The Season

by Charlotte Bingham

  Divine Circe, the Society writer, had written of their wedding.

  The bride in old-fashioned satin, and a train that required twelve attendants, all of whom were in satin too. Satin knee breeches, white satin jackets with gold epaulettes, and all of them carrying satin-covered wands with rosettes and ribbons. A truly tasteful and beautiful sight, and bringing sighs from the waiting crowds as the bride arrived with her father, Mr Rory O’Connor from Ireland, stepping out of the Wokingham family carriage, generously loaned to Mr O’Connor by the bride’s future father-in-law, the Duke of Wokingham. The bride’s extravagantly long train was attended not just by twelve small boys but by six bridesmaids in pale pink satin with overskirts of muslin. There was too a hint of a royal wedding, many years before, in the bridal flowers. Altogether a most happy and popular occasion, the Wokingham heir marrying an exquisitely beautiful young girl from Ireland. There was not a person there who could not but have wished them all health and happiness all their lives.

  Their continental honeymoon had of course been everything a honeymoon should be, but it was when they returned to this little house in which Edith now lay so blissfully awaiting her bridegroom bringing her tea that their married life really began, and they had time to get to know each other in a way that was not possible with servants always around.

  ‘There we are, my dearest,’ George whispered.

  ‘Thank you, my darling. May I move now?’

  George stood staring down at Edith. He hated her to move. She looked too beautiful. ‘You may sit up for your tea,’ he agreed, at last.

  Edith sat up and took the teacup from him. It was a nice cup with pretty blue flowers decorated on it, and old. She took it, smiling up at George. ‘You are clever, dearest. Making tea. I did not know you knew how.’

  She stared down into the cup. And stared. There was tea in the cup, that certainly was true, and the tea was floating, dozens of little black leaves all along the top of the cup. Beneath the leaves, as she now saw, was – the water.

  ‘Oh, George!’

  ‘Yes, dearest?’

  ‘Oh, George!’

  George stared from his bride’s laughing face to the cup in his hand and back again.

  ‘I rather thought it did not look quite right,’ he agreed with her, finally, and was only too relieved when she sprang out of bed, grabbed her wrap and returned with a tray and a pot all made and laid as it should be.

  ‘Oh dear, what a failure as a husband I am, to be sure.’

  ‘No, dearest, that you are quite definitely not. Tea, after all, can always be arranged. Love cannot.’

  After tea George once more reassured himself as to the love.

  Old Enemies

  Daisy, walking skilfully between all the small tables in her crowded drawing room, reached the window giving out onto the street below. She was expecting this Mr Blundell, this builder fellow, and really it would be a dreadful disappointment if he was held up, for she was quite excited about her plans to turn the garden into an Italian Garden.

  She had thought about her little garden from the moment she had moved in. She had really concentrated upon it. She had brought her whole imagination to bear on it, which meant that she had many ideas to tell Mr Blundell, but they were ideas that she wanted put into execution straight away. They could not wait until spring. She must have the ideas acted upon at once or she would forget them, or grow tired of them, or, worse, feel unexcited by them.

  Ah! There he was, and – she squinted down at her fob watch rather than peer at her gold engraved eighteenth-century drawing room clock – exactly to the minute, which was always so reassuring in a person.

  Before moving to Kensington Daisy had never had to do with a builder in her life, for the simple reason that on her various estates, or in London, it was always the family agents that dealt with such things. But now she had cut herself off from the country, let her remaining estate, and must be content with what little she had; namely nine bedrooms and a small garden in Kensington.

  Mr Blundell had seemed to understand. Moreover, the reverence in his eyes had deepened. As a matter of fact, as the maid announced the dear little man, and Daisy swam towards him in a very fetching deep red velvet skirt and an embroidered waistcoat of which she was very fond, she realised of a sudden that, since her retirement, Mr Blundell and herself had become really firm friends.

  Not that he would take advantage of their little talks together, that would not be his way, but he would, she imagined, tell his wife little bits of tittle-tattle, little things that Daisy had let drop, and really she did not mind that at all.

