Palace Circle (25 page)

“Oh goodness! This is going to be so wonderful!” she said ecstatically as the limousine entered the club's immaculately kept grounds. “Your mother is a friend of the Prince of Wales, isn't she? And that means I'll probably meet him. He's very attracted to dark-haired women. I've seen photographs of Mrs. Dudley Ward and Lady Furness. I'm far more beautiful than either of them and—oh, Davina!—wouldn't it be utterly heaven if I was to become the Princess of Wales!”

Remembering what Petra had let slip about the Prince's preference for sexually experienced married women, Davina thought this highly unlikely but was too kind to say so. As far as she was concerned, Prince Edward could do far worse than fall for Fawzia—and she rather liked the idea of the future Queen of England being Egyptian.

As they walked to their seats in the crowded stands they drew a lot of attention. Fawzia always turned heads and Davina didn't realize that her fair hair, slim figure, and the simplicity of the apple-green and white polka-dot dress were drawing their own share of admiring glances.

She waved to Petra, who was seated with her friends a few rows behind them. Her mother and father had seats in the front row with Zubair Pasha. On the opposite side of the court Davina could see the willowy figure of Kate Gunn.

There was a ripple of female excitement as Darius came onto the court and Davina could understand why.

He glanced up at the stands and she knew he was looking to see if she was there. She didn't wave, knowing how much he would hate it if she did so. Instead she gave him a discreet
thumbs-up sign. He gave her a barely discernible nod and then turned all his attention to the game.

Even though his opponent, the reigning champion, played like a demon, it proved to be a one-sided game. In a nearly faultless display Darius won 6-1, 6-3, 6-2.

Still breathing heavily, he accepted the trophy from the deputy high commissioner with an elation Davina knew had nothing to do with the match. For an Egyptian to beat a British opponent so spectacularly in a club that permitted very few Egyptian members was his own private way of thumbing his nose at people like her father.

As he held the trophy aloft he was surrounded by people congratulating him and she didn't even attempt to join in the crush. She would see him later, when they would be on their own.

That night she couldn't sleep. As she lay in the darkness, the windows of her room above the terrace open, she heard her parents’ voices drifting toward her. “I think Ramsay MacDonald is a skunk,” her mother was saying of the prime minister. “Insisting you remain here for another two years until Farouk is sixteen is simply not fair. Surely that is a task for Sir Miles Lampson?”

“Sir Miles replaced Percy Loraine as high commissioner because he has a more military cast of mind. But a military education isn't what Farouk needs. Which is where I come in.”

There was a long silence and then her mother said, “And just why did our government think a military man was needed here, Ivor?”

“The violent nationalist groups splintering off from Wafd are growing in such strength it's a necessity, Delia.”

“I hadn't realized things had got quite so bad.”

“The young educated Egyptians who are behind most of
the street violence are becoming dangerous. Containing the movement isn't easy and we can be thankful for the fact the King is still resolutely pro-British. If he weren't, it would be a very different matter.”

“Which is why it's necessary for you to continue to influence Prince Farouk?”

“Yes, Delia. I'm sorry. I know how much you hate being here.”

“Oh, it's not so bad now that I'm dividing my time between Cairo and London. Things there aren't exactly a bowl of cherries.” Her mother's voice sounded depressed. “Jerome is still carrying on his affair with Petra's German friend, who is in London far more often than she is in Berlin.”

Her father sighed and then said, “There will be problems for Kate when I'm released from my posting here. Tongues wagging in Cairo are one thing. London is quite a different kettle of fish.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “We haven't exactly made life easy for ourselves, have we, Delia?”

“No, Ivor.” Delia's voice was full of an emotion Davina couldn't place. “I think it's safe to say that we haven't.”

Not understanding the last part of the conversation Davina dozed off, troubled by the thought of the violent nationalist groups—and the possibility that Darius had become a member of one of them.

Nothing made the journey to London pleasurable for Davina, not even going with her mother to visit her favorite fashion designer, Madeleine Vionnet. All Davina wanted was to be back in Cairo, especially now that she had made contact with Mrs. Brooke and was helping with the street animals.

