The day the gold-edged card arrived at Lowndes Square Daphne placed the invitation between the one requesting her presence in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot and the command to attend a garden party at Buckingham Palace. However, she considered that this particular invitation could well remain on the mantelpiece for all to gaze upon long after Ascot and the palace had been relegated to the wastepaper basket.
Although Daphne had spent a week in Paris selecting three outfits for the three different occasions, the most striking of them was to be saved for Becky’s degree ceremony, which she now described to Percy as “the great event.”
Her fiancé—though she hadn’t yet become quite used to thinking of Percy in that way—also admitted that he had never been asked to such a ceremony before.
Brigadier Harcourt-Browne suggested that his daughter should have Hoskins drive them to the Senate House in the Rolls, and admitted to being a little envious at not having been invited himself.
When the morning finally dawned, Percy accompanied Daphne to lunch at the Ritz, and once they had been over the guest list and the hymns that would be sung at the service for the umpteenth time, they turned their attention to the details of the afternoon outing.
“I do hope we won’t be asked any awkward questions,” said Daphne. “Because one thing’s for certain, I will not know the answers.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t be put to any trouble like that, old gel,” said Percy. “Not that I’ve ever attended one of these shindigs before. We Wiltshires aren’t exactly known for troubling the authorities on these matters,” he added, laughing, which so often came out sounding like a cough.
“You must get out of that habit, Percy. If you are going to laugh, laugh. If you’re going to cough, cough.”
“Anything you say, old gel.”
“And do stop calling me ‘old gel.’ I’m only twenty-three, and my parents endowed me with a perfectly acceptable Christian name.”
“Anything you say, old gel,” repeated Percy.
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.” Daphne checked her watch. “And now I do believe it’s time we were on our way. Better not be late for this one.”
“Quite right,” he replied, and called a waiter to bring them their bill.
“Do you have any idea where we are going, Hoskins?” asked Daphne, as he opened the back door of the Rolls for her.
“Yes, m’lady, I took the liberty of going over the route when you and his lordship were up in Scotland last month.”
“Good thinking, Hoskins,” said Percy. “Otherwise we might have been going round in circles for the rest of the afternoon, don’t you know.”
As Hoskins turned on the engine Daphne looked at the man she loved, and couldn’t help thinking how lucky she had been in her choice. In truth she had chosen him at the age of sixteen, and never faltered in her belief that he was the right partner—even if he wasn’t aware of the fact. She had always thought Percy quite wonderful, kind, considerate and gentle and, if not exactly handsome, certainly distinguished. She thanked God each night that he had escaped that fearful war with every limb intact. Once Percy had told her he was going off to France to serve with the Scots Guards, Daphne had spent three of the unhappiest years of her life. From that moment on she assumed every letter, every message, every call could only be to inform her of his death. Other men tried to court her in his absence, but they all failed as Daphne waited, not unlike Penelope, for her chosen partner to return. She would only accept that he was still alive when she saw him striding down the gangplank at Dover. Daphne would always treasure his first words the moment he saw her.
“Fancy seeing you here, old gel. Dashed coincidence, don’t you know.”
Percy never talked of the example his father had set, though The Times had devoted half a page to the late marquess’ obituary. In it they described his action on the Marne in the course of which he had single-handedly overrun a German battery as “one of the great VCs of the war.” When a month later Percy’s elder brother was killed at Ypres it came home to her just how many families were sharing the same dreadful experience. Now Percy had inherited the title: the twelfth Marquess of Wiltshire. From tenth to twelfth in a matter of weeks.
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” asked Daphne as the Rolls entered Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Yes, m’lady,” replied Hoskins, who had obviously decided to address her by the title even though she and Percy were not yet married.
“He’s only helping you to get accustomed to the idea, old gel,” Percy suggested before coughing again.
Daphne had been delighted when Percy told her that he had decided to resign his commission with the Scots Guards in order to take over the running of the family estates. Much as she admired him in that dark blue uniform with its four brass buttons evenly spaced, stirrupped boots and funny red, white and blue checked cap, it was a farmer she wanted to marry, not a soldier. A life spent in India, Africa and the colonies had never really appealed to her.
As they turned into Malet Street, they saw a throng of people making their way up some stone steps to enter a monumental building. “That must be the Senate House,” she exclaimed, as if she had come across an undiscovered pyramid.
“Yes, m’lady,” replied Hoskins.
“And do remember, Percy—” began Daphne.
“Yes, old gel?”
“—not to speak unless you’re spoken to. On this occasion we are not exactly on home ground, and I object to either of us being made to look foolish. Now, did you remember the invitation and the special tickets that show our seat allocation?”
“I know I put them somewhere.” He began to search around in his pockets.
