by Lee Strauss
But that wasn’t all.
Ginger knew but wasn’t telling. Not yet, and maybe never. And no doubt, Felicia would go through her life unaware, but there was nothing Ginger could do about that. Besides, it was possible the relationship between Felicia and Charles might come to nothing.
One could hope.
In full summer bloom, the flower garden surrounded the patio. Ambrosia sat in one of the chairs, pointing her silver-handled walking stick as she instructed her maid, Langley, to pick flowers.
“A mix of roses and irises. No, not that one, the one behind that. And take one of those white lilies.”
Ginger couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Langley, whose brow shimmered with sweat. Had she seen the maid smile once since she came to live at Hartigan House with Ambrosia? She thought not.
However, from her perch in the shade, the Dowager Lady Gold was as cool as a cucumber. Sitting upright, her back two inches away from the back of the patio chair, Ambrosia looked at Ginger with heavily hooded eyes, her soft cheeks rosy from the summer heat. A wrinkled hand rested on the head of the silver-topped walking stick.
“You’re just in time for tea, Ginger. You will join me?”
Ginger didn’t know why she’d thought she could sneak to her room on the upper floor to tea and a tray of sandwiches brought to her by her discreet maid, Lizzie, before falling into a gentle sleep on her large four-poster bed.
“I’d be delighted,” Ginger said. She lowered herself into a nearby chair and took in the beauty of the back garden. Felicia and Charles were mounted on their respective geldings, and Ginger and Ambrosia watched as they disappeared down the lane.
Ambrosia beamed with delight. “Aren’t they a perfect couple? I do hope he soon plans to propose.”
“I’m not sure what the hurry is, Grandmother.”
Ambrosia stared, her watery-blue eyes flashing with disbelief. “To secure the marriage! Surely, you haven’t forgotten the grief Felicia has caused me these last few years with her modern, scandalous ways? The type of men she’s attracted—well, I was certain her reputation had been ruined more than once. And now, an earl—we could hardly hope for better.”
Ginger wasn’t so sure.
Lizzie approached with a tray. “We saw you through the window, madam,” she said to Ginger. “Mrs. Beasley doubled the portions. Shall I pour the tea?”
Ginger smiled at Lizzie’s pixie-like face, her eyes eager to please.
“That would be wonderful,” Ginger said. “Thank you, Lizzie.”
Ambrosia regaled Ginger with stories about the garden, inserting a grumble over Langley’s incompetence—Ginger was thankful the maid had gone inside—and Ginger shared news about how the fashion show was coming along.
Ambrosia tsked. “Such a risk to have an event like that outside.”
Ginger didn’t disagree. After all, it hadn’t been her decision. The Lord Mayor and London County Council had wanted to bring people to the park. No doubt, the first time the event got washed out by unrelenting rain would be the end of the spectacle. She encouraged herself by saying, “The men who watch the weather and how it performs say the weather will be splendid.”
Ambrosia pursed her lips. “That’s nothing more than sorcery.”
Interrupted by the sound of Basil’s forest-green Austin 7, Ginger smiled as she watched her handsome husband park in the garage beside her Crossley. He switched off the engine and exited with the magnetism of a film star, whilst Scout, their adopted son, jumped out with the enthusiasm of a lad whose voice was changing.
Both wore tennis clothes of white shirts, trousers, and matching V-neck pullovers.
Ginger grinned at the sporty duo, then reached for Basil’s hand. He ducked to kiss her on the cheek. “Good afternoon, love.”
“Good afternoon to you,” Ginger returned with a smile. “So good of you to take the afternoon off to spend with Scout. I hope Superintendent Morris wasn’t too disagreeable?”
Basil grinned. “Morris is out of the country.”
Ginger chuckled. “When the cat’s away . . .”
“Precisely.”
Ginger turned to Scout and held his gaze. “How was your lesson?”
“Frightfully fun.” Scout pointed to the plate of sandwiches. “May I, Mum?”
Ginger noticed how Ambrosia bristled. The matriarch had never quite latched on to Ginger’s desire to adopt what the dowager referred to as a ‘street urchin’. After a strongly worded indictment from Ginger, the dowager had agreed to keep her sentiment to herself, at least verbally. Scout was too gracious to notice Ambrosia stiffening every time he entered a room.
