The Debutante

‘Obviously my education is lacking.’ Cate sipped her tea. ‘How strange and romantic!’

‘You have a very odd idea of romance.’

‘I have odd ideas about a lot of things.’ The wind blew across the lawn, gently ruffling her skirt. ‘What an old relic!’

‘The house?’

‘Hmm.’

‘You don’t think it’s charming?’

‘Well, it may be. But it’s sad too. And so staid; a great big cliché of a house.’

‘All these houses have a sameness about them. I’ve seen dozens and dozens over the years. It’s the position and the grounds that make this one special. I love looking out over the sea. And although it’s only small –’

‘Small!’

‘Ten bedrooms is nothing.’ He settled into the chair opposite. ‘I mean, it must’ve been wonderful for entertaining but it’s no size, really.’

‘Now there’s only you and me and Mrs Williams.’ Cate closed her eyes. ‘It’s peaceful,’ she sighed. ‘And the name is so evocative. Endsleigh!’

The sea was too far off to be heard but the sound of the wind through the trees, the birds and the warm smell of freshly cut grass bathed in sunlight soothed her.

‘It is peaceful,’ Jack agreed.

The dull, persistent ring of a mobile phone buzzed, coming from her handbag.

Her eyes flicked open.

It continued to ring.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘I didn’t think there’d be a signal here.’

Finally, it stopped.

‘So,’ Jack grinned, ‘avoiding someone?’

The look on her face was cold, like being splashed by a bucket of iced water.

‘I was only –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stood up. ‘It’s too hot out here.

I’m going upstairs to unpack. Let me know when you’d like to begin.’

He tried again. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I –’

‘It’s nothing,’ she cut him off. ‘It’s of no importance at all.’

Taking her handbag, she walked across the lawn. Jack watched as she stepped between the layers of sheer fabric floating in the breeze by the French windows, disappearing into the house.

17, Rue de MonceauParis

13 June 1926

My dearest Wren,

Muv sent me a copy of the article in The Times featuring your lovely photograph. Miss Irene Blythe– one of the Debutantes of the Season! And rightly so! How did they get your hair to look like that? Have you had it shingled? Remember that I want to hear every tiny detail, especially about anything that HAPPENS to you–even a brief fumble in a corridor is thrilling for me, as I am in EXILE till next year.

As for me, I am limp with boredom, despite the romance of the Greatest City in Europe. That is Madame Galliot’s constant refrain. ‘You girls are spoilt! Here you are in Paris–the Greatest City in Europe– your parents are spending a fortune on you…on and on and on…Of course she doesn’t actually allow us to go anywhere, which is too vexing. Apart from our drawing classes and trips to Ladurée (the French cannot make a decent cup of tea) and endless expeditions to churches–you can see she is truly exerting herself on behalf of my education–we are rarely allowed to venture foot into Paris itself–a theatre or nightclub, let alone two Les Folies-Bergère. She also has perfected a sneer she reserves for me when she says things like, ‘There are certain subtle refinements that simply cannot be taught,’ (cue said sneer), referring of course to the fact that you and I were not born into our class so much as thrust upon it. To her we are and always will be counterfeits. Which is why it is so thrilling to leave cuttings of The Times around for her to see!

Under her tutelage I have learned precisely three things:

* How to eat oysters.

* How to wear my hat at a beguiling angle.

* How to engage in surreptitious eye contact with men in the street, who, being French, are only too glad to ogle you back.

She has two other English girls staying with her–Anne Cartwright, who is charming, great fun and not at all above herself (she has taught me how to smoke quite successfully and without the least bit of choking) and Eleanor Ogilvy-Smith, who is a great lump of wet clay. Eleanor lives in terror of any possible form of enjoyment and every time Anne and I campaign for some tiny inch of freedom, she immediately sides with Madame Galliot and suggests another outing of the religious variety. She also spends far too much time in the bathroom. Anne and I have bets as to what she does in there–all of which would offend your propriety.

So, please! More news of the Season and every man you dance with and every single dress you wear and what you have for supper (each course) and how many marriage proposals you receive this week and if they kneel and blush and stutter with nerves, etc., when faced with your overwhelming beauty or simply faint. Also, please, please, please give me some small commission here in Paris so that I may have a legitimate reason to set forth into some of the Forbidden Zones– for example, do you need any gloves from Pigalle? Or stockings from the Lido?

I am too, too proud of you, darling! And I think Fa would be too. How am I ever to live up to my beautiful sister? J’ai malade de jalousie! (See how my French improves!)

Send my love to Muv, who must be finding the fight to keep you both chaste and marry you off at breakneck speed quite an exhilarating moral dilemma. She does, as always, write the most fantastically boring letters. They read more like housekeeping accounts than anything else. How did a woman so dull marry so well? (Anne says she must have Hidden Longings, which is quite revolting, especially when you consider what our stepfather probably looks like sans clothes. I told her surely such things should be outlawed amongst the elderly and besides, ma chérie maman does a very good line in Virgin Queenism–her poor Consort has Jesus to contend with now. I wonder she hasn’t invested in a life-sized crucifix to hang above the bed, now that we are so hideously rich.)

Oh! To Be In London!

I do so long to join you and be in the thick of life at last!

Yours, as always,

Diana xxxx

PS Have just tried to cut my own hair with a pair of sewing shears and now look like the boy who delivers for the butcher’s. Anne has kindly lent me a cloche. Pray for me.

Cate walked up the central staircase, to the large open landing of the first floor. It was galleried, furnished with plush red velvet sofas and end tables. She sat down, gathering herself. There was no need to snap at him, she thought, cradling her head in her hands. She was on edge, that was all.

The truth was she’d assumed Jack would be an older man, a contemporary of Rachel’s; some sexless uncle type who needed a helping hand for a few days. Not a man speeding around in a convertible, staring at her with intense blue eyes, asking questions.

She was safe, she reminded herself. This was England, after all. And here, hidden in this remote house, immersed, like a reluctant time traveller, she was protected, surrounded by the beauty and opulence of another, more elegant age. Nothing could touch her. Least of all a man she hardly knew.

Taking a deep breath, she looked around. It was such a luxurious expanse of space to have at the top of a staircase. People must’ve congregated here, talking, laughing and smoking in their evening clothes before going down to supper. She tried to imagine their easy, urbane conversation; the air a cocktail of French perfume and thick, unfiltered cigarette smoke; flattery and flirtation. Running her hand along, she felt the lush, worn velvet, soft and inviting.

Still, she was tense, unsettled. Getting up, she turned down the hall, looking in each of the rooms until she found what was clearly the master bedroom, with its rich mahogany sleigh bed and dark, masculine furniture. She headed in the opposite direction. All the way at the other end of the long corridor was Lady Avondale’s suite, decorated with lighter, more restrained feminine touches. Soft primrose walls were covered in watercolours, the bed was in the French Empire style and blue-and-white chintz curtains were pulled back across the bay window overlooking the front garden. There was a view of the sea. Someone had opened the windows. Fresh towels were placed neatly on the dresser.