The White Marriage Page 15

  Arietta turned to her mirror. Her coat and skirt, worn for the interview, were her only good clothes. She hoped that Mrs Ashcombe, as she must now think of her, would get used to seeing her secretary in the same clothes, day in and day out, until such time that she could save up to buy another outfit. She certainly could not wear her Rushington clothes for work. No lady of influence would want her secretary to be taking dictation, answering the telephone or going on commissions for her in skirts and jumpers.

  She walked slowly down the stairs in search of her new employer.

  ‘You never knock on a drawing-room door, Miss Staunton.’

  Mr Joseph’s low tones came towards Arietta before she could even reach out and commit the faux pas.

  Mr Joseph did not wink at her as the taxi driver had done, he merely sidestepped and, going in front of her, he pushed open the door.

  ‘Miss Staunton, Mrs Ashcombe.’

  The drawing room seemed both bigger and smaller than when she had last been in it, and Mrs Ashcombe’s desk further away, and nearer than it had been before, so that as Arietta stepped up to it, it seemed to take an age, and yet at the same time be upon her before she could say ‘good morning’.

  ‘It is after midday, dear, so officially it is afternoon.’

  Arietta blushed, and held out her hand. Mrs Ashcombe ignored it.

  ‘Sit down.’ She nodded towards a high-backed chair, and Arietta, since the older woman was holding out a notebook and pencil, realised at once what was being asked of her, pulled the chair up and, taking the pad and pencil, prepared to take dictation.

  ‘To the Lady Percival, Shalcombe Castle, Shalcombe, near Swiveliscombe, Dorset. No, put Dorsetshire, she likes that …’

  The art of taking shorthand notes, Arietta had swiftly discovered, was to shut out everything except the sounds coming towards you, and allow them to be translated into quick pencilled squiggles. What was being dictated to you should be of no interest, until you typed it up.

  ‘Very well, that will be all. I am going to the Berkeley for luncheon now. I will be ready to sign the letters when I return.’

  Arietta nodded, silently glad that she had passed out of Princess Secretarial College with such good speeds.

  ‘The typewriter is through there.’

  Mrs Ashcombe plucked up her crocodile handbag and sashayed quickly out of the room, an elegant figure in figure-hugging jacket and Dior-length skirt.

  Arietta followed her directions and found herself in an almost claustrophobically small office dominated by an ancient typewriter such as the secretarial college had used, and of the type that she had ardently hoped never to have to use again.

  Beside the typewriter was a pile of monogrammed writing paper, a pen and a bottle of ink. Just as she was about to roll the first piece of paper into the typewriter there was the sound of a throat being cleared in the doorway of the little office.

  ‘Mrs Ashcombe doubtless explained that all her personal letters must be written by hand. Only the business letters are expected to be typed.’

  Arietta stared at the space that Mr Joseph had momentarily occupied before closing the door behind him as quickly as he had entered it. They both knew that Mrs Ashcombe had explained no such thing. She stared at the pot of ink, and taking another piece of writing paper she started to address the envelope by hand, and then write the first of the required letters.

  Dear Lady Percival, Mrs Ashcombe wishes me to thank you on her behalf for your kind invitation to support her charity, a donation for which she would be grateful if you will find enclosed. She has the highest regard for the sentiments expressed in Lady Percival’s letter, and wishes her every success in her charitable venture.

  Arietta stared at her shorthand book, realising now that almost every letter dictated to her was in reply to a charitable request, and while the replies did vary in tone and length, nevertheless in every case a donation was to be enclosed, and the letter signed on her employer’s behalf by her secretary.

  ‘Very well. You have passed with flying colours, Miss Staunton. Flying colours,’ Mrs Ashcombe repeated as she studied each letter in the folder that Arietta was presenting to her. ‘You have no idea how dreadfully ignorant some of my secretaries have been, typing personal letters. Imagine!’ She nodded and, taking a small key out of her desk, she undid a drawer. ‘Now for the donations.’

  Arietta fell silent as she realised just how many cheques were being placed at the back of the letters and inside the fold of the envelopes, ready for her to fold and send off.