“Another few months and we'll have a hospital where our poor war horses will be able to meet a merciful end,” Mrs. Brooke had said fiercely. “At the moment the horses we are able to buy are only in temporary stabling, but we have made a start, Lady Davina. And when we have taken care of every old exhausted ex-cavalry horse working in heat they were never bred for, then the next step will be ensuring there are ample water troughs and shade shelters in Cairo's streets.”

It was work Davina passionately wanted to be involved in and no number of beautiful evening gowns—gowns that even she knew made her breathtakingly lovely—could compensate for the fact that she wasn't in Cairo.

Out of respect for her mother she suffered the ritual of coming-out with as good a grace as possible. Some events, such as attending the opening of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and a Covent Garden opera, she enjoyed hugely. The vast majority of events, though—the never-ending round of parties at which she always met the same people time and
time again—bored her to tears. The only ameliorating factor was watching Fawzia's delight. Her exotic looks made her the center of attention at every ball they attended, much to the displeasure of Davina's fellow debutantes.

“She hasn't been presented and so she shouldn't be invited to everything as if she has,” was the general complaint.

Davina felt sorry for the grumblers. All of them were keen to snare a highly eligible suitor and it couldn't be easy for them knowing that Fawzia was receiving proposals of marriage nearly every week. She didn't, however, let her sympathy for them alter her insistence that anyone who invited her also had to invite Fawzia.

“She's been presented to her own monarch, King Fuad, and that is all that matters,” she would say airily, not knowing whether it was all right or not, nor caring.

Just when she thought she could not endure another week of partying, her mother said, “You're going to the Dartington House ball tonight, Davina, aren't you?”

“If you say so.” It wasn't in her nature to show exasperation, but sometimes she just couldn't help it. “Why?”

“Because I'm having a rather special small dinner party this evening. Prince Edward is going to be guest of honor and I thought, before you and Fawzia left, that the two of you might join us for cocktails.”

“Smashing. I haven't met him since I was a little girl and you took me with you to Sandringham. As for Fawzia … she's been champing at the bit to be introduced to him socially. Who are your other guests?”

“The Metcalfes. Lord Denby. And Wallis Simpson.”

Davina didn't take the interest in her mother's social life that Petra did, but even she could see there was something a little odd about the guest list. “What about Mr. Simpson?”

“Ernest has business affairs to attend to,” her mother said, looking uncomfortable.

Davina frowned. Surely her mother wasn't setting up a dinner party to facilitate an affair between her friend and Lord Denby? Wallis Simpson was, she knew, only a year or two younger than her mother and, according to her mother, Lord Denby was elderly and more than a little doddery. “I'm sorry. I don't quite understand—”

“And neither do I, honey,” her mother said drily. “All I know is that Wallis is just back from a trip to the States and David … Prince Edward … has asked me to arrange tonight's party—and to invite Wallis.”

Davina stared at her. “You mean he wants to meet Wallis?”

“No, darling. Thanks to Wallis's friendship with Thelma Furness, the Simpsons and David are already on easy terms. They've been his guests at Fort Belvedere several times. I think tonight's dinner is to be a welcome-home party for her.”

“Oh! I see,” Davina said, not sure that she saw at all. She shrugged her shoulders. Her mother's friends and her mother's social life were, after all, nothing to do with her. She was more worried about how she was going to survive the rest of the season.

Surprisingly, it was a dapper-looking Prince Edward who provided the answer.

“Toynbee Hall,” he said helpfully when she had told him how she spent her time when in Cairo. “It's in the East End— Commercial Street, Whitechapel—and it's the most radical center for social reform there is.” The Prince had the most unexpected accent, plummy vowels embellished with a dash of pseudo-Cockney and, at times, a pseudo-American drawl. “I know about the place,” he continued, “because a friend of mine took me on an incognito visit. It's a settlement house, the idea being that those giving aid to the poor should also live among the poor. It's a good idea, don't you think? If I were you I'd trot along there. I'm sure you could be useful.”

Davina was so astonished that the Prince of Wales was giving
her such advice, she had to try hard not to let her jaw drop. Her mother couldn't very well forbid her to volunteer at Toynbee Hall when it was the Prince's suggestion. He had solved her problem and she gave him a grateful smile.

