Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Page 7

  They were so charming, so perfect. Just right for two royal little girls, with simple lines and puffed sleeves. “Oh yes,” I said. “They’ll love them. I’ll ask how you should go about fittings. I bet you’ll have every mother in London wanting their daughters to wear your dresses after this.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, “but with my grandmother’s money I won’t have to worry anyway. I’m going to keep this little mews cottage because I like it, but I’m renting a workshop next to Bond Street and I’m getting together an autumn collection. You wouldn’t like to be one of my models, would you?”

  “Golly no,” I said. “I remember my one modeling experience with you. Total disaster. I’m not about to repeat that.”

  Belinda laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. And it was with Mrs. Simpson, wasn’t it?”

  We went over her sketches of my dress and we agreed on details. So much better than the original drainpipe / boa constrictor design, I thought but did not say out loud. It was going to be beautiful. I was going to be beautiful. I sailed out with a silly grin on my face and went to track down Mummy. The day had really heated up now and I dabbed at beads of sweat on my forehead. Sweating is something a lady never does! Mummy was tucking into a large portion of Dover sole in the dining room at Claridge’s. She invited me to join her and I ordered the same. She also pouted when she heard I was leaving London. “I thought we were going to have lots of time to do girly things together. I am still looking for the perfect going-away outfit after the ceremony and I can’t find it anywhere. Nothing in Paris. Nothing here. I may actually have to buy it in a shop, like a housewife.”

  “Mummy, I love the way you forget that there was a time when you couldn’t even afford to shop in places like Harrods or Barkers. Now they are beneath you.”

  “One doesn’t want to look like everyone else,” she said, patting her immaculate curls. “If I had the same clothes as a bank manager’s wife I’d shoot myself.”

  I had a sudden brain wave. “Belinda might design something for you. She’s starting her own design business again. She’s frightfully avant-garde.”

  “Now, that’s a thought,” she said. “You must take me to see her. But when are you and I going to have time to shop?”

  “I’m free today,” I said.

  “Oh, not today, darling. I have to go for a massage and after it one is so tired. Such a big, strong young man and he works over all my muscles as if he’s kneading bread.” She shuddered with pleasure.

  “Then tomorrow? I want to go down to Eynsleigh as soon as possible because I want Darcy to see it.”

  “Tomorrow? Darling, tomorrow is busy-busy. I have to see my little shoemaker in the Mile End Road. He’s an Italian refugee and he makes the most divine shoes for me. Soft as gloves. And then afterward we’ll go to the little Chinese lady who makes my undies. One can never have too many pairs of knickers, I think. I certainly can’t. Max loves to rip them off me in moments of passion.” She looked up at me. “I expect Darcy does the same.”

  “Er . . . not exactly,” I said.

  “Max is so passionate.” She gave a cat-with-the-cream smile. “Anyway, Madame Chow fled from Shanghai bringing this most amazingly fine silk. Of course I bought up the lot from her and when I need more undies she makes them for me. You shall have some too. So fine it’s like wearing gossamer.”

  And so it seemed that people like Mummy did not just go to a department store and come out with ready-made items. I left Mummy and had to face my last tasks of the day: Fig and Granddad. When I thought of the latter I wasn’t sure I could face it. It was now baking hot in the city and the thought of a crowded tube train out to Essex with all those unwashed bodies and Mrs. Huggins at the end of it was almost beyond my endurance.

  I was tempted to write a note with my new address on it and invite him to come and stay as soon as I was settled. I wouldn’t mention anything about Mrs. Huggins coming to stay. And last but not least there was Fig. I had to see her to discuss wedding breakfast details. Darcy wanted to come too but I told him I’d spare him Fig in full fury.

  I decided to get her over with first. So with trepidation I knocked on the front door of Rannoch House. It was opened by Hamilton, our aged butler. He beamed when he saw me. “Why, Lady Georgiana, what a treat. We were just discussing you belowstairs and wondered how your wedding was coming along.”

  “Splendidly, thank you, Hamilton. Is Her Grace at home?”

