free sittings with photographers; letters from dance schools and florists and “hair artistes.” And then there were the invitations.
“What’s a fork luncheon?” asked Veronica, staring at one engraved card as we sat around the breakfast table. “And who’s Mrs. Douglas Dawson-Hughes, and why would she invite us to one?”
“We’ve got eleven invitations to tea parties,” I said, counting. “One of them promising consultations with ‘Madame Zelda, the famous fortune-teller.’ ”
“She can’t be all that famous if they need to explain who she is,” said Veronica.
“Everyone’s hoping for invitations to your coming-out ball,” explained Toby. “There haven’t been any big parties at Montmaray House since before the war—probably not since the last Montmaravian Ambassador lived here, decades ago—so they’re all wondering what it looks like inside. And I bet they’re madly curious about you two.”
“They’re more interested in you , Toby,” said Simon. “Wondering if you’ll do for their daughters. Here, Sophia, give me those.” He began sorting the invitations into two piles. “Definitely not Mrs. Dawson-Hughes—her husband’s about to be declared bankrupt. Yes to the Marchioness of Elchester, yes to the Fortescues …”
“I suppose Lady Redesdale’s youngest girl is out this Season, too,” mused Aunt Charlotte. “Poor child, I don’t suppose she can help having such scandalous sisters. One divorced and now one run off to Spain with that awful Romilly boy … Is that in the newspapers yet, Simon?”
“Not this morning’s, ma’am,” said Simon.
“Lady Bosworth told me all the details yesterday. Dreadful thing. Well, girls, what are you doing today? Do you need the car?”
“Julia’s coming over at eleven to take us shopping, then there’s dress fittings and a Court class in the afternoon,” I said. “Theater this evening?” asked Toby.
“Can’t, I don’t have any proper evening shoes yet,” I said. “Ask me again in a week’s time.”
“Glad I was born a boy,” said Toby. “Aren’t you, Simon?”
“Very,” said Simon.
I was very happy to be a girl, though, when Julia swept us into Harrods and showed us all the beautiful things girls could wear. Chiffon scarves and exquisite little straw hats and strings of pearls and bright silk tea dresses and silver evening sandals …
“Right,” said Julia. “Gloves first.” And we bought three pairs each of long white kid gloves for evenings (“because you need to have them cleaned each time you wear them, and they stretch and split so quickly”) as well as black leather gloves for everyday, with clutch purses to match. Then we bought silk stockings and lipstick, and looked at hats. I fell in love with an elegant black pillbox with dotted veil, but I knew it would look ridiculous perched on my frizz of hair. Julia pronounced the frocks “tedious” and “far too expensive” and whisked us off to Peter Jones, where we bought a couple of silk afternoon frocks for “only” nineteen shillings each. I didn’t dare calculate how much we’d already spent—pounds and pounds, I was sure, but it all got charged to Aunt Charlotte’s account. Phoebe, laden with bags and boxes, staggered off to the car and was driven back to the house by Parker while Julia took us to Claridge’s for luncheon.
“Ant’s mother’s arriving from New York this afternoon, so now I have to go and meet her, but I promise I’ll be back tomorrow to help you look for evening shoes—remember to get fabric samples at your dress fittings—and oh, Sophie, I must introduce you to the man who does my hair, he’s an absolute magician.”
“He’d need to be, to make something of my bird’s nest,” I said.
“Nonsense, it just needs a trim! Now, long hair is terribly old-fashioned, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s you , Veronica—just pile it up and stick a tiara on top.”
“Yes, Julia,” said Veronica, who finds
“What’s a fork luncheon?” asked Veronica, staring at one engraved card as we sat around the breakfast table. “And who’s Mrs. Douglas Dawson-Hughes, and why would she invite us to one?”
“We’ve got eleven invitations to tea parties,” I said, counting. “One of them promising consultations with ‘Madame Zelda, the famous fortune-teller.’ ”
“She can’t be all that famous if they need to explain who she is,” said Veronica.
“Everyone’s hoping for invitations to your coming-out ball,” explained Toby. “There haven’t been any big parties at Montmaray House since before the war—probably not since the last Montmaravian Ambassador lived here, decades ago—so they’re all wondering what it looks like inside. And I bet they’re madly curious about you two.”
“They’re more interested in you , Toby,” said Simon. “Wondering if you’ll do for their daughters. Here, Sophia, give me those.” He began sorting the invitations into two piles. “Definitely not Mrs. Dawson-Hughes—her husband’s about to be declared bankrupt. Yes to the Marchioness of Elchester, yes to the Fortescues …”
“I suppose Lady Redesdale’s youngest girl is out this Season, too,” mused Aunt Charlotte. “Poor child, I don’t suppose she can help having such scandalous sisters. One divorced and now one run off to Spain with that awful Romilly boy … Is that in the newspapers yet, Simon?”
“Not this morning’s, ma’am,” said Simon.
“Lady Bosworth told me all the details yesterday. Dreadful thing. Well, girls, what are you doing today? Do you need the car?”
“Julia’s coming over at eleven to take us shopping, then there’s dress fittings and a Court class in the afternoon,” I said. “Theater this evening?” asked Toby.
“Can’t, I don’t have any proper evening shoes yet,” I said. “Ask me again in a week’s time.”
“Glad I was born a boy,” said Toby. “Aren’t you, Simon?”
“Very,” said Simon.
I was very happy to be a girl, though, when Julia swept us into Harrods and showed us all the beautiful things girls could wear. Chiffon scarves and exquisite little straw hats and strings of pearls and bright silk tea dresses and silver evening sandals …
“Right,” said Julia. “Gloves first.” And we bought three pairs each of long white kid gloves for evenings (“because you need to have them cleaned each time you wear them, and they stretch and split so quickly”) as well as black leather gloves for everyday, with clutch purses to match. Then we bought silk stockings and lipstick, and looked at hats. I fell in love with an elegant black pillbox with dotted veil, but I knew it would look ridiculous perched on my frizz of hair. Julia pronounced the frocks “tedious” and “far too expensive” and whisked us off to Peter Jones, where we bought a couple of silk afternoon frocks for “only” nineteen shillings each. I didn’t dare calculate how much we’d already spent—pounds and pounds, I was sure, but it all got charged to Aunt Charlotte’s account. Phoebe, laden with bags and boxes, staggered off to the car and was driven back to the house by Parker while Julia took us to Claridge’s for luncheon.
“Ant’s mother’s arriving from New York this afternoon, so now I have to go and meet her, but I promise I’ll be back tomorrow to help you look for evening shoes—remember to get fabric samples at your dress fittings—and oh, Sophie, I must introduce you to the man who does my hair, he’s an absolute magician.”
“He’d need to be, to make something of my bird’s nest,” I said.
“Nonsense, it just needs a trim! Now, long hair is terribly old-fashioned, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s you , Veronica—just pile it up and stick a tiara on top.”
“Yes, Julia,” said Veronica, who finds
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