Silk

It didn’t matter how patient and kind Miss Marguerite was, Amber just knew she was not going to be able to perform a proper curtsy, and that she would disgrace herself and, more importantly, her grandmother. She shuddered at the very thought.

Today she seemed to be struggling more than ever. At last, though, the lesson was over, but not Amber’s humiliation.

Louise walked past her arm in arm with one of the other débutantes, pausing within deliberate earshot to announce in a loud voice, ‘Of course the Macclesfield mill girl can’t curtsy properly. She hasn’t got the breeding. Have you seen her dance? She’s like a cart horse.’ Louise mimicked an exaggerated imitation of someone dancing clumsily, before doing a wobbly faked curtsy and then falling over. ‘It’s like Mummy says: you simply can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, or a silk mill girl into a member of the aristocracy.’

One of the other girls tittered and then another giggled openly, whilst even those who were not part of Louise’s set turned away from Amber – as though she had the plague or something, Amber thought wretchedly. Just like Barrant de Vries had rejected her grandmother? It was a strange sensation to feel that she had something in common with that formidable old lady.

Blanche’s letters to her were full of commands to do what she was told, and to remember how very fortunate she was. It was hard to imagine someone as controlled and determined as her grandmother ever allowing anyone to reject her.

In the cloakroom Amber was once again ignored whilst the other girls chattered together. Amber could hear Louise’s voice quite plainly.

‘I’ll see you at Lady Wilson-Byer’s lunch party, Anthea? I think most of us have been invited, haven’t we? Oh, except you, of course, Amber. Sorry. Mummy did say to tell you that you’d have to amuse yourself today. I forgot.’

She would not cry, Amber told herself fiercely, bending her head over her outdoor shoes as she fastened them.

She was supposed to be going to Norman Hartnell for a fitting for one of the new dresses she would wear once the round of pre- and post-presentation parties began properly, but Amber headed instead for Piccadilly and the National Gallery.

In such an alien and unwanted new world, the National Gallery, which she had visited so often with her parents, had become her private refuge, and normally just breathing its air was enough to calm her, but today the humiliation stung too badly for that panacea.

She stood in front of her father’s favourite portrait of Lorenzo the Magnificent, trying as she always did to look at it with his eyes and expertise. He had loved it because he could almost feel the weight of the fabric – Florentine silk, dyed in Bruges, its colour set with alum – and she could hear his voice now and see his smile.

‘The Medici never did manage to gain control of the alum trade from the Pope,’ she said out loud, lost in a past that was far happier than her present.

‘And was that God’s will, do you suppose, that the might of the Pope’s prayers should outweigh the Medici’s Machiavellian negotiating powers?’

Amber jumped. She hadn’t even realised that she herself had spoken aloud, never mind that a man standing behind her had overheard and was now replying.

Blushing self-consciously she shook her head.

Laughing, her new companion told her, ‘Personally, I think it a shame that the Medici didn’t succeed, but then I’ve always had a soft spot for them, especially old Lorenzo. He knew to a nicety how to combine self-interest with piety.’

Amber had never seen such a physically beautiful human being. He was almost too perfect, surely far too beautiful for a man: tall and slender, with very dark wavy hair, brilliantly green eyes and very pale skin. His profile made the artist within her catch her breath. He was dressed in a suit that fitted him like no suit she had ever seen any man wear before, the fabric so fluid and yet so perfectly cut that her greedy gaze wanted to absorb every detail of it. What was it? Wool with silk? She ached to reach out and touch it.

‘Do you have a particular interest in the Medici?’

His voice was as rich as the best quality velvet, changing tone and colour, warming and cooling in a way that mesmerised her.

‘Not really. My father loved this painting, although he said that there were others he had seen in Leningrad that were even better. My parents used to bring me here and tell me all about the history of silk.’

‘Silk?’ He was being polite.

‘I’m sorry. I’m keeping you and being very dull.’ She made to move away, but he shook his head and told her firmly, ‘No such thing. I confess I know very little about the history of silk. Look, there’s a bench over there; let’s go and sit down and you can enlighten me.’

Amber opened her mouth to refuse politely, but somehow she found that before she could do so she was seated next to him, answering his questions about her family and her home, and confiding in him in a way she could never have imagined herself doing with a stranger.

