Palace Circle (19 page)

At last it was her turn. At the entrance to the Throne Room a gentleman-in-waiting spread out her train. Another handed her card to the lord chamberlain.

The room seemed vast. On both sides were tiers of seats, every one occupied. In front of her, on a dais beneath a scarlet canopy, were the King and Queen. A little to the left of the King was the Prince of Wales and a little farther distant, in glittering gowns and uniforms, were minor royals and other notables.

The lord chamberlain announced her name and seconds later she was in front of King George and Queen Mary. She made a full court curtsey, her knee bending until it almost touched the floor. Then, holding the position, she made a low bow and, most difficult of all, rose without losing her balance. Her relief when her second curtsey had been successfully executed must have shown on her face, for she was quite sure she saw a rare glimmer of amusement touch the corner of the King's mouth.

Afterward, in a room on a different floor, there was champagne and small hors d'oeuvres called Windsor pies, and she was at last able to grab a few words with Annabel and Boudicca.

“I wobbled,” Annabel said, not sounding too upset about it. “I wobbled so badly my mother said my feathers were bobbing as if they were still on the ostrich.”

“I didn't know Prince Edward would be present!” Boudicca was starry-eyed. “I was so busy looking at him I hardly noticed the King and Queen. Didn't he look absolutely spiffing in court dress? He's more handsome than any film star. Oh, I do hope he noticed me.”

“I don't think he noticed anyone,” Annabel said. “I thought he looked bored to tears.”

Annabel's mother sailed up to them, resplendent in a diamond stomacher that rarely left the family vault. “Who are you talking about?” she demanded, having caught only the tail end of the conversation. “If you are talking about the lord chamberlain, of course he wasn't bored. Now say goodbye to Boudicca and Petra. We have an appointment with a photographer and are already late.”

Reminded that they also had similar appointments, Boudicca and Petra bade each other a hasty goodbye.

As the family Rolls sped toward the Chelsea studio of London's most prestigious society photographer, Delia said with satisfaction, “What a day! And to think that I shall be doing all this again when Davina is presented.”

Petra looked at her, startled. “Are you sure Davvy wants a season?” she asked, sounding a note of caution. “She doesn't like being the center of attention and she has no friends in London.”

“Which is why she needs to be presented and have a London season.” Davina making suitable friends was one subject Delia was firm about. “That way she'll make lots of suitable friends, which is what the whole exercise is about. A wide social circle will help her adjust to life back in England when your father is recalled.”

“Recalled?” Petra stared at her mother. “Is that going to happen? I mean, is it going to happen soon?”

They were speeding along Chelsea Embankment, the Thames shimmering on their left-hand side like black silk.

Delia made an exasperated sound. “Well, of course it must happen soon, Petra. When your father went to Egypt as a British adviser, he went believin' he would be there for four or five years, six at the most. That was ten years ago. What has kept him there is the very troublesome political situation and the
fact that he has such a good relationship with King Fuad. Your father is a great help to the present high commissioner and so your father's tenure just keeps being extended. But he's sixty-two and enough is enough. He intends to be back in London by the end of the year and if he isn't,
I
shall be. I've enjoyed seeing all my old friends and I don't intend remaining in exile any longer.”

There was underlying steel in her voice and Petra sank back against the upholstery, stunned.

She had always known that her father's tenure in Egypt would eventually come to an end, but until now she'd never realized what it would mean to her. For the first time, she understood just how much her life would change.

Nile House would no longer be her home. And if she couldn't return to Nile House, how could she return at all? Where would she live?

She had always planned to return to Cairo at the end of the season. Most girls were engaged by then and she hoped to become engaged to Jack. As his diplomatic posting was in Lisbon, it hadn't occurred to her that she would be spending the obligatory year or eighteen months of their engagement anywhere else but in Egypt—with frequent visits on his part to Cairo. After that, her life would be wherever he was posted and she'd seen no reason why, with a few discreet words in high places, he shouldn't be sent to Cairo.

That was the ideal scenario. And even if it didn't come to fruition, she still had never imagined regarding anywhere other than Cairo as home.

“Does Davvy know you and Papa are leaving Cairo?” she asked as the Rolls came to a halt.

“I've no idea, but though she's managed to worm her way out of going to finishing school, there's no way she's going to worm her way out of havin' a London season. It's tactless of me to say so since Papa has always thought you were the headstrong
one, but I rather think it will be Davina who will turn his hair white. Beneath her sweet and gentle demeanor Davina is
very
unconventional.”

As her mother swept into the studio Petra didn't know whether to be pleased her mother thought her unlikely to ever cause her father grief, or miffed. In the end she was miffed. It made her sound so dull. And to be thought of as dull in comparison to her little sister was the living end. Deciding that her mother didn't know what she was talking about Petra prepared to have a photograph taken that would, with a bit of luck, find its way into
Tatler
and perhaps even into
Vogue.

As it was so obvious Davina didn't have a clue that plans were being made for her to have a London season—and, worse, that her father was certain the present year was his last in Cairo—Petra wondered how she should break the news. A letter seemed very blunt, and a phone call, directed through operator after operator, wasn't much more satisfactory.

After mulling the issue over for several days she decided to do nothing in the hope that perhaps the situation would change by the end of the summer. Her mother often spoke off the top of her head and, with a bit of luck, the remarks she had made while on the way to the photographer would prove to be no more than wishful thinking.

