The Cavendish Hotel
Thursday, May 31, 1923, at the Cavendish Hotel in London.
London’s high-society season officially closed with the opening of Parliament, lingering until the middle of August and then fading into the Scottish hunting season. The Darlingtons had returned to English soil only the day before. Over the three-week journey, actual participation in the season had been possible for barely a week.
The Cavendish Hotel stood at the heart of St. James’s District, surrounded by the finest tailors, tobacconists, and gentlemen’s clubs. It was not the most luxurious establishment in the city, yet throughout the season it was thronged with provincial nobility whose bloodlines were impeccable even if their fortunes were not.
The three of them sat together in a small breakfast room decorated in elegant English style, awaiting the traditional full English breakfast.
“Do not so much as glance at the nobles who stay at this hotel, Mabel,” Mildred whispered with a warning edge in her voice.
In recent years her niece had bloomed like a rare Cattleya orchid worth fifty dollars, drawing eyes wherever she went. Her beauty was exactly as her late mother’s had been— the debutante of the year in New York herself.
Men in the breakfast room stared at Mabel openly. Yet through the strict discipline she had received, she remained unaware of those glances.
Once she emerged from the royal debutante court, even a modest dowry would ensure she fetched a high price on the marriage market. If everything went according to plan, the Darlingtons’ own small… financial difficulties would resolve naturally.
Therefore the thin-blooded nobility who had crossed the Atlantic in search of the “American Dollar Princess” must not be allowed to claim their cousin.
“Very well, Aunt Mildred,” Mabel answered, lowering her gaze. Because of the time difference she was tired, and the orange marmalade on her toast felt grainy against her tongue.
Yet even her thoughts refused to submit.
Thank goodness I was not born in Britain. Here it still feels as though the world has been frozen in the nineteenth century.
Born and raised in New York, she had never truly grasped how far ahead the city lay. After experiencing the strict, conservative rules of a nation ruled by royalty and nobles, even the customs of New York’s upper classes had begun to seem like symbols of freedom.
Mildred adored London for the lingering traces of the Victorian era. She and the motorcar-sick, carriage-pining spinster were a perfectly matched pair in this city.
Mabel inwardly smirked at the thought, then bit her lip as guilt surged in.
“Mabel, only one lump of sugar in your tea!” she exclaimed as Mabel reached for a second.
Mildred gave a satisfied nod.
“Listen carefully. For a debutante, family name and fortune are not the most important things. Of course, they matter too— but only when they have no real power. What truly matters are two things. What do you think they are?”
Mabel answered slowly, knowing the correct response.
“…Intelligence and character, I suppose?”
Mildred let out a scornful laugh.
“Wrong. Neither matters in the slightest. If anything, hiding one’s intelligence is better. No mention of university, research, or anything of the sort. It will sound too common… but that is the rule of the day, so I shall not beat around the bush.”
She shot a glance at Walter, who pretended not to hear, cigarette clamped between his teeth as he read The Times. It was beneath a gentleman to join or eavesdrop on women’s conversation.
“Above all, a debutante must have beauty and reputation. In your case the former is… passable, so only the latter concerns you. You are never, ever to be alone with a man. Free love and all that nonsense is simply the shortest path to being seen as a loose woman. Like those brazen, arrogant flappers who roam Speakeasies every night in short dresses barely covering their knees and drink to their hearts’ content.”
Recent years had seen the flapper craze sweep through the young women of the city: hair cut short like a boy’s, dresses so short they barely reached the knees, dancing and drinking and enjoying freedom in the night.
Mildred despised them.
Her voice dropped.
“They may seem popular at first, but never forget: men never propose to easy women. Understood?”
“Yes, Aunt Mildred.”
Mabel answered absently. She had no interest in men or marriage whatsoever. What she wanted was to return to university and finish her studies.
I wonder if I’ll make it back in the autumn semester. Please, not this half-hearted engagement I never asked for.
With a deep sigh her shoulders sagged.
“Cornelia Mabel Darlington! Shoulders back, spine straight. Hold yourself properly at all times and in all places. That is the mark of a lady.”
The harsh scolding landed like a whip.
“Yes, Aunt Mildred.”
Mabel straightened her spine and swallowed another sigh.
After breakfast they returned to the suite, and almost at once a hotel hairdresser knocked at the door.
Three full hours passed in the laborious task of curling long hair into Marcel waves with curling irons and arranging it into the latest fashionable style.
Strict dress codes required a long white satin gown with a sweeping train and long gloves reaching to the elbows.
On her head she wore the pearl tiara her late mother had used at her wedding, and beneath it a towering ostrich-feather ornament in the Prince of Wales style. A long transparent veil trailed from beneath the feathers, and in her hands she held a collar lily bouquet.
“Not half bad,” Mildred observed, sweeping Mabel head to toe with a glance. Her praise was the highest possible.
With the toilette complete, the three of them stepped into a Daimler limousine they had rented at great expense and set off for Buckingham Palace.
The queue on The Mall between Buckingham Palace gates and Constitution Hill stretched for hours, with luxury motorcars lined up end to end. Mabel and Mildred fanned themselves with parasols while nibbling biscuits and sipping lemonade, the humid air heavy with London’s frequent rain.
Londoners who had come to watch lined up outside the limousines like zoo visitors, staring inside and chattering loudly.
“Did you see the tiara on that Rolls-Royce lady? Looks bigger than the queen’s.”
“This one is so top-heavy with dress decorations she’ll never rise. She’ll end up with a broken hip if she tries to curtsy.”
Laughter erupted.
“Not all debutantes are beautiful, you know. That one behind us is plainer than my own sister.”
Mabel could not escape the rude appraisal either. A crowd of onlookers immediately began an impromptu vote for the debutante of the year.
“I vote for the violet-eyed lady! Her dress is plain, but her face is straight out of a movie.”
“Movie star? Where, where? Move over so I can see!”
A flapper plastered her face against the window, nose pressed flat as she stared at Mabel.
Hard to pretend she had not heard. Rather than praise, the feeling of being a caged animal was far from pleasant.
“Mabel, remember the order of audience? No matter what happens, you must never show your back to the King and Queen. You will fall over if you step back and crush that train— that would be disgraceful!”
“Yes, Aunt Mildred.”
A half-chewed biscuit lodged in her throat as the relentless scolding rang in her ears.
The wait, which had felt eternal, ended at precisely 9:30.
The line of black motorcars that seemed endless moved forward like a swarm of cockroaches. The limousine finally passed through the gates and stopped at the entrance to the palace courtyard.
“Cornelia Mabel Darlington. Do well. Remember that the future of the Darlington family rests on you.”
As a knight offered his arm and Mabel stepped down from the limousine, Walter gave her a solemn warning.
“Yes, Uncle Walter.”
She felt both puzzled and uneasy.
Why did he speak of the family’s future as if it depended on her?
“I will return shortly.”
Mabel turned away the uneasy feeling and offered a polite farewell. Then, with trembling hands, she adjusted the long train and walked into Buckingham Palace with measured, tense steps.