The Season Read online

  If Mrs Hartley Lambert could not find it in herself to attend the Season’s opening ball at Medlar House, such was not the case with the other mamas who had debutante daughters to present.

  Naturally Portia was present at Medlar House that night, but despite the fact that Emily and Edith O’Connor were staying there for the Season Portia arrived with Phyllis in the anteroom to the ballroom several streams of people ahead of her old friend and her debutante daughter. The girls waved to each other, of course, Phyllis a little too vigorously, Portia thought, but then everything about Phyllis had always been a little too vigorous, so perhaps there was nothing to be done. Certainly Lady Devenish had managed to work a few miracles, but not, alas, all.

  Approaching the top of the staircase but not yet arrived on the landing leading to the ballroom, Daisy looked back down the great wide staircase with its ironwork and its marble steps now crowded with the occasionally great and the sometimes good. After all the trials and tribulations of the previous weeks it was most satisfactory to gaze proudly down at so very many tiaras, so very many jewels, so very many silk dresses, embroidered dresses, dresses of every kind and colour, but none at all that could ever be described as dull or inelegant. And the gentlemen too in their black waistcoats were more than elegant, they were superb. No doubt of it, it seemed to Daisy, it was as fine a sight as you could hope to find, and there was certainly no other nation that looked half so well in his evening clothes, do what they would, as an Englishman. Every other nation wore either too many medals or too vulgar a waistcoat, and of course, the English tailoring being what it was, there was nothing to beat it for making the dumpiest man look elegant.

  Daisy touched Sarah Hartley Lambert on the arm. ‘Everyone’s here tonight, and everyone who is not here is certainly wishing they were, do you see, Miss Hartley Lambert? Vat is how privileged we are and we must always remember it.’ She and her protégée resumed their slow progress up the staircase to the anteroom, which in turn led to the grand rooms that were decorated with the heavy blooms still favoured by Lady Medlar, despite the newer Japanese influence being felt in so many other fashionable houses.

  Vast amounts of English lilac, pretty only for a very few hours when brought indoors, and therefore all the more treasured, spilled from the splendid vases in the anterooms and on the landings, and their subtle scent drifted down towards the waiting crowds of guests. To the gentlemen in their black waistcoats and immaculate tails, or their uniforms and decorations, to the older women in their tiaras set off by beaded and sculpted ball gowns, to the debutantes in their endless white, made up from fine muslin, or tulle, or sensuous silk, carrying their fans and their reticules, their dance cards looped over their gloved wrists, all of them doubtless suppressing an almost irresistible desire to yawn nervously, or tremble visibly, such was the importance of the occasion of their first Season’s opening ball.

  Pausing behind an elderly duchess and her party, Daisy again stared down the staircase to the newly arriving fashionable throng. Young debutantes at their first ball always rather reminded her of two-year-old fillies in the paddocks before the races. Groomed to within an inch, the shine and the glow of them making their eyes look larger, their hair more lustrous. Indeed their very grooming seemed to make them appear even younger and more vulnerable than they doubtless were, so that, what with the newly fashionable higher waistlines and narrower shapes, the dresses for the young had considerably less substance to them. And what with the newer, simplified vogue in hair, this year’s crop of debutantes appealed more than ever to Daisy’s experienced eyes as being just so many poor little lambs being led to the slaughter of marriage.

  Marriage! Daisy sighed inwardly, remembering.

  What a shock it was for all young, sensitive women of her day. At only seventeen or eighteen to be thrust up the aisle and down again by parents only too willing to find someone, anyone, suitable for their daughter. And then the ghastly fright of It all, followed by the dread of childbirth, itself followed by yet more childbirth, until such time as the heir and the spare, as the first two baby boys were now known in aristocratic circles, had been safely secured for the good of the title or the family line.

  Of a sudden, despite looking at her most beautiful for some weeks, and feeling quite the same, as she gazed about her at the other women, both young and old, Daisy realised that she was only too glad to be through certain phases of her life. Even the loveliest of love affairs, affairs that could safely be undertaken once one’s husband was satisfied that one had done one’s duty to the family name by giving birth to the all-important sons, were hardly great compensation for the misery of what had gone before.

