The Lost Sapphire (4 page)

There was something about Sally's repressed air of excitement that piqued Violet's curiosity.

‘Oh? And does this chauffeur have a name?' Violet asked.

Sally concentrated as she untangled a knot. ‘Nikolai,' she said. ‘Nikolai Khakovsky.' Sally stumbled a little over the unfamiliar surname.

Violet smiled at Sally in the mirror. ‘I look forward to meeting him.'

Sally finished the braid and pinned back the loose wisps of hair. ‘Best head down for breakfast, miss,' she said. ‘The bell rang quite a few minutes ago.'

Violet nodded. It was time to face her family.

Breakfast was laid out downstairs, in the morning room, on the small round table near the French doors that opened to the terrace. A vase of blue hydrangeas, sweet-scented freesias and white roses nodded in the centre. Golden toast stood upright in its silver toast rack beside the silver domed butter dish and crystal dishes of citrus marmalade and berry jam. Boiled eggs were nestled in delicate silver egg cups at each place.

Mr Hamilton was already seated, dressed in a grey three-piece suit, reading his newspaper. The remains of his breakfast lay on the plate in front of him. To Violet's surprise, Imogen was also there, eating half a grapefruit. She raised her eyebrows at her sister.

‘Good morning, Violet,' her father said, not looking up. ‘You're late.'

Saunders, the butler, pulled Violet's chair back for her then stepped over near the sideboard, his face impassive. He was dressed in his black livery of tailcoat, tie, vest and trousers with a white wing-collar shirt. Romeo was lying beside the French doors. He thumped his tail on the floor as Violet walked towards the table.

‘Good morning, Dad,' replied Violet, slipping into her chair and placing her napkin in her lap. ‘It's the most glorious morning.' She pushed her damp braid over her shoulder.

Imogen shook her head and gently waggled her finger. She had noticed the damp hair and assumed it meant an illicit swim in the river. Violet screwed up her nose in defiance and stuck out her tongue.

The silver teapot, jug and sugar bowl were placed beside Imogen. She poured tea and milk into a rosebud teacup and passed it to Violet.

‘Thanks,' Violet replied as she helped herself to toast and a curl of butter. She chipped at her boiled egg with a silver teaspoon.

Her father huffed and shook his paper, still reading. ‘Steel stocks are down again.'

On the sideboard stood various dishes of stewed fruit and silver salvers of bacon, mushrooms and sausages. The
footman, Harry, brought fresh hot toast and tea from the kitchen.

‘More strikes,' her father commented. ‘Utterly ridiculous nonsense. Don't these workers realise that the trade unions are being stirred up by communist agitators? They should throw the lot of them into prison. That would solve the problem.'

Violet rolled her eyes at Imogen, who patted her lips in a fake yawn. Their father's breakfast conversation was drearily familiar.

‘Why are you up so early today?' Violet asked her sister. ‘You're hardly ever up before noon these days. Too many late nights out at dinners and balls.'

‘No time for sleep when there's fun to be had,' Imogen replied with a grin before turning to her father, her blue eyes wide with innocence. ‘Daddy, could I please have the car today? We've a meeting of the ball fundraising committee this morning at Audrey's, then a gang of us are playing tennis there this afternoon. That is, if you don't need it?'

Her father looked up. His face softened as he looked at his elder daughter. She was undeniably pretty, with her red hair pinned up in a low bun and her ivory skin. Imogen was dressed in the height of fashion in a loose-fitting pale-blue dress, which emphasised the colour of her eyes.

He thought for a moment then nodded. ‘The new chauffeur can drive you there, after he takes Violet to school,' he decided. ‘The car can come back for me mid-morning and take me to the factory. I have a meeting with my foreman, but that can wait.'

Imogen looked delighted. ‘Thank you, Daddy.'

Violet felt annoyed. How did her sister get her way so often, when her father hardly seemed to acknowledge Violet's own existence? Imogen was Dad's favourite, no doubt about it. Violet flicked her damp plait over her shoulder again, willing her father to ask why her hair was wet. He didn't notice, turning back to his newspaper instead.

Violet put her spoon down – she didn't feel hungry anymore – and gazed out the French doors onto the terrace. The grey cat, Juliet, sat on the flagging, delicately licking her paw.

