The Season

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘How do you know vis, Jenkins?’

  Of a sudden Daisy’s huge sacrifice of the previous night, guiding the wretched tall Sarah towards the even taller Captain Barrymore Fortescue, whom she herself could easily have enjoyed before tea in the library any day of the week, was threatening to be of little or no consequence at all. If the wretched Miss Hartley Lambert left for America her sacrifice would all have been for nothing.

  ‘Mrs Hartley Lambert’s maid had it from Miss Hartley Lambert’s maid. Oh, yes, my lady.’ Again the smile threatened as Daisy’s face became like thunder. ‘Miss Hartley Lambert has told her mother that she has had enough of London and dancing endless waltzes with old men, and yesterday afternoon they ordered their tickets for the return journey. The best suites, of course, on the best liner, and sixteen trunks to be brought down from the attics at once, not to mention fifteen hat boxes, and other portmanteaux—’

  ‘Oh, fing!’

  Daisy stamped her foot at Jenkins, and they stared at each other. This was bad news indeed, and they both knew it. When Daisy stamped her foot and shouted fing! it was bad news to beat the band, almost as bad as when the old king’s beringed fingers used to start to tap the table in front of him and he cleared his throat, which meant that he was bored enough to order a lobster tea.

  ‘Very well, Jenkins.’ Daisy was pacing. ‘Forget the bath, forget everything except some clothes and all the usual.’

  All the usual meant curling tongs, corsets, stockings, suspenders, button hooks for boots and gloves, hat – very, very large – a longer jacket, three-quarter, and a skirt with tiny pleats falling just below that same straighter jacket. All a few years older than they should be, but still much more suited to Daisy than any new-fangled hobble skirts or some such, which would make her look just like mutton dressed as poor little lambkins.

  ‘Very well, my lady.’

  ‘And Jenkins, forget the carriage. I will take a hansom. It will be quicker. Oh, and Jenkins. You, of course, will come too.’

  ‘Would not my lady prefer to take Laker?’

  ‘No,’ said Daisy, lying down on the bed to be dressed. ‘My lady would not prefer to take Laker, absolutely not. My lady is going to take Jenkins.’ This time it was Daisy’s turn to smile grimly. ‘Because Jenkins heard it on the grapevine, did she not, so Jenkins is going to hear some more, but this time from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Jenkins started to heat up the curling tongs, and if she had employed a cross word such as fing! she would definitely at that moment have expressed it quite loudly.

  Fing, fing, fing! Morning was her time of luxury. When my lady was out on her calls, that was time set aside by Jenkins for doing what Jenkins liked, and they both knew it. It was her time for reading my lady’s newspaper, and for going to the servants’ hall and listening to the newest, or latest, on the grapevine.

  It had been May’s idea that George should tell poor Edith the news about Glendarvan. Of course Edith had known, from May, of Emily’s sudden departure for Ireland, but since she thought that this was to prevent a scandal she had not missed her mother at all. In fact, Emily being such a very strong character, Edith had, and she was too honest not to acknowledge this, been only too relieved that her mother had returned to Ireland without her. Away from her mother, Edith had been able to deceive herself into thinking that she herself was quite changed, and just got on with the business of the ball by pretending that she was a new and altogether different person. It was as if the Wokingham ball was her very first, and, it had to be faced, she had been a success, no-one knowing, as she was led onto the ballroom floor, or at least only slowly realising, that she was in fact the very same Miss Edith O’Connor who had been around since the beginning of the Season.

  Now, as Edith went to meet the Duke and his son in the library, she had no idea of the true reason behind the invitation to join them. She knew of course that she was in love, and that she was in all likelihood loved back, unimaginable as it seemed, by someone who was so kind and so shy that Edith could only feel protective towards him.

  As she made her way downstairs Edith was not to know that May had thought it best that the bad news from home should be broken to her by someone of her own age. Seeing how very taken George had been with young Edith O’Connor, May had thought too, that such a test for George, with all his shy attitudes, and for Edith who was so unsure of herself, would prove to be a bond between them. After all, if George was to take Edith into his life for ever, if Edith was to surrender herself to George for eternity, there would be no greater proof of George’s sensitivity than his breaking the news of the destruction of her beloved family home.

