Palace Circle (3 page)

The minute he was out of earshot Ivor said tightly, “It isn't up to me to tell a man when his wife intends returning to London, but I can promise you, Delia, that Sylvia will be here in time to present you at court.” A pulse was beating at the corner of his jaw and there were white lines around his mouth. “And Jerome is a baronet,” he said as they again began walking in the direction of the Ritz. “Anyone bearing the title of ‘Sir’ is either a baronet or a knight. Referring to him as Mr. Bazeljette
was a great solecism. In conversation the surnames of baronets and knights are never used, except by their men friends. Only their Christian names are used with the prefix of ‘Sir.’”

Delia bit her lip, not because she was distressed at being spoken to in such a way but because she was so furiously angry that she wasn't sure she was going to be able to control her voice.

“And just how,” she finally said as they entered the Ritz, “was I supposed to know that? And how am I to address Sir Jerome's wife when I meet her?”

“Until you are on intimate terms with her—which I hope you will be very quickly—you address her as Lady Bazeljette. Wives of baronets and knights are never formally addressed by their Christian names as doing so indicates that the lady is the daughter of a duke, a marquess, or an earl.”

It was all so ridiculously complicated that Delia rolled her eyes.

Fortunately Ivor didn't see her.

As they were led across the opulent dining room to a table overlooking the terrace, she took a steadying breath. “Why is it Sylvia who is presenting me at court, Ivor?” she asked, hoping to put the conversation on a friendlier footing. “I'd much prefer it if you were to present me.”

The change of subject had the desired effect.

He gave a slight smile. “A presentation can only be made by a lady who has herself been presented. And as Sylvia has no daughters of her own, presenting you will give her great pleasure.”

Delia didn't protest any further. If Lady Bazeljette was as amiable as her husband, then Delia was only too happy to put herself into her hands.

Two days later her hopes that she was already pregnant were ended. For a few hours she was plunged into gloom but then common sense reasserted itself. Not everyone was like her cousin Bella, who had become pregnant on her honeymoon. It might well take two months, maybe three, before she was able to give Ivor the news he so wanted to hear. For the moment though, he was, she knew, going to be disappointed.

He wasn't just disappointed. He was devastated.

“I thought young women your age got babies easily,” he said, staring at her as if perhaps she had made a mistake. “Dear God, it isn't as if we haven't tried hard enough, is it?”

The crudity was so unexpected—and so unlike him—that she gasped.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart.” He pulled her down onto his lap, hugging her tight. “It's just that I was so hoping for good news. Perhaps next month, eh?”

“Yes,” she said, her head against his chest. “Perhaps next month.” But as his lips brushed her hair, she felt as though she had let him down—and letting Ivor down was the very last thing in the world she wanted to do.

A week later and she was at Madame Colette's, the dressmaker Gwen had recommended.

“It's a great shame Sylvia is still not back from the Riviera,” Gwen said as she watched Madame Colette adjust the white satin gown Delia was to wear at court. “She always leaves things to the last minute, but as Ivor said she was so thrilled at having been asked to present you, I really do think she should have kept us
au fait
with her travel plans.”

Already nervous at the thought of appearing at Buckingham Palace before King George and Queen Mary, Delia became even more tense.

“If she don't arrive back in time, could you present me, Gwen?” she asked anxiously.

“No, darling, I couldn't.” Gwen's voice was filled with regret. “All the paperwork for your presentation is already with the lord chamberlain.” As an afterthought she added, “And it's ‘doesn't,’ Delia, darling. Not ‘don't.’”

Unlike the occasions when Ivor corrected her speech, Delia was unperturbed. Ever since their first meeting Gwen had shown nothing but maternal-like affection toward her, and when Gwen corrected her Delia knew she did it to be helpful—and that the helpfulness was always meant in the kindest possible way.

When the pinning and tucking were done to her satisfaction, Madame Colette asked for Delia's white satin embroidered train to be brought out and temporarily attached to the gown so the full effect could be appreciated.

