Chapter Five
Clemmi slipped her arm through Elizabeth’s and steered a course across the salon, past a cluster of wives in this season’s Worth, worn head to toe and all at once, their diamonds as new as their gowns and twice the size of any in the room.
“…and I said to Harold, I don’t care how they dress it up – a fancy bread roll and a pot of jam is not breakfast…”
Elizabeth leaned closer to Clemmi’s ear. “It seems our American friends are rather underwhelmed by the continental breakfast.”
“That’s nothing. You should hear them on the subject of French bathrooms.”
Clemmi drew her on towards the windows, through drifts of cigar smoke and the tail-ends of other people’s conversations.
“…mais de Massenet ne cédera jamais…”
“…twenty million, I heard, though Wilson swears it’s nearer thirty…”
“Clemmi, my dear.”
A woman in dove-grey silk broke from the group at the centre window, fair hair silvering at the temples, pearls at her throat.
She took both of Clemmi’s hands and kissed her cheek.
“You look wonderful, but tell me, how are you feeling? And I want the truth, mind – I’ve spent the entire evening among men guarding their words like state secrets. ”
“The mornings are still rather trying, if truth be told – though not nearly so trying as Dr Vernet’s beef tea.”
“Dr Vernet and his beef tea. I’ve long suspected he holds shares in it.”
Her gaze settled on Elizabeth, taking her in from bob to hem. “And this must be your Lady Elizabeth. Clemmi speaks of you so often I feel we’re acquainted already.”
“How do you do, Lady Davenport.”
“Welcome to Paris, my dear. And how long are you planning on staying?”
“A week, perhaps – though that rather depends on how long Clemmi’s willing to put up with me.”
“In that case, I fear you’ll never return to England.
And what a week you’ve chosen.” Lady Davenport’s eyes swept the salon, coming to rest on a portly gentleman laughing too loudly at his own remark.
“I’ve spent the entire evening trying to keep the Americans sweet.
Mind you, they’re all perfectly charming individually, but assemble them all in one room together and they simply cannot resist telling the French how France should be governed. ”
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched at the corners as she caught Clemmi’s eye.
“The French, of course, are digging their heels in, and the Americans are every bit as obstinate, while Conrad’s assessment is that the pair of them want their heads banged together and should just sign the ruddy paperwork and be done with it.
Not that he can ever say any such thing aloud, of course – which is why I’m never entirely off duty at these things. ”
“And to think the embassy will have to manage without you soon. I don’t know what they’ll do when you’re back in England.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Clemmi, but I expect they’ll muddle through.
” Lady Davenport’s gaze drifted across the salon.
“It’s the children’s ward at the hospital I can’t bear to think of going wanting.
” She shook her head. “I only hope the next man brings a wife with an appetite for more than flowers and table plans.”
“Whoever she is, she’ll have rather large shoes to fill.”
A young man in evening dress approached and murmured something at Lady Davenport’s shoulder.
“Very well, tell him I’m on my way.” She turned back to them, pressing Clemmi’s hand. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. The meeting’s about to begin, which leaves me to hold the fort out here. Lovely to have met you at last, Lady Elizabeth.”
She followed the young man across the salon, pausing to exchange greetings as she went.
“Between you and me.” Clemmi drew a half-step closer. “I don’t know how she puts up with him.”
“As bad as all that?”
“Let me put it this way. If you met him at dinner, you’d take him for a man who’s never read anything longer than a regimental menu, and yet he ran a cipher department here in Paris during the war and managed to crack a German code that uncovered a U-boat ambush waiting for the American troop ships.
Apparently, it was a real turning point in the war, and that’s how he ended up with the knighthood and the ambassadorship. ”
“A code-breaker and a war hero. He must find diplomacy rather dull by comparison.”
“I’ll say. Sir Conrad doesn’t have the temperament for diplomacy.
He’s a major to his bones, far happier barking orders at men who aren’t permitted to answer back.
And that’s the reason for his frustration – the French argue as a point of national honour, and the Americans argue because they’re paying. ”
Among a dozen or so gentlemen in identical black and white, making their way towards the double doors at the far end of the salon, glasses and cigars carried with them, one stood out – a broad-shouldered man with a military moustache, a pale blue sash crossing his waistcoat from shoulder to hip, a silver star at his breast. “Is that Sir Conrad, by any chance?”
“The one and only.”
Sir Conrad paused at the double doors and murmured something to Oliver before stepping through.
Oliver moved across to Mr Arbuthnot and leaned in close, one hand coming to rest on his arm.