  It was a privilege for Mr Blundell to deal with Daisy, and they both knew it, and because of this it was understood between them that he was allowed to go home and tell Mrs Blundell little items such as King Edward’s liking lobster salad for tea, and the Duke of Wokingham’s being a very reticent man. In this way Daisy also knew that she ensured that Mr Blundell’s account, sent in discreetly to her housekeeper, and never referred to by either of them, was kept well within the bounds of day to day reality.

  ‘Mr Blundell. How good of you to come so quickly.’

  Mr Blundell, who had fallen wildly in love with the Countess on the first day of their meeting, touched his moustache lightly as he heard her greeting. She had such a pretty voice, the voice of an angel, he had told his wife, who had not minded in the least, because all women everywhere were fascinated by a woman who had been mistress to a king.

  Find out if she has her own hair!

  Mrs Blundell had asked him that only the other week. What a thing! Of course she had her own hair, and her own hands and feet.

  Now Mr Blundell stared in reverence as the Countess seated herself in the velvet-covered chair, beside which he stood, hat in hand.

  ‘I am ever so glad vat you could come to meet me so very quickly, Mr Blundell. Why, I truly thought you must be dreadfully muddled up with all your spring plans and so on.’

  ‘My lady.’ Mr Blundell bowed again. ‘You may call upon my services whenever you wish. I should come if it was midnight, or dawn, or on the outbreak of war. I would always come when you summoned me. I am your devoted servant, my lady.’

  Daisy smiled and thought goodness, he goes too far, really he does, but I will have to let him. Seconds later she said, ‘You know, I really do believe what you say is true, and you are my devoted servant, Mr Blundell.’

  Mr Blundell gave another little bow. He could not help his heart beating faster whenever he stood in front of the famous Countess. Just knowing that she had pleased the then Prince of Wales in her youth was excitement enough, but knowing too that she not only paid her bills on time, but required him to be constantly visiting her, to dance attendance on her, was quite wonderful. All other clients had faded from his notice in comparison to her ladyship. Even Mr Herbert Forrester, former owner of the house itself, paled to insignificance beside the glamour of her ladyship, rich though he might be.

  ‘Of course—’ Daisy paused. ‘Of course,’ she started again. ‘You do not know who lives next door, who bought the other house from the family that owned them, do you, Mr Blundell? My neighbour, as it were?’

  ‘I do not, my lady.’

  It was Mr Blundell’s custom to pretend ignorance rather than betray confidences. It made it easier to avoid any awkwardness. Besides, he had only met Mr Forrester just once. The rest of his dealings had been with the Duchess of Wokingham. She was a nice lady, but lacking, in his opinion, the great grandeur of the older generation, lacking the Countess’s style, her hauteur, her ability, when he thought about her on his return home, or when he was running through the accounts in his office, to make Mr Blundell shiver with delight.

  Being in the presence of the Countess was like being in the presence of old King Edward himself, so much of the grand style did she exude. She was a Victorian, she was a great woman, she was everything that the country now, sadly, lacked, in Mr Blundell’s less than humble opinion. Style! The old style! No cutting corne
rs or waiting for someone else to pick up the pieces! No, she was a great, great lady, and still a great beauty, and he would lay down his life for her, he often thought. Not just his expertise, but his life.

  ‘So, Mr Blundell, you can obviously execute my plans for turning my little garden Italianate? You can do what I want?’

  ‘I can do whatever you want, my lady. Of course. We shall have plans drawn up immediately.’ He had not heard a word of what she had been saying.

  ‘And another thing, Mr Blundell?’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘My little dog here, Tippitty.’ She stroked the head of her small King Charles spaniel, who sighed contentedly and stared into the fire as her mistress’s beringed hand travelled over the top of her head. ‘She must be allowed for. She must be allowed to exercise where she wants. You will not be fidgety about that, will you?’

  ‘No, my lady. Of course not.’ Mr Blundell bowed again.

  ‘Oh, and Mr Blundell. One more thing?’

