Authors: Janet Laurence
‘Oh, my dear, I cannot seem to be too eager. No, we shall go in a little while.’ Today it seemed the ‘little while’ had arrived.
‘Now,’ Mrs Bruton said as they settled themselves in the hansom, her white-gloved hands clasped over the stem of a dainty parasol. ‘I met Mrs Trenchard yesterday at a charity event – do you know, I had no idea there were quite so many worthy causes chasing one’s money – well, I asked Mrs Trenchard if she had heard anything more of that extraordinary man who gatecrashed my tea party. And she told me that her niece, his wife, was now home with him It seems that she had not left but was in a delicate state that required medical attention. In other words, she is with child. Would you not have thought her husband would have known that?’
Ursula murmured something non-committal and wondered again how Alice was surviving in the Peters’ household.
‘Mrs Trenchard told me that the girl is in good heart. Is that not also surprising? To be in “good heart” married to such an unpleasant fellow?’ Mrs Bruton did not wait for a comment from her companion. ‘Obviously this is some story concocted to cover Mrs Peters’ desertion. Well, that is no surprise. For a wife to leave her husband! Such social ruination. To hear, though, that Mr Peters has accepted her return is interesting. But, then, such passion as he displayed in my drawing room. I could almost forgive him for ruining my little party.’
For once Ursula found herself lost for words.
Their cab had been halted in traffic at Hyde Park Corner, now the way was suddenly cleared and the horse whipped into something approaching a trot.
‘I wonder what difference the advent of the motor car will make to London traffic,’ Ursula said firmly.
‘Why, I cannot believe that anything so crude and uncomfortable will be around for very long.’ Mrs Bruton sounded astonished that anyone could think differently. ‘So noisy, so inefficient and the mess it makes of one’s appearance with the wind and the dust, and the inconvenience to other road users! No, I am confident we shall not see the reliable horse vanishing from Piccadilly.’ She waved a hand up the broad thoroughfare they were making their way along in fits and starts.
At that moment the horse, brought to another stop by the traffic, defecated, the result falling in a steaming pile just below their feet. Mrs Bruton’s nose twitched but she said nothing.
The cab eventually drew up outside an imposing mansion.
‘I would have expected nothing less of the count,’ murmured Mrs Bruton as they climbed a gracious flight of stairs that would not have looked out of place in a stately home.
On the first floor a heavy, dark mahogany door bore a shining brass plate that declared:
Maison Rose
. Ursula pressed the bell.
A pleasant girl attired in a white coat that exuded a clinical aura, greeted and invited them into a large, well-appointed salon and took their names. ‘Please seat yourselves,’ she said. ‘I will tell Madame Rose that you await.’
‘It was Count Meyerhoff who invited me to visit,’ Mrs Bruton said with just a hint of disapproval. ‘Is he here?’
‘If you will be seated, Madam, I will enquire.’ The girl disappeared.
‘What a strange uniform for the staff of a couture house.’ Mrs Bruton said, seating herself. ‘Hmm, it seems no expense has been spared,’ she added in tones of deep satisfaction.
The salon was furnished in the style of Louis XVI; the paintings on the wall, though, were modern, colourful and impressionistic. A table covered in a white linen cloth stood near the window with chairs on either side, looking as though it waited for two diners to be seated; there was, though, no cutlery nor glassware, indeed, the surface was quite bare. Two large vitrines set against the walls held a variety of bottles and jars on their glass shelves.
‘Surely this cannot be a pharmacy?’ exclaimed Ursula.
At that moment a man entered. ‘My dear Eugen
ie, you are here!’ he exclaimed, coming over and taking both Mrs Bruton’s hands in his. ‘I had almost despaired of
Maison Rose
ever being honoured with a visit from the beautiful Madame Bruton.’
Mrs Bruton blushed as Count Meyerhoff, it could only be he, raised first her right and then her left gloved hand almost to his lips, stopping in the correct manner before actually making contact.
‘What a delightful picture you make,’ he said, dropping her hands and stepping away as though to survey her from head to toe. ‘It has been too long.’ His English was very fluent but he had the slightest of continental accents that was immediately attractive.
