Palace Circle (18 page)

Apart from the snippets of information his father gave her—information which was of a kind she'd rather not have had—it was hard to come by gossip about Jack's social life in Lisbon. He wrote to her mother almost as regularly as he wrote to his father, but Delia's only comment, when Petra asked about Jack's latest news, was: “It's no doubt the same news as in his letters to you, honey. Isn't it dandy how he's become such a success as a diplomat?” This wasn't information she was after.

She finished her pink gin, deep in thought.

Very occasionally Jack wrote to Kate Gunn. After Kate had replaced Mr. Willoughby as her father's secretary, Ivor had instructed the girls to address her as Miss Gunn. Davina still did so, but in answer to one of Petra's letters, her former nanny had written:

Petra decided to write to Kate, asking if she knew whether Jack was enjoying a heavy romance and confiding why such information was so important to her. It would be good to have someone to talk openly with.

She jumped to her feet, intent on writing the letter immediately, but as she crossed the hall toward the staircase she came to an abrupt halt. Bellingham was opening the front door to a visitor—and the visitor was Jack's mother.

Considering how Jerome was always popping into Cadogan Square, Sylvia's unexpected arrival should not have been disconcerting. But Petra was always disconcerted when facing
Sylvia. Brought up to address her as “Aunt,” she had only ever thought of her as Lady Bazeljette. Even reminding herself that Sylvia was Jack's mother didn't help, for apart from his dark hair he looked nothing like her.

“Nonchalante et froide,”
said Suzi de Vioget when Sylvia had been spending a few days at Nyon and they had accidentally run into her in a smart Montreux cafe. “Very beautiful, of course, especially for her age, but not, I think, very
sympathique
.”

Now, remembering her manners, Petra greeted the woman she hoped would one day be her mother-in-law.

“Aunt Sylvia, how nice to see you!” she said, forcing warmth into her voice as Bellingham sent a footman upstairs to inform her mother.

Sylvia tilted her head to one side, regarding her with interest. “You're looking well,” she said in her cracked-ice voice. “Being back in London obviously suits you.”

Willowy as a woman twenty years her junior, she was wearing a dove-gray grosgrain suit, gray suede shoes, and a small hat with spotted veiling. A silver fox fur, complete with head, was casually draped over one shoulder. Her eyes were heavily mascaraed; her flawless skin was as pale as porcelain; her lips were a glossy japonica-red and her perfume was heady and sensual. Petra found the mix of restrained elegance of the suit—it could have been tailored only by Mainbocher or Chanel—and the blatant sensuality in the way that it was worn deeply disturbing.

Good manners necessitated that she entertain Sylvia until her mother came downstairs. As she led the way into the drawing room she said, “You must be looking forward to Jack's visit to London. I expect it's an age since you've seen him.”

“Jack?” Sylvia's pencil-thin, beautifully arched eyebrows rose as if she were trying to place him. “Possibly,” she said at last.

Not for the first time Petra wondered what on earth her mother found to talk about when in Sylvia's company—not, she reminded herself, that her mother often was in Sylvia's company. Though Jerome had come out to Cairo often, Sylvia had never done so. “The heat wouldn't suit her,” Delia had said when Petra had asked why this was.

“Davina's begun doing voluntary work in a Cairo orphanage,” Petra said, drumming up the only item of interest she could think of. “It's something she's always wanted to do.”

“Voluntary work?” Without removing her silver fox, Sylvia seated herself on one of the room's many sofas. “But surely she's still at school?”

“She does it at weekends.”

“How extraordinary.” The expression on Sylvia's exquisite face was one of bafflement. “I'm surprised your father is allowing it.”

“I don't think it was easy, but Davvy can be outstandingly persistent when she wants.”

There was no answer.

Just as she was wondering what would engage Sylvia's interest, she saw her eyes had turned to the cocktail cabinet.

“Would you like a drink, Aunt Sylvia?” Petra asked with a touch of her mother's breezy manner. “A martini? I've just learned how to mix them.”

“Then I hope you've discovered that the secret is to mix them very dry.”

Taking this to mean that the drink would be gratefully received, Petra crossed the room, glad of the diversion.