‘So your grandmother refused to allow you to go to art school and instead she has sent you to London to learn to curtsy so that you can be presented at a drawing room under the auspices of Lady Rutland, and thus find a titled husband, only you won’t be able to do so because you can’t curtsy?’ It was an admirable précis of her garbled explanations.

‘Yes,’ Amber admitted. ‘Louise – that’s Lady Rutland’s daughter – says it’s because I’m not … because I haven’t got … well, she says one needs breeding in order to be able to curtsy properly.’

‘Ah, breeding. Your friend, it seems, has yet to learn that true breeding is a state of mind and cannot be conferred via a coronet.’

He was making fun of her now, Amber was sure of it, but he looked serious.

‘Should we introduce ourselves?’ he asked her. ‘You are … ?’

‘Amber,’ Amber told him shyly. ‘Amber Vrontsky.’

He reached for Amber’s hand, taking it in his own as he stood up and then made a small half-bow.

‘Pray allow me to present myself to you. I am Herr Aubert,’ he told her, adopting a stilted foreign accent that made Amber giggle, in spite of herself. ‘I have the honour to be the world’s best teacher of ze Austrian Curtsy, if you will allow me to demonstrate.’

And then, before Amber could stop him, he released her hand and sank into a perfect curtsy, complete with a simpering expression on his face that made Amber want to laugh again.

‘Come now, Miss Vrontsky, enough of this unseemly levity. You will pay ze attention and copy me, if you please.’

The gallery was empty and, somehow or other, Amber found that she was on her feet too and joining in the game. She dropped into a deep curtsy and then rose from it as effortlessly and as perfectly as though she had been doing it for ever.

Half an hour later, breathless with laughter as her unusual and unrepentant ‘teacher’ insisted she repeat her curtsy half a dozen or more times, Amber shook her head and protested, ‘I can’t do any more. I’ve got a stitch from laughing so much.’

‘Laughing? What is this laughing? You are here to learn ze curtsy. You do not laugh.’

When she did, he feigned outrage, and told her firmly in his normal voice, ‘And now I think we should celebrate your great victory over the curtsy with tea at the Ritz.’

Amber’s face fell. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’

‘Of course you can, and you shall.’

It was very wrong of her to go with him, of course, but somehow or other it was impossible to refuse.

They took a cab to the Ritz, and as they entered, the doorman bowed and said, ‘Good afternoon, Lord Robert. Mr Beaton is waiting for you at your usual table.’

‘Thank you, Mullins,’ he responded, instructing Amber, ‘Come, child.’

Lord Robert, the doorman had called him, Amber noted.

Amber had been to the Ritz before, with her grandmother, but she was still awed by its magnificence.

As they approached the table occupied by another young man, two waiters sprang forward to pull out chairs for them.

‘Cecil, my dearest.’ Lord Robert was speaking in a lazy drawl now, and it seemed to Amber that his whole manner had changed subtly. No longer was it teasing and amused but instead, languid and elegant. ‘I am sorry to be late but you will forgive me when you learn that I have been the saviour of this poor wretched child.’

‘It is not a child, Robert, it is a young woman,’ the other man’s voice was waspish.

‘Ah, yes, but a young woman who studies Lorenzo’s portrait because she wishes to analyse the quality of his silk coat. I suspect she fears that such a vivid shade owes more to the artist’s palette than the dye shops of Bruges.’

‘Indeed.’ This was said with a sharp glance in Amber’s direction.

‘Cecil here is obsessed with colour, princess – the poor models he photographs for Vogue are driven to madness by him.’

Cecil? This was Cecil Beaton! She was actually in the presence of the great photographer whose work she had gazed at with such admiration in Vogue. Amber was tongue-tied with awe.

‘You are talking nonsense, Robert. Now tell me properly, who is this child?’ the photographer demanded.

Amber gave Lord Robert a pleading look but it was no use.

‘She is Amber Vrontsky, her father was Adam Vrontsky, and she is to be one of this season’s débutantes. I found her in tears in the gallery over the ordeal of The Curtsy. However, now all is well, isn’t it?’ There was a look of wicked amusement in the beautiful man’s eyes.