  The unloveliness of married love was something from which few of her generation ever really recovered. Indeed, when the trials of childbirth were finally over, a great many women took to their beds, and feigned illness for the rest of their lives, very often for no better reason than to escape any further attentions from their husbands. Such poor sorts of creatures were utterly devoid of the kind of determined spirit possessed by Daisy herself, and yet in her heart of hearts Daisy, despite being so different, readily sympathised with them, knowing as she did that the men in their lives were probably incapable of anything but the heartiest selfishness, and that the marital side of their lives would have provided them with more fear and discomfort than they could have thought possible.

  Despite all this, however, Daisy still had no hesitation in taking on this poor tall American gel and pushing her into the very situation that she, as a more than mature woman, knew very well would be at its best a matter of mere contentment, and at its worst would make a truly sensitive soul tremble. But really, there was nothing else to be done. And the reason there was nothing else to be done was that it was still as much a gel’s fate to do as Society chose as it had ever been.

  Miss Hartley Lambert would have to pretend, as her mother doubtless had, that, come what may, marriage had made her happy. She would have to have at least two boy babies for the sake of the family name, and she would have to smile and smile, and pretend and pretend in front of friends and family, Church and State, until such time as Society allowed her to have her fancy tickled by someone who was not her husband. Those were the rules, and, it seemed, always would be.

  ‘My dear, just stay close to me, and I will see that you are looked after properly.’

  Happily for Daisy, and indeed as it proved for Miss Hartley Lambert, the Countess had the command of certain more mature men, who, on seeing any of Daisy’s protégées left on their gilt chair for far too long, would approach the wretched creature and scribble their names in her card – in return, of course, for a certain consideration, to be sent round to their clubs by the Countess at the end of the Season and then doubtless, and without hesitation, forwarded to the gentlemen’s bookmakers, most particularly after Ascot.

  ‘So, now we move forward.’

  Sensing the young girl’s nerves Daisy smiled at Sarah Hartley Lambert. Tall or not, the young American girl was so beautifully presented that even Mr Worth’s old heart would have turned over with pleasure at the sight of her tricked out in the simplest gown that had surely ever come out of Paris?

  The dress was of hand-made creamy white lace. It was almost, but not quite, a little reminiscent of the merveilleuse dresses that had burst upon the fashionable scene a few years before, but unlike the merveilleuse it had not the Grecian effect around the bust, nor the drapery held high underneath it, nor the full train. Rather it was short-trained, with a demure bodice set high, in thin lace, sleeves made of silk covered in the same lace in two columns either side, ending in a frill at the elbow, and then a neat wide belt of silk from which dropped a full skirt, lace-covered silk once more. The hair was looped up but set wider in the new way, and the shoes underneath the full skirt were hardly seen.

  All in all, it was white, it was demure, but it nevertheless spoke of great wealth. Hardly any other girl of Daisy’s acquaintance and of the same age as Miss Hartley Lambert
could possibly afford a dress so richly made for the opening ball of the Season, however much she might yearn for one. Daisy knew, all too well, that all round the ballroom, seated on gilt chairs beside their chaperons for the evening, there would be handfuls of poor little shivering wretches who, unlike Miss Hartley Lambert, would be only too grateful to be tricked out in some old dress that had once belonged to their mother – or even their grandmother. Of course now that it was on its second or even third generation it would have been radically altered, usually completely re-tailored by some provincial dressmaker, the ‘good’ material used yet again for displaying the newest victim out on parade for the opening ball of the all-important Season, but that would not be making much difference to the wearer. She would have been told just how lucky she was to have a dress at all. Daisy had been a considerable heiress in her own right, with connections at Court and she knew not what, but that had not stopped her mother from presenting her at Court in a third-hand dress, admittedly newly embroidered, but nevertheless one which had seen other days, if not at Court, certainly in other ballrooms.

