port and cigars in the dining room. Miss Lily bent her head to her coffee cup.

  ‘The dear vicar,’ she said. ‘He will keep Mr Porton there for at least an hour more.’

  ‘So you have time to reprimand me? Your cousin pays the vicar, so the vicar does what you want?’

  ‘Not quite like that,’ said Miss Lily. ‘Nor does one discuss that in the drawing room.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘But if we decide that this is a schoolroom, then if you like, we may discuss the prerogatives of vicars.’

  Sophie looked at the others. Hannelore looked amused, Emily strangely excited.

  How could anyone be excited about Mr Porton? Emily must have met dozens of men as important.

  ‘Sophie …’ said Alison softly. It was as much a warning as a plea.

  If I walk out of here along with my father’s money, Mouse won’t get her season, thought Sophie. If I disgrace myself, her season won’t happen either.

  The thought troubled her. She caught Alison’s eye, smiled, shook her head: Don’t worry, Mouse. I’ll behave.

  ‘If the vicar were really being helpful, he’d bring Mr Porton in to tea instead of filling him with port.’ Emily put her cup down restlessly, then moved over to the window and parted the curtains.

  ‘Mr Porton is a bore,’ said Sophie. ‘Let the port entertain him.’

  ‘Mr Porton is an important man.’ Emily shut the curtains again. ‘If you are too ignorant to understand, then you can at least be quiet.’

  ‘If he’s so important, why did you let him go on and on about shooting pheasants?’

  ‘Because that is the way things are done.’ Emily looked at Miss Lily. ‘Hasn’t she learned anything about the correct way to behave?’

  ‘She knows,’ said Miss Lily. ‘It appears that she did not feel it was worth her while.’

  ‘Then stop spoiling it for me!’ snapped Emily, a small silk-clad tiger.

  ‘It is always enjoyable,’ said Hannelore smoothly, ‘to renew acquaintances. Alison, will you play for us?’

  Alison went to the piano and lifted the lid. She played well, but mechanically. Emily paced to the next window. The last two months’ camaraderie had gone.

  There is something happening here, thought Sophie. Emily wants something. Miss Lily knows more than she’s told me, and so does Hannelore. Alison doesn’t, I think. The urge to get up, go to her room, vanished.

  A voice rose in the corridor. ‘Admiral von Tirpit
z may gloat over his fourteen new warships all he likes. I tell you, sir, the Germans won’t stand a chance. Can’t tell you any more — under the rose, eh? But we’re onto something that will beat any Prussian airship or Krupps machine gun. Something that could change warfare forever.’ Mr Porton came into the room, the vicar behind him, the curate trailing. Mr Porton looked like a beetroot tied into evening dress: his face was red and his shirt was white. He rubbed his hands as he gazed at the female faces.

  Sophie made a sudden decision. She smiled up at the curate. ‘Mr Merryweather, do please sit here. I’m afraid I am terribly ignorant about cricket. It comes of not having brothers. I shall be sadly at a loss when summer comes.’

  The vicar and Mr Merryweather glanced at Miss Lily. She nodded slightly. Mr Merryweather smiled back at Sophie. ‘It would be a pleasure, Miss Higgs.’

  Emily ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. ‘May I show Mr Porton the conservatory, Miss Lily?’ Her eyes met Mr Porton’s, not Miss Lily’s.

  ‘I am sure he will find the blooms enchanting.’ Miss Lily put down her cup. ‘Do make sure he sees the camellias. Fresh coffee, if you please, Jones.’

  Sophie’s bedroom fire had sunk almost to black coals. Down in the hall the clock struck two. She could ring for more wood to be added to the fire, or for another eiderdown, but she didn’t want to wake Doris. Her maid had been up late, waiting for her to come to bed, and would be up at six as usual.

  She slipped out of bed, arranged the wood as she’d seen it done a thousand times but never done herself, and felt satisfaction as it dutifully flared.

