Dorothy Eden (25 page)

This, to Florence, seemed to be the most outrageous statement Daisy had ever made. Why, she was everybody’s pet. She was loved to distraction.

Nevertheless Daisy turned away and would not be comforted. If Mamma loved her she would care about her happiness. And who could be happy wearing that baby dress!

Finally Mamma lost patience and told her to go to her room until she had regained control of herself and was ready to apologise to Miss Brown for her rudeness. Daisy whirled away, now sobbing audibly, and then what should happen fifteen minutes later but that she should come downstairs, dressed in her outdoor things, and holding Papa’s hand.

“We’re off on a shopping expedition,” Papa announced. “Now not a word, Bea. This young lady has a certain taste in clothes and I think it should be encouraged. You will all see the result shortly. You, too,” he bowed with the faintest scorn to Miss Brown.

“Really,” Mamma sighed, as the front door closed behind them, “that child will be ruined. Her father dotes on her too much for her own good.”

“So I have observed,” Miss Brown said, her sharp eyes snapping. “But I do think, Miss Beatrice, for an important occasion your daughters ought to be dressed by Bonnington’s. I mean—”

“Oh, be quiet about it,” Mamma answered, her good temper suddenly vanishing. “After all I, too, have been dressed by Worth.”

“Surely he isn’t taking her to Worth!”

“I said be quiet. If my husband has a whim to do this, it’s really none of your affair, Miss Brown. Now don’t be offended. We’re very pleased with Florence’s dress, aren’t we, Florence my dear?”

If she had made a fuss would she too have been taken to the fabulous Worth, Florence wondered? No, of course she wouldn’t, because with her angular frame and plain face Papa would have thought the money wasted, whereas Daisy would look a dream, even at the very youthful age of ten years. This was a logical enough reason. Florence wasn’t resentful. All the same, she couldn’t help wondering what one of those alarmingly elegant women at the Worth salon would have chosen for her.

Well, she was doomed to organdie and yellow rosebuds, while Daisy came tripping home with exciting striped boxes containing a floor-length rose-coloured taffeta dress, slippers to match, and the most darling white lace mittens that came to her elbows. She was so exquisitely pretty in her excitement that of course one forgave her her naughtiness and shared her pleasure.

She knew how to get things. One wished one had a little of that talent oneself.

Now this, thought Beatrice contentedly, three weeks later, was the happiest party she had known at Overton House.

It was a perfect mild mid-summer evening, and the doors of the music room were open on to the terrace. Lanterns had been cunningly hung from trellises and tree branches, and were lighted by the gardener and his boy as the darkness grew. It looked as if a dozen small yellow private moons hung in the greenery.

The music room was full of roses and delphiniums and in the dining room the supper table, lavishly spread with one of Cook’s finest cold collations, was decorated with trailing fronds of smilax and clusters of sweet peas.

The whole house was lit by candles because Beatrice said they were romantic. Privately she had thought the softer light more flattering to Florence who, through nervous anxiety, had seemed to shed pounds in the last few days. She really did have salt cellars above her collar bones now, but she also had acquired a large-eyed ethereal quality that was rather appealing.

So much, she had declared passionately, hung on this ball. It was to be the acid test as to whether or not she was attractive to men. Or to one man, as the case may be. If she failed the test she was going to have a miserable season. Edwin had been urged to dance with her at least six times, if she appeared to be short of partners, and Papa also must lurk watchfully.

Daisy had said in her extravagant way, “Oh, Florence, you are beautiful! You truly are beautiful!” and one had to hope that either Florence had enough sense not to take her seriously, or else that the exuberant praise would give her some much needed confidence.

Daisy herself, dressed in that pretty but absurdly grownup dress that William had bought for her, was flitting about with her air of radiant pleasure that most people found so irresistible. She just naturally assumed that she was created to be admired, which fact Beatrice found intensely galling. She herself had never been in the slightest danger of being taken in by Daisy’s charms, but her prejudice was secret and deep-rooted and permanent.

It was too bad that even tonight the little minx was stealing Florence’s limelight. Perhaps it was innocent and unintentional, after all she was only a child and could scarcely be aware of what she was doing, but it was happening.