  Indeed Daisy remembered how very grateful she had been for it, too, with its silken folds and its rare embroidery. But not nearly as grateful as she had been for the beauty she had inherited from that self-same grandmother, a beauty so young and so radiant that Daisy had become engaged to the catch of that particular year long before Ascot, which meant that her heavy diamond engagement ring had been on show for a satisfyingly long period of time, much to the envy of her rivals.

  For the fact was that everyone, male and female alike, were rivals when it came to the Season. It was just how it was, and no-one of the same sex could trust another not to either cut in on them and sweep some little patrician beauty off to the shires or entrance some rich, titled gentleman into waltzing them into the conservatory, where, without hesitation, the debutante in question would accept an offer of marriage from a perfect stranger of whom her mama could only approve – just so long as he was not an Irish peer.

  Hoary, hairy Irish peers with wild and worthless estates in remote parts of Ireland were not acceptable, unless of course the daughter was unearthly plain or had a reputation for bad temper, or worse. Not that Irish peers, however hirsute, would not be preferable to a foreigner. Inwardly Daisy sighed. A foreigner was not and would never seem a good idea to an English mama. To kiss your young daughter goodbye and watch her sail off to some foreign shore where heaven only knew what went on would never do if you had the slightest regard for your offspring. Everyone knew that foreigners had a way of locking girls up and making them have babies every year, and that they had little or no refinement when it came to marriage. No – by now, thank heavens, Daisy and Miss Hartley Lambert were nearing the top of the stairs and the receiving line – no, Ireland was really the very outer limit of what was acceptable in a husband, and even that was not uppermost in a mama’s mind when presenting her daughter for the Season.

  Not that everyone did not enjoy going to Ireland to let down their hair, because they did, but no concerned mother who loved her daughter in the proper way would want her to marry and settle there, or indeed in Scotland or Wales, or anywhere, when Daisy came to think of it, either remote or overseas. Although of course certain parts of the Empire, like India, had to be considered, always providing that the young couple would return laden with gold and jewels, not to mention valuable holdings that would keep them in luxury at their country estates for the next few generations.

  So, when the dancing started tonight that was what was at stake. The young shivering innocents seated on their gilt chairs in their endless white dresses thought it was all about a gentleman dancing with you and falling in love, poor creatures. They thought the Season was all about beauty and love – they possessing the beauty, the gentlemen possessing the love – when in reality the older women in the room, the chaperons, the dowagers, knew that it was all about wealth, about titles, about acquiring the things of this world before your bloom wore off. Indeed some of the luckier young girls in the room, before many weeks had passed, would become wealthy to such a degree that there could never be a time when they would ever want again, for jewels, for land, for servants … Daisy paused in her thoughts, while nodding elegantly down the great staircase to someone in the crowd below. She had been about to add ‘for happiness’ – but really, happiness had nothing whatsoever to do with it, had it?

  For instance, if someone had asked Daisy if she was ‘happy’ when she was Miss Hartley Lambert’s age she would have answered that of course she was happy. Not to be happy if you were rich and titled would be ludicrous. Worse, it would be letting down the side. And far worse than that, it would be letting down one’s class.

  No, of course, if one had several houses and a stable full of hunters, if one had married a man with a title, if one had to change one’s dress sometimes as much as four or five times a day, of course one was happy. One knew this because when one saw people in the streets, or in the countryside, who did not have such things, it was quite clear to one that they were unhappy. They had to be. If they were not unhappy then there was something very wrong with them; they were lunatics, or simple at the very least.

  Daisy had occasionally seen someone cheerful in the street outside, as her carriage passed them – or, nowadays, sometimes even her new shiny motor car – someone whose face had lit up while greeting a friend, or who was walking along arm in arm with her husband, or who was wheeling her perambulator off to some park with a beautiful bonny-looking baby seated in it, but really, they were not normal. They could not be. To be happy without possessing the kind of clothes and jewels, titles and estates, horses and carriages, motor cars and servants that Daisy had once possessed, before the awful decline of land values and other disasters, would be – well, it would be very real madness.

  ‘Daisy, darling Daisy.’