  The Duke, while approving of the scheme, had however insisted on being with his son, for father and son were close, and the Duke had sensed that the presence of an older man in the room might also steady Miss O’Connor. He imagined that Edith would not give way while there was another man present, so that the impact of the bad news would be somehow lessened. After all, it was often true that the very fact of having to control oneself, in front of children, or in front of adults, could bring with it a new energy, at the very least a diversion, like exercise on a cold day.

  And so that was how Edith heard that Glendarvan, her beloved home, and all her possessions there, had been destroyed, and for no better reason than, as the Duke said gently, ‘an act of hatred, no more, my dear. Just an act of senseless hatred by ignorant lunatics, for your father and your family are much loved in that part of the country and we are all well aware of that.’

  Edith stared across the room at the two tall, kind Englishmen, not quite able to take in the whole dreadful nature of the news.

  ‘Should I return to Ireland at once?’ she asked, her heart sinking at the idea that she might have to leave Wokingham House, where, it suddenly seemed to her, she had started, perhaps for the first time in her life, to find real happiness. ‘Will my papa and mama not want me to be with them at this moment?’

  Father and son looked at each other, and then at her, and finally the Duke said in his slow, deliberate, shy fashion. ‘My dear, you must do as you think fit, of course. But I think your mama expressed the wish that you would stay with us, here at Wokingham House, until such time as she sent for you. They are all to go north at once, to their house at Bangor, and there she will make for you all a new home.’

  Edith looked at George. How awkward! She could not but be honest. The feeling of relief at what the Duke had said was immense. She did not want to leave George, or Wokingham House, or the dear Duchess, or even the Duke, one bit. And although she loved Bangor, she could not wish herself at that moment away from George.

  The Duke cleared his throat and walked over to the window. He did not want to make things awkward between George and this lovely girl, but really, it had been worth a little distortion of the truth when he saw the look in George’s eyes when young Miss Edith O’Connor had come into the room.

  He had felt the same, of course, exactly the same as George was feeling at this moment when he first saw his darling May tripping onto the stage singing some silly little number. That had been it for him. He had been destroyed for ever as far as the opposite sex was concerned. Never looked at another woman.

  It was obviously a family weakness, falling in love and knowing what you wanted straight away, knowing that the girl in front of you was all you would ever want.

  ‘I feel it might be my duty to go to Mama and help her. On the other hand,’ Edith looked across at George, ‘if, as the Duke says, Mama expressed a wish that I should stay on in London, and finish the Season, then perhaps that is what I should do?’

  ‘It is as Papa said,’ George reiterated, knowing that his father had been over-generous with the truth, for George’s sake. ‘Lady Emily wanted you to stay on with us and finish your Season, going to Court and all that. And I have to say, you must know, that I wish it too.’

  The Duke was still staring, diplomatically, out of the window. Edith
would be blushing now, he knew. All young girls blushed when they heard that particular tone in a young man’s voice. All passion and commitment, and the voice alone quite obviously infused with love.

  ‘Well, if you think that is what Mama wanted …’

  ‘Of course it is. She wanted you to stay here and she wanted my mother to present you at Court.’

  The Duke turned at the window and walked back to Edith. He knew from his wife that, thank God, a scandal had only just been prevented, that May’s old friend Lady Emily had made a cracking ass of herself over some young captain, unmarried, indiscreet, and totally unsuitable. But now the whole affair was over, thank heavens, the past the past, and no more to be said on the matter.

  ‘Well, if you really think …’ Edith’s voice tailed off. Glendarvan quite gone. Never to see it again. The thought was impossible. ‘My sister, Valencia?’ she added, suddenly.

  ‘Quite well,’ the Duke said, almost too quickly. ‘We heard last night. They are all perfectly fine, and moving north.’

