The Wartime Matchmakers, page 4
“I’ll be fine, Lizzie.” Alan stood and grasped her hands, squeezing them. “If I volunteer sooner, there’s a chance I’ll be an officer.”
“But you’re only seventeen . . .”
“Eighteen in four months,” he reminded her. “Not even you, with all your stubbornness, can stop me from joining up.”
“You should get to bed,” she said. All the other things she had wanted to say seemed too much, too powerful, and threatened to choke her with emotion as they stayed trapped upon her tongue.
Alan chuckled. “You too. Tomorrow is another day to conquer.”
It was a long while before Elizabeth could fall asleep. She stayed up and penned a letter to her aunt for tomorrow’s post. She couldn’t stay here on the farm, couldn’t let the past control her future. There was only one way to go now, and that way was forward.
March 1939
Living with Aunt Isabelle was easy, so easy that often Elizabeth would pause and wonder if she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. Isabelle was a fashion designer who worked under Norman Hartnell. And as a beautiful single woman in her midthirties, she had an ever-whirling social schedule. Thankfully, she seemed to have no qualms about taking a farmer’s daughter to her lavish West End parties, as she was tonight.
“Tonight, simply everyone will be there.” Isabelle swiped an eyeliner pencil over her lids as she studied herself in her vanity mirror. She always knew how to put on makeup to make her blue eyes glow.
Elizabeth sat on the end of the bed and watched Isabelle apply a coral shade of lipstick and lightly fluff her long chestnut hair in its carefully styled feminine pompadour that left the front section of her hair rolled back in a wave and the rest artfully falling down her shoulders in the back in loose waves. It was a hairstyle that Elizabeth never had the patience for herself.
“Go put on that gown I laid out for you. I swear, if I see one more gingham-print dress on you, I shall die,” Isabelle declared with her usual drama, but it only made Elizabeth laugh.
She did as Isabelle ordered and slipped into the dark-blue princess gown with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was embroidered with silver flowers, and it draped dramatically over her body. The gown was too glamorous for her, but Aunt Isabelle was right in one respect. A gingham dress simply would not do, not for the sort of party they were attending this evening. A wealthy brigadier-general and his wife, who had recently returned from abroad in Ceylon, had settled in a large house in Chelsea and were reacquainting themselves with friends old and new.
“Ready?” Isabelle appeared in the doorway, striking quite a figure in her black velvet evening gown. She was willowy, with the perfect figure for fashion. She had been a model in Paris for a year before winning Norman Hartnell’s eye with her natural talent for design.
“I’m ready.” Elizabeth joined her aunt as they took a cab to the party.
“Now, when we arrive, I must speak with everyone. You may stay at my side or go about the party as you please.” Isabelle leaned forward to peer at the row of cars along the street a few minutes later. “It’s just there.” She pointed out the townhouse to the cabdriver.
“Here we are, loves.” The driver smiled broadly at Isabelle, who slipped him his fare before they left the vehicle. They both stood facing the door to the home.
“Chin up, my dear,” her aunt said. “No worlds were ever conquered by a woman who stared at her feet.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin, more than ever aware of how much she and Isabelle were alike, forging their own paths away from convention. Yet for the last month Elizabeth had felt adrift upon a vast sea, rudderless, unable to get her bearings. She knew what she wished to do, but she had no idea how to do it.
She followed her aunt into a glittering home full of classical music and exquisitely attired party guests. Everywhere Elizabeth turned, there were people happy to be alive. It was as though everyone could sense the coming darkness, and they were desperate to create as much light as they could for as long as possible before they lost it.
“Come meet the brigadier and his wife.” Isabelle pulled her along to meet a commanding man in his late fifties and his wife, who were holding court by the entryway. They were a fine set, he in his formal army dress uniform and his wife in a white-and-gold ballgown.
“Isabelle! Glad you could come!” The brigadier’s booming voice carried all the way across the room.
