The Granville Sisters

by Una-Mary Parker

  ‘Lady Londonderry,’ Liza replied casually.

  ‘Why has she asked Juliet?’ Rosie exclaimed petulantly.

  Liza looked guiltily embarrassed. ‘It’s only for dinner, Rosie,’ she said soothingly. ‘Once you get to the Heyshams’ ball, it won’t matter who you’ve dined with.’

  Rosie looked particularly ethereal that night, in a gauzy pink dress with gold beaded shoulder straps and pink and gold topaz earrings. Her skin was flushed like a sun-ripened peach, accentuating the blue of her eyes. She was determined to talk to more people, dance more dances, and generally to shine more than Juliet. She knew she looked good, too, because when she arrived at Mrs Bartlett’s house, her hostess’s eyes flashed and her thin lips vanished completely. It was obvious that Rosie was going to outshine Flora, her plump and rather plain daughter.

  Once they arrived at Holland House, Rosie hung around in the cloakroom for several minutes, a trick she’d learned from Juliet, so that by the time she entered the ballroom, Mrs Bartlett and her other boring dinner-party guests had scattered.

  Having been received by Lord and Lady Heysham, and Prudence, their daughter, Rosie spotted one of her friends, Megan Hamilton, sitting on the far side of the ballroom on one of the little gilt chairs provided for débutantes to sit on until someone asked them to dance. But before she’d reached Megan, a tall, broad-shouldered young man with dark brown hair and the dark sentimental eyes of a spaniel, came up to her as if he already knew her. Lady Heysham stepped out of the receiving line and for a moment Rosie thought she was going to whisk him away, but instead she smiled charmingly.

  ‘Rosie dear, may I introduce you to Alastair Slaidburn?’ Then she turned to the young man as if she were about to describe a rare jewel. ‘And this is Rosie Granville,’ she told him.

  ‘How do you do,’ he said gravely, shaking her hand.

  ‘How do you do.’ Her heart felt as if it was being deliciously squeezed, like gentle fingers testing a plum for ripeness.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ His smile lit up his face, crinkles of laughter lines forming around his eyes.

  ‘I’d love to.’ They took to the floor and, as they trotted around to a quickstep, Rosie realized in a moment of crystal clarity, almost like second sight, that this was the man she wanted to marry. Happiness flowed over her like a comforting warm wave as she managed to keep up with his intricate footwork.

  When he suggested a glass of champagne and somewhere to sit out for a few minutes, she accepted with alacrity. He led her to an anteroom, and they settled with their drinks on a sofa.

  ‘That’s better, much cooler,’ he remarked, smiling at her. ‘So, do you enjoy being a deb?’

  ‘I’m having a wonderful time,’ she replied inanely, sipping her champagne. Mummy had told them both they must only have soft drinks, but this, Rosie felt, was a special occasion. ‘Do you go to many of these parties?’ Her tone was hopeful.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ he replied, amused, ‘but Alice Heysham is my cousin and I promised to give her a helping hand in bringing out Prudence.’

  Lucky Prudence, Rosie thought, wishing she could think of something witty and amusing to say, so he’d stay by her side for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Alastair asked, easily and confidently. ‘Where do you live?’

  The ice was broken. Rosie relaxed and she told him about her parents and the house in Green Street, how she loved to play tennis, and what sweet little sisters she had. Somehow she forgot to mention Juliet.

  They danced together some more, and then, excusing himself reluctantly, he said he simply had to do a couple of duty dances, namely with his cousin and with Prudence, but would she save a dance for him after that?

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed blithely. She decided to spend the time powdering her nose, putting on some more lipsalve, and talking to the wallflowers who always congregated in the cloakroom rather than face the humiliation of sitting around the dance floor, hoping somone would ask them to dance.

  Just as she was leaving the cloakroom, Juliet swept in, wearing a dress Rosie hadn’t seen her wear before. It was peacock-blue satin, with yellow and red silk butterflies scattered around the shoulders, and she looked amazingly exotic, with her long hair swept up into coils at the nape of her neck, interwoven with ropes of small pearls.

