Debutantes (7 page)

‘Not at all,’ Justin responded with equal politeness. ‘In fact, you have probably done me a great service. Now that my inability to pick locks has been so clearly demonstrated I will give up all thoughts of entering the housebreaking trade and will devote myself to the law.’

‘You could put your knife to use in breaking the wax seal,’ pointed out Daisy. She had decided that she rather liked Justin. What a pity he was a younger son, she thought. Either he would have to marry a rich girl or he would have to wait for years until he made enough money to support someone as poor as Violet. The Earl’s estate, of course, would go to Justin’s eldest brother – entailed also, of course. Life was good to eldest sons. One of the blades on the Boy Scout knife sliced neatly through the solid wax seal, but Violet did not move to open the lid.

‘We’re most grateful to you,’ she said, standing up in imitation of Great-Aunt Lizzie when she felt that a morning visit by a neighbour had gone on long enough.

Justin took the hint. ‘Not at all,’ he murmured. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my fishing rod. Your father has very kindly invited me to cast a line into your lake whenever I want.’

‘You could have at least asked him to lunch,’ said Daisy once Justin’s firm footsteps on the attic staircase had died away.

‘Bread and cheese,’ said Violet with scorn.

Daisy said no more. The important thing now was what was in this carefully sealed trunk.

‘Go on, open it,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what she has there. I bet she did go out to India with Mother and Father.’

‘You realize how long ago,’ said Violet. ‘All the stuff will be those awful Edwardian tight waists and long trains. I hope you don’t think we’ll look good in that.’ She had a half-cross, half-excited look.

‘Well, we’ll take the scissors to it,’ said Daisy cheerfully.

With trembling hands Violet opened the lid and gasped. Inside was a rainbow of soft colours; fabrics that glowed and shimmered in the dim light of the attic.

One by one they took the clothes out – all smelling deliciously of lavender and cedar-wood shavings. On the top were elegant silk blouses, then came soft cashmere jumpers with short sleeves and fitted waists and small fitted linen jackets, and lastly packets of silk stockings and doeskin gloves still as white as lime and trimmed with fluffy pieces of swansdown.

And then they came to the bottom of the top tray of the trunk.

‘Lift it out.’ Violet’s voice was just a croak.

Underneath this was another tray smothered in sheet after sheet of tissue paper. No one said anything – they just pulled it away frantically, scattering the attic floor with crumpled pieces.

And there on the top lay the most beautiful dress. It was made from pink satin, glossy and gleaming as though it were new and trimmed with snowy white lace. Violet bent down, picked it up and held it against Daisy.

‘This would be just right for you if it weren’t in such a ridiculous shape with that pinched-in waist and trailing skirt.’ She gazed at it for a moment and then nodded her head.

‘I’ll be able to do something with that,’ she said, sounding quite unlike the Lady of Shalott and more like a competent dressmaker.

Daisy took the dress. The colour would be perfect for her, she thought, wishing there was a mirror up here in the attic.

‘I say, I’d quite like that white silk and that little jacket with the black beads on it,’ said Poppy. ‘Black and white is what all the jazz players wear. Put that aside for me, Daisy. I have to go now. Baz and George will be in Morgan’s cottage already. Hope he’s back. Why does he have to keep going on ridiculous errands for Great-Aunt Lizzie when he has much more important things to do?’

And then she was gone.

‘Like playing jazz,’ commented Daisy with a grin. Poppy’s inability to see anything except from her own point of view always amused her. She picked up the elegantly waisted white silk dress and shook it.

‘There are yards and yards of material in this,’ she said. ‘I suppose it would have had a bustle under the train, just like all those old-fashioned photographs of Mother. Can’t think how they could have worn such clothes, can you? They look so ridiculous nowadays.’

‘Cut on the bias, and really short . . .’ began Violet and then screamed with delight. ‘Look at this! I didn’t know they had colours like this in Edwardian times.’

The dress that Violet had taken out was in a box marked ‘Worth of Paris’ and it was still wrapped in reams and reams of soft tissue paper. It had probably never been worn, thought Daisy. If this mysterious Elaine had had the same colouring as her, a dress of that colour would probably have been too vivid to suit her.

Violet unwrapped it reverentially, but one glance had been enough to show her that it was what she was looking for. It was the same colour as the dragonflies that darted around the lake in summer months – a gorgeous shade of shimmering green-blue silk sewn with thousands of tiny electric-blue beads. As Violet held it up to the light from the overhead window the dress glittered and the colour deepened and intensified the extraordinary shade of her eyes.

‘Let’s go down to my bedroom,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the most space.’

‘You go on down,’ said Daisy. ‘I’ll find something for Rose. She and Poppy can always change it later on if they don’t like it.’ Violet had a better eye than her for what suited her sisters, but she knew that all of Violet’s attention would now be on the beautiful shimmering blue dress and it would be useless to try to divert her.

When Daisy came down from the attic with a velvet dress in a dusky-red colour for Rose, the white silk for Poppy and the pink for herself, Violet was examining herself in the looking glass.

‘If only I could bob my hair,’ she said wistfully. ‘Long hair is so old-fashioned.’

Lying open on the bed was a fashion magazine – Violet spent all of her pocket money on these magazines while Daisy spent hers on film and chemicals to develop the film and Poppy on sheets of jazz music. Rose was deemed too young by Great-Aunt Lizzie to have any pocket money so Violet shared her magazines with her youngest sister. It had a page of fashionable hairstyles and now Violet was looking longingly at them.

Leaving her sister intent on comparing her own image in the looking glass with the pictures in her magazine, Daisy ran up to the schoolroom, passing through the gallery where all the photographs and not-so-valuable family portraits covered almost every inch of the wall. She dawdled there for a while listening to Great-Aunt Lizzie’s voice explaining compound interest to Rose, but most of her mind was on her search for a photo or a painting of Elaine.