  It was the Duke of Connerton. Daisy smiled. It was always the Duke of Connerton. He had a crush on Daisy. He had always had a crush on Daisy. As a matter of fact he seemed to have had a crush on Daisy ever since she had met him out hunting when still a young gel. He was though, alas, very dull – more than that, he was stultifyingly dull. Still, he was at least a duke. Daisy eyed Miss Hartley Lambert, and at once, on cue, Sarah Hartley Lambert dropped into a really rather magnificent curtsy. (Congratulations, Lady Devenish!) In answer to Miss Hartley Lambert’s curtsy the Duke inclined his head, his monocle keeping admirably steady as he looked poor nervous Miss Hartley Lambert up and down.

  ‘Duke, may I introduce Miss Hartley Lambert? From New York.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  The two old hands exchanged looks, and at once Daisy could see the thought crossing the ducal mind. It was all too obvious to Daisy, who knew her Duke really rather well, that he was thinking, The poor gel is really far too tall.

  Inwardly Daisy sighed. Thank heavens she had her ‘paid retainers’ as she called her retinue of men, some of whom, even now, she could see moving towards them, for without them Miss Hartley Lambert would be left seated on a gilt chair all evening. The fact that Miss Hartley Lambert was so tall, that no matter who was seated in front of her she would still have a good view of the dancing, would be small comfort indeed to her noble chaperon, or doubtless to her protégée. They both in their quite separate ways had a duty to perform.

  As the opening ball of the Season progressed, Mrs Hartley Lambert had experienced no difficulty in keeping awake and waiting for the return of her daughter to their rented house in Mayfair.

  She was quite naturally unable to sleep, being, as she was, full of that particular dread mixed with excitement that every mama must feel when her daughter is making her debut at a fashionable London ball.

  Except, of course, it was worse for Mrs Hartley Lambert, for she had only one child, and that child a daughter, and, no matter how great their wealth, she knew as only mothers can that there was no way round it: Sarah had a grave and wonderful chance of making a great and brilliant match with a man born in the
purple, a man of blue blood. Why was blood always ‘blue’ for English aristocrats, she wondered? At any rate, she knew that as the Countess of Evesham’s protégée Sarah had a truly grand and brilliant chance of sweeping all before her. Tonight was the opening night of the battle, the campaign, the fight for the best for her beloved child.

  So no wonder Mrs Hartley Lambert could not sleep for worrying. No wonder she could hardly read her Bible, especially her Bible, and having laid it carefully on her bedside table, for the benefit of the servants when they tidied in the morning, took something quite other out of the pile of books on the ivory-inlaid eighteenth-century bonheur du jour opposite her bed.

  In place of the Bible Mrs Hartley Lambert had taken some really rather easier reading matter, namely Chit Chat and Other Matters, the reminiscences of Mrs Algernon Vere de Vere.

  Mrs Vere de Vere had been at all the courts of all the crowned heads of Europe, observing and noting in her diary such riveting matters as the depth of the lace worn on the equerries’ shirt cuffs and the number of horses that the Empress Eugénie had to draw her coach. While she was waiting for that all-important scratch at the door, for the delighted smile on the beloved offspring’s face which would tell her that she had been a success, Chit Chat and Other Matters was considerably more interesting than the prognostications of persons by such names as Ezekiel on the matter of the world ending, or indeed the trials of Joseph when sold into Egypt. All in all, the only thing that could be said about them was that they were just – well, a trial, really.

  Of a sudden, after what had seemed to be both a day and a night, there was that scratch at the door.

  ‘Mama! Still awake! I thought you would be asleep long ago.’

  ‘I hardly sleep, darling, you know that, especially in Europe. Europe induces in me a feeling of neurasthenia, of nervous exhaustion. There is not the same sense of elation as one can experience in one’s own beloved New York, or indeed at Newport, where one can feel so very well, and somehow more cheerful. London is not cheerful, I find. It is sombre, it is grand, it is historic, but it is lacking in vim and vigour. One feels that the Tower of London, all its grim history, everything, is somehow still in the air, and this despite there being no fog to speak of at the moment.’