Chapter Eleven
We walk through the town. The sun is still bright, the air warm and sugar-scented.
Spring’s uplifting energy infuses Seacombe with a blithe, careless feeling, and I wonder whether this sense of innocence and leisure comes from my knowing what darkness lies in the future, or whether it comes from the community itself; after having suffered a terrible war there’s an appreciation for the simple things.
Certainly, the place has a picturesque charm.
I’m surprised when we turn into that magnificent white mansion, which in my time is the Brambling House Hotel. Does Gilda Garrett live here?
We are not alone. Others are making for the door, which is wide open.
I glimpse a butler in a black tailcoat and waistcoat holding it open and, beyond him, a maid, also in uniform, waiting to take guests’ coats, although I suspect most come without, for the weather is fine.
I feel a squeeze on my stomach as I anticipate the inevitable faux pas I will almost certainly make tonight.
I must keep my wits about me and deflect any questions I’m unable to answer. It’s going to be a challenge.
I anticipate seeing Cavill. I’m already looking out for him. If I can stay close to him, I know I will be fine.
No sooner do we step inside the house than the girls leave my side and rush off into the grand drawing room which can be seen from the hall.
It barely resembles the hotel of the future, unlike the Aldershoff in New York where Henry Stirling worked so hard to hold on to its heritage.
Here, only the mouldings on the ceiling take me back to Brambling House, the rest is a sumptuous home filled with treasures. I’m staggered at how gorgeous it is.
The floor in the hall is made of shiny black-and-white marble, laid in a bold, geometric design.
The walls are white, adorned with giant works of art ranging from the traditional to the contemporary.
There are tall palms in big pots, vases of lilies and roses, glass chandeliers, gleaming black fireplace surrounds, gilt-framed mirrors, and furniture made of palisander wood.
I think of Ulysses suddenly. How he would love this extravaganza of Art Deco.
I wish he could see it. He wouldn’t believe his eyes.
I can barely believe mine. It seems so un-English.
Might Gilda have imported it all from America?
I follow the crowd into the drawing room.
I take in the sun-pattern gold and teal-blue wallpaper.
It’s bold and brash but utterly ravishing.
Above me two giant chandeliers sparkle as if crafted from diamonds, and everywhere I look is gloss and shine and polish and, quite simply, immaculate taste.
She might be ghastly, but Gilda’s style is beyond reproach.
At the other end of the drawing room I can see a stage.
A pair of scarlet curtains have been drawn in front of it to conceal what lies behind.
I wonder whether Gilda is already in position there, waiting for everyone to arrive before revealing herself.
There are rows of gold-coloured chairs with red velvet seats, ready for the guests to watch the show.
I’m itching with curiosity to see Gilda.
Nessa has already given me her opinion, but I want to see this leading lady for myself and make up my own mind.
I strain my neck in search of Cavill and spot him in the garden which lies beyond the drawing room through a pair of large, glass-panelled doors.
Everyone is assembling on the lawn with crystal flutes of champagne.
For a moment I feel dizzy, for the scene is so reminiscent of my last slide where elegant men and women in evening dress gathered in the ship’s drawing room with the same style glasses filled with champagne, and the same air of excitement.
The only difference, besides the place, is the length of the women’s dresses which reach mid-calf.
This is 1923, not 1912, after all. The fashion has changed and so has women’s place in society, quite dramatically.
They have lived through the First World War and it has changed them profoundly.
I don’t recall there being a garden at the back of the Brambling House Hotel, but the garden in which I find myself now is ablaze with the abundance of spring.
It’s large for a house in the middle of a town and boasts as its centrepiece a spectacular dogwood whose white flowers resemble snow.
I feel sorry that in the future this lovely garden is dug up for some build.
I help myself to a flute of champagne proffered on a silver tray by a young waiter in a black tailcoat with greased-back blond hair, and bravely launch myself into the crowd.
I hope I can carry this off. Who knew timesliding would require me to be a skilled actor?
The first person I encounter is an elderly lady in a long Edwardian dress.