“Brigadier Byron,” Isabelle greeted. “Mrs. Byron.” Isabelle then nudged Elizabeth forward. “This is my niece, Elizabeth Mowbray.”
“Charmed.” The brigadier shook Elizabeth’s hand, his grip firm and precise in a way that Elizabeth immediately liked. She nodded and smiled at the brigadier’s wife.
“Come in and have a drink.” The brigadier smiled broadly, surprising warmth coming from a man whom Elizabeth had expected to be cool and brusque. “We ordered far too much champagne.” He and his wife shared a chuckle before she rolled her eyes.
Isabelle made a slow round of the room, clearly acquainted with most everyone in attendance. Elizabeth was happy to stay on the fringes, taking it all in. Her eyes were drawn to a stunning blonde woman by the fireplace. She wore a deep-gold evening dress that clung to her skin and flowed like watered silk every time she moved. Confidence and vibrancy emanated from her, yet Elizabeth saw minute fractures in the façade of the woman’s gaiety that likely went unnoticed by those around her. Her dark blue eyes would briefly flash then fade as her false joy vanished.
When she moved away from her crowd of admirers and stepped out alone onto the balcony, Elizabeth followed. The woman lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing to gaze at the perfectly tended garden. When she noticed Elizabeth, she half smiled.
“You can join me. I don’t bite.” Her husky voice, combined with her looks, made her a fascinating subject to study. Elizabeth did like to people-watch, and she learned much from her observations. This was one of the reasons why Uncle George had believed she had a talent for matchmaking.
Elizabeth smiled and stepped up beside her.
“You’re a new face,” the woman observed dryly.
Elizabeth chuckled. “I suppose I am.”
“I know almost everyone here, all old friends of my parents.”
“Your father is the brigadier?”
“He is.”
Elizabeth was a little stunned. Isabelle hadn’t mentioned that the family had a daughter.
“Were you with them in Ceylon, or . . .” Elizabeth halted as she realized the inquiry might be rude.
“I was. We’ve only just moved back. They threw this party for me—unofficially, that is.” The woman didn’t seem pleased about it at all, despite the fact that she looked like the sort of woman everyone would want at the center of a grand gathering such as this.
“You’re not happy about that, are you?” Elizabeth guessed.
“My mother believes my spirits need lifting, and she also wishes for me to remarry. A bloody nuisance, that.” The woman took a drag on her cigarette, then held the pack out to Elizabeth.
She waved the offer away. “No, thank you. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Not at all. I’m feeling generous tonight.”
“You were married before?”
At this, the woman held her cigarette away from her as though the taste no longer appealed to her. She tapped the ashes on the railing before stubbing it out in a nearby standing ashtray.
“I was. I met him in Ceylon. He was one of those dashing young men under my father’s command. A girl can make a fool of herself for a man in uniform, can’t she?” She offered Elizabeth a rueful smile. “But one day, you wake up and realize that the glowing bubble of desire has popped and all that is left is . . . nothing. We had not one thing in common. We didn’t even like each other. So we divorced.”
“Desire can be fleeting. Truly liking a person lasts far longer.” It was something Elizabeth had noticed in India when she’d paired together two friends, Miss Palmer and Mr. Elliott. They had genuinely enjoyed each other’s company in a platonic sense too, not just physical desire. The pangs of desire only lasted so long, and someday a man and a woman had to be able to enjoy each other’s company when not blinded by youthful lust.
“It’s easy to think you’re in love when the world lies at your feet and all about you is an exotic, sunlit land. I was worshiped, but worshiping is not the same as loving, you know.” She turned around to lean back against the balcony railing, her eyes drifting over the exuberant crowds just inside. This woman understood loneliness. She understood the mistake a person could make when marrying without thinking it through and learning about the other person. Elizabeth felt an instant kinship with this woman she didn’t even know.
A sudden idea struck Elizabeth. What if she had a business partner, someone to do the matchmaking with her? It would be brilliant. It would be fun and . . . But how to ask her?
