Lady Vanessa and Sir Randolph Vale were taking tea in their orangery when their eldest daughter finally deigned to grace them with her presence. Sir Randolph’s head was deep within the pages of the Financial Times, with the frontpage headline: WAVES ON WALL STREET, BRITISH BANKS HOLD BACK THE TIDE. Clara, who had been following events since the financial crash in New York last October with concern, was glad to see some good news, although she knew her father’s financial problems ran far deeper than that.
Her mother, wearing a high-collared lace blouse, with a cameo brooch at the throat, was accepting a top-up of tea from Cartwright, pouring from a two-hundred-year-old Queen Anne silver teapot. Clara, who had not expected her parents to leap up and embrace her, was still surprised that they barely paid her any attention. Was being late for afternoon tea such a crime? Apparently so.
‘Good of you to finally join us, Clara,’ said her mother eventually. ‘Cartwright tells us you asked to use the telephone rather than coming to greet us. Are you sure you would not prefer to stay in a hotel? They have telephones there too.’
‘Now, now, dear,’ said her father, lowering his newspaper and turning his attention to his eldest daughter. ‘I’m sure Clara had very good reasons.’
‘I did, Father. It was urgent. I had to catch someone before they left the office for the afternoon. But I apologise for my rudeness.’
He nodded his approval. ‘Apology accepted. Now, come and give your old father a kiss.’
Clara duly complied, trying to avoid his old-fashioned mutton-chop sideburn which tickled her lips. She then turned to her mother who offered a cool cheek.
Lady Vanessa accepted the truce and gestured for her daughter to sit. ‘Tea, Cartwright. And will you have some sandwiches, Clara? Or did you eat on the train?’
‘I did, Mother, but it was a while ago. A sandwich will be lovely, thank you, Cartwright.’
Cartwright brought over a two-tiered silver platter with delicately cut sandwiches on the bottom plate and an assortment of confectionery on the top. Clara helped herself to a selection of savoury and sweet.
Lady Vanessa raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll be bursting out of your stays, my dear.’
Clara, who never wore stays, and kept trim by regular swimming and jiu-jitsu, ignored her.
Her father eventually put down the paper and watched his daughter eat. After a while he said, ‘So you’re not starving up there in Newcastle?’
‘Starving?’ asked Clara, wiping a crumb from her lip. ‘Why would I be starving?’
‘Suppose Bob’s money’ll keep you going for a while,’ he said, and lit a cigarette. ‘How much did you get?’
‘A good sum,’ said Clara, not really wanting to get into the detail of her financial affairs. She’d spent years trying to separate herself from her father’s monetary control, and she didn’t want him sticking his oar in where it didn’t belong now.
Her mother let out a long sigh. ‘You really ought not to have blocked your brother’s claim, you know, Clara. It was his by rights. He’s desperately hurt.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said her father, after exhaling a plume of smoke. ‘And he could have done with a few bob to fall back on after everything that’s just happened.’ He gestured to the front-page headline of the now-folded newspaper.
Clara knew that he was referring to her brother’s investments in oil fields in America, that had collapsed along with the Wall Street Crash. Clara knew, too, that her father had made similar investments and that he, too, was in financial peril – along with her sister’s husband. But Sir Randolph didn’t mention any of that, keeping the focus on Antony.
‘He could lose everything, you know. You had more than enough with the stipend I gave you. You didn’t need Bob’s money.’
Clara put down her teacup with a clatter. She could not believe what she was hearing. She pursed her lips then said, ‘I thought we covered all this last summer, Father. Bob chose to leave his estate to me because I was the only one in this family who ever paid him any attention.’
Her mother gave an offended sniff.
Before Lady Vanessa could chip in, Clara raised her hand to silence her. ‘You know it’s true, Mother, don’t try to deny it. And as for the inheritance,’ she turned her attention back to her father, who looked astounded by his daughter’s outburst, ‘as my solicitor pointed out, with a judge to back him up, Antony had no claim on the estate. He might be the eldest sibling, but he was Bob’s nephew, not son, and besides that, the law of male primogeniture no longer applies as it did in your day, Father. Times have changed.’
‘Well, I never!’ said her mother. ‘How dare you speak to your father like that! Apologise at once!’
Sir Randolph shook his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘That’s all right, my dear. Clara has always been a wilful filly. We know that. But I just hope she does not fall after the first furlong. Handling a substantial estate is a challenge for anyone, even without the handicap of being a woman.’
Clara considered a tart retort, but, to continue the equine metaphors, she knew her father was just getting into his stride and there would be no reining him in. Instead, she bit her lip and stood.
‘Thank you both for tea,’ she said coolly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to rest before dinner. It’s been a long day.’
Lady Vanessa sniffed.
Sir Randolph grunted. Then nodded. ‘Of course. Your sister and the family will be joining us. And Antony may show his face too.’
Clara groaned inwardly. Perhaps she should have booked into a hotel …
Clara waited as long as she could before coming downstairs. The sound of children chattering told her that her sister and family had arrived. The children would make a convenient distraction, and hopefully attention would be focused on them rather than her and her failings.
