Dorothy Eden (32 page)

That night William moved over to Beatrice’s side of the bed, and waited for her to fold him in her arms. This she did lovingly and gladly. She knew what was troubling him. He hated death, not only poor Mamma’s death, but all departures from this world. He was haunted for days or weeks by thoughts of damp cold churchyards, and decay.

She hated it, too. But anything that brought her husband willingly into her arms could not be hated entirely.

So her thoughts, as she lay in the warm bed, listening to the wind outside, and to William’s gentle breathing against her breast, were half poignant, half happy. She had quite forgotten the sharpened concern she had felt at dinner that night for the way her children were growing up.

“But you will come in with me!” Florence hissed, gripping Daisy’s wrist savagely. “What are you scared of?”

“I hate illness. Smells.”

“It’s only humanly right that you go and see her. She’s known you from a baby.”

“But she’s never liked me.”

“Don’t be silly! Come on!”

So Daisy was dragged into the dark small room where Miss Brown lay, conserving all her energy, so that only her eyes moved, and the tip of her long nose twitched.

“Miss Florence—Miss Daisy—”

“We brought you some daffodils,” Florence said.

“Ah!—Back from Paris—”

“You mean Daisy? She’s been back since before Christmas. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course—Coming out—”

“Next month,” said Daisy, forcing herself to go close to the bed and to smile at the skeletal face on the pillow. Such a narrow bed. Such a lonely bed.

But Mr Charles Dickens had used to go in and out of the house opposite. One had to remember this highlight in the lives of old Mrs Brown and her daughter. Everyone in this world had something to value, Daisy comforted herself. According to their standards, of course. She would want something more than Mr Charles Dickens.

“What—?”

“Pale yellow for her dance,” Florence answered, anticipating the question. She didn’t add that the pale yellow chiffon over silk, like mimosa, came from Worth’s salon, not from Bonnington’s. A great deal, of course, was coming from Bonnington’s.

“I do hope you’ll be feeling better soon, Miss Brown,” Daisy said, with all her natural warmth.

“Oh yes—I shall—”

Before the girls went she managed another gasped sentence.

“Your trousseau—Miss Daisy—”

“All in good time,” said Daisy gaily. “I’m still absolutely heartfree.”

What a pity there was no giving in marriage in heaven, so that Miss Brown could have been happily engaged on preparing trousseaux for all eternity.

One had to remember her long life of loyalty to Bonnington’s, Mamma said, and pay her the utmost respect at her death.

That was a pension saved, said Papa, but not unkindly. He even consented to go to Miss Brown’s simple funeral, which was a great concession from him.

It was the end of an era, said Mamma sadly.

Now was the chance to modernise the workrooms, and do a new daring fashionable colour scheme in the showrooms, Florence said. Old Brownie had been fine in her day, but that day was long ago, and all the fittings were hopelessly out of date, and unsmart.

Unsmart was a word Florence had coined, and frequently used. It could never have been applied to herself.

F
ORTUNATELY FOR DAISY, KING
Edward the seventh died the year before she came out, so her season was not spoiled by a cloud of black mourning over the summer scene. The coronation of the new king, George the Fifth, would make the next year a colourful one. It should be quite a year for Daisy.

The Kaiser, Edwin wrote, gave his Empress a birthday present of a dozen hats. What a pity he didn’t live in London, he would have made a splendid customer for Bonnington’s. Even without his patronage, however, Bonnington’s prospered.

Beatrice decided to get rid of their horses, except the cob which William liked to drive, and buy a very imposing Daimler motor car in which she and Florence could drive daily to the shop. Daisy spent her time in a fuss and flurry of organdies and chiffons, and picture hats and tea gowns, and invitations to parties and balls. William announced his intention of staying in England for the whole of Daisy’s coming-out year, and seemed completely contented to be at home.

Sitting up in the back of the Daimler with the hood down, Beatrice and Florence tied their hats on with long silk scarves, and decided they must stock a new range of goods called “motoring clothes”.