  ‘You will find stamps in the box in the hall, and Mr Joseph will send a boy to post them in the box for you.’ Mrs Ashcombe nodded. ‘Good.’

  Arietta turned with some relief to go back to her small office, but it seemed that her employer was not finished with her.

  ‘There is a matter of some delicacy to which I find we must address ourselves, Miss Staunton.’

  Arietta stopped and turned.

  Mrs Ashcombe sighed. ‘I hear you have no clothes.’

  Arietta blushed possibly more heartily than she had ever blushed. They both knew from whom Mrs Ashcombe must have heard that Arietta had no clothes.

  ‘Mr Joseph makes it his business keep me informed of everything to do with the house and its running,’ the older woman continued. ‘It is not a matter for embarrassment, I do assure you. Most of London has no clothes, but since you represent me, and I have clothes, it is incumbent on me to provide you with whatever it is you might need.’ She pushed a card towards Arietta. ‘Go to Shotcombe Street, and ask for Mrs Pomeroy. She will help you with everything you need. Oh, and tell her to send me the account.’

  ‘Do you wish me to go now?’

  ‘Of course, of course. We can’t have you in rags for a minute longer.’

  Rags! A lump came into Arietta’s throat as she wandered down the steep London staircase to the street outside. It did not seem possible that her beautiful coat and skirt could be described as rags. The hours that Mrs Chantry had spent in the fashioning of the coat and skirt now seemed utterly futile. As she walked dutifully into the heart of Mayfair, it seemed to her that everyone was staring at her ‘rags’. She ached with homesickness, so much so that if her mother had not come back that morning looking like something the cat had brought in, and in some stranger’s motor car, she would have gone home. As it was she found the house number that she needed, and dutifully rang the bell.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  A small, plump woman dressed in a black silk frock stood in the entrance of the doorway. Beyond her, wafting gently out to the now warm afternoon, came delicious, foreign smells of unimaginable delights.

  ‘Yes?’ she demanded again.

  Arietta extended one gloved hand. ‘You don’t know me. I am Arietta Staunton. Mrs Ashcombe sent me to you, for – for—’ Arietta stopped, and frowned. ‘She sent me to you,’ she ended finally, colouring, ‘for – for – clothes, because she doesn’t like mine.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Ashcombe just telephoned to me. I know all about you. Come in, my dear.’

  Arietta stood in the hall as Mrs Pomeroy closed the door behind her, and for a second as they stood in the darkened space with only the fanlight over the door creating a pool of light, Arietta felt anxious and the smell of the older woman’s perfume threatened to overpower her, until she walked ahead a short way and flung open a door through which, feeling just a little like Alice passing through the looking-glass, Arietta followed her.

  Now they were embraced by a room of startling elegance. Pale greys and blues dominated the furniture, all of which was elegant, French, eighteenth century and curiously uninviting. It was a room in which no one would ever be found to be seated comfortably chatting, at ease in its perfectly upholstered chairs. They might sit bolt upright, or walk over to admire the oil paintings of flowers in vases, or boats in an overcast harbour, and they might, on occasion, be found to be murmuring, often and in low tones, at the loveliness of it all, the exquisite taste, but once
enjoyed they would not hurry to return to the room’s preserved atmosphere. They would have ‘done’ it, as a tourist might ‘do’ a museum. It would not entice them back to its elegance; it could not embrace them with its warmth – because it had none.

  Mrs Pomeroy crossed the highly polished wooden floor with quick, light steps followed, at a polite distance, by Arietta. Another door was opened, and Arietta, with a strange feeling of relief, stepped into a cornucopia of colour. Here every kind of fabric was displayed on boards in neat clusters; or pinned on dummies of female forms of enviable outlines, around many of which were also pinned toiles and paper patterns of every kind of shape and design.

  ‘Eh, voilà, here we have the engine room of the house.’ Mrs Pomeroy, who spoke perfect English with the lightest of Gallic accents, smiled. ‘Mrs Ashcombe, she is anxious that I should dress you with a new wardrobe, n’est-ce pas?’ Mrs Pomeroy nodded towards one of the models. ‘That is Mrs Ashcombe there.’

