A Pearl for My Mistress

‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a novel already.’ Charity shook her head. ‘It’s still more of an idea. It may come to nothing in the end.’

‘Do tell!’

‘You see, I’ve grown a little tired of English country houses …’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘They are dreadful. I still don’t know how I managed to survive my childhood winters there.’

The corner of Lucy’s mouth twitched. She understood this sentiment better than most. Last year, she couldn’t have been more relieved that her family had finally capitulated and decided to install central heating in Hebden Hall. Perhaps capitulation was too strong a word; actually, it was more of a compromise. If the house absolutely had to be defiled by this new apparatus, they thought, then the change must, at least, remain unobtrusive. Therefore, the radiators were concealed by complicated latticework and tucked as far from prying eyes as possible.

Lucy didn’t mind. At least now she wouldn’t have to dress in a way that called to mind early Antarctic explorers.

‘I mean, I am tired of writing about them,’ Charity said, her eyes laughing.

‘Again, who wouldn’t be?’ Nora sighed deeply and shook her head, making the lush red tresses sweep across her shoulders.

The Honourable Miss Eleanor Palmer was nothing if not expressive. Few people would have called her beautiful; however, she definitely possessed a certain presence. Indeed, most ordinary mortals seemed to grow somehow muted while in her radius. Even Charity Williams, a self-assured Oxford graduate and an acclaimed novelist, looked quite subdued next to the heiress. A small, pale debutante like Lucy was simply destined to blend in to the surroundings.

‘So, where will this new novel be set?’ Nora asked, as she finished the delicate cucumber sandwich.

‘I’m planning to write about Venice.’

‘Venice? But how marvellous!’ Nora all but clapped her hands. ‘I’ve spent so many delightful months there. Speaking of which, have you ever been to Venice?’

‘That’s the difficulty, I’m afraid.’ Charity smiled wryly. ‘I haven’t. I know Mrs Radcliffe used to set her Gothic novels in Italy while knowing it only from dramatic paintings, but I don’t think anyone can get away with that sort of thing now.’

And even if they could, Lucy thought, Charity would never do such a thing. She has always been thorough. Lucy admired that.

Miss Williams’ world seemed to her as improbable and fantastic as the legends discussed in Charity’s beloved Oxford by her equally beloved Professor Tolkien. In this world, there were heated intellectual discussions and fondly remembered debates. There were books, written by Charity herself, finished and published and acclaimed. There were no chaperones.

Lucy strained her ears to hear Charity better every time they happened to meet in the same company.

Lucy’s father, the esteemed pillar of local gentry, was of the opinion that schools only spoiled girls, and excessive reading was unwholesome for any child. Following that logic, universities should have probably spoiled them to a frightening degree. Charity showed no sign of being affected by such corruption, though.

How strange this reserved intellectual looked at Eleanor’s side. The latter always conducted herself as if she were playing an American heiress in a bad musical.

In a twist of irony, Nora’s late mother, a real American heiress, was reputed in her day to be the demurest creature on the whole London scene. This must have been why the shy foreigner drew Sir Frederick Palmer’s attention back then – aside from her money, of course. After all, the young baronet was already used to the high life, and Marianne Lindley’s dowry freed him from the daunting prospect of parting with his habits.

‘Well, this shouldn’t be a problem!’ Nora exclaimed, making the couple at the nearest table turn in her direction. ‘Our holiday home in Lido stands empty for most of the year. It isn’t in Venice proper, of course, but it’s close enough. Twenty minutes by boat, I think. Perhaps, thirty, if you are unlucky. No one is going to be using it for several months. Although, if I were you, I’d wait until autumn,’ she added. ‘Italy in summer feels like a local branch of hell.’

‘You are going to give me the keys to your holiday home?’ Charity asked with disbelief ringing in her voice. Lucy shared her perplexity.

‘Why not?’ Nora shrugged. ‘As I’ve said, no one is going to live there for some time. Father and Lady Isabelle are planning to spend this autumn in France.’

Eleanor almost never spoke of anyone with open bitterness. However, Sir Frederick Palmer’s second wife was never a ‘mother’ or even a ‘stepmother’ – always ‘Lady Isabelle’.

‘If you are sure that it will cause you no trouble …’ Charity still sounded doubtful.

‘Absolutely not!’ Nora reached across the table to squeeze her hand. Charity flinched almost imperceptibly. Lucy could understand that – Nora was charming, but her propensity for touching people like that always came across as a little startling.

‘You are an angel. I only hope the new government won’t take offence at my visit.’

‘Oh, that’s probably the last thing you should worry about.’

‘Well, people are telling all sorts of stories.’

‘Believe me: I go to Venice every year, and I haven’t noticed anything sinister so far.’

‘It’s not just Venice,’ Charity remarked. ‘The Continent as a whole is going a little wild lately. Have you heard of what happened in Germany?’

‘You mean the appointment of this new Reich Chancellor? Oh, of course. I’m afraid I missed the first flurry of gossip, though,’ Eleanor confessed. ‘I’ve spent almost the whole winter on that safari, and it’s not easy to keep track of Kenyan rhinoceroses and European politics at the same time. But everyone enlightened me once I came back. Some people thought it to be a great joke, and, to be honest, I agree. Wasn’t he a common soldier?’

‘I’ve heard he was a painter.’

‘Even better!’

‘I thought you’d always supported the arts,’ Charity teased.

‘But not quite to that extent!’ Nora rolled her eyes. ‘We have our own fair share of lunatics, though. Look at Sir Oswald Mosley and his boys, for instance. If anything, they resemble overgrown Boy Scouts.’

Lucy sat still, barely daring to breathe. What if one of the ladies turned and asked her opinion on the subject? She didn’t hold an opinion on the subject. She simply knew nothing about the subject.

What would they think of her then?

They didn’t ask her, though. Nor did they throw a single glance at her.

‘Mosley is still bitter because the Labour Party didn’t want to listen to his proposals,’ Charity observed. ‘To be honest, I thought he would have calmed down by now. All these marches and chants won’t get him back into power – they simply make him look ridiculous. If he was impressed by the Italians so much, he could have just taken up fresco painting.’

Breathe deeper, Lucy told herself. It isn’t the end of the world. If you don’t know it, you can always read about it.

‘Do you know, though, that even his mistress calls him The Leader?’

‘Alexandra Metcalfe?’ Charity frowned. ‘I thought better of her.’

‘No, the Mitford girl.’

‘Diana? The one who took to wearing her tiara on her neck?’

‘That one.’

‘Oh, heavens. She doesn’t call him that to his face, I hope? Otherwise their nights together must be the stuff of nightmares.’

‘Diana herself clearly doesn’t think so. I’ve heard, he is quite … Oh, Charity, look! We are making poor Lucy blush!’

Never did Lucy hate her fair skin as fiercely as she did at that moment. Her fingers squeezed the dainty porcelain cup with unnatural rigidity.

How she loathed her innocence. Her inexperience. Her diffidence.

She didn’t want to play the part of a timid, ignorant country girl – the role that seemed to have been assigned to her the moment she stepped into her first ballroom.