  ‘There you are!’ Juliet exclaimed, her blue eyes rimmed with black, like a cat. ‘Been in here all evening, have you?’ she asked with false sympathy.

  ‘No, I haven’t!’ Rosie snapped frostily, suddenly feeling overblown and dowdy.

  Juliet gave an amused shrug, raised her plucked eyebrows and said, ‘Oh, well …’

  Rosie hurried back to the ballroom, but Alastair was still steering Prudence around the floor; her expression was bovine, his bored. Damn, she thought; who can I talk to until he’s free?

  ‘Hello, Rosie,’ said a voice in her ear. It was Charles Padmore, lanky but exquisitely groomed. White tie and tails are definitely flattering, Rosie reflected. They make any man look handsome.

  ‘Like to dance?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Charles, but my shoes are hurting me dreadfully; can we just talk for a few minutes?’ She fluttered her lace fan whilst keeping a surreptitious watch on Alastair’s movements.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ He sounded disappointed, and she was aware of him looking at her breasts and then sweeping down to her hips before he looked into her face again. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  When he returned from the bar with two glasses of fruit punch, he droned on about the Derby the previous day and how the Aga Khan’s horse had won, until, to her relief, she saw Alastair coming towards her again.

  ‘Would you excuse me, Charles?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I promised this dance to Alastair ages ago.’ She made it sound like some time last year.

  Crestfallen, and about to say he thought her feet were hurting her – but then thought better of it – Charles turned away, muttering something about wanting another drink anyway.

  As Alastair spun her around the floor, twisting and swooping her through a tango, his hips pressed hard against hers, his hand deep into the small of her back, his brown eyes held a triumphant expression.

  ‘You’re a good dancer,’ he remarked.

  Rosie, breathless, smiled back. She didn’t dare say a word because all her concentration needed to be focused on her feet.

  Eventually Mrs Bartlett came up to her, husband in tow, while Alastair went to fetch more drinks.

  ‘I don’t think it’s very nice the way you’ve comandeered Lord Slaidburn all evening,’ she said coldly. ‘There are other girls at the party who want to dance too, you know. Anyway, we’re leaving now, so come along; we’ll take you home.’

  Alastair had come back with their drinks and Rosie turned to look at him. She longed for him to take her home later – much, much later – but she knew that wasn’t allowed, and she also knew he’d never even suggest it, for the sake of her reputation.

  For a wild moment she thought of telling the Bartletts she was staying on longer and then going home with her sister, but, as she hesitated, Mrs Bartlett made it plain she was in no mood to argue.

  ‘Now, come along at once, Rosie. Flora’s got a bad headache, haven’t you, dear?’ she asked her daughter, who looked as if she’d had a miserable evening.

  Rosie said goodbye to Alastair and then walked away, but she couldn’t help turning and looking back at him. She knew nothing about him, not even where he lived, and yet she already felt a sense of loss at no longer being by his side.

  He was still standing where she’d left him, and their eyes locked. For a split second she felt like turning and running back. Then he smiled and her heart shivered with longing.

  ‘Are you coming, Rosie? The car’s waiting.’

  Rosie wondered with a chill of desperation when she’d see him again, as she obediently followed Mrs Bartlett into the waiting car.

/>   Lying in bed, Rosie relived the evening from the moment she’d arrived at the ball until she’d been forced to leave.

  Then she was struck by a dreadful thought. Juliet had still been at the party when she’d left. Supposing she’d met Alastair? Danced with him too? She’d heard Juliet returning a short while ago. With one bound she was out of bed, and tapping on her sister’s door.

  ‘What is it?’ Juliet mumbled, opening the door. She was standing in white satin-and-lace camiknickers, and her silk stockings were held up by white satin suspenders. ‘What do you want, Ros?’ Her mouth was full of hairpins and her arms were raised as she pulled the ropes of pearls out of her hair.

  ‘Did you … did you have a good time? You’re home very late.’ Rosie tried to keep the querulous note out of her voice.

  ‘I thought it was a dreadfully dull evening. They really shouldn’t invite all the old fathers, too. They’re such a lecherous lot. In the end Archie took me to the Astor in Berkeley Square. We couldn’t get in to the Embassy.’

