The Debutante (11 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ she blinked, and began to step back. But he pressed his own hand on top of hers. She felt his heartbeat quicken under her touch.

The fear in his eyes had gone. It had sharpened into something rawer; more visceral and determined. ‘Have I convinced you?’

‘Of what?’ Her own pulse began to beat in tandem with his. ‘That you’re not made of marble?’

‘Precisely.’

‘It seems you’re flesh and blood after all.’

He released her hand.

It wavered in the air between them a moment, before dropping to her side.

‘And yet you haven’t answered my question.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What am I thinking?’

She looked again into his face.

The cloud moved on. Once again the sun shone brightly.

Only she knew the fear existed. And she realised that perhaps he’d shown her something even he was unaware of.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, turning away. She felt in danger of something she couldn’t name or explain. A painful softening; a treacherous, deceptive longing. ‘It seems my powers have failed me today.’

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he shrugged, kicking a bit of gravel across the path. The expression on her face was unreadable; did she find him foolish? ‘After all, I was prepared to be amazed.’

He sounded disappointed.

‘Who knows?’ she said, glancing back. ‘These things are famously fickle. Perhaps another day, Mr Coates, I will know exactly what you’re thinking.’

5 St James’s Square
London

24 October 1926

Darling,
Thank you so much for your letter — quite the nicest one I’ve had in ages. I am so sorry I gave you cause for concern. I am just a little low as of late and you know that I am prone to these black spells. Also I’m missing you terribly. I don’t think, darling, that I had quite realised that you were going to be married and leaving me so soon. Has he really found a house already?

Perhaps you’re right about Switzerland. They understand these things so much better than we do — have all sorts of cures and regimes. But I don’t want to go to a clinic. I’m afraid once they get me in, I won’t be allowed to leave. I know I frighten you and that you want me to be well for the wedding. The truth is, I frighten myself. I don’t know what brings on these spells. Everything is so different, Irene. Do you really never miss Ireland, or Fa, or our funny little house?

Father Ryan came round the other day. The Holy made him. We spent a long time alone with me gushing and sobbing and him nodding, trying to appear sympathetic but not wanting to get too close or too wet. In the end he told me to believe. ‘Believe in what?’ I cried. ‘Well, in God’s will.’ ‘How am I meant to know what that is?’ He just sat there, all swollen and pink, opening and closing his mouth like a giant fish. In the end all he could come up with was, ‘Do as Mother instructs and attend church more often.’ Can you imagine God making His will known through Muv? Afterwards, she insisted I have my hair done, since it hasn’t been touched in weeks. They put on a rinse which makes it quite golden in colour. She, at least, was pleased. So, apparently, God must be too.

In truth, I’m better than I was. The doctor advocates long walks to lift the mood so the Consort, bless him, has bought me a spaniel pup to keep me company. I call him Nico, which is my little joke. He is the handsomest thing in Green Park. I have been on the lookout for some small token of the Real Nick but there is nothing in the whole of St James’s Square. It’s quite remarkable how the Consort has removed him from his life.

I so despise this bleak, cold rain we are having! Forgive me if I only write a short note. Some days are such an effort. But I will not fail you on your wedding day, I promise — nothing but smiles and joy and now a blonde head to match!

Diana

When Cate headed into the kitchen, there was a plate of leftover roast chicken and salad waiting for her. Taking a bite, she heard someone in the far pantry. She walked through to find Jo defrosting one of the refrigerators, washing the wire racks in the large sink. To her surprise, she was crying.

‘Jo?’

Jo looked up, smiling sadly. ‘I can’t believe it’s come to this,’ she said. ‘All these years, all this time. It’s over. Done.’ She rinsed the soapsuds off and stacked the rack on the draining board.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cate murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘And that room. It’s strange, don’t you think?’

Cate was quiet; she felt somehow responsible.

‘All those books. When we were young, my brother and I, we had nothing. Really. We would’ve killed for books like that. You see, that’s not like Irene. She was a generous person. Good. Maybe she forgot they were there.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Didn’t you want any lunch?’

‘No. I just sat in the rose garden for a while. It’s really quite beautiful.’

‘Yes, it is lovely. Irene used to say that the beauty of nature was proof of God’s forgiveness.’

‘Why? What did she have to be forgiven for?’

Jo shrugged. ‘I don’t think it had to do with anything in particular. Maybe she meant original sin, or something
along those lines. Catholics are like that, aren’t they? Always finding sins where other people only see human nature.’

‘I like the sundial. Do you know what the quote is from?’

‘No,’ Jo admitted. ‘That garden was built after the war. The Colonel was very particular about the whole thing. The roses are all the same colour, they’ve never changed. Always white. Apparently flowers have special meaning.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know … Let me see,’ she sighed, trying to remember, ‘white ones are something like purity and innocence, which makes sense. But also something else, something like secrets, or maybe it’s silence.’

‘Jo, tell me about the people who lived here. I’m curious.’