She wore her best winter dress. It was a teal blue crȇpe silk, cut on the bias with a godet skirt, tied with a hip sash, and long sleeves with musketeer cuffs. It was from last year’s Jean Patou collection, recommended to her by Juju Levine. Juju had an excellent eye and Clara was happy to take her advice. Her leather Mary Jane shoes were covered in a matching crȇpe silk and finished with a sparkling diamanté buckle. Technically it was a swish tea dress rather than a dinner dress, but, with only a single suitcase, she had to be judicious in what she packed. It was warm, stylish and flattering and she hoped it would pass muster.
She made her way down the stairs as her sister, brother-in-law and four children, accompanied by a valet, a ladies’ maid and two nannies, blew into the foyer like a flurry of leaves in a gusty winter storm. She noted her parents’ footmen carrying trunks behind them. It looked like Viscount Michael Simpkins and clan were planning on staying a while.
‘Aunt Clara! Aunt Clara!’
Seven-year-old Rosalind, who was being helped out of her hat, coat and scarf by one of the nannies, pulled away from the servant and ran up the stairs to greet her aunt. Clara bent down and cuddled the girl, surprised at how natural it felt. Clara had never been comfortable with children – particularly her sister’s offspring – but during the impromptu visit of the family to her house at Christmas, she had connected with her niece and now she and the little girl corresponded by letter.
‘Did you read about the new pony at Grandpa Sim-Sim’s stables?’
‘I did,’ said Clara, smiling, ‘he sounds like he’s very naughty, stealing all those carrots!’
Clara listened to her niece’s chatter about ponies and parties, knowing this had all taken place at her paternal grandparents’ house, the parents of Rosalind’s father, the Honourable Michael Simpkins, Viscount of Charterwood, seventeenth in line to the throne. It was unfortunate, but it seemed that Michael had not inherited much monetary sense along with all his titles, and Clara knew that the family’s finances had been rocked by the Wall Street Crash. He, too, had invested heavily in the Texan oil fields. From what she’d gathered, the family had had to move in with his father – the Earl of Charterwood and his second wife – while they rented out their Regent’s Park home to try to get some cash. Clara noted the bevy of servants and wondered if his father was footing the staff bill too.
Clara, still holding Rosalind’s hand, reached the bottom of the stairs and greeted her sister and brother-in-law. Michael gave her a cool kiss on the cheek. But Laura surprised her with a warm embrace. ‘Clara! How delightful to see you! I was thrilled when Mother told me you were staying for a few days! And so are we!’
So, the Christmas thaw continues, thought Clara as she turned her attention to the twin four-year-olds, George and Henry, who were bouncing around like jack-in-the-boxes. The baby, she noted, was asleep in the other nanny’s arms.
‘Take her straight to the nursery, Mabel,’ said Laura.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I see you’ve replaced the nannies you lost,’ observed Clara.
Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Thankfully! And we’ve kept the cook. Or I’d be taking out the Mrs Beeton’s again.’
Clara chuckled, remembering the hideous Christmas meal her sister had cooked using a Mrs Beeton recipe. ‘Oh, it wasn’t too bad. As long as there were Epsom Salts to hand!’
This set all the children giggling. Michael, unamused, observed: ‘There should be no need for you to ever have to cook, my dear. Don’t you have staff, Clara?’
‘I don’t,’ said Clara, her eyes meeting his.
He pulled at his cuffs, drawing attention to his onyx and diamond cufflinks. ‘Laura said you’d come into money. Can’t have been that much, then.’
Clara readied a retort but refrained as Laura hurriedly interjected, ‘Speaking of the cook, we need to change for dinner, darling. I expect you will, too, Clara.’
‘I have changed,’ said Clara.
Her sister looked her up and down. ‘A Jean Patou. Lovely.’ Then added in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘But you do know it’s a tea dress, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ said Clara, matter-of-factly.
Laura shook her head, then gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Why do you do it? You know Mother will expect you to dress properly. Don’t provoke her, Clara.’
Clara pursed her lips. ‘Surely there are more important things in the world to be provoked about.’
Laura shrugged. ‘Undoubtedly there are. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘But it’s a tea dress!’ declared Lady Vanessa as she peered at Clara over her pince nez. ‘That is a dinner dress,’ she said nodding towards her younger daughter. The honey-haired Laura looked exquisite in an ankle-length sky-blue silk evening gown, embroidered with swirls of silver. It was sleeveless, and backless, so Laura wore a silver-mesh tasselled shawl as a concession to the February weather. The look was finished with a string of pearls with matching silver and pearl headband.
‘It’s a beautiful dress,’ observed Clara.
Laura smiled, prettily. ‘Thank you! It’s a Boulanger, of course. Autumn ’29 collection.’