  They had heard nothing of the sort, and George knew it and his father knew that he knew it, because he threw him a quick look.

  ‘Was that wise, Papa?’ George asked later, after Edith had gone to her room.

  ‘No, but I think it must be true. After all,’ the Duke said drily, ‘if it were not true we should surely have heard to the contrary, and at once, your mother and Lady Emily being so very intimate.’

  George nodded, still staring at the door through which his goddess had just passed. He turned to his father. ‘You know, of course, how I feel about that enchanting creature who has just left us, Papa?’

  ‘Yes, dear boy.’ The Duke’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. ‘Of course I do.’ They looked at each other shyly. ‘Good luck, my boy. I hope she will consent. I think you could make each other very happy, and so does your mama. And make yourself happy too, by the way!’ They shook hands.

  ‘I thought I would dance with her at the ball tonight, and take her straight to the conservatory after a turn around the floor.’

  ‘Splendid. Quite splendid. And then, when all this ghastliness over Glendarvan is finished, you can take her north and ask permission of her father. I believe he is a nice enough fellow – some funny ideas, though, I hear. You know, a bit on the poetic side since his hunting accident, but there. Edith will be too busy here in England to trouble herself with such matters, thank God. And you too, doubtless. You will still I am afraid have the estate to run with me, but of course you must have your own house. That is de rigueur. Cannot have you both living with us. That would never do.’

  George looked at his father. He was the best of fellows. Seemed to understand everything before one had to say too much.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, George, your grandmother’s ring. I think you will find it is in the safe in your mother’s dressing room. Very nice sapphire of the first water. She left it to you for just such an occasion.’

  The Duke turned back to the window, thinking ahead as even fathers do when a wedding is in the air. He must start to plan the fireworks on the estate. All the workers and their families must come to a big party with fireworks.

  And then he would make sure that the Dower House was made ready for them when they came back from their honeymoon, and Stilley Street of course. The Duchess still kept that just as it was when they first went there. Her little doll’s house, he always thought of it. His Duchess’s doll’s house, all bright colours and pantries with brass kettles and a sitting room with a brown leather chair, a bit worn now, and a patterned carpet, and velvet moleskin-coloured curtains at the windows, as well as clean white nets. Ah me. He sighed, and turned, but George had gone. Impatient, no doubt, to find that ring of his grandmother’s! Oh yes, he would be impatient all right, and then of course he would be restless until tonight came. How happy they would make each other was up to them, but today at least was one of the good days, and to be remembered as such.

  A thought struck the Duke as the footmen flung open the library doors for him.

  He had not told Frear. He must go at once and tell Frear. It would never do not to tell Frear. After all, Frear, well, he always did put George straight, whenever the Duke wanted him to. Had not he put George straight this time? Good heavens, without Frear, the boy might not even be engaged!

  No, he must tell Frear. Or there would be all hell to pay!

  New Beginnings

  The feeling that she was being punished for her sins had never left Emily until she saw the gate lodges of their seaside house at Bangor. Of a sudden it seemed to her that God might have forgiven her so-great passion for Captain Barrymore Fortescue. She turned to Valencia and sought her hand underneath the travelling rug.

  ‘Oh, look, Valencia, the sea. We shall get you quite well again, here, darlin’ dote, I know. Pink-cheeked and rounded of eye. You will become as fit as a hunter.’

  Valencia clutched her little terrier to her and smiled. It had been terrible for them all, the house and everything gone, but there had been good things too, no toys burned, and no animals hurt, and while they would all miss the paintings and books, she supposed, the animals were more important.

  ‘Look!’ As the servants fell ahead of them into the Victorian house, thankful to have arrived at last, her mother turned to Valencia. ‘A parcel already!’ They both stared at it. Somehow the fact that there was a parcel waiting, and that it had her name on it, Miss Valencia O’Connor, made Bangor seem as if it was home already.

  ‘Open it, dearest, quick. It might be something nice.’