Sylvia rearranged her fur. “Is Delia going out this evening? I ask, as she isn't expecting me.”

Petra was tempted to say that her mother was out every evening, but she said only: “I believe she's dining with Margot Asquith. How do you like your martini garnished, Aunt Sylvia? With an olive or a twist of lemon?”

“A twist.”

The door opened and Delia entered the room, looking sensational in a halter-necked evening gown of turquoise slipper satin.

“Sylvia! How unexpected!”

“It is rather, but then so is my news.”

Petra handed her the martini. Neither Sylvia nor her mother looked at her. It was as though she had become as invisible as a maid or a footman.

“Has something happened to Jerome?” Delia's voice was taut with fear. “To Jack?”

The last possibility froze Petra.

“No. Theo has just told me his father has terminal cancer. It's come as rather a shock. I hadn't anticipated his succeeding to the dukedom quite so soon. However, now that he is to do so, I have made a decision.” She paused, took a sip of her drink and said, “I thought you should be the first to know, Delia, that I'm going to divorce Jerome.”

Petra gasped.

“You can't mean it,” Delia said, sinking onto the sofa facing Sylvia.

“But I do.” Sylvia looked completely unperturbed. “Theo has wanted me to marry him for eons. Until now I've never seen it as being in my best interest. I always thought Jerome would reach a position of great distinction in the government, even become prime minister, but now the Liberals are no longer in the majority, it won't happen. That being the case, rather than face a future as the wife of an MP who will never enjoy a title any higher than that of a baronet, I prefer to seek a divorce and become a duchess.”

“The divorce—” Delia came to a halt and licked her lips.

Petra wasn't surprised. Her mouth, too, was dry with shock.

“The divorce …” Delia said again. “Has Jerome agreed to it?”

“He doesn't know yet I want one. And in case I've given a
different impression, I shall be the one doing the divorcing and I shall be doing so on the grounds of his adultery.”

“Sylvia … if you're intendin' to do what I think you are … If you're intendin' to name names …”

Sylvia cleared her throat and looked in Petra's direction.

Delia looked toward her, too.

“Please leave us, Petra,” she said stiffly, as if she was having trouble moving her mouth. “And what Aunt Sylvia has said is private. You must not repeat it to anyone, d'you understand? Not even to Aunt Gwen.”

Giddy with the enormity of what she had just heard, Petra nodded that she understood.

As she began to walk unsteadily from the room, Sylvia said, “Naming names won't be necessary, Delia. Jerome will simply book into a hotel with a blonde. The hotel register and a private detective will do the rest.”

“It will ruin his reputation.” Her mother sounded as though she was having difficulty breathing. “It will destroy his political career.”

“Maybe so.” Sylvia sounded bored. “But the alternative is for him to divorce me on the grounds of adultery, and if he did, I wouldn't admit to adultery with Theo. I'd admit to my affair with the lover who preceded him.”

Petra reached the door and closed it behind her. As she leaned against it, trying to stop her legs from trembling, she heard her mother say with passionate vehemence, “You cannot,
cannot
, ruin the career of such a distinguished man by dragging his name through the divorce court!”

Petra forced herself to move toward the stairs, wondering which of her friends’ husbands her mother was referring to— and wondering why Sylvia had told her mother she was seeking a divorce from Jerome, before she had even told Jerome.

She walked into her bedroom, all thought of writing to Kate forgotten.

The person she wanted to write to was Jack. And she couldn't. The divorce was news that should only be given by his mother.

As Petra thought of Jack's reaction, the breath hurt in her throat. The next few weeks, weeks she'd been looking forward to for so long, were going to be very difficult, and not just for the people most closely involved.

She hugged herself, thinking of her own difficulty. It was one that was all too clear. With his parents’ marriage in disarray, Jack wouldn't be in any mood to embark on a long-overdue love affair with her. And she, God help her, didn't want to embark on one with anyone else.

Annabel's party was great fun—but Petra wasn't escorted to it by Jack,
LEAVE POSTPONED
his telegram read,
SEE YOU IN JUNE.

