Cometh the Hour: A Novel (12 page)

Virginia didn’t arrive at Fenwick Hall until after dinner, and immediately retired to bed in the hope that her father would be in a better mood following a night’s sleep. He wasn’t. In fact, he barely uttered a word throughout breakfast, other than to say, “I’ll see you in my study at ten,” as if she were an errant schoolgirl.

She was standing outside Papa’s study at five minutes to ten, but didn’t knock on the door until she heard the clock in the hall strike the hour. She was painfully aware that her father expected one to be neither early nor late. When she did knock, she was rewarded with the command, “Come!” She opened the door and walked into a room she only ever entered when she was in trouble. Virginia remained standing on the other side of the desk waiting to be invited to sit. She wasn’t. She still didn’t speak. Children should be seen and not heard, was one of her father’s favorite maxims, which may have been the reason they were almost strangers.

While Virginia waited for him to open the conversation, she took a closer look at the old man who was seated behind his desk, attempting to light a briar pipe. He’d aged considerably since she’d last seen him. The lines on his face were more deeply etched. But despite being well into his seventies, his gray hair was still thick, and his finely clipped moustache served to remind everyone he was of a past generation. The earl’s smoking jacket was the lovat green of his highland clan, and he considered it a virtue that he rarely ventured beyond the borders. He’d been educated at Loretto School in Edinburgh before graduating to St. Andrews. The golf club, not the university. At general elections, he supported the Conservative Party, not out of conviction, but because he considered the Tories the lesser of several evils. However, as his Member of Parliament had been Sir Alec Douglas-Home, he wasn’t without influence. He visited the House of Lords on rare occasions, and then only when a vote was required on a piece of legislation that affected his livelihood.

Once he’d lit his pipe and taken a few exaggerated puffs, he reluctantly turned his attention to his only daughter, whom he considered to be one of his few failures in life. The earl blamed his late wife for indulging the child during her formative years. The countess had favored the carrot rather than the stick, so that by the age of eighteen, the only carats Virginia knew were to be found at Cartier and not the local greengrocers.

“Let me begin by asking you, Virginia,” said the earl between puffs, “if you have finally settled all the legal bills that arose from your reckless libel action?”

“Yes, I have, Papa. But I had to sell all my shares in Barrington’s in order to do so.”

“No more than poetic justice,” commented the earl, before taking another puff on his ancient pipe. “You should never have allowed the case to get to court after Sir Edward advised you that your chances were no better than fifty-fifty.”

“But it was in the bag until Fisher wrote that unfortunate letter.”

“Another example of your lack of judgment,” spat out the earl. “Fisher was always going to be a liability, and you should never have become involved with him.”

“But he was a major in the army.”

“A rank you reach only after the war office has decided it’s time for you to retire.”

“And a Member of Parliament.”

“Who rate above only second-hand car salesmen and cattle thieves for reliability.” Virginia opted for silence in a battle she knew she couldn’t win. “Please assure me, Virginia, that you haven’t thrown your hand in with any more ne’er-do-wells.”

She thought about Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles, to whom she knew her father wouldn’t have given house room. “No, Papa, I’ve learned my lesson, and won’t be causing you any more trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“But I must admit that it’s quite difficult to live in London on only two thousand pounds a month.”

“Then come back and live in Kinross, where one can exist quite comfortably on two thousand a year.”

Virginia knew only too well that was the last thing her father would want, so she decided to take a risk. “I was rather hoping, Papa, you might see your way to raising my allowance to three thousand a month.”

“You needn’t give that a second thought,” came back the immediate reply. “In fact, after your most recent shenanigans, I was thinking of cutting your allowance in half.”

“But if you did that, Papa, how could I hope to survive?” She wondered if this was the moment to burst into tears.

“You could behave like the rest of us and learn to live within your means.”

“But my friends rather expect—”

“Then you’ve got the wrong friends. Perhaps the time has come for you to join the real world.”

“What are you suggesting, Papa?”

