WINTER 1957
Lily felt the top book in the stack she carried slip slightly and hitched her arm to brace it so that it didn’t fall to the pavement. It was misting rain as it always did when the crispness of autumn gave way to London’s winter chill. She glanced down at the books. They should be in her worn leather satchel, but the copies of The Way We Live Now and Hard Times already stuffed in there next to her composition books made it too full.
A woman in a neat canary-yellow suit with her hair tied up in a scarf of blues and creams that gave the telltale shimmer of silk hurried by Lily. Across the road, a nanny stopped to fuss at her young charge, urging him to put his hat back on so he didn’t catch a chill.
This was not a neighborhood of housewives making dinner for hardworking husbands or young bohemians who considered the late afternoon a perfectly suitable time for breakfast. Belgravia was a quiet sanctuary for the elite who, at this time of day, would be taking tea in china cups as they considered whatever entertainment of dinners, dancing, or theater their evenings would entail.
Lily turned off Pont Street and onto Cadogan Place, its row of white houses decorated with columns and balconies like an iced cake facing the gated oasis that was Cadogan Place Park. Halfway down the road, she stopped, tugged at the hem of her navy school jacket, and smoothed a hand over her light blond curls. It was silly to check. She’d combed them in the ladies’ room of Mrs. Wodely’s School for Girls before taking the bus to Hyde Park Corner, and they’d been perfect because she’d set them in pin curls only yesterday night before bed, taking care when brushing them out that morning. However, she knew not to leave perfection to chance when it came to Tuesday tea with Grandmama.
Lily rolled her shoulder back, lifted her chin, and twisted the large brass key of her grandmother’s old-fashioned doorbell.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
The heavy black door creaked open, revealing Grandmama’s tidy, wiry housekeeper, just as always.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker,” Lily said as the housekeeper stepped back to let her into the hall.
“Madam is in the drawing room,” said Mrs. Parker, no expression crossing her always-composed features.
As usual.
Lily placed her spare books on the entryway’s wide circular table that bore a crystal vase filled with flowers and handed her satchel to Mrs. Parker, impressed when the older woman did not flinch at the weight of the bag.
With one hand on the polished banister, Lily tried her best to float up the stairs as Grandmama had instructed her so many times before.
“A lady does not move with effort, Lillian,” Grandmama had said, watching her from a chair Mrs. Parker had brought to the base of the stairs just for the occasion.
Lily could still remember the rising frustration building in her like water trapped behind a dam as she “floated” again and again up and down the stairs. Finally, Grandmama had said, “That will have to be good enough, I suppose,” letting Lily know that it would never be enough.
At the top of the stairs, Lily turned to her right, knocking softly on the drawing room door and waiting.
“Enter,” came Grandmama’s rich, measured voice.
Lily twisted the brass handle to push open the heavy door and—
Stopped.
Everything in the room was as it should be. Grandmama’s pure white hair was swept into the prim chignon she always wore, and there wasn’t a crease on her emerald dress with its long, slim sleeves that tapered to her wrists. As always, a silver tea tray sat next to Grandmama, the china cups painted with pale pink roses accented with turquoise ribbons and gold scalloped rims at the ready. But instead of just one seat angled to face Grandmama, there were two.
“Mummy?” Lily asked. It was Tuesday tea, not Friday dinner. Mummy never accompanied her to tea.
Mummy offered a weak smile, but Lily could see the way her hands shook in her lap.
“Good afternoon, Lillian. Your mother will be joining us today,” said Grandmama. “Please sit down.”
With careful steps, Lily crossed the room to her chair and lowered herself into it as she’d been taught. Ankles crossed and to the side. Back straight. Hands resting in her lap. After a full day at school, it took every inch of discipline not to slouch with exhaustion.
“Your mother is here because something has happened,” said Grandmama as she placed the silver strainer on top of one of the china cups and poured the first cup of tea.
Has something happened to Joanna?” Lily asked before she could stop herself.
Mummy stiffened, and the faint lines on Grandmama’s forehead deepened.
“We do not speak of that woman in this house,” Grandmama reminded her.
Mummy’s hands twisted over and over themselves, and guilt flushed Lily’s cheeks. She knew better than to ask about her older sister. No good could come of it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, directing the words mostly to Mummy. “Please tell me what’s happened.”
“Show her, Josephine,” said Grandmama, giving her daughter-in-law a crisp nod.
Mummy reached for her handbag that sat on the table next to her chair and pulled out an ivory envelope. She moved to open it, when Grandmama said, “Let Lillian read it herself.”
Lily took the envelope from Mummy and read the direction.
Mrs. Michael Nicholls
17 Harley Gardens
London
SW10
She slid her fingers through the slit made by Mummy’s letter opener and pulled the card out.
Her eyes went wide.
“Read it aloud,” said Grandmama, satisfaction playing at the corner of her lips.
She swallowed and began to read, “ ‘The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by Her Majesty to summon Mrs. Michael Nicholls and Miss Lillian Nicholls to an Afternoon Presentation Party at Buckingham Palace on Wednesday, the 19th of March, from 3:30 to 5:30 o’clock p.m.’ ”
Mummy leaned forward in her seat. “You’re going to be presented at court, Lily.”
The breath left Lily’s lungs in a great whoosh. “Presented?”
“Just as your mother and I were presented, as were all of the women on your father’s side of the family,” said Grandmama.
“Your aunt Angelica, too,” said Mummy, her smile quivering with unshed tears.
“You’re going to be a debutante, Lillian,” said Grandmama. “One of the last.”