‘Excuse me, Miss Violet,' said Saunders. ‘The chauffeur has brought the car around.'

‘Don't forget to wait for me,' Imogen reminded Violet as she headed down the hall towards the front door, which Saunders was holding open. ‘I won't be long. Could you bring my bags down for me, Harry?'

The ruby-coloured glass in the fanlight and sidelights above and beside the door glowed in the early morning sunshine.

‘Goodbye, Saunders,' Violet said as she popped her white straw hat on and pulled up her gloves.

‘Have a pleasant day, Miss Violet,' the butler replied.

The buttercup yellow Daimler was parked at the bottom of the terrace steps, and a tall young man was standing to attention beside it – the new chauffeur.
Sally's right
, thought Violet.
He is handsome … in a stiff, military sort of way.

He looked about eighteen and wore the usual grey chauffeur's uniform of baggy breeches and double-breasted
jacket with tan driving gloves and knee-high black boots. A black peaked cap sat neatly over his carefully slicked back dark hair. As Violet approached, he saluted and opened the rear car door.

‘Good morning,' Violet said. ‘You must be Nikolai.'

‘Yes, miss,' he said. ‘Nikolai Petrovich Khakovsky.'

His English seemed very good, with a slight Russian accent mostly revealed by his long vowels and rolling r's. Violet smiled at his serious face and the formality with which he delivered his three names. It made her want to tease him.

‘Welcome to Riversleigh, Nikolai Petrovich Khakovsky,' she said in her best hostess voice. ‘I hope you are happy here with us.'

‘Thank you, miss,' he replied.

Nikolai glanced at her briefly then stared off into the distance. In that moment, Violet was struck by his startling golden brown eyes the colour of toffee, fringed with thick black lashes. Exotic, Byzantine eyes.

‘My sister, Imogen, will be here eventually,' Violet explained. ‘She is
always
running late.'

He nodded. ‘Yes, miss. I don't mind waiting.'

Violet felt a surge of curiosity about this young man. His manner was quiet and reserved, as befitted a servant, yet there was something about his stance that didn't fit with the servants she had known. His bearing was tall and proud, yet he was too young to have been a soldier during the war.
I don't mind waiting.
Violet had never thought to wonder if a servant minded waiting for her or anyone in her family. That was what servants
did
.

She realised that she was staring, and that was behaviour
definitely not befitting a well brought up young lady. She hurriedly glanced away.

Violet slid onto the back seat of the Daimler, breathing in the scent of leather polish and beeswax. Imogen, of course, took ages to come down. When she eventually descended, she was wearing a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat to match her tailored overcoat. Harry followed behind, carrying a carpet bag and a tennis racket, which he stowed in the front seat.

‘I hope it's not too hot for tennis this afternoon,' said Imogen to Violet as she settled into the seat beside her sister. Nikolai closed the door. ‘Audrey's asked quite a crowd.'

Imogen pulled a gold compact case out of her handbag and began to powder her nose with a puff, then smudged her lips with lipstick into a crimson bow as she peered into the compact mirror. Imogen didn't usually wear make-up at home in front of her father – he definitely did not approve of young ladies painting their faces. Since the war, he hardly noticed anything, but Imogen always thought it was better to be cautious.

Imogen chatted about her plans for the day, while Nikolai drove carefully round the carriage circle, past the cascading three-tiered marble fountain and down the long gravel driveway to the heavy wrought-iron double gates. Joseph, the gardener, stood by the open gate, ready to lock it behind them. The whole garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, except for the riverfront, giving the estate total privacy.

Violet only half-listened to Imogen's chatter. She was thinking about the day ahead – school lessons, gossiping
with her friends about their weekends and then ballroom dancing class in the afternoon. Ten minutes later, as they drove up towards the bluestone towers of Rothbury Ladies' College, Violet realised that something was different. Standing outside the school was the headmistress, Miss Parker, wearing her long old-fashioned clothes and pince-nez spectacles.

A line of automobiles and horse-drawn buggies crawled along the street towards the school gates. But instead of dropping the students off there, they paused for a minute, speaking with the headmistress, before driving off again.