“Lady Conisborough's fan will be the one I carried when presented.” Gwen, majestic in a dress of gray silk worn with a wide-brimmed black hat decorated with a red rose, eyed Delia's hand-span waist with satisfaction. “And also,” she added as an afterthought, “Delia will be wearing the family tiara.”

“Any other jewelry?” Madame Colette asked, not wanting anything to be chosen that would fight with the purity of the gown's neckline.

“A three-strand pearl necklace,” Delia said, “and pearl drop earrings.”

“Ah! Another family heirloom, Lady Conisborough?”

Delia shook her head. “No. They were a honeymoon gift to me from my husband when we were in New York.”

“And a perfect choice for a presentation at court, if I may say so, your ladyship.”

When the fitting was completed, Gwen insisted that the two of them have tea at Fortnum & Mason.

Delia walked into the St. James's Restaurant conscious that she was looking her best in a royal-blue walking costume, the
short bolero jacket worn over a high-necked, heavily flounced white chiffon blouse, the ankle-length skirt skimming prettily buttoned shoes, her wide-brimmed, blue-and-emerald peacock-feathered hat at a seductive angle.

Gwen exchanged pleasantries with several other ladies taking tea and then, within minutes of their sitting down, Jerome Bazeljette strolled up to them.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, oblivious of the many female heads that had turned to admiringly watch him as he crossed the room.

Gwen's middle-aged face flushed.

“Do please join us, Jerome,” she said in a manner that indicated he was a far closer family friend than Delia had thought. “I believe you have already met my new sister-in-law?”

“I have indeed.” He took a seat at the table and smiled. “Though sadly these surroundings are no more suitable for a rendering of ‘Dixie’ than our previous encounter.”

Gwen blinked in bewilderment and giggles fizzed in Delia's throat.

“I'm curious about Virginian high society, Lady Conisborough,” he continued. “Is it very different here, in London?”

Delia fought down a rush of homesickness. “Yes, totally different. In Virginia nearly everyone in polite society is somehow related to everyone else. And no matter how distant that relationship, everyone knows it. Genealogy is a very popular pastime in Virginia. And because of that, class doesn't matter in the way it does here.”

“Good heavens!” Gwen straightened her napkin, hardly able to believe that things were so different on the other side of the Atlantic.

“And we're Republicans,” Delia continued, thinking it was something Gwen might need reminding of. “Our public life doesn't revolve around a monarchy. Here, in London, Ivor's life and those of nearly all the people he meets are centered
around what is happening at court. And if it isn't court affairs that are being discussed, it's politics.”

“But, my dear, that's only natural.” Gwen ignored the decadent-looking pastries on the cake stand. “Ivor's position as a financial adviser to King Edward puts him right at the heart of British political life, isn't that so, Jerome?”

Jerome nodded and in the light of the chandeliers—fully ablaze even though it was a sunny afternoon—his curly hair gleamed blue-black.

“King George, however,” Gwen continued, “is far more conservative than his late father—and far less cosmopolitan. You won't find His Majesty gamboling at Biarritz and Monte Carlo, or visiting fashionable spas such as Marienbad and Carlsbad.”

“Though you will find me at them,” Jerome interjected.

“That's true,” Gwen said scoldingly, but with much affection, “and why Sylvia condones such behavior I can't imagine.” She turned to Delia. “Sylvia is the most scintillating creature, Delia. As a society hostess no one can hold a candle to her— not even Margot Asquith.”

Margot Asquith was the prime minister's wife and having met her at a dinner party the previous evening, Delia had realized that she was a woman who neither tolerated fools nor anyone not fiercely intelligent and bitingly witty. The prospect of acting as her hostess—which Ivor had told her she would have to do in the not-too-distant future—filled Delia with terror.

“Tell us more about Virginia,” Gwen said. “Do Virginians eat very strange food?”