“Go and wash first,” Ginger said. “Clean clothes, clean face, and clean hands.”
Scout’s shoulder’s slumped. “Yes, madam.” But when Ginger’s dog, Boss, ran out to greet him, he ran off as cheery as a deer in a meadow in bloom. Basil pulled up one of the chairs.
Like magic, Lizzie arrived with a second tray of tea and sandwiches, and Ginger marvelled at Mrs. Beasley. To look at the cook, one would be forgiven to assume, based on Mrs. Beasley’s girth, that the woman might be slow to move about, but she’d proven to be as quick as any slimmer counterpart.
As Ginger poured Basil’s tea, she took in his greying temples and the deepening crow’s feet framing his hazel eyes. In her estimation, her husband grew more handsome by the day.
“We stayed to watch a ladies’ game,” he said.
Ambrosia frowned. “A lady’s what?”
“Tennis played by female competitors,” Basil explained. “They were surprisingly good.”
“In my day, the gentler sex knew their place,” Ambrosia said.
“In your day, ladies were constricted by fashion,” Ginger said, without pointing out that some Victorian ladies had, indeed, played the sport. “Thankfully, the designs of today are far more liberating.”
Ambrosia sniffed. “The frocks have the shape of potato sacks.”
Ginger refused to stand down. “And because of that, ladies can play tennis with even more vigour.” She turned her focus to Basil. “Did you catch the names of the players? Irene Cummings is on the schedule to model the latest in sportswear at the show.”
“Yes, Irene Cummings was there and showed particular prowess. Her partner, Nellie Booth, played well too. I’m thankful that ladies and gentlemen don’t play together, or I fear one of us would be dreadfully humiliated.”
Pippins, the septuagenarian butler who’d been on staff at Hartigan House for decades—back when Ginger’s late father had been the head of house—presented a small silver tray topped with a lone envelope.
“Post for the Dowager Lady Gold,” he said.
Ambrosia plucked the envelope off the platter. “Thank you, Pippins.” As she read the handwritten name, she blanched.
Concerned, Ginger leaned towards her. “Is everything all right?”
“An old acquaintance is in town. Deborah Harvey, now Deborah, Duchess of Worthington.”
Before Ginger could tell Ambrosia that she’d met the Duchess that morning, Ambrosia shifted her chair.
“Langley!” she blustered. “Langley!”
The pinched-faced maid scurried outside, her long legs making the venture appear awkward.
“Yes, madam?”
“Take me to my room.”
Langley held out her arm, which Ambrosia gripped unceremoniously.
“Oh mercy,” Ginger muttered. Lowering her teacup to the table, she said to Basil. “I’m going to see what’s troubling her.”
Ambrosia could be speedy when she wanted to be, and Ginger could hear the rapid tap, tap, tap of the dowager’s walking stick as it struck the black-and-white marble floor of the vast entranceway. Two thick wooden doors facing Mallowan Court were flanked with tall windows letting in the south-facing sunlight. A large chandelier hung from the two-storey vaulted ceiling, and a staircase curved upwards to the upper floor. Ambrosia, with Langley following behind, was already halfway up the stairs.
Ginger felt a little breathless when she reached them.
“Grandmother, what’s the matter?”
Ambrosia’s cheeks quivered as she shook her head. “Nothing.”
Holding on to opposite rails, the two ladies reached the landing simultaneously. “Something has clearly upset you,” Ginger pressed. “You know you can confide in me.”
Ambrosia gripped the silver-embossed handle of her walking stick with two vein-ridden hands. “Deborah and I were children together. Friends once. But . . .” She pursed her lips and shook her head sharply. “That’s all in the past. And if she thinks I’m going to call her ‘Your Grace’, she’ll be sorely disenchanted!”
3
A three-piece brass band entertained the crowd that had gathered for the fashion show. The men, dressed in matching white suits, were in the bandstand in Hyde Park—an octagonal-shaped gazebo with a two-tiered roof topped with a pointed spiral, its roof held secure by eight ornate iron pillars. Together they produced smooth jazz sounds, which most probably could be heard beyond the Serpentine, a long and slender lake that ran through the park like a snake.
