But it was not always entirely peaceful.
‘I only wished to castrate him, Aunt Sophie! Like the men do the bull calves.’ Violette Jones flung herself onto the closest chair at the breakfast table on the verandah, grabbed a slice of toast from the rack, bit into it, then flung it out onto the grass. The magpies descended on it, singing triumphantly. ‘Toast! Pah! Why do the English eat toast? It tastes of nothing! A croissant tastes of butter and sunlight. A brioche of sweet eggs. But toast!’
‘Toast serves as the platform for butter and jam or marmalade,’ said Sophie mildly, picking a stray wisteria blossom from her plate. ‘But if you like I’ll ask Cookie for hot rolls instead tomorrow morning.’
Even seven years in the company of Miss Lily had not been enough to teach Violette elegance. Usually Violette breakfasted in the new house on the estate where she lived with her mother, Green, who was Lily’s maid, friend and fellow agent, and her father, Jones, who had been Nigel’s butler, batman, friend and secretary. But this month Green and Jones were playing tourist in Japan, investigating events of interest to His Majesty’s government, leaving their daughter — both possibly slightly thankful for the respite from close family quarters — in the care of Lily and Sophie.
‘Hot rolls would be good,’ said Violette. ‘But my mother . . . do you know what she said on the telephone last night?’
‘That it would be unwise to castrate any of the neighbours?’
‘Not unwise. Stupid! Aunt Sophie, do you think I am stupid?’
Sophie shook her head, smiling. Violette was so extraordinarily beautiful. Even in a temper she naturally commanded admiration in a way all Miss Lily’s students achieved, including Sophie herself.
Charm was a useful talent, especially when dealing with factory managers who did not realise that Higgs Industries must stay securely in business to give jobs to those who desperately needed them, not to maximise annual profits. It was especially useful when dealing in the almost exclusively male world of business, where one must give orders without fragile male egos realising the orders, had, in fact, been given.
‘Have some breakfast, and we’ll discuss the pros and cons of, er, castration.’ Sophie lifted the lid from the first of the breakfast salvers. Kedgeree, excellent. She’d had a passion for it since her first breakfast at Shillings in that magic autumn before the war. Every cook’s kedgeree was slightly different. Cookie here at Thuringa added fresh river fish instead of smoked to the lightly curried rice, and was generous with the parsley.
Sophie took a deep breath of pure joy. Kedgeree, toast, gum trees, that subtle scent of a river nearby, the kind of river that meandered across a third of a continent, joining larger rivers, accepting smaller ones, bringing the scents of strong deserts or mountain cliffs.
‘Coffee, your ladyship?’ Jenkins appeared through the French doors. Sophie hoped he had not heard the castration threat. But then crows twenty miles away had probably heard it. He poured with such perfect accuracy that no one would have guessed he had not trained for years as a footman before achieving the rank of butler.
‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ Jenkins had been one of Daniel’s patients, so mentally damaged by the war that he could not bear the city’s new electric streetlights or the noise of the ever-multiplying cars. Jenkins had been an accountant once. Now, in the serenity of Thuringa, he found peace in creating an orderly household, or as orderly as a household could be with two ten-year-olds in residence.
‘Coffee, Miss Jones?’ Was that amusement in Jenkins’s eyes?
‘Thank you,’ said Violette, granting him one of her enchanting smiles.
Sophie waited till the butler had left and Violette had helped herself to devilled kidneys. ‘Who do you think deserves castrating? And why?’
‘That Bill Latton! But not full castration, you understand. I would just —’
Sophie put up her hand, smiling automatically to add grace to the gesture. ‘I don’t need the details, only the reason.’
‘He asked me — me! — to the church dance and all the time he had poor Marjory Grimes enceinte —’
‘Pregnant,’ corrected Sophie.
‘Yes, with child, the poor one. But does Billy care? And I had made a dress most beautiful, with the new deep waist, soft and flowing, from the blue and silver silk brocade my maman and I ordered from France. And now Mr Grimes says Billy must marry poor Marjory, as indeed he should, and I have no partner for the dance and cannot wear my dress at all and yet he says he does not want to marry her but dance with me. And so I think he needs castrating.’ Violette took another piece of toast, examined it, then loaded it with butter and jam. She took a bite. She evidently approved, for she took another.