  They both stared in silent reverence at the dummy standing in for Arietta’s employer. It was small and elegant, but unlike Mrs Ashcombe, it was headless. Mrs Pomeroy twitched the almost complete dress that had been pinned to the dummy.

  ‘This is for Ascot. Mrs Ashcombe suits bright colours. She has the courage to be herself.’

  Arietta admired the very tight waist, the bodice gathered into a thick waistband of stiffened velvet, the sleeves three-quarter length and the skirt full and pleated.

  Mrs Pomeroy turned to her. ‘Now we must dress you,’ she said, and her eyes quickly took in Arietta’s figure as she spoke as a cook’s eyes might take in the freshness of some newly arrived fruit. ‘The workroom have all gone home because today was a feast day in Genoa, and they must prepare special gâteaux and many delicacies for the evening, but we can start to prepare some dresses for you from last year’s collections, and I will pin them on you, and my ladies will not take long to do the alterations tomorrow. If you will undress a little, please – to your petticoat. There will be day dresses, suits, and cocktail dresses required. Also I think a housecoat in case your toilette is interrupted by some crise in the house, n’est-ce pas? You would not want to be embarrassed called down to Mrs Pomeroy in a dressing gown found only in a boarding house,’ she ended, giving a light laugh. ‘Of course, there will be more, but for the moment it will be enough, I think.’

  As Arietta stood waiting for Mrs Pomeroy to slip the first of many dresses over her head, she started to appreciate how many times a day a Society lady must change her clothes.

  First, after her early morning tea, she must change into her housecoat for breakfast in her boudoir, then she must bath and change into a suit in which to give or take lunch at home or in someone else’s house; and then a cocktail dress in which to go to drinks, after which a ball gown, or opera coat and dress might be required. At all times a lady in Society must be made up perfectly, not a hair out of place, and not a chipped piece of nail varnish on either hand or foot. Her hats must match her outfits, and her gloves be clean and of varying lengths: short for day, longer or three-quarter length for evening. Her stockings, of silk or nylon, must have seams that are always straight, and her shoes be of just the right height or design to go with her myriad choices of clothes. In short, a Society lady has to be a picture of perfection to reflect her husband’s and her own wealth and standing.

  ‘You appreciate Mrs Ashcombe would like you to always be smart.’

  Arietta realised at once from the look in Mrs Pomeroy’s eyes that she, like the rich ladies about whom she had read in magazines and newspapers, must reflect Mrs Ashcombe’s wealth and standing.

  ‘This is very smart.’

  How many times Arietta said that in the next hour, she could not have said, but eventually, very eventually, after much pinning and tucking, and pulling and twitching, a great pile of clothes had been laid aside waiting on the arrival of the seamstresses in the morning.

  ‘Tomorrow we will take you out for your shoes and et ceteras, and then we will take you to André for your hair, and after that, when we come back we will find everything will be ready for us, for my ladies will attack the alterations first thing.’

  As a result of her visit to Mrs Pomeroy’s house, Arietta returned to Mrs Ashcombe’s feeling younger and shabbier than ever. After climbing the stairs to her attic room she took off the treasured jacket and skirt made for her by Mrs Chantry, and having smoothed it, hung it reverentially in the curtained cupboard. She was in London now. She had turned her back on Rushington and all its happy ways, its lack of sophistication, its appreciation of even the smallest luxuries. She lay down on her narrow bed, and after a while she fell asleep, only to dream of going home and finding no one there.

  The following day Mrs Pomeroy called for her. After a visit to Mr Rayne for shoes and handbags, and to Fortnum and Mason for handbags and gloves, not to mention Mr André the hairdresser, she made her way back to Shotcombe Street in Mrs Pomeroy’s triumphant company.

  Once again she was fitted with clothes now newly altered especially for her, before finally being advised to stay in a navy-blue suit with a stiff white collar and cuffs. The rest of the clothes were swamped in tissue paper, packed into large boxes and sent round to her new home. She followed them there a little later, once more in the company of Mrs Pomeroy.

  ‘My dear Mrs Pomeroy,’ Mrs Ashcombe murmured as soon as they were ushered into her drawing room. ‘You have done marvels.’ She walked towards Arietta. ‘I should never have known Miss Staunton. She is a revelation, truly she is.’

