by Kelly Doust
Lizzie stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, completely ignoring the people around them and a man’s mumbled complaint as he bumped against her shoulder. She took Victoria’s hand in her own. ‘Tori, you’ll be at Bledesford and you’ll have Oswald – you won’t be lonely! But of course we shall come visit. Whenever we can manage it. I expect Oswald will be needing to spend quite a lot of time here as well, so you’ll be the mistress of Bledesford. And I will need to keep an eye on Reggie’s business, even when he returns. I rather think I’m better at it than he is.’ She sighed, and drew Victoria along with her. Her sister was right, Victoria thought – Lizzie in business was a force to be reckoned with!
‘Remember, the requisition of Bledesford is only temporary, and someone has to arrange for repairs to all the damage those dreadful soldiers have caused. I can’t trust anyone else to do it, you know.’
‘I know. But . . . it’s just that Oswald’s so reserved. I mean, how will we rub along together?’ Victoria realised she had just expressed her most anxious worry out loud.
Lizzie eyed her sharply. ‘Just fine, I imagine. Marriage is a transaction, darling. Remember that.’
Chastened, Victoria thought of her husband-to-be and bit her lip. The Adderleys had nothing like the Dearloves’ history or social status – Oswald Senior was an American, after all, and not even listed in the peerage – but they had money, and quite a lot of it. Ozzie seemed a decent enough fellow, but somehow Victoria couldn’t quite bring herself to imagine loving him. Not that Lizzie would encourage anything so declassé as love.
‘Buck up, darling,’ Lizzie said, squeezing her arm and chivvying her along. ‘Oswald is a catch, you’re lucky to have him. Just think of all the money, darling. Pots and lovely pots of it. Never wanting for anything again. How wonderful will that be? I’m frightfully jealous!’ she said, laughing.
Victoria had heard it all before. Once, she’d never thought about where their food came from, or given much thought to their lovely clothes and the gracious appointments back at Bledesford – it was simply all she knew. Besides, Father had always seemed so capable. But when he’d died just before the war, after a short but particularly nasty bout of pneumonia, she and Lizzie had found out the bald truth. Beyond Bledesford there was very little left for the two sisters to inherit. A string of bad investments had depleted their family’s funds considerably, and the Depression – not to mention the war – had been the final nail in the coffin for them.
Lizzie had responded to their sudden and unexpected descent into poverty with characteristic efficiency. Without even discussing it with Victoria, she’d taken matters into her own hands and agreed to marry the slightly pompous but well-off Reginald Fortescue – rather to his surprise, Victoria privately thought – negotiating the details as though discussing the sale of a property.
Not for the first time, Victoria wondered if they would ever find another solution to saving Bledesford. She knew it was their responsibility now, and she loved the house and the estate, she really did, but with the weight of it falling squarely upon her shoulders, Victoria sometimes wondered if she might just collapse.
‘Despite being nouveau riche, the Adderleys really are very well connected,’ Lizzie commented now, drawing Victoria back from her thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t be encouraging you to marry Oswald otherwise. This match will be good for both our families. They need us as much as we need them.’
Oh God, Victoria thought. She was already dreading the social functions and parties she’d be forced to attend, to help the Adderleys along in the right sort of circles. Victoria hated all of that, she always had. Why must it fall to her? She looked at Lizzie, feeling a sharp little pang of guilt. She knew her sister would do her duty if she could – Lizzie was even more committed to saving Bledesford than she was, and taking charge seemed to come naturally to her. But Reggie . . . well . . .
Rather disappointingly, Lizzie had found out (after the marriage, of course) that Reggie’s family were in a worse position than they’d let on – worse, even, than the Dearloves. Generations of long-living sons had divided up their fortune, and there was little left for the third son of a third son. Apart from the property in London where they lived, and in which Victoria was now staying, and Reggie’s stake in an accounting firm, they had nothing.
Yes, Victoria swallowed. She had no choice but to marry the heir to the vast Adderley shipping fortune if she wanted to secure her family’s future and the future of their beautiful Bledesford.
