“What, tonight?” Elena exclaimed in amazement. Surely she had misheard. She stared at Margot in disbelief. When had their evening plans suddenly changed? And was Margot certain that Elena would be included?
“Don’t you want to go?” Margot stared back. “I thought you would leap at it!”
They were standing just outside Elena’s bedroom door, and there was no one else in sight.
“Of course I do!” Elena replied. “I think—” It was such a surprise. There had been no warning. Was that intentional?
“Elena, plans change,” said Margot. “How could we possibly say no to the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson?”
“Are you sure I’m invited?” Elena asked with disbelief. “And James?” She feared that Margot had to persuade their hosts to include them. “How do we dress?” She had no idea. Was it formal, considering who was inviting them? Of course, it was clearly a spur-of-the-moment invitation. And she must get it right! There would be no second chance.
They stood together, as if the earlier argument had never happened. This suited Elena just fine. The last thing she wanted was to be at odds with Margot.
“Something…unconventional,” Margot replied. “What is the most individual thing you have? Other than the black dress. That’s classic. It’s timeless. This is up to the minute. Put aside your outfit you had planned and go with something unique.”
Elena’s mind raced. What was unconventional, flattering, and not too self-consciously different? What was she comfortable in? What would Mrs. Simpson not wear? Frills? But neither would Elena. Gray? Definitely not with the woman’s colorless skin. It would not flatter Margot either. But on Elena? It looked marvelous. Yes, gray silk chiffon trousers, flowing and infinitely graceful. And, of course, the blouse that went with them. “I know.” She smiled cheerfully. “It’s gray—”
“You can’t! That would be awful! About as flattering as a housemaid’s apron!” Margot’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.
“I always think those white aprons with the frills are rather fetching,” Elena replied. “And Mrs. Simpson couldn’t wear it.”
“She wouldn’t be caught dead in it!” Margot agreed, then shut her eyes and winced. “I think I’ll wear red. Or gold lamé.” She walked away with increasing speed toward her own bedroom.
Elena had tried on the gray, against Mrs. Smithers’s advice, and Mrs. Smithers had been the first to admit that Elena was right.
Half an hour later, she joined the others downstairs. She was not the last one on purpose, but it would have been a good idea if she had thought of it. The gray silk was so light, so fine, that it drifted around her almost weightlessly, moving from shining silver to dark shadows. It fit as if it had been made for her, in fact a little more closely than she would have chosen. As she descended the stairs, she knew she was being observed.
“Sorry,” she said to Griselda. “Did I keep you waiting?”
Griselda drew in breath to reply and was cut off by Allenby’s response.
“Marvelous!” He grinned, taking in the sight of her. “Unexpected, totally different, and gorgeous.”
Margot turned around to meet Elena’s gaze, drew a sharp breath, and then let it out without a sound.
Wyndham smiled at Elena in appreciation. “Quite lovely, my dear, and completely unique. We have two cars ready. I don’t think we’ll need a third.” He glanced back at Elena again. “You are bringing your camera, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I hope they’ll allow me to take some pictures, but of course I won’t do it without permission.”
“Don’t worry,” Geoffrey assured her with a wink. “The main reason for going to any of these parties is to be seen. It’s even better if it’s in a flattering photograph. You will be most welcome.”
Margot opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to change her mind. She followed Geoffrey across the hall and outside to the front steps.
David and Griselda Wyndham joined Geoffrey and Margot in the first car. Allenby took his own car with Elena so he could follow close behind. Landon and Prudence Rees had already made a different arrangement for this evening’s entertainment. Allenby had only a vague idea of where they were headed, but Elena had no idea at all.
“Brava,” he said quietly, smiling at her for a moment before starting the engine and following the first car. “You really do look marvelous. And unforgettable.”
She was suddenly nervous. “Unforgettably good…or bad?” she asked, shifting in her seat. Maybe she had gone too far?
“Probably both,” he replied with a shrug. “Depending on whether you are a man, or a woman who suddenly seems to have become invisible.” He hesitated a moment. “I presume you have plenty of film for your camera? This could be the chance of a lifetime. And don’t take any pictures of the prince or Mrs. Simpson unless you have their permission first. You could have the best work of your life confiscated.”