Violette had been brought up by the most formidable old woman of the La Dame Blanche Belgian resistance movement and reunited with her ostensibly more civilised parents only seven years ago. Sadly the serenity of life at Thuringa had not diminished the young woman’s assumption that casual justice could be meted out with knife or gun, or even dynamite, to which — hopefully — Violette had no access.
‘Castrating him would not help Marjory Grimes,’ Sophie pointed out. ‘Nor could he dance with you if recently, ah, injured.’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted Violette. ‘But I am twenty-one and so I am an adult and so I do not need to ask your permission, or Maman’s, if I wish to castrate a man.’
Sophie hid a smile. Violette might not have been asking permission but she was — even if only subconsciously — seeking approval or advice. ‘Castrating men is against the law,’ she said calmly as she took another forkful of kedgeree. Perfect. ‘I doubt you’d enjoy prison.’
‘Bah. What prison could hold me? Anyway, I would cry when the police came and look adorable, and say that he attacked me but luckily I was peeling an apple and my knife, it slipped . . .’
Which might even work, thought Sophie. Violette had a slightly terrifying ability to manipulate men. She made a mental note to call on Mrs Grimes in the afternoon while Mr Grimes was at his tannery. Marjory should not be forced to marry a man who did not love her. Money would be a far more effective solution than either marriage or castration.
Marjory and her mother could have a long holiday at the beach. The baby could be adopted or if Marjory wished she and her child could return in a few years, conveniently widowed with a small inheritance perhaps, enough for a house of her own, and the chance to marry whomever she wanted to.
As I am widowed, she thought, grief striking with one of its sudden, unexpected arrows, with a house of my own — several houses — and an inheritance. And yet I cannot remarry . . .
She forced the thought away. Something must be done with Violette. The novelty of parents, wealth, learning to ride and creating garments of quite extraordinary beauty — the only bond she shared with her mother — had worn off. Violette was bored.
A bored Violette was dangerous.
‘What would you like to do now you are twenty-one?’ Sophie asked forthrightly.
Violette flashed one of her smiles. ‘I could not go and be presented in London when I was eighteen for Aunt Lily was not well. And I cannot have a London season now and marry a duke or marquess for the court is in mourning for the dead king. But I accept that. I think I do not want to be married at all. I wish to go to Paris again, Aunt Sophie. I liked it so much when I was there with Maman and Papa.’ The Paris visit had been another small task for Green and Jones at James’s request, Sophie remembered, one that had been safe enough for them to take their daughter, as well as letting them all spend Christmas with Green’s extended family on the Shillings estate.
‘I will become a famous vendeuse, a fashion designer. All of Europe will come to me for the most beautiful of styles . . .’
‘I see,’ said Sophie, relieved that Violette had an ambition that did not involve scandalous, violent or illegal activity. The scheme might even work. The young woman’s designs were, indeed, brilliant — she had talent, her mother had taught her well, and she had obviously learned from t
he fashion houses they had visited, as well as the magazines sent from Paris. Even her clothes today — loose linen trousers, based on men’s bags but cut in a way that shaped her form, topped with a shirt, severely cut except for a single diagonal frill, was original, though slightly outrageous for a farm verandah. But one did not just open a Parisian fashion house . . .
‘I know one does not just open a Paris fashion house,’ Violette knew just what she was thinking, ‘but if I am apprenticed to one I will learn much in a year, or perhaps two.’
‘You would most likely be sweeping the floor,’ Sophie pointed out. ‘Paris fashion houses do not let apprentices even touch the cloth for years.’
Violette shrugged. ‘I do not need to touch their cloth. I already know how to design, to cut, to sew. I need to learn their clients’ names and how much they charge for each garment, and make friends with their best embroiderers and cutters so then I will pay them more and they will work for me instead. All that I can learn while sweeping up their floors.’
It even sounded feasible. And life would be more peaceful with Violette half a world away, not to mention considerations of the safety of Bill Latton. And Sophie could easily afford to set Violette up in an establishment of her own once she had made her connections and stolen her artisans. Of course the girl would get into trouble in Paris, but she was also quite capable of getting out of it.