  He straightened up. ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘The gentleman who bought the house next door. Would you by any chance know if he is a bachelor?’

  Mr Blundell knew of course that Herbert Forrester was a widower, but his lips, even in front of the Countess, were permanently and professionally sealed.

  ‘I, er – I, er—’

  ‘No matter. It is just that my new maid, Gribben, told me yesterday that there are no female servants employed in the house. So it occurred to me, Mr Blundell, that it might be a bachelor’s house.’

  Mr Blundell hesitated. He could see that the Countess was a little disturbed by this news of an all-male, all-bachelor household. It seemed to imply wild parties involving punch bowls.

  ‘I do know that Mr Herbert Forrester is a widower, my lady. But that is all I know.’

  There was an appalled silence.

  ‘Mr WHO?’

  Mr Blundell now felt the full force of the Countess’s royal manners as she sprang to her feet, setting aside her little dog and staring into his face as if she was about to order his head to be removed from his neck.

  ‘A Mr Herbert Forrester, my lady.’

  In an instant, Daisy knew who had perpetrated this trick on her. Augustine Medlar!

  It was she who had so warmly recommended the house to Daisy, sending her off hotfoot to see it. As soon as she heard that Daisy was retiring she had recommended the house. She must have known that Herbert Forrester, Daisy’s sworn enemy, had bought the one next door. How Augustine would be laughing now, fit to bust! Daisy imagined she could hear her horrible cackle coming from beneath her gilded canopy at Medlar House. Oh, the horror of it all. She sank back onto the sofa and plucked up her dog once more. She had been bested by Augustine yet again. It must be her revenge. Not content with not helping Daisy in any way to find Miss Hartley Lambert a suitable husband, Augustine had allowed Daisy, indeed encouraged her, to live next door to the man she hated most in the world.

  ‘You may go, Mr Blundell, and when you set about drawing up my garden plans be sure to make the walls ten foot high!’

  Mr Blundell fled. He had no idea why the Countess had reacted as she had. He might never know, and he was heartbroken. He had climbed the ladder to his goddess’s feet with such care, and now, at the mere mention of a name, she had thrown him to the bottom again. He would have to make her garden so entrancing that she would forgive him. Quite apart from anything else, if he lost the Countess’s custom Mrs Blundell would never, ever forgive him.

  No more mention was made of the matter until the Italian Garden had progressed sufficiently for even Daisy to be contented with its elegance, its fountains, its paving, and statuary. It all looked suitably foreign and warming, some of the statues being only partly clothed. The leaves in the road outside were beginning to drift past Daisy’s long windows when Herbert Forrester alighted from his motor car, brand new, and bought at Dover, and gazed up at his new London house.

  From the outside, anyway, it looked just as it should. Tall, elegant, freshly painted, curtains at the windows, brass knocker shining.

  ‘Good afternoon, Jepson,’ he said, handing his man his hat as his chauffeur drove off to the mews where the car would be garaged. ‘First time I have made a journey in a motor car without having recourse to the car behind, do you know that, Jepson?’

  ‘If I may say so, Mr Forrester, sir, you are looking very well, quite yourself again.’

  ‘Thank you, Jepson. It feels as if I have been away a year, when it is only a few weeks.’

  ‘May I lead the way, sir, while the hall boy takes your portmanteaux to the upper floors?’

  ‘You may, Jepson.’

  Jepson led the way up to the first floor, his heart beating a little. Supposing Mr Forrester did not like the Duchess of Wokingham’s choices? He, alas, would be the first to hear of it.

  Herbert followed his manservant up the stairs wondering what he would feel also. Supposing he did not like May’s choices? How would he tell her? He felt so rested, so much more himself, that it seemed much more than a few weeks since they had stood in the first floor drawing room and she had undertaken to furnish the house for him.