Arbuthnot stopped mid-stride. His chin lifted, colour flooding his cheeks, and whatever protest he made, Oliver met it with a slow shake of his head.
The last of the men filed past them, and the doors closed.
Arbuthnot stared after them, his jaw working, then turned on his heel and cut back through the salon towards a slender woman in dark blue standing near the windows, mouse-brown hair gathered in a low bun.
Arbuthnot planted himself in front of her, talking nineteen to the dozen, his finger jabbing towards the closed doors.
The woman listened, her head tilted, nodding occasionally.
“Poor Miss Bembridge.” Clemmi shook her head. “Whenever Mr Arbuthnot has a grievance, it’s invariably her ear that pays for it.”
“Mrs Sterling! I thought it was you.”
A young woman with a chestnut bob approached, her dress cut with a distinctly Parisian flair.
“Maggie! I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”
“I didn’t expect to be here myself, but Miss Bembridge insisted.
She said it was a case of all hands on deck, since Sir Conrad was certain to keep her occupied tonight.
” Maggie’s attention shifted across the salon to where Arbuthnot was still in full flow, Miss Bembridge nodding along.
“Though it seems Sir Conrad isn’t the only one keeping her busy. ”
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the woman in dark blue, still nodding along to Arbuthnot’s grievances. “And Miss Bembridge is…?”
“Sir Conrad’s personal secretary. She runs the chancery like a military operation, isn’t that right, Maggie?”
“That’s putting it mildly. Six years I’ve worked there, and I’ve never once seen her flustered or caught off guard. The woman is completely unflappable.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what Sir Conrad would do without her.” Clemmi shook her head. “But where are my manners? May I introduce Miss Margaret Howard. Maggie, this is my dearest friend, Lady Elizabeth Hawthorne.”
“Lady Elizabeth.” Maggie tilted her head. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance – Cybil Hughes?”
“We do indeed.”
“She’s actually staying with me at the moment, and a few of us are having supper at Le Chat Qui Dort once Miss Bembridge can spare me.
You’d be very welcome to join us, although…
” Her gaze skimmed Elizabeth’s gown. “I’m not entirely sure it’s the sort of place you’d normally frequent, Lady Elizabeth. ”
“I’d be delighted – it’s been far too long since I’ve seen Cybil. So long as you don’t mind, Clemmi?”
“Not at all; you can’t come all the way to Paris and see nothing but my drawing room.” Clemmi shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Would you like to sit down?” Elizabeth kept her voice low.
“Perhaps in a little while.” Clemmi mustered a smile. “I’m not ready to give Oliver the satisfaction just yet.”
“It looks as though Miss Bembridge might soon be released for good behaviour,” Maggie said.
Elizabeth followed Maggie’s gaze across the salon. Arbuthnot had removed his pince-nez and was working a handkerchief over the lenses as he talked, Miss Bembridge before him, hands folded, nodding. “How on earth can you tell?”
“The handkerchief. It only ever comes out near the end.”
Arbuthnot held the pince-nez up to the light, settled them back on his nose, and returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket. Whatever he had left to say, he delivered it with his gaze fixed on the double doors, then moved off towards the refreshment tables.
“There. Not a minute over the usual.”
Miss Bembridge made her way over, hands clasped at her waist.
“Mrs Sterling, do forgive me. I spotted you when you arrived, but I’m afraid I was rather … waylaid.”
“So we saw.” Clemmi’s mouth curved in a sympathetic smile. “Mr Arbuthnot seems to have quite the bee in his bonnet this evening.”
“He does rather, doesn’t he? It’s such a shame he’s not married. I do believe a wife might have helped him navigate these occasions a little better.”
“Someone like Lady Davenport, perhaps?” Clemmi asked.
“Indeed.” Miss Bembridge caught herself. “Forgive me, Mrs Sterling, I spoke out of turn.”
“Not at all. I’d say you spoke perfectly in turn.”
Sir Conrad burst through the double doors, his colour high, and made for the French windows. Arbuthnot tried to head him off, but Sir Conrad dismissed him with a flick of the wrist and kept walking.
Across the salon, Lady Davenport tracked her husband’s movements over the rim of her coupe.
Arbuthnot glared after him, his jaw tight, before pushing through the guests towards the entrance.
Clemmi dipped her head towards Elizabeth’s ear. “Something tells me negotiations are not going well.”
Elizabeth caught the look that passed between Miss Bembridge and Lady Davenport, gone before either woman’s expression changed.