“They’re in the left-hand inside top pocket of your jacket, your lordship,” said Hoskins as he brought the car to a halt.
“Yes, of course they are,” said Percy. “Thank you, Hoskins.”
“A pleasure, my lord,” Hoskins intoned.
“Just follow the crowd,” instructed Daphne. “And look as if you do this sort of thing every week.”
They passed several uniformed doorkeepers and ushers before a clerk checked their tickets, then guided them to Row M.
“I’ve never been seated this far back in a theater before,” said Daphne.
“I’ve only tried to be this far away in a theater once myself,” admitted Percy. “And that was when the Germans were on center stage.” He coughed again.
The two remained sitting in silence as they stared in front of them, waiting for something to happen. The stage was bare but for fourteen chairs, two of which, placed at its center, might almost have been described as thrones.
At two fifty-five, ten men and two women, all of whom were dressed in what looked to Daphne like long black dressing gowns with purple scarves hanging from their necks, proceeded across the stage in a gentle crocodile before taking their allocated places. Only the two thrones remained unoccupied. On the stroke of three Daphne’s attention was drawn to the minstrels’ gallery, where a fanfare of trumpets struck up to announce the arrival of the visitors, and all those present rose as the King and Queen entered to take their places in the center of the Senate. Everyone except the royal couple remained standing until after the National Anthem had been played.
“Bertie looks very well, considering,” said Percy, resuming his seat.
“Do be quiet,” said Daphne. “No one else knows him.”
An elderly man in a long black gown, the only person who remained standing, waited for everyone to settle before he took a pace forward, bowed to the royal couple and then proceeded to address the audience.
After the vice-chancellor, Sir Russell Russell-Wells, had been speaking for some considerable time Percy inquired of his fiancée, “How is a fellow expected to follow all this piffle when he gave up Latin as an option in his fourth half?”
“I only survived a year of the subject myself.”
“Then you won’t be much help either, old gel,” admitted Percy in a whisper.
Someone seated in the row in front turned round to glare at them ferociously.
Throughout the remainder of the ceremony Daphne and Percy tried to remain silent, although Daphne did find it necessary from time to time to place a firm hand on Percy’s knee as he continued to shift uncomfortably from side to side on the flat wooden chair.
“It’s all right for the King,” whispered Percy. “He’s got a damned great cushion to sit on.”
At last the moment came for which they had both been bidden.
The vice-chancellor, who continued to call out a list of names from the roll of honor, had at last come to the Ts. He then declared, “Bachelor of arts, Mrs. Charles Trumper of Bedford College.” The applause almost doubled, as it had done so every time a woman had walked up the steps to receive her degree from the visitor. Becky curtsied before the King as he placed what the program described as a “hood of purple” over her gown and handed her a parchment scroll. She curtsied again and took two paces backwards before returning to her seat.
“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” said Percy as he joined in the applause. “And no prizes for guessing who tutored her through that little performance,” he added. Daphne blushed as they remained in their places for some time to allow all the Us, Vs, Ws and Ys to receive their degrees, before being allowed to escape into the garden for tea.
“Can’t see them anywhere,” said Percy, as he turned a slow circle in the middle of the lawn.
“Nor I,” said Daphne. “But keep looking. They’re bound to be here somewhere.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Harcourt-Browne.”
Daphne spun round. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Salmon, how super to see you. And what a simply charming hat; and dear Miss Roach. Percy, this is Becky’s mother, Mrs. Salmon, and her aunt, Miss Roach. My fiancé—”
“Delighted to meet you, your lordship,” said Mrs. Salmon, wondering if anyone from the Ladies’ Circle at Romford would believe her when she told them.
“You must be so proud of your daughter,” said Percy.
“Yes, I am, your lordship,” said Mrs. Salmon.
Miss Roach stood like a statue and didn’t offer an opinion.
“And where is our little scholar,” demanded Daphne.
“I’m here,” said Becky. “But where have you been?” she asked, emerging from a group of new graduates.
“Looking for you.”
The two girls threw their arms around each other.
“Have you seen my mother?”
“She was with us a moment ago,” said Daphne, looking around.
“She’s gone to find some sandwiches, I think,” said Miss Roach.
“Typical of Mum,” said Becky, laughing.
“Hello, Percy,” said Charlie. “How are things?”
“Things are spiffing,” said Percy, coughing. “And well done, Becky, I say,” he added as Mrs. Salmon returned carrying a large plate of sandwiches.
“If Becky has inherited her mother’s common sense, Mrs. Salmon,” said Daphne as she selected a cucumber sandwich for Percy, “she ought to do well in the real world, because I suspect there won’t be many of these left in fifteen minutes’ time.” She picked out one of the smoked salmon variety for herself. “Were you very nervous when you marched up onto that stage?” Daphne asked, turning her attention back to Becky.