‘It is a good plan,’ she agreed.
Violette swallowed the last of her toast. ‘You will arrange it? Aunt Sophie, you are wonderful!’
‘It may take a while,’ Sophie warned. ‘In the meantime, could you, ah, refrain from castrating anyone? And be kind to your mother when she and your father return. If you go to Paris she won’t see you as often. You may also find her extremely useful in setting up your fashion house.’
‘I will be kind as sunlight!’
Which also burned, thought Sophie, as Violette embraced her, kissing each cheek three times, then ran inside, presumably to boast to all that she was off to Paris. Sophie hoped Green and Jones would approve. But Violette was correct — at twenty-one she was legally an adult. And Thuringa was far too small a world to contain such a woman.
She took a sip of coffee, made with coffee beans especially imported from Harrods in London, not essence from a bottle. Peace at last, after the past few days of meetings in Sydney . . .
Riding boots clattered somewhere inside. ‘Mummy, Danny says I can’t play cricket with him and Ben and Harry!’
Rose burst through the French doors, dressed in moleskins and a shirt. The children’s governess, the admirable Miss Letitia, former suffragette and one of the first women to graduate from Oxford in mathematics, had the day off, though the children breakfasted with their mother and Aunt Lily every day.
Sophie sighed. Even Lily could not convince Rose that one changed after a pre-breakfast ride. Some battles were not worth fighting.
‘Why can’t you play cricket? And good morning, darling. I think you grew at least a foot while I was away.’
‘Good morning, Mother.’ Danny walked in more sedately behind his twin. He kissed her cheek, charming her entirely. ‘Rose can’t play cricket because she is a girl,’ he added, as if such an answer were entirely reasonable. ‘Are there chops?’
‘I didn’t look.’
‘Lamb’s fry,’ said Rose, peering into the tureens on the sideboard. ‘I hate lamb’s fry. And devilled kidneys again! Mummy, can’t you tell Cookie I hate lamb’s fry and devilled kidneys?’
‘Sausages,’ said Danny happily, lifting another lid. ‘And scrambled eggs. You like scrambled eggs.’
Rose sighed and helped herself to eggs. She sat next to Sophie while Danny took the other side.
‘Toast, your ladyship,’ said Jenkins, placing a fresh rack, still gently steaming, next to her.
‘Thank you, Jenkins. Danny, girls are just as able to play cricket as boys.’
‘No, they’re not.’
Which was true, Sophie realised. Most women had neither the required length of leg nor arm to compete against first-class male cricketers. But when the players were ten, fourteen and fifteen respectively, she didn’t think it mattered, especially as Rose was taller and bigger boned than her twin brother.
‘Ben and Harry don’t mind if I play!’ declared Rose.
‘If that’s the case, then you are outvoted, darling,’ Sophie said to her son. She turned as Miss Lily emerged from the living room French doors, perfect in mauve chiffon, a deeper purple scarf about her neck — Miss Lily had always insisted that no woman should display her throat once she was over fifty, except by candlelight — under a long rope of pearls that perfectly matched her white hair, unfashionably long and gathered in a silk net against her neck. ‘Lily, you look beautiful. That dress is divine.’
‘Madame Patrice is a genius. And so is Green, to arrange a Paris couturier to dress us even here, among the kangaroos. Good morning, darlings.’
Lily stooped to kiss each child, then bent to press her cheek to Sophie’s, leaving a faint scent of gardenia. Her hair had become a clear white overnight two years earlier; her make-up was delicate, and the dress was almost the same shade as the wisteria that grew around the verandah.
And she was beautiful. Beauty is in the way you move, she had told Sophie, that first autumn. Beauty lives in your smile, in your care for others. Miss Lily would always be beautiful. Even her hands, slightly big boned for a woman who was otherwise quite average in size, moved with grace as she sat at the other end of the table and spread a slice of toast with pineapple jam. Sophie smiled as Rose automatically straightened in her seat in the presence of her aunt, her legs neatly to one side.
‘May I get you some scrambled eggs, Aunt Lily?’ asked Danny.