As Lizzie walked briskly down the street, talking nonstop about the engagement party and who should be invited, Victoria thought about her fiancé. At twenty-one, Oswald was a few years older than she was – but he was slight, serious-looking, and never seemed to meet her eye directly. They’d only met a few times, at events arranged by Aunt Milly, so it was no surprise that the marriage was not yet a love match. But Oswald had been . . . unresponsive, at best. Victoria had tried to engage him, she really had, but their conversation had been stilted and awkward. Her intended had seemed far more comfortable retiring to smoke outdoors, at ease in the company of his friends. During one abysmal dance, he’d remained outside all evening, with Victoria having to endure meaningful looks from Lizzie and Oswald’s parents. On top of that, he had barely seemed to notice the fine dress designed to reveal her trim waist and soft curves.
‘It really will be all right, darling, I promise you,’ said Lizzie, patting her hand reassuringly and drawing Victoria back to the present. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Yes, of course,’ nodded Victoria obediently.
As Lizzie went on and on about the catering, Victoria couldn’t stop her thoughts drifting away to the divine frock she was making for their engagement party – the only aspect of the entire affair she was actually looking forward to, truth be told – and the detail on a handsome felt hat, worn at an elegant angle by a woman walking past with a pram. Victoria noticed the perfect pink roses on the chubby cheeks of her little son and felt her heart give a sudden lurch of longing. Then there was a wonderful sharp-shouldered suit displayed in a dress-shop window, and the sweetest feather on the pavement, despite the fact that all the birds seemed to have flown the city . . . I should quite like to take a photograph of that, Victoria thought, her eyes lingering upon the feather, although she knew how silly it would be to waste expensive paper and development fluids on such a fancy.
Thinking of lost feathers made her remember her coming-out ball at Bledesford a couple of years ago. Mother had been gone for such a long time by then – over a decade – but Archie had agreed to host one of the many events of the season in honour of his youngest daughter. She didn’t think Father much cared, but he’d done the same for Lizzie and her sister had insisted on her behalf. They weren’t really proper aristocrats, the Dearloves – just Honourables – but the rules concerning that sort of thing had grown increasingly lax, and Bledesford had been considered one of the most promising balls of the year, Rose’s glamour still conferring upon them all a sense of desirability.
Victoria remembered sitting in her bedroom, just before it was about to begin, looking through the window at a nearly full moon outside. She’d worn a pale pink, bias-cut dress, adorned with shimmering silver beads. Her excitement had made her giddy, so ready was she to dive into the future, and so thrilled at the thought of finding someone to love. But Victoria also knew that the pack of horse-toothed, braying chaps that her father and Lizzie had invited would be the same boys she’d grown up with, and socialised with, her whole life. And not one had ever so much as piqued her interest. There was something about their pale skin and weak chins that made her think of a school of gaping fish. What she wouldn’t give to meet someone who looked like the leads in her adored silent films – mysterious, with soulful eyes and a heavy brow, dark and brooding, yet somehow elegant, whisking her away from all this.
Walking downstairs, she looked up to see her mother regarding her from the portrait in the hall. ‘Go well,’ her eyes seemed to say. ‘I’ll be wit
h you.’ Victoria’s heart stopped for a moment, and she felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, feeling just for a moment that something might happen tonight, something special. But in the crowded ballroom downstairs, her fears were confirmed: there was not a single man she didn’t know, or hadn’t known, for simply ever.
Lizzie was in the corner by the door, wearing a feather boa and pearls, very close to Father’s side, whispering in his ear. Father laughed uproariously at whatever Lizzie had said. Sharp-tongued and bright, her sister had always managed to capture her father’s attention and keep him amused. Victoria knew Lizzie was his favourite, but when he shouted at both her and Lizzie, she was always a little bit afraid of him.
With relief, she realised that Aunt Birdie was coming towards her, holding out her hands, her eyes crinkling with delight. ‘Don’t you look a treat, darling? My goodness – let me take a look at you. Quite the beauty.’
Victoria blushed at the attention. ‘Birdie, I—’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Oh – nothing.’
Victoria was just about to ask a silly question – about how her mother had met Father, when she’d never had a season of her own – when Birdie seemed to read her thoughts.
