The Proposal (9 page)

‘I know you are a little embarrassed by me sometimes. I know you think I can be away with the fairies. But I am a practical woman. I don’t want to live like this any more. You might not have the height or the neck to model, but you are a beautiful young girl. You can make a good marriage, and believe me, your dreams of becoming a writer are much more likely to be within your reach if you have the cushion of financial security.’

The train chugged to a halt at Paddington station with a long whistle and the ear-piercing screech of brakes against iron. Georgia knew there was no point in arguing any further. No point complaining that she felt like a fatted cow being sent off to market – or should that be a lamb sent to the slaughter? They were flat broke. Her fate was sealed: she was to go along with her mother’s plan to find her a suitable husband.

Estella treated them to a taxi from the station and Georgia pressed her nose up against the glass as it weaved through the streets of London. The journey from Devon had been over six hours long. It was almost dark now, and the city was retreating into a series of lights and shadows beyond the rain-speckled window of the cab. Despite her protestations on the train, Georgia had nothing against London. She did not consider it as beautiful or romantic as Paris, which had escaped the wartime bombing, but it was hard not to feel a thrill as she saw Hyde Park, and the Dorchester Hotel twinkling in the dusk.

Their destination was the home of her aunt Sybil and uncle Peter, who lived in a handsome white mews house behind Pimlico Road. As the taxi stopped outside and their trunks were unloaded, Georgia took a moment to admire its polished stone steps and shiny front door.

Sybil and Peter’s uniformed housekeeper welcomed them at the door as Sybil swept down the staircase behind her.

Georgia had not seen her aunt since the previous summer and thought she had aged considerably since then. She did not know Sybil’s precise age but she guessed it was around forty-five. Certainly in her formal dress, string of pearls around her neck and completely grey hair, she looked a decade older than Estella, who was wearing pink capri trousers, a turban hat and a long white jacket made of alpaca.

‘At last,’ said Sybil, kissing them both lightly on the cheek. ‘Come through,’ she added, spinning round so fast that the expensive-looking navy fabric of her dress made a swooshing sound.

‘Peter and Clarissa should be back any time. Mrs Bryant has prepared chicken for supper, but I suspect all you want now is a pot of tea.’

Mrs Bryant, the housekeeper, hovered at the door and offered to take their coats.

‘You’ve done the house,’ said Estella.

Georgia took a minute to glance around the room. If Sybil looked older since the last time she had been in London, then her house looked decidedly more modish. The stiff furniture and fusty antiques that seemed to belong in a Victorian parlour had all gone, and the new splashes of colour around the place appeared more suited to Estella’s style of decor.

‘I have just painted the chicken coop back at the farm this exact shade of fuchsia,’ said Estella, drifting a finger across a bright pink ottoman.

‘Really, how lovely,’ said Sybil, her expression at odds with her words. Georgia had often felt that her aunt and her mother had nothing in common whatsoever – Sybil’s background was as establishment as Estella’s was offbeat and bohemian. In fact it was Sybil’s position as the youngest daughter of the Honourable David Castlereagh that had afforded them such a comfortable home, not Uncle Peter’s Civil Service job in the Home Office.

‘I found a wonderful designer, David Hicks. He’s doing all the best people in London right now. So how was the journey?’ asked Sybil as a clock chimed five in the distance.

‘I can’t say I was sad to leave the farm,’ replied Estella, sitting down. ‘Winter has been brutal this year. Fifteen chickens died during a particularly cold snap. To avoid going the same way, I was eating dripping on toast just to get fat and insulate myself.’

‘I don’t know how you cope, living in the middle of nowhere,’ said Sybil with a dramatic sigh. ‘You should have moved back to London years ago.’

Georgia had to stop herself from nodding in agreement. She had recognised as soon as she returned home from Paris that the little pocket of Devon where she had grown up was beginning to lose its allure.

‘Perhaps. But I am an artist, and I need space and light. The farm is twice the size of this place, and if we moved to London we wouldn’t be able to afford a garage, let alone something with a studio and potter’s wheel. Besides, James would have wanted us to stay there.’

‘James would have wanted you to be comfortable, not eating goose fat to protect yourselves from hypothermia.’