It was a great disappointment, but fortunately Petra didn't have time to brood. Just as they had always planned, she, Annabel, and Boudicca were being presented at the same court. It was an evening court which made it seem more glamorous. As Ellie helped her to dress and her mother and Aunt Gwen stood by ready to help with the Prince of Wales feathers, she felt sorry for the debutantes who had been allotted an afternoon slot.

“Now remember, darling,” her aunt said anxiously, “when you have been presented and before you back away from Their Majesties,
your train must be securely draped over your arm.
Otherwise you will trip over it—and why doing so is such a rarity I shall never know.”

“And when Ellie has secured your headdress, do one last practice curtsey,” said Delia. “A full curtsey in full fig is trickier than walkin' a tightrope blindfolded.”

“Stop! Please! You're making me even more nervous than I already am. Ellie, you will make sure the feathers won't come loose, won't you? And what if they do?” she added in real
panic to her mother. “Do I leave them where they fall? Do I pick them up?”

“You do nothing, honey. A gentleman-in-waiting will be only feet away from you and he'll sort out any disaster. And if there is a problem—say your train looks as if it's in danger of it tripping you up—he'll adjust it.”

Her mother secured her headdress and Petra gave a sigh of immense satisfaction. Worn slightly to the left side, with the center plume of the three the highest, it made her feel like a queen.

Her gown was an absolute dream. Made of pearly-white chiffon over satin, short-sleeved and low-necked with white roses embroidered on the bodice and skirt, it looked like a cloud.

Once again she thought of Jack.

The purpose of coming-out, with the almost nonstop parties and balls that accompanied it, was to meet as many eligible men as possible and make a suitable marriage—which meant marriage to someone rich and titled.

Boudicca's dream was to attract the attention of the Prince of Wales, but Petra was certain that by the end of the season Boo would be engaged to a lesser mortal.

Annabel was already engaged, so she didn't have to bother about husband-hunting.

And as she already knew very well whom she hoped to marry, Petra had no intention of husband-hunting, either.

“Your gloves,” Aunt Gwen said, handing them to her as Delia fastened the pearl necklace she had worn for her own presentation around her daughter's neck.

“There!” Delia, resplendent in a tiara and dripping with diamonds and emeralds, stepped back to look. “You are stunning, darling. Absolutely the bee's knees.”

“You look beautiful too, Mama,” she said truthfully. “I just wish Papa and Davvy were here to see us.”

“That they aren't you can blame on nasty Egyptian politics.
Your father isn't the high commissioner but you would think he was, the way the prime minister relies on him. As for Davina, she couldn't possibly have traveled to England on her own and there was no one leavin' Cairo for England who could have chaperoned her. Even if there had, being here would have been no fun for her when she's too young to be invited to any of the balls and parties.”

Gwen traveled with them to Buckingham Palace. By the time they entered the Mall the stream of Rolls-Royces was seemingly endless and the road was crowded with sightseers who had come to watch the long line of cars and their occupants.

“It's like being in a zoo,” Petra said as a woman carrying a toddler pressed so close to their car that the child was able to bang on the window.

“It will be like this all the time for whoever the Prince of Wales marries,” her mother said, cheerily blowing a kiss in the direction of the baby.

“I think you're wrong about that,” Gwen said. “The Prince always has outriders. And I have to say that I wish we had them, too. I find it unnerving hearing what the hoi polloi are saying about my gown and jewels.”

As they ascended the palace's grand Carrera marble staircase, Petra saw Annabel and Boudicca ahead of her. At the top of the stairs they were shepherded into an anteroom filled with stiff gilt chairs. There were perhaps forty girls and Petra had no opportunity to speak with her friends. Under the stern eyes of the courtiers they lined up according to the importance of their father's title and all she could do was give a small, excited wave.

After what seemed to be an age she heard the national anthem.

“That means the King and Queen are entering the Throne Room,” said the girl next to her. “Any minute now the head of the queue will be going in.”

After handing a presentation card to a footman each girl was escorted from the anteroom. Petra watched Annabel raise her hand to her headdress to check that it was secure. Boudicca was so nervous that she dropped her card and a gentleman-in-waiting had to retrieve it for her.