‘Your mother would be so proud of you. It’s such a pity she’s not here to see the fine young woman you’ve become.’ Birdie blinked away tears, then hesitated, seemingly on the verge of saying something else.
‘Really?’ Victoria perked up. ‘Birdie— Birdie, what is it?’
‘Oh – nothing, darling. Just something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘It can wait. Now, how about I take you to Paris next month? Just the two of us. My treat, to celebrate your coming-out. Buy you some dresses, and perhaps some fabric?’ Birdie smiled as Victoria’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I thought you’d like that.’
Lizzie came up behind her and clutched her elbow. ‘There you are, darling. Hello, Birdie. Can I steal Tori, please? Some fellows I’d like her to see . . .’
‘Here she is – as promised!’ Lizzie and Victoria were suddenly standing in front of a group of three young men, who were giggling like stupid schoolboys and not managing to meet her eyes.
‘I do say, you’re looking quite marvellous tonight, Miss Victoria,’ smirked Harry, a boy who had always teased her.
‘Yes. Charming,’ guffawed another.
‘Leave off, Bertie, will you?’ Lizzie was not amused. She turned Victoria slightly towards another young man standing to one side. ‘Victoria, Charles was just saying he’ll be rowing at Henley this year. Isn’t that fabulous?’
In the end, the dance hadn’t been the success Father had hoped for. Three weeks later, Victoria had gone to Paris with Birdie, against his wishes, and there she had learned so much . . . much more than she had wished to know, truly, but now that she did, there was no going back.
Victoria thought guiltily of the letter she had tucked inside her purse, which seemed to glow hot with her betrayal of her sister.
They stopped beside a set of nondescript-looking black doors.
‘Well, this is me. See you at five?’ Victoria asked.
‘Five,’ Lizzie nodded. ‘Now, I’ll meet you at Morton’s, remember? Cousin Lionel’s playing.’
‘Yes, I’ll be there.’
And with that, Lizzie was gone. Victoria watched as her sister strode down the street, towering over most other women, her path as straight as an arrow in flight. Eventually she was swallowed up by the crowd and Victoria turned to go inside.
Victoria had finished all her work. It was 4.43 p.m. and there was nothing left for her to do. Fresh papers would arrive in the morning, but for now she was free to leave.
Packing up her things, she took the reams of paper back to the filing cabinet and watched as Linda dutifully locked them away for safekeeping. The authorities would be down soon to collect her work; it was up to them to interpret what should or shouldn’t be done with what she’d discovered.
A few moments later she was heading up towards the small lobby, thinking she might dash out for a cup of tea before meeting Lizzie. Rifling through her purse, she found the set of ration coupons.
On her way to Whittington’s tea store, an unearthly wail rent the air. Victoria jumped in her skin. No matter how often the air raid sirens sounded, they were always frightening. People dashed for shelter and Victoria weighed up her options: head back to her office and hope she could make it down to the basement in time, or take her chances with Whittington’s? She couldn’t think straight – the noise was going right to her core.
People rushed past, frantic now. Getting caught up in the crowd, Victoria suddenly tripped and fell, landing hard on her knee as she went down. Worried about being trampled, she barely registered the blood on her woollen stockings. Just as she was trying to get to her feet again, a hand reached down to help her.
‘This way,’ said a man, pulling her up. ‘Quickly!’
Limping slightly, Victoria followed the man down the steps of the Tube station, scores of people pushing at their backs. Victoria knew they weren’t meant to – the government had been very clear that they weren’t to use the stations at all in an air raid, but even Victoria ignored the stern warnings. The London Underground was a damned sight safer than most places, and she would rather take her chances here than in one of the makeshift shelters – protected by only a few feet of turf – which the government recommended instead.
Scrambling ever downwards, they ran towards the large group already milling about on the platform. Victoria felt like a sardine being jammed in a tin as waves of new people streaming down to the platform shuffled them dangerously forwards. She stumbled and almost fell again, but the man caught her and wrenched her to her feet. Her arm ached in its socket. There were people everywhere – in front and behind them, at her elbows, threatening to separate them. But his grip held fast and she was grateful for it – it seemed like the only sure and safe thing in the world at that moment.