‘A Vrontsky? Indeed?’ Cecil Beaton’s gaze had narrowed. ‘Well, child, was your father the prince or the count, because I recollect that they share the same name.’ He was opening his cigarette case as he spoke to her, offering it to her. Amber shook her head, watching as he turned to Lord Robert, who took one of the Black Russian cigarettes.

‘My father was neither,’ she told the photographer, who was watching her, his eyes narrowed as he blew out a cloud of strongly scented smoke. ‘He was an artist and fabric designer.’

She held her breath, waiting for the familiar disdain, but after the merest indrawn breath, Cecil Beaton said smoothly, ‘A prince amongst men indeed then.’

‘Yes, he was,’ Amber agreed proudly. ‘And I wish more than anything else that my grandmother would have let me go to art school as he wanted.’

‘You wish to become an artist?’

‘No,’ Amber replied. ‘I want to do what my father did and create new designs for our silk – my grandmother owns a silk mill.’

The tea things arrived, and after their tea had been poured the two men began discussing a social event they were both attending, leaving Amber free to study her surroundings, whilst keeping one ear on their conversation. Here and there she managed to grasp a name, only to recognise with awe that it belonged to someone famous, but for Amber, far more exhilarating and exciting than the conversation were the women’s clothes, and her senses fed greedily on them. What had previously been only sketches and photographs she had seen in Vogue had come alive, moving with the bodies they were adorning. She felt a pang to see Chanel’s jersey demanding obeisance to its dominance, as virtually everyone seemed to be wearing it, but then she saw a woman walking in wearing Schiaparelli and she was lost, her breath catching and her gaze bewitched by the fluid movement of the silk dress with the most beautifully cut and elegant matching silk jacket worn over it. Everything and everyone else was forgotten as Amber absorbed every detail, her heart pounding in homage to both the fabric and the creative genius of the designer.

‘You prefer the Schiaparelli to the Chanel?’

Amber was startled. She had been so engrossed in the outfit that she hadn’t seen Cecil Beaton turn towards her.

‘It’s silk,’ she told him simply, ‘and the colour …’ She shook her head, unable to find the words to explain the effect of seeing such stunningly vibrant colour at first hand instead of merely seeing a sketched impression of it in a magazine. It was so strong, so powerful, that it almost had its own physical presence. To get an acid yellow so pure was a work of art in itself.

‘I was wondering what dye they used. I’ve seen the outfit in Vogue but I hadn’t realised how different the reality would be.’ Just in time she realised that the photographer was looking slightly offended and assured him truthfully, ‘Your photographs are wonderful and truly capture the reality in a way that a sketch cannot.’

Lord Robert had summoned a waiter and was ordering cocktails.

‘Dubonnet and gin for Mr Beaton and myself,’ he told the waiter, ‘half and half, and shaken very cold, and, er, a lemonade for the young lady.’

‘That is why photographs are the future of fashion magazines.’ Cecil Beaton was smiling approvingly at Amber now. ‘I keep on telling Vogue this, but do they listen to me? No, they do not, because they cannot move with the times. They are fools, but I shall be proved right. The camera can capture reality so much more sharply and clearly than a workaday draughtsman with his tubes of paint. Schiaparelli’s gowns are a case in point. As you have just said, it is impossible to replicate the true colour of her clothes without a camera. She is, of course, a true artist and a gifted one, but be warned, child, if you are looking to her for the future of your silk, then you are looking in the wrong place. It is my belief that Chanel, with her practical jersey and her clever mock simplicity, holds the key to the future of fashion. If you will take my advice you would be wise to direct your attentions towards silks that can be used to ornament the home rather than the human body.’

He took a sip of his cocktail and then another, putting down his glass to light another cigarette before continuing, ‘We are entering a period of great change, and not just in clothes. Interior design is what you should be watching. It’s there that there will be the greatest demand for new and innovative fabrics. Having one’s home redone by a top designer is already all the rage in New York; people with the money to pay for it want a look for their home that is unique to them, but at the same time recognisable by the cognoscenti as being overseen by an expert, and having “style”. That is where you should be looking in future.

‘You should talk to Lees-Milne about it. He is mad about houses and knows all the best of them. Art school is all very well but it cannot give you the gift of a good eye or the true sense of knowing what is right and what is not if you do not already possess them, but something tells me that you do. Let your passion guide you. Passion should never be underestimated or ignored.’