Georgia felt a wave of emotion at the mention of her father. He had died when she was only four years old, a victim of the war – a solicitor by trade, dispatched to the front line and killed in his foxhole in Normandy. Although she only had very vague recollections of him, Estella made sure that his presence was all around them at the farm. His fishing rods remained untouched in the hallway, photographs were displayed around the house, his books and papers were where he had left them in the study.

Mrs Bryant came into the room and put a white china teapot in the middle of the table.

‘Sybil, I just want to say again how grateful we are to you for sponsoring Georgia,’ said Estella.

Georgia almost snorted out loud. When Estella had first got it into her head that her daughter should do the Season, Georgia had been relieved to discover that not everyone was allowed to do it. You had to be presented at court by someone who had herself been a debutante, and traditionally this was supposed to be your mother. But Estella had learnt that there were ways around the system, and as Aunt Sybil had been a deb in the thirties – her debutante photograph sat for all to see on the new lacquered cabinet – it was decided that she should present Georgia, which had depressed Georgia for about a fortnight.

‘My pleasure,’ said Sybil, not entirely convincingly. ‘Although I have to say, Georgia, you are rather late arriving in London.’

‘I know. The train was very slow,’ she replied, sipping a glass of orange squash.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Sybil more sharply. ‘You do know that the debs have been here since January, and some of the mothers since before Christmas. There have been lunches, dinner parties, all sorts of little getting-to-know-one-another soirées. Invitations to the best events of the Season have been secured before you even arrived.’

‘I’ve had things to do,’ said Estella, looking unconcerned at her ticking-off. ‘A very important commission to finish, for one. The Earl of Dartington wanted a life-sized portrait of his wife, and she just wouldn’t stay still, so it took for ever. Besides, Georgia didn’t get back from Paris until a week ago.’

‘I thought Madame Didiot’s school finished in February.’

‘It did,’ said Georgia sulkily.

‘So why have you only just returned to England now?’

You’re lucky I came back at all
, thought Georgia, knocking back the squash in one gulp.

‘Well, we can make up for lost time now,’ said Estella cheerfully.

‘Not if no one knows who are you. I heard that you did not submit a coming-out portrait for either
Queen
or
Tatler
magazine.’

‘Mum was going to paint me,’ said Georgia, sticking up for her mother.

Estella stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘I thought she’d look sensational in oils. But time ran away from us a bit, didn’t it. Surely it’s not important, though?’

‘It’s extremely important. The portraits mark out the girls to look out for.’ Sybil had begun to shake her head. ‘You are completely unprepared for this. The pair of you. The presentations at the Palace are in a week’s time and you have met no one. This is no joke. If I am to present Georgia at court then we have to take it seriously.’ She had a sternness that not even the most scary nuns at Georgia’s old convent school had possessed.

‘Actually, I have planned a fork luncheon for the day before the presentations,’ replied Estella in her defence.

‘Well, that’s a start. Who is coming?’

Georgia rattled off the names of five girls who were attending. Four of them had been at finishing school with her. Only one of them she had actually liked. The fifth girl was someone through her mother’s art world connections, the daughter of a City trader that Estella had done work for.

‘I can’t say I’ve heard of any of them,’ sniffed Sybil coolly. ‘How about I ask around a few friends? Drum up support? Now, I assume you’ve got your wardrobe ready.’

They heard a click at the front door, followed by footsteps and voices, and Aunt Sybil’s face softened.

‘Ah, here’s Clarissa. Just in time to talk fashion.’

Georgia stood up and gave her cousin a hug.

‘How are you, George? You’ve cut your hair. Very Paris-chic.’

‘And you look fantastic.’ Georgia grinned, admiring her cousin’s navy pencil skirt and soft turquoise jumper.

‘Well, I work at
Vogue
now. Secretary pool, but still, I have to keep up appearances.’

‘Clarissa, did you ever find that checklist we used for your season?’

‘Yes. I sent Estella a copy a few weeks ago.’

Georgia turned to her mother, who looked blank.

‘The post is very unreliable where we are.’

‘I don’t think I threw it away,’ said Clarissa helpfully. ‘Let me go and find it.’

She returned after a few minutes and handed a sheet of pale blue paper to Sybil, who read out loud from it.