  Emily turned to find a pair of scissors, a knife – anything sharp. She knew from the writing on the brown paper that the parcel must be from Edith in London, and that a surprise was just what Valencia needed. She had feared so much for the child’s already frail health that she had fully expected her to be at death’s door when she arrived back from England. But children were as unpredictable, it seemed, as their parents, and whereas such a strange and horrible twist of fate might have been expected to make Valencia more of an invalid, in fact the danger, and the excitement too, it had to be faced, had seemed to trigger in her a resilience that no-one had ever suspected was there.

  And, too, perhaps the fact that attention had been taken from her, that everyone’s eyes had turned away from ‘poor little sick Valencia’, had also been of some benefit to the youngest of the O’Connor children.

  ‘Why can one never find a knife or scissors when there is a parcel to be opened? Oh, look, dearest, let’s try spearing the string with this paper knife.’

  They wiggled the paper knife hard and in the end the string, weakened by their enthusiasm, gave way at last, and Valencia was able to scrape off the sealing wax, and tug off the brown paper, and the box presented itself.

  Valencia looked up into Emily’s face and her voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘I think it might be a London hat.’ She had lost what little colour she had, just staring at the box, her heart beating faster than ever. She pushed her hair up a little from her forehead. ‘Supposing,’ she asked her silent mother, ‘supposing it is a hat from London?’

  ‘Well,’ said Emily, quietly. ‘Well, and if it is?’

  Valencia’s great green eyes, so like Emily’s own, stared back up at her mother.

  ‘It might not fit.’

  ‘Nor it might,’ Emily agreed, after a moment.

  Neither of them moved.

  ‘Shall I open the box? Even if it does not fit, you could wear it, could you not, Mama? It need not be wasted, after all, need it?’

  ‘No, of course it need not.’ Emily’s face was as serious as that of her daughter.

  ‘We can look at it together if we are quite sure that it would not be wasted?’

  ‘Yes, we can.’

  The childish hands, smooth and white, stretched out to the box and she pulled at the lid.

  A cloud of tissue paper seemed to envelop the room in which they stood, and the young girl pulled excitedly at the conten
ts of the cloud, pulling out a hat, a gorgeous green velvet hat with great green ostrich plumes.

  ‘Shall I put it on?’ Her face was as grave as a bishop as she held it.

  ‘Well you might try it on, if you had a mind to do so.’ Emily did not move. Not for her to spoil the moment, but to stand still and pray silently, Please help the hat to fit!

  Valencia reached up and put the hat on, and then, since it did not seem to want to fall to her nose and leave her blinded, she walked in stately, disbelieving fashion to the old silver-backed looking glass on the opposite wall, and climbed onto a small stool to stare at herself.

  She had not grown very tall, despite her twelve years. It was as if nature had singled her out to give her the permanent look of a youngest child. But now, with the hat, with the great green plumes of ostrich feather floating above her, she had height, she had grandeur. She was suddenly older.

  She climbed back down off the stool and walked straight up to her mother to kiss her. ‘I can’t kiss Edith, so I’ll kiss you!’

  They both laughed, and then Emily swung her round a little, making the feathers move this way and that.

  ‘I think we will be happy here, Mama, really I do. And look …’ Valencia pointed to the window. ‘There’s the sea. It will make my chest better, and we will be a family gain.’

  ‘Have we not been a family?’ Emily stared across at her youngest, startled.

  Valencia shook her head. ‘No, Mama, we have not. Not since papa hurt himself and you and he could not agree about – well, you could not agree about anything. Here, by the sea, we can go bathing, and we can play croquet out there on the lawn, and Papa will not miss his hunting because there is none to miss, and Edith will come back from London, and we can put on plays in the great hall out there. And Papa can buy himself an organ, because he is always saying he will and now he can. We can be a family again!’

  Emily smiled, her heart contracting. Children noticed everything. Well, not everything, she hoped. Her mind ran to Edith. Please God she had never noticed her mother’s lapse. If she had, whatever would she think? Emily turned away from the thought, only to return to it. If Edith knew of the affair, really there was nothing to think, except that her mother was a human being, and weak, and that after all had been all too evident of late.