The young chauffeur Bates, engaged to drive the Daimler, wore a smart grey uniform and cap, very different from poor old Dixon’s long coat which was designed to keep his ankles warm on the box of the carriage. Bates had no interest in horses. He was a man of this alarming new age, a time which, to Beatrice’s dismay, seemed to be dominated by smelly noisy engines. Although she had to admit the Daimler was faster and more comfortable than the now old-fashioned carriage. Florence had insisted that they must keep up with, or even keep ahead of, the times. She liked the picture she and her mother made, sailing down the Edgware Road in the spring morning. Miss Bea and Miss Florence of Bonnington’s. Let that American usurper, Mr Selfridge, think they cared about his expensive elephant of a store. Admittedly, it was bringing in a great many customers. “But not ours,” they said smugly.

That strange gifted Russian, Count Serge Diaghilev, after his triumph in Paris, was bringing his ballet with his leading dancer Nijinsky to Covent Garden theatre in the early summer, and Florence was deep in plans for her Russian exhibition. It was going to be exquisite, jewel-like and unique. Mr Selfridge’s lilies and carnations, his string orchestra and painted backcloths depicting Watteau and Fragonard, were going to pale in comparison.

“But what are we going to sell?” Beatrice grumbled.

“Cossack hats, for one thing. Petrouchka puppets. I’ve found a toymaker who will make as many as we can sell. Ball gowns in ‘Fire-bird’ colours,” said Florence, whose own elegance was composed of subdued greys and fawns.

“It’s a terrible gamble.”

“I expect that’s what Grandpapa used to say about your ideas,” Florence commented.

Beatrice nodded grudgingly. But she smiled to herself, remembering her startling and successful innovations in window dressing. Poor Papa had had to submit to those changes because his poor health had taken away the energy needed for opposing that small determined whirlwind, his daughter.

She had both sufficient strength and energy to oppose Florence. But her fairness wouldn’t allow her to do so. Give the girl a chance. She would make mistakes, of course, although so far she had made surprisingly few. In a way, she was simply carrying on the tradition her mother had begun. But it was a little galling to have to admit that she might be even more clever.

“It’s the twentieth century now,” Florence added, not for the first time. She knew it was the most effective way of putting her mother in her place.

But I’m not tired, Beatrice thought to herself, even if my daughter considers me to be a nineteenth-century woman. I can go on for many years yet. I’ve lost Miss Brown but I’ve still got Adam’s support. We represent Bonnington’s solid success. Florence wants only the spectacular trimmings. But what else has she got in life, poor child? I’m so lucky, I have my adored husband.

Only, be honest, I’d be lost without the shop. It’s a habit now. I’d be lost wandering about the house all day, keeping out of William’s and the servants’ way. The way William and I have lived, our marriage has been a most splendid success.

Except for Mary Medway.

Except for Daisy.

There had been no peace in the house since Daisy had come home. She was gay, restless, pleasure-seeking, delectably pretty and superficial. Although sometimes Beatrice caught her looking at her mother in a thoughtful way that hinted at some unexpressed feelings, which made Beatrice feel vaguely and unjustifiably guilty.

She filled the house with her friends, created a great deal of extra work (although the servants, doting on her, never complained) and was woefully extravagant. She needed a new gown for each ball, a succession of wide-brimmed flower-decked hats, parasols, ruinously expensive French kid shoes, tea gowns, heaven knew what, all to keep that exquisite little body suitably decked for the husband-hunting game.

Old Aunt Sophie, stiff-jointed, rice powder lying in the wrinkles of her face, a high choker of pearls constantly round her skinny neck (holding her head on, Florence said unkindly), but still completely in command of social affairs, kept her gay little butterfly in control. One had to say for Daisy that she had charming manners with the elderly. Aunt Sophie, who had suffered that stick Florence, was genuinely fond of Daisy. Indeed, she loved her, she admitted. “The child needs love,” she had the impertinence to tell Beatrice.

As if she hadn’t always been loved adequately! And look at the ball they were giving her, with champagne, Russian caviare, plovers’ eggs, cold turkey, whole pineapples from Jamaica, wild strawberries, everything of the most expensive because William wanted it that way.

It was to be the most brilliant ball at Overton House since the days when General Overton had brought home his little porcelain-faced bride.

