Chapter Forty
London
The salon in Claridge’s hotel is full for afternoon tea.
Prim ladies nibble on cucumber sandwiches and caviar canapés as I follow the tuxedoed attendant past an assortment of potted palm trees to take the proffered seat at the center table, set for two.
There I await the arrival of the Right Honorable Countess of Fairmont.
That’s how Hal’s older sister is to be addressed.
Anne Thorne, the American heiress who made an exceptional match, marrying the much older Earl of Fairmont, moving from Pittsburgh to London, where she now lives as a widowed aristocrat.
I settle in at the linen-draped table and glance around.
The bright space smells of cakes and lemon, as well as a medley of fine perfumes.
There’s been a break in the rain; sunshine now pours in through the windows, while outside the Mayfair streets teem with midday carriage and foot traffic.
Every few minutes I hear the braying of a motorcar’s horn or a clamor of chatter, but inside here it’s all decorously restrained conversation, the tinkling of silver and porcelain, the soft strains of the string quintet floating through the gracious salon.
I’m grateful to have this brief moment to catch my breath and prepare for the upcoming meeting.
It’s been a whirlwind first week since Hal set us up here in this posh hotel, in a sprawling suite of rooms with grand views looking out over London’s exclusive Mayfair neighborhood.
He was not exaggerating when he said he’d planned a full itinerary.
So far we’ve had two shopping excursions to Harrods, private guided tours of both the National Gallery and Westminster Abbey, a chartered boat ride up the Thames, a walk through Hyde Park, a picnic luncheon, and a performance of Romeo and Juliet in the West End.
Just this morning, we had a coach ride across the city to drive past St. James’s Palace, Kensington Palace, and Buckingham Palace.
It was at the third palace, while Hal was pointing out the Union Jack flag bearing the royal standard, that he remarked: “That’s an indication that King Edward is in residence—when the royal standard flies above one of the royal residences. ”
I’d nodded, happy as always to have Hal point out these new and exotic details of life abroad.
I’m learning so much from him. But then Hal had added one more detail: “Evelyn, do you know that my monthly allowance is greater than his? The king’s?
” He’d flashed a smile as he said it, and I wasn’t entirely certain whether it had been said in jest, so I simply returned his grin and turned my gaze once more out the window.
It’s too bad he’s not able to join me now in the busy salon of Claridge’s for tea with his sister.
“Why can’t you?” I asked, and he sighed, telling me only that he had to go out of the city with Mr. Ballard for the afternoon.
Something came up, some sort of urgent business.
Mamma, too, has declined to join me and instead sent me down to the salon with her regrets.
“A splitting headache, Florence,” she lamented, unable—or unwilling—to rise from bed. So here I am, quite alone.
Mamma’s attitude toward Hal has evolved over the course of our first week in London.
It’s not the honeyed warmth she’s always offered Stan, but her frostiness has thawed to a cool sort of gratitude.
When I told Mamma back in Manhattan that I was taking a hiatus from the stage, accepting Hal’s offer to travel for the summer, I offered absolutely no hint of equivocation.
Seeing my resolve, she’d begrudgingly agreed to travel with me.
It would have been too scandalous to let me go alone, though she’d evidently seen that I did not care and was going either way.
“I’ll come along,” she sighed. Really, how terrible of an offer is it to travel throughout London and Paris with Hal Thorne treating us to deluxe accommodations at every stop?
Hal has indeed spoiled us like aristocrats, while keeping a courteous sort of distance, staying in a separate suite on a different floor of this hotel.
And now he’s facilitated this introduction to a true aristocrat, his sister, who has deigned to leave her townhouse in Berkeley Square to call on me for tea.
Truth be told, I’m not overly enthusiastic about this meeting.
As Anne has lived in England for the past decade, she was not present in Pittsburgh on that evening when her mother turned us away in disgust, but no doubt she knows of my career on the stage.
She’s likely heard, too, of my humble origins.
My fretting is interrupted as Her Ladyship sweeps into the salon.
A server guides the countess toward our table.
She’s a tall woman, and her plumed hat soars so high that its cream-colored feathers almost graze the chandelier overhead.
The patrons all around the room throw furtive glances toward me as I rise from my seat; I don’t believe anyone in this crowded salon knows who I am, but surely they wonder who has the privilege of taking tea with the Countess of Fairmont.
I’ve dressed with care for this meeting.
I’m wearing one of my chic new gowns, a beaded tea dress of lemon-yellow silk, the expert tailoring snug and flattering, thanks to Hal’s largesse.
My hands are gloved, and I fold them before my waist, affixing a mild smile that says I am happy to meet her but not excessively so. Play the part.
The Countess of Fairmont comes to a halt before me and offers a tight smile in return.
I see the family resemblance in her full lips, her pale eyes, though she looks more like her mother than her brother.