  Relief washed over Rosie like an Atlantic roller, leaving her feeling weak and bruised. ‘Archie …?’ she croaked, seemingly interested.

  Juliet shrugged. ‘Archie whatever. You know, the man with the slicked-down hair.’

  ‘Oh, Archie!’ Rosie repeated as if he were a life-long friend. Hysterical giggles were not far from the surface. ‘Oh, well, I’m glad you had a good time.’

  Juliet’s eyes narrowed. ‘You got out of bed at three o’clock in the morning to ask me if I had a good time?’

  ‘I … erm … I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  ‘Since when? What are you up to, Ros?’

  ‘Why should I be up to anything? I bet Mummy doesn’t know you spent most of the evening in a nightclub, alone with a man!’

  ‘And of course you’re going to tell her?’

  ‘No. I’m not.’ Hoping she looked dignified, Rosie turned and went back to her room, where, having carefully closed her door, she did a wild little jig of happiness.

  Two

  ‘Oh, how divine! Are those for me?’ Juliet reached out from the morning-room sofa, where she was lounging with a copy of Vogue, as Parsons bustled in carrying two bouquets of flowers, one of lilies and roses, and the other of carnations, peonies and orange blossom.

  Rosie, writing thank-you letters at a table, looked up resentfully.

  The butler seemed to be having difficulty with his mouth, which kept twitching to one side.

  ‘They’re both for Miss Rosie,’ he replied primly.

  Rosie flushed a deep pink. No one had ever sent her flowers before. ‘Who are they from?’ she asked eagerly.

  He indicated tiny envelopes nestling among the sweet-smelling blooms.

  ‘Thank you, Parsons.’ She ripped open the first envelope. ‘Oh! How sweet,’ she remarked without enthusiasm.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Charles Padmore.’

  ‘What an excitement. Who are the others from?’

  Rosie’s hands were shaking so much she could hardly open the envelope. A moment later she gave a gasping laugh.

  Her sister watched her closely. ‘So? Who sent them?’

  Rosie shrugged elaborately. ‘Alastair whatever,’ she said carelessly. ‘Parsons, can you get these put into vases, please? I think I’ll have them in my room.’

  When Rosie was alone, she read the note again. Hoping to see you again soon. With love, Alastair.

  ‘Oh, my God … Oh, my God …!’ she kept repeating to herself. It was too good to be true. She must tell Mummy. This was a secret she couldn’t keep to herself a moment longer, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell Juliet.

  Hurrying up the stairs, Rosie rushed into the room adjoining her parents’ bedroom, which Henry referred to as ‘Mummy’s Holy-of-Holies’. This was Liza’s sitting room, where she attended to her correspondance and made her telephone calls. It was a bright chintzy room, with a desk, a couple of armchairs, and a mantelshelf groaning with invitations. To see these stiff white cards, with their copperplate engraving, gave Liza a warm feeling of happiness. Especially the ones from Buckingham Palace, with the crown printed in gold at the top. She even allowed herself the indulgence of keeping out-of-date invitations propped up amongst the others, so it looked as if they were going to even more parties than they actually were.

  Rosie’s words came tumbling out as she told her mother about Alastair and the flowers.

  ‘Slaidburn. Alastair Slaidburn,’ Liza kept repeating, frowning in concentration. ‘Wait a moment, darling.’

  As she spoke she reached for her ‘bible’, Debrett’s Peerage, flipping through the flimsy ricepaper pages, until she came to the entry she was looking for.

  Rosie watched with bated breath.

  ‘Rosie,’ Liza said at last, as she examined the impressive coat of arms. ‘Have you any idea who he is?’

  ‘Mrs Bartlett referred to him as Lord Slaidburn.’

  ‘Darling, he’s the Marquess of Slaidburn, aged twenty-seven, his family seat is Ashbourne Park, and he ownes most of Worcestershire. His family are not RCs, so that’s all right.’ Liza leaned back in her chair as if she’d been felled. ‘Rosie, you’re made! He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the country.’

  Rosie felt stunned, her eyes wide with amazement.

