of the evening.
Tonight, however, was a relatively simple affair by comparison. As loyal members of the Tory Party, the Maxwells were hosting a campaign fundraiser aimed at securing Anthony Eden as prime minister. Eden, appointed Churchill’s natural successor upon his resignation, had called a general election for 26 May and his pledge that ‘Peace comes first, always,’ struck a chord with a nation weary from sacrifice and loss.
To highlight this dawning age of prosperity, Vanessa had organized an impromptu ‘Summer Fete’ in the Orangery of Kensington Palace, with traditional entertainment and food, including a coconut shy, dunk tank, horseshoes, egg-and-spoon races, jugglers and even pony rides, while vats of Pimm’s, strawberry ice, caviar tarts and champagne made the rounds. The only difference was that the tickets were purchased in pounds rather than pennies, and the stalls were manned by famous faces from the stage and screen.
As soon as they entered it was clear from the crush of bodies that most of fashionable London was in attendance. A large banner with the slogan ‘United for Peace and Progress’ hung across the entrance. People were shouting and waving to one another across a sea of faces; smoke clouds hung thick and heavy; the constant throbbing tempo of a brass band could be heard pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the general roar.
Holding each other’s hands, the two girls slipped through the crowds.
‘Can you see her?’ Grace scanned the long gallery.
‘She’s over there!’ Mallory shouted back, waving to a small, dark-haired woman, surrounded by people on the other side of the room.
She dragged Grace through the throng.
‘Vanessa!’
Vanessa turned round. Dressed in a gauzy evening gown of layered black chiffon, she had sharp, even features and rather small, deep brown eyes. Although not very tall, she was so delicate and perfectly proportioned that despite her unremarkable face she could only be described as exquisite. Next to her, other women appeared suddenly bedraggled and bovine. Her manner was relaxed; almost bored, as if she weren’t greeting her guests so much as auditioning them. And every detail of her person was flawlessly finished – from the smooth centre-parting of her hair drawn back behind her ears to reveal a pair of magnificent emerald clips, to her long, slender fingers, accented with creamy, pale polish, the precise translucent shade of the small cluster of rosebuds that adorned her waist. Vanessa smiled, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette. ‘Welcome, ladies! I hope you’re feeling lucky. There’s a tombola that includes a ladies’ gold watch from Asprey and the tickets are going like hot cakes. That new comedian Benny Hill is hosting the auction.’
‘The one from the television?’ Mallory’s eyes widened.
‘The very same. And let me tell you, he’s nothing like that in real life!’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘The same way I manage anything – through sheer unrelenting gall.’ She turned to Grace, looking at her steadily from beneath hooded lids. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.’
‘Oh, I want you to meet my friend, Grace Munroe. Roger’s wife.’
‘Hello,’ Grace held out her hand. ‘And thank you for having me. This is simply … well … incredible!’
Vanessa received Grace’s fingertips with a squeeze, tilting her head to one side, ‘So, you’re Roger’s wife. We were all wondering where he’d disappeared to.’ Taking another deep drag, she regarded Grace with frank curiosity, as if she were a rare specimen on display in a museum. ‘You’re related to Lord Royce, aren’t you?’
‘He’s my second cousin on my mother’s side. He inherited the title when my grandfather died.’
‘I see.’ Vanessa exhaled, a long thin stream of smoke shooting from her nose. ‘You’re quite pretty, aren’t you?’
Grace blushed a little, feeling suddenly gauche; like a child who’d been trotted out before bedtime to entertain older relatives with their good manners. ‘Thank you.’
‘And where is your husband tonight?’ Vanessa asked
‘In Scotland. On business.’
‘How terrible for you. Or,’ she arched an eyebrow, ‘perhaps lucky. I know I’d be euphoric if Phillip went away.’
‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Grace shifted the conversation away from herself. ‘I’m sure the fundraiser will be a grand success.’
‘I do my best. Wander round,’ Vanessa suggested with a wave of her hand, turning back to greet some other guests. ‘And buy lots of tickets, girls. It’s for the good of Britain.’ She flashed Grace a little smile. ‘So nice to meet you. Really.’
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Mallory decided, heading for the refreshments table. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, I have designs on that gold watch.’
Grace put a hand on Mallory’s arm. ‘How did Vanessa know about my family?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s common knowledge. Why?’
‘Nothing.’ Grace frowned. ‘Only there’s a family rumour my cousin is going to be forced to sell the estate soon. Roger’s quite upset about it. But those old places simply burn money and there’s so much debt.’
Mallory gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t think about that tonight, darling. It’s probably just a coincidence that she brought it up.’
Grace hadn’t expected to enjoy herself but the evening was surprisingly entertaining. Vanessa’s cattle car policy meant that conversation was immediate and the carnival games created a raucous sense of competitive camaraderie. Mallory lost almost five pounds on the coconut shy before finally landing an up-and-coming Rank starlet in the dunk tank, to the extreme delight of all the men nearby. Grace excelled at horseshoes, eventually being outplayed by the Duchess of Kent. Neither of the girls won the gold watch. Grace discovered a few familiar faces amidst the throng and both she and Mallory devoured several caviar tarts washed down with champagne.
Then Mallory spotted the Mr Memory stall, manned by Phillip Maxwell himself in a top hat and tails, and became even more excited.
‘Look! We used to play this game all the time as children.’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and dragged her across the hall. ‘I’m an expert at this. Come on. I’ll go against you, one on one.’
‘I’ve never played.’ Grace stared at the row of increasingly larger trays lined up on the stall counter. Each was covered with a cloth. ‘What do you do?’
‘It’s the easiest thing in the world, ladies!’ Phillip Maxwell tipped his hat, giving them an exaggerated bow. ‘Each tray has upwards of fifteen objects on it. I remove the cloth for a minute, cover it again, and you have another minute to record as many objects as you can remember. The person who’s able to remember the most objects correctly is the winner.’
‘That’s all?’ It sounded straightforward enough. ‘All right, Mal. You’re on.’
Phillip Maxwell handed them each a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘Now, you can’t begin writing your answers until the tray has been completely re-covered, understand? Ready, steady, go!’
He
