“Why not?” Petra asked. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“One hundred percent,” Rupert said with deep feeling. “He's my father.”
Piling into the two cars and roaring off to Brighton, while the rest of her party guests milled into the marquee for bacon and eggs, was great fun. On the outskirts of Brighton, in sight of the South Downs, they stopped at a roadside cafe for bacon sandwiches and mugs of steaming tea.
“I think it's time some of us changed cars.” Magda, who had been squashed beside a canoodling Suzi and Archie all the way from London, looked at Jack. “How about I sit in the front with you, and Petra does a stint in the back?”
“I don't think so,” Jack said pleasantly, a proprietary arm around Petra's shoulders. “It might give the impression Petra isn't my girl—and, in case there's any doubt, she's very much my girl. Just thought you'd all like to know.”
Magda was unperturbed. “Then I'll travel the rest of the way in Fedya's car between Boudicca and Rupert. You'll have to crush your skirts up a bit, Boo. Why on earth did you opt for a crinoline instead of something slinky and svelte?”
“Because though slinky and svelte looks good on you and Petra, I'm too plump for it. What are we going to swim in when we get to Brighton? I can't plunge in wearing my dress.”
“Take it off and go in your undies,” Suzi said with French practicality as they headed back to the cars in all their evening finery, leaving a cafe full of bemused workmen behind them. “I shall.”
Archie's roar of approval could have woken the dead.
On arriving in Brighton, the sea proved to be so cold that only Jack and Fedya stripped down to their underpants and
plunged in. Archie and Rupert took off their shoes and socks and shouted encouragement as Jack and Fedya cleaved through the waves.
The girls slipped out of their evening shoes, rolled their stockings down and then, lifting their ankle-length skirts, paddled in the shallows, screaming as it seemed neither Jack nor Fedya was going to give in and turn for shore.
“It's a male-pride thing,” Rupert said, shielding his eyes against the brightness of the early-morning sun on the sea.
“But I can't
see
them,” Petra said, no longer enjoying herself one little bit.
“That's because of the waves. Don't worry. I can. And they've both turned. They're racing each other back. Who is your money on? Fedya or Jack?”
It was Jack who waded out of the sea first. Petra raced toward him, not caring that she was ruining the skirt of her taffeta evening gown.
Panting heavily, he came to a halt in waist-deep water and hugged her tightly against him. As she felt the reaction of his near-naked body to hers, an emotion she had never experienced before jackknifed through her. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that a three-year engagement was going to be an impossibility.
Though Archie and Suzi never became a serious item, and though Magda never even troubled to flirt with Rupert, the jaunt to Brighton was the first of many the nine friends enjoyed during the next season. They became a little clique that no outsider ever succeeded in joining.
In the Pytchley town house, Magda taught them all how to tango. Another day she caused controversy by casually handing round a signed photograph of Adolf Hitler. It was the only time Petra had ever seen Jack close to losing his temper.
At Cadogan Square Archie improved Petra's—and everyone else's—cocktail-making skills. Whatever ball one of them went to, the others would be there also.
It was an arrangement that ensured she saw Jack almost constantly, without her mother's suspicions being aroused. They decided they would not tell her the news until the season ended.
“Though we won't be pulling the wool over her eyes for long,” Jack said as he drove her home after an evening at the Savoy. “As soon as your father responds to the letter I've sent him I'll speak to her.”
“As long as Papa's reply is favorable,” she said, without any real fear that it wouldn't be, “then we can be engaged by the fall and married at Christmas.”
It was the first week in July and the Talbot's top was down, the night air warm on her bare arms.
As Jack turned into Sloane Street, he said in amusement, “There you go again. Making all the arrangements without waiting to be asked. For all you know I may not want to marry you until you're an old lady of twenty-five.”
Her head was on his shoulder and she could smell the faint tang of his lemon cologne. “By the time I'm twenty-five we'll have a house full of children,” she said dreamily. “Four boys and a girl. Or would you prefer four girls and a boy?”
“I'd prefer to take things a step at a time and get engaged first.” He dropped a kiss onto her hair. “Will your mother be waiting up for you?”