“You could start by dismissing your butler and housekeeper, who are in my opinion an unnecessary expense, and then move into a smaller flat.” Virginia looked shocked. “And you could even go out and look for a job.” Virginia burst into tears. “Although that, come to think of it, would be pointless, as you’re not qualified to do anything apart from spending other people’s money.”

“But, Papa,” Virginia said, dabbing away a tear, “another thousand a month would solve all my problems.”

“But not mine,” said the earl. “So you can begin your new regime by taking a bus to the station and traveling back to London—second class.”

*   *   *

Virginia had never entered a second-class carriage and, despite her father’s admonition, had no intention of doing so. However, during the long journey back to King’s Cross, she did give considerable thought to her current predicament, and what choices had been left open to her if she was not to further exhaust the old man’s patience.

She had already borrowed small amounts from several friends and acquaintances, and one or two of them were beginning to press her for repayment, while others seemed resigned to the fact that she hadn’t considered the money a loan, more of a gift.

Perhaps she could learn to live without a butler and a cook, visit Peter Jones more often than Harrods, and even board the occasional bus, rather than hail a taxi. However, one thing she could never agree to do was to travel on the tube. She didn’t care to go underground, unless it was to visit Annabel’s. Her weekly visit to the hair salon was also nonnegotiable, and white wine in place of champagne was unthinkable. She also refused to consider giving up her box at the Albert Hall, or her debenture seats at Wimbledon. She’d been told by Bofie Bridgwater that some of his friends rented them out when they weren’t using them. So vulgar, although she had to admit it would be marginally better than losing them altogether.

However, Virginia had noticed recently that she’d been receiving more brown envelopes through the letterbox. She left them unopened in the vain hope that they would go away, whereas in truth they were often followed by a solicitor’s letter warning of an impending writ if their client’s bills were not paid within fourteen days. As if that wasn’t enough, she had that morning opened a letter from her bank manager asking to see her ladyship at her earliest convenience.

Virginia had never met a bank manager, and it certainly wasn’t convenient. But when she returned to Cadogan Gardens and opened her front door, she discovered that the brown envelopes on the hall table now outnumbered the white. She took the letters through to the drawing room, where she divided them into two piles.

After dropping into the wastepaper basket a second request from her bank manager for an urgent meeting, she turned her attention to the white envelopes. Several invitations from chums inviting her to spend a weekend in the country, but she’d recently sold her little MGB and no longer had any means of transport. Balls, at which she couldn’t possibly be seen in the same dress twice. Ascot, Wimbledon, and of course the garden party at Buckingham Palace. But it was Bofie Bridgwater’s embossed invitation that intrigued her most.

Bofie was, in her father’s opinion, a waste of space. However, he did have the virtue of being the youngest son of a viscount, which allowed him to mix with a class of people who were only too happy to foot the bill. Virginia read Bofie’s attached letter. Would she care to join him for lunch at Harry’s Bar (which certainly meant he wouldn’t be paying) to meet an old American chum (they’d probably met quite recently), Cyrus T. Grant III, who was visiting London for the first time and didn’t know his way around town?

“Cyrus T. Grant III,” she repeated. Where had she come across that name before? Ah, yes, William Hickey. She picked up the previous day’s
Daily Express
and turned to the gossip column, as a gambler turns to the racing pages.
Cyrus T. Grant III will be visiting London this summer to take in the season,
Hickey informed her.
In particular, to watch his filly, Noble Conquest, race in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot. He will be flying to London on his Lear jet, and staying in the Nelson suite at the Ritz.
Forbes
magazine has listed Grant as the 28th richest man in America
. A multimillionaire—Virginia liked the word “multi”—who had made his fortune in the canning industry—she didn’t care for the word “industry.” Hickey went on to say that
Vogue
had described him as one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet. But how old are you? mumbled Virginia, as she studied the photo of the tycoon below the story. She guessed forty-five, and hoped fifty, and although he wasn’t what you might have called handsome, or even presentable, the number 28 stuck in her mind.

