Doing so was exciting, but was still not as steamily romantic as she yearned for their meetings to be.
When she began her second year at Mont-Fleuri Jack was posted to the British embassy in Lisbon. Every so often, when Jerome was at Nyon, he took Petra out and would let slip that as well as working hard, Jack was also socializing a lot.
“Ever since the war, Portugal seems to have become a haven for exiled royalty,” Jerome said as they strolled companionably by the lake. “The daughter of the Marquis de Fontalba is featuring large in Jack's letters at the moment. If anything should come of it his mother would be enormously pleased.”
She had bitten her lip and made no response. The daughter of the Marquis de Fontalba made no appearance at all in Jack's letters to her. Petra tried to take this as a sign that he wasn't seriously involved, but as the months went by she couldn't help wondering if he still felt the same way about her as she did about him.
“Do I know if Jack is on the verge of becoming engaged?” Delia repeated, surprised, when she visited Nyon shortly before Petra was due to leave the Institut. “What an odd question, honey. If he had, surely he would have written and told you. You two are close buddies, aren't you?”
“Well, of course we are. I was asking because he's going to be in London for my coming-out ball and I'm thinking of introducing him to Magda.” There was no way she was going to tell her mother the real reason. If Jack did have someone else she didn't want her mother to know about her own hopes. “I think Jack is probably just Magda's type.”
“Maybe he is, but Magda is still seventeen and Jack is twenty-five. It wouldn't be a good idea, Petra. Trust me.”
It was a remark she took note of. If that was her mother's opinion of a seven-year age difference then it would clearly be safest not to say more.
Delia had visited Switzerland alone. “It's term time for
Davina,” she had explained. “And as there has been another violent outbreak of anti-British feeling in Cairo, your father has felt it his duty to remain on the spot.”
It was an explanation that Petra saw nothing odd about.
Petra had permission to stay out in the evening and Delia booked dinner at a restaurant close to the school.
Jerome had come from London to meet up with them for a few days. Aware of how hungry Delia always was for royal gossip, he said as the wine waiter filled their glasses, “George Curzon's daughter, Alexandra, has become a part of the Prince of Wales's set since she married the Prince's best friend, Fruity Metcalfe.”
“I don't suppose her sister and her husband are.” With great difficulty Delia resisted the temptation to reach out and touch his hand. “Gwen wrote me that Tom was so disgruntled when his unemployment bill was rejected that he left the Labour Party—and that his doing so is causing quite a furor.”
“Most things Mosley does cause a furor.”
He sounded amused, as he always did when in her mother's company. Looking at him, Petra realized that for a man in his late forties he was still startlingly attractive. His immaculately clipped mustache showed no hint of gray and his hair, though silvered at the temples, was still thick and curly. It meant Jack, too, would keep his looks.
“I thought the Mosley who had married a Curzon was called Oswald, not Tom?” Petra asked, distracting herself from thinking about Jack.
“He is.” Delia took a sip of wine and then added, “Only he's known as ‘Tom’ to family and friends. And Alexandra is known as ‘Baba.’”
Petra rolled her eyes. Why her mother's friends couldn't go through life with the names they had been christened with she couldn't begin to imagine. Fruity and Baba. They sounded like something out of a nursery rhyme.
She let her attention drift and it wasn't until the dessert trolley made its appearance that she again paid attention to the conversation.
“… and so Aunt Rose, who is a friend of Wallis's aunt, has asked me to do all I can to ease Wallis and her husband's entree into London society.”
Even though Delia's aunt was now her stepmother, Delia hadn't altered the way she addressed her, a course of action Petra approved of.
“There is precious little I can do in Cairo,” Delia continued. “But perhaps you could do something, Jerome?”
“I'll do my best.”
Not for the first time, Petra was aware that Jack's father always did everything he could to please her mother. “I'll need to know a little about the woman,” he said with his indefatigable good humor. “What is her background, do you know?”
“Some of her mother's relations live in Virginia, not too far from Sans Souci. Bessie Merryman, her aunt, visits them regularly—which is how Rose got to know her. Wallis, though, was born in Baltimore. She divorced her first husband—an American who, from Rose's account, was absolutely ghastly—and her second husband is British and a partner in a firm which buys and sells ships.”
