The Debutante. Kathleen Tessaro
life had Irene dreamed of for herself as a young woman? Here, overlooking the sea, she must’ve felt that nothing could fail, that she had everything she’d ever imagined. A beautiful house, a titled husband…Now there was only an old house with a locked room, books that were never read and a shoebox, filled with strange tokens and memories – like a message in a bottle.
She trailed her fingers in the warm bathwater.
Did she have an affair? Who was the handsome sailor in the photograph? Did he give her the bracelet?
Slipping out of her dressing gown and nightie, she stood in front of the steamy bathroom mirror, pinning her hair up.
It was a mystery, no matter what Jack thought. He was too sure of himself for his own good, that was his problem. Self-satisfied and superior and, yes, prudish. So what if he was dismissive of her? She was the one who had the upper hand now and he didn’t even know it.
It gave her a thrill to have a secret in play.
It didn’t matter what he thought of her. In another day, they’d be back in London and she wouldn’t even have to speak to him again.
God, even at this early hour it was so hot!
She pushed the window wider, stretching her arms high.
Jack was standing on the lawn with a mug of coffee. How did she get into that room? He had the keys. There was no way she could’ve picked the lock. She didn’t look like she’d know how.
He paced back and forth in frustration. She wouldn’t conform to anything he wanted her to do or be. In his head he’d composed whole conversations; pleasant little scenes in which he took the lead, showing her what to do and how to do it. But instead she constantly slipped away from him. Despite her golden appearance, she was fast, dark and mutable; like mercury. He couldn’t get a grip on her at all.
And he had the unsettling feeling that she was indulging him; that she found him vaguely ridiculous. He was conscious of being constrained by professional protocol and social niceties while she, in contrast, found her way into locked rooms, landed unfamiliar jobs, slipped into strangely undefined relationships.
There was a noise.
He looked up.
Caught in a ray of light reflected from the windowpane, Cate was standing by the window, naked.
Unguarded and unaware, she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back. Her skin was creamy, her hair white in the sun.
He knew he should look away.
She turned. Her breasts were small, with surprisingly large nipples. They were the same colour as her lips, swollen and pink.
Then she disappeared again, like a fleeting apparition.
She hadn’t seen him.
Her body was different to what he’d imagined; the vague classical ideal of beauty he’d assigned her without even knowing it. Her nipples, swollen and erect from the heat, were instantly erotic. His chaste, romantic vision was corrupted by pornographic longings – licking, sucking…
Turning his back on the house, he forced himself across the lawn where the road joined a field filled with sheep. It was picturesque; the sky a faultless duck-egg blue above a silver strip of sea.
She’d done it again – knocked him sideways as completely as if she’d kicked his chair out from under him. He was left reeling, grappling with desires that had long been dormant. And he resented it. As much as he loathed the numb monotony of his existence since his wife’s death, he hated the effect she had on him; it was narcotic, addictive. She left him longing for more of what he couldn’t have in the first place. For a moment he considered the possibility that she knew he was standing there; that she’d deliberately paraded herself in front of him.
Of course that was stupid.
Still, images piled up on themselves.
Stare at the sheep, dammit!
This is a job, he reminded himself, draining his coffee. Tomorrow it ended and then they would go back to London. Most likely she’d end up heading back to New York to that rich lover of hers.
The memory of her, naked and unaware, flashed up again. He pushed it firmly out of his mind.
He couldn’t even trust her.
This girl had no place in his life.
5 St James’s SquareLondon
12 September 1926
My darling, dearest Wren,
I am so, so grateful for your wonderful news and most of all that you have forgiven me! I couldn’t have lived knowing I’d caused you pain and now to hear that you are engaged is too, too thrilling! A sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds! I cannot wait to see it! And Muv must be so relieved. But my, you are a dark horse! What became of your shy Baronet? Were you using him as a screen to hide another love? You really have managed the whole thing in record time. Did he go down on one knee? Did he kiss you? I imagine the dampness is less distracting if you are kissing a man you love. How many times? Are you in love with him? You must tell me how Scotland is and his family; if they are terribly grand and if Muv is doing or saying anything ridiculous. (Details, please.) I hope they have given you a decent bedroom and that his mother is kind to you.
I’m so sorry to have missed you, but not the Holy. It’s bad enough having to be back in St James’s Square with the Consort on my own. All he does is stomp around glowering at me and lecturing from a book called The Great Threat, which claims the lower classes are poised to take over civilisation and thus end it through a combination of rapid interbreeding and sheer bad manners. It was probably a mistake to tell him I thought civilisation was overrated anyway, as the poor dear seems to take these things very seriously.(There’s a single vein on his forehead that throbs violently when he’s experiencing an emotion. It turned positively purple.) He called me ‘a Bad Seed’ and left for his club, taking his precious book with him and muttering furiously. I imagine supper will be unbearable.
Oh my darling! I have a shameful confession…Do you recall that Muv employed the Consort’s son Nick to bring me home from Paris? Well, he did. And he is neither fat nor old nor anything like the Consort at all. In fact, he’s surprisingly handsome and charming–so much so that when he approached me in the lobby of the Bristol Hotel, it didn’t occur to me it could be him. He has dark hair, the most elegant features and eyes that seem to be smiling even when his mouth is very serious. I was of course blubbering away like an idiot without a handkerchief. And suddenly I heard someone laughing, and when I looked up there was this man who for all the world looked like Ivor Novello, standing there, shaking his head. ‘It’s not as bad as all that, is it?’ Then he passed me his pocket hanky and sat down. ‘Really! You’d think someone had died!’
‘You don’t understand!’ I sobbed, trying to work out who he was, but glad for the hanky all the same. ‘I’ve made the most terrible, terrible mistake!’ (And then I blew my nose as delicately as I could, which WAS challenging.)
‘Only one?’
‘Yes, but a Big One!’ I insisted.
And then, my love, he did the most marvellous thing. He called the waiter over and ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne! I could hardly believe it, but the French must do it all the time, because the waiter just smiled and brought it to us straight away. Then he proposed a toast.
‘To getting it wrong!’
Well, I’ve never really had champagne before. I took the tiniest sip and he laughed and said, ‘Now, drink up, Baby! It’s good for you. Besides, this is a celebration.’
‘Of what?’
‘It’s not every