‘Lord and Lady Avondale? I think he bought it when they were married as a wedding gift for her. Simple as that really. But war broke out, he joined up and life got in the way. Of course when they first moved in, things were different. My mother came to work for her when she was a bride. A famous debutante, she was. They had house parties, loads of people coming down from London. My mother used to tell me about them — aristocrats, politicians and artists — glamorous, sophisticated young people with the world at their feet. And of course her sister, Baby.’

‘Baby?’

‘Yes. Well, her real name was Diana but everyone called her Baby. There were only a couple of years between
them but Irene always looked after Baby. She was wild, always getting into scrapes. She was part of a set that did silly things like treasure hunts and party games and pretending to be burglars and breaking into each other’s houses. Stupid really. That was before she disappeared of course.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

Jo shrugged. ‘No one really knows. Over the years there’s been lots of speculation. We’ve had journalists wandering around the place from time to time, looking for clues. What happened to Baby Blythe? When Irene was alive, she never spoke about it. Thing was, Baby was trouble. That’s what my mother says. I mean, she was beautiful and popular, but in the wrong way, if you get my meaning. Too many lovers and too many bad habits. Most people think she must’ve been killed.’

‘Killed?’

‘Murdered. Or an accident. Though they never found a body.’ Jo wiped down the worktop. ‘Who knows? She could have died during the Blitz for all we know or fallen off a cliff. Like I said, Irene never spoke of it. There are no pictures of her in the house anywhere. During the war Irene became quite religious. And when he came back, they lived very quietly.’

‘I hate to think of it going on the market.’

‘It’s already been sold. That man Syms came round with the developers a couple weeks ago. As soon as everything is auctioned, they take over. They’re going to knock
down the old cottage. Begin again. In two years’ time, you’ll have to have a reservation to see this place at all. God!’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve spent more hours here than I have in my own home! It takes over your life, looking after people.’

‘And what are you going to do now?’ Cate asked softly.

‘I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to travel but Mum’s so old now. I honestly don’t know.’ She dabbed her eyes with the corner of the dishcloth. ‘I can’t believe, after all those years, it’s done.’

That evening Cate and Jack had their supper in the kitchen.

Jack stabbed at his chicken hotpot, while Cate, distracted, pushed her vegetables round the periphery of her plate.

‘What do you know about Diana Blythe?’ she asked at last.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What everyone knows. She went missing. She was famous for being famous; pretty, reckless. One of the bright young things.’

‘You mean like in
Vile Bodies?
Evelyn Waugh?’

He nodded.

Cate pushed the sliced potatoes to one side. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange there are no pictures of her? I mean, they were sisters. But there’s nothing.’

‘A lot of people don’t have photos of family. For some it’s just private. Also, perhaps Irene found it painful to be reminded of her, since she was gone.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘I don’t know. Never really thought about it.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘Maybe she ran away. Those kinds of people were always legging it at the first sign of real life.’

‘And what kind of people would that be?’

‘You know, spoilt, beautiful young women with nothing to do.’

It came out sharper than he’d intended. He looked up.

She stared back. ‘I see.’

They ate in silence; a band of tension stretched between them.

‘Have I upset you, Jack?’

‘No, I’m just tired.’

‘You seem upset.’

His mind turned. ‘How did you get into that room?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I picked the lock.’

He blinked at her. ‘Oh.’

Suddenly she was laughing.

He laughed too.

‘Yes. I can pick a lock, Jack. I can also hot-wire a car if necessary.’

‘And where did you learn how to do that?’

‘From my father. Professional piss artist.’

‘You’re not what you appear to be.’

‘Which is?’

‘The phrase “butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth” springs to mind.’

‘Appearances can be deceiving.’

‘I should’ve remembered that’s your stock-in-trade.’

He didn’t know why he said it. For a moment things had been easier between them. So why did he have to toss out some sideways comment? It was as if he couldn’t help himself.

‘Not exactly,’ she said finally, folding her napkin, getting up. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ He tried to stand too but knocked into the table, spilling the wine across his plate. ‘Dammit!’ It dripped onto his trousers. He grabbed his napkin and began mopping it up.

‘Here.’ She passed him a dishcloth and continued stacking the plates in the sink.

Her calmness was more irritating than his clumsiness. He tossed the napkin down, ignoring the spill.

‘Cate …’ He took her hand.

She looked up, alarmed. For a moment, he’d unmasked her.

He reached for her other hand.

‘I know you don’t like me.’ Her voice cracked like a whip, warning him off.

‘That’s not true.’ He tightened his grip.

‘But we might at least be civil.’ There was something unfinished, almost pleading in her tone.

‘It’s not true,’ he said again, quietly, leaning in. The faint scent of her light citron-based perfume blended with the darker warmth of her hair and skin. Her body yielded ever so slightly against his. ‘It’s not true.’

Deep in the house, a phone rang — shrill and insistent.

He relaxed his fingers and she backed away, head bowed, disappearing down the dark passageway.

There was an extension on the drawing-room table. She picked it up.