“No. She won't be in until the early hours. She's gone with her new friends, the Simpsons, and half a dozen others to a nightclub on Bond Street. It's a favorite haunt of Prince Edward's and Mrs. Simpson is like Boudicca, she's desperate for chance meetings with him.”
That her mother's social life had become so racy amused both of them. “I sometimes think,” Petra had said when telling
Jack earlier about her mother dining at Quaglino's with a party that included the Prince of Wales and Thelma Furness, “that my mother tries to pull the wool over Aunt Gwen's eyes in much the same way I try and pull the wool over hers. You can bet your life that if Aunt Gwen asks who she's been dining with, she'll only mention the names of people Aunt Gwen approves, like Lady Londonderry, and conveniently omit the fact that the Prince, who Aunt Gwen does not approve of, and Thelma, who she most
definitely
doesn't approve of, were there as well.”
The car turned into Cadogan Square and a few moments later slid to a halt. Because they were certain that her mother wasn't home, they risked a lingering good-night kiss.
“How soon will it be before we can expect a reply from my father?” she asked breathlessly as he reluctantly lifted his head.
“Another week. Perhaps two. With luck, he may even send a telegram.”
It was a thought that hadn't occurred to her and for the next few days she left the house with the greatest reluctance, terrified a telegram would arrive while she was out.
“I think you're making a mountain out of an anthill,” Magda said. Annabel was driving the little Morris Minor that had been given her for her birthday. They were speeding toward Hyde Park on a motorized treasure hunt.
“Molehill,” Petra corrected automatically. Though Magda's English was nearly flawless, there were still times when she didn't get things exactly right. “And I'm not making a mountain out of a molehill. You don't know my mother. She's not always rational and if she gets an idea in her head—such as Jack not being ideal son-in-law material—then it can be the devil's own job getting her to change her mind.”
“I think your mother is absolutely wonderful.” Boudicca was squeezed between Magda and Suzi on the backseat. “I
wish my mother was as young and as glamorous and as unconventional. And I just
love
your mother's Americanisms. You'd think after living in England for so long she would have lost all trace of her accent.”
“She hasn't because she doesn't want to. It makes her stand out, and she enjoys that. Also,” she added as they drove into the park, “it annoys my father. And for some reason I don't understand, she always takes a great deal of pleasure out of annoying him.”
“Are you sure this statue you are taking us to is the right clue: ‘a vulnerable point in Hyde Park’?” Suzi asked, changing the subject as Annabel headed in the direction of the Achilles statue. “I don't see any sign of the others heading this way.”
“Yes, of course I'm sure.” Annabel, still an inexperienced driver, crunched the gears. “What else can it be? And Jack and Fedya aren't driving toward it because they haven't yet worked out the answer. Now do stop distracting me, Suzi. I've already come the wrong way. I should have driven down Park Lane.”
Five minutes later they had parked and walked to the foot of the giant monument. It had been erected in 1822 in honor of the Duke of Wellington and his companions and was of Achilles, nude except for a cloak thrown carelessly over one arm. Taped to the giant granite pediment was the next clue in the treasure hunt. As Petra, Annabel, and Boo pored over it, trying to decipher where they should go next, Magda and Suzi, who knew too little about London's landmarks to be helpful, surveyed the statue.
“He's wonderfully muscular,” Magda murmured admiringly. “Almost Teutonic.”
Suzi was less impressed. “He may be muscular,” she said critically, “but for such a heroic figure his fig leaf is tragically
petit
.”
The two of them collapsed into giggles and were still laughing when Petra shouted triumphantly, “I've worked out the answer.
We're being sent to the Reformers Tree Memorial. It's up near the refreshment kiosk. If we sprint we can win this treasure hunt hands down.”
Later, they sprawled on the grass near the kiosk eating ice creams. Magda leaned against a convenient tree, elegant in white bell-bottomed trousers and a short-sleeved navy sweater. Annabel asked, “So who is the man you are seeing now? I know you are seeing someone. And as you so obviously don't want us to know his identity, he must be someone very interesting.”
Boudicca sat up abruptly. “It isn't my father, is it? I know he made a complete donkey of himself over you at Petra's ball, but please tell me it isn't my father!”