“Of course, I already said that I would ask. I probably couldn’t get it printed if I didn’t have their approval.”
“Maybe that’s how you usually work,” he said dryly, “but half the best news photos wouldn’t see the light of day if permission had to be granted. And if you worked in a newspaper, you would know that.”
She sat silently for the rest of the short journey while Allenby concentrated on following the Wyndhams’ car.
They arrived less than fifteen minutes later, all of them standing at the stately front entrance after giving their keys to the footman.
The front door opened, and a slender, fair-haired man—whom Elena presumed to be the host—greeted them enthusiastically.
“David!” he exclaimed with delight, clapping David Wyndham on the shoulder. “So glad you could come, old boy. Lovely to see you.” He turned to Griselda. “And you, my dear. How could a party be complete without you?”
Griselda kissed him lightly on the cheek and then turned to introduce Margot. “Jack, you know my brother, Geoffrey. This is his fiancée, Margot Driscoll. Lost her husband in the last month of the war.” She put her hand on Margot’s arm in a close, friendly gesture. “We feel she is one of us now.”
Margot stepped a little forward. “How do you do, Mr. Arbuthnot?” she said politely, a faint blush on her cheeks from the excitement of being introduced as one of the Wyndhams for the first time.
Elena could practically see the pride and the grace in her.
“And this is Margot’s sister, Elena Standish,” Griselda went on. “Elena, may I present the Honorable Jack Arbuthnot.”
“How do you do, Mr. Arbuthnot?” Elena said with a smile.
“Is that a camera on your shoulder?” Arbuthnot noticed with interest. “Could you be that Elena Standish? Surely there can’t be two of you?”
Elena was startled to be recognized, but pleased.
He must have seen her surprise. “You took some lovely pictures of my cousin for the announcement of her engagement. She looked so tranquil. How did you manage to do that? I know she was terribly nervous.”
Mercifully, the memory came back and Elena recalled the young woman quite clearly. “She did most of it,” she answered easily. “She was incredibly interesting to talk to, so the photographs seemed incidental. Those are usually the best because the subjects are being themselves.”
“I never thought of that. Yes, we do look a bit artificial when we’re posing, even the best of us. I must remember that. I hope you manage to get a few here.”
“With your permission, I would love to try,” she replied earnestly. “And this is James Allenby.” She turned and stepped back to make way for him.
“Hello, old chap,” Arbuthnot exclaimed cheerfully. “Haven’t seen you for years! Not since that cricket match where you beat us by one run! Where have you been?”
“Washington,” Allenby answered. “Thanks for including us at such short notice.”
“Us being you and Miss Standish?” Arbuthnot glanced between the two with a knowing smile. “You lucky devil!” He turned and led the way through the hall and into a huge withdrawing room with doors leading onto a paved terrace with decorative lamps spreading a warm glow out onto the lawn. It offered a glimpse of the last light over the rose garden.
There were several dozen people in the room, counting the Wyndham party. A few more were out in the garden, although it would soon be too cool for the silk dresses that many of the women wore.
Elena accepted a drink from a waiter carrying a tray. He told her the name of the very fine champagne, but she had no interest in anything more than sipping it.
“You do the listening,” she murmured to Allenby. “You seem to know at least some of them. I’ll watch for good photos. If I hold the camera in front of me, no one will be surprised if I ask to take their picture.”
His face crumpled with concern.
“Don’t be worried.” She leaned closer to him so she could speak very softly and he could still hear her above the murmur of conversation and the occasional laugh. “I know how to ask, and pretty well everyone will agree. I don’t go about snapping people without their permission. I’m not a rag journalist.” And before he could reply, she moved a few steps away from him and began to take pictures of the rose garden before the light faded and she could no longer catch the flowers’ luminous lights and shadows. Then she fell into conversation with a man of about seventy or so who had the most interesting face: weather-beaten, probably because of years at sea, or in the tropical sun, or both. After having spoken to him for several minutes, she asked if she might photograph him.