  “They both are, my lady. His Grace is still recuperating from his surgery, in the drawing room.” He led me through although I knew the way. “Lady Georgiana,” he said and stood back to let me enter.

  Binky was sitting on the sofa with his foot encased in a large bandage. Fig was perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair, reading the Tatler. She looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Georgie. I was telling Binky about your wedding plans.”

  Binky’s eyes lit up. “Why, it’s Georgie! How jolly splendid to see you, old thing.”

  I went over and kissed his forehead. “Hello, Binky. How’s the invalid?”

  “All the better for seeing you,” he replied. “As you can see, a bit under the weather.”

  “That’s a large bandage,” I said. “Did they remove a couple of toes?”

  “No, just a bit of toenail from my flesh, but dashed painful,” he said. “Do take a seat, old bean. How about a drink? Gin and tonic?”

  “I’d prefer a cup of tea, please,” I said. “I’ve been rushing around, trying to schedule fittings and shopping with my mother. All quite exhausting and it’s beastly hot out.”

  “I know. Quite unpleasant. One remembers why one doesn’t stay in London during the summer months,” Fig said. “I keep telling Binky to jolly well hurry up and heal so we can go home. Or at least to my sister’s place in Cheshire.”

  “The quack said I should stay put,” Binky said. “Too much risk of infection, you know.” He looked across at Fig. “Well, order tea for Georgie, then, Fig. You have the bell near you.”

  I was impressed. Was he finally learning to stand up to his wife? If so, that would be a miracle. Fig shot him a look as she leaned across to pull on the bell. I hoped he wouldn’t pay for his bravery later. Soon a tea tray appeared, complete with slices of Mrs. McPherson’s delicious cake. “Cook said to make sure you got some of your favorite cake, my lady,” Hamilton said, putting down the tray.

  “I must apologize for having the butler bring in the tea tray,” Fig said as Hamilton retreated, “but we only brought a skeleton staff with us. Which reminds me—your wedding. Have you finalized the place and date yet? If the reception is to be held here we’ll need a full complement down from Scotland.”

  “Yes, this morning,” I said. “July 27. Two o’clock. At the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street.”

  “Are you going to put that on the invitation?” Fig asked, wincing as if in pain.

  “Why, yes. Why not?”

  “It sounds so horribly strange and Roman,” she said. “Couldn’t you have chosen a St. Mary’s or a St. Michael’s?”

  “Not within easy distance of Rannoch House.”

  “I expect there will be incense and things,” Binky said, looking worried. “And if I give you away, will I have to chant in Latin?”

  I laughed. “It will be a normal wedding ceremony. You’ll recognize the words.”

  “Phew, that’s a relief,” he said. “I’ve been worrying about it. I failed Latin at school, you know.”

  “You failed most things,” Fig said.

  “Well, yes, that’s true. I wasn’t the best student, but then I hated school and was horribly bullied there. We are certainly not sending Podge to a school like that.”

  “We probably won’t be able to afford it anyway,” Fig said.

  “Are the children here with you?” I asked, being exceptionally fond of my niece and nephew.

  “Good God, no,” Fig said, rather too emphatically. Then she added, “Nanny thinks it’s not wise to interrupt their routine, particularly as Adelaide is proving very stubborn in potty training. I mean, she’s over a year old and still has accidents. I believe it’s deliberate. I hope that child isn’t going to be a handful.”

  “You will be able to bring them when you come down for my wedding, won’t you?” I said. “I do want Podge to be a page boy.”

  “He’d love that,” Binky said. “Dashed fond of you, old bean. Well, we all are. And we’ve missed you, haven’t we, Fig?”

  “What?” She reacted with a start.

  “I was saying we haven’t seen enough of Georgie lately and we’ve missed having her around.”

  “Well, she does have her own life to lead, Binky,” Fig replied without answering the question.

  “Will you at least come up to Scotland for a while before your wedding? Last-chance-to-be-at-home sort of thing,” he said.