Virginia dropped Bofie a handwritten billet accepting his kind invitation, and added how much she was looking forward to meeting Cyrus T. Grant III. Perhaps she could sit next to him?

*   *   *

“You called, my lady?” said the butler.

“Yes, Morton. I’m sorry to say that I have been left with no choice but to terminate your employment at the end of the month.” Morton didn’t look surprised, as he hadn’t been paid for the past three months. “Of course, I shall supply you with an excellent reference, so you should have no difficulty in finding another position.”

“Thank you, my lady, because I confess these have not been the easiest of times.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, Morton.”

“Mrs. Morton is expecting again.”

“But you told me only last year that you felt three children was more than enough.”

“And I still do, my lady, but just let’s say this one wasn’t planned.”

“One must organize one’s life more carefully, Morton, and learn to live within one’s means.”

“Quite so, my lady.”

*   *   *

Virginia could no longer put off visiting her bank manager after an embarrassed Mayfair hairdresser presented her with a bounced check.

“A clerical error,” Virginia assured her, and immediately wrote out another check. But once she’d left the salon, she hailed a taxi and asked the cabbie to take her to Coutts in the Strand.

Mr. Fairbrother rose from behind his desk as Lady Virginia marched into his office unannounced. “No doubt you have a simple explanation for this?” she said, placing the REFER TO DRAWER check on the manager’s desk.

“I fear, my lady, that you are well above your agreed overdraft limit,” said Fairbrother, not commenting on the fact that she hadn’t made an appointment. “I have written to you several times requesting a meeting to discuss the present situation, but you have clearly been very busy.”

“I rather assumed that as my family has banked with Coutts for over two hundred years, I might be given a little more latitude.”

“We have been as obliging as we felt able in the circumstances,” said Fairbrother, “but as there are several other transactions pending, I’m afraid you left us with little choice.”

“If that is the case, you have left me with no choice but to make arrangements to move my account to a more civilized establishment.”

“As you wish, my lady. And perhaps in the fullness of time you would be kind enough to let me know to which bank we should transfer your overdraft. Meanwhile, we will, I fear, be unable to honor any of your current outstanding checks until we have received his lordship’s monthly payment.”

“That’s fortunate really,” said Virginia, “as I’ve recently visited my father in Scotland, and he agreed to raise my allowance to three thousand pounds a month.”

“That is indeed good news, my lady, and will unquestionably help to alleviate your current short-term problem. However, I should point out that following that meeting with your father, his lordship wrote to inform the bank that he was no longer willing to guarantee your overdraft. And he made no mention of any increase in your monthly allowance.”

13

V
IRGINIA SPENT THE
morning at a new hairdresser, had her nails manicured and picked up her favorite Chanel outfit from the dry cleaners before returning to Cadogan Gardens.

As she stared at herself in a full-length mirror, she felt she didn’t look too bad for forty-two, well, forty-three … well … She took a taxi to Harry’s Bar just before 1 p.m., and when she mentioned the name Cyrus T. Grant III to the concierge, she was immediately accompanied to the private dining room on the second floor.

“Welcome, my darling,” said Bofie as she entered the room. He quickly took her to one side and whispered, “I know Cyrus is just dying to meet you. I’ve already told him you’re a member of the royal family.”

“I’m a distant niece of the Queen Mother, whom I’ve only met at official functions, though it’s true my father occasionally plays bridge with her when she stays at Glamis Castle.”

“And I told him you had tea with the Queen only last week.”

“Buck House or Windsor?” asked Virginia, joining in the game.

“Balmoral. So much more exclusive,” said Bofie as he grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Virginia pretended not to notice the guest of honor, who was surrounded by admirers, and wondered if they would have been hanging on his every word had he not been the twenty-eighth richest man in America.

Cyrus couldn’t have been an inch over five foot five, and sadly didn’t have Gary Cooper’s looks to compensate. He was wearing a red-and-white check jacket, blue jeans, a pale blue silk shirt and a leather bootlace tie. His Cuban heels made him almost the same height as Virginia. She wanted to giggle, but somehow managed to keep a straight face.