Amber listened to him, awed and humbled that he was prepared to take the time to give her the benefit of his advice. Suddenly her future, which had seemed so bleak and oppressive, now seemed full of wonderful possibilities.

Shyly she confided to him, ‘My father used to say that we hadn’t moved with the times and that—’ She broke off as a ravishingly pretty woman, wearing a softly flowing loose dress, escorted by a slender foppish-looking young man with faunlike features, came towards them, exclaiming, ‘Robert and Cecil, how fortunate! I need you both to help me, and as you can see, Cecil, I have already commandeered your assistant. I found him in the foyer and rescued him from a pack of young ladies. Bryan and I are planning a party, for after the baby, you understand.’

Amber couldn’t stop looking at her. She was dressed for the evening, in a gown of gold lamé over lace, over crêpe satin, over which she was wearing a brown velvet evening coat with a lining of peach satin fulgurante. On her feet she was wearing shoes of silver tissue flecked with gold. In her prettily waved golden-blonde hair were diamond stars that twinkled in the light of the chandeliers. On her fingers and wrists were more diamonds, and her lips were painted rose-brown to complement the colour of her gown and coat.

‘What, another party?’ Lord Robert was demanding, as he summoned a waiter, instructing him, ‘Mrs Guinness will join us for tea.’

Amber was acutely conscious of how out of her depth she was.

Lord Robert was still talking with Mrs Guinness.

‘It’s just as well you have married the Guinness millions and that Bryan is so adoring a husband, Diana,’ he teased her, before turning to the young man standing with her to tell him, ‘Saville, you must sit here next to Cecil, for if you don’t he will sulk with me.’

Whilst the young man made his way to the seat, far from being offended by Lord Robert’s teasing, Mrs Guinness simply laughed and told him, ‘Well, so he should be, since I hope very soon to give him an heir.’

Amber blushed a little to hear her speak so openly of her condition.

‘Then let us hope that it is a boy and that you deliver him on time and with far less fuss than poor Evelyn Waugh is making over his new book,’ Lord Robert grinned.

Mrs Guinness shook her head. ‘Robert, that is very wicked of you.’

‘Wicked, perhaps, but also true,’ Lord Robert insisted. ‘Harold Acton told me that when he asked Evelyn what this new book of his was about, Eve told him that it is a welter of sex and snobbery.’

Mrs Guinness gave a trill of laughter. ‘Oh, that is too naughty of him. He and Nancy are taking bets on which of them will have their new book denounced as a “sewer” first by Farve.’

How very pretty and gay she was, Amber thought enviously. It was no wonder that the men were gazing at her so admiringly.

‘Now, Robert, I want you to listen to me,’ she was saying firmly.

‘Very well then,’ he agreed, ‘but first, Diana, most beauteous of all the beautiful Mitford sisters, pray allow me to introduce my protégée to you.’

‘Your what?’ she exclaimed merrily.

Amber’s face burned, as much with self-consciousness at finding herself in the company of someone she had read about in the pages of Vogue and the social gossip columns, as with the idea of being Lord Robert’s protégée.

It was Cecil Beaton who answered Diana Guinness, telling her drolly, ‘Miss Amber Vrontsky. Robert found the child in the National Gallery and has been teaching her to curtsy.’

The blue eyes widened their gaze resting on Amber’s flushed face. ‘Oh, the curtsy. Yes, indeed, it is perfectly horrid. Muv threatened to ask my sister Nancy to teach me, but luckily for me Nancy made Muv cross with one of her teases so I went to Miss Vacani instead. You poor child,’ she addressed Amber directly for the first time, ‘and so pretty too. You will be besieged by admirers. You must come to one of my parties. I shall send you an invitation.’

‘What do you think of London so far, Miss Vrontsky?’ Cecil Beaton asked.

‘When I am in the art galleries or looking up at the wonderful architecture, I think London is the most magnificent city there could be, and I feel very proud.’ Amber’s voice faltered slightly as she continued, ‘But then when I look at all the poor people begging on the streets and I read in the newspapers that there is no work for them I feel ashamed.’