  “That’s kind of you, Binky,” I replied, “but I’m afraid I’m going to be busy settling in to my new home.”

  “You are moving in before marriage?” Fig looked shocked. “Not with that O’Mara person, I hope. Word would get out.”

  “No, Darcy will stay on in London until the wedding.”

  “So where is this place?” she asked. “Will you not live in the family seat in Ireland?”

  “Part of the year, I expect, but Sir Hubert Anstruther wants me to live at his house in Sussex.”

  “Sir Hubert?” Fig looked puzzled. “Wasn’t he one of your mother’s men?”

  “She was married to him, Fig. And he was very fond of me. He wanted to adopt me. So I received a letter from him inviting me to start married life at Eynsleigh. He’s hardly ever there and he wants me to enjoy it.”

  “Without paying rent?” Fig said.

  “Well, I am his heir,” I said. “I’d inherit it one day, and as he says, it is a pity to have a fully staffed house and nobody in it.”

  “A big house, is it?” Binky asked. “I don’t recall ever visiting it.”

  “It’s lovely, Binky,” I said. “Tudor. Glorious grounds. A fountain in the forecourt. You must come and stay when we’re married.”

  “How kind. Look forward to it, eh, Fig?”

  Fig’s eyes were blinking rapidly, something she did when she wanted to shut out painful information. I’m ashamed to say that I wanted to get up and do a little dance.

  Chapter 9

  MONDAY, JUNE 24, TO WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26

  ON THE WAY TO EYNSLEIGH, NEAR UCKFIELD, SUSSEX

  Off to become mistress of Eynsleigh. I still can’t believe it! Of course I’m a trifle apprehensive. I mean, running a large house with a flock of servants . . . Golly. But Rogers, the butler, and the housekeeper will make sure everything goes smoothly for me, I’m sure. And Darcy looks like the sort of person who expects to be obeyed.

  Two hectic days followed. Buying clothes with Mummy. Planning menus with the cook at Rannoch House and wondering if she could make a presentable-looking wedding cake. Zou Zou announced that she was going away again, flying over to Ireland to see her horses run, she said. I wondered if she was really flying over to be with Darcy’s father. I hoped she was.

  I was almost ready to depart myself, but there was one thing left to do. I took a deep breath and caught the District Line to Upminster Bridge to see my grandfather. I thought he was looking rather tired and frail, but Mrs. Huggins was very much in evidence, strutting around the place.

  “So you’ve got a date for your wedding now, have you, ducks?” she asked. She had given up calling me “your ladyship” now we were going to be related.

  “Yes, we have. We just mailed out the invitations today. You should be getting one.”

  “We couldn’t send you an invite to ours because we didn’t know where you was staying,” she said. “Go and get her one now, Albert. They are on the dining table in the front room.”

  My grandfather got up and left.

  “He’s looking a bit seedy, ain’t he?” she whispered. “That week’s honeymoon down at Clacton will do him the world of good. Nice sea air. And I’m going to build him up too. He’s nothing but a bag of bones—” She broke off as Granddad came back and handed me the invitation.

  “I hope you can come, my love,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied and got a big smile from him.

  “Now, about your wedding,” Mrs. Huggins said. “I was thinking about young Jewel. You know, my son Stan’s girl. She’s eleven now. Just the right age to be a bridesmaid. You are going to have bridesmaids, I take it. I told her she can be a bridesmaid at ours, along with Queenie, but I know she’d be tickled pink to be one at a posh wedding like yours.”

  I tried not to look too horrified. My bridesmaids: two princesses and young Jewel, whom I remembered from photographs was a podgy child, like a small version of Queenie. How on earth could I say no tactfully? I left promising to let them know our plans and whether Mrs. Huggins should make her a dress. She’d seen a length of pink satin down the market that would do a treat. Make a smashing dress. And maybe a little crown, seeing as I was almost royal. I gave a wan smile, not finding the words to answer her. Oh golly.