Grateful for the change in the conversation, Delia took a sip of tea and said, “Some of it may seem very strange to you, Gwen, but it ain't strange to Virginians. We eat soft-shell crabs and shad roe and fried chicken and watermelon and home-cured ham—and it's all absolutely delicious. And compared to life here, everything is easy and informal.”

She told them about the glorious Virginian countryside; about how, in May, the scent of flowering dogwood filled the air and of how, from Sans Souci's shaded porches, there were hazy distant views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She told them about her father's horses—particularly Sultan—and she told them of the sultry summer heat that was so different from anything she had so far experienced in England.

“Though today is delightfully balmy,” Gwen said in defense of English weather. “May is often the loveliest month of the year in England. And now I really do have to go. I have a beauty appointment at the House of Cyclax in twenty minutes' time. I'm so sorry, Delia, because I'd thought we could take a cab together and that you could have been dropped off at Cadogan Square, but now there isn't enough time for that and I'm going to have to go straight to South Molton Street.”

Delia smiled, not at all put out. “That's no problem, Gwen. You can take a cab and pop off to your appointment and I'll walk home.”

Gwen's china-blue eyes widened in horror. “Good gracious, you can't do that, Delia! It's way too far—and even if it wasn't, you couldn't walk there alone!”

Delia was just about to protest that she most certainly could when Jerome said in a voice that brooked no argument—not even from Gwen—“No need to worry, Gwen. I'll see Delia safely back to Cadogan Square.”

“That would be wonderfully kind of you, Jerome.” Vastly relieved, Gwen allowed him to usher her out of the restaurant and out of the building, saying to both of them as she stepped into one of the horse-drawn cabs that were lined up outside Fortnum's, “And I'll see both of you this evening at dear Cuthie's birthday party.”

As the cab began to pull away she leaned out of it in order to call to Jerome, “Only please don't allow Delia to walk all the way to Cadogan Square, Jerome! It's much too far!”

Jerome merely waved until the cab was lost in a sea of other horse-drawn cabs, horse-drawn buses, and a scattering of open-topped motorcars and then said to Delia, “Is it too far? It's about three-quarters of a mile, maybe less.”

She flashed him a wide smile, saying teasingly, “That's nothing to a Virginian. We walk that far to get from the house to the stables.”

He chuckled and then, in happy companionship, they set off in the direction of Hyde Park Corner and Kensington.

“How are you settling into life as part of the palace circle?” he asked as, on their left-hand side, they reached the park that backed onto Buckingham Palace.

“I ain't”—she corrected herself swiftly—“haven't met Their Majesties yet. That won't happen until I've been presented at court. I've been to a dinner party at which the prime minister and his wife were fellow guests, though. And I've met Sir Cuthbert a few times and Lord Curzon.”

“Cuthie can be a bit of a fusspot but Curzon is a splendid fellow. He was viceroy of India until a few years ago—and that made him one of the most powerful rulers in the world. Can you imagine it? At thirty-eight he held the destinies of millions in his hands.”

“He must have looked magnificent in viceregal robes mounted on an elephant,” she said, laughter in her voice. “Just think how he must miss them.”

“The robes or the elephants?”

“The elephants.”

They were both laughing now and suddenly the homesickness that had never quite vanished, did so. She had, at last, found a friend, and it was a good feeling.

As they cut across a corner of Green Park he said, “And who will be presenting you at court, Delia? Gwen?”

Her eyes flew wide open in startled surprise. “No. I'm to be presented by …” She came to an awkward halt. Ivor
had told her that she must address Sylvia—and presumably speak of her—as Lady Bazeljette until they were on terms of good friendship, but saying she was to be presented by Lady Bazeljette, when Lady Bazeljette was his wife, seemed far too awkwardly formal, especially as she and Jerome had somehow slipped so comfortably into first-name terms. “Your wife is going to present me,” she said, amazed that he didn't already know.