Even distant cousins were there – all neatly labelled. On wet days she and Poppy used to play games making up stories about all of them, but there was definitely no one who could be Elaine. Suddenly Daisy was intensely curious about her.

She went on to the schoolroom door.

‘Excuse me, Great-Aunt Lizzie,’ she said, having tapped politely on the door before opening it. ‘We have found some dresses that should suit. They’ll need quite a bit of sewing to alter them, but Violet thinks that we can do it.’

Daisy laid a slight emphasis on the word ‘sewing’. Great-Aunt Lizzie was a wonderful needlewoman, forever embroidering useless cushion covers. She loved to see her nieces stitching.

‘Let’s go and see the dresses you have chosen,’ said Great-Aunt Lizzie graciously. ‘Perhaps we should finish for today, Rose. Then your sisters can have the schoolroom for their sewing, if they wish.’ She unlocked the big cupboard and took out her pride and joy, an old-fashioned sewing machine that she had bought to help with the war effort almost ten years ago. Many a man fighting in the trenches of Belgium had received one of the shirts sewn in Beech Grove Manor. Even though almost ten years old now, it would be a great help, thought Daisy. Judging by the pictures in Violet’s magazines, there would be a lot of hems to be taken up.

Great-Aunt Lizzie was silent for a moment when she saw the costumes laid out on Violet’s bed. ‘Where did you get these?’ she asked eventually. There was an odd note in her voice and Rose looked at her with puzzlement.

‘They were from one of the trunks,’ explained Violet. ‘It was marked “Elaine Carruthers”. Was she a cousin or something? We thought that she wouldn’t want them again, as they’re so old-fashioned. That pink will be just right for Daisy, won’t it?’

‘Just right,’ said Great-Aunt Lizzie huskily as Violet held up the dress against Daisy. ‘That will hardly need any alteration. You are the image of her at your age. Perhaps a few tucks . . .’

‘Perhaps,’ said Violet hastily. ‘Don’t you worry about it, Great-Aunt Lizzie; you will have enough to do. We’ll do all the stitching.’

‘And what about you, Violet dear?’

‘Well, I thought about this.’ Hesitantly Violet opened the cardboard box and slowly unfolded the dragonfly-blue dress from its swathes of tissue paper.

There was a moment’s silence in the room, a silence full of tension.

‘I gave that to Elaine.’ The words seemed to be jerked out from Great-Aunt Lizzie’s lips. She gazed broodingly at the glorious colour, her lips pressed together.

‘It’s never been worn, has it?’ Daisy waited for a rebuff, but Great-Aunt Lizzie said nothing for a few seconds and when she did speak her voice was hesitant. ‘No, it was too . . . no, it didn’t fit,’ she ended.

Odd, thought Daisy. The dress looked the same size as the others. Even if it were slightly too tight, or too loose, surely it could have been altered or exchanged. She wanted to ask her aunt a million questions, but knew her well enough not to bombard her.

‘It should be perfect on you, Violet dear.’ The old lady had regained her usual brisk tone and was turning away. ‘I’d better go and have a word with Mrs Pearson,’ she said. ‘You can manage then, girls, can you?’ Without waiting for an answer she went through the door with the air of one who is glad to leave a room full of reminders of the past.

When she had gone, Daisy turned to Violet.

‘You’re not going to wear it like that, Vi, are you?’ she asked, looking at the narrow-waisted dress with its huge train.

‘You must be joking,’ said Violet, an ethereal smile lighting up her beautiful face. ‘Great-Aunt Lizzie is going to get a bit of shock next week.’

The telegrams arrived on the afternoon of Violet’s birthday. The telegraph boy from the village post office cycled up the avenue and appeared at the back door just as Daisy and Rose were bringing in the last sheaves of beech leaves to decorate the Chinese vases in the hall.

‘Two telegrams, my lady,’ he said, taking them from the basket in front of his bicycle and handing them to Daisy.

‘Two!’ exclaimed Rose.

‘One for Violet,’ said Daisy as she smiled her thanks at the boy and told him to wait a minute in case there was an answer. ‘And the other for Great-Aunt Lizzie. Quick, Rose – run and get Violet and bring her down to the dining room.’ She cast a quick glance into the kitchen. Mrs Beaton was hard at work. Justin had caught a huge pike which he had presented as his offering to the party and Mrs Beaton was busy turning it into hundreds of tiny fishcakes deliciously flavoured with fresh basil.

Up in the dining room Great-Aunt Lizzie was drawing an enormous linen tablecloth from the depths of a tomblike oak chest.

‘Lazarus rises from the dead!’ said Rose, coming in with Violet who was flushed and breathless from her run down the stairs. She gazed at the tablecloth and added reverentially, ‘
And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes.
’

‘Rose!’

‘Telegrams,’ intervened Daisy quickly, presenting them to Great-Aunt Lizzie, who handed Violet’s to her and turned towards a window for light to read her own.

‘It’s from the Duchess, wishing me a happy birthday,’ said Violet, her blue eyes shining.

A gasp from the window made them all swing round. ‘She’s coming here!’ exclaimed Aunt Lizzie. The telegram fell from her fingers.

Daisy picked it up. There, stuck on to the tan-coloured paper, were the words: ON WAY TO FRANCE STOP WILL CALL AT SIX PM TODAY TO SEE VIOLET.

‘On way to France stop,’ said Rose, savouring the words on her tongue. Daisy could foresee that most of her sister’s remarks were now going to be made in telegraphic form. However, her attention was on her aunt. The old lady had turned almost grey.