Beatrice had promised that woman to bring up her child. She had not promised to love her.

The band was playing a waltz, the dance floor was full, and Beatrice had come outside for a little cool air. It was an emotional night whether she wished it to be or not, the coming out of her daughter, an Overton, in this lovely old house. She, the one-time usurper, had at least partly realised her dream.

It was realised more fully when William came out and joined her. Hadn’t she longed for this once, William’s hand on her arm as they strolled in the half-lit dusk?

“Everything seems to be going well, Bea. Florence is quite smitten by that young Cavalryman.”

“Desmond Fielding?”

“Is that his name? I remember dozens like him in the Punjab when I was a boy. Too fair-skinned for that climate. They suffered hellishly. Went brick-red with sunburn and liquor, or died of fever.”

“I must say that’s cheerful for poor young Lieutenant Fielding!”

“A fact. But with things the way they are I should think it’s more likely he’ll end up in South Africa. We’re going to have a war on our hands there.”

“William, not tonight!”

“Oh! Am I a pessimist?”

“Only about the Kaiser and Kruger.”

“Well, it’s all true, I’m afraid. But this is a good show tonight, isn’t it? Thanks to you.”

“Not thanks to me at all. Yours is the house, the background, the atmosphere of privilege. Mine’s only the sordid money.”

“But as necessary as the privilege, my dear.”

“Perhaps. Florence seems to be doing nicely, doesn’t she?”

“Surprisingly nicely. And Daisy is breaking hearts in all directions.”

“Only because of that unsuitable dress which is much too old for her. I believe some of the young men think she’s in her teens.”

William chuckled.

“I did hear one of them swearing eternal devotion to her.”

“Not really! That little scamp. I must call Lizzie. It’s time she went up to bed.”

“Nonsense, let the child enjoy herself. She has this captivating response to gaiety, as if she were making up—”

“Making up for what?”

William took his hand off her arm and moved away.

“Nothing, my dear. Aren’t we lucky with the weather? By the way, I believe this young Fielding is in line for a baronetcy.”

“I know!” Beatrice gave a short ironic laugh.

“Why are you laughing?”

“I was just thinking of what my father would say.”

“Supposing he had lived to become grandfather to a title? Really, you women, with your matchmaking. As far as I know the young man has only danced with Florence a couple of times. Shall we go in for some strawberries before our guests have hogged the lot?”

Beatrice took his arm gladly, forgetting Florence and reminding herself that her dream really had come true. At an elegant party at Overton House, William Overton was taking her in to supper.

“Do you go to a great many parties, Miss Overton?” Desmond Fielding asked.

“No, not a great many.”

“I’m sure you will. Could we sit this dance out? Somewhere where it’s cool. On the stairs, perhaps.”

“It is rather hot.”

“Hot! It’s stifling. I can’t imagine how I’ll survive India, especially wearing army uniform.”

“Don’t let my grandfather hear you.” Florence pointed to the row of portraits hanging above the stairs. “He’s that one at the top. He was a great stickler for tradition, my father says. My brother wanted to be just like him, but he can’t join the army because of poor eyesight.”

“Hard luck! Though I don’t know. He can stay comfortably in England. Can I ask you something, Miss Overton? Will you write to me while I’m abroad? I’d appreciate it a great deal if you would.”

“But you hardly know me!”

He laid his hand on hers, and she trembled. She had been trembling inwardly with excitement ever since she had danced with Lieutenant Fielding. His long face and his courteous manner had made a tremendous impression on her. Most heady of all, he seemed genuinely to admire her, and as a consequence she knew that she looked unusually animated and perhaps quite pretty.

Bless Cynthia for having a brother, bless him for coming to her ball. How sad that he was leaving England so soon, but how wonderful that he wanted her to write to him. Did he really, or was he making the same request to every personable girl he met?

“I feel I do know you, Miss Overton. You have such a look of sincerity.”

“Have I?”

“So do think of me scorching on those hot plains, and drop me a line occasionally. I’ll be thinking of girls like you all the time, cool and elegant and English.”

Girls! Her suspicion had been right.

“So you are collecting female correspondents, Lieutenant?” she said primly.

“No, I’m not, you goose. I swear you’re the only one I’ve asked to write to me.”