Ursula found herself staring at the count. A compact figure of average height, aged, she thought, in his mid to late thirties, he was dressed in a devastatingly tailored dark suit with a heavy gold watch chain stretched across a silver-grey brocade waistcoat. His face showed a good bone structure but was perhaps a little too fleshy. He had a straight nose and well-shaped mouth. What, though, drew and held her fascinated gaze was his head of thick, glossy, and prematurely white hair. The contradiction with his no more than middle-aged physical appearance gave him an almost unearthly air and underlined a sense of easy sophistication.
Mrs Bruton sat enjoying his attention.
Count Meyerhoff clapped his hands. ‘But you must meet Madame Rose!’
As though she had been waiting for her cue, a statuesque female entered. Blonde hair was severely drawn back from a sculpted face with high cheekbones. Flashing, tiger-gold eyes compensated for a beaked nose and thin mouth. A well-cut white linen coat skimmed an Amazonian figure.
‘An honour to meet you, Madame Bruton,’ she said, advancing with her hand held out. ‘I hear from the count of your style and elegance. Also how Mr Bruton was such a man
comme il faut
. I mourn for your loss.’
Madame Rose had a much stronger accent than the count’s and it was not Austrian. Ursula cast her memory back to her Parisian finishing school with its collection of girls from different countries for one that matched.
‘Come, please to sit for my examination.’ Madame Rose’s tone was pleasant but firm. She guided her visitor to the white-clothed table, placed her in one of the chairs, and sat opposite.
‘The
chapeau
, it shall be removed, yes?’ Mrs Bruton was wearing a charming, wide-brimmed hat in grey straw decorated with scarlet roses. The assistant had returned and now efficiently removed first pins and then hat. ‘Now, we shall see.’
The table was not wide and Madame Rose was able to take Mrs Bruton’s face in her hands and turn it gently towards the light, examining it with serious attention.
The count approached an interested Ursula. He gave her a small bow with a click of his heels. ‘Count Meyerhoff at your service, Fraulein
.’
‘Ursula Grandison, amanuensis to Mrs Bruton.’ She offered her hand.
He held it for a moment. She was amused to realise he was not going to raise it to his lips, the way he had Mrs Bruton’s, and that his eyes were an unusual, very pale olive green.
‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Fraulein Grandison. You are, I think, from America?’ The pale eyes were fixed on her face and something in the way he looked at her sent an involuntary shiver down Ursula’s back. She told herself not to be ridiculous. This was a charming man, a friend of Mrs Bruton’s; not some sinister foreigner. Yet, beneath that suave demeanour there was something that reminded her of the lions she had seen in the menagerie: dangerous power rippling unseen through relaxed bodies. She smiled pleasantly.
‘Yes, I have been in England only a few months,’ she said in an amiable voice, then glanced across at her employer, who seemed to be totally absorbed in what Madame Rose was saying. ‘Mrs Bruton thought that the
Maison Rose
was a couture house but I think this is a
Salon de Beauté,
is it not?’
He smiled back at her, all harmless charm. ‘Ah, I see you are a woman of intelligence, Fraulein.’ He gave a wave towards the laden shelves in the vitrine behind her. ‘These are some of Madame’s formulations for the care of the skin. She is having a great success with London society.’
Despite herself, Ursula was intrigued. ‘Madame Rose is an expert?’
‘Indeed; she has studied in Paris and Vienna with leading dermatological specialists and creates her own creams and lotions for the individual skin.’
He leant forward, peering at her face, and Ursula had to force herself not to take a step backwards. ‘You have a most excellent complexion, Fraulein. However, may I ask if you have been used to spending time outdoors in the winter and the summer? I would not normally ask such a personal question but Madame Rose has taught me to see the damage that weather can do to the skin’s tender fabric.’ There sounded such concern in his voice, Ursula could not take exception to his words; no one was more aware than herself of the damage done to her complexion by several years spent living in a Californian silver mine.
‘But Madame is a genius with her formulations. She will find the perfect cream for you.’ His voice caressed the words.
Ursula smiled weakly. She wanted to say she had no faith in such formulations. Instead she asked, ‘Where is Madame Rose from?’
‘Ah, you can tell she is not Austrian?’
‘I attended a school in Paris; it was international and there was a girl there, Olympia Estouffa, who was Egyptian. When she spoke English, her accent was very similar to Madame Rose’s.’