There was a small silence and then Cecil Beaton said softly, ‘Out of the mouths of babes …’

She had spoken too frankly, Amber realised guiltily. Greg was always teasing her for doing so, but her parents had instilled in her a respect for honesty and truthfulness.

‘The truth can sometimes hurt,’ her mother had told her, ‘but deceit causes a far more painful wound.’

Cecil Beaton and his young assistant were discussing some sketches the photographer had submitted to Vogue. From his pocket he withdrew a small sketchpad and a pencil, using it to underline the point he was making.

Amber watched, both fascinated and envious, unaware of how clearly her face revealed her feelings. How fortunate Saville was to have such an apprenticeship.

Amber’s head was beginning to spin slightly, from the air around the table, rich as it was with cigarette smoke, and the headiness of the conversation.

The tables around them were filling up, the sound of laughter growing louder, the tea cups replaced by champagne glasses.

‘Robert, I think perhaps it’s time you returned your protégée to Lady Rutland, before both you and she get into trouble,’ Cecil Beaton warned, tearing a page from his notebook as he spoke.

‘Yes, I must go,’ Amber agreed, suddenly realising the time with an icy feeling of dread. ‘Thank you for my tea and for being so very kind …’ She was scrambling to her feet as she spoke, all too aware of the shortcomings of her appearance amongst so many beautifully dressed and sophisticated people, and the fact that she was going to be horribly late getting back to Lady Rutland’s. Her heart gave a small flurry of anxious beats. What on earth was she going to say to Lady Rutland? She shouldn’t have stayed out so long, she acknowledged guiltily. In fact she shouldn’t have come here at all. But she was glad that she had.

‘Here, child, this is for you – a small memento.’

Her dread disappeared, to be replaced with a mixture of delight and awe as she stared down at the small sketch Cecil had given her. There in front of her they all were – small but oh so accurate caricatures of themselves on paper, seated around the table. Underneath the sketch he had written, ‘Miss Vrontsky takes tea.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ Amber choked, unable to say any more. It seemed impossible that she who had pored over Cecil’s witty society sketches should now possess one that included herself.

The head waiter was summoned and requested to ensure that she was put safely in a hansom cab. The gentlemen stood up and bowed formally over her hand, and then she was being escorted away from the table.

She had just reached the main entrance when Lord Robert came hurrying after her.

‘If there should be any repercussions from Lady Rutland, make sure you refer her to me,’ he told her.

His thoughtfulness after the misery she had felt was almost too much for her. ‘You’re all so kind,’ she told him emotionally,

Lord Robert watched her leave. She had so much to learn. She didn’t even know yet that society was divided into those who did accept and mingle with classes other than their own and those who did not and would not ever.

He, of course, belonged to the former group; his world embraced all those who had wit, and style, and most of all beauty. It was a world that was sophisticated, amusing and moneyed. It was also a world that had its dark underside, since it was the world of the louche, the raffish, the brazen and the fallen – the world of those who preyed on beauty and those who bought and sold it. It was into that world that Amber, with her beauty tethered by her grandmother’s wealth and desire for a title, would be welcomed. Could she survive it or would it destroy her? Poor child, he felt for her. After all, he knew what it was like to have a powerful cruel grandparent. His own grandfather had … but no, he must not allow himself to think of that.

Amber knew she would never forget today. She was filled with a new sense of hope and happiness. Oh, but she still couldn’t help envying Cecil Beaton’s young assistant. How very lucky he was.

Inside the cab, as it carried her back to Cadogan Place, Amber fluctuated between anxious fear of what Lady Rutland was likely to say to her, and a stubborn refusal to wish that she had not gone with Lord Robert.

The happiness the afternoon had brought was worth braving Lady Rutland’s wrath ten times over. She would never forget what a lovely time she had had and how kind everyone had been, but most especially Lord Robert. A pink glow warmed Amber’s face and her heart started to beat a little bit faster. Lord Robert was such fun, and so handsome. She was hardly likely to see him again, of course, but if she did …

Chapter Six

It was gone six o’clock by the time Amber got back to Cadogan Place, the lunch Lady Rutland and Louise had attended long over.

A sympathetic-looking maid informed Amber that she was to present herself immediately to Lady Rutland, but before Amber could do so, Louise came into her room without bothering to knock, and looking very smug.