Ginger felt the name otherwise unfitting as the area was tremendously beautiful with plenty of leafy, green trees and wide lawns kept mowed by a rather large flock of sheep. Majestic swans floated along the surface of the water. Ginger would always feel fond of the area, as Basil had chosen this park, a romantic spot along the Serpentine, to ask for her hand in marriage.
On this pleasant morning, the skies were blue with puffs of white clouds and the breeze light and refreshing. And, in contrast to the heatwave currently assaulting the east coast of America and Ginger’s town of Boston, she couldn’t have planned for better weather if she’d overseen it herself!
Chairs set up in rows around the temporarily elevated wooden runway had filled as eager viewers came prepared with picnic baskets and their parasols for shade. Behind the bandstand, several white tents—one for each designer to house their wardrobes and particulars—were arranged in a semicircle, giving each equal access to the runway. British designers Kate Reily and the up-and-coming Bette Perry, Italian designer Elsa Schiaparelli, and French designers Jean Patou and Coco Chanel were among them.
Of those, only Coco Chanel had yet to arrive.
Ginger had decided on a white, sleeveless crepella frock trimmed with blue and red crepe for this occasion. A square collar sporting wide lapels left enough exposed skin to display a matching ruby necklace. A pleated skirt dropped from the waist and was finished with a large wide bow, front and centre, perfect for camouflaging her growing middle. A matching hat with enough brim to shield her eyes from the sun and a pair of red leather pumps finished the outfit.
Ginger searched for Madame Roux, who’d taken on the role of backstage manager, spotting her as she exited one of the tents.
“Madame Roux?”
Madame Roux looked up from her clipboard. “Yes, Mrs. Reed?”
“Is everything going as planned?”
“Oui, oui. I’ve visited all the tents, ensuring each designer and their assistants are aware of the schedule and have the models and their outfits ready.” Her lips, thick with dark lipstick, pulled downwards. “Only Mademoiselle Chanel is not here.”
Ginger glanced at the last tent on the right. “But her assistant is ready?” she asked hopefully.
“Oui. Thank goodness for dependable assistants.”
Feathers & Flair had a smaller tent, and Ginger stepped inside. Emma had the outfits numbered and assigned to each model. Felicia had volunteered to perfect the models’ finger curls and makeup. Dorothy assisted Millie, the first of the models walking for Emma, doing up the hooks and eyes on the back of her frock.
“Oh, Mrs. Reed,” Emma said, spotting her. “One of the models hasn’t come. I already have Millie going twice, but we won’t have time to redress our hired model before the next one is set to go. I meant to tell Madame Roux, but she’s so busy, I haven’t had a chance.”
“That’s all right,” Ginger said. “Madame Roux has enough on her plate. I’ll handle it.”
Emma’s eyes flashed with relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Reed.”
Ginger smiled at Felicia. “How about it, Felicia?”
Busy applying rouge circles to the model’s cheeks, Felicia asked, “How about what?”
“Will you model for Emma?”
Felicia straightened and stared placidly. “Model? Me?”
“Why not? You’re young, beautiful, and, for the most part, graceful.”
Felicia laughed. “For the most part?”
Ginger smirked in return. “We can’t forget that table-dancing incident and your subsequent tumble, can we?”
Felicia tightened her lips as the girls in the room held in their giggles. Having made The Daily News pages, Felicia’s late-night club mishap was hardly a secret.
“That was an unfortunate circumstance, not my usual fare. I can walk that runway as gracefully as the best of them!”
Ginger bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. She knew how to bait her younger sister-in-law, and Felicia didn’t disappoint.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. To Emma, she added, “Please help Miss Gold prepare.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, madam.”
Strolling to the side of the stage, Ginger glanced out at the crowd, spotting her family in the section on one side. Basil sat placidly, attending the show simply to offer his support to Ginger. Ambrosia, shaded by a Victorian-inspired parasol, frowned as her eyes darted about the park. Since receiving the letter from Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, she’d been bristlier than usual and refused to reveal why the message had upset her so. There was a story there, and Ginger suspected—since she’d never heard word of the Duchess before yesterday—that it went back several years.