  She was just about to slide back into bed when she heard a stair creak. She moved silently to her door and opened it just as Emily, standing in the corridor, reached for her own doorhandle next door.

  Emily was still in evening dress, impeccable in the palest pink silk, the ribbons in her hair and her silken slippers the exact same shade. One hand held a candlestick. The other hand was empty.

  Their eyes met. Emily flushed, nodded, then slipped into her room.

  Sophie went back to bed and waited till the warmth of the bed seeped into her skin again. But it was still impossible to sleep.

  What had been happening? Surely not … the obvious.

  A telephone rang, in the depths of the house below, a single note before it was answered. Someone had rung the exchange, then, and this must be the exchange ringing back with their call. Even Mr Porton wouldn’t have business to conduct at this time of night. It had to be Miss Lily …

  Chapter 30

  Secrets? Of course I have secrets. You think because I am frank about some matters that I am completely open about everything? I don’t lie, my dear. But neither do I always tell all.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  Doris brought Sophie breakfast in her room. The sounds of maids carrying trays came from the rooms on either side — Emily’s and Alison’s.

  She suspected that only Hannelore, the most imperturbable, the most dutiful, had shared breakfast with Mr Porton below. Poor Mr Porton, denied a final meal with the other lovely ladies. But at least he had enjoyed the company of one last night.

  It was nearly noon before Jones announced that Miss Lily was downstairs, and free. He announced Sophie at the door of Miss Lily’s private drawing room. Miss Lily smiled — an almost normal smile — as she entered.

  ‘Sherry?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Miss Lily handed her a fragile glass of straw-coloured liquid, the lip so fine it might have been worn thin by time. Sophie held it to her lips. She hated sherry. But it was a ritual, like dressing for dinner and waiting for the gong before going down, part of the skeleton of their days, the structure that supported society.

  Miss Lily sat back on her sofa, the fire behind her casting its usual shadows. ‘I presume you saw yesterday’s newspapers.’

  She had expected to be reprimanded, even warned that she risked losing her season. Not this. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Churchill’s new navy budget is the largest in our history. It is our intention to put eight squadrons into service in the time it takes Germany to build five, he says. And that on top of his demand for two and a half million pounds to build up the battleship and air-force programmes.’

  ‘I’d hoped we’d talk about it last night. I … I apologise for my behaviour. Mr Porton must work closely with Mr Churchill at the Admiralty.’

  ‘He does.’ Miss Lily bent and picked up a letter from a side table. ‘Hannelore’s aunt has written to me to say that the Tsar has given orders to quadruple the size of his army, to wipe out pan-Germanism forever. Her estates are close to the Russian border,’ she added. ‘If there is war, they will be among the first occupied. Children starve as Europe’s wealth is spent on fripperies.’ Miss Lily might have been talking about hats instead of warships.

  She’s trying to make me agree with her, thought Sophie, remembering the five steps. Emily has mentioned that I saw her coming to bed. Miss Lily will praise me next.

  ‘You looked quite beautiful last night, Sophie. I am sorry you were bored. I did warn you that a young lady in her first year is expected to smile, know little, and say less. Dinner tables do grow more interesting later.’

  ‘It was … informative,’ Sophie said carefully.

  ‘It was meant to be.’ Miss Lily sipped her own sherry. Unlike Sophie, she actually seemed to drink it. ‘So what information did you gather?’

  ‘I learned there is a telephone here.’

  The glass halted on the way to Miss Lily’s lips again. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘It’s no secret.’

  Had a telephone been mentioned before? She couldn’t remember.

  ‘Did you wish to call someone? As I recall, there is no submarine telephone line to Australia yet, or I’d have suggested you call your father at Christmas.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She felt as though she were about to plunge into the swimming hole at Thuringa, not knowing how cold the water might be once she had left the sunlight. ‘But you called someone last night.’