  They turned together at the top of the stairs, and followed each upon the other into the big double room, Herbert trying to look composed and sophisticated. But as soon as he stepped into his new London drawing room he knew that he need not have worried. The room was perfect. It was everything that he had never before enjoyed. It was quite evident that ‘our May’ had in every way fulfilled her brief, and interpreted exactly what a chap wanted out of a house. The room appealed at once as being relaxed, charming, masculine, very much a gentleman’s drawing room, nothing frothy or flowery about it.

  First of all, centre stage and shining with its own novelty, there was the cupboard that he had always longed for. A great dark cupboard with silver side pieces. Magnificent! And – he quickly turned its big key – inside, glasses and bottles filled with all his favourite drinks. He turned to Jepson, his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

  ‘By golly, Her Grace has done us proud, eh, Jepson? Just what we both wanted, wouldn’t you say?’

  Jepson smiled. He had been thrilled to see the cupboard. One day, when he was a rich, retired butler, he would buy a cupboard just like it.

  ‘It is going to save a lot of leg work, one way and another, if I may say so, sir.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Tell you what, Jepson, to celebrate my return, why don’t we have a drink together? I know it’s not the form, but let us face it, this cupboard is quite something, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I would indeed, sir. It is, if I may say so, sir, a gentleman’s cupboard.’

  Later, as they both stood, a little awkwardly, either side of the fireplace, Herbert lit a cigar, which he could, thank God, now he was alone in his own drawing room, and asked, purely to make conversation, and after a few appreciative puffs of the cigar, ‘Oh, by the way, Jepson, who bought the house next door? I know it was sold just after I left, but I never did ask to whom. Too busy enjoying the delights of Europe: Florence, Rome, Paris, Vienna. I never thought I could stop travelling, and then one day it seemed to me that home was beckoning. I suddenly longed for the understatement of England, for its uncertain weather, for its solid decency. Something very reliable about England, you know that, Jepson?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jepson paused for a minute before continuing, because it was all really rather exciting. The former mistress of the previous king living next door, their nearest neighbour, a famous woman, and a most elegant and stylish lady by all accounts.

  ‘Quite an exciting personage bought the house eventually, sir. On her behalf it was sold first, I believe, to a Lady Medlar, who then sold it on to the Countess.’ Jepson paused. ‘A beautiful lady she is too, the little I have glimpsed of her. The Countess of Evesham, sir, is still a beautiful woman. I expect you have heard of her, sir? Quite exciting, we all think, that she is living here, in Ken
sington.’

  There was a small choking sound and Jepson looked round at his master, momentarily alarmed. Indeed, judging from Mr Forrester’s expression the news of the Countess of Evesham’s living next door was, if anything, proving a little bit too exciting.

  ‘Is something the matter, sir?’

  ‘I shall have to move, Jepson. There is nothing for it, I shall have to move!’

  Herbert looked wildly round his new drawing room. Just when he had found some sort of haven for himself, just when everything was boding well for him, when he had returned from abroad to home and hearth, hopes high for a comfortable future, he had to find his old enemy, the woman who had tried to seduce him, who had humiliated him beyond endurance, living cheek by jowl, breathing the same air, doubtless looking at the same view from her drawing room windows.

  ‘If it’s any comfort, sir,’ Jepson told him, after some lengthy explanations, ‘the Countess has hardly been known to go out. She is, as I understand it, very much an indoor person, so it may be that you will find that you never see each other from one year’s end to the next.’

  ‘I will give it three months, Jepson, that’s all, and at the end of that if we’re not all embroiled in some fearful scandal, some dreadful shake-up, our nerves all shot to pieces, then my name is not, and never was, Herbert Forrester.’

  Jepson nodded, not really understanding, but then it was given to a gentleman’s man to understand very little. A gentleman’s man reacted, he calmed, and he made good, but he did not attempt to understand.

  ‘I tell you what, sir, shall I bring up Mungo, the little Griffon dog, to say hello to you? He’s fairly bursting his buttons to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Very well, Jepson, but believe me, stay indoors! You may bet on it, our neighbour will have made trouble for us within the month.’

  ‘I hardly think so, sir.’

  Herbert sighed. ‘There goes a man who doesn’t know the Countess.’