An empty seat beside Ambrosia was reserved for Felicia, and next to that sat Lord Davenport-Witt. He leaned in towards Ambrosia, and whatever he said caused Ambrosia to smile.
Ginger approached to relay her news.
“Felicia will be delayed. It turns out we’re short a model.”
“What does that have to do with Felicia?” Ambrosia said, her brows furrowing. “Surely she’s not—”
“She is, Grandmother.”
Ambrosia blustered. “But, that’s so common—”
“Fashion is for all classes,” Ginger said, soothingly. “And she’ll be lovely.”
Charles chuckled. “I, for one, am delighted. And I have quite a view from here.”
On the opposite side of the runway, Ginger saw the tennis players, including Nellie Booth and Irene Cummings—the pretty athlete scheduled to model for Jean Patou’s sports collection—and the famous French champion Suzanne Lenglen. She rounded over to them and stretched out her hand to Mademoiselle Lenglen. “Congratulations on your world cup titles,” she said. “My son shall be sorry when he hears you were here.”
“He’s a tennis fan, oui?” the tennis champ said.
“Very much so.” Turning to Miss Booth and Miss Cummings, she added, “And of yours as well. He and my husband watched your women’s doubles game yesterday.”
Both athletes smiled, and Miss Cummings said, “Considering she’s only returned from Brazil a week ago, Nellie did well. Hardly a chance to rest properly.”
As if on cue, Nellie Booth yawned. “Oh dear! Please excuse me.”
“Isn’t she spoiled?” Miss Cummings smiled, but her eyes flashed with annoyance. “One can hardly feel sorry for her.”
“What took you to Brazil, Miss Booth?” Ginger asked with interest. South America was a place she’d never been but would love to visit someday.
“My uncle is a naturalist and invited me along for the adventure. It was timed perfectly during a tennis break.”
Ginger smiled. “How wonderful.”
“But I’m back now,” Miss Booth continued, “and ready to keep my eye on the prize, Wimbledon next year! We’ll give Kitty Godfree a run for her money!”
G
inger caught a pained look on Miss Cummings’ face before her practised smile returned. “It’s wonderful that you came today, despite your recent excursion, Miss Booth,” she said. “Miss Cummings, I look forward to seeing you on the runway.”
“I’m so nervous,” Miss Cummings replied.
Nellie Booth rolled her eyes with unrestrained exaggeration. “You’ll be fine.”
Ginger thought her a tad rude but chalked it up to journey weariness. Unbidden, Ginger felt a twinge of envy. Despite her adventurous spirit, she had yet to voyage widely. She’d always dreamed of venturing to the southern hemisphere, but now, with a baby on the way, she couldn’t see that sort of rigorous travel in her near future.
“Ginger!” Ginger turned at the sound of her name and smiled when she saw her good friends Reverend Oliver Hill and his wife Matilda, pushing a pram as they walked by.
“Hello.” Ginger hurried over, eager to get a glimpse of little Margaret. The child, dressed in a white, frilly baby smock and matching bonnet, had grown so much since her birth three months earlier. “Look how chubby her cheeks are!”
Matilda laughed. “She loves to eat. I feel like I’m constantly feeding her.” Then, with a note of concern, she added, “How are you, Ginger? You’re not overdoing it, are you? I swear, if you start to look ragged, I’ll report you to Dr. Longden.”
“I promise I’ll pace myself.”
Ginger’s eyes stayed on the baby. After so many years of not conceiving, she could barely believe that she would have a child soon. “Her hair looks even redder than I remember,” Ginger said, noting the fine wisps of copper strands curling onto the baby’s forehead.
“Perhaps yours will be the same,” Oliver said. His hair was an even darker shade of red than Ginger’s.
“Let’s hope, shall we?” Ginger checked her watch and excused herself. “I have to be on stage in fifteen minutes. Are you staying to watch?”
“For a little while,” Matilda said. “But Margaret gets fussy when she tires.”