  ‘Perhaps I called my cousin. They do have telephones in the East, you know. And a time difference. Perhaps, Miss Higgs, I might tell you that this is my business, not yours.’

  ‘But you carefully haven’t told me either.’

  A small smile lifted Miss Lily’s lips — coloured, Sophie knew now, with the smallest amount of strawberry juice mixed with cold cream to make them look pinker but not painted, fuller and shinier, just as her invariable scarf was to hide the slightest crepe of her throat. I still can’t even guess how old she is, thought Sophie. So much about Miss Lily is hidden. ‘I am quite pleased with you, my dear. How do you know?’

  ‘Because you said “perhaps”. You don’t lie,’ said Sophie. ‘You just select the truth. Just like you selected me.’

  ‘No. I hoped you might be suitable, when your father first enquired about sending you to England for a year. Not because of your father’s money, although that will give you a kind of freedom that few women enjoy. I hoped you had inherited your father’s will to succeed, and his intelligence too. And his integrity, perhaps. But it was impossible to tell until I knew more of you.’

  ‘We’re here for a purpose,’ said Sophie slowly. ‘It’s not just to amuse you, or for our own sakes either.’

  ‘And what do you think my purpose is?’

  ‘I think you are a spy. Like Napoleon had spies in England.’

  She had expected Miss Lily to protest. Instead she appeared unsurprised. ‘Your Miss Thwaites must have taught you some history, I see, even if she didn’t teach you much about the world today. History is a useful subject if you wish to decode the present.’

  ‘You mean you really are a spy?’

  Miss Lily laughed. ‘You don’t quite believe it, do you? So who am I spying for?’

  Once again she had failed to answer the question. ‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘It’s either for Germany or England. I’ve learned enough of politics while I�
��ve been here to know it all boils down to those two.’

  ‘“All boils down to” …’ Miss Lily waved the distressing phrase away. ‘My dear, if you must use clichés, please, not the ones from the abattoir …’

  ‘Are you a spy? I don’t want to charm the answers from you over the next few weeks. You wouldn’t tell me anyway, if you didn’t want to, no matter how much charm I used. Did you telephone Hannelore’s aunt last night? Does the vicar know what you’re doing here? Please don’t answer me with more questions.’

  ‘If you promise me most faithfully you will try subtlety in the future … then yes to all three questions. But I do not spy for England. Nor for Germany.’

  ‘I don’t understand. France? The Tsar?’

  ‘For myself. For close friends with similar views; one day, I hope, you will be such a friend.’ Miss Lily put her sherry down, then folded her hands in her lap. She gazed at Sophie without speaking. The fire crackled behind her. A log fell, scattering sparks. ‘What do you think Miss Carlyle was doing last night?’

  ‘Not … not what it seemed. Not … flirting or even … the things in that book … with Mr Porton. Looking for plans, perhaps. He said he was going to a meeting down at Portsmouth. He works for the Admiralty …’

  ‘Oh, dear. You think Miss Carlyle searched Mr Porton’s pockets to find the plans for a new submarine while he was trying to kiss her? Was she carrying anything when you saw her?’

  ‘Only a candle.’

  ‘Miss Carlyle needs to learn more discretion, to charm without having others notice. But she did achieve what she set out to do. The prinzessin, who understands these things, helped her do it, by letting her focus on our guest.’ Miss Lily folded her hands like a steeple. A ring glinted in the firelight. ‘Miss Carlyle acquired Mr Porton.’

  ‘As his mistress?’ She couldn’t believe that.

  ‘My dear, you’re far too dramatic. A mistress is too often discarded. But a girl who admires you, who makes you think that you are still young, still desirable enough for a wealthy, beautiful girl to want you … that is precious to the Mr Portons. Miss Carlyle and Mr Porton were in the conservatory, talking. Miss Carlyle was confiding her dearest hopes and dreams … or a version of them, at any rate. I was in the library, only a few yards away, with the window open into the conservatory. I am not such a lax chaperone as you imagine.’