“Wouldn’t it be rather lovely to meet a man who was clearly suited to your needs?” Elizabeth asked, keeping the rush of excitement out of her tone. There was something about this woman that drew Elizabeth to her, wanting to be friends with her. She was someone who had everything she could ever dream of, yet she hadn’t found the one thing she wanted—real love.
“It would be rather nice to meet a man who truly suited me and not what everyone else wants for me.” The woman’s face softened as she watched her father twirl her mother about on the floor. “I want a partner in life, not someone to command me about like a foot soldier.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I escaped the prospect of a wretched marriage to a man everyone else adored. He was a tyrant, and I didn’t even realize it until it was almost too late.”
The two women stayed quiet a long moment, and then Elizabeth held out her hand.
“I am Elizabeth Mowbray. Lizzie, if you prefer.”
The woman shook her hand. “Henrietta Byron, I didn’t keep my married name. Everyone I adore calls me Hetty. And I think I might like you enough for you to do the same.” She chuckled as if at some private joke. “Do you live in London?”
“I do for now. I’m living with my aunt Isabelle until I sort out what I want to do. Once I have gainful employment, perhaps I’ll be able to afford a flat on my own.”
Hetty leaned toward her a little. “What do you wish to do?”
“Well, that’s just it. I have a rather mad idea, you see.”
“Do tell. I adore mad ideas.” Hetty said this with a mischievous grin.
“My uncle George . . . Oh, you see, this is a rather long story. I was in India when I broke off that engagement I mentioned.”
“Good for you.” Hetty gave her a mock salute. “Another liberated woman joins the ranks.”
A blush rose in Elizabeth’s face. “Yes, well, my dear uncle . . .”
“George?” Hetty supplied with a wink.
“Yes, Uncle George had this rather striking idea that I should become a matchmaker.”
“A matchmaker?” Hetty didn’t laugh at this, which Elizabeth saw as a small victory. She was taking her seriously.
“Yes. You see, I’m good at reading other people. Certainly not when it comes to my own romantic affairs, but with others, I have rather a knack for pairing people off. I matched a few of my friends to good success, and, well, isn’t that something that matters?”
“Marrying people off, you mean?” Hetty chewed her bottom lip in thought.
“No. It’s not about simply marrying them off. It’s about building a bridge that connects two people in harmony. If there had been someone to speak to me and my ex-fiancé when we were apart from each other and get a better sense of what we both wanted in a marriage, there might never have been an engagement, you see? Someone could’ve warned me that we would not have suited.”
“But isn’t that the sort of business spinster great-aunts deal in?” Hetty teased. Elizabeth knew that she wasn’t being taken seriously anymore.
“When you were in Ceylon, you came back on a ship. Don’t you remember what it was like? Barely any girls spread out among the masses of men. And those men were all bound for home, desperate to find a wife, lonely, sex-starved, and forlorn. I’m not half so pretty as you, and yet nearly every man aboard was giving me the glad eye. I could have gotten engaged half a dozen times before we even made it into port.”
Hetty was listening now, really listening, so Elizabeth continued. “These men returned to England to visit their families, but they’re really on the prowl for a girl to marry. They have only a few months before they must return to Ceylon or India or wherever, and they won’t leave for home again for a long time.”
“Most of the men in Ceylon have no hope in hell of finding a wife,” Hetty added thoughtfully. “They outnumber the eligible girls by thousands.”
“And,” Elizabeth continued in excitement, “most will marry whatever halfway presentable girl who comes along, and we both know how terrible that will be. So my idea is that we introduce them to suitable girls while they are on leave. I have quite a few girlfriends who would be happy to be introduced to eligible men. Think of it—so many men coming home, so many women here seeking husbands, yet they never meet. We can make a business of it—a marriage agency.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth reached into her purse and produced a slip of paper. “I am, and I would love for you to join me. I think we’d deal well together as business partners.”
She hastily wrote down her address and phone number. Hetty accepted the card and opened a silver card case engraved with her initials and gave Elizabeth her own information.