She looks quite out of place in this garden of flapper dresses that reach just below the knee.
Her thick grey hair is swept up in a voluminous pompadour and crowned with an elegant diamond tiara.
‘My dear Eddie,’ she says in a cut-glass accent that makes our Queen sound common.
‘You’re wearing Tom’s pearl earrings.’ She appraises them with hooded green eyes. ‘Fetching.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, wondering who the hell she is. I lift my chin and feign confidence I do not feel.
‘But don’t you think it’s time to move on and find another husband?
One really shouldn’t be without one for too long or you’ll find yourself left to gather dust on the shelf.
I was talking about you to Lydia earlier today.
A woman without a husband is like a pot without a lid.
The two go very nicely together for a reason.
You’re still fine-looking, but beauty doesn’t last. You won’t be able to rely on that lovely face of yours forever. ’
This has to be Aunt Wallie!
‘Oh, I’m in no hurry to remarry,’ I tell her.
She sniffs her disdain. ‘That is the response of a woman who has had no offers, and I know you better than that …’
She’s cut off by a handsome young man with dark brown hair, chiselled cheekbones, a tidy moustache above a wide, attractive mouth, and a pair of round glasses, which exaggerate the size of his clear, toffee-brown eyes.
‘Countess,’ he says in a rich, confident voice, taking her gloved hand and bowing politely.
‘How kind of you to come and support our little theatre.’ He turns to me and his wide mouth extends into a dashing smile.
‘Mrs Skipton, lovely as always to see you.’
‘And you,’ I return, guessing he’s Mr Garrett, but not daring to say the name in case I’m wrong.
The countess gives the imperious smile of a woman who is used to being a benefactor and receiving thanks for it.
‘You will always have my support, Mr Bentley,’ she replies, correcting my assumption that he is Gilda’s husband and the man who owns The Aphrodite.
I sway a little at how close I came to making a terrible mistake.
‘My husband simply adored the theatre,’ she goes on.
‘And I admire Mrs Skipton very much for valiantly keeping it going during the war years while her poor husband was doing his duty at the front. It is a tragedy that he paid the ultimate price, but we are so grateful to him, and to other young men like my own grandson, Charles, who gave their lives for our freedom. May they never be forgotten.’
‘May they never be forgotten,’ I repeat, and I don’t have to feign a heavy heart.
‘But this is a jolly evening,’ she continues, her solemn voice lifting. ‘And I am happy to pay handsomely for the pleasure of seeing our very own American import perform solo. She does bring much-needed glamour to our small community, does she not?’
‘Oh, she does, indeed,’ Mr Bentley agrees keenly.
‘I am not one of those dusty old relics that is unable to appreciate the bright young things now setting the world alight. After the darkness we need light, and we elderly people must keep up.’ She smiles smugly. ‘You know, in my day, I was something of a novelty myself.’
‘Do tell, Lady Faversham,’ Mr Bentley says encouragingly.
‘While not chaining myself to railings and defacing property, I was a most ardent supporter of women’s suffrage. I still am, in my own quiet way. Influencing where I can behind the scenes. You theatre people know all about that. Much goes on off stage, does it not?’
‘It does, indeed,’ Mr Bentley agrees.
‘We still have a way to go,’ I add, aware that the Equal Franchise Act is not introduced until 1928. ‘But I am confident that we will get equal voting rights in the end.’ I want to add that in fifty-six years’ time Great Britain will have a female prime minister.
Lady Faversham smiles at me approvingly.
‘I admire your optimism, my dear. Women must and will have equal rights to men. But I stand by my opinion that a woman of your age should not be without a husband. It is just the natural way of things, and that will never change however much the hemlines rise.’ They are going to rise much higher than she can imagine!
‘Would it not be greedy to have two husbands, when so many young women are unable to marry even once due to the dire shortage of men?’ I ask, aware of the war’s dreadful losses and of Eddie, whose position on the matter is unknown to me.
The countess laughs and taps me lightly on the arm with her fan. ‘Oh, Eddie dear, sometimes one must be selfish in order to survive in the world!’