‘I wonder what's happening?' asked Violet, peering out the side window. ‘No-one's going in.'

‘Maybe old Parker's gone on strike,' Imogen joked. ‘Now, wouldn't that be glorious?'

‘Unthinkable,' Violet declared. ‘Miss Parker could be dying of pneumonia, and she'd
still
be out the front there, welcoming the girls each day.'

Imogen had attended the small Rothbury Ladies' College until a year ago, so she was quite familiar with the formidable headmistress, with her strict discipline, focus on academic study and genteel manners. Violet was always getting into trouble for running between classes or jumping the flower beds, instead of walking sedately with a straight spine and her straw hat perched at the correct angle.

‘Thank goodness I'm free of there,' said Imogen. ‘I'm half-convinced that old Parker will chide me now for wearing my skirt this short or daring to wear lipstick.'

‘Utterly disgraceful,' Violet agreed cheerily. ‘I'm sure she'll order you to detention at once, although I seem to remember you were always the
perfect
Hamilton sister!
The one who studied hard and always managed to get straight A's. I don't think you ever had a detention in your life.'

‘That's because I actually did what I was supposed to do, instead of staring dreamily out the window like someone else we know,' Imogen retorted.

Violet took that as a cue to stare dreamily out the window of the Daimler, at the manicured gardens of Rothbury Ladies' College. The Daimler crawled forward another few metres.

‘Do you remember the time I hid Gertie and Myrtle in my pocket?' asked Violet. Gertie and Myrtle had been pet mice that Violet often carried around with her. ‘And then somehow they escaped when I wasn't paying attention and ran round and around the classroom? Mademoiselle Moreau jumped up on the chair and screamed as though she was being stuck with hot pins, until Miss Parker came in and stared at us all with that terrifying glare of hers.'

Imogen raised her eyebrows. ‘How could I forget? The whole school was talking about it! I think that was the prank that made Mademoiselle Moreau decide to go back to Paris.'

‘Yes, and the prank that made Miss Parker suggest to Dad that perhaps I would be happier at a different school,' added Violet. ‘Luckily Dad had made a large donation to the building fund the year before, so Miss Parker agreed I should have a second chance.'

‘Perhaps that's what Miss Parker is doing now,' Imogen joked. ‘Expelling all the girls who have run out of second chances.'

Violet chose to ignore this jibe. The car rolled forward another few metres, but when Nikolai parked the car outside the school gates, Miss Parker merely stepped forward to speak to them.

‘Good morning, Miss Hamilton and Violet,' Miss Parker said through the open window, looking unusually harried. ‘My apologies – I did try to telephone all the students this morning but could not contact everyone in time. I am sorry to inform you that we have to close Rothbury for the summer.'

Violet glanced at Imogen in disbelief.

‘Why, Miss Parker?' Imogen asked. ‘Whatever's the matter?'

Miss Parker frowned. ‘Unfortunately we've had an outbreak of scarlet fever amongst the boarders over the weekend,' she explained. ‘The doctor has placed them all in quarantine, and the school will be closed from now until the summer break. All the boarders must stay inside, and no day girls are allowed in.'

Violet felt her stomach twist with worry. Scarlet fever was a disease that was often fatal – sometimes families could lose several siblings in a severe epidemic.

‘Are the girls all right?' asked Violet, thinking of her best friends in the boarding house – Cecily, Hen and Bea.

‘The doctor says that none of them are gravely ill,' Miss Parker assured her. ‘But all the boarders will be in quarantine for at least four weeks, then they will be sent home in early December. In any case, Rothbury will be closed from now until February.'

‘So no exams?' asked Violet, barely containing her
delight. What a heavenly thought – no school for three whole months!

‘And no school concert, dances or picnics,' Imogen reminded her.

‘Is there anything we can do for the girls?' asked Violet. ‘Can we send some food baskets or sweets?'

Miss Parker shook her head. ‘No. They are all too ill for that, but perhaps you could write to them.'

She turned her head to see another car pulling up behind them. ‘Enjoy your long holiday, Violet,' said Miss Parker. ‘But remember to keep up with your reading and your study, and use the time wisely. We will have make-up examinations in February.'

‘Goodbye, Miss Parker,' Violet replied. February was a very long time away.