Miss Lily gave the smile that had been so successful on at least three continents. ‘You are a darling, Danny, but no thank you. Just toast and coffee this morning. Ah, thank you,’ she repeated to Jenkins, as he poured her café au lait.
Sophie eyed Lily’s meagre breakfast, but said nothing. Last night must have been a bad one, pain filled, both physical and emotional. Once they’d have shared nights like that. Not now.
‘Aunt Lily, Danny says women can’t play cricket,’ announced Rose, sure of her aunt’s approval as Jenkins tactfully melted back indoors, undoubtedly to a position where he could listen but not be seen. Danny gave his sister a brief glare over his sausages.
‘Then you will have to prove him wrong, my darling.’ Miss Lily took the smallest possible bite of toast. Rose, who had been about to take a large forkful of eggs, quickly tipped off half of them. Sophie watched, amused, as her daughter chewed with perfect grace. Were ever two twins so different? Danny seemed to have been born with the desire to learn the manners of a gentleman. Rose was growing into elegance with Lily’s input, but it was being imposed on a much more unruly soul than her brother’s.
‘Sophie my dear, how were your meetings in town?’ asked Lily. ‘Ah, thank you, Jenkins,’ she added, as yet more fresh toast was placed in front of her. ‘Please tell Mrs Jenkins this pineapple jam is superb, even better than the strawberry.’
‘It’s the touch of ginger that’s the secret, so small you can hardly taste it. She’s entering it in the Show next month, your ladyship,’ said Jenkins proudly.
‘I am sure it will do magnificently.’
Sophie smiled. This would mean that Miss Lily — or Lady Lillian Vaile, as the district now called her, adding her title to their pride in having a young earl, his sister ‘Lady Rose’, and a dowager countess as neighbours — would not be judging the jams this year, for one could not give first prize to one’s own cook. Lily would perhaps judge the handicrafts instead.
‘The meetings went extremely well,’ Sophie answered. ‘Young Ernest Slithersole is as able as his father, and Makepeace is doing excellently. Higgs Industries is purring along nicely. Even the canned asparagus is making a profit now.’ She patted Rose’s hand. ‘Your idea of buying a banana plantation was brillia
nt, darling.’ How many other ten-year-olds would come up with an idea like that? she thought proudly. ‘We have our first export contract, and a very good one it is too.’
‘Maybe we could export lamingtons too,’ said Rose eagerly. ‘Aunt Lily says that England doesn’t have lamingtons.’
Sophie laughed. Her daughter did not perhaps have a perfect grasp of the business world yet. ‘Let’s just see how the bananas do, shall we? England does have extremely good cakes of its own.’
‘They wouldn’t be as good as lamingtons,’ said Rose.
‘I remember cherry cake,’ said Sophie. She and Lily exchanged a smile. Cherry cake, that first day at Shillings, and crumpets and honey on so many afternoons.
Danny pushed his chair back. ‘Will you excuse me? Uncle Daniel will be here soon with Ben and Harry.’
‘Of course, darling. Yes, Rose, you may be excused too.’ She watched them leave, sedate till they were through the French doors then racing to see who could get up the stairs first. Such strong, free children, tanned and happy.
One day, some day, Danny must go back to learn about the estate he had inherited. But ‘the Earl of Shillings’ was a heavy title for a child, and the expectations that went with it were even heavier.
Nor did she want her son dressed in that ridiculous Eton uniform, living on ‘tuck’ and jogging around icy ovals. The Earl of Shilling and Lady Rose attending Bald Hill Primary School might seem incongruous, but Sophie had ensured the most brilliant teachers possible were there. The children of Bald Hill would be the best educated in the country, or possibly the Empire. ‘Just one more year, perhaps . . .’
‘You’ve been saying that for five years now,’ said Lily gently.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I’d said it aloud. Though you always know what I’m thinking.’
‘Not always. I wish I did.’ Their eyes met again: too much unspoken. Too much that could never be spoken now, thought Sophie. She had lost a husband with Nigel’s death. Lily had lost far more.
‘What will you do today?’ Sophie asked quickly, to break the tension.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 3