“I certainly was, replied Becky. “And when the King placed the hood over my head, my legs almost gave way. Then, to make matters worse, the moment I returned to my place I discovered Charlie was crying.”
“I was not,” protested her husband.
Becky said nothing more as she linked her arm through his.
“I’ve rather taken to that purple hood thing,” said Percy. “I think I’d look quite a swell were I to sport one of those at next year’s hunt ball. What do you think, old gel?”
“You’re expected to do rather a lot of hard work before you’re allowed to adorn yourself with one of those, Percy.”
They all turned to see who it was who had offered this opinion.
Percy lowered his head. “Your Majesty is, as always, quite correct. I might add, sir, that I fear, given my present record, I am unlikely ever to be considered for such a distinction.”
The King smiled, then added, “In fact I’m bound to say, Percy, that you seem to have strayed somewhat from your usual habitat.”
“A friend of Daphne’s,” explained Percy.
“Daphne, my dear, how lovely to see you,” said the King. “And I haven’t yet had the opportunity to congratulate you on your engagement.”
“I received a kind note from the Queen only yesterday, Your Majesty. We are honored that you are both able to attend the wedding.”
“Yes, simply delighted,” said Percy. “And may I present Mrs. Trumper, who was the recipient of the degree?” Becky shook hands with the King for a second time. “Her husband, Mr. Charles Trumper, and Mrs. Trumper’s mother, Mrs. Salmon; her aunt, Miss Roach.”
The King shook hands with all four before saying, “Well done, Mrs. Trumper. I do hope you’re going to put your degree to some useful purpose.”
“I shall be joining the staff of Sotheby’s, Your Majesty. As an apprentice in their fine art department.”
“Capital. Then I can only wish you continued success, Mrs. Trumper. I look forward to seeing you at the wedding, if not before, Percy.” With a nod the King moved on to another group.
“Decent fellow,” said Percy. “Good of him to come over like that.”
“I had no idea you knew—” began Becky.
“Well,” explained Percy, “to be honest, my great-great-great-great-grandfather tried to murder his great-great-great-great-grandfather, and had he succeeded our roles might well have been reversed. Despite that he’s always been jolly understanding about the whole affair.”
“So what happened to your great-great-great-great-grandfather?” asked Charlie.
“Exiled,” said Percy. “And I’m bound to add, quite rightly. Otherwise the blighter would only have tried again.”
“Good heavens,” said Becky, laughing.
“What is it?” said Charlie.
“I’ve just worked out who Percy’s great-great-great-great-grandfather was.”
Daphne didn’t get a chance to see Becky again before the marriage ceremony, as the last few weeks of preparation for her wedding seemed to be totally occupied. However, she did manage to keep abreast of the goings-on in Chelsea Terrace, after bumping into the colonel and his wife at Lady Denham’s reception in Onslow Square. The colonel was able to inform her, sotto voce, that Charlie was beginning to run up a rather large overdraft with the bank—“even if he had cleared every other outstanding creditor.” Daphne smiled when she recalled that her last payment had been returned in typical Charlie fashion several months before it was due. “And I’ve just learned that the man has his eye on yet another shop,” added the colonel.
“Which one this time?”
“The bakery—Number 145.”
“Becky’s father’s old trade,” said Daphne. “Are they confident of getting their hands on it?”
“Yes, I think so—although I fear Charlie’s going to have to pay a little over the odds this time.”
“Why’s that?”
“The baker is right next door to the fruit and vegetable shop, and Mr. Reynolds is only too aware just how much Charlie wants to buy him out. However, Charlie has tempted Mr. Reynolds with an offer to remain as manager, plus a share of the profits.”
“Hmmm. How long do you think that little arrangement will last?”
“Just as long as it takes for Charlie to master the bakery trade once again.”
“And how about Becky?”
“She’s landed a job at Sotheby’s. As a counter clerk.”
“A counter clerk?” said Daphne on a rising note. “What was the point of taking all that trouble to get a degree if she ends up as a counter clerk?”
“Apparently everybody starts off that way at Sotheby’s, whatever qualifications they bring to the job. Becky explained it all to me,” replied the colonel. “It seems that you can be the son of the chairman, have worked in a major West End art gallery for several years, possess a degree or even have no qualifications at all, but you still start on the front desk. Once they discover you’re any good you get promoted into a specialist department. Not unlike the army, actually.”
“So which department does Becky have her eye on?”
“Seems she wants to join some old fellow called Pemberton who’s the acknowledged expert on Renaissance paintings.”
“My bet,” said Daphne, “is that she’ll last on the front desk for about a couple of weeks.”
“Charlie doesn’t share your low opinion of her,” said the colonel.
“Oh, so how long does he give her?”
The colonel smiled. “Ten days at the most.”