‘Well, it looks like you had better come along with me to Audrey's, darling,' said Imogen. ‘I don't have time to take you home first, and we do need some more helpers for our Russian Famine Relief Fund Ball.'

Violet thought about objecting. Perhaps she could go home and swim or draw – and she definitely needed to change out of her school uniform. She glanced at Nikolai in the driver's seat and thought she saw his shoulders stiffen at the mention of the Russian Famine Relief Fund.

Violet paused. The thought of exotic Russia suddenly intrigued her. ‘All right then – why not?'

Imogen settled back into the comfort of the deep leather seat. ‘Glorious. We need someone artistic to guide the decoration committee,' she added. ‘I can't think of anyone better. We want the ballroom to look heavenly.'

Nikolai drove them to Audrey Williams's villa at Kew, dropping them at the front door, while he returned to drive their father to work at his glove factory in Richmond.

Like the Hamiltons, Audrey lived in a spacious mansion surrounded by acres of landscaped gardens. There were already six young ladies gathered in the drawing room, all wearing wide-brimmed hats decorated with a variety of feathers, ribbons and flowers. They were drinking tea, laughing and chattering about their social calendars.

‘Imogen, do come in,
cherie
,' called their hostess as they were shown in by the maid. She rose to greet them, the only one not wearing a hat. ‘And who is this young lovely?'

A few years older than Imogen, Audrey was fashionably thin, with her hair cut into a very short black bob that was carefully sculpted onto her cheekbones, with a thick, straight fringe cut just above her eyebrows. Her grey silk dress draped to mid-calf, and she moved with languorous, feline grace.

‘Audrey, this is my younger sister, Violet,' Imogen said. ‘Her school, Rothbury College, has been closed due to an outbreak of scarlet fever, so Violet is free for the summer. She's very artistic and I thought she might be able to help us with decorations for the ball.'

Violet felt a thrill of pleasure at this uncommon praise from her elder sister.

‘Perfect,' said Audrey. ‘I'm sure you will be far more useful than most of these chattering parakeets.'

Audrey introduced everyone. Violet recognised two of the girls, Dodo and Edie, as old school friends of Imogen's. Violet sat on the window seat while Imogen chose a chintz-covered armchair.

Audrey held up her hand for attention. ‘May I remind you, ladies,' she said, ‘we are here on a serious mission. There are millions of Russian children who are in danger of
starving
to death over the winter. The idea is that our ball will raise loads of money to send over to feed those poor children.'

‘It's awfully sad,' said Imogen. Everyone murmured in agreement.

‘And don't forget that we want to organise the best ball of the season,' added Dodo. ‘I plan on making the social pages with my outrageous costume.'

Audrey turned to Imogen and Violet. ‘These frivolous flappers have made hardly any progress yet on organising our ball, other than picking a date and venue. We have decided on Thursday, December the fourteenth, at the Hawthorn Town Hall. We want to hold it before everyone disappears to the country for Christmas. But at this rate, summer will be over before we decide anything.'

Edie tutted at Audrey. ‘Oh, very harsh. We've chatted endlessly about themes as well. We've been arguing over whether we should have a Cinderella dance or perhaps a Venetian masquerade.'

‘I vote for an underwater theme, where we dress as nymphs,' Dodo suggested, beaming at everyone. ‘We can dangle silver fish from fishing line and make seaweed streamers from crepe paper.'

‘I can see you as King Neptune,' teased Imogen. ‘Just be careful you don't knock anyone over with your golden trident!'

Violet suppressed a giggle. She remembered that Dodo had a reputation for being endlessly clumsy but always cheerful.

‘Or we could have a costume ball,' added Edie. ‘I rather fancy being Marie Antoinette.' She spread her imaginary pannier skirts wide and curtseyed regally, fluttering an invisible fan.

Audrey raised her eyebrows at Violet in mock despair. She picked up a sheaf of leaflets from the side table and showed photographs of stick-thin, emaciated children with big, dark eyes. Violet felt a lump rise in her throat.

‘Just like during the French Revolution, peasants are dying of starvation,' Audrey explained to Violet. ‘After years of war and revolution, the crops have failed and people are reduced to eating bread made of bark and grass.'