  ‘Now,’ said Liza, pulling herself together. ‘This is what you must do. Be discreet. If it gets out he’s interested in you, he’ll run a mile. Don’t flirt too obviously and don’t even let him kiss you until he’s made some sort of declaration, and I don’t mean a note with a bunch of flowers. Let him hold your hand, but only in private, and the only presents you can accept from him are chocolates, and maybe a good book. D’you understand, Rosie? This is really important.’

  The thought passed through Rosie’s mind that all this sounded more like a military operation than the beginning of a love affair, but she nodded happily, promising to do exactly as her mother said.

  When Henry returned from the bank that evening, weary after a long and tiring day, Liza couldn’t help babbling on about Rosie’s new swain, and what it could mean. He poured himself a large gin and vermouth, and then dropped heavily into a chair.

  ‘Liza, have you any idea what is happening in the real world?’ he asked heavily.

  His wife bristled. She never knew what he meant by the ‘real world’. Surely their world was real enough?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had lunch with Ian today. Things are very serious.’

  She looked at him nervously, reached for a cigarette, which she placed in her long jade holder before lighting it. Ian Cavendish was Henry’s oldest friend. They’d been to Eton together, and then Trinity College, Cambridge. Ian was now high up in the Foreign Office, and, in Liza’s opinion, a boring old gossip.

  ‘So, what did he have to say today?’ she asked, a touch resentfully.

  ‘You know Winston Churchill has been warning the House about Germany? Ian told me that the FO have received information from MI6 that Hitler has called for conscription, and ordered air-raid shelters to be built in Berlin.’

  Liza frowned, not wanting to hear all these things. It scared her to think there could be a repeat of the 1914–1918 war with Germany.

  ‘I don’t suppose it means anything?’ she said weakly.

  Henry looked strained. ‘But can’t you see? It means war is inevitable. The Nazis have been building up the Luftwaffe, we’ve already lost air parity with Germany, and they’re calling Churchill a warmonger.’

  Liza dragged on her cigarette, saying nothing.

  ‘Ian met Churchill for luncheon last week. Do you know what he told Ian?’

  She shook her head, knowing he’d tell her even if she’d said she already knew.

  ‘Churchill said the present situation is the most serious this country has ever faced in its long history. We’re simply not prepared for war. If Germany strikes out at us, we’re finished
, and so is the rest of Europe.’

  ‘So, what can we do?’ A sudden note of fear had entered her voice. Could the situation really be serious?

  Henry shrugged, and reached for his briefcase. ‘I read something today that just about sums up the situation.’ He pulled out a copy of Punch.

  ‘Listen to this.’ Henry started to read aloud.

  ‘Who is in charge of the clattering train?

  The axles creak and the couplings strain,

  And the pace is hot, and the points are near,

  And sleep has deadened the driver’s ear;

  And the signals flash through the night in vain,

  For Death is in charge of the clattering train.’

  ‘Oh, Henry!’ Shocked, Liza looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe we’ll really …’ She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘We’re all on that clattering train, my darling.’

  ‘Then what’s going to happen to us?’ she sobbed.

  Henry got up and went and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Try not to get too upset, darling. It’ll be some time before anything happens, anyway.’

  Her expression brightened. She wiped her cheeks with a tiny handkerchief. ‘Really? Truly? And perhaps Hitler will change his mind, don’t you think?’

  Rosie was madly in love. It was a bright shining love, new and fresh and thrilling, and it absorbed her night and day. When she was at home she withdrew into a world of golden daydreams, inhabited only by Alastair Slaidburn and herself. She hated going to parties if he wasn’t there, and feared going to parties if he was, in case he showed an interest in someone else.

  ‘He’s so attractive, Mummy,’ she confided. ‘I’d marry him tomorrow if he asked me.’

  ‘Maybe he will,’ Liza replied with ill-concealed excitement. She couldn’t resist her own bit of daydreaming: ‘My daughter, the Marchioness …’ Chatelaine of Ashbourne Park … the first débutante of the season to marry …

  ‘Mummy!’ Rosie said impatiently.

  ‘Umm?’ Liza tore herself away from her delicious fantasy. ‘What is it, darling?’