  Mrs Pomeroy beamed proudly. She felt very happy – more than that, she had managed to make the transformation of her little protégée in less than twenty-four hours.

  ‘Nothing could please me more,’ Mrs Ashcombe continued. ‘I now have a social secretary who not only is the part, but looks it. You are to be congratulated. Go, Miss Staunton, walk to the top of the room and back.’

  Arietta, having spent a homesick-filled night in her attic room, was only too pleased to do as bidden, and to see that the two older women were smiling happily at their protégée.

  ‘This evening we are having a cocktail party,’ Mrs Ashcombe told Mrs Pomeroy. ‘Thanks to you, Miss Staunton will now be able to attend and look the part.’

  ‘We have set aside four cocktail frocks, two day suits, four day frocks, two top coats for spring, and two for autumn, and one ball gown and an opera coat and dress can be on their way when necessary.’

  Mrs Ashcombe nodded. Mrs Pomeroy took her leave, and Arietta followed her employer down to the dining room where they lunched, after which she took dictation, and Mrs Ashcombe retired for an afternoon rest.

  The excitement of the thought of her first cocktail party kept Arietta’s spirits up as she ploughed her way through first the letters to be handwritten, and next those to the tradespeople, which had to be typed. Of one thing she was rapidly becoming aware, and after only two days as Mrs Ashcombe’s secretary, and that was that her employer seemed to be known to everyone in England, up to and including the royal family.

  ‘It is certainly a very difficult thing to have the interest of so many people,’ Mrs Ashcombe had murmured earlier, between bouts of dictation. ‘A very difficult thing. Everyone seems to want a bit of you,’ she added, just a trace of a martyred look coming into her eyes.

  Arietta dressed herself in a ravishing cocktail dress – net skirt slightly raised at the front, tight bodice, rounded shape above the bust, and very pretty butterfly sleeves – in a state of great excitement. Her long hair having been pulled back into a chignon by Mr André she had been careful to step into the dress rather than attempting to pull it over her head.

  There being no full-length mirror in her attic room, she was only able to check her hair and makeup before making her way downstairs. She would always be required to be down in the drawing room waiting for guests before her employer, so she found herself hurrying a little, only too anxious to do exactly as she had been told, only to come to a sudden full st
op in front of a full-length mirror hanging on the wall of the landing below.

  As soon as she saw her reflection in the rust-marked old looking-glass, Arietta gave a small intake of breath. It was hardly surprising, for instead of being surprised, or thrilled by her new sophisticated appearance, she felt only a dull sense of déjà vu, for the mirror reflected someone she was getting to know all too well. From her Rayne shoes to her silk stockings, to her nipped-in waist, full skirt, and classic highly styled chignon, she was a junior replica of Mrs Ashcombe. She stared at herself in vague horror, before turning and starting to walk sedately downstairs to the lower floors. It was here that she started to discover that even her walk had changed. The sound of her tread on the stair, the swish of her new taffeta underskirts, all told her that the person that had been her, Arietta Staunton, was gone. Clothes might maketh the man; they certainly drowned a girl.

  Sunny’s life had become more fractured than she could have thought possible. On the one hand she was required, daily, to attend secretarial college, study, and help around the house, just as if nothing had happened in her life, just as if she was not engaged to Gray Wyndham, just as if she had not scandalised the neighbourhood by acquiring a fiancé at what was generally considered far too young an age; just as if she had not won over Jocelyn Wyndham’s heart, and so much so that he now sent his chauffeur to Pear Tree Cottage with flowers and fruit for her every Monday morning.

  The truth was, during the week, she was appallingly lonely. She had made no friends at college, and with Arietta in London there was no one in whom she could confide. She would have loved to have talked to her mother, but engagement or no engagement, Mary Chantry seemed quite determined to carry on treating her daughter as if she was some kind of delinquent on whom she was obliged to keep a reluctant eye. And so in the grey atmosphere that now pervaded her home, Sunny’s days had become tediously unhappy, one day seeming to take a fortnight, as she divided her time between disapproval at home and boredom at college.