“I’ll write to you, too, if you like, Lieutenant,” came Daisy’s voice, unexpectedly. She was looking through the bannisters, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Daisy, you little wretch!” Florence exclaimed. “Have you been listening to us?”

“Only to Lieutenant Fielding calling you a goose. I wish I’d heard more.”

The young man burst out laughing.

“Introduce me, Miss Overton. Who is this gorgeous creature?”

Florence repressed annoyance. Much as she adored Daisy, she could not have been less welcome at this moment.

“She’s my sister. Lieutenant Fielding, Miss Daisy Overton.”

Daisy came to the foot of the stairs to give her polite curtsey, and Lieutenant Fielding said, “That’s a very kind offer of yours to write to me, Miss Daisy. I’ll be happy to accept it.”

“She’s only a schoolgirl,” Florence put in, a little crossly.

“But I’m sure she writes a dashing letter. You two sisters aren’t at all alike, are you?”

Daisy, showing her dimples, said, “Florence is the good one and I’m the bad one.”

“Well, that makes for a nice balance,” Lieutenant Fielding said, and Florence, still irritated by Daisy’s pertness, said,

“You mustn’t take her seriously, Lieutenant. She’s a great tease. And isn’t it time you went up, Daisy? It’s nearly midnight.”

“Papa said I could stay up until the clock struck twelve, like Cinderella.”

“You’re no Cinderella,” said Lieutenant Fielding.

Daisy dimpled with her radiant pleasure.

“Does that mean I’ll never have a Prince Charming?” she asked in pretended dismay.

“I should think you would have plenty of those. I might even have waited for you myself if I hadn’t met your sister first.”

“Oh, what a pity!” The little minx really was too precocious for words. “But I’ll forgive you if you promise to come to my ball in seven years’ time. Seven years! Oh dear, do you think we will all live that long?”

“I certainly intend to, Miss Daisy, simply so that I may come to your ball.”

Daisy gave her delighted gurgle of laughter. “That’s perfectly wonderful. That makes eight men I have already. Now who else can I ask?” She tripped off, and Florence exclaimed,

“She’s incorrigible! I must apologise for her.”

“Quite! The modern generation! She’s going to be a wonderful flirt. I fancy you’re not a flirt, Miss Overton?”

His hand was laid over hers again, and her happiness had returned.

“No, I’m not. I’m much too slow-witted, for one thing. And I suppose I’m too honest.”

“I like honesty. It’s a bit rare, you know.”

“I will write to you if you want me to, Lieu—”

“Desmond,”

“Desmond,” Florence said, her voice admirably calm. “And now I really think we ought to go back to the ballroom.”

His lips only touched her cheek. It was a quick snatch at a kiss, and afterwards she could only remember how unexpectedly soft his moustache was against her skin.

It could scarcely be called a kiss at all, yet it put the crown of success on the evening, and gave her a comforting memory to cherish for long afterwards.

She needed something to cherish, for this kind of thing had its drawbacks. It meant that for the rest of her season she was profoundly uninterested in all the young men she met. She went to luncheon parties, tea dances and balls, and looked far-away and distrait, determining to show any hopeful admirer that her affections were otherwise engaged.

Actually, there were no other admirers because her aloofness was discouraging, and without animation her angular face and too long nose were distinctly plain. She refused to make any efforts to be attractive, to the exasperation of her parents and of Miss Brown (who had been hoping for an early and elaborate wedding).

“Florence dear, this young man in India,” Mamma said. “You only met him once. You can’t be in love with him.”

“Why not? You said you fell in love with Papa the first time you met him.”

Mamma bit her lip. “That was different. He wasn’t going to disappear to a foreign country for several years. Don’t you see that you’re wasting all your youth?”

“I don’t care.”

“And you don’t even know if he’s serious.”

“He writes to me,” Florence said, having no intention of displaying the precious missives. She was a very private person. Besides, Desmond was not a gifted letter writer. She had to read between the lines, although she was perfectly certain what was written there.

“He writes to Daisy, too,” Mamma pointed out.

That was another matter. Desmond’s letters to Daisy were purely a lesson in history and geography. He was explaining a strange country and its customs to a schoolgirl.