As Hal is ten years older than me, and she is older than him, I suspect she may be in her late thirties, perhaps early forties.
And she seems to take almost a maternal demeanor with me now, as though I’m some charity case to be taken in hand as she leans forward and brushes my cheek with the faintest hint of a kiss, a cloud of rosewater wafting around her.
With the charming trace of a faint English accent, she dismisses the server and turns her gaze back on me.
“My dear Miss Talbot, he certainly didn’t lie.
Why, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you?
It is good of you to invite me for tea.” We settle into our seats, and the countess launches a flurry of questions, showing none of her mother’s cool reserve.
She asks how I have liked London. I tell her that I particularly enjoyed my night at the theater.
She asks if the hotel has been to our liking, and I tell her that it has been lovely.
As a full service of black tea is brought to us by a pair of white-gloved attendants, followed immediately by a tower of plated pastries and finger sandwiches, I can’t help but think back to my first meeting with Hal. A table so much like this one for high tea at Rector’s.
It’s enough to make my head spin, how far we have come—that I am now here in London, traveling with Hal Thorne, sitting down to nibble on lemon cakes with his sister, an aristocrat, who interrupts my musings by asking, “Paris is next?”
“It is, ma’am,” I respond, accepting an offered cup of tea from the server. “Though I will confess, I know little of the details.”
The countess stirs a small drop of cream into her own tea. “Why is that?”
“Your brother has been so generous, seeing to every detail.”
She considers this a moment, stirring the murky brown clouds of her tea.
Then, lifting her silver spoon aloft, pointing it like a schoolmistress would wield a ruler, she says, “Be that as it may, I still feel it’s always best for a lady to act as her own guide on any expedition.
Or, at the very least, to know where she’s going next. ”
I shift in my seat, my hand gripping the delicate bone china handle of my teacup.
Not sure how to respond to her remark, I blow on my tea softly.
I notice Anne is eyeing me intently over the rim of her own cup.
Before she takes a sip, she asks, “You were close with that architect back in Manhattan, were you not?”
I tip back in my chair, my back stiffening.
Anne narrows her eyes, as if studying me. “Hal told me the name…. Goodness, where is my memory? What’s he called?”
“Stanley Pierce.” My voice is little more than a whisper.
“That’s it! Yes, that’s the one.”
“He was a supporter of…my theater company,” I say, lowering my teacup into the saucer.
“They always are, aren’t they?” Anne plucks a scone from the plate between us, her pincer grasp a fluid movement of implicit gentility and assumed privilege.
She is a woman who has never known hunger.
Rather, she has had a plate of delicacies to sate any craving she has ever wished to indulge.
She takes a small bite before saying, “Hal tells me he was positively beastly. That you were in need of rescuing. Am I remembering that correctly?”
I look down at my tea, fumbling to form some reply.
But she goes on: “And now here you are. So then you do know how to get where you need to go, in any event. You’re no helpless damsel.
” She scoops a small dollop of clotted cream onto the scone, muttering, “There, now, that’s more like it.
” Turning her too-direct gaze back toward me, she adds: “Isn’t that so? ”
I bristle at this, at all of this. Is the countess implying that I am some artful woman with designs? That I’ve ensnared her brother? Why, I did not seek out Hal. Or Stanley Pierce, for that matter.
But she goes on, apparently oblivious to the offense she’s caused.
“Still, I hope it’s not a case of leaping from one disaster to another.
” Her Ladyship arcs a thin eyebrow, takes a slow sip of tea.
“Tawdry, sordid stuff, if I remember correctly. Let’s hope everyone minds their manners this time round. ”
My head whirls. She is speaking in such vagaries and snippets, and while I find it hard to follow the disjointed train of her blunt thoughts, I do see one thing quite clearly: she is her mother’s daughter after all. A snob—and so far above me.
But even worse, on top of her snobbery, she has the noble’s complete lack of restraint. Lady Fairmont is brusque and abrasive; so accustomed is she to being deferred to and obeyed, she’s insulting me now and smirking as she does so.
Well, I need not take this offense with a smile of my own. In fact, I’ll do the opposite. I don’t attempt to mask my scowl as I sit across from her, allowing my tea to go untouched. Keeping my voice restrained, yet tinged with frost, I answer her: “I assure you, I’m minding my manners.”
For the first time, I seem to have caught Lady Fairmont speechless.
Her blue eyes go wide. She surveys me curiously for a long moment before she raises a gloved hand to her chest and declares, “Oh, my dear girl. You thought I meant you?” She titters a high-pitched laugh.
“No, but you misunderstand me! The disaster. The minding of manners.” She leans forward, tilting over the table, and then to my fresh shock, she places her hand on mine.
Her voice goes low, confiding, as she says, “You pretty little thing. It’s not your manners about which I worry. It’s my brother’s.”