‘“Cocktail dresses – four. Evening frocks – six. Three dark, two pale, one white for Queen Charlotte’s Ball. Palace dress – pale blue silk. Ascot frocks – two. Shoes – seven pairs. Gloves – assorted. Nylons – two dozen. Evening wraps – two. Preferably cashmere. Suits – one. Handbags – six. Hats – four.” I notice we haven’t put lingerie, girdles and perfume. I know they are not going to be seen, but I always think a girl’s under-dressing is so important to make her feel special.’

She looked up and glared at Georgia.

‘I assume you’ve got all these things covered.’

Georgia smiled weakly, thinking about the contents of her trunk. It was half filled with her Paris clothes – jeans, Breton tops and black polo-neck jumpers. There was a pair of jodhpurs and a few old cashmere sweaters that had belonged to her father and which had survived the moths. She also recalled some harem pants, a peasant smock her mother had saved from her time in Provence and a couple of house dresses they had found in the Salvation Army shop in Totnes, one of which had come with a matching oven glove. But nothing as fancy-sounding as an Ascot frock or a cocktail dress.

‘I think we had better go shopping,’ said Estella decisively.

‘We can’t afford all that,’ replied Georgia, aghast.

‘We can improvise,’ said Estella, as her eyes darted down to the smart moss-green patterned fabric that covered the table.

It was Sybil’s turn to look shocked.

‘Georgia can’t turn up to Ascot in a tablecloth, Estella, however handy you are with a needle and thread.’

Peter Hamilton walked in smoking a pipe. He was still wearing his overcoat and had a copy of the
Racing Post
tucked under his arm. He was touching fifty but was still a very good-looking man indeed, and if Georgia squinted there was a touch of her father she knew from the photographs.

‘Hello, hello. My favourite niece. How are you, pumpkin?’ he said, ruffling her hair. ‘What’s all this about tablecloths and Ascot? Can I join in the conversation or am I excluded on account of my sex?’

‘Georgia hasn’t got the appropriate wardrobe for the Season,’ said Sybil witheringly.

‘Clarissa, don’t you have anything that she could borrow?’ said Peter, turning to his daughter. ‘There’s a closet stuffed with taffeta and all you seem to wear these days are those tight skirts.’

‘Peter, those are special dresses,’ protested Sybil.

‘Nonsense. I spent five hundred pounds and I haven’t seen her wear them once since. They can’t be that special. Clarissa, take Georgia upstairs and see if she would like to borrow anything.’

‘Peter . . .’

Georgia watched a look of panic pass between mother and daughter.

‘It’s fine,’ said Clarissa with more grace than her mother. ‘Come with me, George, and you can tell me all about Paris.’

Clarissa’s bedroom was at the top of the house. Her brother Richard was still at Eton, so she had the entire floor to herself.

‘Fancy a ciggie?’ she asked, opening the window and pulling a packet of Sobranie from her bag.

‘So Daddy says you’re not staying with us,’ she said, sitting down on the bed.

Georgia shook her head. ‘No. Your dad’s found us a flat in Chelsea. Apparently it belongs to some journalist friend of his who is in Cairo. I think he realised that Estella and Sybil wouldn’t last a week in each other’s company.’

‘Chelsea. What fun,’ grinned her cousin. ‘There’s a great coffee shop down there I should introduce you to. Lots of cute Guardsmen from the barracks, too.’

‘So how is
Vogue
?’

The two girls used to be close. At Peter’s insistence, Clarissa and Richard would spend every summer in Devon, but that had stopped the year before Clarissa’s own season, two years earlier. Despite the odd letter, Georgia was out of the loop with her cousin’s life.

‘I love it. Gives me an excuse to buy lots of clothes without my dad complaining.’

‘Show me what you’ve got, then. Your mum nearly gave me a heart attack when she read out that list. A house dress and a pair of Turkish slippers aren’t going to cut it at Buckingham Palace.’

Clarissa laughed, and lit her cigarette. ‘What a shame you couldn’t buy anything in Paris. I’m desperate to go shopping on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Dior is a genius. I wept when he died.’

‘How could I afford Dior, Issa? I could barely afford a cup of coffee while I was at Madame Didiot’s.’

Clarissa nodded in the direction of the large wardrobes that occupied both alcoves of the room.

‘Go on then. Have a rummage. Anything but my presentation dress.’