hours hearing about his mother put me right off,’ snorted Maisie, not even bothering to respond to Diana’s remark. They were all so comfortable with each other: like sisters, they squabbled but always made up. They’d been through the fire together. It had created an unbreakable bond. ‘It was like having my Nan in the room, squawking, “If you let the dog see the rabbit, it’ll end in tears, my girl! Get the ring first!” And talkin’ of rings – I hope someone will take pictures of us at the wedding,’ Maisie added. ‘I want to see proof of me in my finery.’
“Course they will,’ Diana said. ‘Pictures for posterity.’
Lily didn’t know what they’d have done for clothes if it hadn’t been for Diana’s generosity. She had trunkloads of stuff: evening gowns and day suits she’d donated to the Impoverished of Hampstead Fund, as they called it. Maisie’s nimble fingers could take in or let out any garment. As Diana and Lily were almost the same size, not much alteration was required, but a few inches had to be taken off all the hems so they’d fit her.
Thanks to Diana’s capacious trunks, Maisie would be wearing a grey linen and silk suit and a dashing little silver feathered hat for Sybil’s wedding. Diana was to be a bridesmaid in one of her mother’s old Mainbocher gowns in a sea blue that made her English cream and roses complexion look even more beautiful, and Lily was to wear a crêpe de Chine navy spotted dress with a Chinese collar, a nipped-in waist that made her look like a very slender hourglass, and a swirling skirt. The only fly in the sartorial ointment was the lack of shoes. Diana’s feet were much bigger than Lily’s, too big for them to share shoes, so Lily would have to wear her hospital shoes, a pair of brown lace-ups sturdy enough to walk from London to the church.
‘You’ll still look smashing,’ Maisie had said loyally when they’d tried on their respective outfits.
With Diana’s great-aunt’s jade earrings bringing out the hints of viridian in her eyes, and her chestnut hair a mass of glossy curls, Lily knew she would look her best. But the shoes would not be the only thing to give it away.
Servants were far greater snobs than their masters and the person who’d said a good butler could ascertain a person’s social class from just one glance had not been lying. Lily knew that her background would be immediately apparent to all below stairs at Beltonward.
‘Come on, girls,’ she said now, getting up from her seat in the sun. ‘Let’s go out for tea: I’m starving.’
Beltonward was Lily’s worst nightmare. From the moment the old truck they’d got a lift on lurched over a hill and Diana cried: ‘Look, there it is,’ pride overcoming the politeness that made her play down her family’s wealth, Lily felt her heart sink to the soles of her shoes. Beltonward was a vast mansion, built along the lines of the huge houses commandeered by the Army, Navy and Air Force as bases for their operations. The only factor that had left Beltonward in private hands was its location far from anywhere. It was perfect as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers, having acres of land for men to roam about and try to forget what they’d seen.
‘Christ Almighty,’ Maisie said. ‘You must be a bleedin’ princess, love, ‘cos your dad would need to be a king to keep this place going.’
‘Oh, Maisie, shut up,’ snapped Diana, with an unheard-of irritability that showed Lily that she wasn’t the only one anxious about the wedding.
Maisie shut up.
When the truck deposited them at the huge front door, two elderly gentlemen appeared.
‘Daddy,’ said Diana, leaping forward to hug the shabbier of the two. At least seventy, with a few strands of silver hair on his brown, liver-spotted head, he wore a much-darned knitted waistcoat, a pale blue shirt and silk foulard, and an amiable expression on his lined, bespectacled face.
‘Maisie and Lily, this is Daddy, Sir Archibald Belton, and Wilson.’
Try as she might, Lily couldn’t bring herself to call a man older than her father by his surname without some prefix. Wilson. No, couldn’t do it.
‘Hello, Sir Archibald, how do you do, Mr Wilson,’ she said.
Sir Archibald’s face didn’t flicker but Wilson looked marginally shocked.
Oh well, thought Lily, in for a penny, in for a pound.
She picked up her small valise.
‘Wilson can take your bags, m’dear,’ said the genial Sir Archibald.
‘Not at all,’ Lily said cheerfully. ‘I’ll carry it myself.’
Beltonward might have been stripped of most of its artwork (the valuable stuff was in the enormous cellar, along with the dwindling collection of wine – Sir Archie was said to be desolate that all his precious hock was gone), but the building itself still held treasures. As Sir Archie led them inside, chatting happily to his daughter, linking arms with her, Maisie and Lily were able to look around a vestibule – far too grand to be a hall, Lily grinned to herself – with a huge staircase stretching elegantly in front of them. A few portraits still hung on the faded damask red walls. Men with long Borzoi noses like Sir Archie, and powdered and berib-boned women like poor horse-faced Sybil, stared down at them, saying Yes, we’re rich and powerful and masters of all we survey.
Plasterwork picked out in tattered gold leaf caught the light and the vast vaulted ceiling was painted with frolicking cherubs and goddesses scampering through sun-lit clouds.
Two giant cracked blue-and-white vases decorated with peeping Chinese girls stood at the turn of the stairs and Lily knew enough from Rathnaree to recognise that they were worth something.
‘Christ Almighty,’ whispered Maisie as they climbed the marble steps, ‘I was never interested in marrying a toff, but I can see the attraction now.’
‘Not if you had to clean the steps yourself, you wouldn’t,’ Lily whispered back, thinking of the yards of marble at Rathnaree and knowing that, no matter how much money she had, she’d still hate to get another human being to clean her floors.
‘Good point.’
Maisie and Lily were to share a room and when they were alone, Lily sat down on one of the twin beds. The coverlet was pure white, quilted cotton. It was the newest thing in the room. Everything else was very old and faded, including the heavy floral curtains and the threadbare carpet.
‘Gawd, not quite the Ritz up here, is it?’ Maisie said.
‘Family rooms,’ Lily explained. ‘These are where family and friends of the children stay. The proper guest suites would be better, but nothing too showy. It’s bad taste to have the place too grand.’
‘I would, if I lived here,’ Maisie sighed, opening drawers and poking around.
‘That’s why you and I would never make toffs’ wives,’ Lily laughed. ‘We’d want round-the-clock heat, silk bedspreads like Greta Garbo’s and a Rolls-Royce, and the posh boy would want old curtains, no heating, and us darning his socks rather than buy new ones. Rich people don’t need to show off the fact that they’re rich.’
‘They’re odd, that’s for sure,’ Maisie said.
They tidied themselves up to meet Diana’s mother and