“It isn't your father and it isn't your brother and it isn't anyone any of you are in love with. He does happen to have a wife, though. And because of that I think it best if I keep his name to myself.”
“That is absolutely not playing the game!” Annabel sat up too, nearly sending her ice cream flying. “I thought it was understood that we had no secrets from each other.”
Magda gave a throaty laugh. “But you don't have any secrets to keep, Annabel. I, at the moment, do.”
Hoping that Magda's paramour wouldn't turn out to be one of her mother's friends, Petra shielded her eyes against the sun and said, as a group strode toward them over the grass, “Here come the others. Your fiance is looking very miffed, Annabel. I've never known anyone who hates losing so much. Is it because he's Russian, d'you think?”
As the summer progressed, the main subject of gossip was the Prince of Wales's love life. Because her mother was now considered to be part of the raffish Prince's set, it was gossip Petra grew increasingly uncomfortable with. It was a discomfort her
friends—even the sensitive Boo—remained blissfully unaware of. As far as they were concerned, having a mother who knew at first hand who was uppermost in the Prince's affections was unutterably thrilling.
“I think it's
so
naughty of him to still occasionally see Mrs. Dudley Ward when everyone knows of his liaison with Thelma Furness,” Boo said, speaking of the Prince as if he were a rather mischievous little boy.
“And
extremely
naughty of him to have abandoned Thelma on Derby Day in order to escort Amelia Earhart,” Magda said, tongue in cheek. “Though I rather suspect that the first woman to cross the Atlantic on a solo flight would have the advantage as an interesting companion.”
“And no hope of Amelia becoming Princess of Wales,” Annabel interjected. “Like all his other lady loves she's married already.”
It was the kind of subject matter that could keep Petra's friends entertained for hours.
Another topic that she knew they discussed on the rare occasions she and Jack were not with them was the scandal of his parents' pending divorce.
“What makes it even worse is Sylvia's age,” her mother said exasperatedly after seeing Margot Asquith who had gossiped about the Bazeljettes ad nauseam. “By the time a woman is in her fifties she should be past wanting to leave her marriage. The damage she is doing to both her reputation and Jerome's is incalculable.”
Though Petra had always known that Sylvia was older than her mother, she had never realized how much. “And what of the Earl of Grasmere's reputation?” she asked, genuinely interested.
“Theo?” Her mother gave an unladylike snort. “Theo's never given a damn about reputation. He's a screwball—which is just as well, because I've come to the conclusion that Sylvia
is batty as well. To be quite honest, if I'd realized she was so unconventional there's a chance we might have been friends.”
Petra's eyes nearly popped out of her head. “What do you mean ‘might have been friends’? I thought you were! You certainly never asked me to address anyone else I was unrelated to as ‘Aunt’!”
Her mother backtracked instantly. “Is that what I said? Then it just goes to show how much Margot's visit has upset me. I hadn't seen her in a long spell and she's becoming very difficult to rub along with. Why do people get so querulous when they get older? If I do that, you have my permission to shoot me!”
Three days later, walking down Bond Street, Petra ran into Jerome.
His face creased with delight at the sight of her.
“Where are you going?” he asked affably.
“The Royal Academy. I know it's a bit late in the summer to see the Summer Exhibition, but coming-out has kept me so busy it's the first opportunity I've had.”
“But you're not going by yourself, surely?”
She shook her head. “No. I'm meeting the girls in the Friends Room. Harrison dropped me off, but because I was early I thought I'd nip into Fenwick.”
Harrison was her mother's chauffeur.
As he fell into step beside her Jerome said with unusual gravity, “I'm glad we've met up by accident like this, Petra. I've wanted to have a private word with you for some time.”
She came to a halt, saying in alarm, “Because of my friendship with Jack?”
“Your friendship with Jack?” He looked startled. “No, of course not.”
He was wearing a superbly tailored pinstriped suit, kid gloves, and a bowler hat. She wondered whether he was on his way to the House of Commons. Even dressed so traditionally, he still managed to exude an air of swashbuckling rakishness. Perhaps it was the angle at which he wore his bowler. Or the thin white scar that knifed down through his left eyebrow.