“Not by one of the overblown roses with the petals beginning to fall, please. Too symbolic,” he insisted with a smile.
She smiled back at him. “I can see a branch over there with one full-blown rose, just beginning to fade, and three more in bud. Will that be less obvious?” She thought swiftly for a moment. “I could try and focus in a way that would put you sharply in the front, and the background will be the lighted room, with the crowd of people more of a suggestion. Or is that obvious as well? I have a feeling I ought to recognize you, but I don’t.”
“Who do you usually photograph?” he wondered. “I would have thought you do debutantes to earn a living: nobody who is taking residence in their face yet.”
“How very perceptive of you,” Elena commented, pleased. “Should I put a ‘Vacant: To Let’ notice underneath them?”
He raised his clenched fist for a moment as a brief gesture of victory.
“With your permission,” Elena added, “I shall keep a print of one of them for my own pleasure, and I shall label it ‘Unfurnished.’ I am far too old, and my family is not nearly important enough, but it is a pretty good general warning,” she suggested.
He laughed outright. “Do you keep copies of your photographs with suitable comments underneath? That would be worth a fortune!”
“No, but perhaps I should begin. If you promise you will tell no one. I could be robbed, at the very least!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. It will be our secret.”
He seemed to think that she was still measuring, studying the light, but actually she had taken several pictures of his vivid, animated face, so much more alive than a posed picture. She thanked him.
“Ah,” he said with satisfaction. “I suppose you would like to photograph Edward and Wallis Simpson? Together or separately? I think separately would be good. And in this mixed light, partly artificial, but with enough daylight to cast a different set of shadows as well?” It was hardly a question.
“Yes.” She nodded in agreement. “With their permission, of course. This is a social event, and not to seek permission would be an abuse of my host, not to mention a reason for my sister to never speak to me again.” She said this with a teasing smile, but she most definitely meant it.
“Of course,” he agreed, holding out his hand. “I am Colonel Arbuthnot. Jack is my son.”
“Now I understand.” She nodded in acknowledgment. It was only half true, but it comforted her to know that she had not embarrassed him.
Since the light was failing by the minute, they wasted no time. The colonel asked her to wait where she was while he sought permission and, if it was given, brought Edward and Mrs. Simpson out, one at a time.
She sincerely doubted he could do that, but thanked him anyway.
She took one picture of the fading light, touched with a darker contrast from the deep-red rosebushes, the outer petals brilliant with burning crimson, the shaded hearts of the flowers almost black. Then she waited patiently.
She had been there idle for only a few minutes when she became aware of someone on the patio. It was a man, slight, but certainly older than she was, even though there was something boyish about him. It was not his eyes: They were remote, sad. It was the balance of his features, the slenderness of his whole body. Was it the Prince of Wales? He looked so insubstantial, the half-light revealing awareness and also a deep vulnerability in him.
Elena lifted her camera and took the shot. She would never catch the light just like that again in a pose. And it was fading even as they stood.
“I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness,” she apologized immediately. “But if I had waited to ask your permission, the light would have changed. You looked almost ethereal. But if you wish, sir, I shall, of course, destroy the negative. Or, if you prefer, I can print it and give it to you with the negative, without printing another. But I do think it might be good.”
She heard the self-praise in her words, which was so ill mannered. It was not meant as that, but rather as a plea to keep the picture. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, a little embarrassed. “You might have come out to say that you did not give permission for me to photograph you at all. You don’t know me.”
“I know Colonel Arbuthnot,” he replied, breaking into a sudden smile. “By all means, take a few. And of Wallis, too.”
“Thank you, sir. I would very much like to.”
Elena took several more photographs of the prince, and then Mrs. Simpson joined them, and Elena photographed her as well. But she thought none of these had the quality of that first shot she’d taken of him. The ones of Mrs. Simpson were far more ordinary. A good professional job, but without the vulnerability she had captured in him.
Mrs. Simpson was entirely different from the prince. She was intensely aware of the camera. She knew exactly which were her best angles, and there was not one moment when she let her composure slip. They were all good pictures, Elena was sure of it, but none of them revealed anything not already public knowledge. None of them revealed a side of her true nature that was new. Elena took quite a few, hoping to capture that one moment, perhaps an unexpected tenderness, or even cunning.