“I’ll think on it,” Hetty promised.
“Good.” Elizabeth noticed Isabelle was waving at her that she was ready to leave. “Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Then she dashed off to join her aunt.
Hetty watched the little auburn-haired young woman walk away. She couldn’t get the thought out of her head. A marriage agency . . . It was a truly novel idea—either a mad one or an utterly brilliant one. She lit a new cigarette and turned her focus back to her parents. The brigadier was still regaling his eager audience with tales from Ceylon.
A pang of longing struck Hetty’s heart. She missed the golden sun and the promise of endless adventures there. She had been the toast of every young man, adored and desired. It had been an addictive feeling. But she was not the silly young creature men believed her to be. It always amazed her how often men assumed the loveliness of one’s face accompanied a lack of intellect or fortitude.
This wasn’t true for Hetty. She was organized, thorough, calculating, and a clever strategist. Her father had often remarked how those qualities would have a served her well in the armed forces had she been a man. He’d spoiled her, giving her money and a nice little flat upon returning to London so she could enjoy a life of parties, gossip, and flirtations while she pursued employment as an actress and model. He’d guessed she would miss the life she’d had in Ceylon, and he’d been right. Still, she couldn’t have stayed there forever; she’d always known she would come back to London and get on with life.
Her father’s gift of a lavish lifestyle had been enough to get her by until tonight. Until she met Elizabeth Mowbray. They were around the same age and faced the same diverging path in their lives where they must choose between doing what society expected or defying convention completely. Hetty liked to think she was brave and bold enough to defy those conventions, but without a plan, she didn’t know where to begin.
Elizabeth clearly knew what she wanted to do. The light in her eyes as she spoke of matching up lonely people had touched Hetty at a time when she believed herself to be too jaded to feel inspired by life ever again. Hetty wanted to feel that same spark of self-discovery that burned so brightly inside Elizabeth. She was imaginative and romantic, while Hetty had always been practical and logical.
Her petite new friend had impishly good looks and a quick mind and tongue, all things that Hetty respected. Lizzie would be an equal both in friendship and business. But could she, a woman determined to be on the silver screen, abandon such plans to chase an idea like this? Hetty took in the night air and exhaled, a hint of smoke winding up in the air as she let the cigarette calm her thoughts.
Three hours later, she’d made her decision and rang the phone number Elizabeth had given to her. Isabelle answered.
“This is Henrietta Byron. May I speak to Elizabeth Mowbray?”
“Yes, yes, one moment.”
A few seconds later, Elizabeth answered.
“Hetty?”
Hetty paused briefly before responding. “I’ve given it some thought. You know it’s a lunatic idea, quite simply batty. However . . . I’ve decided I’ll join you and give it a whirl. But I don’t like the word agency. Let’s call it the Marriage Bureau.”
CHAPTER 3
Elizabeth sat in a tea shop near Paddington station, fretfully twirling a handkerchief between her fingers as she waited for Hetty. Each time the tea shop door opened, a brass bell tinkled, and she would look up hopefully only to be disappointed by the appearance of someone else. One minute before their agreed meeting time, Hetty strolled boldly in, wearing a striking red-and-black-plaid two-piece suit and black peep-toe mesh heels, a small red hat perched at a jaunty angle on her golden hair. She looked like she’d just stepped off a movie set and was ready for her publicity interviews.
“I was worried you wouldn’t show,” Elizabeth confessed as the other woman sat down.
At this, Hetty smiled. “Never fret. I’m here, aren’t I?” She then waved over a waitress to order tea and sandwiches. “I thought we could discuss the particulars of the business.”
Elizabeth nodded and pulled out a small leather-bound journal to take notes. “We will need to do this aboveboard and give no one a reason to doubt or defame us.” Elizabeth considered this one of the most important aspects of their business, to be fully legitimate and trustworthy. “I thought, once we have our ideas formed and our rules laid out, we could practice interviewing our friends and build a small group of clients until we can open to the general public.”