At the expression on Jerome's face, Petra stifled a giggle.
After playing for time by choosing a raspberry pavlova from the dessert trolley, he said with remarkable restraint, “Forgive me for saying so, Delia, but the Simpsons don't sound very promising material. As she is a divorcee an invitation to a royal garden party is out of the question and I can't quite see the Digbys or the Denbys taking them up—or anyone else for that matter.”
“I shouldn't think Wallis would want to meet old fogies like Cuthie or Lord Denby. What I had in mind was an introduction to the more raffish elements of the Prince of Wales's set. I
thought perhaps she could be introduced to Thelma Furness, a fellow American who must be about the same age …?”
Delia let the sentence hang in the air, hopefully.
“I'll do my best, but bear in mind that Thelma Furness has eaten better men than me for breakfast.” There was teasing humor in his voice. “Still, if that's the danger you want me to face …”
To Petra's amazement, her mother giggled in exactly the same way Suzi de Vioget often giggled.
It was most disconcerting.
Just as she had realized what a seriously attractive man Jack's father still was, so she realized that though her mother was thirty-nine she was still bewitchingly lovely. It was a beauty enhanced by her American vitality and wholesomeness and by the glorious color of her hair which would, Petra suspected, still be as red—by fair means or foul—when she was in her dotage.
She turned her thoughts to her immediate future. In another few weeks she would be leaving Mont-Fleuri to be presented at court. She would be sharing all the fun of being a debutante with Annabel and Boudicca and was looking forward immensely to all the razzmatazz.
“Your mother was a married woman when she was presented,” her aunt Gwen said to her fondly as they waited for the third fitting of her court gown. “Under normal circumstances she would have been presented by her mother-in-law but as your grandmother was dead, Sylvia did the honors.”
“I didn't know that. How odd. They never spend a lot of time together. I don't think Sylvia has visited Egypt once in all the time we've been there. I expect they'll be meeting up now Mama is in London. She's happy as a lark to be here for my coming-out season.”
“And I'm as happy as a lark that she's here. She's so full of life she makes even me feel young.” Her age-spotted hand patted Petra's. “Now we're going to have a rehearsal today with shoes, feathers, and fan, aren't we? I'm so glad you haven't opted for one of the fashionable high-fronted gowns. An evening dress should always be becomingly low—especially when you have a nice bosom to display. Your mother looked exquisite in her presentation gown. I came to her fittings as well. She was fresh from Virginia and rather shy and nervous. It's hard to believe that now, isn't it?”
For Petra, it wasn't hard. It was impossible.
Ever since they had arrived back in London together, Delia had socialized with fury, making contact with all her old friends and making lots of new ones, including Wallis Simpson.
“Wallis had absolutely no need of help in becoming acquainted with Thelma,” Delia said, returning to Cadogan Square from a cocktail party at the Simpsons' Bryanston Square flat. “She's an old friend of Benjamin Thaw's and Bennie is married to Thelma's sister. I like her a lot—Wallis that is, not Consuelo Thaw. Consuelo is far too …” She paused, seeking the right word. “Too unconventional,” she said at last. “Your father wouldn't approve of me spendin' time with her, and as for you, Consuelo is completely off-limits. Don't ask me why, honey. Just trust me.”
She shrugged herself out of a small chinchilla shoulder cape. “Thelma is in a different category—mainly because the Prince of Wales thinks she's the bee's knees and so it's impossible for anyone to get away with snubbing her.” Delia reached into her handbag for her cigarette case. “I wonder when he's going to end his unhealthy fascination for married women and start payin' attention to someone he can wed? Perhaps when you've been presented you could catch his eye. My cousin Beau would have loved the idea of my bein' mother-in-law to the future King of England.”
She paused, the cigarette case in her hand, her eyes brilliant with memory.
“And are you back hobnobbing with Prince Edward?” Petra asked, before her mother could start reminiscing about her girlhood at Sans Souci.
“I'm not sure ‘hobnobbing’ is the right word, pet. I've known David—I can't refer to him as Edward, he hates it—far longer than most of the other people in his set and that counts for somethin'. But the King regards your father as a friend— and has done for twenty-odd years.”