When they were finished, the woman thanked Elena, her voice still formal, even cool.
Elena in turn thanked Mrs. Simpson again and turned to go inside before changing her mind and sneaking a glance back. She saw a look of calculation on the woman’s face. She was staring at Elena’s silk trousers, the way they clung to her and swayed as she moved. Elena wondered if she was deciding whether she could wear something similar and perhaps was reaching the reality that she could not.
The two women were so different. Elena had fair skin and shining hair, and her body was elegant curves, so much that sometimes she felt it was a little too much. Wallis Simpson was smart, elegant, but her coloring was flat, and her figure was without movement, almost sticklike. There was not an ounce of flesh to spare. The two women were complete opposites, and in that moment, they both seemed to realize it.
Elena shot her a lovely smile.
Mrs. Simpson did not return it.
Elena rejoined the party. She had done all she could and assumed she was finished with the photography. There were a few odd requests, either from one of the guests or from Elena because she saw a face in a certain light, or someone standing with unusual elegance, and she felt compelled to ask permission to take the shot.
Elena and Allenby left the gathering after nearly three hours and headed for Wyndham Hall. She was relieved to be alone with him in the car. She wanted time to think about how she would answer the questions or challenges that Margot, or even Griselda, might put to her. She had no idea why they would criticize her, but she had a sense that she was being carefully watched by them.
“Worried?” Allenby asked as they peeled out of the Arbuthnots’ drive and onto the main road.
She peeked at him quickly, uncertain how to answer, before her eyes darted away again. She must school herself not to work to please him, yet still learn from him. This was becoming more difficult than she had foreseen in unexpected ways. After a moment, she realized that he was still talking to her and she had not heard. “Pardon?”
“You did very well to get pictures of Edward and Mrs. Simpson. And quite a few other interesting people. Very good for your career.”
“I’m not here to further my career,” she replied firmly, keeping her gaze locked straight ahead. “Did we learn anything about Repton? I certainly didn’t.”
“You’ll get some backwash tomorrow.” It was a warning.
She turned to stare at him. “I behaved myself more or less like a lady. Backwash from where? Why?”
“It wasn’t what you said. I doubt anyone will remember anything about you except possibly the camera, and certainly the gray silk trousers.”
She felt heat go up her face. “If they were inappropriate, you should have said so. More precisely, you should have told me to go and change!”
He was smiling as he said, “They were wonderful! You outshone every other woman in the room.”
She had no idea what to say to that, and she felt a bit disgusted with herself for how pleased she was. She had not realized that she cared at all what he thought of her clothes. Or, more precisely, the way she looked. “I’m not supposed to be Plain Jane, who sits in the corner and thinks about photography!” she snapped a little tartly. “How will anyone believe I can take a decent photograph if I don’t see myself straight in the mirror?”
“ ‘Decent’ isn’t the word I would have used.”
“Are you saying I was indecent? And you wait until now to tell me?” she demanded, the annoyance evident in her tone.
“It depends on who is looking at you.” He was still smiling. “The trousers were perfectly decent. It was the thoughts on a few people’s faces that weren’t. Do you want to get back into a blue dress? Margot says you are invisible like that.”
She nearly defended herself, then realized he was teasing her. “Maybe they will think I’m after you?” she said instead. “Romantically, I mean. Margot thinks I’m jealous of her.”
“Not over Geoffrey, surely?” he responded, furrowing his brows.
“No, of course not. She thinks I’m jealous over her having someone so in love with her that they can’t see straight.”
He kept his hands perfectly steady on the wheel while they drove over some sharp bumps on the road. “You can’t afford to take your eyes off the target, Elena. There are a few obstacles ahead.”
“What do you suggest I do?” she asked, again rather tartly.
“For one thing, don’t go out in the dark alone. In fact, don’t go out alone at all.”
For an instant, she thought he might be exaggerating. Then she realized that they had been talking about what she had done at the party. Was there a danger there she had not seen? The flush vanished from her cheeks, and she felt cold again. “Tell me.”