Something flickered in the count’s eyes. ‘Madame Rose left Cairo when she was quite young,’ he said smoothly. ‘Already she could speak several languages and had her great interest in dermatology. But, please, tell me what an American girl is doing in England, working with the charming Mrs Bruton? I have visited New York and its vibrancy and life were, as I believe the English have it, meat and drink to me.’
At last the count had found a subject Ursula could be enthusiastic about. ‘I think New York has excitement in its very air. Even when life is perfectly ordinary, you feel it could be turned into champagne at any minute.’
He laughed, ‘That is it exactly!’
It was as though a layer of calculated charm had been abandoned and she was meeting the real man. For a moment Ursula felt a sizzling excitement.
Then Mrs Bruton was brought over to the vitrine. ‘Now, dear Madame,’ said the beautician, opening one of the doors and taking out a jar. ‘This is my
crème de printemps
.’ The assistant produced a chic carrier bag made in glossy, heavy duty paper decorated with a flamboyant signature; the jar that was placed inside carried a label similarly decorated. Madame Rose now took a bottle from the shelf. ‘And here is the astringent lotion that will correct your slight tendency to oiliness, it is this which can bring on the occasional eruption. The lotion will tone your skin. But first you must cleanse.’ Another bottle went into the carrier. ‘Every day follow the routine I have explained: cleanse, tone and nourish. Come back to me in three weeks’ time so I can see the improvement in your complexion.’
‘I am so excited, Madame Rose. I shall faithfully follow all your directions.’ Mrs Bruton took the carrier bag as though the potions it contained were magic.
‘Perhaps, Madame Rose, you could examine Miss Grandison’s complexion while I renew my friendship with her employer.’ The count placed a possessive hand on Mrs Bruton’s arm and she gave him an excited glance as he led her from the room.
Without the count’s powerful presence Ursula could breathe easily again. However, ‘I am afraid, Madame, I have only accompanied Mrs Bruton to your salon. I am not a potential client.’ How could she be? The whole atmosphere of
Maison Rose
oozed expense.
‘But, Miss Grandison, an assessment of your skin does not entail an obligation. Come, sit.’ She led her to the table.
Ursula could see no alternative. Who knew how long Mrs Bruton would be closeted with the count?
Her skin was subjected to a searching examination, the magnetic, golden eyes carefully assessing every aspect of her face, a firm hand gently turning her head so that the light would fall on every side. Thorough though the beautician seemed to be, Ursula thankfully realised that her care was impersonal.
Finally Madame Rose sat back with a little sigh. ‘My dear Miss Grandison, you have been blessed by the Almighty with a beautiful complexion, with colouring most attractive. I can see, though, that it has suffered extremes of weather. The natural oils have been lost; if they are not soon replaced, you will develop wrinkles. These add years to a face that does not deserve them.’ For the briefest of moments, the beautician seemed to be genuinely caring. ‘I shall give you my
Crème de l’Eté.’
‘But …’ Ursula started.
Madame Rose held up her hand. ‘I cannot see a fine complexion such as yours remaining ravaged by weather when I, Madame Rose, can aid its recovery. You will not pay, but maybe you find it does what I say – I can see that you do not believe this
– but if it does then maybe you tell Madame Bruton’s friends, yes?’
‘In San Francisco,’ Ursula was determined to take control of the situation. ‘In San Francisco some cheapskate pharmacist sold me a cream he said would do the same. It brought out a rash that itched to drive me mad. I’ll not go through that again, not for all the dollars in Fort Knox.’
Madame Rose stood up, stately and unmoved, went to the vitrine, took out one of her jars, unscrewed the lid and gently applied a little of the cream to the inside of Ursula’s wrist. ‘You wait until tomorrow, yes? Then, if no rash, you apply to face. Use upward motions of the hands.’ She demonstrated with her hands on her own face, carefully smoothing the skin up towards her temples. ‘Gentle massage, like this. So, now you have confidence in Madame Rose, yes?’
Strangely enough, Ursula found she did. The pot of cream and another two products were placed in a carrier bag.
‘You follow the routine I explain to Madame Bruton. So now I see if Count Meyerhoff and Madame are finished their talk.’
A relaxed and delighted Mrs Bruton emerged with Count Meyerhoff, who bade her goodbye with his special, continental charm.