  On Wednesday morning I took the train to Sussex. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure other people in the compartment could hear it as we pulled out of Victoria Station. The only disappointment was that Darcy was not with me. The evening before he had received a telephone call and came to me with a worried frown on his face. “Something’s come up and I’ve been called away,” he said. “I’m so sorry but I won’t be able to come with you tomorrow, in fact I’m not at all sure when I’ll be back. . . .”

  “Before the wedding, I hope,” I said, hiding my anger in a joke.

  “Definitely well before the wedding. I’ve made that clear,” he said.

  “What is it? Another lady with a racehorse?” I was still fighting back anger.

  “No, rather more serious, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you more, but it’s not good.”

  Then, of course, I was worried. “Do be careful,” I said. “And write if you can. Just a postcard saying ‘I’m all right.’ That’s all I need.”

  He took me in his arms. “This is beastly for you, I know,” he said. “But if I don’t accept assignments when they come my way . . . well.”

  “I know.” I sighed and looked up at him. “I do worry when you are away.”

  “I can take care of myself, I promise,” he said. “And you take care of yourself. Have a lovely time arranging things to your liking in our new home so that it’s just perfect by the time I come back!”

  “I will.”

  He kissed me then, a kiss that was full of longing and frustration. And in the morning he left early, catching a boat train to heaven knows where while my train chugged more modestly out of London. We were soon in leafy Surrey and my spirits perked up as they always do in the countryside. Mistress of Eynsleigh, mistress of Eynsleigh, I chanted to myself to the clickety-clack of the rails.

  I alighted at Haywards Heath Station, about five miles from Eynsleigh. I was bringing just a small suitcase with me. Zou Zou’s maid was going to have my big trunks sent on in a few days. At the station I found an ancient taxicab. “Eynsleigh?” he said. “There isn’t nobody living there at the moment. Sir Hubert’s away on one of his jaunts.”

  “Well, I’m going to be living there,” I said. “I’m Sir Hubert’s heir and it’s going to be my home.”

  “Well, I never,” he said. “God bless you, miss.”

  I was going to say it wasn’t “miss,” it was “my lady,” but decided against it.

  Word would get around soon enough, I was sure. We drove along lanes shaded with spreading oak and horse chestnut trees. Cows looked up as we passed by lush green fields. We drove through small villages with whitewashed cottages. Fifteen minutes later we turned in between tall stone gateposts, each topped with a statue of a lion resting a paw on a marble ball, and there ahead of us was the house at the end of a long straight drive, shaded by sycamore trees. Its red Tudor brick almost glowed in the sunlight. It was built in the shape of an E, with two wings and a central forecourt, with a fountain in the center. I peered out of the taxi window, trying to catch a glimpse of the fountain I had loved so much, but I couldn’t see it.

  The tires scrunched on the gravel as we turned into the forecourt. I saw then that the stone fountain base was still there, only it wasn’t playing at the moment. Of course, I thought. How silly of me. There was no need for a fountain when the owner of the house wasn’t at home. I’d soon have it turned on and working again. I paid the taxicab driver, took a deep breath and picked up my suitcase to ascend the broad flight of steps to the front door. As I picked up the suitcase I realized that I would not be making the best impression, carrying my own bag and not bringing my maid with me.

  Still, it didn’t matter. I had nobody to impress.

  I rang the bell and waited for a long time. I was about to go around to the back of the house and the servants’ entrance to see what was the matter when the door opened. A head peered around it. He was a man probably in his forties with a rather podgy face and dark hair, parted in the middle. He looked me up and down.

  “Well, you’ve got a nerve,” he said in a voice betraying a slight Cockney accent. “Coming to the front door and ringing the bell, indeed. You should know better than that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I demanded. “Who exactly are you?”

  “Plunkett,” he said.

  He said it very quickly and for a second I thought he’d said something very rude. “What?”

  “I’m Plunkett,” he said. “And I presume you’ve come about the maid’s position.”

  In times of extreme annoyance I tend to channel my great-grandmother Queen Victoria. “I most certainly am not the new maid,” I said. “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch and I assume that you are expecting me.”