As Petra attended a frenetic round of dances and balls—
often barely knowing the debutante whose party it was—she enjoyed herself hugely. At every event she saw Annabel and Boudicca and they also met up nearly every day, either at Gunter's Tea Shop or at the soda fountain at Selfridges.

Petra's own coming-out ball was held during the first week of June and both Magda and Suzi came to London to attend it.

“Find me a glorious duke who owns half of England,” Magda said as the five of them sunbathed in the walled garden at Cadogan Square, drinking cocktails, “and I'll be a happy girl.”

“Every English duke I know is a crusty old man.” Petra swirled her ice cubes around with her finger. “What you need is a young and dashing heir-presumptive.”

Magda, superbly sophisticated in a black sun-top, black shorts, and white plastic-framed sunglasses, rolled from her tummy onto her back, gold hair streaming out like a fan over the grass. “As long as home is a ducal palace and the income is in six figures, I don't mind. Have I told you my mother is getting divorced again? It will be the
sixth
husband she's discarded. My grandmother says it borders on carelessness.”

They all giggled. Magda's racy mother was a favorite subject of conversation.

“She was a guest at Berchtesgaden last month,” Magda continued, taking off her sunglasses and closing her eyes. “I'm simply keeping my fingers crossed that she isn't setting her sights on our beloved Fuhrer.”

“Your
beloved Fuhrer,” Petra said chidingly. “He certainly isn't
our
beloved Fuhrer. We all think he's a horrid little man and can't understand why you Germans are getting so excited over him.”

Magda opened her eyes. “He's making us feel like a nation again,” she said easily. “When we lost the war, we lost
our pride. Hitler is giving it back to us.” She sat up, reached for the glass perched precariously near to her, and said, “A Tom Collins tastes even better, Petra, if you add strawberry schnapps to it. They sell schnapps in London, don't they? I'll try to get you a bottle.”

That her father wasn't in London for her dance was a great disappointment to Petra, but as it was common knowledge that there had been a fresh outburst of violent anti-British feeling in Cairo, no one was too surprised that Lord Conisborough was remaining in the troubled city.

“His not being here leaves us with a sticky problem,” she said to her mother while Delia was supervising the distribution of acres of fresh flowers.

“Here come the hydrangeas,” Delia said as the delivery men brought in the pots of blue flowers. “I'm going to stand those in all the fireplaces.”

“You're not listening to me, Mama. I said that Papa not being here presents a problem.”

“Which is?” Delia didn't take her eyes off the flowers. “D'you think the carnations will look right with the lilies and roses? I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right decision when I said I would arrange them myself with a little help from Gwen. Lady Mowbray had Constance Spry do the flowers for Annabel's ball and they were absolutely cracking.”

“The flowers will be fine. What will not be fine is that my father won't be here for the first dance. And I don't have a brother or even a cousin. Have you any ideas?”

She had finally caught her mother's attention. “You're right, honey. How on earth did I overlook a thing like that?” She frowned, deep in thought, and then said, “Perhaps Winston could stand in for Papa?”

“No,” Petra said firmly. “I don't mind the fact that so many family friends are going to be guests, but I am
not
going to endure Mr. Churchill as a stand-in for Papa. For one thing, I'm far taller than he is. I'd look ridiculous.”

Sheaves of scarlet late-flowering tulips were carried past them, their scent heavy and sweet.

Her mother chewed her lip. “Dear Pugh would never be able to complete a circuit of the ballroom. His gout is far too bad. Now, if only dear Cousin Beau were alive …”

Petra prayed for patience.

“But as he isn't,” her mother continued, happily oblivious of her daughter's reaction, “we'll have to look elsewhere.” She paused for a second and then said, “What about Sir John Simon? I don't think Britain has ever before had a foreign secretary who is such a wonderful dancer. His predecessor, the Marquess of Reading, was a calamity at a ball.”

Petra hesitated. She quite liked Sir John Simon. He was sixty, tall, lean, patrician-faced, austerely handsome. He
looked
like her father. And that would, she knew, only make her father's absence more obvious.

“No,” she said firmly. “Not Sir John Simon.”

“Well, Lord Denby is out. He's been sick since March. And Cuthie Digby can barely walk anymore, let alone dance.”

“The proper person to stand in for Papa,” Petra decided, “is Jerome. I know he's not a relation—but then neither is anyone else you mentioned—and I can't think of anyone I'd rather have.”

Instead of looking pleased that the problem was solved, her mother looked aghast.

“Why the shock?” Petra asked as the deliverymen carried the last of the flowers into the house. “Papa wouldn't mind. If you'd realized the problem earlier and spoken to him I'm sure he would have suggested Jerome. I'll ring him and ask him and
I'll tell him to think about what waltz the orchestra should play. I'd like something nice and old-fashioned. Perhaps ‘Roses from the South’ or ‘On the Beautiful Blue Danube.’”

By the end of the afternoon, the house was
en fete.
Delicately colored carnations twined around the magnificent balusters of the grand staircase; ornate arrangements of lilies and roses graced every highly polished surface. The first-floor drawing room, its floor waxed to a high sheen, had been turned into a ballroom with small gilt chairs hired for the occasion set around the walls. A vast marquee erected in the garden was the supper room and the air inside it was heavy with the scent of the flowers decorating the damask-covered, silver-laden tables.