Just then the sirens stopped. Victoria could still hear them, ringing in her ears, as the silence fell. Still and deadly it was, as they took a collective breath. All of a sudden, there it was: the barely audible, eerie whistle. She felt her elbow dig into the man’s side as he put his arm protectively around her, crouching down. They curled to the floor, surrounded by a seething mass of people.
Sonic boom. The ground shuddered, dust falling from overhead. A small chunk of masonry dislodged itself from the roof and fell, narrowly missing her ear. It smashed on the platform beside her, breaking up into tiny pieces. She felt the man’s breath, coming out in short, sharp gasps, warm against her neck.
Victoria turned and found his eyes watching her, and wondered why her terror wasn’t mirrored in him. Then, in a moment she would remember forever after, he smiled at her, his eyes creasing in his thin face. She felt her mouth quirking up irresistibly into a grin, and then she heard it again, that terrifying whistle. She sucked in a quick breath, ducked her head back down and wondered how long they would be here – trapped – while the bombs fell.
But just then the lights went out and all was black and cold.
16
‘How are you doing, babe?’ asked Ben, his voice full of concern over the telephone line.
‘I’m all right . . . It’s been a strange week,’ she said hesitantly, looking up at the crumbling plaster in the corner of her old bedroom ceiling. When she squinted her eyes just so, the water damage looked a bit like Marie Antoinette in her towering wig. Hadn’t Gigi dressed up like that once, for some wild party in the seventies?
‘I bet. So how are the plans coming along then?’
Sylvie was in bed, pulling at a loose thread on the ancient damask bedspread and feeling a little mutinous. It was just before six in the morning in New York, but Ben was already at his desk, being diligent.
‘We’ve decided on an agent now, at least. He’s a bit slimy, to be honest, but he handles a lot of places like Bledesford and his agenc
y seems to generate the best sales. We went through things with the broker the other night and it looks like there won’t be much left after the mortgage is paid off. Just enough to buy a small place outright, and cover Lizzie’s nursing home costs . . . And that’s before we take out another loan to jooj the place up a bit. Gigi says she’ll be fine – she’s not expecting anything. I don’t know what she’s got up her sleeve, but at least that’s one less person to worry about.’
‘Oh, babe, I’m really sorry to hear it. What about you then? Will there be nothing left to help you get back on your feet again? I’m still happy to talk to some people, you know—’
‘No, I’m fine,’ she said stiffly, thinking, That’s not what this is about.
‘And what about the attic?’
A smile crept across her face, thinking of all the fun she’d been having upstairs. She hadn’t expected it at all, but it had been a blast, going through everything with Tabs. All weekend they had been sorting through the clothes and accessories, until Tabs had had to head back up to London for work. It was such a treat, having her around – Tabs always made her feel better. But Sylvie was also a little relieved when she’d left. She knew Tabs was being careful with her, not asking her about work, New York or Ben. But Sylvie also knew that Tabs wouldn’t wait forever, and sooner or later she’d get the truth out of her – a truth that Sylvie wasn’t quite prepared to admit to herself just yet, let alone anyone else.
‘We’re still getting everything in order for the V&A woman and taking photographs – Tabs has arranged an appointment for us in a couple of weeks’ time. We’ve found some incredible things for her.’
She and Tabs had been sorting things out as they explored. A pile of clothes, shoes and hats, too tattered, grimy and worn to be useful, was mounting high in one corner, but there was also a satisfying number of frocks, jackets and coats covered neatly in plastic sheaths hanging on the long railing, as well as a growing heap of clothes on the sewing table that just needed some cleaning, pressing or mending (or all three). And then there were the numerous gems they’d found, each time shrieking with delight: a whole suitcase of ancient feather boas, a seventies glam-rock get-up that must have been Gigi’s, numerous delicate nineteenth century petticoats, Terry de Havilland platforms, broderie anglaise children’s party frocks and, hidden in the old steamer trunks and layered in tissue paper, some beautiful Hollywood-esque stoles and silk frocks from the 1930s.