Relaxed, he smiled back, his eyes twinkling. Even wearing low-heeled shoes she was the taller, and though she could well understand why women all over the world considered him a pinup to rival any Hollywood star, she didn't find herself attracted to him. He was too slightly built and, despite the premature pouches beneath his eyes, too boyish looking. She liked him, though. It would have been impossible for her not to like him when he had visited a place such as Toynbee Hall out of genuine interest.

The Metcalfes and Wallis hadn't yet arrived and though Fawzia was doing all she could to make an impression on him and though Prince Edward was putting her at her ease chatting about a trip he had made to Egypt, Davina could tell, by the way he kept looking toward the door, that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Bellingham entered the room to discreetly announce that the Pughs’ car had arrived. Though it was the custom not to leave a room until the Prince did, he accepted their apologies with easy, almost American informality.

Fawzia spend the rest of the night talking about him: his interest in Egypt, his handsome looks.

Gwen, who had a low opinion of Prince Edward's dalliances with married women such as Freda Dudley Ward and Thelma Furness, endured Fawzia's rhapsodies with gritted teeth. Davina barely heard them. Even though she had yet to visit Toynbee Hall, she had already made up her mind to volunteer. Doing so would mean no more daytime socializing. To say that her mother would not be pleased was putting it mildly.
Fawzia too was going to be upset if it meant her own socializing was curtailed.

Davina bit her lip. She decided that even if she missed the daytime events it didn't mean Fawzia couldn't attend them— especially as Gwen would be chaperoning her.

A few days later, telling Gwen and Fawzia that she wanted a little time to herself, she journeyed by bus and tube to a part of London she doubted any member of her family had ever visited. It was like another country.

Walking up Whitechapel's Commercial Street she was reminded of Cairo. The difference between the elegant streets and palatial villas where she lived and the squalid streets beyond it was the same. Even though she was wearing a very modest candy-striped dress, she stuck out like a sore thumb— and knew it.

The majority of those bustling past her looked to be Jewish and spoke a language she didn't recognize. The small dark shops sold fruit and vegetables she didn't recognize, but the smell was familiar. It was the smell of unwashed bodies, the smell of cheap fried food. The smell of poverty.

None of it came as a surprise to her. What did come as a shock was Toynbee Hall. She had expected a smoke-scarred building in keeping with the neighborhood. Instead, screened from the street by a block of dingy warehouses, it was fronted by an Elizabethan gatehouse with an oriel window.

Intrigued, she stepped through the arched entrance and found a large Tudor-style, redbrick building, its walls covered in ivy. Set around a narrow quadrangle, the house had steep gables, tall chimney stacks, and mullioned windows with lovely leaded panes.

Encouraged she hitched her shoulder bag a little higher and walked toward the open door.

A few moments later she was standing in what she took to be the reception area, talking to a middle-aged woman in twinset and pearls who eyed her doubtfully. “Volunteer work? Have you ever done any voluntary work in a critically deprived area? It's very hands-on here in Whitechapel. It isn't just making cups of tea and handing out biscuits. And you do seem a little young, if you don't mind my saying so.”

Davina's eyes held hers steadily. “I'm nearly nineteen and I've got lots of experience working in extremely deprived areas.”

A troop of children clattered past.

“Have you, indeed?” the woman said when the children had disappeared from view. “And just where was this?”

A pleasant-looking bespectacled man of about thirty, wearing good tweeds and carrying a doctor's bag, hurried out of a nearby room and scooped up a file from the reception desk.

Knowing that the woman was expecting her to say something foolish, such as “the less fashionable part of Piccadilly,” Davina said pleasantly, “Cairo. The Old City. And no matter how horrific Whitechapel's slums, they can't be worse than the slums of Fustat or Khan el-Khalili.”

“Cairo?” The young man turned toward her, his face alight with interest. “Now that must have been educational, don't you think, Miss Scolby?” There was the soft burr of the Scottish Highlands in his voice and more than a hint of Celtic red in his hair. “What kind of volunteer work did you do there, Miss …?”