Edwin was getting leave and coming home for it, but it was a pity that Florence had said she couldn’t attend. Her Russian exhibition was proving more difficult to arrange than she had expected, and of all things, she proposed making a journey to Moscow and St Petersburg to gather genuine articles of Russian culture. It was going to make the cost of the exhibition ruinous, but Florence was full of words like ‘prestige and originality’, and ‘flair’. James Brush was travelling with her, together with a woman assistant, to remove any hint of scandal from the venture. The only scandal was that she had arranged her absence at the time of Daisy’s ball, simply because Captain Fielding, who still had stubborn though diminishing hopes of persuading Daisy to marry him, was coming.

One had to admit that it would have been humiliating and embarrassing for Florence to meet him, although she might just have endured it for Daisy’s sake, instead of arranging this elaborate face-saving expedition.

Daisy was deeply hurt. She hated the never-ending punishment Florence was meting out. It was so unfair. One could only pretend not to notice it, and not let it spoil the lovely exciting shimmering evening when she was secretly hoping to fall in love. As didn’t every girl at her coming-out ball? Even Florence had done so, though with disastrous consequences.

I won’t have any disasters, Daisy thought, I will fall in love deeply and forever, and I will be loved back in the same way. I don’t care who it is, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, so long as we love each other truly.

Disappointingly, it didn’t turn out that way. Not that the ball wasn’t a great success. It was dawn and the birds were singing in the garden before the last guests left. Daisy had danced a hundred times. She had been complimented, flattered, adored, and kissed beneath the stairs, by a bold but embarrassed young guardsman. But no young man had made any shattering impact on her sense.

All those pink-cheeked, well-behaved young men, had been so
dull.

She made this remark to Edwin when they both sat in the deserted ballroom, their feet up on the little gold chairs, now gladly vacated by the sleepy and exhausted chaperones.

Edwin said that in his opinion the girls had been dull, too.

“I would exchange all those blue-blooded Englishmen for one amusing Frenchman,” Daisy sighed.

“Me, too, with the women, though I’d make mine German instead of French.”

“Would you really? But I always thought German women were pretty dull, too. Fat heavy fräuleins.”

“Some of them. Not all.” Edwin looked self-conscious, and Daisy exclaimed,

“Have you a special one? Oh, do tell me. Are you in love?”

Edwin blushed. He still blushed much too easily. He had also had a little too much champagne, and was less inhibited than usual.

“Yes, I am. For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone.”

“Why? Would the parents disapprove?”

“Not only them. Everyone.”

“
Edwin
! Are you having an illicit liaison?”

“Not exactly. I mean we haven’t done anything. Except talk and hold hands. God, there’s not much satisfaction in that.”

“Is she married?”

Edwin hesitated, then nodded.

“
Edwin
! But you’re mad. In your career—”

“A man even forgets his career when he’s in love,” Edwin said intensely. “You watch it, young Daisy. You’ll find out one day. Do you know, I estimate that only one couple in ten, perhaps less than that, marry happily without complications or reservations, or plain dislike. Look at Mother and Father.”

“But Mamma adores Papa. She’s still absolutely besotted with him, even at their age!”

“But he isn’t with her. You only have to have eyes in your head to see that. Poor devil, he’s had to make a good show of it all these years. I tell you I wouldn’t be like that, marry for money, or for any reason but love.”

“Neither would I,” Daisy agreed fervently. “All the same, if the complications are too great—”

“They can never be too great if your love is strong enough.”

“Is that what you and this fräulein—no, she must be a frau if she’s married—have decided?”

“She’s not a frau, she’s a baroness,” Edwin said stiffly.

“Edwin!” Daisy was shocked and intrigued for the third time. “Is she the one you talked about at dinner once? Thalia?”

“Yes.”

“Is she very beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Does she love you, too?”

“Naturally. Or I wouldn’t be talking like this.” Edwin’s monocle fell out of his eye, and he left it out, and sat back looking suddenly boyish and sad. “But we didn’t mention it until I spent a weekend with them, she and her husband, in their castle in Silesia. It was a hunting party. I happened to be the best shot there, and it was all great fun, and Thalia said what a great pity it was about my eyes preventing me having an army career. She said I’d have been a better soldier even than Horst—her husband—and he was one of the best. And then suddenly I found I was kissing her, and she wanted me to, and it all just happened.”