She lit a cigarette. “David,” she said, after blowing a thin plume of smoke into the air, “is never one hundred percent comfortable with his father's friends. He's afraid the King will learn too much about his involvement with unsuitable married women.”
“Then there's no chance of his coming to a cocktail party here so I can introduce him to Boo?”
“Boudicca?” Delia's eyebrows rose. “Honey, she's eighteen. No matter how crazy she may be about him, HRH would barely register her presence. He only takes an interest in women around the thirty-year mark. And talking of your friends … is Jack going to be in London to act as your escort at Annabel's party?”
“Yes.” Her heart slammed as it always did when Jack's name was mentioned.
Delia decided against the cigarette and stubbed it out. “I've told Lady Mowbray there's nothing untoward about his being your escort. He's such an old family friend he's almost like a bro—” Her rush of words came to an abrupt end as she coughed so hard Petra thought she was going to choke.
“Do you want some water?” she asked. “You really should stop smoking, Mama. Coughing like a tramp isn't very elegant.”
Delia, still coughing, shot her a glance so aggrieved that
Petra wanted to laugh, but instead she crossed the drawing room to the art-deco cocktail cabinet and hastily poured a glass of soda water.
“Here,” she said to her mother. “Drink this. Now what was it you were going to say?”
Delia drank and then made an expressive gesture with her hand. “I can't remember. I think I was just about to point out that even pre-presentation parties are an ideal opportunity for husband-hunting and so attending one with Jack as your escort is probably not very sensible. It will give out the wrong signal. People might assume things I wouldn't want. If you are not going to try for Oxford and plan to husband-hunt instead, then you need a young man with far more wealth and position than dear Jack.”
Petra was truly shocked. “That's the most snobbish thing I've ever heard you say!”
Delia looked suitably discomfited. “And probably the most unnecessary as Davina tells me you have your sights set on Darius. Now if I were
really
uppity I'd object to the idea of an Egyptian son-in-law—even though he is a Copt—but I don't, or at least not much. I just want you to meet lots of other eligible young men. Marryin' the first person you think you've fallen in love with isn't sensible. It's too easy to make a mistake and, when your father is a friend of the King, mistakes of that kind aren't easy to rectify.” As if she was afraid she had said a trifle too much, she added swiftly, “And now I must hurry and have a bath. I'm having dinner at Margot's this evening and I'm tight for time.”
Before Petra could speak, her mother whirled from the room.
Petra crossed to the cocktail cabinet again and mixed herself a pink gin—a vice her mother was unaware she had acquired. As her mother was so opposed to the idea of her having a romantic relationship with Jack, it was exceedingly useful
that Davina had innocently suggested she was carrying a torch for Darius.
She took a sip of her cocktail. That her American, unconventional mother was, in reality, a dyed-in-the-wool snob when it came to who was or who was not eligible was a profound revelation. If her dreams were to become reality, she and Jack would need all her father's support. That they would have it she didn't doubt. For one thing, he and Jack's father were friends, and for another, when it had come to his own marriage, her father hadn't cared that her mother had neither grand family connections nor wealth.
Delia was obviously influenced by her many friends who were also bringing out daughters that season. Lady Denby, for instance, a very old chum, was cock-a-hoop that Annabel had snared a White Russian prince and was already engaged and sporting an emerald the size of an egg on her left hand.
Prince Fedya Tukhachevsky, the elder brother of one of the Le Rosey boys, was reasonably attractive and great fun. Annabel was sincerely in love with him. Petra also knew that if it hadn't been for his title, there was little chance Annabel would have accepted him. It was the prospect of becoming Princess Tukhachevsky that had rolled the dice in Fedya's favor.
If Petra had wanted, she could have made a far more prestigious conquest. Mohammad Reza was an exceptionally handsome Persian student who had never troubled to hide the fact that he had a crush on her. She had given him no encouragement, but she knew every single one of her classmates would have, for Mohammad Reza was the elder son of the Shah of Persia. His future wife would one day be an empress.
Aware of her parents’ reaction if they learned she had discouraged the attentions of the future ruler of Persia, she turned her thoughts to Jack. He had promised months ago that he would be in London for her presentation. She had ringed the date in red on a calendar kept beneath her pillow.