Clara nodded, wondering if her sister’s frequent trips to Paris for each season’s new releases would now be curbed as the family tightened their belts. Would Laura have to forego updating her wardrobe this spring? Perhaps she’d have to make do with the Oxford Street department stores …
Her husband, Michael, was in earnest conversation with Sir Randolph, but it was drawn to a close as Cartwright banged the gong to announce dinner was ready. Clara knew that financial affairs were considered ‘men’s talk’ and they’d continue later when they retired to the smoking room. But she was curious to know exactly how much difficulty her family were actually in. Would she be required to bail them out? Was it only as bad as frocks from department stores or were they in serious danger of penury?
She knew her father and Michael would snub her and that her mother would consider it beneath her to talk about such things, so she hoped that the recent rapprochement with her sister might bear more fruit. She sidled up to Laura as they walked to the dining room. ‘So, how are things with the finances? I haven’t had a proper update since Christmas.’
‘Oh, it’s all fine now.’
‘But you’re having to rent out your house.’
‘Yes, but that’s just temporary. Michael said it’s only to do with cash flow. We’ll be back home when things improve.’
‘Which will be …’
Laura turned to her sister with a look of mild exasperation. ‘I don’t know, Clara. That’s for the men to work out.’
Clara rolled her eyes. ‘But it’s the women – and children – who will suffer if they don’t. I should think it would be in your best interest to find out what’s happening, Laura.’
‘No need. I trust Michael to do the right thing.’
Like you did when he hit you? thought Clara, but she knew better than to vocalise it.
‘Well, I hope he does. Tell me, though, what’s happening with Mother and Father. Last I heard they sold the two Rembrandts so they could pay the staff. But what are they going to do going forward? Is that enough?’
Laura fixed a smile on her face as her husband looked over his shoulder at her, then said through gritted teeth, ‘If you want to know if they’ll be back on your doorstep for handouts, Clara, I shouldn’t worry too much. However, Antony is a different kettle of fish …’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Clara.
But Laura just smiled and took her husband’s arm as he led her to the table.
Clara, unaccompanied, walked into the dining room alone.
It was a relatively painless dinner as the seat next to Clara, reserved for her brother Antony, remained unfilled. The conversation was monopolised by Lady Vanessa talking about this or that tea party, what Lord and Lady So-and-So were doing for the summer and the latest gossip from Tatler. Laura chipped in whenever she could and the men stayed largely silent. Clara felt she was comfortably on the home strait as Cartwright and the two footmen cleared away the dessert plates and placed the coffee cups on the table. But then the doorbell rang.
‘I expect that will be Antony,’ said Lady Vanessa. ‘He should have told us he was going to be late! Can you have a word with him about his tardiness, dear?’ she asked her husband.
‘I certainly shall,’ said Sir Randolph. ‘Cartwright, get the door and then show Master Antony into the smoking room. If you ladies don’t mind, we’ll not have the coffee. There’s business to discuss. Shall we, Simpkins?’ His son-in-law nodded and pushed back his chair.
Cartwright retreated as the men exited to the smoking room, leaving Clara, her mother and sister alone with two hovering footmen.
A few moments later Clara heard the loud, bombastic voice of her brother over the temperate voice of Cartwright. And then the voice of another man … playing second fiddle to Antony. She knew that voice … Surely not?
‘Sir Randolph said to show you into the smoking room, Master Antony.’
‘Righto, Carters! We’ll head there in a jiffy. First need to greet the old girls!’
And before Clara could escape, her brother and his companion burst into the dining room. Antony, in a tuxedo with loose hanging bow tie, was flushed with alcohol. ‘Mother!’ He gave his mother a kiss. Then ‘Laura, old girl!’ got the same treatment. Then he stopped, training his bloodshot eyes on Clara. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you Clara was coming to dinner, dear,’ said Lady Vanessa. ‘She’s here for some … oh, I don’t know, something or other …’
‘I’m here on business,’ said Clara, quietly. Her eyes fixed on her brother’s companion. ‘At the British Museum. As is Mr Danskin here.’
Jack Danskin stepped fully into the room, looking dashingly handsome in an impeccable tuxedo. He gave a small bow to Lady Vanessa and then Laura. ‘Good evening, Lady Vale; Lady Simpkins, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ His melodious Geordie accent caused the mother of the house to raise her eyebrows and stare at him over her pince nez.
‘Is this your friend’s manservant, dear?’ she asked her son.
Clara chuckled. Danskin scowled.
‘No, Mother, this is Mr Jack Danskin. From Newcastle. He worked for Uncle Bob, and he’s been doing a bit of work for me too.’ Antony leered at Clara. Danskin smirked.
Clara felt ambushed. She had no idea why Danskin was here, or what he and Antony were cooking up, but there would be time to find that out later. For now, she needed to take back control. So she said: ‘Mr Danskin is an enquiry agent, Mother. He and I are both working on the same case involving the British Museum. And last summer Antony hired him to help overturn Uncle Bob’s will by claiming he was not of sound mind. But as we all know, he failed.’
She stood, suddenly, causing her chair to topple backwards. A footman caught it. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall go to bed. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Good night, Mother. Laura. Good night, gentlemen.’ And with that she strode out of the room with all the fake nonchalance she could muster.
‘Well, I never!’ said her mother.